“Some pray for salvation. Others for destruction. I pray the right voices survive the silence.” -- Eve the Cultist
“Good evening, faithful listeners… and accidental voyeurs of fate. This is Eve.
Tonight’s holotape was not found in a ruin, a vault, or a forbidden altar. No… it was discovered in Tod Wyoming’s underwear drawer. Yes. The left one. Behind the socks. You know the ones.
The tape hums. It whispers. It smells faintly of pre-war cologne and poor life choices. Whatever was hiding it knew that no sane being would ever look there—except destiny. Or me.
What you’re about to hear is old. Older than shame. Older than Tod’s jazz records. Listen closely, but not too closely. If the tape speaks your name… congratulations. You’ve been noticed.
Tod says it’s ‘probably harmless.’
Tod is rarely correct.
Press play. And may whatever’s listening… listen gently.”
RECOVERED PRE-WAR HOLOTAPE
SOURCE: STRATWELL SKY PORT – UNAUTHORIZED BROADCAST
SPEAKER: TOD WYOMING (Pre-War)
STATUS: SIGNAL JAMMED / PARTIALLY CORRUPTED
NOTE: Audio stabilizes after 3 seconds of static.
Alright... Alright, that’s hot, that’s real hot, whoever’s trying to kill the signal, you’re doing a terrible job of it. Which tells me two things:
One, I’m still on the air.
Two, you’re panicking.
Good evening, America. Or Wyoming. Or whoever’s still pretending those are different things.
This is Tod Wyoming, broadcasting live from a place I am not allowed to say out loud, on equipment I am definitely not authorized to touch, with a door behind me that is currently blocked by a filing cabinet labeled “Routine Meteorological Reports.”
Funny thing about that cabinet, full of bones. Paper bones. Real ones too, probably.
You’ve been telling people Stratwell Sky Port is about progress. The stars. Tomorrow. Clean lines and cleaner lies.
But you didn’t account for one thing:
You gave a DJ access to a microphone and told him not to talk.
[thudding on metal door]
Yeah, I hear you. Hold your horses, fellas. I’ve only got a few minutes anyway.
Here’s the truth you don’t want aired between the weather and the stock report:
There is something wrong up there.
Not “experimental wrong.”
Not “budget committee wrong.”
I mean cosmic, teeth-behind-the-moon wrong.
Those launches? Not probes.
Not satellites.
Fifteen astronauts didn’t go up to study stars, they went up to knock.
And something knocked back.
[signal distortion, low-frequency hum]
You hear that? That’s not interference. That’s pressure.
Sound doesn’t do that unless space is pushing its face against the glass.
Stratwell calls it the Sky-Rip. I’ve read the memos. I’ve read the parts that were blacked out too—turns out if you tilt the page just right, the ink bleeds fear.
There are watchers. Not cameras. Not Russians.
Watchers.
They don’t live up there.
They notice from there.
And Coldhaven, yeah, I said it, you metal-brained son of a—
That system you’re so proud of? It’s not managing threats.
It’s listening for permission.
Oh, that’s new. Red lights always mean I’m doing something right.
Listen close, because this is the part that gets me shot:
The government knows the war isn’t about land. Or oil. Or communism.
It’s about attention.
We split the atom so loud that something looked our way.
And now they’re building bunkers not to survive bombs
but to survive being seen.
[static, then Tod laughs softly]
You know the real joke?
They asked me to be the voice of calm.
To keep people dancing while the universe clears its throat.
Well, sorry. I play jazz. Jazz improvises.
If this cuts out, remember this:
When the sirens come, when the sky tears, when machines start praying—
I told you so.
This is Tod Wyoming.
If I don’t make it off this floor, check the future.
I’ve got a feeling I’ll be there anyway.
[heavy footsteps, shouting muffled]
Hey! Careful with the mic, that thing’s older than your...
END OF RECORDING
NOTE: Subject listed as “Deceased. Incident Pending”
ADDENDUM (POST-WAR):
Voice pattern matches post-war broadcasts from “Radio Wyoming.”
Impossibility unresolved.
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