HAUNTING

alice wake of remedy’s alan wake. 21+. captured by moss.

[miswaken]

There’s a world hidden behind ours. A dark tide ebbing and flowing against reality. Faces in the shadows. Fear of the dark is really just fear of what could be. That vast, paralyzing ocean. But photography can freeze reality in a snapshot. Put a cage around the infinite. Capture it. I need to prove those faces are really there.

      This is an indie, private, 21+ rp blog for Alice Wake of Remedy’s Alan Wake franchise + the Remedy Connected Universe.

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      captured by moss (29; she/her) | blogroll: @walriding ; @fanaiceach; @brightpoet

[miswaken]

it’s hadestown proshot dayyyyyy

[fadcn]

                      ▼ Alice asking about Sarah felt like a diversion rather than intentional small talk. But he wasn't about to say anything to point that out. "Sarah's doing well, last I heard. She moved to New York several years ago. Got recruited by "the Feds". It's all she would tell me, but...I have a feeling it wasn't the FBI, if you catch my meaning. Still...I haven't heard from her in a while now. Since 2019, I think? She shot me an email saying there was an "incident at headquarters" and "a bunch of field agents were recalled". Classified, so...no elaboration."

It felt weird talking about it. Uncle Frank would have thought the same, honestly.

It was strange sitting there across from her after so many years. He'd been 21 when Alice and Alan had come to Bright Falls, an angry, resentful, reckless college student on the run from his problems hoping to hide out with the only family he'd had left. He left the experience a better person, he felt, but also...broken? The entire situation had him reassessing reality, the universe, and the significance of the man haunting his dreams, Warlin Door. He often found himself at the edge of Cauldron Lake, at the end of the "dock" that was really just what was left of the bridge that had once led to Diver's Island, just staring out at the inky black water...but never into it. Not directly, anyway.

It was like something would always turn his eyes away.

Funny. He'd been one of very few people that didn't think Alice or the Andersons were crazy when they claimed Alan was in the lake, alive, somehow. Ahti had said as much, too, though he and the Andersons always called him "Tom".

If all else failed, trust Ahti.

"I won't lie, Mrs. Wake...you were the last person I ever expected to see here again. Not that I'm complaining, I'm glad to see you, but...I know it can't be easy. So we can cut to the chase, if you like. Your message said you wanted to talk to me about something, and I'm all ears. Though, that being said, if you're really wanting some pleasantries first, I know firsthand the blackberry cobbler here is fantastic."

[miswaken]

Sarah Breaker, in New York, working for the feds? Alice tried to hide her look of surprise, but in her mind that could only point to one thing. She must have been with the FBC. Again she felt resentment for the agency bubbling up inside of her. They clearly had an interest in Bright Falls, in Alan's case and in whatever information Alice could give them. And yet they'd never treated her with anything more than cursory attention. Like a vaguely interesting footnote, but not the focus of the story. And they might have had Sarah Breaker working there and never thought to put her in touch with Alice.

Still, it wasn't her place to go throwing wrenches into family business. "I hope she's alright -- god knows the government likes their secrets." She took another sip of her coffee, refocused on the moment instead of old grievances. The FBC wasn't going to help her, but they weren't going to stop her either. Truthfully she also wasn't sure how helpful the current Sherriff would be, and there was a part of her that would've much preferred just looking around on her own. But it wasn't always wise to take matters into her own hands, Alice knew.

Someone in Bright Falls had to know more than she did. She'd stayed away for so long, refusing to reopen old scars. People who lived here, worked here, they must have seen something. And starting with the police just felt like the most logical line of questioning.

If he helped her, that was a win. If he didn't, then Alice would at least know to keep her own investigation as subtle as possible.

Thankfully he was willing to get right to the point. Alice could respect that. She knew how to be social of course, how to play the politeness game, but this was more than just an outing to smile her way through.

"Maybe next time -- I'm not in the mood for dessert at the moment." Mostly true -- Alice rarely turned down a sweet -- but there were other priorities. She set her mug down and folded her arms in front of her, leaned forward slightly over the table. Her expression wasn't unkind, but the photographer clearly meant business.

"I'm guessing you probably know why I'm here. Alan's case... it's been a decade, now." A little over, actually, but she didn't think she needed to rattle off an exact countdown. "I know it's been closed. Considered closed, anyway, but I just..."

She couldn't tell him the real reason why she was suddenly interested in it all again. For so long Alice had gone along with the idea that he was dead. It was easier to stomach than any number of horrifying alternatives, and she'd forgotten so much of what had actually happened that it really was the most logical conclusion. Alan was dead, she'd moved on, only now he was back and tormenting her, and here Alice was where it all started. Like everything since Bright Falls had been some irrelevant side plot.

