no signal

by greatwonfidence

Summary:

Ian tries to escape.

“Rule number three: follow him.”

Ian glances fervently between his mirror image plastered on the television, with its fairy wings and blackened eyes, and Frank, who is shambling further and further away from him at a leisurely pace. Unsure of what to do; unsure of what there is to lose if he listens to himself.

He figures nothing, and pushes himself up on shaking legs to follow Frank. He had never exuded a particularly welcoming presence, so Ian stays a few paces back, hoping to play it off if the fox doesn’t take well to being pursued. But Frank doesn’t turn his head, not even once. It doesn’t feel like they’re walking for very long at all when, suddenly, a door appears before them.

Ian rubs his eyes and blinks, to be sure they’re not deceiving him. Has that always been here? He doesn’t like to explore very far, but he’d like to think he would know if there has been an exit lying around unused this whole time.

He watches Frank carefully. The door opens and reveals a sliver of white, and the sliver grows, and he realizes he’s looking into a long hallway.

Ian doesn’t reflect on his situation much beyond the fact of not enjoying it. It’s frustrating to have to look into a camera and act cheery for half an hour every once in a while when between that is weeks on end of absolutely nothing. He exercises on his bike and eats whatever food is dropped into his space, but other than that, it’s a lot of lying around and waiting. He’d started calling his area The Void, jokingly, but he’s started to worry he truly is living in an “other” space, nowhere, with nothing and no one.

It has never occurred to Ian that The Void could just be a room connected to something bigger. The bright light seeps into the darkness, pooling around his feet. It’s so ethereal that he almost believes he could dip his fingers in it. Frank shuts the door behind himself. Ian immediately yearns to feel the light again and, with a final glance backward, grabs the doorknob himself.

Part of him feels that this is some strange, ill-conceived fantasy dream. But when he reopens the door and it’s the same sterile, shockingly-bright white waiting for him, he knows it’s real.

He keeps telling himself that it’s real as he walks through, gliding his fingertips against the painted walls. Glossy, smooth. He’s never touched a wall in The Void, or know if there are walls to speak of. Is he taking two steps a minute or is this hallway endless? He staggers like he’s injured, and in a way he is. He’s just been in there for so long. How long? His head starts to hurt trying to remember how much time has passed since the last time he was outside of The Void.

Had he ever been outside of The Void?

“Jamie,” he hears, pulling him from his thoughts.

Ian hadn’t seen the corner coming in his trance, but suddenly Frank is to his left, and there’s a slightly darker hallway stretching for what seems like miles behind him. Something is different about Frank - his voice is stern, no hint of the slurring or the drunkenness it usually bears. Ian holds his breath, eyes wide, and waits for action.

“You have to go back,” Frank says, hushed.

Ian doesn’t understand what is happening, but he knows he absolutely cannot willingly go back. He shakes his head, unable to speak. Frank’s mask betrays no emotions. His arm stretches out to touch Ian and Ian panics, ducking under it and breaking into a full sprint. He hears Frank call after him, by the wrong name, but he doesn’t look back.

There’s another corner and he’s about to make it, but then there are two people in his way, with dress shirts and clipboards. They look shocked. One points at him and yells something - maturity? he thinks - and he backs up, stumbling. To his right is another man, bigger than him, with a yellow vest. Ian tries to run past him but he’s gripped by two strong arms before he can - one fixes itself around his waist, one crossed over his chest. Ian thrashes, kicking out as best he can with his arms trapped. Another yellow-vested man bounds around the corner and pulls something long and thin from his pocket. Ian starts to scream, but his holder’s hand clamps over his mouth and jerks his head to the side. The needle pierces his neck and all of the fight leaves him in a mere few seconds, as well as his consciousness. The last thing he sees is Frank shaking his head a few feet away.

 

Ian wakes up groggily some time later in front of a familiar television set, in a familiar chair. As soon as his senses return to him, he scans the area frantically, panic rising.

“No,” he whispers to no one. “No, no, no no no-“

He pushes himself out of the chair, intent on heading for the exit again, and is overcome with a splitting headache. He collapses to the floor, but the pain of that is nothing. He’s felt far worse. He searches his mind but all he can remember is the light itself, not how to reach it.

Ian pulls his knees up to his chest and lays there on the floor, sobbing. The TV flickers its condolences, but only for a moment.

