the narrator.

Всё, что случается, не раз уж было...

[rasskaz4ik]

Надоест, так—напиши!

RASSKAZ4IK — This is an independent, private, slow reply, and semi-selective 21+ MULTIMUSE blog featuring various characters from video games, television shows, films, anime, etc. Multiverse/crossover/AU friendly, OCs welcome. Multi-para to novella length writer with heavy focus on plotting, collaboration, worldbuilding with other muns/muses, and creating stories that will really test our characters.

This blog operates on a dead dove: do not eat mentality. There will be potentially triggering content present/explored/untagged.

Everything and everyone on here written and adored by Red, 30+. Here, you'll likely find a rather niche collection of characters, for that's my fatal flaw, a generous helping of canon divergence, a lot of personal headcanons and further worldbuilding, and a lot of yelling about the characters I love.

All character bios and information are constantly changing and being updated, rotated around, etc. They will never be fully up to date. Things will be shifted along with where the interest goes. Any questions? Just ask.

Current muse/writing interest: Any of the RC.U characters, but particularly Casey & Trench. Horror & supernatural flavoured threads.

Meme tag

[rasskaz4ik]

can y'all believe this was the man that Northmoor absolutely fucking despised

[applerums]

old thing. forgive me the reference i couldn't resist

[07242024-deactivated20240725]

IM EVIL IM UNLOVEABLE IM WRETCHED IM TURNING INTO SOMETHING UNRECOGNIZABLE IM A MONSTER <- sat alone in room for too long

[rasskaz4ik]

Thinking about the Panopticon has me thinking about Langston and he is the realest, most relatable fucker in all the FBC. Man's like that's not my job I'm not getting paid for that and I don't want the responsibility. Wants to talk about his pets for hours to whoever's gonna listen. Is like nope, I wanna catch the release of the latest film in my favourite series. Got weirdly attached to all the funky Items in the Bureau's possession. Doesn't get told a fucking thing about what's going on there. Here to do his job and get paid and not die and go home. No, he does not ever hope to be employee of the month.

[fadcn]

                      ▼ If nothing else, Jesse was trying to put herself in his shoes, at least to understand him a little better in the moment. How would she be reacting if the weapon she'd been carrying had started whispering in her ear before abruptly shooting her in the head, only to wake up to a stranger in her office, the both of them acutely aware that she should be dead?

Probably no better nor worse than he was. Quiet, with barely concealed terror, trying to rationalize the irrational and the strange. The same way she had felt since the moment she set foot inside the building. No matter how Emily and Ahti had tried to explain it to her, she still wasn't certain how she would have made it inside in the first place with the lockdown in effect, considering the dire circumstances. She wasn't complaining, though.

This was where she belonged.

"Bad." The response was blunt, but accurate. She wasted little time in turning to leave the office, planning to make a beeline through the corridors to the Central elevator in the hopes few people would notice them; she wasn't in the mood to try to explain any of this, and there was a high probability that Pope and Arish would try to put Trench into Containment. She wouldn't have blamed them, either.

"It's been bad. Manageable, to a degree...but there have been a lot of losses. A lot of death. The Hiss are still a problem, there are hundreds of people here that are under their possession. Pope is studying the effects, and the HRAs are still being manufactured and adjusted to take into account changes in the Hiss. We aren't sure how to force the Hiss out of those who are already...for lack of a better word..."gone". There's also a creature, lurking around the edges of the Astral Plane, that speaks similarly to the Board but...it's gibberish. The Refrigerator ate someone--"

Jesse rounded a corner, barely glancing over her shoulder to make certain Trench was still following her. She had several routes memorized, in spite of only having been in the Oldest House...hours? Months? It was hard to tell. Time seemed stagnant in the House.

The Maze. "Ahti helped me. He made me his assistant, I helped to handle a few things for him, he helped me in return. He's left for vacation, for the time being."

[rasskaz4ik]

He can appreciate the blunt, direct answer. A man of few words himself, he loathed people wasting his time, beating around the bush to try and ease a supposed blow with carefully chosen words, as if that would change the end result.

