Episode 1.15: Clay Pigeons

NICHOLAS: (as the intro plays) At the edge of Gilt City, pens are poised like glittering knives, and all await the arrival of the Night Post. MILO: He’s not here. CLEMENTINE: I remember him saying he was taking some vacation time. That must have been tonight. VAL: Since when does Nick go on vacation? CLEMENTINE: Since he’d accrued too much and they made him take time off, apparently. VAL: Hey, on his desk...he must have left these for us. They have our names on them. CLEMENTINE: Instructions for while he’s out, maybe? MILO: Any chance it’s a termination letter and severance pay? VAL: You two have the worst imaginations. Why don’t we just-- MILO: Honestly, I don’t really care right now. I need to be...somewhere else. VAL: Gonna head home? MILO: I don’t want to be there, either. Agi will be getting ready to open the shop soon. Maybe I’ll go see her. CLEMENTINE: I’m out, too. No way am I about to hit my route in daylight. It’ll just have to wait until tonight. VAL: See you guys then, I guess? MILO: (grunts noncommittally) VAL: Keep your chin up, Milo. Just let us know if...well, you know. CLEMENTINE: Yeah. Say the word, and we’ll come running. MILO: Mm-hm. [MILO AND CLEMENTINE LEAVE. WITH A LONG SIGH, VAL TAKES A SEAT AT NICK’S DESK AND OPENS THE LETTER.] VAL: Come on, severance pay...hm. (reading) To the couriers of Station 103: Milo Cylix, Clementine Keys, and-- That is not my name. What kind of bullshit? (huffs) Okay. Milo Cylix-Wilder, Clementine Keys, and Valencia Torres. (reading) Do you ever ask yourselves, little birds, “what is a courier?” Simply put, a courier is a bearer of messages. All societies have them. They are vital threads in the vast web of communication, a means of transferring information through physical space. Perhaps you’ve felt the power of your position, sensed the thrum of influence that moves through you, the potential of upheaval that you carry in all those unassuming envelopes and parcels. Or maybe you haven’t sensed it. Maybe you believe you’re just terribly unlucky postmen, resigned to toil by a city that quite unaccountably doesn’t appreciate you. The salient question, then, is this: what makes a pigeon different? What lies within you that makes regular citizens lock their doors and watch you through darkened windows, makes them speak of you in odd, uncertain tones? Rumor, certainly. A more than healthy dose of superstition. Those of us who would live and thrive here, who would build and reach for glory despite the horrors that gather on every side, know a pigeon for what it is: a conduit. A virus. A Trojan Horse. You may not know it, but you are carriers of disease, my little winged rats. You pass freely through our bright city’s defenses, bringing the darkness to our doorsteps each and every night. You may not live in the Skelter, but the Skelter lives in you, and it is always hungry. Perhaps it’s too dramatic to call you harbingers of the end, but I didn’t get where I am, didn’t build what I’ve built, by softening words or shying away from harsh realities. So I hope you won’t take it too personally when I declare your kind the enemy of Gilt City, despite what the misguided hillbillies of the Skelter might say. [CLEM’S MAIL VAN ROLLS THROUGH THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY, TOWARD THE SKELTER. THE WARNING BELLS OF A RAILROAD CROSSING RING, AND SHE HITS THE BRAKES.] CLEMENTINE: Oh. (sigh) Perfect. Five minutes from home, and I get stuck in the city. [A FREIGHT TRAIN APPROACHES AND RATTLES PAST, BLOWING ITS WHISTLE, WITH NO END IN EARSHOT.] CLEMENTINE: Guess I have some time to kill. Might as well see what this is about. (tearing envelope) Not sure if I should be worried, or... [ALMOST RELUCTANTLY, CLEMENTINE UNFOLDS THE LETTER. THE TRAIN NOISES FADE AWAY.] CLEMENTINE: (reading) To the couriers of Station 103… (a long pause as she reads silently) “Misguided hillbillies?” Whoever this is from, they’ve got a hell of a nerve. And some obvious class prejudice. (reading) The Night Post persists only because the Skelter’s backward-looking residents demand it. While they don’t quite