She'd dropped him off at the diner to pick up the cabin keys while she went to get gas. By the time she picked Alan up he'd been annoyed, on edge. Something about annoying locals and creepy old women, and she'd laughed and said that was just small town America for you.

What did he see?

"I'm just... trying to understand more about what happened. They wouldn't tell me much at the time, and I figured maybe it's been long enough now that you can tell me more." And I didn't want to talk over the phone because I wanted to see you avoiding the truth.

[drxmxtispersonxe]

He hit a nerve with that, and for a brief moment as Zane watches the cold anger flash through his eyes, he is certain that he is going to die right now. And again after that when he finds his way back to this room, rain soaked and confused. He'll be easy prey like that and she can pick him apart again and again until she's bored or sated. Whatever comes first.

He remembers how to play that game, but this time around he'll be a more resilient toy since mortality doesn't mean anything. Alice backs off though, and Zane takes a drink in celebration of still having a beating heart for the moment. She catches a photo of him like that, bottle raised and unwilling this time to make eye contact. The relief comes apart entirely when she takes her place in what he's been affectionately thinking of as her chair for awhile now, and the lace peaks out from beneath the leather and she brings his attention to it. The last fragile pieces of Zane's desperate act shatter like ice beneath the heel of Alice's boot, propped up on the table. So casual. Body draped in his funeral shroud. Zane thinks he makes a sound, but he isn't sure if it's real or replaying from the inside of his skull. A choked little whimper, soft and pathetic sound of a creature with a tender underbelly it's been trying to hide. He wants so bad to refute any of her comments. He wants to claim that he didn't notice the dress because he was too focused on the wrongness of her to even see it-- it's not that he's still, after all these torturous years, the neglectful boyfriend. Missing changes, missing tears, missing that she was even gone until it was too late. No, he's changed. He notices when Alice pulls her own memories out of Parliament Tower or his out of the wreckage of the hotel room. Loudly patterned shirts Zane forgot ever existed and worn tour shirts from concerts that never happened. Those images do come with the tactile memory of his hands gliding beneath the hems and the warmth of Alice's skin.

Even this dress is linked in his mind with the way it last felt against his skin-- waterlogged lace wadded in his fists as he dragged Baba down. "Why?" The poet asks from the filmmaker's lips and the first terrified tear drips down his face to be swallowed by the collar of his shirt. And then the room shudders long with the breath Zane takes while he deletes that man from reality again. Alice has already seen it and that can't be undone, but this is for Zane's own weakening grasp on the situation. White knuckle edits and grip on the bottle that he raises again. He nearly chokes on the alcohol, but doesn't toss out that fumble like all the other ugly things he's left on the cutting room floor.

It's all smoke and mirrors, but Zane's a little more composed for the second take. There's a ghost of a tear track smudged down his cheek and he cannot look at Alice or the dress, but his voice doesn't shake when he speaks. "Am I entertaining you now?" Zane asks with a tight smile that doesn't even begin to mask the dullness in his eyes. "I did like the dress but it's not... It's not you-- It's not your style? You really did put that on just for me, didn't you? Alan's got nothing to do with this one." Poking at her again so she can bite off his fingers, but it's about buying time before the blood starts to run. But maybe the death would be better than this, even on loop at her hands.

[miswaken]

It's her turn to salt his wounds now, to sit back and watch the results play out. Unlike Zane, though, she doesn't fear retribution. Oh, she suspects he's going to try to kill her if it comes to that -- he tried it once before, not that he succeeded. But that's just what he does. What him and Alan both do. Fuck it all up and then scramble for the reset button, a knife or a gun or whatever else they think they can make big, sweeping edits with.

But he won't kill her for this. She'll toy with him first, and he'll take it like a good boy, and then somebody is going to wind up dead because there's no other way for the story to go.

He sinks into his own head for a moment, and it gives her ample time to arm her camera. Line up the perfect shot, lean over just a little to make sure the light halos him appropriately without blowing out the highlights. Pull his face into focus. She holds her breath from that first little sound that punches out of him, finger poised on the shutter release, and then--

There it is. Those watery blue eyes and one tear that catches the light just so, on the rise of his cheek.

There he is, the Zane that somebody -- something -- else remembers.

The shutter snaps open and closed before he can edit the scene. And edit he does, a lurching moment of vertigo and desperation while she advances the film, apparently unbothered by the shift. He can do what he likes with reality. The camera never lies.

