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#Leonard burton
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send in your submissions, current and past polls can be found on my pinned post
have you done your daily click
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kerink · 1 year
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welcome to night street doodles, very self indulgent double au with benny
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Sexiest Podcast Character — Night Vale Bracket — Round Α
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Propaganda
Station Management:
Station Management was submitted without propaganda.
Leonard Burton:
he's the guy of all times. he was the voice of night vale until he died and cecil took the role. sometimes there are troubles in the flow of time and he is alive again, to talk to you sweetly in the radio. he has a voice like a rocky riverbed or a warm meal served in a wooden bowl. every day he walks to work and doesn't die, but he has a vision of his death. what is a vision without visuals? it's a vision in every other sense. he doesn't think he should be alive, but he doesn't know what else to be. he is a broadcaster. he does not stop broadcasting because he does not live.
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voidvale · 6 months
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In episode 106, Cecil describes his teen self's outfit:
"so early 80s with his double-windsor striped tie, polyester coat, and aviator goggles, just like we all wore back in the day."
Bonus:
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Also this version with regular glasses and no goggles:
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manwhoisnottall · 8 months
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Big Shoes to Fill
A telling of the day in which a young Night Vale Community Radio intern gets himself a promotion to the Voice of Night Vale.
TW for accidental death, kidnapping, and blood
As Leonard took his headphones off and sat them on the desk ahead of him, he gave a sigh. Whether it was a sigh of discomfort or of content was unimportant. Another day was done. He leaned back in his desk chair, stretching his arms high above his head, and the chair creaked, rusted metal and aged leather groaning under the strain. Some days, he wondered what the point of any of this was anymore. Some days felt empty, going home to an apartment where no one was there to greet him. Some days, he felt the phantom touch of kind hands on his as he arrived home, or the tugs of tiny gasping fingers on the bottom of his shirt, and in the immediate next moment, wondered why he imagined such things. Today was not one of those days. Today, he was tired and ready to go home.
The production room door opened, and his young intern emerged, putting his shoes back on and throwing his bag over his shoulder. Leonard gave him a bit of a scowl. "Cecil, kid, how many times do I have to tell you not to take your shoes off in there?" The young man gave a sheepish half grin as he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. "Honestly, one of these days, we're going to have another puppy infestation, and you're gonna regret being barefoot. Geez, kid. How am I supposed to believe that someday you'll be able to take on my job when you can't even work with your shoes?"
"Heeey," Cecil's mouth drew up into a pout. "Who said shoes are a rule?" He rushed ahead of Leonard in his path towards the door out of the studio and opened it for him.
"I do." Leonard took his hat from the wall peg next to the door. "Keep your shoes on. Come on, show some professionalism."
The young man gave a displeased groan before uttering a stubborn, "Fine." Leonard couldn't help but give a bit of a smile. He was very fond of his intern. It was rare that he would keep an intern for as long as he'd kept Cecil, and never before had one been just the perfect amount of respectful and rebellious. This had been true since he'd started his internship, showing up at his office door at only age fourteen, frail, a touch unsettling, and refusing to take no for an answer. Back then, he was more timid, but it had only taken a few short months before he began to open up to Leonard. He was talkative. He was energetic. He was unnaturally positive. He had the occasional tendency to become frighteningly serious and a more frequent tendency to become intensly philosophical. On the topic of family, he was... avoidant. Cecil never spoke about his mother or father, only his sister on occasion, which led him to believe that the relationship between Cecil and his parents was a strained one. Leonard had never had any children of his own (he was fairly sure), but if he had, he would've wanted a son like Cecil. Of course, this was never said out loud, though Leonard tried his best to be fatherlike when opportunity struck, occasionally paying for his lunch when he seemed down, or driving him home if a sudden sandstorm or downpour would strike.
Leonard knew, despite the jabs about his shoes, that one day, that some day, Cecil would become the Voice of Night Vale. He'd seen in the newspaper about the prophecy when Cecil was just a child, so his arrival as a young teen had been no surprise to Leonard. In some ways, it was worrisome to Leonard that, in this child's lifetime, he'd have a major life change, that perhaps he'd retire, or be fired, or perhaps he'd some day die. Dying was the possibility that scared him the least. Dying meant that there would be no adjustment period, or time unemployed, or already lonely nights becoming lonely all-the-times. In some ways, it was a comfort, knowing that he wouldn't have to do this forever. Complacency is both a blessing and a curse in this way, after all. More and more frequently, he wondered what that would be like, Cecil as the Voice. Every now and again, he gave the young man a few moments of air time just to test his wings. He was a bit awkward, but things like this take time, he reasoned, and beyond any of that, he had the spirit for it. When the time eventually came, he'd do well. He wondered what it would be like not to be the voice. He couldn't imagine it, but more and more often, he tried to. Sometimes, just briefly, he'd desire it. He never knew where thoughts like that came from.
Sometimes, he worried about the young man. Sometimes, Leonard would catch him asleep in the sound booth, snapping awake at the sound of his name being called. Sometimes, Cecil would come to work insisting he was fine, though the dimmed lights of the studio would hurt his eyes, and every sound above regular speech would have him reeling. Sometimes, Leonard would find that the young man had slept on the sofa in the break room rather than going home. He pretended not to notice these things. Sometimes, things with family are hard, he knew (though he was unsure of how exactly he knew it), and sometimes, the best thing to do was not to make it worse with interrogation. He wasn't this young man's father, after all.