outnumber the population in the city proper, they’re a much more cohesive political bloc. For decades and more, they’ve stubbornly clung to their irrational, outdated traditions, stewing in a benighted morass of superstition and ritual. Therein lies the greatest threat: not in the malevolent spirits and unnatural predators that stalk these blighted lands, but in the willingness of people to embrace them. They sup with ghosts and adorn their doors with sigils, welcoming the tides of chaos like a sailor steering into the monster wave. Sometimes it seems that trying to oppose these ideologies is like fighting the ocean itself. The spiritual tradition of the Skelter has no name, no church, and no official doctrine. If it were a conventional religion, it could be outlawed, marginalized, its leaders discredited and its holy places desecrated--all relatively simple work for a capable government. But these people worship no god and anoint no priests. Their shrines are pebble cairns abandoned by the roadside, tree branches arranged in dizzying patterns and at once swept away. Their prayers are wishes whispered to the earth in solitude. To most residents of the Skelter, intimacy and communion with grotesque forces and beings is simply the way of life. After countless generations in the grip of these uncanny lands, they can imagine nothing else. If you were to ask the soothsayers and the herbalists, the fortune-tellers and spiritual interpreters, even the common farmers and the children raised beyond the city limits--they would tell you that the Skelter is not part of their culture. It is their culture. Surely you can see the challenge this poses to protecting Gilt City from arcane influences. How can we undermine a faith whose followers can’t recognize it as anything less than universal? How can we stamp out practices so ingrained in this community that they hold absolute sway without written law? None of this is your concern, of course. The eradication of the occult and the supernatural from Gilt City is a matter for the Governor Themself, and their trusted circle of advisors. I offer this explanation in answer to my earlier question of what separates a pigeon from a conventional courier. The Skelter’s people hold a similar wariness of the Night Post to their urban counterparts, but adherence to tradition has convinced them that the organization is necessary. Pigeons are the Skelter’s most pitied and beloved children, so they say. Messengers hold a feared and exalted position in a society that treats written communication as incantation and habitual travel through their lands as pilgrimage. In a way, couriers are the holy people of the Skelter’s faith, those chosen--or doomed, depending on your outlook--to walk these ancient routes by night. Some even believe that without the existence of the Night Post in some form, there could be no civilization in this place, only scattered clans with no tether or interchange between them. I reject this theory, of course, but I am determined to understand the exact relationship between the Skelter and its pigeons. [THE TRAIN FINALLY PASSES, AND THE CROSSING BARRIERS RISE.] CLEMENTINE: (huffs) Finally. I’ve had enough of this, anyway. [CLEMENTINE FOLDS UP THE LETTER AND STARTS TO STUFF IT BACK IN THE ENVELOPE. AS SHE DOES SO, THE PAPER CATCHES FIRE.] CLEMENTINE: (yelps) Again? I’ve got to-- [SHE ATTEMPTS TO BEAT OUT THE FLAMES, BUT THEY SPREAD UNNATURALLY FAST, CATCHING THE SEAT AND SURROUNDING HER.] CLEMENTINE: Oh god. How is this happening? I-- [THE DOOR IS STUCK. SHE TUGS DESPERATELY AT THE HANDLE AND THROWS HER WEIGHT AGAINST THE DOOR, BUT IT WON’T BUDGE.] CLEMENTINE: Come on! Open, damn it! Please, please-- [A TAP AT THE WINDOW INTERRUPTS HER PANIC. CLEMENTINE GASPS, AND SHE BARELY HAS TIME TO MOVE BACK FROM THE WINDOW BEFORE IT SHATTERS INWARD. SHE CRIES OUT AS SHARDS OF GLASS FLY ALL AROUND HER.] CLEMENTINE: (shocked) You? [WITH HER RESCUER’S HELP, CLEMENTINE CLIMBS THROUGH THE BROKEN WINDOW. SHE WINCES AS GLASS FRAGMENTS TEAR AT HER CLOTHES, AND LANDS HEAVILY ON THE PAVEMENT.] [BREATHING HARD, CLEMENTINE TAKES A MOMENT