"You could do better," she shrugs, not rising to whatever bait he's trying to set. Alan is volatile on a good day, doubly so with the Dark Presence slipped under his skin like a bruise. Alice isn't so easily riled. "What, I can't do something nice just for you? It's not always about Alan, Thomas." That's true for Alice. But this place, this thing, it always loops back to him, doesn't it? "Besides, my clothes were wet. You know how it is -- you fall in, and it all just drags you down."

The lace is still dripping onto the hotel room floor. Alice smiles blankly like she doesn't notice.

"But I can put something else on. What would you prefer? We could try tweed — or maybe less layers."

[miswaken]

today’s random thought: alice definitely tried coke (with alan) once but it sent her anxiety through the roof so badly she never touched it again

[emilesmuseassembly]

Alice startles him with her outburst, leaving Casey adrift for a moment, his brows furrowing at the odd feeling of so easily becoming unmoored. He almost questions her intentions, even though he knows he has no reason to, but Alice is quick to put any such worries to rest when she clarifies her reluctance to let him go.

He has encountered many people who are afraid of the dark in his line of work, although mostly children, and Casey always tries his best to be sympathetic.

In a way, he understands.

Casey himself has had to face the darkness far too often to still be afraid of it, but it has not always been like that… has it? It is hard to remember anything before —

He pushes his thoughts aside for later so he can shift his full attention to the terrified woman in front of him. (And maybe a bit because he doesn't want to know.)

"Would it help if we go through together?" Casey offers reluctantly, "That way you won't be left behind; I will be there to lead you through the dark."

He doesn't feel as comfortable with the situation as he felt before, knowing that he can't protect Alice as well as he would like if she refuses to let him go ahead to clear the path, but Casey makes sure not to show this.

"I will need you to stick close to me and do exactly as I say," Casey's tone is serious as he tells her this.

[miswaken]

For a second she worries she laid it on too thick -- Zane's school of acting probably rubbed off on her -- but mercifully he takes the bait and doesn't question her. Besides, it's not entirely a lie. There are still moments in this place where Alice feels that old fear creeping up her spine, and she keeps her solo wandering to a minimum. She just has to focus on the feeling of that instead of the ten thousand other concerns that keep multiplying in her mind.

One step at a time. They'll navigate the shifting labyrinth, make it to the apartment, and then--

One step at a time.

"Yes, please," Alice sighs, and the relief is equal parts fiction and reality. She might have played up the reason, but she's glad that he's not going to charge off to play hero. She eases up on his arm, keeping them joined at the elbow but no longer clinging to him quite so dramatically. "Thank you, Detective, I'll follow your lead. I promise."

She reminds herself that she still has her camera. If it comes to it, the flash should be enough to scare the shadows out of the alley -- long enough for them to make a run for it, at least. A last resort, but a very useful one.

[fadcn]

                      ꩜ Baba felt bad for her, of course. She'd been there long enough to know, at least in theory, how the Darkness worked. What it wanted. Ahti told her she had been right...or at least she thought he had. It was difficult to tell sometimes, the man speaking in riddles and half-translated sayings that rarely made sense in English. He could have just spoken in Finnish, and most times he would. And then other times, no.

Baba scrunched up her nose a bit. He had always been frustrating, but she really liked Ahti...

"This place...it wants to confuse you. To keep you confused. Afraid. Tired. Angry. Deep in despair. I know that I will never leave, but..." She looked the poor woman over once again. "You still feel the cold, as if it were real. You're alive. So you should be able to leave, if you can find the exit. That...is what I have been told, anyway."

She sighed. This was getting her nowhere. Sliding off of the back of the bench to sit down on it properly, Baba untied and slid off her boots. It wasn't as if she needed them anyway. All they did was made her feel a bit more normal. She slid them over to her companion, nudging her foot.

"You need these more than I do. It's going to be a long walk." Now barefoot, she stood, carefully swinging her leg to twirl herself. Her toe made a spiral in the puddle beneath her feet. "I can take you to the Oceanview. Going in the same circle will get you nowhere...just always back to the start, falling, over and over and over...believe me, I tried for months before I stopped. There is someone important at the Oceanview...but I can't go inside. He...he's afraid of me now. But he may be able to help you."

She froze suddenly, staring at nothing, staring past the bench, past the shadows, past everything. "...you can't keep blaming yourself, Alice. Neither of you could have known."

