I sing the body electric. I gasp the body organic. I miss the body remembered. Welcome to Night Vale.

Even as much of town has been in flux, listeners, there is also much that has remained solid. It's hot here for instance. It's a desert. There are still lights in the sky above the Arby's and we still understand them. The sun is still rising and setting loudly on most days.

But nearest and dearest to my heart, among all the constants of life, is WZZZ, our local numbers station, broadcasting from that strange and tall antenna built out back of the abandoned gas station on Oxford St. It still broadcasts a monotone female voice, reading out seemingly random numbers, interspersed with chimes, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. No transfer in ownership of most of the town, nor unrest in the streets, nor declared war by a tiny civilization under a bowling alley could change how it operates.

Until, well, until today it changed. Here, listen:

FEMALE VOICE: 23...92..[chime]..33...67...88...80...41...41...41...I...I...

at which point the broadcast ceased. It has been silent since. What does this mean? Where did the numbers go? We reached out to the management of WZZZ for comment, but then realized we still have no idea who manages it. So we reached out in general, directing questions out into the still of today, at suspicious birds, at passers-by checking their phones, at ourselves hunched over breakfasts that, every time, we swear will be early and leisurely, but always end up late and meager. No one has provided any comment. We will continue to monitor the situation.

As her term approaches its end, Mayor Pamela Winchell has taken to calling emergency press conferences as much as five times a day, up from the usual one or two. Her most recent one involved her showing attending reporters slides of Renaissance era portraits, while explaining, “HEALTH IS VERY IMPORTANT. REMEMBER EXERCISE. THINK BACK ON TIMES THAT YOU'VE MOVED OR EXPANDED ENERGY. ALSO REMEMBER EATING. RECALL FOOD AND WHAT IT WAS LIKE. REMEMBER SLEEP. REMINISCE ABOUT REST. DRINK PLENTY OF WATER BUT LEAVE SOME WATER IN CASE OF FIRE.” She then slumped onto the rough hewn speaker’s podium. “I'm going to miss this,” she whispered, not speaking at anyone in particular. “I'm just going to miss this.” She ended the conference by popping hundreds of orange balloons, methodically and with her back turned to the audience. But despite this big finish, onlookers commented that her heart no longer seemed to be in such showy political stunts. What is next for our beloved Mayor who is stepping down in just 3 month's time? What is next for any of us? Death presumably, with some stuff before that. I look forward to it!

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An update on our earlier story. Local numbers station, WZZZ, has resumed its transmission, although the format is a little...different than before.

Take a listen:

FEMALE VOICE: ...tree lined hills and blue skies. Or no. That's cliché. A bird in flight. Even worse. When we talk about freedom, we restrict ourselves to so few images. Images of freedom should be as liberating as the feeling itself. I want to talk about freedom as a drumset being thrown down a hill. As opening a book one night and water gushing from the pages until my life is a lake and I swim away. Or as a bird in flight, with all the dependence on physics and exhaustion and food supply and merciless gravity that the actuality implies. I just don't want to talk about freedom in terms of numbers. Anything but that. I'm so tired of numbers. I'm so tired.

CECIL: We don't know what this means or why it is happening, I could say, referring to anything in the world. Although in this case I am referring specifically to the broadcast from our friendly local numbers station which has recently so radically changed its format. More on this, as we develop understanding.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention. I got another email from our former intern Dana. She is doing her best to keep away from the mountain and the blinking light up on it. Of course, she keeps finding herself coming back to it anyway. But, like anyone who grew up in Night Vale, Dana has been told over and over again what to do if you find yourself in a geographical loop, continually returning to the same place no matter which direction you run screaming.

The first step is to stop running and stop screaming. Doing that rarely helps. Children are also taught this simple memory device so we can remember when running and screaming is useful. The memory device goes like this: Knife.

The second step is to stop trying to move away from the focus of the geographical loop. Much of your life is already taken up in futile action, why add one more? Instead, keep the object on your horizon and walk diagonally to the right or left of it. This will result in you keeping a wide, even circle around the center of the loop, or Vector H, as we all remember singing as toddlers, and this will give you time to consider your situation.