TO COLLECT HERSELF. BEHIND HER, THE TRUCK CONTINUES TO BURN.] CLEMENTINE: Thank you for saving me, but...how did you find me? [SHE GETS TO HER FEET, BRUSHING GLASS FROM HER CLOTHES, AND GETS SOME DISTANCE FROM THE BURNING VEHICLE.] CLEMENTINE: Did you know I was in trouble? Are you following me? What--who are you? [FOOTSTEPS TRAIL AWAY, LEAVING CLEMENTINE BEHIND.] CLEMENTINE: Wait! I need to know--why do you look like me? [A KEY TURNS IN A LOCK, AND A BELL RINGS ABOVE THE DOOR AS MILO ENTERS AGI’S BOOKSTORE.] MILO: (calling) Agi? It’s Milo. I let myself in. [QUICK FOOTSTEPS AS AGI ENTERS FROM THE BACK ROOM.] AGI: Morning, Milo. It’s good to see you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. (pause) Did you need anything, or are you just here to shoot the shit with old Agi? MILO: Well, it’s...there’s kind of something I wanted to-- AGI: Oh! I just remembered. It’s actually perfect that you’re here. I have something to show you. MILO: Now? Um-- AGI: I’ll grab it from the back. Just give me a minute to find it. In typical fashion, I can’t quite remember where I set it down. MILO: Agi… [BEFORE MILO CAN PROTEST, SHE’S ALREADY GONE. HE WAITS A FEW SECONDS BEFORE CALLING FOR HER.] MILO: Agi? (sigh) All right. [MILO OPENS THE LETTER SLOWLY, HIS MIND ELSEWHERE.] MILO: To the couriers… (a long pause as he reads) Holy people, huh? Yeah, right. If we--hang on, this is... (reading) You might say that inquiry and research is the most significant work I do for the Governor, but it’s not all stuffy anthropology and unprovable theories. After all, I was chosen for this position because of my aptitude for problem solving. Consider the problem: Night Post stations on the city’s outskirts, those whose service areas extend far into the Skelter, are prone to aberrations. There is a strong correlation between the distance of a courier’s route from the city, and erratic behavior. You’ve likely noticed instability within your own station, perhaps a turnover rate that does not seem quite in keeping with the Post’s lifetime appointments. So, what can we do about a station displaying all the hallmarks of internal turmoil and corruption by outside influences? Let’s call this office, for the sake of discussion, Station 103. We might try removing certain members of Station 103 whom we believe to be negatively affected by their work, but if the problem persists, we must delve deeper. Obviously, we have nothing approaching a controlled environment, but we won’t let that deter us from experimenting. Provide the couriers with special parcels, or significant places to deliver them, and observe their work. Do the pigeons follow their workplace guidelines, or do they grow too curious for the collective good? Do they enter customers’ homes, formulate conspiracy theories, interrogate their postmaster, or go on strike? Now, I know what you’re thinking--these are all circumstantial findings. A few experiments are not proof. There is no absolute certainty in practical science, particularly not in this unique field, but perhaps a more hands-on trial can lay our doubts to rest. Bring the couriers to your laboratory. Provide easily accessible instructions in a variety of formats to ensure there’s no miscommunication. Make sure all is in readiness for them, removing as many distractions and impediments as possible. In plain terms, leave the doors open. Assign the security staff elsewhere. Show your test subjects exactly where they’re meant to go. Do they show willingness to trespass against their employers? Preternatural instincts? Greater loyalty to each other than to Gilt City and the Post? Do they cross every boundary to reach the cheese at the end of the maze? [A SUSPENSEFUL SYNTH DRONE RISES IN THE BACKGROUND.] I’m not saying that you failed, little rats. Station 103 performed largely as I expected, so you may congratulate yourselves on your consistency. I believe that no experiment is a failure when you have learned something from it, and I’ve certainly drawn a few conclusions. Your contributions are appreciated, and your participation is no longer required. [THE SYNTH TONE CUTS OFF