He patted Cecil on his shoulder. "Good." He turned the light out in the studio, and both he and Cecil exited into the narrow hallway. "What's for dinner tonight?" He asked Cecil over his shoulder.
"Mmm, I'm not sure." Cecil replied, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Abby said we'd go out somewhere tonight, but we didn't make any real decisions."
"Any special occasion?" Leonard pressed the button for the elevator, and as they entered the enclosed wood paneled room, he could see a slight sadness in Cecil’s kind eyes.
"It's, uhh," He gave a half-hearted laugh. "It's the anniversary of the day my mother, um, went away."
The older man froze for a moment in surprise. "Oh, Cecil. Kid, I'm so sorry. I didn't know your mother passed."
"Oh, no, no, no." Cecil shook his head, blue grey eyes avoidant, looking everywhere except to the contact of Leonard's. "She didn't die, not that I know of. She just left."
"Oh." Leonard paused once more, scratching his chin beneath his stubble of a beard. "I'm sorry all the same. That had to have been hard."
"It was," Cecil acknowledged, fixing his gaze on the green leather of Leonard's shoes. "And sometimes, it is. But it's alright, right now." Cecil smiled, and Leonard could feel his sincerity. This was the unnatural positivity that Leonard had come to know from Cecil. "Anyway, what's for dinner for you?" He asked, shifting the topic of discussion away from the truth that Leonard had never known.
"I'm probably gonna stop by the Moonlite All Nite for a steak, a stake, and some invisible pie." He had this for dinner at least one night of the week. It was his favorite, especially the stake.
"Ooh, yum." Cecil exclaimed. There was a silence, not bad or awkward, but silent nevertheless, that filled the elevator when neither had anything more to say. Sometimes, Leonard would make the effort to continue conversation, but today, his throat felt the familiar tingle of overuse that it did more often now than not, after a day of speaking non-stop. He thought about Cecil and the sad truth he'd just been told. Motherless. He wondered how long ago that had happened. He wondered about his father and his sister and how they took it. He didn't ask. Cecil seemed unphased. He picked at a loose thread in the hem of his sleeve. Each could hear the other breathing against the quiet of soft bossa-nova. The elevator door opened with a ding.
They both stepped out into the lobby, tinged vermillion with the light of the setting of the sun from the western horizon laying heavy across the black and white checkered tile. Cecil gave a dreamlike sigh at the sight of the sunset. He did this every evening as they exited the studio. He was a bit predictable in this way, in several ways. For instance, he could always be heard humming the same unknown tune as he prepared his morning coffee. He always wore mismatched socks, something Leonard knew because he always took his shoes off inside the production room. He always suggested the same sub shop when Leonard asked him where he'd like his lunch from. He always walked himself to work alone, and he always walked himself home alone. He was always on time.
"I'm thinking of bringing donuts tomorrow," Leonard mused aloud. "You got any preferences?"
"Ooh, ooh!" Cecil drummed his fingers together. "Y'know the new ones down at Dunkin Donuts? The ones with the grass clippings?"
"Yeah, I've been seeing those commercials," Leonard gave a disgusted look. "Every time I've ever tried any of those fake grass flavored things, they don't taste authentic."
"Yeah, you're probably right." Cecil gave a somber nod as he crossed the lobby and turned the light off at the wall switch on the far side of the room. "Nothing like real grass clipping flavored baked goods."
Leonard held the door open for Cecil, and the younger man hurried to accept his kind gesture. The dry outdoor heat greeted them, and as Leonard turned to lock the door behind himself, the pair heard an unfamiliar sound. Both looked over to the source of this strange song, both ethereal and discordant. Across the street was a metal trash can, its contents burning, smothering the clean desert air with black smoke. There stood three beings, tall, fair, winged, with long fingers and many eyes. They stood, singing in strange harmonies and staring. It would be a fair assumption to make that such creatures were angels. It would also be an illegal assumption to make.
Cecil immediately raised a hand to shield his eyes, turning his head to the side. Leonard stared back at them. "Sir, you shouldn't look at them. What about the secret police?" Cecil was a good boy. Cecil followed the rules, as far as Leonard was aware. What Leonard didn't know about Cecil couldn't get Cecil scolded, or worse, fired.
Leonard did not take his gaze off of the beings who were, now that he thought about it, definitely angels. What else could they possibly be? It occurred to him that he'd never given it much thought before, only ever following the law that forbid their existence. He didn't even realize that he was taking slow steps forward. He wondered to himself once again what the point of any of this was anymore, wondered if there was a point outside of work? He descended another step. Was there any reason to avoid the chastising and re-education of the secret police? It was unpleasant, yes, but aren't most things? Was it more unpleasant than another cycle of waking up alone, going to work, leaving work, eating dinner, showering, and sleeping alone? Only to do the same again the next morning and every other morning?
Cecil turned towards home, never lowering the shield of his arm against the beings. "I'm heading on home. I'll see you in the morning, sir," He called anxiously, taking his first few strides in the direction of home. He wasn't watching as his boss made it down the front steps of the station, or as he took the first few steps, slow and heavy, onto the blacktop of Mesa Boulevard. He did, however, turn around at the sound of several loud and frantic honks of a horn and the shrieking of breaks. He turned, looked over his shoulder just in time to see the horrific sight of his boss and mentor, impacted against the hood of an unmarked white cargo truck.