[miswaken]

Her words only added to the chill seeping down to Alice’s bones. You’re alive. As opposed to… She cast a sidelong glance at the other woman. The dead woman, by the sound of it. Alice had never been religious. She left church and god behind with other childhood things, like gifts she pretended to love until enough time had passed that she could give up the façade without hurting feelings. But maybe this was hell. The capital-H kind. Tormented by her own flaws, haunted by regret, and now this — a ghost. Somehow she’d drowned, died, and now she was here and there was never going to be anything or anywhere else again.

She shivered and dug her fingernails of the moisture-softened bench, bit at the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The wash of copper was almost a relief. Surely if she could bleed — if she could feel, like the other woman said — then she wasn’t dead yet. Yet. Alice knew even without it being spelled out that this place, this darkness, wanted to take everything from her. Strip her down and wring her out. Maybe it wouldn’t kill her outright, but maybe dead wasn’t even the worst thing you could be.

You’re alive. You’re still alive, and you need to get out of here.

The boots brought her back to reality — or back to the present moment, anyway. Again Alice thought to refuse the offering. Surely the boots wouldn’t fit, they weren’t the same height so she doubted they’d be the same shoe size, and dead or not it didn’t seem fair for someone else to go without on a stranger’s behalf. On her behalf. But she caught the thought before it could become words. This was about survival now. She had to take what she could get.

She slipped the boots on expecting a tight squeeze, but beyond reason, they fit comfortably. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling as she tied them and tried her best to focus on whatever information she was being given. The Oceanview. The loops, the repetition — she’d felt that already, like waking up from a nightmare only to realize you’re still caught in a dream. But there was someone at the Oceanview. Someone who could help. She committed that idea to memory, just in case she needed it. Just in case she found herself alone again.

A thousand other questions came to mind. What was the Oceanview? Who was there? Why were they afraid of a dead woman? Why couldn’t she go inside? They halted in her mind at the continued words. Another shiver ran its finger down Alice’s spine, and she tried following the woman’s gaze out into the darkness.

“I’m afraid of the dark,” she said suddenly. Because it felt like a fact, something grounding. Because it was so ironic as to almost be funny. Or it would be, if that fear wasn’t currently squeezing her heart. But it hadn’t coiled around her lungs and stolen her breath yet. The longer she looked at the shadows, the less they froze the blood in her veins. Because this was exactly what she’d always been afraid of, wasn’t it? The unseen horror stalking her in the night, warping the world around her when she couldn’t see it happening. Well, here it was. Here she was, in the belly of the beast. The worst had already happened, was already happening.

What else was there to fear?

Still…

She stood and looked up at the streetlight still shrouding them, and her stomach clenched at the idea of leaving it. “If we could find a flashlight, maybe…” It might be as effective as bailing out a sinking ship with a spoon, but still. Every little bit helped. Another thought sprung up, then. Or maybe it was just an attempt to stall the inevitable trek into the dark. “I’m Alice, by the way.” The other woman already knew her name even though she’d yet to share it, but Alice ignored the sick feeling that gave her. “Do you—“ Have a name? Remember it? “What should I call you?”

[miswaken]

random thought but I truly believe that darling being an alan soundalike would bother alice a hell of a lot more than zane being an alan lookalike

[meontix]

>damaged film v︵v

[miswaken]

i don't think alice feels like an oc! it's difficult writing a canon character who ultimately does not have a lot going on in said canon (especially when they are feminine) but i think you've done a spectacular job with alice! you've built up on the core traits of her that we do know and any additions have felt in line with that and considering what alice has gone through, making her feel very well rounded and realised!! it makes it a delight to write with you always <3

how's my driving?

it is always a struggle for women / fem characters in horror media! but honestly even looking at my collection of men, I tend to gravitate towards muses who are...... shall we say under characterized. I love making shit up and not having to worry about adhering to a lot of canon facts! or more accurately I enjoy looking at a loose canon framework and extrapolating a character from there. and it's nice to know that that works, and that I'm able to write any of my muses in a way that feels both reasonable and multifaceted. thank you!!!

[miswaken]

How's your portrayal? Even though I've yet to actually play the games and meet Alice, you've got me so excited to do so! I only read about her from the AWE expansion notes but I still feel like you carry her with a defined, accurate understanding and the utmost care. I'm so sure you're doing her justice and much more! I loooove your portrayal!

how's my driving?

thank you so much :')))) I was clinging to the AWE crumbs for so long, because the way she's depicted there is so different from what she's like in the first game! AW1 I will love you always but Alice is a very passive character, and it wasn't until I played through Control and saw the documents in the DLC that I was like ohhhhh there is something going on with this lady. I needed More, so I started this blog, and I was very much making it all up as I went based on extremely minimal characterization lol. AW2 hadn't been announced yet, it was just me and my delusions. which thankfully ended up not being super delusional after all! I'm very glad that Remedy set up and hinted at a path for her and then actually followed through with it -- because I saw the signs and then got to feel vindicated :)