ABRUPTLY WHEN AGI CALLS OUT.] AGI: (from the back) Ah, found it! [MILO STUFFS THE LETTER IN HIS POCKET AS AGI RETURNS.] MILO: It’s a book. AGI: Of course it’s a book. What kind of shop do you think I’m running here? MILO: The Vine that Ate the South: Kudzu Mutation in the Skelter. I don’t get it. AGI: Quit being ornery and check the bookplate. MILO: (pause) But...this isn’t mine. AGI: Obviously. MILO: No, I mean I’ve never owned this book. Why would I? I’ve got a certifiable black thumb. AGI: So someone’s got the same weird name as you. MILO: Maybe... (flipping pages) Where did you get this? AGI: It came by the Post just last night. I don’t remember ordering it, but I know a rare one when I see it. MILO: (turning pages) That’s--oh, there’s a...a leaf pressed in here. AGI: Aw, how sweet. Someone loved this book. MILO: It...it’s still alive? AGI: Oh, come on now. MILO: No, look--it’s growing. AGI: (soft gasp) Amazing. MILO: You know, I’m not sure we should-- [THE SOUND OF SOMETHING STRETCHING OR GROWING RAPIDLY.] AGI: (frightened gasp) What the-- L-let go! MILO: Oh, shit. Hang on, I’ve got-- [MILO FLICKS OPEN HIS POCKET KNIFE AND STARTS SAWING, BUT THE VINE IS GROWING TOO FAST FOR IT TO BE OF ANY USE.] AGI: Milo! MILO: Don’t--don’t panic. I’ll think of something. I-- [MILO CRIES OUT, AND THE KNIFE CLATTERS TO THE FLOOR. THE BOOK’S SPINE CRACKS AND PAGES TEAR AS VINES AND LEAVES BURST FORTH.] MILO: It’s not stopping! We have to get out! AGI: I’m right behind you! Go! [THE BUILDING RUMBLES. SHELVES TUMBLE AND BOOKS FLY EVERYWHERE AS THE PLANTS GROW INTO EVERY AVAILABLE SPACE.] MILO: The door’s blocked! AGI: Through the back, before-- MILO: Under here! Just a bit further! [AGI YELLS IN PAIN.] MILO: Agi, get up! I can’t-- AGI: Just go, idiot! [WALLS START TO CRUMBLE AND THE WOODEN ROOF GROANS IN DISTRESS. THE BUILDING IS COMING DOWN, NOW. MILO SLAMS OPEN THE BACK DOOR, TUMBLING INTO THE STREET.] [THE GROWTH SEEMS TO HAVE SLOWED, BUT WE CAN STILL HEAR THE TWISTING OF LEAFY TENDRILS AND THE PROTEST OF THE BUILDING’S FOUNDATIONS.] MILO: (breathing hard through tears) Dammit. Dammit! Agi. Agi... VAL: (reading) ...your participation is no longer required. You may ask, since you’re being retired from the program, why I would bother sending this letter. You really should have a grasp of these things by now, but I have time to answer one last question. It’s as I said before: in this uncanny land our ancestors fled to, messages have power. These words, however plain they may seem, are an invocation. By penning this letter and delivering it to you, I seal my intent and ensure its success. The paper you hold in your hands is pink slip, death warrant, and will, all in one. Goodnight, little birds. Take some comfort in the knowledge that this was not your fault, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. It wasn’t your decision, but you gave everything for Gilt City, and I will remember that, even though the history books won’t. To a bright and golden tomorrow. Very sincerely yours, Alexandra Block Urban Strategist Office of The Governor Themself. VAL: What the fuck? This is wild. (pause) Clementine and Milo haven’t even read it yet. (chair creaks as she stands) I should tell them-- [A RUMBLING, DEEP WITHIN THE EARTH. THE PEN CUP ON NICK’S DESK RATTLES.] VAL: An...earthquake? [THE FLOOR SHIFTS BENEATH VAL’S FEET, AND FURNITURE GOES SLIDING. BELOW, CHUNKS OF EARTH AND ROCK FALL AWAY.] VAL: Shit. Not an earthquake. [SHE RUNS TO THE DOOR AND FLINGS IT OPEN, BUT IT’S TOO LATE. WITH A ROAR LIKE AN AVALANCHE, THE STATION PLUMMETS. VAL SCREAMS.] [THE DROP ISN’T FAR, BUT IT’S ENOUGH TO DEMOLISH THE BUILDING. AS THE DUST SETTLES, VAL COUGHS AND GROANS. RUBBLE SHIFTS AS SHE TRIES TO MOVE.] [WHEN SHE CALLS OUT, VAL’S VOICE ECHOES AS THOUGH IN A TUNNEL.] VAL: Can anyone hear me? Nick? Milo? (softer) Clem, I need you… 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, or consider supporting us on Patreon. Send a letter to your psychic advisor, and tell them about The Night Post.

Episode 1.15: Clay Pigeons

Written & Produced by Rae Lundberg

Content Warnings (Click to expand)