He was downed and crushed by the sheer speed and weight of it with a sickening snap, and as the truck screeched over, he was left bloodied and shattered on the asphalt. Cecil gave an unbridled cry of panic and terror, sprinting towards the crumpled form of Leonard Burton. He knelt forcefully beside him, his fingers flitting here and there in panic as his eyes welled with tears. "Sir?" He asked quietly, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. He could barely stand the sight of him, eyes half open and vacant, no sign of breathing to be seen or heard, hints of tears in the corners of his eyes, blood spilling out of him. Cecil watched in horror and panic as the truck, which had momentarily stopped, took off speeding down Mesa Boulevard and out of sight.
Several passers-by and other drivers began crowding around, many making calls for medical help, but Cecil was mostly unaware of them. There was no mistaking; Leonard was dead. He forced a hand beneath the man's neck and lifted him slightly into his lap, trying to ignore that there was no pulse in his throat. This couldn't be happening, Cecil repeated in his mind. He felt desperately that he had to do something, though there was nothing to be done. Doing nothing felt cold and dishonoring. "It's going to be okay, sir!" He whispered as he cried, his tears falling onto the older man's chest. He hoped that somehow he'd coax him back to life with these kind words. He could not. "Don't worry! You're going to be alright!" These words were not comforting to Leonard. Leonard was gone. These words were not comforting to Cecil, but he didn't know what else to say. He began to quietly sob, head hung over his mentor, the loss of another parent figure jolting him like a bolt of unforseen lightning. He became slowly aware of the heat of Leonard's blood seeping into the legs of his pink corduroy pants as he knelt there, closing his eyes to the sight in grief and anguish. The angels continued to sing, not in words, but in moans that sounded as sorrowful as Cecil felt, each holding their hands up and touching their fingers to the fingers of the other two.
Eventually, paramedics arrived, and in a whirlwind of flickering blue and red lights, he was forced away from his lifeless boss. He shook off the blanket they tried to drape over his shoulders. He may have screamed at them to leave him alone when they asked him to sit on the curb and try to calm down, but he wouldn't remember that if he had. He watched as they draped a thick blue woolen blanket over Leonard and loaded him into the ambulance. He watched as they took him away with no sirens. He wordlessly refused the help or comfort of any of the bystanders. He stood there, drenched in Leonard's blood, on the sidewalk long after the bystanders had gone. There, in front of the place he'd come to know as a constant, he was crushed by the weight of loss. Tomorrow morning, Leonard wouldn't be there, tying his necktie in the doorway, or licking his palm to smooth down his own bedhead, or pouring a shot of alcohol into his coffee when he thought Cecil couldn't see. He would never again tell Cecil to be safe on the way home or pretend not to see him dozing in the sound room when he was hungover or tell him to put his shoes back on. Finally, as the sun was disappearing noisily behind the horizon, he began his walk home alone. About every block or so, he had to stop, lean against a light post or a mailbox, or with his hands on his knees as his panic repeatedly stole his breath. It took him nearly an hour to make the twenty minute walk.
When he finally struggled up the front steps and opened the door with his blood smeared and shaking hands, the sun was gone. He stepped into the house, the light from the kitchen filtering into the darkened entryway. "You've got a lot of nerve, coming home so late." Abby scolded from somewhere inside the kitchen. "And on today of all days. I thought we were-" She came out from around the corner, and as she laid eyes on him, ghostly pale and drenched in what could only be blood, she dropped the dish towel she was holding onto the floor. "Ohhhh, my god. Oh god, Gersh, what happened?" She hurried up to him, her eyes scanning him up and down for injury. "Are you bleeding?"
Cecil walked toward her, wrapping his arms tightly around her and burying his face in her neck. He gave several long, agonized wails. Abby held him, listening in concern as he cried and shook terribly. She tried to ignore the fact that he was likely getting blood onto her shirt. He was crying so hard that she could barely understand when he uttered a mournful "he's gone."
"Who's gone?" She asked softly.
"Mr. Burton!" Abby felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. Cecil had always looked up to Leonard Burton. She could tell just by the way he spoke about him, though she'd only met him herself once, years ago. She knew this day would come eventually; people aren't just handed the job of a person who is alive, well, and performing the job. She had always hoped that Leonard would retire somehow, or that he would die from something that Cecil could see coming, like old age or sickness, but it is rare, in this world, that people get what they want when it comes to death. She could feel as Cecil's knees began to give out, and she eased him to the floor, where he curled his upper body across her lap, crumpling like wet newspaper. "I didn't -There wasn't - There was nothing I could -"
"Cecil, I'm so sorry." She put a comforting hand on his head and ran her hand through his hair. He was tense in his anguish, shuddering with each breath he took. "What happened? Can you tell me?" She listened as he stammered, barely coherent through his tears, about the things that aren't angels, and about how Leonard shouldn't have looked at them, and then something about a truck. "Oh, Cecil." She wasn't good at comforting him. To comfort him was to comfort herself; the only reason she cared to stop his crying was because the sound of him crying was stressful to her. He grasped at his face, and his fingers tracked Leonard's blood like hints of unintentional war paint, staining some of his soft pink grey hair at his temples. "Come on. Let's get you out of those bloody clothes, alright? Let's get you cleaned up, and in some nice clean pajamas, and then -"
Abby was not able to finish that thought because at that exact moment, through the front door, still open the way Cecil had left it, came five figures in black with balaclavas on. They shouted things like, "There he is," and, "Grab him!" as they rushed into the house. Two of them grabbed Cecil, one by each arm, and yanked him to his feet. Two of them grabbed Abby to restrain her, and though she did fight against them, she could only watch as the fifth figure pulled a bag over her brother's head. "No!" Abby shouted, trying her best to shake herself from their grasp. "Get your hands off me! Cecil, what did you do?"
