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As soon as the ‘On Air’ sign hanging just outside of the audio booth is flipped on, it’s go-time for Marcy.
“Hey there my fellow Californians, Marcy Wu here reporting for duty!” She drums her fingers lightly against her desk edge while staring at her monitor, already loaded up with today's music. “Your local nerd, master RTX player, and most importantly: KMRT’s favourite host- but enough about me! I’ve got a wicked show for you folks lined up; I’ll be taking calls, requests, and rolling the D20 for you all night long!”
With the introduction over she quickly fiddles with the audio panel, adjusting the volume to avoid blowing out her dear listener's ears, then smooths the transition over to Young Folks by Peter Bjorn and John.
In kicking her worn-out vans onto her cluttered desk, she pushes away the massive looming microphone and leans back in her ergonomic office chair - by far the best investment she's made in her twenty-three years of life.
It's moments like these that truly resonate with her - computer monitor with a million tabs open, colourful neon LED lights being the only light besides the burning blue of said computer monitor, and of course the music that plays in the background at all hours of the day. It's enough to remind her that she's alone in this room, yet at the same time seeing the number of listeners fluctuate reminds her that - in some way, she truly isn't. Absentmindedly she reaches across her desk to grab her cold coffee, still lost in observing the foam walls that surround her.
Usually, during songs, there's actual work to get done. Like drawing some panels for her small-time webcomic or monitoring the extensive audio equipment in front of her. Instead, she just stares forward, spacing out and getting lost in her thoughts.
It wasn't incredibly long ago that she had picked up this job, she's been doing this long enough to gain a small following on her social media - comes with the territory of announcing who you are publically every other minute or so. Though she wouldn't trade it for anything, this booth is a home away from home. Marcy truly didn't expect herself to love this job so much, even when she was toeing the line between absolute hysterics and extreme exhaustion she still showed up, day in and day out.
At first, it hadn't been anything more than a good source of income, but every time she jammed those keys into the door she just found it increasingly hard to leave. She wonders if it has anything to do with the ability to exist without shame, and then she takes a sip of her coffee that truly does nothing for her.
Growing up had been... Admittedly difficult for Marcy. Making connections was never exactly her strong suit, and whenever friendships occurred she somehow managed to talk them away. It had sucked to go through, and it took hours upon hours of gripping the ceramic sides of her bathroom sink to get herself to not run away from her reflection in the mirror. And after that, it took hours of convincing to just look up. And honestly, she wouldn't trade those years for anything, except maybe the newest Vegabondia Chronicles, because they made her who she is today. And she had learned to be content with that, even if her ability to make connections never really got better, in this tiny cramped room she could be herself.
As the song comes to an end, the phone lets out a bleating cry, not only snapping her mind back into the present but her body as well - resulting in the knocking over of various trinkets on her desk, including the fabled scruffy D20. Marcy fumbles with the phone, almost dropping it, yet managing to put the caller through.
"Hi, you're live! What can I do for you?" Mentally she scolds herself for sounding like she's back at her old retail job, physically she's dropping to the floor to start patting around for the missing D20.
“Hmmm let’s see…”
The voice is familiar, way too familiar in fact.
It's indeed, one of her regular callers, by far having called in the most in the past few months. Her voice comes out slightly crackly through the connection but undeniably clear in the teasing tone that ingrains itself in her brain. She can't forget such a voice at all, distinct in its general huskiness, somehow sounding completely chill and relaxed every time she calls in.
“I need you to roll that D20 of yours.” She can hear the shit-eating grin forming on her caller's face, causing a wildfire to spread across Marcy's face and ears.
"Sure! No prob- Ow!" Marcy bangs her head on the desk as she launches herself back up from crawling on the floor. She can feel the painful sting of a goose egg forming, but she soldiers on anyway - flopping back into that comfy chair now that the purple D20 is safe from the treacherous terrain of the floor. "No problem! What would you like to know?"
