The WBOY 12 News studio was a hive of activity. At 7:00 PM on the dot, the polls across Upshur County officially closed. On the brightly lit set, news anchor Tom Van Pey, a man whose silver hair and calm baritone had been a fixture of the local news for two decades, adjusted his tie and gave a tight, professional smile to his co-anchor, Barb Camacho.
"Ready for the weirdest election night in West Virginia history?" Tom murmured, just before their producer's voice crackled in their earpieces.
"Going live in ten... nine... eight..."
Barb, who was younger and still possessed a spark of amusement for the absurdities of her job, gave a small shrug. "At this point, Tom, I'm just hoping the deer gives a good victory speech."
Tom fought back a smile. Maintain composure, he told himself. You are a serious journalist. You are not here to laugh at the implosion of local democracy. You are here to report on it.
"...three... two... one... You're live."
Tom's face settled into its familiar, authoritative expression. "Good evening, and welcome to our live, continuing coverage of the Buckhannon Mayoral Recall Election. The polls have just closed across Buckhannon, and we are expecting the first returns to come in shortly in what has been a historic and, as we all know, highly unusual race."
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In his bedroom, Christopher Day sat in his gaming chair in the dark. The three monitors on his desk were black, their glossy surfaces reflecting the cluttered chaos of his room. He had spent the entire day in a state of self-imposed sensory deprivation. No news. No social media. No Vexlorn. He had tried, but the online world had lost its power to distract.
He wore his pink bunny-ear headphones, but there was no music playing. Now, in the suffocating quiet, he was simply waiting. He had done everything he could to lose. He had engineered his own downfall with what he believed was a stroke of strategic genius. Now, all he could do was wait.
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"And we have our first returns coming in now," Barb announced from the anchor desk, her voice a carefully blend of excitement and professionalism. "These are the results from Precinct 1, the polling station at the high school gymnasium. This is our largest precinct, so it should give us a strong initial indication of where the night is headed."
A graphic appeared on the screen behind them, a series of empty bars waiting to be filled. The producer's voice, a squawk in their earpieces, confirmed the numbers. "Are you seeing this? Is this right? Double-check those numbers with the clerk's office." A pause. "Okay... it's confirmed. Go with it."
Tom Van Pey stared at the teleprompter, his years of experience the only thing keeping his jaw from dropping. He cleared his throat. "And... here are the first numbers. For Ralph Hardwick... 3%. For Milla Slater... 2%. For Skip Jenkins... 5%."
He paused, an almost imperceptible hesitation before delivering the final number. "And for the write-in candidate, 'Bucky Watcher'... 88%."
The number hung in the air. Barb, for a split second, looked like she was about to laugh. She caught herself, turning it into a small cough.
"Well, Tom," she said, her voice straining to remain steady, "that is a... that is a very strong showing for the Bucky Watcher campaign. A reflection, perhaps, of a powerful protest vote from the citizens of Buckhannon. Of course, it's still very early. We'll have to see if that trend holds as the results from the more rural precincts come in."
It won't hold, Tom thought, a sense of journalistic dread washing over him. It'll be even higher.
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At the nearly empty ballroom of the Clarksburg Marriott, which had been booked with an optimistic and now quite foolish hope of serving as his campaign headquarters, Ralph Hardwick watched the numbers flash on the large projection screen. A deflated red balloon drifted lazily near the ceiling. He stared at the 3% next to his name, a number that was a public execution of his bid for mayor. At least he still had his town council position. For now. He quietly told his aide, a nervous young man who had been trying to avoid eye contact for the last hour, to prepare a concession speech.
At her lavish home, Milla Slater watched the results on a television the size of a small car. She looked at the 2% next to her name with an expression of disgust. She had spent a fortune on this campaign. She had focus-grouped her talking points. She had worn her most approachable pantsuit. And she had been beaten, not only by a deer, but by a farmer with a bad pizza caterer. With a flick of the remote, she turned off the television, stood up, and poured herself a very large, very expensive glass of wine.
At his family farm, sitting in his comfortable armchair surrounded by his family, Skip Jenkins watched the results with a bewildered and sad expression. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even particularly disappointed. He was just confused. He shook his head. He had lost a football game or two in his day, but he had never been beaten this badly, especially by an opponent who hadn't even been on the field.
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Back in the WBOY 12 studio, the results continued to roll in. Precinct after precinct reported the same, lopsided numbers. The rural districts, which the other candidates had hoped would be their strongholds, were even more decisive in their support for the deer. After less than an hour of vote counting, the producer's voice came through the earpieces, calm and resigned.
"It's over. We're calling it. Tom, it's all yours."
Tom Van Pey looked at his co-anchor, an exchange of disbelief passing between them. He straightened his papers, took a deep breath, and looked directly into the camera. He was a professional. He would report the news, no matter how strange.
"We are now ready to call the Buckhannon Mayoral Recall Election," he said, his voice a steady, authoritative baritone. "With 100% of precincts reporting, the results are now final."
The final tally appeared on the screen, a colorful pie chart that would be studied in political science classes for years to come as an example of what happens when a town collectively loses its mind.
Bucky Watcher: 85%; Skip Jenkins: 6%; Ralph Hardwick: 4%; Milla Slater: 3%. Other Write-Ins (Including "The Pothole Phantom"): 2%
Tom cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words, the professional, journalistic language to describe the farce that had just transpired. "In a historic and unprecedented landslide victory," he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth, "the people of Buckhannon have spoken... and they have overwhelmingly elected... the anonymous online persona 'Bucky Watcher'... as their next mayor."
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In his room, Christopher Day couldn't take the silence anymore. The not knowing was worse than the knowing. He reached up and turned on his central monitor. With a trembling hand, his heart pounding, he reached for his mouse. He clicked a few times, and the WBOY 12 News livestream bloomed to life on his monitor.
He tuned in at the exact moment the final results graphic filled the screen. He saw it. The blurry, low-resolution picture of the deer, a picture he had downloaded on a whim. And underneath it, in a bold, official-looking font, were two words that seemed to suck all the air from his lungs.
MAYOR-ELECT
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As the news anchor officially, and with a barely concealed sense of disbelief, declared "Bucky Watcher" the winner, Chris's HUD flashed.
[Quest Completed! Failure Penalty Avoided!]
Chris stared at the screen. His pale face was illuminated by the glow of the victorious deer picture. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had done it. He had tried to hide. He had tried to fail. He had tried to sabotage himself. And in the end, he had not just passed the quest. He had won the whole damn thing.