Cecil struggled to keep his feet as the officers forced him into some sort of car and slammed the door. He knew better than to fight them. You were less likely to be hurt if you did what they said he knew, less likely, but no guarantee.
The next thing Cecil knew, he was hauled up again, walked stumbling across what sounded to be linoleum of some sort, seated and tied up to a chair. This was not unusual, but the horrors of the day left him unable to keep his usual level head through the terror. When the bag was jerked ruthlessly from his head, his eyes strained to adjust to the bright light shining into his face, reflecting brigtly off of his tearsoaked cheeks. He could hear, off to his left, the sounds of someone flipping through papers. This was far from his first visit from the sherrif's secret police, but usually, he knew what he had done. Usually, he'd stolen something, or broken someone's car window, or been found trespassing somewhere he shouldn't have been because of his curiosity. Today, he'd done right, as far as he knew. He hadn't even looked at the beings who can't legally be acknowledged as angels.
But something else was different, too, he noticed. Behind him, he could hear something that sounded somewhat like a deflating car tire, but more aggressive, and there was a distinct heat that pulsed on his hands behind his back. He was scared. He was sad, confused, and scared. As his eyes adjusted, Cecil could see ten figures, all looking in his direction. Usually, he'd have two or three officers to reeducate him. This seemed more than a bit excessive, and again, he felt panic rise to choke him by the throat. One of the figures stepped forward, holding a vocoder up to their mouth. Upon their chest was a silver star. The sight of the person presumed to be the sherrif did nothing to calm Cecil's panic.
"Please state your full name."
"Ce -Cecil Gershwin-Palmer." He forced between heavy breaths. His breathing sounded so loud, echoing in such an open space.
"Are you aware of the death of Leonard Edgar Burton, which occurred at 7:36 p.m., on Mesa Boulevard?"
"Yes," He answered, a tear tracking down his left cheek and dripping down into the dark somewhere. Edgar. Cecil had never known Leonard's middle name. Hearing it said now, in such a way, felt like catching something hot that was falling off of the stove; he wanted it, but it hurt to hold it. Cecil knew that he needed to answer them honestly. He knew that lying was futile, that they knew the truth. He wondered if they'd deemed that he had done something wrong or if they blamed him for Leonard's death somehow.
"Good." There was a rustling as the figure flipped through a few pages on their clipboard before returning the vocoder to their mouth. "There are a few items of business we must discuss before we finalize your promotion."
"... Pr-promotion?" Cecil asked, voice lowered to a near whisper of disbelief.
"Yes. As the only surviving intern of the Voice of Night Vale, you will be taking Leonard's position. Surely, this comes as no surprise to you."
Cecil's mind began to race even faster. He had just lost his mentor, a human being, who he very much admired and cared for, only hours ago. He was a good man, a man who worked hard, and now, what? They were replacing him immediately? Besides, all Cecil had ever been was an intern. He wasn't trained for this. He wasn't prepared or ready for any of this. He hadn't even had a moment to grieve. For goodness sake, he was still drenched in the man's blood. He stifled his urge to cry out in anger and fear and sorrow the best he could. He bit his lip until it nearly bled.
"Is that a problem?" The figure spoke.
Cecil, after a moment, shook his head.
"Good." The figure repeated. "Behind you is your new employer, the station management for Night Vale Community Radio. We've taken the liberty of preventing you from turning to see them. They do not wish to be seen. Is that understood?"
Cecil nodded, a few more stray tears trailing down his cheeks.
"Station management approves of you taking the job. They do not wish to be spoken to. Or of. They require you to be at the studio each day at eleven A.M. You may leave when all news for the day is complete. Breaking these rules is grounds for termination. They will communicate news to you through notes, which they will place on your desk each morning. Your first intern will be hired for you and will start tomorrow. All others following the first, you will have to hire on your own. For any other questions, you may consult the book that will be given to you following the finalization of your promotion. Is that understood?"
Again, he nodded, reeling a bit at the amount of information he was being given all at once.
"Free one of his hands," the sheriff spoke. Another figure came with a knife and cut free one of Cecil's hands. They handed him a pen, at which he gave a nervous gasp. "Yes, it's a pen. What are you going to do, report us to the sherrif's secret police? OH WAIT." The sherrif taunted sarcastically, and the other figures laughed. Cecil felt his anger rising at being mocked, but his panic was yet higher than his anger, and so he shakily accepted the pen, holding it in a way that indicated he hadn't held or used a pen in a very long time, if ever. The sheriff walked closer, extending a document to Cecil. He was too upset to read it, his head swimming as he attempted to look at the small dark print with swollen and dampened eyes, and he looked up at the sherrif, now close enough to see their eyes through the hole in their balaclava, dark and serious. The sheriff gave no indication that they intended to elaborate on what he was signing, and so, he scribbled his name onto the line at the bottom. The sheriff handed the papers off to the one who had cut Cecil's hand loose, then grabbed Cecil's outstretched hand, causing him to drop the pen somewhere on the floor out of sight. They pulled Cecil's arm out from his body, and he fought fruitlessly against them as they took the knife, glinting in the low light, from the second figure. He closed his eyes, except the one in his forehead, to the sight of his palm being cut open, hissing in pain at the feeling of skin separating. The sheriff ran the bloodied side of the knife along the bottom of the document, held by the other figure. Then, taking one gloved finger, they pressed strongly onto the bloodied surface of Cecil's lap. They smeared Leonard's blood, now mostly dry, but good enough, next to Cecil's. The second figure took the paper and, without looking in the direction they held it, nervously extended it out of Cecil's line of sight, presumably to station management. He heard a strange whiplike sound as the document appeared to be snatched from the figure's hand, and the figure who once held the document visibly jolted, then gave a few awkward movements of fear as they tried to decide what to do with their now empty hands.
