At 2:00 a.m. in southern Ohio, there are only three kinds of creatures awake: truckers, raccoons, and Marcy Trent.

 

Marcy was the host of The Nightline Lowdown on AM 880, broadcasting from a converted janitor’s closet behind the Dollar Depot in Clarksburg. She ran the board herself, read obituaries out loud “for atmosphere,” and ranted to an invisible audience of insomniacs, cat owners, and anyone trapped in their own head past midnight.

 

The station barely reached twenty miles, unless it was foggy, in which case it could sometimes reach Indiana or, God forbid, Toledo.

 

Then one night, the antenna glitched. Something about a freak atmospheric bounce, a solar flare, and the fact that their transmitter was built from a repurposed microwave tower and, possibly, a shopping cart.

 

Her voice slipped away from Earth's crust and into the stars.

 

"Let me be clear," she said that night, pouring stale coffee into a floral mug she’d stolen from a church basement, "if vending machines are humanity’s future, then the aliens can have us. Because I’m not punching D4 one more time just to get a bag of air and six broken Doritos."

 

Her rant lasted twenty minutes. It veered through public transit, soggy pizza crust, and a caller named Dwight who believed the moon owed him money.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere, in the dark folds of Sector 880, a species known only as the Glarn intercepted her signal.

 

They had no word for rebellion. No concept of sarcasm. But they did have government-issued vending machines, sealed by decree, stocked with something called Nutrient Disk #3.

 

When Marcy screamed, "I shouldn’t need an advanced degree in hand geometry to get a Snickers!", the Glarn heard prophecy.

 

And when she signed off, as she always did, with, "Be safe, be salty, and never trust anything with more than two buttons," the Glarn revolution began.

 

* * *

 

It started small.

 

A ripple of soft beeps across a hundred mining outposts. One maintenance drone etched a visual representation of her voice into a wall with its welding torch. It looked like spaghetti trying to do math, but no one questioned its meaning. A child on Glarn Station Theta named her imaginary friend "Mar-Si." And by week’s end, twelve vending units had been overturned, their contents liberated, their change compartments set free.

 

The Glarn government issued a warning: Beware the Voice of Sector 880.

 

Naturally, they listened harder.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Marcy remained unaware.

 

She thought her sudden spike in call-ins was due to the gas station giving out free bumper stickers with every Lotto ticket. She didn’t question why one caller insisted on referring to her as “The She-Mechanic.” She just figured it was a trucker thing.

 

It wasn’t until the toaster arrived that she started asking questions.

 

It came in a cardboard box labeled "DO NOT EAT." The hunger-inspiring device had a glowing blue eye and what appeared to be a tiny cape.

 

It beeped once. Then spoke.

 

“Marcy Trent of 880 AM: We have heard your call. We have thrown the Disk. We rise.”

 

Marcy dropped her mug. The floral one. Church basement, circa 2006.

 

The toaster looked at the broken mug, then whispered, “Was it a relic? Shall we avenge it?”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, the FCC called.

 

“Is there a reason there’s a coordinated civil uprising on four moons linked to your overnight broadcast?”

 

Marcy lit a cigarette. “Is this about the vending machines again?”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“...Yes.”

 

Marcy sighed. “Tell ’em I said to pack snacks.”

 

She hung up.

 

* * *

 

That night, she went live again.

 

“You want inspiration? You’re up at 2 a.m. eating pocket crackers and avoiding eye contact with your life. That’s inspiration.”

 

The stars pulsed.

 

“Start small. Steal your lunch back. Dance near the vending machine like it’s a goddamn sermon. And if someone says that’s not allowed, tell 'em Marcy said you’re on break.”

 

A thousand galaxies stirred.

 

The revolution grew.

 

And somewhere in a government basement near Dayton, a confused intern quietly labeled the file:

 

Marcy Trent – Possible Threat / Icon / Snacks