 

A few days later (he thinks; it’s hard to tell the passage of time), the camera’s lights come back on. He decides not to take his frustrations out on the Audience. He smiles and welcomes them back, only briefly mentioning that he’s been lonely without them.

His head swims whenever he tries to think of his escape attempt. He’s entirely still and surrounded by nothing but air and yet he still somehow feels as though he’s drowning in the darkness around him. The direction they walked never reaches the forefront of his mind, no matter how hard he tries to focus and remember. His memory of the situation is changing slightly every time he recalls it. He knows this, but couldn’t explain why if someone asked.

Not that anyone would ever ask.

 

Something changes in The Void. Ian still gets emails from the printer, but he’s started to notice boxes appearing where his food normally does.

The static comes when he touches something he isn’t supposed to, and he waits for it, but picking up the box causes him no harm. It’s brown, unmarked cardboard, held shut with Scotch tape. It doesn’t feel particularly heavy, but something moves around inside it. A letter opener rests on the ground next to it, so he brings that with him as well.

He sits down in his chair and cuts the box open. He peers inside. It’s a collection of belts - mostly leather, some brown or black, some studded. He picks one up, noting the length. There must be six or seven in the box.

The camera flicks on, catching him off guard.

“Uh.” He searches for words. “Are these from you?”

The Audience doesn’t answer. They never answer him. They’re just there, observing.

“I don’t really have a need for belts,” he says, running his fingers along the one currently holding his jeans up. “But, uh. Thank you.”

He opens his mouth again, but the camera shuts itself off. He takes the belts out and places them behind his chair. He puts the box back where he found it and sticks the letter opener into the dirt of the houseplant.

When he wakes up next, the box is gone and where it sat lies a new Sara Lee banana cake. He hasn’t eaten them in days, hoping the minor rebellion would cause a change, but hunger gets the better of him and he caves. He reaches down and touches his fingertips against the handle of the letter opener while he eats, relieved it’s still there.

 

Another box comes after a few days of radio silence, same size and shape as before. The camera turns on before he opens it this time, so he addresses it.

“Hello. Televoid is now a mail-opening show, I suppose.” He laughs. He doesn’t know if anyone else does. He stalls for time by picking at the tape with his nails instead of using the letter opener. He asks the Audience what they’ve been up to. Surely they respond, even if he can’t hear them.

“Me, I’m just hanging around. My diet’s been pretty stagnant late-“

The static overtakes him. It’s a horrible pain taking form as punishment for something said so innocuously, seeming to originate in his stomach and ripping upwards and through his chest cavity. When it stops, he’s almost forgotten how to breathe. The camera remains on. He doesn’t dare mention his distaste with the food again; he just swallows anxiously and focuses on opening the box.

More belts.

“I really appreciate the gifts, you guys. I do think it’s funny that you’re all sending the same thing. It’s almost like you’re trying to tell me-“

His joke catches in his throat. The realization of what the belts symbolize hits him hard. He pauses and stumbles over words for a moment.

“There’s no place to... there doesn’t seem to be any kind of ceiling here.” His voice cracks. The camera turns off.

He puts all of the belts into that box and takes it as far away from the television set as he’s willing to walk. He never wants to look at them again.

When he gets back, there’s a small bowl of plain popcorn on the ground. The Void is a little forgiving, it seems.

 

Ian doesn’t even look at the new boxes for a while. They’re smaller now, and they start to pile up. He holds out until static starts to creep over his arms, and it stings and aches and burns all at once. He knows he has to give it what it wants, so he opens the three boxes that have arrived for the Audience to see.

No belts. This time the boxes contain stationery - countless pens and markers, memo pads, envelopes, notebooks. One notebook stands out to him - the color perfectly matches that of his hoodie. He points that out happily to the camera, and it’s the first genuine smile of his in a while. He expects the broadcast to end there, but then the TV flickers to life and there’s a new show to watch. The first of that in some time, as well.

“Great timing!” he says, laughing incredulously. “This is so great. Wow. Well, today we have an instructional video about how to write a letter.”

After the movie is shown, he showcases his new knowledge of letter-writing to craft a message to the only sentient being he knows - Frank.

“I’m not actually sure what the date is,” Ian says, scratching his head with the end of his lavender gel pen. “So I’ll just write ‘Today,’ I guess. He’ll know. Then you have to skip a line and write ‘Dear Name.’ So, here…”

He writes as best he can, but there’s no denying his hand is shaking. “‘Dear Frank,’ comma.” He moves his pen down. “Skip a line, remember to indent your paragraphs. Now we have to think about what I want to say. What- what we want to say.”

