(no subject)

i. arrival;
[ It's not the first time Alan has jolted awake like this. From sleep, from death, from loops and spirals and at this point he's really, truly sick of it. Even if this time it's voluntary.

He's not anywhere he recognizes, which should set him on edge but as he stands, heart pounding, all he can do is bring his hand up to his forehead in alarmed surprise.

Had it worked? Had he done it? No--had she done it?

Images--memories, almost, distorted conversations of moments before this--flicker through his mind like TV fuzz, static electricity thrumming through his entire body as his brain tries to catch up with the physicality of it all. He's in a corridor. He's woken up in a corridor. He presses his finger right between his eyes, pushing lightly. The act calms him when he finds no hole, gives him enough time to glance around and actually think. He exhales, dropping his hand to reach for his bag. ]

This isn't right.

[ But the lights here are warm, inviting. Plentiful. His head hurts, his whole body feels like he's been drowning, but he's in the light. As unfamiliar as this place is, there's illumination. Hope.

The lamp is still in his bag. His flashlight is still by his side. His gun is gone, but he still has the rest of his tools. He can do this.

Carefully, Alan makes his way down the corridor. ]


ii. mess hall;
[ He doesn't entirely know where this is. He doesn't entirely trust it, either, but there's a bone-deep exhaustion that's sinking in and clinging to Alan, weaving around him in an weighted manner like wearing wool in the pouring rain. The low-down has been given to him, of course: a barge, space, something about an admiral. Alan can accept that, if temporarily. It's too clean. Too tidy. Too simple. Not a ruse, but something else. A fabrication buzzing under the surface? From what--from who, he doesn't know. Himself, maybe. Thomas Zane's sci-fi kino journey. Mr. Door. Some unknown entity trapping him further and further into a labyrinthine spiral, dooming him to--

--he can't think about that. He can't think about that, not now. He can't let it go but he can at least recognize that being in that sort of state isn't going to be very helpful at the moment. Besides, trust or not, there's something else. The people, that's the most overwhelming part.

God, the people. No shadows, no tendrils of smokey-bright ink. Just.... People. Convincing people. Real people, and as Alan stands in the mess hall he finds himself just sort of taking it in he finds his shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch.

Bright Falls seems so very far away.

That tiredness courses through Alan again, hits him like a tidal wave, but that doesn't mean he's going to sleep. There's that paranoid edge shirking through, the ol' Alex Casey hunch and inspiration, the little stab of paranoid wariness that loves to mix with the cleverness that's kept him surviving for so long. No. No sleep. He fights off a yawn.

He can talk to someone that isn't a fed or a cult member or himself. That's the first step. One foot in front of the other.]

Hey--excuse me. Where's the coffee?


iii. library;
[ He continues to explore with his head is still buzzing, thrumming with the knowledge that he's out--free--while still feeling shackled. It's not even an out of the frying pan an and into the fire situation, he's dealing with a whole other goddamn Thing that he doesn't have the energy in him to be pissed about right now.

Exploring, though. He can do that.

Alan may not have a weapon--he's going to have to change that, get a knife at least from somewhere, do something--but the flashlight is a familiar weight next to him within easy grabbing distance. A nice point to focus on. A safety net if he needs to use it.

Focus.

He has to focus, that's right. Always has to. Can't afford another slip-up, another mistake, and maybe it's the complete and utter lack of sleep or maybe it's the fact that he's still not entirely sure he's out of the Dark Place at all that makes his feet wander, taking him this way and that. He finds himself in the library out of a strange, sick morbid curiousity. Makes his way to the thrillers under that same guise.

Carefully, he reaches out once he finds the book he's looking for, fingers ghosting the edge of the spine for a moment to brace himself before fully pulling it out. An Alex Casey novel. ]

You're here, too, huh?

[ He should hate it. Throw it. Instead, he winds up half-chuckling at the strangely comfortable feeling that sits in his chest. He begins to flip through it, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. ]


iv. cabin;
[ In one of the hallways, there's a plain door with a spiral on it that's left open. Unassuming and mundane save for the symbol, there's a steady click-clack of mechanical keys that sing its way through the room and snakes its way into the hallway. Light spills through the open door to an old attic-like room.

Alan is writing.

Alan is testing himself.

The sharp ding of a line being done is the only other sound heard on occasion, the dull ka-chunk of Alan shifting the typewriter over to start a new one following immediately after.

This will continue, nonstop, for hours. ]


v. wildcard;
[ Feel free to wildcard it or PM me for a starter if you fancy! ]