[miswaken]

I think truthfully that Alice should be MORE of an OC. You should just claim her because your portrayal is THAT good. She's complex, she's human, she's kind of a freak and I love her. Your narration FEELS like her, like just the natural evolution of what we see in the game. You've put so much care and thought into who she is and who she is as HER OWN person. And all your thoughts about her being a parautilitarian and what that means for her are also just so good.

how's my driving?

you're too kind anon, thank you :') I simply love Alice so much, and I see so much potential in her canon character......... I'm glad that I've been able to expand on that in a believable way!!

[drxmxtispersonxe]

He doesn't miss that she's pinned now, though it hadn't exactly been intentional. He watches it happen-- slow-- and still takes his small steps forward, watches Alice's back hit the tree. Watches her realize that her options have narrowed.

Zane could touch her now, if he chose to. His fingers twitch with the impulse, but he holds back for now.

"I did. I won't lie about that," he says. There's no use denying it. The blood's on his hands and all over hers. He tries to look apologetic about it, eyes wide and blue and sad. But they still glow with that inhuman, predator's gleam. It takes a little something away from the performance.

"I have to. I don't have a choice anymore, it's part of the whole... the new loop we're in. It's just the new rules and there's consequences if I don't do what I'm supposed to."

He gestures with the knife again before he can think better of it. Zane gives Alice a little huff of laughter and an apologetic smile, like it's a misunderstanding. How could he be so silly? In the same movement, he tucks the blade away in the inner pocket of his jacket. It can't hurt her if she can't see it, like a monster under the bed or something creeping ever closer outside of the beam of a flashlight.

"I can let you go. I'll take the consequences for you," Zane says, soft and pleading again. His voice dipped low like it used to when he'd press his lips to her bare shoulder, formed around her like he was just another layer of bedding. Fingertip tracing the lines of her tattoo while he talked about nothing, the past, the future.

Zane gives in to reach out slow, like he is actually afraid of Alice ducking to the side and running off. Like he's not coiled like a spring waiting for it to happen and ready to drag her back. His blood slick fingers cradle Alice's face. "I missed you," Zane says and it's like a cracking in the mask. Another quick flicker of a different scene and a different man who drops the animal grace to slump forward and rest against Alice's shoulder like he has so many times before. He lets out a breath that's heavy with exhaustion. Something he's been holding since he started to sink deeper. "We can find a way out now that we're together. And Alan too."

[miswaken]

He's right about one thing, at least -- there are rules here, even if she doesn't fully understand them. Yet. Given enough time Alice thinks she could pick apart the knot of this place just as she did the Dark Place, peel it back layer by layer until she finds the meat and muscle that makes it tick. So far she's ascertained only the basic rules of each torturous loop, the things the would-be victims have to do to escape back to the campfire. Losing has consequences. Pain and death, yes, those are obvious. She's already met her end a few times here hung up on a meathook, spindly arachnid limbs piercing through every organ that matters. What follows after that, in the time between death and stumbling back to the fire, is... hazy at best. Her mind can't remember it but her body does, an old and animal fear that dumps adrenaline straight into her veins at the merest attempt to recall details.

To lose is to suffer, in a way so horrible it slips from her mind but remains stamped onto every cell of her being.

It stands to reason that there are consequences for the killers, too, to be doled out in the event of their poor performance. Something bigger is at play here, some greater force neither Alice nor anyone else fully comprehends, and it clearly delights in this cyclical torture. It isn't difficult to believe that failure on both sides earns punishment.

She wants to feel bad about that. She wants to feel sympathy, to feel her heart ache for a monster, because it would somehow make this easier to stomach. All she feels is cold, sinking dread. Her eyes never leave his even as he waves the knife around then makes a show of putting it away. Even as his bloodied fingers cup her face with a gentleness both foreign and familiar. Even as something in him shifts and he offers her placations and promises that ring so painfully hollow.

She wants to be the kind of person who would bare her throat for the beast because maybe that's the good and right and selfless thing to do. She'd been that kind of person, once. The stable and supportive wife who tried her best not to snap her own teeth in kind. But that Alice died a long time ago, well before the fog. Now she's not so willing to roll over and play nice. This Alice would leave Zane to suffer if it gave her a better chance of surviving, of being able to save Alan -- her heartstrings be damned.