He thinks about it. Probably for too long.

“Open with a greeting and a cordial. So we’ll say...” He speaks slowly as he writes. “‘Hey! How have things been?’ And that will lead into the purpose part of the letter, where we say why we’re writing. And that is... because...”

He really shouldn’t have to think so hard about this. He feels embarrassed that he can’t find one thread of common interest between himself and the one person he’s spoken directly to. Then it hits him.

“Ah! Because we miss him!” He snaps and picks his pen back up. “So I’ll write, ‘I haven’t seen you since my party.’” His mind wanders to the white hallway. He wonders if the Audience saw that and wishes he could ask. “‘Maybe you can come by again soon, I’d love to chat.’”

He stares at the paper. Is that okay? He can’t remember much of the video now. His mind is preoccupied with Frank’s hauntingly sober voice the last time they interacted.

He shakes his head. “Okay. Then a closing line. Like, uh... oh! ‘Hope to hear back soon.’ That’s good. Skip a line, then write the regards part all the way to the side like you did for the date. I’ll do ‘Yours truly, Ian.’” He pauses, then writes Jamie underneath it.

He shows the audience what to write on an envelope and tells them he’s going to send it out right away. The broadcast ends and he realizes he has no way to do that.

Well, tossing the invitations out at random worked for the party. But he doesn’t know which one got to Frank; he threw them everywhere. He really wishes he remembered where Frank came from. He ends up closing his eyes, spinning around, and then throwing it like a frisbee, just so he doesn’t psych himself out about choosing the wrong direction.

With that handled, Ian picks up the purple notebook and turns it over in his hands. It’s silly how happy looking at it makes him, but he’ll take any ounce of joy he can get. He flips through the pages, watching the powder blue printed lines flicker by quickly - and his eye catches something on one of the pages. He starts flipping again, slower now, and finds something written on a page near the middle in red ink. It reads:

You have to find a way out. We’re all rooting for you. -Jared

He slams the notebook shut, praying the static won’t come. It doesn’t, and after a few minutes he relaxes. He tucks the notebook between the arm and the seat cushion of his chair. He reaches down and his hand grazes against the handle of the letter opener, still stuck into the dirt. He feels safer with it there, like a lifeline.

 

Nothing happens for days. He doesn’t get new emails, no new boxes, no new food. Ian wonders if The Void is trying to kill him. Or make him bend to their will. Whatever it is, he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

He thinks it’s the third day since he sent Frank the letter. He hasn’t sent one back, or visited. But that isn’t his worry; his worry is that The Void knows about the note someone in the Audience sent. What was the name? Jared? He’s too afraid to check and be sure, but he thinks that’s it. He gets messages from the Audience all the time, from his printer, but there must be a middleman somewhere along the line, because those messages are never more than half legible anymore. Full sentences and paragraphs are blacked out. He’s received more than a few emails where the only readable word is his name and the rest is just a block of toner.

Is it Jared’s fault that The Void is shutting him out? No, it must be something Ian has done. He struggles to come up with theories. Does it know about the note? Is the Audience still watching, somehow, even when the cameras are off? Are the Audience and The Void working together? Is anyone on his side? He writes a few things down on one of the memo pads he was given, but quickly decides it’s not safe and scribbles everything out. Anything spoken or written is probably monitored.

He can’t come up with a full hypothesis that makes sense. But he supposes not making sense is a common thread between most events here.

 

Another couple of days pass. He spends most of his time trying to discern his stomach pain as just hunger and not a capped form of the static, slowly torturing him. He wishes there were rafters in The Void.

The sound of something hitting the strange linoleum-esque material of his floor shocks him out of his daze. With renewed strength, Ian gets up to see what kind of food he’s finally been given - and a new box sits in its place.

He forces himself to not break down into tears. Soon, he tells himself, they wouldn’t let you die. He then realizes he actually doesn’t know that. He pushes his weak body out of the chair and walks towards the small box. He grabs it with one hand, expecting something a lot lighter; it’s surprisingly dense. He’s even more confused when the camera doesn’t turn on for the opening.

Maybe he’s just getting a bit of privacy. About time, he supposes. He allows himself to use the letter opener this time, not having the patience to pick at and peel the tape. He puts it back right away. Once one end is open, he empties the box into his lap.