"Well, there's this girl. I'm actually talking to her right at this very moment," That doesn't go over Marcy's head at all, partly because this isn't the first time this caller has done something like this and partly because she would love to believe that someone is romantically pursuing her. "And I'm wondering if she would let me take her out for an extremely expensive coffee sometime."
Despite the way she wants to giddily flap her hands, she's got a job to do, and the show must go on. Her hands clamber over her dye, giving it a good shake before unleashing it.
Plastic clacks on the wooden tabletop, the sole decider of fate, whether it's her fate or not is up to destiny.
Seventeen is a very strong roll.
Marcy's heart flutters and the flustered energy that's been pressing down on her back builds up and makes her wheezily cough - which she tries to horribly cover as clearing her throat. "Well, dear caller, I've glimpsed into your blurry future..." Channelling her inner dungeon master is the best part of the requested D20 rolls she does for the listeners, and she prays to lady luck herself to relent and help her get through this call without indicating just how flustered she is.
White noise surrounds the giggle on the other end of the line, but it manages to tug at Marcy's heartstrings. "And?"
"A-And! I see the warm inviting interior of a local but pretentious coffee shop, the smells of caffeine addictions and overheating laptops are in the air," The giggles continue. "You meet her at a table by the window, small talk stands no chance - as it's quickly replaced with in-depth conversations on coffee bean production. You two have a marvellous time, umm... You might even get a number out of this?"
As easily as Marcy can hide most of the nervousness that peeks through her speech, hiding behind screens tends to leave the more physical indications plain to see. She's glad that this mystery woman can't see her, having her face buried in her hands while trying to keep her legs from bouncing up and down isn't a good look for her at all. Marcy just hopes the rest of the audience isn't picking up on this at all, lest her Twitter mentions blow up.
"Perfect," The woman on the other end sounds so genuine, so different from the provoking teasing tone she typically uses, that Marcy feels like her legs would give out if she were standing. "Then, I'll let you get back to it, cutie."
Abruptly, the call ends with a click, and it takes a minute for Marcy to realize that she hasn't allowed the music cue to continue airing - leaving the station deathly quiet.
“S-sorry for the silence folks… Had some, err, technical issues for a moment!” Marcy covers her tracks - albeit poorly. She opts to just shake her head and prepare to play the next song, “Up next we have… ‘Being So Normal’ by Peach Pit! So, uh, keep it normal and don’t you dare touch those dials!”
As soon as the song starts playing, she pushes the microphone back and out of her face. Marcy lets her forehead hit the desk, thin papers failing to cushion the blow. She considers removing her thick hoodie to alleviate the uncomfortable heat that conversation brought upon her, but she also doesn't like taking it off and she's bound to just become cold again anyways. Buzzing against her leg indicates that her phone is probably blowing up, and that some people caught what was happening.
Digging into her pocket to retrieve her phone, she finds that her assumptions were correct, though her phone isn't blowing up. She has gotten tagged in a couple of things now, but there's only really one thing that's sticking out to her: a band followed her. Typically, bands would just follow more, popular people - at least that was just what she presumed would happen. But the account looks awfully new, with only a few followers themselves and barely any tweets. They had tagged Marcy, with a picture of a cat with a white spot on its chest playing with a ball of yarn, and a caption reading: Cat got your tongue?
Marcy scoffs and grumbles, but ultimately ends up liking the tweet and following them back, only for the cat picture though.
The current song barely has a chance to end before the phone is once again letting out an annoying ring. This time, however, Marcy is not caught off-guard.
"Hey there! Thanks for calling KMRT, you're on with Marcy- what can I do for you?" Marcy internally high-fives herself at the flawless introduction, and at not somehow gaining a new injury while doing it.
"Well~"
Marcy feels her brain short circuit.
She doesn't need to hear another word out of the crackly speaker to know it's her other frequent caller, having picked up the pace racking up call time with her after the other one. It's as if the two were racing each other to see how often they could pester her, and honestly, it's working. Her voice is very much the opposite of the other caller's voice, much sweeter and gentler - simply it doesn't sound as harsh.
