This broadcast is brought to you by—M.R.C.A. Your local multidimensional go-to mega-conglomerate. Making deals since the dawn of time. Creating a better world to who assigned contracts with us, and they only. Eight in ten doctors can assure you that M.R.C.A is trustworthy, and the other two will be dealt with very soon.

November 5th, 1960. 11:49 PM

As you might have noticed, the story that I am about to tell you takes place long ago. In an era of bigotry and prejudices, all of it was irrigated with religious fanaticism and corruption. However, it was not your normal 60s. It was rather different, strange even.

.The main focus of this story will be around Anthony Paxton, in fact, someone could say that he's the main protagonist. It all starts in a rather bizarre manner—it started as isekai cliche—with a lonely protagonist on top of a building, looking down at the downfall. The building in question was an old, abandoned factory; located in the once-prosperous, but now decayed Industrial District. Place where no living soul would find him.

Anthony: "If this was an isekai, now would be the start of my harem story..." He said closing his eyes and getting closer, and even closer to the edge as if his body was moving on its own, against his will. Tears ran Amok through his face, and words of cursing directed towards coworkers and family members dissipated in the night's cold wind. His body chooses the final escape for him, giving the final step to the void. While falling from the building: time starts to unfold differently, passing slowly with seconds becoming ages. In this time that flowed slowly, memories start to show themselves—similar to a movie—memories that, uncannily, didn't seem to belong to him. He felt rushes of emotions with all and every memory. Love, sadness, hatred, happiness, and even sorrow were what he felt. It was a mix of all of them and at the same time none of them. Euphoria, a word that isn't enough to describe it, but might be the only one that gets closer to represent what he felt. In this state of almost frozen time—all his worries were gone. His mind was free, empty. He was, finally… In peace.

H.R guy: "I don't think you should write it like that" he said with a discontent tone in his voice.

Cut to the studio.

A fairly common-looking recording studio. It was a room divided into a recording side and an equipment side—divided with soundproof glass—On the equipment side of the room, the walls were painted black and full of mixing and recording equipment, with a mixing table right next to the glass. The recording side was smaller than the other, with walls covered by sound mufflers, having a couple of high-quality mics and chairs(not of high quality).

.H.R guy was extremely tall and with a slender figure. White—but not a human shade of skin color, but the actual color white; with no facial expressions including the absence of eyes, eyebrows, ears, nose, mouth, and even hair. He was wearing a red zip hoodie sweatshirt, blue jeans, and black all-stars.

Sound editor: "argh!" he sighs. "not you."

.Editor was an average-looking guy, but a genius when it comes to his work.

Narrator: "what do you want?" He said with an annoyed look on his face while looking at the H.R guy.

.Narrator's appearance was one of a demon. Horns on top of his head, and a black tail that looks like it is made of an exoskeleton. skinny but muscular—tall—and well-defined body. With a black undercut, sharp black nails, and snake-looking red eyes. He was wearing an outfit worthy of a 70s rock star, with a leather jacket.

H.R guy: "I-It's just that I think you shouldn't glorify suicide like that..."

Narrator: "Shut Up!" He exclaimed. "What do you want now?"

H.R guy: "It's just that... You know, it might be problematic to glorify suicide." He said concerned.

Editor: "He can't be serious, right?"

Narrator: "Ohh!" he exclaimed. "this mother fucker! Definitely is." he said with an angry tone in his voice.

H.R guy: "I just think we could put a disclaimer or talk with the author…"

Narrator and editor screamed at the same time: "Don't say that!"

"Did someone call me?" Author said as he enters the room.

Editor: "N-No, no, not you!" He said in denial.

Narrator: "Are you happy now?" He said to H.R guy. "Look at the curse brought upon us!" He said appoint to the author.

Author: "Dude, I can hear you." He said to the Narrator, with a face of disappointment.

.Author was, in narrator's words: "An edgy emo, Edgar Allan Poe wannabe, annoying piece of shit.". He has short black hair, that was messy and curly. Blue eyes with dark circles around them. Short in height. Was wearing black clothes: an old-style suit that he bought at a resale store.

Author: "what's it all about?"

H.R guy: "We were discussing the suicide scene."

Editor: "No, we were not." He said as he rubs his forehead out of stress.

H.R guy: "It might be too inappropriate."

Narrator sighs at the whole situation. He stretches his tail to a nearby balcony and grabs a bottle of whiskey, while at the same time—with his hands—he grabs a half-full mug of coffee. He fills the rest of the mug with whiskey. When he's about to put the whiskey back, he looks at the author, and back at the whiskey. He sighs again—he puts it next to his chair and thinks to himself: "I'm gonna need this."

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Author: "I can change it if it's bad."

H.R guy: "Really?" He said enthusiastically.

Editor and Narrator scream at the same time.

Editor: "NO, NO, NO, NO!"

Narrator: "Fuck, NO!"

"Do you have any idea of how long this Fucker gets to write anything?" He said to H.R guy, as he points to Author.

Editor: "We already started recording. We are NOT changing anything this far."

Author pulls a chair and sits.

Author: "Ok. Sorry if I made a mistake. Can I fix it?" He said concerned.

Narrator: "No, No… Don't change anything. It is just the fucking H.R being a dick! Again."

H.R guy: "Language, please!" He said outraged.

Narrator: "Language is the dictionary I'm gonna shove up your ass!" he said as he points to H.R guy, and then up.

Editor: "I'm surrounded by 5th graders." he thought as he facepalms.

Author: "Yes, yes… Ok. Gotcha. I'll do it then." he speaks on the phone.

Editor: "What was that?"

Author: "I called the producer. She said to edit it."