It’s a Sara Lee banana cake. He’s eaten what feels like hundreds of these, and he’s so, so sick of that artificial banana taste. But when you feel like you’re dying, you take what you can get. He rips open the plastic packaging and shoves what’ll fit into his mouth.

But he can’t quite eat it; his teeth meet something solid and metallic-tasting. He’s lucky he didn’t bite down harder. Confused, he pulls it back, and starts to break apart the cake in his lap. Crumbs fall all over his legs and onto the chair. What comes out of the cake is a thick gray block. Taped to one side of it is a piece of paper, wet with banana cream, that says only “-J.”

He drops it onto the ground, disgusted. This was from Notebook Jared, too? What a cruel joke to play. He’s starving and so the Audience just gives him the barest hope of-

Something hits his ankle. He bends over to look and sees a couple of his pens moving across the floor, seemingly of their own volition. One of them has made it past his leg and sticks to the block. He lifts his foot to grant the rest passage; they flock to it. Then it connects in his head - those are metal pens. What Jared gave him is a magnet, and a strong one at that.

The TV turns on and so do the cameras, suddenly, too suddenly. He kicks the magnet under his chair reflexively, as if the cameras will take it from him. Cheerful music plays from the set before him, and he stares into the camera, blinking. As usual, the title of the movie displays itself across the screen.

Doing What’s Right.

He knows what he needs to do, and it’s not what The Void wants him to do.

“I’m getting out,” he says to the camera. He bends down, moving as quickly as he can manage, and grabs the magnet. He swipes the television off of its stand and, on his knees, bashes the magnet into the screen. The glass is tough to shatter, but the magnet visibly warps the colors on the screen. The images blur together. He feels the static start to come over him, but it’s noticeably weaker, barely pins and needles in his heavy arms. The display is mangled in a few seconds, with lines through it and splotches of deep blue and bright magenta all over.

He goes back to the plant and grabs his letter opener, ripping it from the dirt with an intensity he’s never had before. The static comes back with a vengeance as he approaches the main camera, coursing through his spine. He takes the camera by its lens and drives the blade directly into its eye, shuddering through the pain.

“Jamie!”

Ian looks up, shocked. His vision is marred by tears and the dizziness of adrenaline, but it’s definitely Frank standing a few feet away from him. There is no defense, he knows. He has a weapon but he doesn’t know if he could bring himself to hurt Frank, should that become his only option.

Frank stares at him, like he’s trying to read his thoughts. The static pulses and wraps itself around Ian’s ribs, coming right for his lungs. He chokes and his knees threaten to buckle.

Frank tears his eyes away, finally. He takes the main camera from Ian and knocks it to the ground. He stomps on it unceremoniously. Metal crunches and the static stops and Ian can breathe again. He gasps and wants to express his gratitude, but the fox is pointedly not looking him in the eyes.

“There’s no turning back now,” Frank says, pointing off in the distance. “Get out of here, Ian.”

Ian nods and takes off in that direction, as fast as he can in his state. Sure enough, Frank has led him to the door again. He didn’t take a good look at it last time, and he doesn’t this time, either, grabbing the doorknob and yanking it open as though he’s being chased. It’s noticeably dimmer than before. The lights embedded into the ceiling flicker, and some are out entirely, leaving corners dark. But there’s no mistaking that he’s out of The Void again, and he takes that fact and runs with it. Through the empty hallways, bounding corners recklessly, preparing to dodge and duck under the arms of people that aren’t there this time. He races by other doors, but he can’t see into those and doesn’t trust that they won’t pull him right back to where he started.

He wonders why nobody is stopping him. What are the chances Frank had done something to make this easier for him? Maybe he was on his side all along.

There seems to be no end to the expanse of white until suddenly there is, in the form of double doors with push bars and a red illuminated exit sign. He runs into it at full speed, pushing the bar with both hands and all the force he can muster. Ian breaks free of the building into the cold, crisp dawn air. He stops running after a few yards when he reaches a chain link fence, falling down to his knees and coughing.

The darkness itself is what terrifies him at first. He thinks for a moment that he might be back in The Void, but there’s so much out here, much more than The Void ever held. He can see a street, huge trees, and beyond that, orange hues just beginning to leak into the sky. He sheds his hoodie and leans his head against the fence. The wind feels great on his overheated arms, as does the cool metal on his face. He knows he isn’t far enough from the danger, but God, his legs ache and his lungs burn. He forces himself to stand and limp toward the street with his hand on the fence to guide him.

