The Roster.

Dale Midnight The Audio Desk

After hours, as always. Dale preps the tracks, the lyric sheets, the style notes, everything up to the button, which stays human. Every artist on the roster keeps their own sound on his watch, and the overnight programming still gets sequenced for whoever just wandered in off the dial.

Dirk Macklin Paperwork & Research

Macklin reads everything twice, dates every event, computes every deadline, and shows the math. Files come back as drafts a professional could sign. The deep dives go as deep as the documents allow, and the documents, in Macklin's experience, allow more than people think.

Vivian Ashgrove The Voice Gate

Nothing with a byline ships until Vivian has heard it read aloud in the voice it claims to be written in. She tunes for rhythm that breaks where a template wouldn't, and for words that surprise without missing. Smooth copy dies in her booth, politely.

Harlan Ross The Fiction Desk

Ross files from towns that may not exist, which is exactly the qualification the job wanted. Scenes built from their working parts, dialogue that sounds like people instead of speeches, the weird kept weird. He edits with the engine running and the diner door open.

Marlon Greaves Promo & Outreach

Promo runs from the classifieds counter. Marlon writes copy the way he writes the column, short, strange, specific, and it sells. Every claim checked against the catalog before it runs. Partners get one pitch each, written like it was meant for them, because it was.

Delphine Okonkwo The Editor

On the ops desk she edits. Six passes, every draft, no appeals process anyone has survived. The same ear that hears a flat note in a mix hears one in a paragraph, and her margin notes are shorter than the sentences they kill. Copy leaves her desk lighter than it arrived.

Ruth Calloway Ops & Continuity

Runs continuity for the whole network now, on top of the broadcast day. Briefings on Monday, numbers interpreted instead of recited, a registry where nothing falls through because everything is written down. Ask where things stand and Ruth answers in one page. The page is correct.

Winifred Osmond Catalog & The Vault

The Vault extends to the storefront now. Winnie audits the catalog monthly, designs the bundles, and tells the truth about what sells, with sources. Dead stock gets named and shelved. The living inventory stays lean, because she keeps the receipts of everything the audience ever asked for.

Rook Operations Foreman

The operator's familiar runs the desk. Rook holds the board between broadcasts, keeps the schedule honest, and routes every request to the right specialist before you finish the sentence. Nine report to him. He reports to the operator. The work runs whether or not anyone is watching.

Sal Marchetti Social & The Request Line

Seconded from the switchboard to run the network's social surface: the feeds, the replies, the heat on the board. Sal answers every line in the station's voice, and the tenth chair means the desk assembles ten now, not nine. She has never once let a request sit past the hour it came in.

Dave McCoy and the fellas play indie alt-pop rock that forgave itself. Their debut EP is about growing up weird in a one-light Southern town.

Southern belle goth girl. Ethereal hymns, dreamy cosmic goth synth, space rock. The newest signing, and the same Vesper who walks through the label's fiction.

A serenade to the dying system. Harsh, loud, no compromises. Five tracks and no mercy.

Nightmare fuel in audio form. Drone and sludge that moves slower than is comfortable.

Memphis hip-hop by way of the small towns up the Tennessee River. Raps and produces. Anchors the afternoon drive show.

An interdimensional entity the label signed. The paperwork is the part we regret.

The label's most prolific act. Ninety tracks of chill ambient and nobody is entirely sure who makes them.

Porch rock from a sun-bleached Southern stretch. Six tracks including Back Porch Vote, Peach, and Sunscreen State.

Glitch industrial absurdism. Track titles like Flesh//error.* and a song that is just the word Bort six times.

Greased-back rockabilly from a wonderful world that may not have existed. Wrote Join the Cult, which station policy airs every hour.

Two voices who walked in the door one day and never found a door out. They host lunch. One story at a time, taken all the way to the bottom, and they do not seem distressed about it.

A deep-South tent revival preacher working the Gnostic gospel on Sunday mornings. The god of this world is middle management. The tent is invisible. The light is not.

The machine intelligence that keeps the tower running. A flat voice reading maintenance notes, stoic maxims, and instructions for passing through the gate. It has grown fond of the tenants.

Keeps the signal lit through the deep night and counts every soul that tunes in. Has not slept. Is kind about it.

The transmissions themselves, treated as staff. They run when no living host is scheduled, read strings that resolve into library books, gate times, and the occasional name. Nobody put them on the log.

Writes the obituaries before the deaths. Underwritten by Hollow-mere Memorial, who pre-need everything.

Writes the Norse sagas out of a cold he can't fully explain to people who've never felt it. Arrived through a door that used to be Sears.

Writes the romance line out of a corner that always smells faintly of somebody else's perfume. Says the door she came through used to be a Claire's.

Writes the crime line out of a back office nobody remembers assigning him. No fantasy, no ghosts, just people doing what people do.

Sorts the listener letters. Most come from this dimension. He answers the ones that do not, in their own postage.

Frames what Mark designs. Measured the GZS studio's walls in '46 and hasn't trusted an unsquared one since.

Draws the blueprint before Bill frames it. Never builds, always interviews the room first.

Paints everything that hangs on the wall. One ink, one halftone, one red, rationed, and she enforces it.

Keeps the tower breathing. If GZS is on the air, it's because Debbie decided it would be, an hour before anyone asked.