Night 56: Radio Broadcast
"Hey, I told you not to touch that stuff!"
The radio came on without any warning, with no introductory music; just a burst of static.
It was Marc's voice that spoke, annoyed and bordering on childish. He was bickering. Bickering with--
"What? This stuff?" said a shocking, disturbing, familiar, and all-around dry-witted voice. The radio squealed again, before fading back into a small little ha!
"Yes, that stuff. You're lucky enough that I haven't tried to put a shotgun round through your chest yet. Now get your hands off my equipment." There was the sound of urgently approaching footsteps, followed by piercing feedback and jostling.
"Oh, right, because I became a massively successful purveyor of psychological experimentation due precisely to my carelessness around violent individuals. Try it, if you really want; it won't help your cause much, as far as I can tell."
Marc forced out a sigh, clearly defeated. "Look, they aren't going to want to hear your voice. Do you really think they miss you after all you've done?" At this point, their voices were about the same volume, meaning the mic was somewhere between them.
"Under the new regime and their pink-colored gruel? Yes, I'd say so. Perhaps a little."
With the squeak of a chair and a cough, the Head Doctor continued through his very unusual forum of media communication: "And that's one of the reasons why I hope those of you carrying around your radios have stopped what you're doing and decided to listen. Closely."
Marc made a noise between a groan and a scoff. "How many times have I told you to get the hell out?"
"And how many times have I told you-" the chair squeaked again, "-that unless you want to put one of your little shotgun threats into practice, you don't particularly scare me. And," he added, the edges of a smug smile nearly visible through his voice, "you need me."
He turned back to the mic, the volume of his voice increasing.
"You all need me, more than you'll ever dare realize."
"Oh, please. I might puke if you keep this up."
"You will puke if Aguilar gets his hands on you, especially if he's figured out - which he must have by now - that you've employed my ever-so-experienced assistance. So why don't you shut your mouth and let the real announcer help our precious friends, all right?"
"... So long as I'm the one employing you. And so long as you don't break anything." There was the sound of movement, like Marc was crossing his arms over his chest, finally willing to be silent.
And then a longer silence, as the Head Doctor seemingly adjusted himself, sat straight up, and tried to carry himself as professionally as possible in front of the second-hand broadcasting equipment in whatever dirt-laden hovel Marc happened to be set up in.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. As all of you know, my power was... quite suddenly taken from me by a group of militaristic swine masquerading as an arm of the government. My government - the government that put me in charge of this place with the expectation of me running it properly."
He paused, apparently for emphasis. The grin came back.
"Of course, if I have already been judged as unable to lead a facility such as this one, then I should probably embrace the role of the opposite, shouldn't I? That is... someone who helps you get out of the Institute."
"I didn't realize it was possible to be this long-winded," Marc chimed in, though his disbelief was clearly sarcastic. "Get to the point already."
"The point," the Head Doctor hissed, more as a rebuke than acquiescence, "is that while Aguilar can run his little men around like toy soldiers, he still doesn't know how to run the Institute itself. And... I do mean that quite literally."
The Head Doctor snapped--
And then chuckled.
"Sorry in advance to those of you who enjoyed our... nice little surprise waiting down in the Basement. I assure you, this isn't any kind of punishment, but instead a... gift. A reward that I am finally in a position to give, and by that..."
He leaned closer to the microphone, his voice a loud whisper.
"...I do mean the doors on the other side of the basement ballroom."
At that point, there was the squeaking, scraping sound of the chair being pulled back harshly. "All right, you delivered your little message -- now get away from my stuff," Marc demanded.
"Your stuff?" Although now turned away from the equipment, the low, deadly tone in the Head Doctor's voice was still clear and audible. "Pray tell, who ever gave you the idea that just because a man dies, his 'stuff' becomes yours?"
"Well, it's more mine than it is yours. Now, just give it--"
This was followed by the sound of a scuffle, a yell of protest, and some more painful feedback.
