Writer, Editor, and Director: Finley Cole
Voices: Finley Cole (Vikki Other)
V: Hello, darling listeners and non-listeners, dead, alive, undecided, transitioning between the two, or hung in a perpetual state of death and rebirth, never quite knowing what it is to feel truly real! It’s me, the one known far and wide as Vikki Other. From my timeline to yours… this is Radio Other.
I’m doing peachy-keen today! Despite some failures in investigative leaps and bounds as of recent, we seem to have made a breakthrough.
So… some interesting news from the investigation side of things - I was able to get access to a few of the letters dated from around the same time that John F Kennedy Jr and his friends appeared, as well as a letter he himself wrote, containing a photo taken of him and his wife.
The photo is a grainy Poalroid of a young, square-jawed man with short hair.. On his arm is a beautiful woman, dark hair in a manicured cloud around her head, flashing a dazzling grin to the camera. It’s creased at the edges, I’d guess old.
The letter goes like this:
Dear M,
I found this in the pocket of one of my old suits. I don’t know if this can help clarify anything to you, but if it can help at any way, I’d much appreciate it. The photo itself - 52’, I think. Before they were married. And long before the accident. Again, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that it was this way you found out.
As for the rest - I truly don’t know who to turn to.
I haven’t been aging right - I keep thinking I should be an old man, and then the mirror tells me that I haven’t turned a day since… everything. Since I was stepping off onto the landing, waving eagerly to my friends, the gentle American sky stretching out like a promise. Before the crash. Is it the same for you? Does it bother you? Carolyn tells me not to worry myself, that this is the Lord’s way of saving us. But I don’t feel saved; and frankly I have found myself apt to doubt that there is a God anymore. Perhaps there was one for our home, one nation truly under God’s light, but that is not the case here.
Everything I have been told was the fantasies of fanatics is, without a doubt, this world’s truth. There are aliens, paganist gods, strange forces and odd beasts. Of course you know this just as well, but it still feels like putting it down on paper is the only way I can understand it. That I’m not going crazy.
But I am going crazy. Even if everything I am seeing here is real, I am not a sane man.
Thank you for responding to my last letter. Last week I was on the verge of something terrible, I’m afraid. I won’t go into it at length, but it is without hesitation that I repeat that Carolyn is a treasure.
Please tell me your thoughts on these matters. I’m so sorry.
John
John - that’s John F. Kennedy Jr. I’m not sure about M, but I’d assume… someone who also comes from America. This does raise some interesting questions - Lottie had described John as an old man, but this account has him describing himself as young. Could she be misremembering, or is this another strange question with no answer?
I’m actually starting to get a little tired of those.
The people in the photo - friends maybe? Or parents? Either could work.
The other letter I think might be important is this one. I’ll… I’ll read it out loud.
Frater D.E.D.I, and you should know that I mock you when I read those words, you are no brother of mine and you have never been. Is this what you are glad to have achieved? Ripping apart the seams of our world until good American men find themselves tossed up onto our shores, blubbering and confused. If Mr Kennedy is not proof enough that your hubris is unjust, then what will it take? You have new form, new eyes, new life. You shall live forever if you wish, but yet you insist that it is more you must have. I have found in this chaos, that there is new truth.
Demon is not the opposite of God, my good brother.
The opposite of God is you.
So stop trying to play his role.
From SSDD
Not much to be said about that - other than another mention of America, and John F Kennedy. And another reference to life, or immortality. “Frater” means “Brother”, which makes me think of some kind of religious sect. I coudn’t find anything on the names, but Ogma pointed out to me that “DEDI” also means “I have given” in Latin. So it could be some sort of code.
It’s… less informative than the last one. But. It still gives me more information about it.
The biggest piece to me between these is the idea that John F Kennedy Jr didn’t want to be here - he was a mistake. Something that Dedi, whoever they are, might be responsible for. Just like Leila.
Huh. Maybe evil clown cult theories might just be getting a sequel here, darling listeners.
I added “DEDI” to the stringboard, though. Just in case.
[SIGH]
I had another dream, actually. I saw the red man again. That’s what I’ve started calling him. I’m not sure why.
I wrote it down, so, it’s all here-
Uh.
I guess I could read it on air? I’m not sure how interesting that would be, but, well…
I feel I should just. Keep a record.
Alright.
[FLIPPING THROUGH PAGES]
I was standing at the edge of a ballroom, trimmed with gold light and furnished in ivory walls and smooth checked marble floors. The room was filled with people, all dancing mechanically in sync, like they’d been programmed into their static rhythm.
The dream felt crystal clear. Even… clearer than actual real life, somehow. I can practically taste every detail fresh on my tongue, like I’m still in the room.