"Excellent. Now, we need a picture for your file." The sheriff spoke. "Clean him up. Get that blood off of his face." They snapped their fingers as they spoke and pointed at him. A third figure stepped forward, this one with some sort of wet rag that smelled of stagnant water and a false citrus scent, and wiped Leonard's blood from Cecil's face roughly, causing him to wince and for more tears to escape his eyes. A fourth approached with a camera and held it up to their face. "What, what's with that expression? You look like you're going to throw up. You just got a promotion. Smile or something. This picture is going in your permanent file." The sheriff grumbled through the vocoder. Cecil gave a tearful and very forced smile, and there was a flash, and the sound of the shutter could be heard.
A fifth figure approached him quickly, and he recoiled a bit as they, with two hands, released something above and below Cecil's face, elastic stinging the skin between his chin and neck. It took him a moment to realize that a pointed paper party hat had been placed upon his head. "Now, on behalf of the entire secret police, as well as station management, congratulations on your promotion!" The crowd of figures all clapped for him, and he looked around at then with a wash of confusion and frustration and sorrow. "All of your perseverance and hard work has paid off! Give yourself a pat on the back. You've done well. This sort of thing doesn't happen every day, you know!" Another figure, or perhaps one of the previous ones, Cecil was losing track, brought him a slice of cake on a plate. They handed a fork to his free hand, which was still dripping blood. "Go on. Take a bite." Cecil was not hungry in the slightest, but the figure pressed the plate into his body, urging him, and so he did. He wanted to cry or spit it out when he detected the flavor of authentic grass clippings, but nervously, he swallowed it. "Okay, that's enough. Bag him." The plate of cake was whisked away and the hat was pulled off of his head, and before he knew it, the bag was over his head again, and he was cut loose, grabbed, and pulled to his feet once more. "Congratulations, Mr. Palmer!" The sheriff called as he was dragged away again. They sat him harshly in the car once more and slammed the door. This time, someone in the seat next to him grabbed his wounded hand and stuffed the palm with what felt like gauze squares and then wrapped it all with a bandage. In what felt like no time, Cecil was again pulled up and out of the car, and into his hands was thrust a binder, thick with pages in its clasps. The bag was jerked from his head, and with a shout of "read that before coming in for your shift tomorrow," there was a slamming of car doors, and the dark colored car peeled out into the night.
It was only moments before Abby appeared in the front doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Clearly, she'd tried to wait up for him but had fallen asleep on the sofa while waiting. She hoped Cecil wouldn't notice. He did. "You okay?" She asked, coming down the front steps to greet him. He looked mostly how he had when he was taken, albeit much more exhausted. He was still crying, but not so hysterical anymore. She watched, careful not to touch him at first, in case he was hurt, as he wearily shook his head. She couldn't find any new injuries on him other than one bandaged hand. "What happened?"
His breathing was heavy, and he shook so terribly that Abby worried he could drop at any time. "I got... Promoted..." He murmured softly.
"...Promoted?" She asked, and he gave the scarcest hint of a nod. "Like, they gave you Leonard's job?" Again, he nodded. "That's... good, right?" She asked. He shrugged and took a few steps, wobbling enough that she felt the need to hold onto him. "I've got you. Do you want to go lay down?"
"I have to... read this book..." He indicated the binder that he held. "I need to take a shower and..." He stumbled a bit, and Abby took a bit more of his weight upon herself, leaning him into her side.
"Okay. How about we get you cleaned up first? Then, you can lay down and read your book." She didn't like how badly he quaked. He didn't answer, and so she took that as a yes. She didn't like to see him so scared, or sad, or in so much pain. As often as he pissed her off, there was no denying that he'd been through enough. She helped him, step by step, up and into the house. When the pair reached the bathroom door, he pushed her away, handing her the book. "Leave your clothes in the hallway, and I'll try to get the blood out."
Cecil shook his head, and she could see in his eyes a sadness and repulsion. "Throw them away... I don't... ever want to see them again..."
"Alright." She watched as he made his way inside and shut the door. "If you need me, shout, okay?" He didn't answer her. She heaved a sigh, scooting down the wall until she sat next to the door. Her eyes drifted down to the binder, which now rested in her lap. Slid inside the front plastic was a piece of printer paper with the words "The Voice Of Night Vale Instruction Manual and Guide to Survival." There were several pieces of drag-and-drop clip art pasted here and there, including a microphone, a rat with sunglasses that was giving a thumbs up gesture, a bloodshot and frightening eyeball, to name a few. She was about to open the binder when she heard, over the sound of running water and through the wall, the sounds of her brother weeping, achingly and hauntingly sad. She didn't want to hear it. She stood and went to his bedroom to find him some clean pajamas, lingering there, out of range of the sounds of his mournful cries. Though she could no longer hear him, he stood, beaten down and outraged and distraught as the water took Leonard's dried blood from his skin. He had placed every item he'd been wearing, from shirt and pants to favorite socks and earrings and shoes, directly into the bathroom trashcan, which now sat overfull in the corner. It was, to him, a bloody mess of things he never hoped to ever lay eyes on again, lest he be reminded any time he saw them of the things he'd seen and been through while wearing them.