He can barely hear the whirring behind him until it’s almost too late to stagger out of the way. The rider rings the bell repeatedly and then shouts at Ian as he flies by on his bicycle.

“Wear a fucking helmet!” Ian yells back. His voice is hoarse. The rider gives him the finger. He trudges on.

When he’s sure his body can’t bear to walk anymore, Ian allows himself to sit down on the sidewalk. The sun has risen and the air is a lot warmer. He can’t remember if he recognizes this. Any of it. Had he only seen these trees on the television? The wind blows much too gently now for his liking.

He tries hard to recall something from before The Void. Anything at all. A voice, a face, a name, a location. But all that sits in his head is how much he hurts all over, and how overwhelming everything around him is; leaves rustling and cars whooshing by have him jumping every minute or so. He sits with his knees close to his chest and his hands over his ears to ease the stressors momentarily so he can think.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you okay?”

Ian falls over with how fast he turns around, panicked. He stands up, backing away defensively. The offender, a man dressed in a very not-yellow blue shirt, is a little shorter than him. He holds up his hands, as if to show he means no harm.

“Sorry, I meant sir, your hair is just really- oh!” The man’s eyes light up. “I know you! You’re Ian, right? From Televoid?”

Ian stares. When he speaks, his voice sounds just as broken as it was earlier. “You know who I am?” he asks.

“Yeah! I love your show!” The stranger speaks with his hands, and Ian’s eyes follow them as they‘re waved around; everything is a danger. “It’s so surreal and interesting. I can never catch it live, though. Oh, it’s so cool to meet you! I’m Jared.”

Jared extends his hand. Ian feels like he might pass out.

“You’re Jared?” he whispers. “Notebook and magnet Jared?”

Jared looks happier than Ian has probably ever been in his life. “Yes! The stuff I sent made it on? That’s incredible! What did-“ He stops, suddenly, peering over Ian’s shoulder. He drops his voice to an elated whisper. “Are you guys filming an episode right now?”

Ian glances back in horror to see a man several yards away, in a yellow vest, holding a video camera. He grabs Jared’s wrist tight.

“Please help me,” he hisses. “Please, I’ll do anything. You have to help me get away.”

Jared’s gaze flicks between the cameraman and Ian’s face. He maneuvers his hand to grip Ian’s wrist back and nods. His confident look is contagious.

Ian glances back as they hurry down the street. The vested man lowers the camera and turns on his heels, presumably going back to wherever The Void is. Ian briefly worries that there are other people following that he hasn’t noticed, but Jared is here now. Jared will keep him safe.

The two duck into a small building. Ian surveys his new cramped surroundings - there are small tables and chairs everywhere, with a counter and several machines on the opposite end. A few people mill about inside; Ian keeps his back to the wall.

“This is my favorite coffee shop,” Jared says.

“Coffee shop. Yes.” Ian tries to breathe normally. “It’s... nice.”

Jared insists on buying him a coffee and a sandwich in exchange for telling him what it’s like to work on Televoid. Ian tries to focus and listen to his new friend, really, he does. But the room is so small and there’s far too many people around, and he isn’t sure how long it’s been since he last slept, and he’s so hungry-

And then he starts to feel it. The familiar harsh buzz in the pit of his stomach, growing, intensifying, and he can barely mutter out an apology before he’s shoving past Jared and another bystander to leave the shop. His shoulder slams into the brick wall just outside and he slides down onto his knees, one hand clamped over his mouth and the other over his stomach. The static pulses inside him and rockets upward to his lungs and throat.

He hears Jared ask him if he’s okay, but it sounds like they're underwater. Ian's ears ring as he vomits pure liquid on the sidewalk. The static fills his head, throbbing, and when he opens his eyes, there are dark blue and bright magenta splotches impairing his vision.

He weakly lifts his head up and away from the red mess he’s made. He thinks he can see Frank standing off in the distance, but with his mottled sight, he can’t be sure. His body finally gives up on him, thankfully, and he blacks out.

Notes:

I rewrote this ending like five times,,, I spent too much time working on this to not post it bc of a shitty ending though
also i'm sorry i'm feeling brutaljared rn so he made a cameo sfldljk
I'm still unsure about my exact theory of what's going on/how televoid will end but I think even if ian got out entirely he'd still be under the influence/control of the void. static pain forever. hell yeah suffering