Or maybe she only wants to believe that she's got such conviction. That her jaw doesn't tremble at his touch, and she doesn't wish beyond reason that all of this would just go away like a bad dream. Back in the hotel she'd always been able to ignore the blood on him, pretend like the things he did when she wasn't there were just part of the story. Part of his act.

Alice can't keep sticking her head in the sand.

Little by little, her fingers inch their way around the grip of her camera.

"I don't know where Alan is," she half lies. He's here, she's seen him, but they've yet to be thrown into a trial together and they pass like ships in the night at the campfire, their paths never crossing. That has to be intentional. "We'd... we'd have to find him, first." Just keep talking. Keep yourself alive. "Please, Tom, please, I don't--" her voice hitches, caught in her throat, and it isn't for show. "I don't want to die here."

[kingsmemes]

「   ASK MEME :   HOW’S MY PORTRAYAL?   」  * send anonymously or not. feedback is appreciated!

[candidated]

People don't just stumble upon this area, Dylan knows that. When they come here, they arrive with a purpose. But he has never seen @miswaken before. Not that it should alarm or interest him, she's definitely here on business... An audibly exasperated sigh comes out of him, turning to stare at the new face with a half-hearted glare.

"Are you Carla's replacement?" If so, good riddance. Though this was still a negative outcome on its own.

"You look more competent than her. Which means you could bring Casper over,... right?"

[miswaken]

Somehow she managed to slip away from her escorts and swipe a forgotten badge off a desk as she went. Then again maybe it wasn't much of a feat -- Alice has gotten the sense that she's far from a priority from the moment she arrived. Not that she expected a whole government agency to fawn over her, but there's a certain air of detachment that the agents have treated her with. In that regard, little has changed since Bright Falls. They interview her, take notes -- take her photos, too -- and all the while she feels like she's about to end up at the bottom of a dusty filing cabinet somewhere. Thoroughly recorded but ultimately forgotten.

But she's here, now. In the only place that might hold something even remotely close to answers. She knows there are things they aren't telling her, and now memories are starting to surface in her mind again. Old and waterlogged things glinting in the depths of her subconscious.

Alice doubts she'll be back here again, which makes this her only chance to look around.

But the signage is vague, and it's not as though Alice actually knows what she's looking for. So a few wrong turns and a few unexpected detours to avoid detection later, she finds herself in a space almost entirely devoid of people.

Except one.

She jumps, slightly, at the sound of his voice. She's on edge, afraid she's just been caught red handed, only... he's not an agent. He's unarmed, for one thing. And he's on the wrong side of the glass.

"No, I'm not--" Alice doesn't know if she should lie. It's likely to take less than two seconds of interaction to ascertain she isn't supposed to be here, but that doesn't mean she has to admit to it. He might not work here either, but he's still here. Some part of her mind wonders if she should be afraid, or at least wary. The last few weeks have fried her nerves pretty thoroughly, though. "I don't know Carla, or Casper. I'm just... lost, I think. I got turned around, looking for..." she doesn't even know what, "something else. I'm sorry."

[rasskaz4ik]

Last minute monkey wrenches aside, if there was one thing Bradley hated being, it was underprepared and caught with his pants down if there was something he could do to help it. Life had thrown him enough curveballs for him to feel like he needed to keep as much of a hold on everything as he possibly could, even if that felt like a pipe dream some days.

The sudden change in plans didn't give him enough time to learn as much as he would've liked to about Alice Wake's works, but what he saw of her collection was impressive, her talent unquestionable. Credit where it was due to the PR team. This event was for the title that put them on the map; the name with enough weight as Tron. It deserved to be handled by someone who could do more than a few nice headshots and clean, soulless photography that could be found in any generic magazine.

That was exactly what ENCOM needed right now. A spark ignited by someone removed from all this, a return to something with heart to remind them of their origins—that there were some things more important than the bottom line—just as Flynn would have wanted it. Just as he wanted it. If it happened to ruffle some feathers up at the top, well, Bradley had no delusions about his current standing amongst the ENCOM elite.

"Probably by pissing off the wrong person." Bradley laughs a little, smiling. "Don't worry; none taken. If I seem a little out of sorts, it's because I only learned about an hour or so ago that I was going to be directly involved in this project, so I didn't have as much time to prepare as I would've liked. Don't hold it against me if I say something stupid."

Not being recognised immediately is, admittedly, a breath of fresh air. While he loves what he does despite every bump and setback that started greying him prematurely, Bradley does miss the good old days of anonymity when he was just another programmer in ENCOM's arsenal. He could code freely at his desk, have time for his own projects, do his part, and return to the world once all was said and done relatively unnoticed.