“Can I interest you in a drink and a dance, little rabbit?” A voice cut through the haze, and I turned to see a man behind me. He wore a silver mask, studded with rubys that looked like trails of wet blood at the first glance. His black suit was crisp, and his voice smooth and low. My eyes flicked first - to the shining red gem that hung at his throat - and second - to the white rat that perched upon his shoulder.
In his white gloved hand, he offered a champagne flute of golden-glistering liquid, plucked from the banquet table behind me.
“Where am I?” I asked, and found myself holding the glass, bringing it to my lips and drinking. When I held it below my chin, just out of my line of sight, I caught a glimpse of the liquid inside. It looked bright red. Like blood.
The Red Man took my glass back, laughing and drinking his own, never stopping to remove his mask. As he turned, I saw he wore a black cape that hung down in feathery tatters behind him.
“Dance with me, won’t you, owling?” Owling. Little rabbit. Mothling. I knew he saw me as that - just a small creature he’d trapped between gloved fingers.
“I don’t know how to dance.”
“Of course you do,” he said it with a note of impatience, so quick it broke through the calm collection enough to strike the first chord of fear into my chest. “Just follow my lead, will you?”
He pulled me onto the floor, and my feet followed, as if they had been prepared for this all along. As if this entire interaction was a dance every part of me had rehearsed save the ones that truly mattered.
For the first time, I felt as if I could talk to him.
So I asked the first question I could. “Where are we?”
“Not here,” he replied, seeming thoughtful. “Or there. We’re in between. My personal abode of sorts,” he paused to laugh. “Look at the people here, moonchild. Do you think they are with us?”
I looked around, feeling like I would regret it but needing to know despite it. I gasped. Behind the thick feathered masks, were pale, greying faces. Their eyes had been sewn open, their pupils scratched with two thin lines. They didn’t move an inch, as they danced. They… shifted, like a stereoscope image flipping from frame to frame.
“No,” I whispered, not in response, but in disbelief.
“Quite! And yet, they aren’t quite dead either. Don’t worry, little rabbit. They’re long beyond the point of feeling pain. There’s nothing you would do that would help them, anyways,” suddenly, I felt him see me. Behind his mask, his eyes were focused like daggers into mine. I shivered.
“You can help me though,” he said.
“Who are you?” I didn’t quite care about what help he think I had to offer.
“If I told you my name, you wouldn’t know it,” he replied, a cold, stony sort of amusement in his voice. “And even if you did, you would not know any more than you do now. Besides, names aren’t what matter here.”
“Names matter plenty,” I felt myself replying. Chin tilted up in defiance. “A name can be used as a symbol of power, or in some cases, an act of calling or binding. And you know mine.” I recognised the words as ones Lizzy had told me before. Lizzy. I thought of her for the first time - the first thought that connected beyond the dream world. With it, I felt a shift in gravity. Before, I had been a guest on a plane. Now I was sharing stock, even if it was minimal.
The Red Man smirked. “Well. You seem to know it as well, then. Finally,” he spun me around, and my vision blurred.
As we swayed, I caught myself in one of the cracked mirrors that hung on the back walls, each one broken, most almost completely removed from the panel they’d been inlaid upon.
My hair is usually a blueish purple colour, cropped to just below my chin and flipped out at the sides, in a choppy sunray. Part of my quirkily iconic style, a mix of colourful despair in the face Here I had been turned into a swan.
Platinum pearl mane slicked back against my scalp, and a crown of silver olive leaves. Instead of an electric blue tuxedo jacket, striped bow tie and Goodbye Kitty funeral themed pyjama pants, which are my standard bedtime ensemble, I was wearing a gown of white silk and gold beaded regalia.
My face was unmasked. Something about realising that made me feel so much more exposed. A room of faceless figures, and I was the one who had nothing to hide behind, yet in that moment I felt the details of everything I had to hide crawling up my neck.
My irises were pure white - all three of them blank and staring.
Behind me, I caught a glimpse of the Red Man. His mask wasn’t there, and his eyes glowed a deep red, staring into me with such a strong sort of… curiosity… that it made me feel sick.
He smirked, tapping me on the chest. “Time’s almost up, darling. You better hurry along, little rabbit.”
I looked down, and saw my chest was torn open, mangled and bleeding. Twisted brass wires wrapped around my ribcage, and stuck out. In the very centre, lay a cracked alarm clock, ticking slowly towards midnight. And then it struck. And my whole body rang, quivering and seizing. And I woke up.
I actually bought a dream interpretation book since my last one so I could try and maybe pick some of this apart! So, uh, lemme see.
So, first - the ballroom.
“To dream that you are in a ballroom refers to some festivity or celebration. You are having a good time and enjoying life. The great mother is happy. She sees what you have done. She knows your deeds. And she smiles. Alternatively, the dream implies openness. There are some aspect of your life that you need to be more open about.”
Well- I don’t really see what I’m celebrating. And I’m plenty open, so… that definitely is unhelpful.
