Hello listeners. It’s me. Vikki Other.

Alone on the case. Solo on the probe.

By myself.

… that doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though.

From my timeline to yours, this… is Radio Other.

(Intro)

[Rustling]

I think that Lizzy knows something. No, I know she knows something.

But what, I can’t figure out.

I’m going to break in tonight, and hide the Otherphone near her desk… See what it picks up. It’s not… ideal. But hopefully I can get something.

Until then, stay tuned.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[A CLOCK TICKS}

???: Hello.

I wonder if you can hear my voice on this thing.

If you can understand it.

Will it pierce through? Will it sing?

I do not know. Rarely do I find that I am… acknowledged by this world.

The Wretch left their Microphone here, in these cursed walls. They call it something else. An Otherphone, I think. I wonder why they chose it. Is it a homage to the name they’ve taken? A reference to the faded letters on the top, leaving the words “On the air” to simply say “other”.

I wonder, do they know? Do they know all the factors, all the things that they are being watched by? They are paranoid, too scared for what has happened so far. Yet not scared enough.

Fear. What a concept. To be afraid. I have never felt afraid, but I imagine it would not be a pleasant thing. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it plenty. Perhaps fear is part of my existence by now, like the sharp teeth of a wolf is to its survival. An instinct to tear, to gut. To rip apart a person.

I’ve seen fear in the Wretch’s eyes. Seen it in the Librarian’s eyes. Her and her little assistant, working.

The tired one stays late at night, parsing through papers, muttering to herself. She’s afraid. Afraid for herself. Afraid for the wretch. Afraid OF the Wretch. I wonder if she knows that she will die? They all will, eventually. The Wretch knew it best.

I don’t think the Wretch is scared of dying. I think it might be the one thing they are not afraid of. I can see why. Beings who have felt what it is like to die don’t often give much thought to doing it again. It is the suspense that makes it so fearful. When will it happen? What will it be like?

Death in itself is oblivion. Even in the most complex theories of heavenly singing, there is a loss. A shedding of the self. One’s sins falling down. Casting off the cloak of physicality.

They forget that it is the physicality, the sins, that make them who they are. They are not piecemeal beings, able to simply strip off layers of the self. Deprive them of one, and the system fails.

Even on the best of my days, I barely exist. My form is… a suggestion, at best. Not a certainty. Never a certainty. I doubt I shall ever be certain of anything.

That in itself is a kind of oblivion. To sometimes be nothing - it is not bad. I don’t know the time that I am gone. I don’t experience it. Perhaps that is the truth - I am simply in a state of perpetual death and rebirth. A strange Phoenix. But I know that is not true. Death and rebirth - they are opposite concepts. A dichotomy. A black and white. I only exist in grey areas.

If death is simply a lack of being, I would not know why someone would fear it. It would not be painful. Or perhaps, it is just the idea of nothingness itself. That they would rather feel the pain, and be able to recognise it, to cry out in their minds, than to be unable to know it is there. To be unable to be there at all.

If death is nothing, then life must be everything, I would say. All colour, all noise. All sickly shades of fear and resentment. All questions and chaos. I hover on the edge of that, never truly experiencing the void or the earth. Another grey area.

Humans don’t recognise the grey areas. They only see the opposite ends. Dead and alive. There or not there. Human or monster or god.

I wonder who is listening to this?

Whether they are one of those? Human, monster, or god.

Or are you like me?

Are you listening, little mothling?

…[TEASING] Are you afraid?

[IT GIGGLES]

What are you afraid of?

Me?

Well, I can’t blame you for that, I suppose.

[PAUSE]

I'm sure you’ll want this thing back. I'd love to keep it, but…

[PAUSE]

I don’t think they’d like that. No, they aren’t done with you yet.

So long, Wretch.

It’s always nice to visit with… old clients.

(Eris laughs, gasping and maniacal)

SUNG:

See the children, up on the hill

One by one, they march to the dell

Down past the gates, past the Alison Cross

How many silver haired girls have you lost?

See the children, down by the trees

Skipping in pairs, laughing in threes

Hands full of foxglove, pocket full of moss

How many gold blooded boys have you lost?

See the child, stood at the fence

Watch as the light draws them in

With their spider web song, their necklace of bone

Your green eyed child ain’t coming home

—

…

VIKKI: Nothing.

[THEY LAUGH]

Absolutely nothing.

Just… silence. For nearly 8 hours.

That’s…

Whatever.

I can figure this out another way. Maybe George… no, he wouldn’t touch this with a ten foot pole.

…

I think I might know someone who would though. At least, for the right price. And they do owe me one golly heck of a favour.

From my timeline to yours, this is Radio Other.