Facts, observations, results. What did he need to know in the moment to effectively react? The less time wasted obtaining the information, the more time there was to work towards a solution.

Part of the job was shouldering all these difficult moments. The weight of every choice was theirs to bear. He had grown used to the blows.

Trench's long, measured strides make keeping up with her near effortless, even after some indeterminate amount of time lingering as an astral projection, a shadow of himself. There's a quiet degree of surprise for how easily he slots back into being, commanding his own presence as if he'd done nothing but passed out at his desk after a taxing day.

Just another day carrying out his duty as Director.

Jesse Faden is still the young woman he remembers from the surveillance reports. Aged some, perhaps, by the circumstances she was thrust into, but not enough to suggest an exorbitant amount of time had passed since his death. Though he has been wrong before.

Here, Time was but a suggestion—a plaything for the House and the forces within.

"Ms. Pope—she's succeeded Darling, then, as Head of Research?" A logical choice. She'd possessed the same brilliance and zeal that Darling did—exceptionally qualified for the position. Darling had spoken highly of her, once.

Trench's expression darkens some, old habits dying hard. His thoughts jump to numbers, procedures, the countless hours of damage control, the pile of reports that will need to be filed, the ocean of black ink that will obfuscate the reality surrounding each death from their loved ones, turning it into something palatable. As palatable as death can be to the still living. Killed in the line of duty. Safe. Sanitised. Just enough of the truth for closure.

"They're adapting? What of the currently afflicted? Are they being securely contained?" The implication is clear in his tone—do they pose a threat?

Too many questions, not enough answers. This won't do.

"And this other entity—does it appear to have hostile intentions? There hasn't been an incident with the Refrigerator in some time—was this a result of the Hiss influencing it directly or a change to the rotation schedule? We've tried in the past to find other ways of pacifying it, with no luck."

As they round the corner, Trench pauses for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed as he observes the sprawling corridors of the House.

That feeling of guilt slams back into him, breaking the spell. The House feels like it shifts around him as he steps forward, displacing him, altering his sense of balance. He trails a hand along the wall until the unsteady feeling subsides, hurrying himself along.

She's speaking, saying something in regards to—

Trench sighs, burying his discomfort behind his usual stoicism. "—Of course." That didn't bring him any true measure of comfort, given the circumstances—Ahti's free agency around the Oldest House had always unnerved him and now he had further confirmation that not even the Maze could hold him back—but it did confirm something equally as important.

Despite his death, the Maze held. Some safeguards remained in place.

"He'll be back. We've learned better than to try and interrupt him taking holiday."

[heraldofgayness]

alan wake game assets: part 15/?

caseboard/profiling photos of every character + scratch persona's. (aw2)

[rasskaz4ik]

Truly, I can't say Trench ever really trusted the Board. Yes, Northmoor's actions led to the Bureau becoming entangled with the Board, inviting them in, so to speak, but that didn't make them inherently trustworthy. Arguably, the very nature of what they were made them exactly the opposite.

To him, it felt like they were ants or children or tools to be used—they were something inferior to these extradimensional beings who, beyond never showing themselves or giving any insight into their motives, never truly seemed to care about them.

Trench wouldn't go so far as to say they were cruel, per se, but they lacked connection and understanding—they were forces so different and removed that it was impossible for them to see eye-to-eye, impossible to foster any kind of equal understanding because there was nothing equal about them.

Whatever kind of entities the Board were, it was very clear that they were far more powerful than they were. And with Trench's inherent distrust and fear for the paranatural, it made doing his job exceptionally difficult some days.

Trench often felt like a puppet dancing to the Board's tune, especially when they would summon him incessantly via the Hotline and leave him with cryptic messages and doublespeak that horribly obfuscated any potential for understanding. Trench got enough to get the job done, no more, no less.

The Board and the Bureau, it wasn't a partnership. Not as far as he saw it.

Still, like a good soldier/pawn/gun, he obeyed. Even when it made him uncomfortable. Stripped away the feeling of being human for something else, something he wouldn't put words to and instead drowned in whiskey. His healthy (intense) degree of fear and distrust for the Board was enough to keep him in-line.