When, after a while, Abby returned, the sound of running water was gone. "You alright?" She called through the door. There was no answer, but she could hear shuffling from within. "I'm gonna sit your pajamas outside the door, alright?" The door opened just a crack, and Cecil stuck his hand out, still shaking, to accept the clothes. She handed them to him, and he withdrew his hand with a hushed, "Thank you."
He emerged a few moments later, clean, but still pale and shivering. The ends of his fingers and his cracked knuckles were red from overscrubbing. Abby picked the book up from off of the floor, gesturing to him to go ahead to his room and lay down. He did, settling in under his blankets before holding a hand out to accept the book. She handed it to him, and he drew his knees up to rest the book against them as he flipped it open to begin to read from its wrinkled, yellowed pages. It reminded Abby of when he was a little boy, staying up to read far past his bedtime. To her, that seemed like weeks ago, not years and years. He looked ghastly. She wanted to do something to help. Doing nothing felt calloused and wrong. "Have you eaten?" She asked. She knew he hadn't. They were meant to go out to eat together. He shook his head, eyes tracking the sentences on the first page. "I'm going to make you something, okay?" He shook his head again, not looking up at her. "Cecil, you've gotta eat."
"I'm not hungry," He uttered, finishing one page and turning to the next. "Just the thought of eating makes me feel sick."
"Well, I'm making you something anyway. You can pick at it if you change your mind." She hadn't meant to sound so annoyed with him, but she didn't apologize as she turned and left for the kitchen.
Cecil tried his best to focus on the book, to take in all of the information he was given, but thoughts of Leonard's body, crushed and flattened, his blood pooling around him on the asphalt, kept creeping in to destroy his focus. Keeping the thoughts away, trying to focus on the runic before him, felt like bailing water from a leaking boat. He flinched wildly at the sound of Abby sitting a ceramic plate with a sandwich on it upon his bedside table, and upon seeing it, he did his best not to make Abby aware of the way his stomach twisted unhappily. He read deep into the night, and Abby peeked in at him periodically, though he didn't notice. As he finally turned to the final page, he noticed, stuck in the back cover pocket, an envelope. Scrawled in barely legible handwriting were two words; Station Keys. He opened the envelope and overturned the contents into his hand. He barely had to look at them, all different colors and varying sizes, with a keyring of a snake, to recognize them as Leonard's entire personal keyring. He saw them every day, and Leonard had used them to lock the door only moments before the accident. He put them back into the envelope.
By the time he finished the book, the sun was threatening to come up, and there were only four hours before his shift was due to start. He let the book fall open, spine facing upward, across his chest. He reached over, fumbling and tired, and set his alarm clock. Within an instant, he fell into fitful sleep, but it felt as if no time at all had passed before his clock awakened him, though the book resting closed on his bedside table beside his uneaten sandwich indicated that Abby had come in at some point and taken it off of him. His body felt heavy and uncoordinated as he rose, and he wondered to himself if attempting to sleep had been worse than not sleeping at all.
He dressed himself quickly in an outfit that was as close as he owned to something Leonard might've worn (there was no indication about dress code for The Voice in his book, but Leonard had always dressed a certain way, so Cecil was unsure if perhaps there was an unwritten rule), brushed his teeth, and put on his shoes. He shoved the book into his bag, all except the keys, which he jammed into the pocket of his cardigan, envelope and all, so he wouldn't have to touch them again just yet. Today, he felt like burnt tongue; a low level of ache that turned into agony when bitten even gently, and also with no ability to taste. He felt simultaneously numb and raw. As he prepared to leave the house, he noticed Abby, legs over one armrest of the sofa, snoring slightly. Some people look angelic while sleeping. Abby was not one of those people, Cecil thought to himself, as he approached and found her mouth hanging wide open and her arms splayed this way and that. He carefully retrieved the afghan from the back of the armchair adjacent to her and covered her with it. This was less to protect her from becoming cold while she napped, and more of a thank you for staying up with him during the night, even from a distance. He crossed to the door and started his walk, pulling the door quietly to behind himself.
Most of the walk itself was a blur of internal thoughts and sidestepping people who also walked to destinations he didn't know and couldn't care about. He went over as much of the reading he had done in his mind that he could as he went. Before he knew it, he stood just down the street from the station, just down the street from the scene of the accident that had wrecked everything. He stood nearly in the spot where he had been standing when he turned towards the sounds of automobile calamity. The blood was gone from the street, but Cecil knew it had been there, exactly there. Whether someone had come and scrubbed it up by hand or whether the ground had swallowed it up in grateful hunger was unimportant to Cecil. It felt wrong that it wasn't there, but he was also so glad not to have to look at it.
He made his way up the steps and stopped at their summit on the landing. He took the envelope from his pocket and again removed the keys, trying each one until he discovered which was the one for the door. Then, he placed his hand to the bloodstone circle, which acknowledged him (slightly less painful than he had expected) and allowed him in through the front doors. As the door was about to close, a voice, a distant shout, could be heard behind him. He turned and, holding the door open, saw a young man running up to him.
"Oh, I'm so glad I caught up with you," the young man began, out of breath from his dash to decrease the distance between the two. "I don't know HOW I would've gotten in here, otherwise."