"I heard what the other caller said and it got me thinking... You belong with me." She says it so matter-of-factly, and for the second time tonight, Marcy feels her cheeks go up in flames. She feels like the rope in a game of tug o' war.
"I- Uh, wh-" Marcy is completely at a loss for words, her jaw stupidly opening and closing, as if somehow her jaw moving is gonna pick her tongue off of the floor of her mouth to start producing syllables.
Her caller chuckles, "You know? Like the song, You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift."
Right.
"Yes! Of course, awesome pick!" Marcy is sure that the revitalization of her scrambling can be heard from across the line, but she's more concerned with hunting down the song and getting it ready to play as fast as possible.
"Oh - and Marcy?" She pauses like she's thinking of what to say now that she has Marcy hanging onto her words, "Listen to the lyrics, I... Think you'll really appreciate the meaning."
The ever-familiar click of the call ending bounces around her empty head, prompting Marcy to rub her cold hands on her face for the sweet reliving coolness they bring.
"Heres, uh, You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift," Marcy lets her legs bounce unapologetically, fueled by the notifications simultaneously going off in her pocket. "Be sure to grab those boomboxes to appropriately, and totally not illegally, stand outside your crush's house at midnight!"
Marcy somehow manages to squeak out that last sentence before the song begins playing. Still, she lets out a shaky flustered sigh, finding her heart rate to be extremely elevated when she brings her hand to rub at her sternum in a self-soothing action.
These two are getting out of hand. She can barely remember when they used to give her light little quips, but now - every interaction has her on her toes. And they're shameless with it too, flirting with her on air! For a moment, she thinks it's unfair that they get to know who she is, while she has no clue who they are. But she quickly dislodges that thought with a huff and another shake of her head to truly rattle her thoughts back in line.
She doesn't know whether to consider them the worst or best part of her day.
Her phone keeps buzzing, and her fingers itch for a distraction, but... Her caller had asked her to listen to the lyrics. So instead, she implants her face back onto the surface of her desk, grasping at each vowel that comes out of Taylor Swift's mouth. Of course, this caller would pick something so sweet and sappy, that she can practically feel the implications of the lyrics seeping into her skin. It's worse when Marcy's mind begins to wander to the other woman, and how this specific song was requested in retaliation to her coffee proposal - undoubtedly adding another layer of depth to... Just about everything.
The song starts to fade out, Marcy's head shooting upright to stare daggers into the black phone sitting across from her.
Just as she thinks she's safe the phone lets out that dreadful cry - and she finds herself regretting the whole taking calls all night long promise.
Miserably she lifts her dead-weighted wrist off of the desk to accept the call.
"Hey, Marcy speaking, you're now live and ready to thrive!" She takes a tentative sip out of her coffee mug, allowing the semi-sweet concoction to be a substitute for water.
"Hey, girlfriend!" Marcy ends up almost spitting out her coffee everywhere. "Listen I need you to play Boyfriend by Dove Cameron, your previous caller made it personal, and I don't back down." She pictures her caller admiring her nails with that classic mean girl aura - that perky willingness to wage war shining through when she speaks. Though Marcy doesn't think she is actually angry, she can just feel that smirk through the phone.
Unfortunately, at this point, Marcy has wholly given up on fighting the monstrous blush that plagues her face every time she hears their voices - her hands fumble with the keyboard when she goes to load up the song. She certainly can't fight the awkward giggle that bubbles up just from the wackiness of the situation alone. "Wow, you two are on a roll tonight, huh?"
“Oh, you have no idea.” She drawls out.
Click.
Marcy misses her cue, frozen from the caller's last words, and the song begins playing before she can introduce it.
She leans back in her chair with a creak, opting to stare at the ceiling, owlish eyes tracing the details. Just like before, Marcy lets the words wash over her - the feeling of being the rope in tug o' war is heightening. It's very fitting that her caller would retaliate in this way, it paints the mental imagery of slick black motorcycles and sunglasses at night. Marcy rubs her eyes with her palms and drags them down the rest of her face, embarrassment digging its way through her skin and into her bones.