They weren't Northmoor. Northmoor might have hated him, even got into physical altercations with him on occasion, leaving Trench with various injuries depending on the severity of their fight, but Trench never really thought the man would go so far as to kill him. (There was the rare occasion where he pushed Northmoor's buttons in just the right way to set him off that made him rethink that in the moment.) Northmoor was always a man with an inflated ego who appreciated power, but Trench did take note of how it got exponentially worse when they found the Service Weapon, how the Board and whatever they did to him changed him so drastically.

Was it a reflection of the Board's will and some kind of insight into their desires or was it an unfortunate side-effect of the combination of fantastic power and a man unfit to wield such power?

The Board, however, their warnings and occasional threats sent chills down his spine. If he died, they'd appoint a new Director, assuming someone else with a death wish dared to pick up the Service Weapon. Even when he pushed or took his own creative liberties with their directives or even tried to outright ignore something, there would be some repercussions, but never death. It was clear, however, that that was a conscious choice on their part.

Maybe they knew he was all they had for the foreseeable future. Trench didn't know. Either way, he felt like his life was constantly hanging in the balance.

The Board already affected him when they appointed him Director, changing him, bestowing him with greater paranatural ability than what he had. It was a noticeable difference. Who knew what else they might be able to do to him?

He was terrified of the prospect of becoming like Northmoor—mad with power and freely acting on the Board's whims.

It wasn't death he ultimately feared, but Trench didn't want to take that particular chance and possibly leave the Bureau defenceless, either. There had to be some kind of middle ground.

[kawasemi-automatic]

𝙱𝚕𝚞𝙷𝚛

[rasskaz4ik]

me: i should write a reply

me: deep into a post about trench and his thoughts about the board

[fadcn]

                      ☽✧☾ Tim was a good boy. Always had been, even at his worst he knew to keep his eyes in their sockets. You don't oggle, you don't stare. It was especially important for him, being so deep in the closet he was picking lint from between his teeth; not from shame or anything of the sort, simply out of necessity. Small town with a lot of older, old-fashioned folks. And it was just easier to...not bring it up at all.

"It's weird. Sometimes the rooms just...HAVE things. If I think about something a little too hard, or I think "man, it'd be nice if I had something like this" the thing will just. Be in the room. I still have to find it, dig it out, make sure it works the way it's supposed to, but the Thing will be in the room. The whiteboard, markers, the stovetop, duffel bags, a file box...just idle thoughts for something useful, and there it is. Food is harder to come by, but it still shows up sometimes, too."

His hands stilled, mentally using the excuse that he was waiting to make certain the radiator was heating up properly. But he knew, he was very acutely aware, that he was staring, watching Alan getting changed. Ridiculous flashbacks to being a stupid, reckless college dropout with a crush, keeping his mouth shut about it because Alan had been married and had obviously been struggling at the time. Angry. Impatient. Distressed. Lost. Desperate. Terrified. Vague memories of taking care of him with Sarah during his blackouts, making stupid jokes to try getting a chuckle out of him or to just break the tension, because of course Tim didn't know what to fucking do in a crisis back then.

Discovering that under all the anger and the pain, Alan was charming and almost disarmingly funny in a dry, sarcastic way.

Tim had really, really liked him. He'd wanted to help in any way that he could. It was the first time he'd ever wanted to genuinely help someone. It was a stupid crush, something that would never go beyond that, he was a dumb kid but he wasn't stupid. He wanted to help Alan find his wife, to get them both safe so they could get the hell away from whatever crazy shit just kept dragging them deeper and deeper into the Dark.

For a moment, though, that initial, selfish knot in his chest had returned in full force and he was embarrassed with himself. The metal beneath his fingertips was warm enough to sting his chilled skin, bringing him back. He looked away, finally, tapping his nails against the heater. Distraction.

