Episode 1.09: Centrifugal Force
Written & Produced by Rae Lundberg
Content Warnings (Click to expand)
Animal body horror, animal death (implied), death mention
NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, ghostly wails blend subtly with cicada songs, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. [THE STATION’S WALL CLOCK TICKS ON.] MILO: Where’s the postmaster? He’s supposed to be here. VAL: He’ll be here. He must have just stepped out for something. CLEMENTINE: It seems like Nicholas is always at the office, doesn’t it? He’s sitting at the desk, watching me over his glasses when I arrive in the evening, and he’s there when I get back in the morning. For all I know, he could be there all day. MILO: Maybe he has a pillow under that desk, and he crawls down there for a quick nap every now and then. VAL: Assuming he sleeps at all. CLEMENTINE: He’s always got those bags under his eyes, doesn’t he? MILO: I have them too, since working here. VAL: It raises the question, what do we really know about our reclusive postmaster? CLEMENTINE: You’re asking us? You’ve worked with him for how long? VAL: Eight years. He’d just been promoted to the top spot when I got here. I guess I filled his position. Nick’s an awfully quiet one, though, even for the Post. I’ve heard even less about his personal life than about Ashley’s. CLEMENTINE: He’s just private. We all are, in this line of work. MILO: Still...makes you wonder what he’s got to hide. VAL: Agreed. It’s time to find out. CLEMENTINE: Are we sure about this? I’ve never heard of an ex-pigeon, and I don’t really want to know why that is. MILO: This goes bad, and our replacements will be looking for us. VAL: Calm down, both of you. Let’s wait until Nicholas has a chance to explain before we leap to any wild conclusions. MILO: But where is he? Sundown was ages ago. VAL: Minutes ago. CLEMENTINE: (sliding desk chair) No secret nest under the desk. Just a pair of house slippers. Maybe his feet get cold when he sits here all night. MILO: Great. We can hold his slippers hostage until he tells us what we want to know. If he ever gets back. VAL: Perhaps I can provide a distraction while we wait. (fanning envelopes) Pick a letter, any letter. CLEMENTINE: No way. I don’t want any part of it. VAL: So sanctimonious. But you were fine with snooping around the postmaster’s desk. CLEMENTINE: I just looked under it. I would hardly call it snooping. MILO: Second from the left. VAL: What? MILO: The second letter from the left, with the green ink. Just read that one. CLEMENTINE: Why are you encouraging her? MILO: I guess I’m not feeling very loyal to the organization that took my husband. VAL: There you go, Milo. Stick it to the man. CLEMENTINE: I can’t believe I’m outnumbered in this. VAL: That works in your favor. Surely the spooky letter can’t curse all of us. MILO: And how do you know it’s a “spooky” letter? VAL: I don’t know. Just got the feeling that you picked a good one. [THE TELLTALE SOUND OF AN ENVELOPE BEING TORN AND A LETTER OPENED.] VAL: (reading) Dear Adrian, I started this letter as congratulations on your engagement, but I threw it away. We’ve known each other too long, been too close to be dishonest with each other. Instead, I’m asking you, as your friend, to reconsider. You know I don’t have anything against Celia personally, but this match isn’t right for either of you. What do the two of you even have in common, besides both your parents wanting you to get married? She’s a charity ball dilettante, and you’re...so much more than that, Adrian. Where do you see this ending up? When her father retires, are you going to take his place at the bank, while she manages your social life with all the city’s other wine-and-cheese mucky-mucks? Do you really want to grow old and bitter, sipping on cocktails with the governor’s lackeys and tittering disdainfully about the superstitious, uneducated wretches in the Skelter? Maybe I sound too harsh, or melodramatic, but I need you to hear me. Ever since you’ve been involved with Celia and her family, it’s like I can hardly see the real you under the pressed shirts and bespoke suits they put you in. But your parents must be pleased, right? Their strange, wayward son is finally making something respectable of himself, something they can brag about to their own petty friends. Is that what you get out of this? Mommy and Daddy’s approval, after almost thirty years of being starved for it? I’m sorry, Adrian, but it doesn’t work like that. You can’t make them love you, no matter who you marry. [A SLOW, NOSTALGIC TUNE PLAYS IN THE BACKGROUND.] You and me, we were never meant for that kind of life, never meant to be beholden to what the rich and powerful consider normal and acceptable. We were always drawn to the outside, to the strange and beautiful that exists beyond their world of rules and repression. And you, you were always so fearless in direction, so joyful in discovery. That’s what drew me to you in the first place. I don’t know what it is about people like us that pulls