Alan's back. That's the important part. Alice had guided him; Saga and Door and the Old Gods, Casey and his echoes. Zane, even: it's a group effort to fish him out of inky black waters, to dive into the surface. To live.
He loops. He spirals, some good and some bad. He climbs. He ascends parts of himself as he descends further and further, back to Parliament Towers.
Something's different. Something Alan can't put a finger on, not yet. But he's used to shifting corridors and different tweaks. Hell, he's writing it. The elevator doors slide open and be steps through, breathing out only to be assaulted with a flash of cameras. The same, but different. Carefully -- cautiously -- Alan keeps a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, moving forward. It's not their house. It's an exhibit. It's... off.
It doesn't feel like the Dark Place at all. And maybe he's imagining things, but he swears he can smell her perfume.
There's something to be said for doing something crazy. It either pays off or it blows up spectacularly. She truly wasn't sure why she'd agreed to this; an immersive experience for a place no one should want to experience this deeply... But. It was hard to say no to this and a perfect bookend to this chapter of her life. She'd tried and had given everything and it had all been in vain as far as she knew.
So, fuck it. One last hurrah. It was her last true tie to Manhattan and her old life; to the pain and fear and grief and hope. The last one was the hardest to let go of, walking through the exhibit processing her own feelings and emotions. The exhibit was something of a weird, fucked up little time capsule recently dug up at the 10 year reunion.
Her eyes drift to the exhibit additions she'd made after getting out of the Dark Place as the newest captured faces float into frame from her cameras poised to snap pics of people coming around the corner. Her entire body stills at the deeply familiar stranger staring back. Her feet start moving while her brain processes, rushing for a flashlight as she begins to pan the crowd with a growing panic. Is this a trick? A last little fuck you rubbing salt into the wound? Her flashlight dances over each person until she spots the outline she'd wished to see for too many years. Her voice is barely a whisper, but carries through the hushed conversations around her.
He senses her before she speaks--it's the delicate weight of her footsteps as she moves around their apartment, the smell of her perfume as she gets ready for a gala, it's everything--and he turns around just in time for her flashlight to shine on him.
He doesn't wince. Hair in his face, damp from the on and off again New York rain, but he doesn't even put a hand in front of him to block the light. She's always been this bright to him, a beacon, a guide.
This has to be real. He needs it to be real.
"Please," he whispers, taking a step towards her. He's begging. "Please be real."
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reunion;
He loops. He spirals, some good and some bad. He climbs. He ascends parts of himself as he descends further and further, back to Parliament Towers.
Something's different. Something Alan can't put a finger on, not yet. But he's used to shifting corridors and different tweaks. Hell, he's writing it. The elevator doors slide open and be steps through, breathing out only to be assaulted with a flash of cameras. The same, but different. Carefully -- cautiously -- Alan keeps a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, moving forward. It's not their house. It's an exhibit. It's... off.
It doesn't feel like the Dark Place at all. And maybe he's imagining things, but he swears he can smell her perfume.
no subject
So, fuck it. One last hurrah. It was her last true tie to Manhattan and her old life; to the pain and fear and grief and hope. The last one was the hardest to let go of, walking through the exhibit processing her own feelings and emotions. The exhibit was something of a weird, fucked up little time capsule recently dug up at the 10 year reunion.
Her eyes drift to the exhibit additions she'd made after getting out of the Dark Place as the newest captured faces float into frame from her cameras poised to snap pics of people coming around the corner. Her entire body stills at the deeply familiar stranger staring back. Her feet start moving while her brain processes, rushing for a flashlight as she begins to pan the crowd with a growing panic. Is this a trick? A last little fuck you rubbing salt into the wound? Her flashlight dances over each person until she spots the outline she'd wished to see for too many years. Her voice is barely a whisper, but carries through the hushed conversations around her.
"Alan?"
no subject
He doesn't wince. Hair in his face, damp from the on and off again New York rain, but he doesn't even put a hand in front of him to block the light. She's always been this bright to him, a beacon, a guide.
This has to be real. He needs it to be real.
"Please," he whispers, taking a step towards her. He's begging. "Please be real."