Transmission 3: Another Observation

The next few days, and into the week following, little happened in the way of these ‘interruptions’. Except, at odd intervals, the snatches of music would leak through a news report.

The screen would go blank, then those eyes would reappear, gone again as quick as a blink.

There was more talk, especially amongst those out in the desert.
More rumours, more theories.
But no one could really understand. It couldn’t be him. There was no way it could be him.

Then. One blazing midday. A random channel started to buzz, and frizt. And everyone knew what that meant. Calls went out across the radios, telling everyone which station to tune to.

Everyone who could, got to a set, and sat in front of it, waiting. Waiting.
Would they get their answers today?

The screen fuzzed, then the picture became clear.
Gasps rippled across the desert.

There was only one thing that was on the screen, and even if there’d been anything else, they wouldn’t have seen it.

A mask, dangling in front of the screen, almost pressed up against the lens, but far enough back so it was easy to make out. Swinging back and forth, as if held from a finger.
The mask was unmistakeable.
Yellow, with three blue, still slightly shining spots, and black triangles at the eyes.
It was grubby, dirtier even than anyone had ever seen it, back in the days when it was a more commonplace sight. And torn at the edges. Darker, reddish smudges also tainted it, easily recognised by those who’d lived the Killjoy life, as dried, old blood.

A collective breath was held.

Unsure of the meaning behind it.

And then, just as suddenly as ever, the image was gone.

The breath was let out only to allow for cries to raise up amongst those who’d witnessed. A demand for answers.
Prayers of hope.