us so insistently toward the unorthodox and the outre, but I feel it, and I know you still do. Maybe there’s something in the monstrous that the outcast can relate to, something about the defiance of our existence. We persist in ourselves, despite every judgment and command to the contrary. We always have. That’s why I can’t imagine you giving in and changing yourself to suit someone else. Remember when we were twelve years old, you lived in that brick house downtown with the garage your parents used to store the boat? We used to play in that little room in the back of the garage, block it off with a tarp and make up stories to tell by flashlight. I felt safe there with you. It felt like anything could happen, like at any moment we might step into a discovery that would change our lives forever. That’s what I thought when we found the possum. Can you blame me? I was twelve, and very lonely, apart from you. Of course, you were the one who saw her first. I was arranging the blankets on the floor behind our tarp, trying to get my little nest just right, when you jumped up with a shout. You shushed me before I could even open my mouth, and pointed to a shadowy corner, where two beady, black eyes stared out at us. The creature pressed itself against the wall and showed its teeth. I said something like, “hey there, little guy,” and you shook your head and pointed again. Underneath the possum, partly hidden in its matted, gray belly fur, were many more sets of eyes, more tiny, wriggling noses. It took an hour of coaxing, offering water and every snack we could think of that might appeal to a possum, before we could draw her out of the corner. As she shuffled warily toward us, her babies came with her, and I thought they must be clinging to her like living burrs. We loved them instantly, and began coming up with names as the mother sipped water and nibbled at a pile of raisins. Cornelius. Princess Fran. Noodle. (I know you must remember what we named the mommy possum, but for the life of me, I can’t recall it just now.) We felt like proud fathers as we kept watch over the family of possums. The mother always kept her babies tucked underneath her, but we never caught sight of her nursing them. When she finally let us close after several days, we learned why: she hadn’t birthed them, exactly, or something went very wrong when she did. The babies, all eight of them, seemed to have sprouted from her flesh, like leaves along the kudzu vine. There were eight faces--sixteen round, black eyes like fish eggs and eight pointed, inquisitive snouts--and sixteen excruciatingly tiny front paws, baby pink fingers scrabbling at the air as though they longed to walk. But that was all. Their little bodies disappeared into hers, and could not be separated. How could we help but love them even more? They were special, maybe unique in the whole world, and they needed us. In time, the mother let us hold her upside down in our laps, and we used an eyedropper to feed milk to every squeaking baby. Their long mouths seemed curled into smiles as they lapped at every drop with their soft tongues. I know you remember as well as I do. I’ll never forget. At twelve years old, that was the most important I’d ever felt, caring for those sweet, innocent creatures, that I somehow knew wouldn’t be loved by anyone else. Didn’t you feel that too, the urge to love desperately everything the world had made different, that had been cast aside by a twist of existence? [THE BACKGROUND MUSIC FADES OUT.] Your parents certainly didn’t love our children, when they found out. They locked up the garage, unable to fathom why their carefully cultivated son would choose to play with mutated vermin. It must have been my influence, they said. Now that I think about it, you moved not long after that, didn’t you? But not before they called the men in the gray van to remove the problem for them. Your father held you back by the shoulders while you yelled and cried. I threw myself at the man who held our possums in his wire noose, but he shoved me back. “That thing isn’t right,” your mother said. “It needs to be put out of its misery.” But where is misery in being different, except in what others inflict? You must realize by now why I’m bringing all this up. What about Celia? If she encountered something strange and wonderful, would she love and care for it, like us? Or would she destroy it, simply because she didn’t understand? And what about you? Does Celia value the ways that you’re unique, or try to mold you into a more acceptable shape? Would she stand up to her family, if you didn’t fit in with them? This is probably unwanted advice, but I have to give it before the world loses one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known. Remember our possum family, Adrian. Your singularity is beautiful and powerful, and always has been. Don’t change for anyone. Don’t round your awkward angles just to fit. And don’t ever forget me, all right? All my love, Benji. VAL: (folding letter) There. That wasn’t so harrowing, was