How about… rats. (FLIPPING PAGES)
“To see a rat in your dream signifies feelings of doubts, greed, guilt, unworthiness and envy. You are keeping something to yourself that is eating you up inside. Or you have done something that you are not proud of. Alternatively, a rat denotes repulsion, decay, dirtiness, and even death. The dream may also be a pun on someone who is a rat. Are you feeling betrayed?
In particular, to see a black rat represents deceit and covert activities. If you see a white rat in your dream, then it means that you will receive help from an unexpected source. To see a purple rat in your dream means that the mother sees your offering, and is pleased. To see a blue rat in your dream means that your credit score is low.”
I guess I… I guess I do feel kind of. Betrayed. By Ellie. But I don’t think she’s a rat. Help from an unexpected source… the Red Man did say I could help him. Maybe…
Hm.
Interesting.
A masquerade ball…
“To dream that you are at a masquerade ball suggests that you are trying to escape from the demands of real life. You may be overindulging in sinful or foolish pursuits. It is time to acknowledge your responsibilities.”
Oh dear! This says I’m letting my hubris get the better of me. That certainly is quite the accusation for this little book to make. Well, book, I’m quite sorry if I’ve been prideful. I will do it less around you.
Lastly, a Clock.
“To see a clock in your dream signifies the importance of time in some waking situation. You may be feeling some anxiety of not being on top of things. Your mind may be preoccupied with a deadline that you have to meet or some other time-sensitive issue. It is time for you to tread on and speed up your actions. If the clock is chiming, then it suggests that time is running out. Alternatively, clocks symbolize the ticking of the human heart and thus is indicative of the emotional side of your life. If the clock has stopped, then it signifies death. Consider the time shown on the clock and determine the significance of the numerals or of the time.”
Well, that makes sense. Maybe that could relate to the case I’m working on - that sense of deadlines, drawing nearer…
Sigh.
The summertime is almost over. That means getting ready for fall! Whoo-hoo… or maybe the fall already started, and I just didn’t realise it. Just wasn’t in the loop. Wasn’t paying attention.
I don’t know why I just can’t seem to… exist anymore. Like, that’s not a good way to put it. I’m obviously existing. But it doesn’t feel like it.
Have you ever been slapped hard enough that it doesn’t hurt?
The sting is so harsh and sudden that you only feel the numbness of the blow, not the stinging agony. My mom did it once, when I tried to eat dinner with her.
It’s just cold, just empty. And then after a few minutes, when the shock ebbs away and the pain kicks in, and you’re left there with both everything and nothing. Like- like a wave hitting you.
The world is a flash flood, this situation a tsunami, and I’m just the little stupid fish who just realised that my whole life has been this one wave.
The slap just started hurting, and it’s seven years too late.
I don’t think it was this bad before I turned 21. That was about three months ago, now. Around the time when… Billie showed up.
Everything that’s happened since then seems like it’s just the next wave. The current sucking in and gaining strength until it all bubbles over and leaves me knocked off my feet and gasping for air again.
There’s going to be a breaking point where everything comes together and I finally get something answer-shaped. But all I can think about is… what after that? Back in middle school, high school even, this would just be another silly little adventure. “Oh look! There’s Vikki and their smart band of fantastic whippersnappers!”
But now… it’s just me. And I’m not really having fun anymore. There’s no point to it, there’s no exciting mystery. It’s just the tight wave in my chest. I have to find the answers or else it feels like I can’t breathe. If I’m not searching for something, then all I have left to look through is my own chest of drawers.
[CHOKED UP]
There’s nothing inside me. Just a battery-powered heart and a few old quarters to out of use game machines in the back of a diner that smells like nostalgia and tastes like disappointment.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know on this shelf to set the last seven years.
I just want to throw them away and forget anything changed.
I want to be okay.
I want-
[GASP]
[BILLIE OPENS]
….
Oh.
That’s- Okay.
Hm.
That’s- Dylan West. I remember him from school. He was… well, I wouldn’t say we were close as catydids, not like me and El and Liz and George. But we talked a good bit. He and I were in AV club, and both did the morning announcements sometime. I remember he swooped in and saved the day back when Belva Mateo tricked me into reading a curse over the loudspeaker, turning half the student population into mindless zombie slaves that served her. I mean, it was probably sort of a bad idea to have the AV Club and the Mind-Control Club do a project together, but either way, it makes for a fun little story.
Well… I guss I need to do some research, then. Let me see if I can find him on- Oh. Twitter profile for TheBestOfDylanWest. Official commentator for Uncanny High School sports games, and assistant guidance counsellor. And there’s a game next week….
Well, listeners, I think now might be a good time to cut things off. I certainly have some things to… investigate.
Until then, darlings - from my timeline to yours, this is Radio Other.