One Year Later, pt 6: Corrections
Nov. 10th, 2019 07:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holdingacatCecil, an emotional wreak of a broadcaster, clasps the microphone in one hand, the latest bulletin crumpled in the other.
Corrections. Corrections are... a normal part of broadcasting.
"Ladies? Gentlemen? How... wonderful! Carlos is not dead at all!" He announces, his breath tight in his throat, his heart a rebellious, fluttering thing in the cage of his chest. He stumbles his way through an explanation of what actually happened - the horrible collapse, the unexpected and stunning rescue by the Apache Tracker, the ruined birthday party - his words (English and Russian alike) nearly tripping over themselves in his utter glee.
"Teddy Williams, who, of course, is a licensed doctor... as all bowling alley owners are required to be, checked his wounds, and indicated through a series of rhythmic hoots that Carlos will be, in fact... okay! He'll be okay!"
He... may get a little off-track at this point, his relief transmutating to a philosophical point (and not at all overly sappy, just the right amount of sappy) about the joy of being reunited with that you thought was lost. He just about gets his show back on track, when the door to the studio cracks open again.
A balled-up note is pitched at his head, and the intern who threw it flees (like the coward he is, oh, Cecil will get him for that later). With trepidation he smooths the paper flat again, sobering as he reads the new update.
"Ladies and gentlemen, in his valiant rescue of our beloved Carlos, the Apache Tracker was mortally wounded. He is bleeding profusely and it is getting all over his fake feather headdress, and he says that even his ancient Indian magics will not help him – which of course they won’t, because they’re not real." He reports, faithfully staying with the story as the man - a hero now, a racist embarrassment still, a combination both contradictory and not - dies of his wounds on the slightly sticky linoleum floor of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.
And then he's promptly distracted by a message on his phone.
"Oh! Message on my phone…" He realizes belatedly that he's not enunciating clearly into the microphone, shifting so that he can study his phone and sit up properly all at the same time. "Carlos wants to see me. He says to meet him at the Arby’s parking lot. Um…" He doesn't want to read too much into this.
Lies.
He wants to read everything into this, but after losing everything and gaining it all back again, he's wary of taking too much, wary of losing again. This is... this is just another request for help in a scientific inquiry. Yep.
"I am not sure what scientific exploration now needs the services of my radio audience, but I will dutifully go, dutifully meet him. And as I go, let us all go. Go now, to the weather." He clicks over the feed, standing and setting aside his headphones all at the same time, the much-abused trophy left propped up against the microphone. The red 'broadcasting' light glows on, balefully, after the radio host has left.
Corrections. Corrections are... a normal part of broadcasting.
"Ladies? Gentlemen? How... wonderful! Carlos is not dead at all!" He announces, his breath tight in his throat, his heart a rebellious, fluttering thing in the cage of his chest. He stumbles his way through an explanation of what actually happened - the horrible collapse, the unexpected and stunning rescue by the Apache Tracker, the ruined birthday party - his words (English and Russian alike) nearly tripping over themselves in his utter glee.
"Teddy Williams, who, of course, is a licensed doctor... as all bowling alley owners are required to be, checked his wounds, and indicated through a series of rhythmic hoots that Carlos will be, in fact... okay! He'll be okay!"
He... may get a little off-track at this point, his relief transmutating to a philosophical point (and not at all overly sappy, just the right amount of sappy) about the joy of being reunited with that you thought was lost. He just about gets his show back on track, when the door to the studio cracks open again.
A balled-up note is pitched at his head, and the intern who threw it flees (like the coward he is, oh, Cecil will get him for that later). With trepidation he smooths the paper flat again, sobering as he reads the new update.
"Ladies and gentlemen, in his valiant rescue of our beloved Carlos, the Apache Tracker was mortally wounded. He is bleeding profusely and it is getting all over his fake feather headdress, and he says that even his ancient Indian magics will not help him – which of course they won’t, because they’re not real." He reports, faithfully staying with the story as the man - a hero now, a racist embarrassment still, a combination both contradictory and not - dies of his wounds on the slightly sticky linoleum floor of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.
And then he's promptly distracted by a message on his phone.
"Oh! Message on my phone…" He realizes belatedly that he's not enunciating clearly into the microphone, shifting so that he can study his phone and sit up properly all at the same time. "Carlos wants to see me. He says to meet him at the Arby’s parking lot. Um…" He doesn't want to read too much into this.
Lies.
He wants to read everything into this, but after losing everything and gaining it all back again, he's wary of taking too much, wary of losing again. This is... this is just another request for help in a scientific inquiry. Yep.
"I am not sure what scientific exploration now needs the services of my radio audience, but I will dutifully go, dutifully meet him. And as I go, let us all go. Go now, to the weather." He clicks over the feed, standing and setting aside his headphones all at the same time, the much-abused trophy left propped up against the microphone. The red 'broadcasting' light glows on, balefully, after the radio host has left.