it? CLEMENTINE: But definitely private. MILO: Eh, I kind of wish I hadn’t picked it. Maybe the one in the blue envelope is less depressing. VAL: If you’re so curious... CLEMENTINE: Give it a rest, Val. Please. VAL: Right. Sorry. [THE SILENCE HANGS UNCOMFORTABLY.] CLEMENTINE: It’s getting late. Maybe we should just get to our haunts, and catch Nicholas another time. MILO: No! I’m not giving up, not after what happened to me. If the postmaster knows something about my husband, I’m going to find out what it is. CLEMENTINE: I understand how you feel, but-- MILO: (combative) Do you? CLEMENTINE: N-Not--I mean, not firsthand. VAL: Milo, she’s just-- MILO: I really don’t think-- [THE OFFICE DOOR OPENS SUDDENLY. FOOTSTEPS ON WOOD AS NICHOLAS ENTERS.] NICHOLAS: Something the matter? You’re all staring at me. And getting quite a late start, it seems. With Val, that’s no surprise, but you two-- VAL: (harsh, cutting him off) This isn’t our performance review, Nick. MILO: This is about Ashley. NICHOLAS: Oh. Okay. I see. In that case, let’s-- (he pulls out his chair and settles at his desk) --let’s discuss. MILO: (flat) Were you involved in his disappearance? NICHOLAS: Was I--are you accusing me of foul play against one of my own couriers? You can’t be serious. MILO: The night I heard his voice, you somehow knew to send the others after me. NICHOLAS: You’re suspicious because I tried to look out for you? CLEMENTINE: You didn’t do the same for Ashley. NICHOLAS: That-- VAL: Just answer Milo’s question, please. MILO: Were. You. Involved. NICHOLAS: The answer is absolutely not. When he didn’t show up for his shift, I tried everything I could to contact him. His van was abandoned, and his deliveries from the previous night were missing. After a week with no news, I was required to conscript his replacement. That’s just procedure. CLEMENTINE: So you already knew about the van. NICHOLAS: Of course. I have to keep track of the office’s assets. VAL: Human and otherwise, right? MILO: But-but what did you actually do to help him? Did you tell the police, or, or contact your supervisors, or-- NICHOLAS: Milo, listen. For as many years as we worked together, I didn’t know Ashley as well as maybe I should have. But he was a good courier, and I respected him. I promise you, I used every tool at my disposal to search for him. And of course, I called the police right away, but when it comes to our organization… VAL: They’re not very helpful. We know. But you didn’t use every tool you had. CLEMENTINE: Why did you tell us not to go looking for Ashley? NICHOLAS: It’s part of my job to protect you all. And yes, obviously I failed Ashley. It’s evident that there are dangers beyond my means to predict or prevent. (a long pause, and a sigh) You probably didn’t know this, Val, but the postmaster before me died on duty. We never learned exactly how it happened, and I’m still trying to fill a dead woman’s shoes. Whatever has become of Ashley, I don’t want anyone else involved. I can’t...I refuse to lose another courier to a city that seems to think we're expendable. MILO: To be clear: you know nothing, but you want us out of it anyway. NICHOLAS: I know it’s not easy to accept, but it’s the reality we live with. This can be a dangerous profession, and we manage the risks as best as we can. You’ll get used to it, in time. VAL: Don’t look at me when you say that. You wait eight years to tell me about the old postmaster, and expect me to just put my head down and get back to work? NICHOLAS: I don’t mean to scare you, I only-- VAL: Scare us? CLEMENTINE: Easy, Val. VAL: The issue is that we can’t trust you! We come to you about a missing pigeon, and you try to warn us off with some old spook story you kept secret all this time! If you won’t be upfront with us about the risks that we have to face...then we’ll strike. CLEMENTINE: Uh...we will? MILO: I’m in. If he doesn’t think there’s anything I need to know about Ashley’s route, then let him take it. NICHOLAS: There’s nothing to tell. Valencia, think about this. You’ll only end up hurting yourselves. Do they even know what you’re getting them into? CLEMENTINE: Val...what does he mean? VAL: He’s just worried about how to explain this to his bosses. Let’s get out of here. It’ll be nice to sleep through the night for once. MILO: I could use the extra rest. [OVERLAPPING FOOTSTEPS, TOWARD THE DOOR.] NICHOLAS: I’m warning you, don’t do this. Clementine--you don’t have to follow them. CLEMENTINE: I have to do anything I can to help find Ashley. I’m sorry. [THE DOOR SLAMS SHUT BEHIND THEM. WITH A FRUSTRATED SIGH, NICK BANGS HIS FISTS ON THE DESK.] NICHOLAS: (angry) What would you have me do? [A WAVERING, DISTORTED STATIC BUILDS, THEN STOPS ABRUPTLY.] NICHOLAS: (as the outro plays) Thank you for joining us on tonight’s route. You can find the couriers of Station 103 at nightpostpod.com, or on Twitter @nightpostpod. If you’re satisfied with your postal service, please rate and review us. Send a letter to your partner in crime, and tell them about The Night Post.