"Heh...you really didn't know us very well, so I get it. Uncle Frank, Sarah, me...the entire situation was too weird to just let it go. Sarah, though...communication was cut off about four years ago, Summer of 2019, right after the FBC started bringing in more equipment to monitor Cauldron Lake. So...I don't know. And no one would answer my questions about her or what she was assigned to, super duper classified need-to-know security clearance information, blah blah blah..."

He gave the heater a pat with both hands, sliding it a bit closer to Alan from where he'd been sat on the floor. He had to keep talking. There was no point in dwelling.

"I was trying to give Agent Anderson one of the manuscript pages I'd found, one that mentioned her specifically, when Door pulled me here. I...didn't think it was possible, really. Every time an abduction or disappearance was recorded, at least in files I had access to, they disappeared into or around the lake. It felt strange, too, like I could feel hands on my shoulders that pulled me into the dark. And then I was here."

Tim shifted across the floor, moving to where he could sit next to the cot, leaning his back against it. "Maybe I was supposed to end up here." Nope, that mood wouldn't do. He looked up at Alan, tossing on a cheeky smirk. "I mean, someone's gotta keep an eye on you."

[rasskaz4ik]

“Huh.” Sure, why not. If Alan’s writings could affect the world around him, why wouldn’t it respond to Tim’s thoughts. It made some sense and yet none at all, par for the course for everything around here.

Normally, Alan would make a scathing comment, turn away as that shameful heat flooded his face. Tim’s gaze feels hot against his skin, prickling at his awareness, but it doesn’t burn. There’s nothing accusatory in it, nothing trying to rip him apart to get to the vulnerable centre. He swallows down the mild discomfort, presenting his palms to the heater.

He hated that about himself.

The burst of hot air stings at his frozen hands, but Alan slides closer all the same, reveling in the feeling. The Writer’s Room was poorly insulated, the windows seeming to conspire to let all the chill and dampness into the room despite being sealed shut. There was no comfort to be found there, not like the lived-in messy feeling of these safehouses. He sighs, content, willing to stand here—sit if his shaky legs did finally give out—until his skin turned red, flush with warmth he might not see again for some time.

If he were to put one of these in the room, would it survive the next reset? Would he remember ever doing that?

Even if it was just a flight of fancy, bringing the typewriter here started looking appealing. Like a cat curled up in front of the fireplace, he could sit and work, utilising the cot as a makeshift desk if balancing the typewriter on his legs didn't work.

Maybe it would be enough to spark his great escape.

When the stinging, prickling feeling in his hands eases, Alan reaches for his belt, casting another quick, uncertain glance at Tim before awkwardly shimmying out of his trousers. He holds the dry pair up to his body, eyeballing the size before he makes an ass out of himself trying to squeeze into something he has no hope of fitting into.

It might have been easier with a mirror, but Alan didn’t have the heart to stare down his reflection for fear of what would be peering back from the other side of the glass.

"Four years..." Alan frowns, lost in thought. "—Does the name Faden mean anything to you?"

He nearly topples over as he pulls on the new pair of trousers, his balance a lost cause. Alan hisses as he catches himself on the heater, the heated metal burning his palm.

Once dressed and blessedly dry, Alan sinks back to the floor, sitting down next to Tim.

“So I’ve got a babysitter now?” Alan says, the attempt at humour sounding a little tight as he inspects his hand. "Is there any chance you still have that page? Door must have had his reason for pulling you down here—what if that was the reason?"

[rasskaz4ik]

Me, still with Slide Into the Void on repeat—man I need to put the Director in situations. Man needs to suffer more in threads

[fadcn]

                      ☽✧☾ Tim smirked, pleased that the tone of the room had shifted; it almost felt a little brighter, a little warmer, too. Just a little, but it was noticeable. "Hey, I'm a patient man, Alan. AND I like to win~"

Tim didn't let him go immediately either, hovering with his hands at the ready as Alan struggled back up onto unsteady feet; being cold and waterlogged and exhausted (whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not) was probably hell on his muscles and joints. Long early winter nights on patrol in the rain and sleet before the first snowfall finally rolled in. Tim knew how it felt. Or, at the very least, how it could feel.