Just another man on the street not worth sparing a second glance at. That was a luxury left behind in the '80s. Another thing vanished with Flynn.

"You're right, though. I'm neither. It's the tie, isn't it? No, I'm, uh, actually the CEO." Bradley's expression turns sheepish then. He could give a speech about the company's projects for hours with almost no issue, but the moment it came to talking about himself, the awkwardness returned in full-force.

"I might have chosen someone from our creative team with more of an eye for art to work with you on this—my wife won't even let me hold our camera sometimes"—there's softness in his expression as he thinks of Lora, misses her while she's away on business of her own—"but I'm not complaining. I'd rather be here than sitting in another meeting."

Past the main checkpoint and deeper into the heart of the building, Bradley leads them into a well-stocked kitchen area that looks like it could have been plucked out of a sci-fi film. "What kind of coffee can I get you?"

[miswaken]

She nods along politely as he speaks -- not tuning him out, but she can't pretend to understand the ins and outs of office politics. Alice was lucky enough to get a job at a small photography studio right after making the move to New York. At the time she told herself it was just to pay the bills until her art career took off, but then life and a thousand other things happened. She could've quit years ago, but somewhere along the way she came to appreciate the mundane stability of a regular job. A job that got her out of the apartment and made her feel like she had some value outside of her marriage. Other than the college aged kids who came and went with the seasons, it had been the same core crew for the entire time she'd worked there. She'd earned a little seniority, a right to be choosy with clients and events. That's why she's here, in a nice climate controlled office building, instead of trekking out to Long Island for a sunrise beach wedding and praying the ancient company van made it over the bridge without stalling.

But she's certainly listening enough to pick up on his title. Alice blanches slightly, afraid she's made a faux pas that's going to sour the entire shoot. CEO, Jesus, she should have known. Should have recognized the name at least, and now that she's thinking about it she has seen him on the news once or twice.

She doesn't live under that much of a rock.

"Oh my god, I'm--" she laughs, self-depreciating, but her expression is awkwardly pinched. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Bradley, I should have known..."

Her spike of anxiety is eased by his own self-directed jab, how easily he downplays what someone else might have taken genuine offense to. She may inhabit a completely different sphere of existence, but Alice knows how men can get when their egos are challenged, even unintentionally. But he seems to take it in stride.

The kitchen is just shy of being completely overwhelming. She's used to a cramped breakroom at work, and though Parliament Tower is very nice it's not exactly new build modernity. The coffee maker in her kitchen is the same one she'd bought Alan as a congratulatory present after The Sudden Stop hit shelves -- nearly a decade ago, now. It'd probably take her a good twenty minutes to figure out how this one works, and she's not about to ask the CEO to make her a coffee.

"No, gosh, never mind, I'm alright. I really shouldn't over-caffeinate before the shoot anyway, shaky hands don't make for good pictures." She laughs again, less tight this time. "But thank you though, really."

[drxmxtispersonxe]

@miswaken

It's disconcerting being the prey again. Keeping herself hidden in the dark and the foliage again. Sometimes Carpenter expects the howl of the snaredogs to rip through the stillness and bring her back to something just a little more normal, and where the threat of death was actually real.

That outlook doesn't make her very popular with the other survivors, among many, many other things. Like the fact that she knows what she's doing and makes that as clear as the fact that she's deeply uninterested in small talk or friendship. Here that isn't just a continuation of the way she's always lived her life, but it stops a bond from forming that would make anyone hesitate to run off once she's taken them down from the hook. Carpenter doesn't need to see anyone waste an opportunity for the sake of trying to return the favor. The other glaring difference between herself and the other bodies around the fire is that she holds no real ill will towards the empty-eyed things that stalk them in the swamps, woods, cul-de-sacs. They're stuck in the endless task of keeping an eternally hungry thing sated and she knows their role intimately. They're just as much prisoners as the rest of them, in the way that they too will be used up and pushed for all their worth over and over again for a meal of fear and blood. She thinks of this often-- the very small gap between herself and the killers. Not long ago, Carpenter would have been one of them, holding kicking sacrifices down in the mud until their lungs filled with brackish water and silt. She thinks of that when she meets particularly stubborn survivors. It's cathartic. But she still takes the hits for them so that they can make the gate.

Carpenter doesn't very often, and comes to the conclusion rather quickly that this trial will be one such trial. She's lost one already, heard the drone of the many-legged bitch skewering the poor bastard and hauling off his corpse. She doesn't know his name-- doesn't care to-- but she does know exactly what he sounds like when his lung is impaled by a sharp spider's leg.