Narrator's eyes glow an incandescent red color, filled with hatred. His nails grew sharp and become dark claws. Standing up, while staring at H.R guy he punches the wall behind him—with superhuman strength—his punch opens a massive hole in it.

H.R guy: "Can he do that." He said while pointing at Narrator, concerned.

Editor: "Shut up."

Author starts to edit the scene… 1000 years later (actually, it was 2 days).

Author: "How about this one?" He said enthusiastically showing the new script.

Editor: "I don't care what you wrote. We are using it. Not gonna change it again." he said firmly in his resolve.

Author: "Don't worry. The producer said that I could only change it once."

Narrator: "Oh! Really?" He said with a smug smile as he finished reading the new edited part. "Did you hear it? It can't be charged anymore." He said while handing the script over to H.R guy.

Author: "You said I romanticize suicide too much, so I added a new scene." He said with a genuine smile.

Cut to the story.

.There's a saying that goes: "What the eyes can't see. The heart can't feel." After the rushes of emotion turn down, by a bit. He opens his eyes and looks downward, seeing nothing but darkness. And then he looks upwards. He sees a concrete ceiling approaching incessantly fast.

"Ceiling?" He thought.

One to three seconds passed by until he realized that it wasn't a ceiling, but a floor. And he wasn't going up, but down.

Anthony: "FUCK!!!" He screamed and the peace in his mind vanishes in fractions of seconds.

For being upside down his body starts struggling in mid-air. Spinning, his body stands with his head up and feet down.

Narrator: "That was a terrible decision."

Hits the ground—Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to kill him. Pain so overwhelming, that not a single word can escape his mouth, rushed through his body. When his feet hit the ground at miles per hour: it was an impact strong enough to shatter the majority of his bones, and tear apart the flesh of the lower part of his body. Bone fragments rip throughout him, his organs, and even his skin. Blood dripping on the cold black asphalt—infiltrating its cracks—forming a puddle of blood on the top of them, but under the disfigured body. His body movement was frozen due to the pain. frozen with a disfigured expression on his face, covered by tears of blood. As if the concept of pain itself was materialized—right there—on that back alley, in a bloody statue of human flesh and suffering.

Narrator: "Should have fallen headfirst."

Silence struck on that abandoned back alley. Although he was trying to scream for help his lungs were filled with blood, making so nothing but an inaudible, incoherent and faint sound, that was nothing but a failed attempt to call for help escaped his mouth. And then… He dies.

Cut to the studio.

H.R guy lost his words; staring at the script, he couldn't face reality. His brain couldn't accept that he just read such a gruesome scene.

Narrator: "I wish you had a face so I could see the face you doing right now." He said to H.R guy, laughing.

H.R guy: "what just happened?" He said with a frail voice.

Author: "You said it was glorifying suicide, so I added a different end. You know, like, a real gruesome end. So nobody glorifies it." He said innocently and proud of himself.

Editor is laughing at the situation.

Narrator: "Man, honestly, I hate. I really do." He said to Author. "From the core of my being, I despise you. But this time, this time you did good" he said while smiling at H.R guy despair.

Cut to the story.

Anthony awakened abruptly with his body shaking. Terrified due to the unimaginable pain felt. Only being able to turn off the radio out of reflex.

.Anthony was a young man—19 years old—who was beaten down by life. Short in height, and skinny in size. Dark circles revolving around his eyes, as of the eyes of someone who didn't sleep for many nights unending. Black medium-long messy hair, but it wasn't for style purposes, he just stopped going to salons. He has a frail and unhealthy body. white and as pale as you can get. He was an otaku, for that matter.

Narrator: "Otaku… that explains a lot."

He calms down after doing some breathing exercises as if it was part of his routine. He's currently in a room—messy and disorganized—from a cybercafe that he rented for the night, as he did many nights before because he's homeless. Stretching his hand over the floor that he was previously sleeping on, ravaging through the pile of garbage, trying to find a medicine vial. When he finally found it, he sighs out of relief. His eyes start to get heavier, and heavier. Getting sleepy, he despairs.

Anthony: "Not again." He said, stumbling to open the medicine vial.

Anthony: "Fuck." He said as seeing the opened vial empty.

"Plan B, then." He says while eating raw coffee powder, and retching. Because he didn't have anything else to drink, and relief from the sleepiness.

Narrator: "Urgh! Disgusting."

His stomach started to growling.

Anthony: "Hungry." He thought.

Looking around the room, he sees no food. Just empty ramen cups, empty chips sacks, and a pot full of coffee powder, and a lot of empty vials of Adderall and caffeine pills. He checks his wallet, it's also empty.

Anthony: "Great." He said sarcastically.

He gets dressed up on a typical otaku tracksuit.

Narrator: "You know the one I am talking about."

And sets off.

November 6th, 1960. 02:37 AM

.Arriving at the suicide scene after walking for more than an hour to get there, because he didn't have money to pay for a taxi. There he comes across an old man's disfigured body, in a puddle of blood and his entrails. Anthony puts on gloves that he brought with him and starts to search in the dead body for money and valuables.

Anthony: "If you were going to doe, you could at least have died with some money on you." He sighs while counting the money with a sad, and disappointed expression on his face.

Narrator: "What an asshole."

As he starts to walk back, he remembers the old man attempting to call for help in his last moments.

Anthony looks back and says: "Sorry, I can't even help myself… let alone help someone else." While staring at nothing with a contemplative look on his face.

His stomach growls.

Anthony: "Fuck, I'm hungry." He said while starting to wander aimlessly trying to find a convenience store to buy food.

THE END.

TO BE CONTINUED…