"I've told you before, and I'll keep telling you anytime you need reminding: You take anything you need. That's why I started setting these places up after I first found you. You can rest regroup, and resupply. Anything you need." There was almost a chuckle, a moment of irony in his thoughts, as he inclined his head toward the bag and gave an awkward sort of half-shrug. "Hell, the hoodie and jacket are yours anyway. I found THEM before I found YOU. I recognized the jacket the second I saw it. I thought the worst, honestly."

He'd save any further explanations should Alan ask for them. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he just kept repeating and repeating the same information, and...frankly it was less important in the long term than the information on the Dark Place, Door, the maps, everything he kept written down. That information was a benefit to both of them in their current, more pressing circumstances. For the time being, he would step away to the other side of the room, searching through the various boxes and crates as a means to give Alan a bit of privacy.

Given how tense Alan was, Tim made sure to keep himself visible from the little alcove where the cot was set up.

"...for what it's worth, I'm happy you're alive. Hell, even Uncle Frank kept organizing searches and started a bunch of the research I ended up with, before he passed away. Sarah, too, before the FBC headhunted her. Even then, she said she was still looking into anything and everything she could find about Cauldron Lake, even if she couldn't really tell me about anything specific. Classified Fed bullshit." Another chuckle, though the sound was more of a huff of breath. "One thing about the Breakers is we're stubborn as hell, I guess. We weren't ready to give up on you--Ah-HA! You owe me a twenty!"

Triumphant, Tim pulled a small electric radiator heater from behind a wooden storage crate, taking not of how...weirdly brand new it looked. Sometimes the Rooms just...happened to give him things he wanted or needed. He wasn't going to question it. He was just going to get busy setting it up, searching for an outlet near the cot while trying to stay out of Alan's way.

[rasskaz4ik]

His legs threaten to give out with each step, but Alan manages the deceptively long trip to the cot without incident. His hands hover over the bag, repelled by some unseen force.

"Oh, yeah? You imagined this?"

Alan glances over, angling himself in a way that ensured Tim remained in his line of sight at all times.

His suit jacket slides off with some difficulty, landing at his feet with a wet plop. The tie follows suit, forming a pile on the ground, but divesting himself his rain-darkened shirt proves to be the real challenge. Alan's trembling, clumsy fingers struggle with the buttons.

After fighting with the first two buttons and failing miserably with the third, Alan growls, frustrated, and yanks the shirt up over his head. It peels off his body like a second skin and gets aggressively tossed to the ground.

Now exposed, the chill bites differently, throwing him into a full-body shiver.

Carved into his body is the evidence of failed attempts, reminders that he had tried, even if the memories were ripped from him. His body remembered. Some part of his subconscious remembered—he didn't always flinch so violently when touched.

Alan freezes, one arm stuffed awkwardly into his old hoodie.

"They did? I didn't think—" What did he think? Not many people would be jumping to help him. Sure, they might talk about him for a while—his name was big enough to make a few headlines, and people would eat it up, following the latest in the series of Wake's misadventures.

Crime novelist disappears under mysterious circumstances. Sounds like the plot to a book.

A thousand things rattle in his head, one louder and more aggressive than any of the others. Alan doesn't voice a single one.

"—How is Sarah? The FBC, huh?" Alan pauses, swallowing dryly as he resumes pulling the hoodie on. "—For what it's worth, Tim, I'm not glad you're here, stuck in the Dark Place, but I'm glad you're here."

He rubs his hands together, warming them up before he attempts to start fiddling with his belt.

"But I'm calling bullshit." A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "You knew that was there the whole time."

[rasskaz4ik]

Thinking about Directors and the whole last line of defence thing and imagining other threats making it into the Oldest House and in moments of desperation, even without a Control Point, the Director taps into all that paranatural ability bestowed upon them by the Board to be able to manipulate the House itself to a degree in response to said threat—

[renaithri]

save me characters doing fucked up things out of self-preservation…..characters doing fucked up things out of self-preservation save me………..

[renaithri]

save me character who made an undeniably terrible decision but man i dont know what i would have done either………

[xelmknightx]

[xelmknightx]