Back before the Unknowing, they all dreamed about whatever live statements they’d taken personally; the last night before the Unknowing, they all collectively experienced Martin Prime’s journey through the gallery of horrors. In the first days and weeks afterwards, when Martin only slept because the Eye demanded he relive those moments, he felt almost guilty about how eagerly he anticipated the appearance of that dream, that door—not because of what it meant for Martin Prime, but because seeing Tim there would be some sign, some proof that he was still alive, despite the lines on the monitors and the bafflement of the doctors. Tim could not be dead, he couldn’t, not before they had time to talk about what he shouted at them as if he thought they would leave him behind after that. He would follow Martin Prime end to end, desperately searching, but never seeing Tim…or Jon, for that matter, who said his experience of the dream was the same. Jon Prime later—much later—described to them what he saw in those long, painful weeks, how he walked the corridors twice, once behind the man he loved as he relived his worst moments, once with all the paintings obscured or blurred and seeing only Jon and Martin striding side by side as they grew more and more despairing at not seeing the one person that would make the experience worthwhile.
That was the first dream to go after Tim came back to them. Martin remembers turning from the lost and terrified man swarming in spiders in eager anticipation of stepping through and seeing Tim, just to reassure himself that he really had come back, only to find the door wholly gone. He woke and looked over to make sure Tim was still in bed with them, but it was still oddly disappointing. The other dreams followed swiftly; Tim, needing something to fuel himself and not wanting to waste time sifting through the statements on the shelves—or so he said—went to the drawers in the War Room, which they never dismantled even if they didn’t need it anymore, and withdrew the tapes of the live statements the others had taken. That night, Martin’s dreams were odd, or at least they seemed odd to him at the time. He walked into Jon’s office with a stack of files only to find Tim sitting behind Jon’s desk; Martin presented him with them, and he flipped open the first one to study whatever was in it briefly, then nodded, closed it, and flashed him that megawatt grin of his. Martin smiled back, turned, and left the office.
He never dreamed about either statement again.
Martin’s dreams thus back to normal—that is to say, he rarely dreams at all or at least doesn’t recall them, and when he does they usually involve something like discovering he has to give a presentation to Institute donors he hasn’t prepared for or standing in the middle of Westminster in nothing but his pants or, confusingly, marching at the head of an army of ducks that have been genetically engineered to be able to talk but only speak Romany except for swearing in English—he sleeps through the night soundly, if occasionally oddly. The first morning they awake in Night Vale, he finds Tim already awake and watching him in amusement, which probably means he was talking in his sleep.
“Just tell me. I don’t remember what I was dreaming about,” Martin mumbles, pushing himself to a sitting position and leaning over to give Tim a quick kiss. Jon is still sound asleep, the blankets knotted around him in the way they’re now quite familiar with and one hand draped across Tim’s torso and reaching ineffectually towards Martin, but at least his face looks peaceful in a way it never did before he handed his own dream files over to Tim.
“You demanded I bring you the head of Boris Johnson. Like five minutes later you said ‘no, you have to mince it finer than that if it’s going in the pancakes’, so I assume we were going full Sweeney Todd. I just hope you boiled it first.”
“There’s not enough meat on a head for a proper filling. It’s all fat.” Martin sighs. “What time is it?”
“Seven thirty-two, Night Vale time,” Tim answers instantly. “It’s two in the afternoon back in London.”
That doesn’t quite add up, but Martin is too tired to sort it out. Instead, he pushes off the remains of the blankets and swings his legs over the side of the bed, intent on taking a shower.
Within half an hour, all of them have gathered in the kitchen. Breakfast consists of eggs, bacon, and the inevitable strawberries, which are evidently Esteban’s favorites; just like at dinner the night before, Esteban watches Charlie and copies his movements and choices. Once they’ve eaten and cleaned up, they head outside and load into the minivan. This time, Martin accepts the offer to sit in the front seat. Cecil drives, and Carlos sits in the back, Jon in between his cousin and Tim.
The atmosphere is far less tense this time around, unsurprisingly. Partly it’s that Tim isn’t on edge, but also now that both sides of the family know about the other’s…weirdness…they can be more open and honest about what’s going on. Martin can tell that Carlos isn’t afraid Jon will think he’s crazy with some of the things he shares…and also that Cecil trusts they won’t ask questions he’s not able, or allowed, to answer. Martin was too tired and stressed the night before to really pay attention to what they were seeing, let alone match it to anything Carlos was chattering about to fill the silence. Now, though, he can really appreciate the town. It’s certainly smaller than London, although that isn’t exactly hard; it reminds Martin a bit of the town he grew up in, if that had been surrounded by desert and not fields. At any rate, he likes it.
The first hint of weirdness comes when Charlie asks, “What’s that over there?”