Cecil felt his chest tighten in anxiety as the young man held out his hand for him to shake. "I'm sorry? But, who are you?" He asked the young man, eyeing his outstretched palm.
"I'm Theodore!" He spoke, exuding bottomless confidence. "I'm your new intern, Mr. uhh," He dug through a stapled stack of papers on his clipboard. "Burton!"
Cecil took that misnaming like an arrow to the chest. He did his best not to react physically, but he simultaneously felt the urge to scream and throw up. Instead, he gave a more than uncomfortable smile. "Ah, no. There has been a recent change in staffing, as of, um, yesterday. My name is Cecil. Uhh, Mr. Gershwin-Palmer, I guess."
"Oh." The intern seemed to be calculating this new information, but his confident smile returned almost immediately. "Nice to meet you then, Mr. Gershwin-Palmer! I'm so excited to start working on my credits!"
Cecil gave an awkward nod and accepted Theodore's handshake. A handshake is always a step in the right direction, Cecil thought, and then was immediately disgusted by his own compulsive positivity. He had forgotten that most interns were after college credit. He had never been interested himself. "Um, let me show you around," He offered, and then began to guide the young man around the building, stopping briefly at the break room, the bathrooms, the offices for the Shawns, whispering very quietly and subtly gesturing to station management's office and warning him not to ever go there or even look too closely at it, and then guiding him to the production room, the place that, for a very long time, had been his own space. As he showed the younger man how to work the soundboard and run advertisements, he couldn't help but notice his focus being pulled to the space around him.
"Wow, the last intern really liked stickers, huh?" He remarked, pointing out the stickers Cecil had put all over the top of the wooden desk.
"Uh, yeah." Cecil gave an uncomfortable laugh, then cleared his throat. "You just get acquainted with the space, and I'll go get ready for the broadcast, okay?"
"Can do, boss!" Theodore grinned, and Cecil winced a bit as he turned away. "Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee?" He asked.
"Um, sure." Cecil looked at him over his shoulder and gave him a weak thumbs up. He shut the door to the production room behind himself and crossed to what was now his desk. Leonard's coffee mug still sat there, overturned so dust wouldn't settle into it. He didn't want to sit there. It felt foreign and wrong, but, all the same, he knew he had to, and so he did, sitting in the chair of aged leather and rusted metal. He scooted himself up to the desk with his feet, and as he did, he felt close to tears quite suddenly. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't cry now, in front of this new intern who needed to respect him as his boss, but he felt the overwhelming urge to weep. As he scooted himself into the space between both sets of drawers, he painfully jammed his knee on a stack of boxes that had been hidden beneath, which knocked the lid off of the top one, dropping it to the floor. He scooted back and bent at the waist to fix the box, and as he did, he saw an envelope with his name on it. He wasn't sure where it had come from. All he could assume was that it sat atop the box that he'd just knocked the lid off of. He picked it up and examined it. He knew the handwriting better than his own. It was written by Leonard. When he saw it, he audibly gasped.
This was written for him? By Leonard? It was in the same envelopes that Leonard usually left Cecil his work notices, advertisements, and other similar papers in. Had he forgotten to give it to him? Had he lost it by mistake? He felt as though, in his hands, he might be holding the last communication, the last time Leonard would ever speak to him, indirectly or otherwise. Likely, Cecil reasoned that it was some day in the past's notes, dropped out of sight. He wondered if he should open it, but above the door, his thirty minutes warning light began to flash. He sat the envelope aside and scooted back up to the desk. Before him sat a stack of stapled papers, which he quickly read through twice. Part of today's news included coverage of Leonard's death. He wasn't sure how on earth he was going to keep it together for that. He was only distracted from reading as Theodore loudly placed his coffee mug on the desk top. "I didn't know if you like cream or sugar, so I brought a bunch!" He dropped an assortment of small packages onto the desk next to the coffee mug. Cecil smiled, again looking a bit uncomfortable as he did. "Do you need anything else, sir?"
"Ah, no. I'm okay. Thank you!" The plucky young man nodded before returning to his room to prepare himself for the broadcast to begin. Cecil, having read the day's notes and now having fifteen minutes before the broadcast was due to start, carefully took the envelope with his name on it and wedged it open, gentle enough not to tear it. A yellow piece of paper was inside. He took it out and unfolded it, holding it as if it were delicate and fragile. Once unfolded to its full length, he laid it on the desk and began to read.
Cecil,
Hey, kid. If you're reading this note, then something must've happened to me so suddenly that I didn't have time to give you the other note. Congrats on your promotion. If anybody ever deserved to take my place, it was you. You've got all the right journalistic instincts, and your will to get to the bottom of things is unrivaled. I'm proud of you. I mean that, kid. I always knew you'd be the one. Sure, prophecy, and all that, but I think I would've known even without. I never could've found someone better for the job.
I'm sure that adjustment is going to be hard for a little while. I know it was for me when I became the Voice. But for all the stress this job might bring, there is nothing I've ever found to give my life as much purpose. You're probably thinking, "Wow, Leonard, how will I ever fill your shoes?" I'm sure, right now, you feel unprepared and scared, and maybe even a little sad, depending on how things played out. It won't be long until you're used to everything. This place has a way of becoming the exact distraction you need from any other worries. It's a good job. I hope you like it as well as I did.
I'm sure they gave you my whole key ring when they gave you the instruction manual. The little bronze key, I guess you figured out, is for the front door. The long black key is for the upstairs storage room. The grey one with the snake engraved on it is for the bottom drawer of the desk. Feel welcome to whatever is in there. I won't be needing any of it. The rest of the keys were on there when I got the set. I don't know what any of them do. Good luck with that.