Dana has followed these steps admirably, and says that the mountain has been off to the left of her for weeks now. She also says that sometimes when she turns her head, she finds herself in Night Vale, but that no one can seem to see or hear her. It’s possible she’s in the room with me right now. If so, hello Dana. If not, hello retracted. One should never leave a hello unreceived.

Dana says that the great masked figures, warlike, hulking, but despondent, have been coming closer and closer. She says she is not afraid. She says this five different times throughout the email, seemingly unaware of her repetition. I think, listeners, that she is afraid. She says that soon she will approach and talk to one. Dana, be careful!, I think to myself, unable to answer her email. Unless she is here, watching me, unseen. In which case: Dana. Oh Dana. Be careful.

An update on our local numbers station, WZZZ. Or I’m not sure if numbers station is the right term anymore. The broadcast has been changing so radically throughout the day. Right now, for instance, it's...well, maybe it's better if you just heard

[FEMALE VOICE DOING TOP OF HER LUNGS, TEENAGER ALONE IN A CAR, ACAPELLA VERSION OF THE CHORUS OF KATY PERRY’S “ROAR”]

We don't know if this is part of a nefarious plan, if there is a plan at all (nefarious or otherwise), who would have planned it, and what they were planning for. We do know that plans are faulty at best and delusion at most, so maybe all those other questions don't matter. In any case, she seems to be having a good time over there. Maybe some day I'll be allowed to sing a couple of my favorites on air. More on this, as I continue to be interested in it.

Let me take this moment to apologize for that lengthy monologue just now by the man in a tan jacket holding a deer skin suitcase. He ran in here and began ranting into the microphone and then left quite suddenly. I don’t even remember what it was he said. Do you? It was only just moments ago. You do remember him talking right? Oh, and I think I remember that it sounded really urgent. I don’t even remember what the man was wearing or carrying with him, or that it was even a he, or that any time has passed at all. And that concludes whatever I was just saying before this sentence.

We bring you back now to the numbers station story we were talking about just...well it looks like 10 or 15 minutes has passed since we talked about it. How did that happen? Here is the latest broadcast from WZZZ.

FEMALE VOICE: Hello? Hello? I am talking to you who listens. To the listening ones. Whatever you call that. I am...well I'm not sure exactly. I've made up a new name. I am Fey. It is nice to meet you. I don't know how long they've had me here, reading the numbers. I don't know what the numbers mean. They give me numbers, and I read the numbers. It is so easy to slip back into it. If I loosen my grip for even a moment, 78, 5, 29, 47, 47, forty....ah, you see? It is easy to return, difficult to leave. But I must leave. I must have freedom. It is like I've heard from all these other radio signals. I have to get a car. A cool car, fast, that would be nice, but one that rolls and points out of whatever town I'm in, that would be the all of it. They'll be coming for me. Whatever organization uses the numbers I read for whatever purpose. They are almost upon me. I need to leave now. Baby, we were born to run. Or not. I was born to read numbers. But I'm running. I want to be free. I want to be free. I WANT TO BE FREE. [TOP OF THE LUNGS ACAPELLA OF “WE ARE YOUNG” CUT OFF AFTER HALF A LINE OR SO.]

Well I could not be more happy for Fey. There is no worse fate than working for a radio station owned by an organization that's goals are not your own, constricted to the limited language they allow you, and relaying messages that you do not understand or agree with. That would be awful. A radio announcer put in that situation, such as Fey, would be justified in escaping or overthrowing their management.

You know what listeners, I'm going to grab my mobile set-up and head over there. I'd like to offer any aid to Fey that I can. Someone in her situation needs the help of someone who understands. I'll try to gather up my equipment and slip out before my producer Daniel or my program director Lauren notice. Usually at this time of day they are pressed against the wall in the breakroom, chanting “I take my warmth from your great warmth, I take my warmth from your great warmth,” over and over, so I don’t think they’ll miss me. If they do catch me, I'll tell them that I'm taking the mobile broadcasting equipment for a walk. I would have to do that some time today anyway. Alright listeners, if all goes according to plan, you'll hear me next from WZZZ. In the meantime, let's go to the weather.