“That’s the Dog Park,” Cecil says in a grave, serious voice. “Dogs are not allowed in the Dog Park. People are not allowed in the Dog Park. Do not attempt to enter the Dog Park. If you see mysterious hooded figures, do not make eye contact with them.”
“O-oh. Okay.” Charlie sounds a little uncertain at that. Martin glances over his shoulder to give him a reassuring smile and a wink, which seems to work.
Turning back to Cecil, he asks, “How long has the dog park been here?”
“About as long as Carlos has,” Cecil replies. “That was the other news that first day, the opening of the Dog Park…oh, that’s the Desert Flowers Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. There’s a skating rink in there, too. Maybe we could go sometime this week.”
“Bowling?” Charlie asks.
“No,” Cecil, Carlos, Tim, and Martin say in unison, making Charlie jump a little despite his seatbelt.
Martin can’t even say why he’s saying no, except he gets the sudden wave of anxiety and fear that rolls off of both Cecil and Carlos and responds to it instantly. Oh, there’s…there’s a story there, and Martin has to bite his tongue to keep from asking for more information. They’re trying to keep Charlie as innocent as possible, and likely Esteban’s parents want him kept that way as well. The last thing anyone needs is to compel in front of either of them. Besides, it’s just…rude.
Jon quickly changes the subject by indicating an incredibly tall person with—are those wings?—standing on the edge of the road waving to people. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s Erika—no, it isn’t, it’s Erika,” Cecil corrects himself. “Hold on.” He slows to a stop, rolls down the window, and leans out. “Morning, Erika.”
“Morning, Cecil.” Erika, who has a deep, gravelly voice with a surprising hint of a Northern accent, bends down to peer into the car and frown slightly at Martin, then glances towards the back. “Morning, Carlos, Esteban—Tim? That you, Tim?”
Tim inhales quickly, then, to Martin’s surprise, smiles broadly. “Good to see you again—Erika.”
“Good to see you, too. Enjoy your visit.” Erika smirks at Tim, then looks back at Cecil. “You got ten bucks?”
Cecil already has the bill in his hand, and he gives it to Erika with a warm smile. “Take care.”
“You, too.” Erika ducks back out of the window and waves as they drive away, Cecil rolling up the window as he does so.
“Tim, you’ve met the angels before?” Carlos asks, surprised.
“I’ve met that one,” Tim replies softly. “Angels, huh?”
“Yes. Until last year we weren’t legally allowed to recognize them as angels, but Cecil—and Steve—fought for their rights in court and won,” Carlos says. “You see them around town all the time asking for ten dollars. They used to help Old Woman Josie around her house.”
“Who’s Old Woman Josie?” Charlie asks.
“Josefina Ortiz was her full name,” Cecil says, and there’s a soft tinge of regret to his voice. “She died last March.”
When Jon was on his trip around the world, Martin thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he says just as softly, “I’m sorry. She must have been a good friend.”
“She was. That’s where she lived.” Cecil points to a house on the edge of town. “Her daughter Alondra lives there now…and that’s Larry Leroy, on the edge of town.” He turns towards the area.
“We’re not going to visit, are we?” Jon asks, a bit apprehensively.
Carlos laughs knowingly. “No, we’re going to drive by the farm. John Peters—you know, the farmer?—has a farm just outside of town. I don’t think he’s harvested this year’s crop of invisible corn yet.”
Martin blinks. “Invisible corn? Is that a regional delicacy?”
“I’ve certainly never had it anywhere else,” Carlos agrees.
Cecil glances at the rearview mirror. “John used to have a contract with Flakey O’s, but they got bought out by Kellogg’s in a hostile takeover a couple years back, and now they’re the only cereal allowed in Night Vale. Kellogg’s hasn’t done much with invisible corn. It’s the primary ingredient in the invisible pie they sell at the Moonlight All Night Diner, but that’s not as big a market, so a lot of John’s crop is still standing now. It’s a sight worth seeing, that’s for sure.”
It is indeed, if only because, while Martin can’t see the actual corn per se, he can certainly see the wind rippling through it. It’s honestly a bit disorientating. He glances over his shoulder and meets Tim’s eyes; Tim blinks once at him, then makes a quick counterclockwise movement with his forefinger. Martin nods and turns back around. Of course something like that would be of the Spiral.
Actually, the more they go around town, the more aware Martin is that most of it is touched by the Fourteen in some way. He can’t necessarily tell what every single thing is, although a few are more obvious than others. And not all of it makes a lot of sense to him. Tim’s got a deeper connection to the Eye than he or Jon do—they all realize that, even if they’ve never really discussed it—so most of it seems perfectly comprehensible to him, or else he’s just so easygoing and accepting that he’s treating all of this as normal and he’s just as confused as Martin is. Jon is curious, as he’s always been, and Charlie is young enough that he simply accepts that there are simply some things he doesn’t know. There are more things in heaven and on earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.