I wish the best for you in life, kid. You're going to do Great Things.
-Leonard
Cecil wiped both eyes frantically after the first tear fell onto the letter, blurring a bit of the ink. This letter was precious. He had needed it. He had needed the closure it brought. He immediately found a thumb tack and pinned it to the cork board by the desk. He looked at it multiple times before digging the keys out of his cardigan pocket and searching for the snake key. Once found, he stuck it in the lock and turned, and the drawer popped itself open a few inches. Inside were many things, a bowl of caramel candies, a knife with a wooden handle with the initials L. B. carved into it, a few loose photos, one of Leonard and a woman and a baby, one of the last Night Vale Community Radio BBQ dinner where Leonard, Cecil, and the secretary from the front desk were staring at something burning on the grill, one of a dog he didn't recognize, and so on. In the back corner was a bottle of some sort of expensive looking alcohol in a dark round bottle. Cecil recognized it as the bottle Leonard always spiked his coffee with.
The five-minutes-til-start alarm sounded, and Cecil sat upright, hand still on the bottle. He undid the cork and poured a bit into his own coffee before returning the bottle to the drawer and shutting it. Despite the stress the last twenty-four hours had caused him, he hummed a bit as he mixed in his sugar and cream. He felt a peace wash over him. If Leonard had believed that he could do this, then he knew that he could, no matter how hard. He adjusted himself in the chair and then took Leonard's headphones, now his headphones, and put them onto his head, feeling the soft and smooth fabric on his ears and cheeks. He flipped open to the first page of notes, scanning it one final time. He pulled the microphone a bit closer to himself on the desk top, and he cleared his throat.
From inside the production room, Theodore began the countdown. Cecil raised his coffee mug to his lips and took a swig. He closed his eyes and took one final deep breath to steel himself before he pressed the unmute button on the microphone. As he did, a large red light above the door flashed on that read "ON AIR." He sat, both feet in both shoes flat on the floor, and he spoke.
"The world is ever-changing, and it listens only to the ones who change along with it.
Welcome
to Night Vale."
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my-lonely-angel · 9 months
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All Night Vale community radio hosts know how to do is come back from the dead, be gay, and lie.
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bulkhummus · 1 year
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leonard burton
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I hope that makes sense to you, dearest listeners, because it does not to me. I am neither a scientist nor a poet. I am a radio host. I merely repeat to you that which I have learned. And what I have learned is that time is shaped like a donut. Beyond that, I have no comprehension.
Leonard Burton - ep.  148 - The Broadcaster
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fuskinari · 2 years
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Who doesn't love imagining NVCR intern Cecil?
I'm all here for multi-eyed Cecil, but why has nobody made similar headcanons for Leonard Burton? For some reason, I always imagined him as having multiple mouths. The way James Urbaniak voices him, just an unending stream of poetic consciousness, multi-mouthed Leonard Burton was the first thing that came to mind!
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myladyofmercy · 2 months
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the artful dodger bts via maia mitchell on instagram
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can any night vale fans send me an image of leonard burton, i'm queueing some polls and google is not being very helpful
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foxesandthieves · 2 months
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mississpissi · 2 months
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do u ever wonder what leonard burton did after retirement? do u ever wonder what leonard burton? wonder no longer. this is actually what happened. he told me. more to come btw.
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roskirambles · 3 months
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(Archive) Animated movie of the day: Atlantis The Lost Empire (2001)
Originally posted: January 7th, 2022 Ah, the Disney Renaissance. Their musicals absolutely dominated the 90's, but from Pocahontas(1995) to Tarzan(1999), their box office returns started to go down. So, the house of the mouse decided to try and shift gears, and took a gamble greenlighting some rather odball movies. None of them paid off, but this ended up giving us one of my childhood favorites and frankly an underrated film that, while flawed, still makes for a very interesting experiment.
Distancing itself from it's predecessors, this movie isn't a musical which presents a refreshing change of pace. Songs wouldn't fit in this film anyways, with it's darker tone, heavy action focus and even violent imagery. The body count is shockingly high for a Disney animated feature, and unlike a film like Mulan a lot of them happen on screen.
So, yeah, the film is more violent. And scarier too(Rourke's death is quite gruesome). It's also more visually interesting in some ways. With character designs from creator of the Hellboy comics Mike Mignola, the art direction has an edge to it that complements the action set pieces and adventurous narrative. The city of Atlantis, while decadent, is breathtaking.
What about the characters though? Well, they're really fun! While not having the most deep story arcs, all have a very strong charisma and bounce off each other humorously (my personal favorite is Vinny). Protagonist Milo may be the most plain of the bunch but he's still a likable dork. As out of focus as it is, his relationship with Kida is also charming, both of them understanding the importance of cultural exchange.
And that's the deal. This film is closer to Raider's of the Lost Ark than Beauty and the Beast. It's a death defying adventure with just enough plot and characterization to justify the action. There's still some compelling drama here, but the focus isn't the romance or the self discovery. It's the crazy, cool journey.
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bigcapitalist · 9 months
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another thing about the FOW novel is that there are zero (0) cecil mentions but we do get this neat bit of leonard burton lore so i'm satisfied
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laura-nirvana · 23 days
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WAIT HOLD ON 😭😭 I JUST REALISED THAT THE STAR CLIFF MEME LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE MONA LISA 💀💀💀
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