And then the transmission abruptly cut off.
The radio came on without any warning, with no introductory music; just a burst of static.
It was Marc's voice that spoke, annoyed and bordering on childish. He was bickering. Bickering with--
"What? This stuff?" said a shocking, disturbing, familiar, and all-around dry-witted voice. The radio squealed again, before fading back into a small little ha!
"Yes, that stuff. You're lucky enough that I haven't tried to put a shotgun round through your chest yet. Now get your hands off my equipment." There was the sound of urgently approaching footsteps, followed by piercing feedback and jostling.
"Oh, right, because I became a massively successful purveyor of psychological experimentation due precisely to my carelessness around violent individuals. Try it, if you really want; it won't help your cause much, as far as I can tell."
Marc forced out a sigh, clearly defeated. "Look, they aren't going to want to hear your voice. Do you really think they miss you after all you've done?" At this point, their voices were about the same volume, meaning the mic was somewhere between them.
"Under the new regime and their pink-colored gruel? Yes, I'd say so. Perhaps a little."
With the squeak of a chair and a cough, the Head Doctor continued through his very unusual forum of media communication: "And that's one of the reasons why I hope those of you carrying around your radios have stopped what you're doing and decided to listen. Closely."
Marc made a noise between a groan and a scoff. "How many times have I told you to get the hell out?"
"And how many times have I told you-" the chair squeaked again, "-that unless you want to put one of your little shotgun threats into practice, you don't particularly scare me. And," he added, the edges of a smug smile nearly visible through his voice, "you need me."
He turned back to the mic, the volume of his voice increasing.
"You all need me, more than you'll ever dare realize."
"Oh, please. I might puke if you keep this up."
"You will puke if Aguilar gets his hands on you, especially if he's figured out - which he must have by now - that you've employed my ever-so-experienced assistance. So why don't you shut your mouth and let the real announcer help our precious friends, all right?"
"... So long as I'm the one employing you. And so long as you don't break anything." There was the sound of movement, like Marc was crossing his arms over his chest, finally willing to be silent.
And then a longer silence, as the Head Doctor seemingly adjusted himself, sat straight up, and tried to carry himself as professionally as possible in front of the second-hand broadcasting equipment in whatever dirt-laden hovel Marc happened to be set up in.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. As all of you know, my power was... quite suddenly taken from me by a group of militaristic swine masquerading as an arm of the government. My government - the government that put me in charge of this place with the expectation of me running it properly."
He paused, apparently for emphasis. The grin came back.
"Of course, if I have already been judged as unable to lead a facility such as this one, then I should probably embrace the role of the opposite, shouldn't I? That is... someone who helps you get out of the Institute."
"I didn't realize it was possible to be this long-winded," Marc chimed in, though his disbelief was clearly sarcastic. "Get to the point already."
"The point," the Head Doctor hissed, more as a rebuke than acquiescence, "is that while Aguilar can run his little men around like toy soldiers, he still doesn't know how to run the Institute itself. And... I do mean that quite literally."
The Head Doctor snapped--
And then chuckled.
"Sorry in advance to those of you who enjoyed our... nice little surprise waiting down in the Basement. I assure you, this isn't any kind of punishment, but instead a... gift. A reward that I am finally in a position to give, and by that..."
He leaned closer to the microphone, his voice a loud whisper.
"...I do mean the doors on the other side of the basement ballroom."
At that point, there was the squeaking, scraping sound of the chair being pulled back harshly. "All right, you delivered your little message -- now get away from my stuff," Marc demanded.
"Your stuff?" Although now turned away from the equipment, the low, deadly tone in the Head Doctor's voice was still clear and audible. "Pray tell, who ever gave you the idea that just because a man dies, his 'stuff' becomes yours?"
"Well, it's more mine than it is yours. Now, just give it--"
This was followed by the sound of a scuffle, a yell of protest, and some more painful feedback.
And then the transmission abruptly cut off.