They end the tour driving through downtown, where Carlos points out the shopping complex where his lab sits next to Big Rico’s Pizza—they don’t stop, Carlos promising he’ll take Charlie and anyone else who wants to go to see it properly tomorrow—and Cecil indicates City Hall, the Last Bank of Night Vale, and the Night Vale Public Library. There’s no need to point out the radio station; it dominates the center of downtown, not because of its unusual height—it’s a local station, so it doesn’t need to broadcast far—but simply because of its prominence. It’s very clear that this is the focal point of the town.
“Do you want us to drop you off, sweetie?” Carlos asks Cecil.
“No, I’ll come home and have lunch with you all,” Cecil assures him. His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror again, and Martin knows without needing to be told that he doesn’t want to disrupt Esteban’s routine more than absolutely necessary, and Esteban expects his daddy to put him down for his nap. To the others, he explains, “My show starts at three o’clock, but I need to be to the station a bit earlier than that to see what Station Management has in store for me. I just hope they aren’t fighting with City Council again. They were fine yesterday, but you know how it is with relationships. Sometimes the littlest things can touch off the worst arguments.”
“At least until you have to test it against something really serious,” Tim murmurs. Martin shivers, but nods silently in agreement.
“Is everybody on City Council dating Station Management at once?” Charlie asks, not sounding as if that’s particularly unusual. Which, well, it isn’t to him, Martin supposes. At the very least he’s never acted as though his having three dads is in any way odd or outside the norm.
“City Council is a single-bodied, many-voiced entity,” Cecil explains, also not sounding as if that’s particularly unusual. “Except for Tamika Flynn, but she’s not involved in that relationship. Station Management is…I’m not actually entirely sure just what Station Management is, but they are probably similar.”
Charlie nods and settles back in his seat, and Martin for one is thankful they’re letting that conversation drop.
Lunch is simple—peanut butter and strawberry jam on a type of bread that Martin isn’t familiar with but tastes interesting, thick-cut potato crisps, and bananas (Esteban’s is sliced, and Charlie slices his as well before eating it), plus a glass of milk each—and then Cecil gets up to put Esteban down for his nap. Esteban, rubbing his eyes with one chubby hand, reaches the other out to Charlie, who—Martin notices—is blinking rather a lot, and makes the same grabbing motion he did at dinner last night when he wanted Charlie to sit next to him, clearly asking him to come with them. Charlie blinks up at Jon a little uncertainly. “Is it okay if I take a nap?”
“Charlie, of course,” Jon assures him. “You’re a growing lad, you need your rest.”
“Okay. Thank you for lunch, Uncle Carlos.” Charlie gets up, pushes his chair in, and follows Cecil and Esteban to the bedroom.
Martin gets up to help Carlos clear the table. “The bread was…um, interesting. Regional variety?”
“Oh! No, it’s tapioca flour, that’s all,” Carlos explains. “There’s a ban on wheat and wheat byproducts, so we have to either use alternatives or do without. It makes for some interesting waffles at the Moonlight All Night Diner.”
Martin decides he actually doesn’t want more information on that.
Cecil comes out a few minutes later with a faint smile on his face. “They were both asleep before their heads hit the pillows,” he reports.
Carlos looks relieved. “That’s wonderful. Esteban’s been bad about his naps lately.”
“They didn’t take one this morning,” Tim points out. “Either of them. I’m sure you expected him to fall asleep while we were driving around, but I think he made himself stay awake to copy Charlie. Which is probably why he asked Charlie if he would take a nap, too…he knew he needed one but didn’t want to do it without his cousin.”
“Which you have to admit is still pretty advanced reasoning for a toddler.” Cecil leans over and kisses Carlos quickly. “I’m off to the station. I should be home before Abby and Steve and Janice get here. Need me to bring anything with me?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll call you. Have a good show, honey.” Carlos catches Cecil’s neckerchief and pulls him down for another kiss before letting him go with a smile.
They get the kitchen and dining room cleaned up, then go to sit in the living room for a while. Martin is working on a Christmas jumper for Charlie and settles with his bag of wool on his lap; Tim has his book of crossword puzzles, which he enjoys as long as he can shut off the Eye long enough to make it a challenge. Jon and Carlos are pouring over what Martin is pretty sure is a cookbook and murmuring about timing and spices. It’s amusing to Martin, who knows damned well Jon rarely cooks—Jon Prime does, sometimes, but their Jon is more likely to do the dishes than actually prepare the meals. He gets why he’s helping here, though. It’s the same reason he does sometimes cook at home—it’s family bonding time.
After a bit, Carlos gets to his feet. “We should probably go get started if we’re going to cook this on time. Um, if you guys want to listen to the show…the radio’s right there. We have another one in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Carlos.” Tim gives Carlos a smile, winks at Jon, and leans over to snap the radio on.
