Chapter Text
The masked representative of the Sheriff's Secret Police was not to be reasoned with. “Sorry, sir. No outsiders allowed unless you've reached Level Two.”
Carlos let out a frustrated puff of air. “I don't think you understand. This is important. There's an entire civilization which is of great scientific interest beneath the pin retrieval area of lane five. I need access! For science!”
“Listen, Carlos, I have no intention of harming so much as a single hair on your head,” the Secret Police Officer said, in a more informal tone of voice. “Frankly, I don't know if anyone would dare harm a hair on your head, to be honest, not after – well. Thing is, though, there's other parts of you besides hair.” She paused, significantly. “You get me?”
Carlos sighed. “Fine.” It was getting late, anyway. He tucked oscilloscope that he had brought with him under one arm and headed back to the apartment that was attached to his laboratory.
As he was passing Big Rico's, he heard the door swing open.
“Carlos!” exclaimed an effusive bass.
Carlos turned. The speaker was as unremarkable in form as his voice was remarkable. He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. His skin was neither dark nor light. Indeed, Cecil Palmer could have passed unnoticed in pretty much any crowd in the United States, were it not for his ever-eclectic style of dress. Carlos had seen him at press conferences in his usual lilac corduroy work jacket, but today he was dressed more casually in a sarong and an old T-shirt.
The sarong looked pretty comfortable in the desert heat, actually. Carlos adjusted his lab coat with his free hand.
Cecil kept talking. “How nice to see you, Carlos! I was just at Big Rico's. No one does a slice of pizza like Big Rico's.” He regarded the instrument under Carlos's arm. “Ooh, are you doing science?”
“Sadly not,” Carlos admitted.
“Oh.” Cecil's face fell in sympathy. “Why not?”
“New rule at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex,” Carlos said flatly. “Apparently, outsiders aren't allowed in there any more. Which is absurd!” he added, frustration returning to his voice. “There's a whole underground city whose army could be advancing on Night Vale at any moment, just waiting there under lane five. It's vital that we study it so that we can know what's coming. The cause of science --”
Cecil was nodding. “Oh, yes,” he said, calmly. “There was that recent council decree that businesses in Amity Street may only serve locals – or outsiders who are at Fraternization Level Two or above,” he added, his deep voice taking on a reporter's preciseness. “I never thought of that getting in the way of your science, Carlos!”
Carlos sighed. “What does Fraternization Level Two even mean?”
“Those who are in a blood pact or governmentally recognized relationship with a citizen of Night Vale,” Cecil replied promptly.
Carlos ought not to have found Cecil's exhaustive knowledge of the rules to be as creepy as it inevitably seemed. Night Vale residents had to be alert to the arcane by-laws and arbitrary dangers of the town. Indeed, many of them got their knowledge from Cecil by way of Night Vale Community Radio. Cecil could have found out about the new regulations in one of any number of mundane ways. He probably had.
Probably.
It was just that, even if Cecil hadn't been informed of the new rules by some intern that was taking notes about the recent decrees of local government, there was a decent chance he'd have known anyway. Cecil knew things sometimes. It was a mystery to which Carlos had yet to usefully apply the scientific method. He frowned, and applied his brain to the matter at hand, instead.
“Uh – do I even want to know what a blood pact would entail?”
Cecil considered this question. “Quite possibly not. Although, then again, you are a scientist, and it is quite interesting, if dangerous. At present, I don't think there are any living residents of Night Vale who have successfully entered a blood pact, but if you head towards the Eastern edge of town on a night of the full moon … actually, no, don't go to the Eastern part of town on a night of the full moon,” Cecil amended, cutting himself off. “Don't.”
“Noted,” Carlos promised. He sighed, and then added, for the sake of completeness, “and – you said a 'governmentally recognized' relationship? Which would have to be marriage, I imagine. Or a civil union, if Night Vale has --”
Cecil laughed. Carlos looked at him. The laugh had probably been more disturbing than Cecil intended. It was just an aftereffect of Cecil's unique vocal pitch, that was all.
“Sorry,” Cecil said. “Sorry. I just forget, sometimes, that you haven't even been here a year and can't be expected to know these things. To be honest,” he added, generously, “it's quite possible that when the Fraternization Levels were written, the phrase did only apply to marriage and that sort of thing. Official surveillance and registration of interpersonal relationships has increased considerably, since. These days it includes cohabiting, dating and, most recently, middle school crushes. Of course,” he added, darkly,”I would never say that last one is a bit excessive.” He paused, dislike of the measure duly unvoiced.
“Wait, even crushes?” Carlos asked. “But not for adults, right?”
“No, no, not for adults.” Cecil blinked. “Why, do you have a crush on someone? Carlos, do you have a crush on someone?” His eyes widened. “Is it me?” he asked, hopefully.