Everything about these two is just so... Confusing.
Her phone keeps buzzing, and this time she surrenders to the innate desire for distraction, not wanting to spend a second longer thinking of the two voices that keep her company through long shifts.
Most of her notifications are for stupid things like videogames, shows, and movies - some are mentions of her radio show from random accounts. Again, that band had tagged her, and this time she decides to indulge in stalker-ish tendencies. Marcy passes the time combing through what little they had posted - self-promos and the occasional gig picture. She has to admit that those gig pictures are probably her favourite, the two women on stage with guitars and complementing outfits look straight out of one of her geeky comic books. Not to mention the lighting that makes their features pop...
One of them has this short choppy blonde hair and a leather jacket that just exudes cool. She looks like a model with the way she carries herself and that cherry red sharp-edged electric guitar. The other one is drop-dead gorgeous, with brown curly hair neatly caught in a ponytail and baggy cargo pants - Marcy can tell she's going for the hippie look and honestly? It's working for her.
They make Marcy want to dig up her old and undoubtedly rusty drumming skills, but she destroys that idea quickly before it can destroy her bank account.
The fear-inducing phone begins ringing again right as the song fades out, interrupting Marcy's scrolling spree.
She mentally prepares for an onslaught of confusing emotions to be dumped onto her like the big water buckets at waterparks -
"You're on the air with the dungeon master herself!"
"Hey, I was wondering - dude stop! Seriously!" Marcy instantly recognizes the voice as the sweeter one of her two provokers tonight. She sounded like she was having a giggling fit in a sea of blankets - a gust of wind hit the speaker as a muffled "Give that back!" faded into the distance.
Whoever snatched the phone from the other woman was in a fit of chortles and snorts themselves, "We were wondering if you could play a requested song for us!"
That voice was instantly clocked in Marcy's head as the one who had initially started tonight's fiasco of flirty comments and way too many emotions. Suddenly, it registers in her mind that the two of them are in the same room - Marcy starts connecting some dots.
"Wait - have you two been calling this station from the same room... This entire time?" She knows it's unprofessional to break from her charismatic character, but the curiosity is eating her alive.
There's a small pause.
"Maybe..." The sweeter voice replies, no longer being in the background - yet the pause in conversation persists and Marcy can't let the broadcast dip into silence.
"Right, Ummm, what song did you two want to hear?"
Schoolgirl giggling and whispering manages to break through the static, before the huskier sounding of the two responds, "We need you to listen to Heartstomper by The Sharps."
The Sharps?
"Is that an upcoming band?" Marcy can't recall ever hearing of them, being a music snob, she's heard of most things. It's kind of her job to know about music.
"Oh yeah, super new to the game, but I think you'll recognize them when you hear them!" Again the softer-spoken one of the pair breaks through to offer her input, her half-suppressed laugh breaking through ever so slightly.
The click of the line being cut bounces around Marcy's empty head, only for a few seconds. Immediately she's launching to her keyboard to search for this song -
"Alrighty folks, looks like we are gonna be listening to a new upcoming band: The Sharps!" Marcy does what she does best - her job. She adjusts the song to a manageable audio level, on cue she allows the song to fade in by itself. "Sit back, relax, and take some notes! This may be your chance to snobbily declare being among the first to listen to them!"
Everything is fine - until the singing starts.
Like someone had poured gasoline on a fire, Marcy is heating up to concerning levels. It's a duet, one between her very own tormentors who keep calling in just to flirt and mess with her - day in and day out.
When her phone vibrates in her hand, she is instantaneously pulled out of her dazed, flustered trance.
Another mention from the band she had just followed - a picture of the two women taking a selfie right next to a dinky radio, with the caption: Surprise!
Marcy had failed to notice that the account's name is, The Sharps, and at that moment - she felt herself melt into her chair.
She feels herself melt when she jams her keys into the audio booth door to lock up after her shift.
And she feels herself melt when The Sharps formally private message her just to ask for that coffee date.