Episode 53 - The Tour (Regulation-Compliant in Spirit Only)
The tour began with the transmitter room.
Or what was labeled the transmitter room.
Charles flung the door open with a flourish.
“Here we go. Fully operational, frequency-adaptive, time-buffered. Runs on something between electricity and curated nostalgia.”
The FCC agent blinked.
“…That looks like a Betamax player hooked up to a car battery and a typewriter.”
“Correct,” Charles said brightly. “But it thinks it’s a transmitter.”
Miss LaDonna added, “And really, that’s all that matters.”
They moved on.
The hallway stretched slightly as they walked, reluctant to release them.
They passed a door labeled “Studio G.” The agent tried to peek inside.
The doorknob politely turned to stone.
Charles smiled. “That one’s for Wednesdays.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Exactly.”
They reached the Archive.
Or rather, the antechamber that leads to the Vault.
Bernard was there. Floating. Watching. Absolutely visible—if she’d just look.
She didn’t.
She squinted once, frowned at a “faulty ceiling fixture,” and scribbled a note that simply read: “Area requires lightbulb replacement.”
Miss LaDonna gestured toward the shelves.
“Here we store everything we’ve ever aired.”
The agent squinted. “But this can’t possibly be large enough—”
A reel rolled itself across the floor, tapped her shoe.
She stepped back. It spun gently in place, humming a little tune that hadn’t aired since 1963.
She jotted: “Loose wiring – potential hazard.”
Charles leaned down, gently picked up the reel, and whispered, “Be nice.”
The reel purred.
Next, they passed through the Host Lounge.
Every couch was slightly too comfortable.
The jukebox only played songs that made you remember your first nightmare.
A popcorn machine offered flavors like “nostalgic disappointment” and “creamed corn but make it metaphysical.”
“I’ll… check this room later,” the agent muttered.
The lounge lights flickered in Morse code.
Charles nodded. “They say hi.”
They made it as far as the hallway labeled “Filming Room Beta-Void” when the agent stopped walking.
She turned.
Looked Charles square in the eye.
“Mr…?”
“Charles,” he said. “Just Charles.”
“Charles. There is no record of your station existing on any public or private broadcast frequency.”
“That’s right.”
“Your call letters aren’t registered.”
“Also correct.”
“And you are technically transmitting... nothing.”
“Only if you're not tuned in.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m going to need to see your license paperwork.”
Miss LaDonna stepped aside, gesturing with a sweep of her arm.
“Back the way you came, then. Olivia handles all that.”
The agent hesitated. “Which door was the—?”
But the hallway had… changed.
Slightly.
Just enough.
It was still a hallway.
But the lighting was different. The carpet was longer.
Charles offered, “If you think about the desk too hard, the building gets embarrassed. Just… walk like you’ve forgotten where you’re going.”
She did.
The hallway released her.
And the moment she vanished around the bend—
Miss LaDonna exhaled.
Charles muttered, “She didn’t even ask about the Farm.”
And Bernard, now fully visible to them, simply said:
“She will.”