“No!” Too late, Carlos realized that this would be an awkward topic of conversation with Cecil. “No, I don't --”
“Is it someone else? Would you mind if – I mean, murder is still legal, would it be okay if I… ” Cecil continued.
“-- have a crush on anyone,” Carlos said, firmly, trying to walk Cecil back from whatever assumptions he was making. “I was just surprised that the rule applies on such slight grounds, that's all.”
“Oh.” Cecil took a deep breath. “Oh. I see. Sorry. Um, so you'll – you're going to try to satisfy the Fraternization Level Two clause somehow?” He looked worried.
Carlos felt worried. “I haven't even had a chance to think it through,” he said, trying for calm rationality. “It's probably not practical. I don't even know who I'd – who I'd ask.” There was an awkward pause. “I just – I really need to know what's going on at the bowling alley, that's all.”
“Come with me,” Cecil said, suddenly. Then he appeared to rethink. “Wait, no, go and put your machine thingy --”
“Scientific instrument,” Carlos corrected him, slightly affronted.
“-- yes, that. Go put it back in your laboratory,” (Cecil's voice lingered caressingly over the five-syllable word) “and meet me around the elm tree out back. Got it?”
In the quiet of the lab, Carlos did wonder for a moment about the advisability of meeting with Cecil in an out-of-the-way place. Just in case, he scribbled a note for his colleagues: “Gone to meet Cecil at back of Big Rico's.” Barring unforeseen incidents, he'd be back to remove the note by the end of the evening, and none of them would ever see it. It was a largely symbolic precaution, but it made Carlos feel better.
The sun was setting, and the elm tree was large in the twilight. Carlos walked around it and was surprised to see, not Cecil, but a dusty cellar door leading under Big Rico's. Voices could be heard on the other side, and there was a distinct smell of illicit fresh-baked bread.
The door creaked ominously as Carlos opened it. Carlos recognized several of the people in the interior gloom. Old Woman Josie was there, talking loudly with several of what were almost certainly angels. Mayor Pamela Winchell, of all people, was slipping away from the counter with a large paper bag clutched to her chest. Carlos was mildly shocked by this, and then wondered when he had become so accustomed to Night Vale that he could be perturbed by an official daring to consume wheat by-products.
Carlos found Cecil at a table in the corner, and perched nervously across from him on a three-legged stool. Across the room, the angels (or not angels) began a raucous song about the joys of gluten. Cecil seemed to take the noise as his cue, and leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Date me,” he hissed. Carlos took a deep breath, preparing to refuse, but Cecil continued: “What I mean is, tell people we're dating. I will, too.”
“Over the radio?” Carlos asked, dubiously.
“Of course! Got to. Won't be believable, otherwise. And, of course, we'll have to go out for dinner or something, but then we can fill out the paperwork and you'll be good to go.”
“Paperwork?”
“The post-date paperwork? Honestly, Carlos! How do you think the government keeps tabs on these things?”
Carlos hesitated. “So, you're saying we should pretend to be dating so that I can have access to the bowling alley?”
Cecil swallowed and nodded, quietly.
Carlos ran a hand through his hair, distractedly, and then stopped halfway through the motion when Cecil's face took on a glazed expression. “It – it won't be real, Cecil,” he pointed out, firmly.
Cecil tilted his head to one side. “What is reality?”
“Cecil. Reality is what this will not be. I don't know if you've thought this through. We'll – we'll date, right? Well, sort of,” he amended. “We'll go out for dinner a couple of times or whatever, and then, when this research project at the bowling alley is no longer active, we'll stop, and it will all be over, and – and it will never really have happened. Do you see?”
Cecil nodded. “That's true,” he said. “Someday we'll all stop. Forever. Everyone stops, and no-one ever really knows what happened, not really.”
Carlos didn't quite know what to say to that.
“It's okay, Carlos,” Cecil said. His voice was sweet and dark and on the edge of a smile. “I know how to lose things. Just – please, let me do this for you? You need this. Science is important, right? Also, you have perfect hair.”
Carlos ought to have taken this last opinion as a reason not to go through with the plan, but it was stated in such a rational tone of voice that his mind sort of automatically took it as a perfectly good explanation. He nodded, almost despite himself.
“Okay, then, this is for you, Carlos.” Cecil smiled beatifically.
"So, what happens now?" Carlos asked.
“I'll call you," Cecil replied. "But, for now, we should leave separately. I'll go first. Make sure the trash can lid is white before you step out from behind the elm,” and then he was gone, slipping out the cellar door and into the developing night.
Carlos sat in the gloom for several minutes further, unmoving, until it occurred to him that an illegal speakeasy wasn't a particularly sensible place to remain in for any length of time. He got up and left, quickly, following Cecil's instructions.
He really wasn't sure what to think.