Martin works a color change with a quick flick of his fingers and listens as the music—sounds like the tail end of an opera—fades out. There’s a moment of silence, and then Cecil’s deep, rich, resonant voice echoes from the speakers, in the tones he used when giving his tour rather than the ones he uses when talking to the family. “When life gives you lemons, you should make a key lime pie, and refuse to explain how you did it. Welcome to Night Vale.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting from the show, since he doesn’t listen to much radio; his mum used to listen to church services on Sundays when he was young, and once in a while he tuned in to a station that was playing songs from the War, but all he’s known about Cecil is that he’s in community radio, that and Tim keeps calling him “the Voice”. It turns out, however, that the show Cecil runs is mostly talk. Of course, it’s a small town; they probably get most of their news from radio rather than television. Since it’s community radio, too, the headlines Cecil talks about aren’t the big global stories, or even the national ones, but what’s going on right here in Night Vale. Tonight’s top story seems to involve a rivalry between two coffee shops that have set up not only right next to each other, but actually sharing the same storefront, address, and kitchen. Martin is hopelessly confused as to how such a thing can even happen, but Cecil reports on this as though it’s nothing unusual, so he chalks it up to regular Night Vale weirdness and settles in to enjoy the show.
The smaller stories are also…odd, in their own way, but they seem to fit the fabric of Night Vale like buttons on a shirt. Something that would send a Londoner running to the Magnus Institute for validation or reassurance seems to be just another Monday here. Of course the local music shop is giving away albums because the owner has decided to only stock recordings of dogs barking into window fans. Naturally there’s a seventy percent literacy rate among spiders in Night Vale thanks to a long running “teach a tarantula to read” program. And it somehow makes perfect sense that Friday morning has to be postponed to next Tuesday due to a scheduling conflict, even if it makes Martin’s brain hurt to try and work that one out.
“Reason Patterson and Marley Tyler have called for a final confrontation,” Cecil says finally. “The winner of this epic brawl will be the one to lay claim to the coveted Clover machine. We will have results on this conflict soon, but first—the weather.”
The way all other sound stops until Cecil utters those words is almost reminiscent of the way everything seems to freeze when Tim—or Jon Prime—demands a statement from someone. Martin is perhaps a bit surprised that what comes next is a song rather than anything involving actual weather, but it works along with everything else that’s happened. He even finds himself nodding along as he works another round of the jumper.
The music trails off and Cecil comes back in, describing the confrontation that apparently just took place. It seems like…a lot to have crammed into three or four minutes, but maybe it’s just one of those things that takes longer to explain than it does to experience. At least it ends well…or relatively well, anyway…with Reason and Marley fusing into a single being with two heads and agreeing to combine their shops into one as well, although Cecil does mention that, regretfully, the machine that was the core of the final fight was irreparably damaged.
“Stay tuned next for the sound of water gurgling through pipes, the smell of roasting beans, and the taste of a perfect end to the day,” Cecil concludes. “And as always, good night, Night Vale…good night.”
There’s a short musical sting that Martin guesses is the show’s sign-off, and Tim switches the radio back off.
“So?” Carlos calls from the kitchen, a bright, hopeful note in his voice. “What did you think?”
Martin counts off the last few stitches under his breath, then folds his needles and sets the knitting aside before heading to the kitchen. Jon and Carlos are both elbow deep in something he can’t even begin to guess at. “He does a good job. I can see why everyone enjoys his show so much…you must be very proud of him.”
“I am.” Carlos beams at him. “Of course everyone in Night Vale loves Cecil, but…”
Martin hums. “Need a hand?”
“No, we’re good, but if you want to go get Charlie and Esteban, I can give them their afternoon snack,” Carlos offers. “We have to feed Esteban now or he won’t be hungry for supper, but he won’t wake up without his afternoon snack.”
“Sure thing.” Martin starts for the hall.
As he moves out of the doorway, Tim comes into the kitchen and leans against it. “Does that other station usually use the same frequency? Or broadcast at the same time?”
Something flickers in Carlos’s eyes, just for a second, but his brow furrows in a pretty good imitation of innocent confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tim. There’s only one radio station in Night Vale.”
Tim stares at Carlos for a long moment, then just says, “Huh.”
Martin glances at Jon with a frown and sees, in his expression, the exact same thoughts Martin has himself. Carlos is lying. He’s very obviously lying. He clearly knows exactly what Tim is talking about, and he’s doing a pretty bad job of hiding it. Still, for right now, it’s best to just let that slide and let him believe he’s getting away with pretending he doesn’t know about any other station.
Especially since Martin can also tell at a glance that Jon, like him, actually has no idea what Tim is talking about.