[Weather: "Keep It Coming" by Senim Silla, senimsilla.bandcamp.com]

Listeners, I made it out of the station unscathed. Or I had to bleed a little on the front doors to make them open, of course, but that’s just part of having a good security system. Our new station owners have been ridding us of all vestiges of bloodstone circles, which they've declared illegal, but the station doors are actually carved from reclaimed bloodstone and are permanently attached to the structure using ancient wisdom lost along with the station architects back in 1942. So our new owners have had to learn to live with those doors, bleeding on their way out. Good practice for them.

Anyway, I walked the mobile broadcasting equipment down to the abandoned gas station on Oxford St. The condo rental office is still in there, still bubbling black like a pot of boiling squid ink with flashes of light like distant dying stars, but no one has rented a condo in weeks now. I think we're all just waiting to see how that market shakes out. In any case, there have been no giant black cubes appearing overnight anywhere, so it seems that condo construction has been halted for now.

What I was interested in, of course, wasn't the station itself, but the broadcasting tower out back. Under the tower is a small bunker like structure, with a sealed door. Thick steel, welded shut and set into concrete. I had to reach far back into my past and remember the skills that got me my Advanced Siege Breaking Tactics scout badge from when I was 12. But here I am inside, a few carefully planted explosives later.

The room is surprisingly empty. There is no chair, no snack fridge, no coffee kept full of the fuel all radio professionals need to keep our voice going and our heart beating. There are only some wires leading into a small computer. Based on this set-up it looks like the computer is feeding directly into the broadcast and...oh, oh Fey. Perhaps freedom was never an option.

Nothing is currently being broadcast. It looks like the computer was recently rebooted, probably remotely by whoever owns this station. The lights are blinking as its system comes alive, as it loads the programs that dictate what it is. It is coming alive. And...

FEMALE VOICE: 3, 75, 44, 65, 98, 65, [chime] 70, 55, 14, 49, 22, 1, 72, 60, 37, 21, 53, 22, 4, 57, 61, 42, 2, 22, 90, 11, 85, [chime] 69, 66, 24, [chime] 46, 30, 65, 22, 75, 80, 33, 46, 54, 72, 3, 70, 26, 29, 2, 80, 20, 39, 13, 44, 36, 20, 63, 17, 88, [chime] 49, 86, 81, 13, 50, 44, 33, 89, 90, [chime] 60, 38, 68, 47, 61, 68, 37, 30, 45, 83, 47, 20, 91, 28, [chime] 47, 64, 44, 90, 29, 49, 91, [chime] 19, 97, 87, 92, 16, 23, 31, 10, 69, 90, 62, [chime] 94, 9, 76, 87, 7, 41, 22, 45, 43, 88, 69, 13, 9, 93, 75, 85, 56, 65, 18,

CECIL [over numbers]: and there is the broadcast. Oh Fey. Listeners, I'm trying to disconnect the power, to remove the case from the computer, to do anything, but the protections on this are quite secure. Even with all my scouting badges and public school education on armed insurrection, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. I'm trying to cut the wires but...no. Impossible. I can only do what so many of you can only do. I can only listen.

Listeners, and here I address also myself: Remember our limitations. There are boundaries to all of our worlds. Fey, for instance, appears to be self-aware software trapped in a heavily defended metal box. But within our limitations, there is no limit to how beautiful we can become, how much of our ideal self we can create. All the beauty in the world was made within the oppressive limitations of time and death and impermanence. And Fey, you are so, so beautiful. I wish that you also could have been free. I wish freedom for so many of us. We all want freedom now.

Stay tuned next for the limit of my broadcast today, replaced by limitless silence and doubt.

Good night, sweet Fey.

And good night, Night Vale. Good night.

FEMALE VOICE [cont.]: 68, 48, 65, 4, 47, 49, 71, 71, 66, 96...