Two more somewhere out there in the dark. Two less sacrifices if Carpenter can get her shit together, but her bad ankle is already failing her and making her slow. The snaredogs might not be here physically, but they've made their home in wounds that never got a chance to heal and they seal her fate in this trial like they're looking for revenge for the arson. She needs to rest before she can sprint off and try to prevent the inevitable by playing bait. If she's not fast enough, she'll be caught too soon and won't buy anyone any time. There's a rotting makeshift barricade made of stained planks off to Carpenter's right and she's desperate enough to take the chance to hide there for a little while. Just long enough to catch her breath, nothing that will cost them. And it's the desperation that makes her sloppy as she trudges through the bushes to reach safety. She feels the clank of the sole of her boot coming down on something much more solid than dirt and there is a moment where time seems to freeze before the trap is sprung and metal teeth clamp around Carpenter's calf. The good one, godsdammit. The thought comes a split second before the pain does and she muffles the initial sounds of agony with the thick canvas of her jacket, but it's no use trying for stealth now. She's easy prey like this and focuses on getting out even though it's over. The other two will just need to stay alive themselves, she reasons while she bends to try to disarm the fucking bear trap. Keep themselves alive for once.

Even with the snark, it feels like failure and the trap only comes open by a few centimeters before it slams shut again. "Son of a bitch!" Carpenter hisses, no chance to muffle that one as she gasps for air and tries to still her shaking hands. She needs to try again-- something rustles in the middle distance-- but she can't do it like this. She'll loose the entire fucking leg at this rate.

[miswaken]

It's taking Alice a while to find her role here.

The skills -- if they can be called that -- she picked up from the Dark Place aren't always applicable to this particular corner of hell. Back there it was all about waiting and watching, making plans and keeping quiet, gently nudging the tides this way and that but never enough to really rock the proverbial boat. She supposes she could play the same game here. Make herself scarce on the margins, survive just by waiting it out. It's not as though death really matters when it's something you eventually crawl your way back from. So what if she keeps quiet, covers her tracks, and survives by pure elimination?

Of course Alice isn't so callous. It was hard enough watching Alan die over and over, and though that was a special kind of pain it isn't exactly pleasant watching people she knows far less intimately die in all manner of bizarre and brutal ways. Not when she knows she could do something to prevent it. So she tries, even though she isn't of much physical or technical use. She can't outrun most of the killers and isn't built for taking punches, and has been slow at learning the ins and outs of generator repair. Still, Alice makes herself useful in her own ways. She's quick with a flashlight and quicker with her camera flash. She's always got an eye out for the killer and almost always manages to time her assists well. She tries her best to make an indirect nuisance of herself so the people who actually know what they're doing can get to work.

But she can't always make the save. Can't always make a difference. Too far away, too slow, and now their numbers are one less. Realistically there isn't much Alice could have done, but it's hard not to regret mistakes when the consequences are grave. Then all she can do is harden her resolve -- no one else dies, not in this loop.

Of course, being down a man means she's going to have to be a little more involved. Alice is on the hunt for a generator when she hears it -- the metallic snap of bear trap's jaws, the slick sound of its teeth sinking into flesh. She alters her course, heads towards the sound instead of away. Pragmatically, it's easier to escape when there's more of them working for it. But that isn't even a consideration, really. Not helping doesn't register as an option.

As she steps through the scrubby undergrowth towards her new target, Alice recognizes the woman with her leg caught. Doesn't know her name, however, though it's not a fault of her memory. She's never spoken to the other woman she's seen sparingly around the campfire -- she seems to keep mostly to herself. It's hard to blame someone for not being social in a place like this, although it beats suffering alone in Alice's opinion. Their lack of connection doesn't change the desire to help.

"Hey," she says lowly, trying to keep her voice down because nearby danger is almost always a guarantee, "it's just me, not-- not Mr. Meat Cleaver." She doesn't know the killer's name, if he even has one. If any of them do, except--

Don't think about him. Not now.

Looking at the woman's injured leg feels like a bad idea, but as Alice approaches she knows that she's going to have to if she wants to help. It looks nasty, even from a distance, blood and-- she doesn't need to know if there's visible bone. That the woman isn't screaming bloody murder is impressive, if not slightly concerning. Alice crouches and probes at the trap with her fingers as gently as she can manage, wary of causing additional pain. "I can help hold the trap open. Enough to get your leg out." Probably. Alice isn't exactly an authority on the mechanics of bear traps, but one of the other survivors gave her a basic rundown. Seems straightforward enough. Or so she tells herself.