Broken-Dial: Channel Zero

Broken-Dial: Channel Zero picks up where the broadcast never ended. Somewhere beyond the last station on the band, beneath static and electrical storms, one signal refuses to die. The raccoon at the controls is still transmitting—stitched together with failing equipment, impossible weather, diner coffee, bad decisions, and enough interference to bend reality itself.
Each transmission uncovers another fragment of a world where menus predict the future, jukeboxes consume more than spare change, storms answer switchboards, forgotten patrons linger long after closing time, and every frequency hides another impossible story. A soup-based economy collapses. A waitress made of weather haunts the fluorescent aisles. Banana moons forecast the end. The regulars fade like ghosts between the static.
Signal Drift broadcasts from a diner at the edge of all maps—one that exists in the space between thought and sound, between the dying and the born. His voice is the last human signal left, and it's fragmenting across fifteen impossible frequencies. Some transmissions are absurd: candy-coated hallucinations and raccoon boardrooms. Some are unsettling: storms inside the booth, floors that melt like syrup, coins raining from nowhere. A few sound like they're coming from somewhere that shouldn't exist at all.
The dial is broken into pieces now, and every piece is broadcasting.
There's no clear beginning, no clean ending, only another channel waiting beyond the noise—one that gets closer every time you tune in.
If you can hear the station...
...you're already part of the broadcast.