1A city-state with beautiful landscapes, bustling streets, and where dead people are always watching. Welcome… to New Albion.
(The first 30 seconds or so of Voodoopunk play)
To start things off, let's talk about the politics of our dear New Albion. At the rally happening right now, the last real candidate has left the stage, and the representative of the Voodoopunks, Byron McAllistair, son of Edgar McAllistair, has taken the stage.
Oh, that Edgar McAllistair. What a great guy! Just look at how rich he is! You know, it's such a shame that his son got caught up with those Voodoopunks.
Anyways he's up on the stage with his Doll and he is, for some reason, singing. You know listeners, now that I think about it, no one ever really talks. They just… sing in perfect sync with the mysterious background music that's just… always there. More on the nature of our reality later.
Alexander, the younger brother of the Son, former leader of the mob, who was run out and brutally killed years back by a mouse and two teenage girls, as you all well know, is heading down to the tunnels underneath the city with a platoon of burly men.
They're going, they're going, and… they're gone. Some stayed above, but the svelte form of Alexander was last seen heading into the tunnels with a few of his burliest men.
Now, listeners, I know it is my job, nay, my duty, to report upon the goings-on in our beloved city, but those tunnels just creep me out. There are things there that were never meant to be seen by those above. And so, listeners, for your safety and for my own, I shall let what happens in those tunnels remain as clouded in mystery as it was always meant to be.
Listeners, back at the rally, the Doll has started… singing. Now of course, this isn't unusual. Everyone knows Dolls can play radio, but this isn't like any song I've heard before. It's almost like it pieced together a bunch of different songs. I can't make heads or tails of it, listeners.
And now, a word from our sponsor…
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Breaking news, listeners, I regret to inform you that Amelia, one of the high priestesses of that voodoo cult, has killed herself. She was found hanging from the ceiling with blood dripping from her wrists and a suicide note containing only the words of the Dolls' song. Let me ask you something, listeners. Why both? One would have sufficed just fine, don't you agree? Honestly, one ought to be more decisive when commiting suicide. To the parent of Amelia, we deeply regret your loss and we at the station are setting up a collection fund to help fund putting your daughter into a Doll. To donate, just drop off your money inside the sentient room. They'll bring it to us.
The Doll's song is quick spreading across the city. The Dolls are playing its song almost constantly, and no one knows why. Perhaps it's just another mass possession publicity stunt by those Voodoopunks. More on this story later.
And now… the weather.
(Elysian Night plays)
Listeners, there are riots all over the city. I am huddled under my desk right now, hoping that they won't destroy the building, and me with it. If there's still anyone out to hear this, stay away from the riots. Don't get caught up in the rage. Stay inside. (Sounds of bonfires crackling and riots throughout, steadily getting louder with soft strains of Elysian Night pervasive) I don't know if anyone's there, if I'm just speaking into the void, but I can hear bonfires, I can hear screams. Listeners, if you're there, I am looking out of the window. It is cracked and broken and even from here I can feel the heat of the fires on my face. They are tearing the Dolls apart and throwing them in the fire. Still the Dolls are playing that damned song, even as they burn up. And even though people are killing them, they seem relieved, for whatever reason. And… Byron McAlistair is running into the heart of the riots. His clothes are ripped all over and bruises are starting to form on his face. There is rubble everywhere. Okay, that's enough looking out of the window. Back to hiding under my desk. Oh god, listeners, the riots are getting closer. I don't know if I'll make it out. Carlos, if you're listening, I'm sorry. I love you. Will any of us even make it out? So much has already been reduced to ruins. I… don't know anymore. Did I ever really know anything? Maybe this is the true reality and all before was but a dream. Neither Alexander nor any of his organization have been seen since they went into the tunnels weeks before. The stage where the rally once was is aflame and giving off curls of smoke that reach far into the sky. The night is lit only by the flames spiraling into the air. Lampposts are bent and broken, the glass shattered. Buildings are ravaged and burnt. Even if we make it through this, even if the city survives, it won't be the same New Albion we've come to love. The riots are coming even closer to the station, listeners. I don't know if I'll ever see my loved ones again, and indeed we all face this uncertainty now. And so, perhaps for the last time, possibly to no one, good night, New Albion. Good night.
A/N
Hope you enjoyed this Welcome to Night Vale and The Dolls of New Albion: A Steampunk Opera fusion! I'd love to hear what you think!