Inbox for Ryslig

[crazyequalsgenius]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, RICHARD BROOK. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 158.427.1.39 *** RBROOK has joined 158.427.1.39 <RBROOK> hi, this is rich brook! leave a message and have a lovely day! :)

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Action - feeds u sensory information for jim's observational skills

[drowningman]

[Alan doesn't know what Scratch gets up to when he leaves the apartment, and honestly? He doesn't want to know. Even after a few days rest, he's still got years of exhaustion to catch up on, and he doesn't have the energy to play games with him or hunt him down or whatever while also focusing on getting settled.

Getting settled is such a weird thought to have, especially since he's still not entirely sure this isn't just another reality manifested by the Darkness. But it's what keeps being recommended in all the materials for new arrivals, so... Getting settled. He's trying.

In the middle of this, he's in the main living space at the moment with his laptop set up, papers and pens scattered over a table with both a can of coffee from the konbini and a lowball glass of whiskey amidst the chaos. With Scratch out, Alan has been taking the time to focus on mulling over the job prospects and writing. The broadcast station ad meant an opportunity to create something new while establishing a reputation for his work, but he'd need a way to afford things around that.

And in the midst of all his attempts at focus, there's a knock on the door. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose a moment.]

Coming! [It's clear from the other side of the door that his voice is laced with mild annoyance despite an attempt at polite acknowledgement of whoever is waiting. After a moment, the door opens to what would be a familiar, but not entirely the same face. Despite attempts to comb it back, Alan's hair falls loosely around his face and his beard is a touch fuller that the Other Alan's. One might even notice there's slightly more age around the eyes on this one. He's dressed for comfort right now: a plain t-shirt and jeans, creating a far cry visually from the slicked back, dressed up Alan that has been met before.]

Yeah? What is it? [He doesn't recognize whoever this is as someone from the hotel staff so this is as polite as it gets. The scent of coffee and whiskey are present in equal measure on his breath as he speaks. The messy little setup is visible from the doorway if one were to look past him.]

[crazyequalsgenius]

[Jim had been looking forward to shooting the shit with Scratch a little bit more: he wasn't used to having someone who was not only on his level, but just as morally corrupt. It felt like his birthday, really, all things considered.

he saunters up to the door down the hall with a bounce in his step, thumbs hooked in the pockets of a clean pair of dress pants. the charity donations fit him well, but were hardly up to his stylistic standards. the sooner he had that interview on Amusement Mile and landed himself a job, the better. He wasn't sure how many more days of cotton-poly blend he could stand.

The moment the door opens, he knows this is the other one, Alan. It's his eyes, more than anything else. They're duller, less interesting, and older. But all the other details fall quickly into place behind, and within a second, his smile loses a little of the manic edge. The change from partner in crime to next-door-neighbor is so fast that it's hardly visible.]

Hi - uh - hi, this ... I hope I didn't interrupt you, is it a bad time? I'm Rich, I - I live down the hall, I just got here.

[he gives the tiniest nervous huff of a laugh and looks around, licking his lips]

I wanted to introduce myself to the neighbors, you know?

[drowningman]

[Alan narrows his eyes, shifting the weight in his stance to cross his arms as he sizes up the friendly neighbor at his door. Maybe it's the New Yorker in him, but Alan has always been of a mind that pleasantries aren't worth it compared to respecting the privacy of those you share a building with. Or maybe that's the paranoid celebrity in him.]

Rich... [He sits with the name, still staring him down as he connects dots from the recent flood of information to work through.]

...Brook? From the children's show proposal for the broadcast station?

[Yeah. This guy looked like the type of person self-described there. Theatre and puppets and moral lessons. Wholesome and humble. A polar opposite to him and his work.]

Alan Wake. I'll forgive the interruption this time.

[crazyequalsgenius]

[Maybe Wake isn't quite as dull a picture as Scratch had painted - Jim hadn't expected the alias to be recognized.]

That's me! And you - oh. Ohhh, you're the fellow with -

[he winced, expression seesawing between concern and sympathy]

- I'm sorry. You probably don't want anyone bothering you right now while you're dealing with ... all of that...

[drowningman]

[He raises an eyebrow.]

Yeah - all of that being, what? Skepticism over the concept of total creative freedom, or an evil double?

[Despite taking an 'I dare you to answer without putting your foot in your mouth' tone of voice, Alan sighs shortly after and pinches the bridge of his nose.]

I'm being an ass. You're just trying to be nice. [The hand drops and his expression softens the best it can considering his eyebrows are still knit together in frustration.]

You wanna come in? Unless you have other stops to make. We could, I dunno, talk shop. I don't exactly have a lot of other writer friends. Maybe it'll be good for me.

[crazyequalsgenius]

[the quip about creative freedom earns a genuine laugh, even if it's partially due to the fact that he's made Wake feel bad for his attitude]

Oh sure, don't see why not. Especially if we might end up working together - uh - didn't mean to assume, are you hoping to work for Goodweather?

[drowningman]

[Alan steps aside so that he can enter. It feels weird to do, but it's - what - the right thing to do? Multiple introductory resources recommended be friendly and social to ~cope with the horrors~, so.]

Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. [He sighs. His tone carries less the weight of indecision and more the heaviness of feeling defeated by the creative process.]

I did writing for TV for a bit before this. Trying to find somewhere to lay down a foundation by seeking out the familiar. Not unlike you with your proposal, it seems.

But I don't know what to write about. I've been lost in the same story for a while now and getting nowhere with it. Been thinking it's time for something different.

[crazyequalsgenius]

Never a bad idea when you're blocked. I did a lot of war drama stuff for a while ... sketchy black market dealer A, soldier B, terrorist D, you know. But then it started to get so stale, and I was getting typecast ... you know how it is.

So I started trying out for subtler stuff. Mysteries, spy stuff, political and procedural drama. I had a pretty sweet gig once I changed gears. Could work for you, too.

[again: in his case, crime is just acting, but for real]

[drowningman]

[The years of Alex Casey dominating his career flash across his mind, holding greater weight in this case than his tenure in the Dark Place. Typecast indeed, thinking about all the rumors that had come about, speculating what the man behind the famous crime series was really like.]

Yeah. I know what that's like.

[Alan is a bit awkward standing there waiting, a finger tapping on the doorknob where his hand lingers. Despite trying to be polite, he still can't hide his restlessness.]

Changing gears for me would certainly be... a departure. Not sure how good I'd be at writing soaps and sit-coms... Stephen King's work was what first inspired me to write, but my success came from a series of neo-noir detective novels.

Action - Backdated to just after Scratch said he wanted to Talk

[tolduimapsycho]

Helloooooooooo....

[It's extraordinarily little time between when the apartment number is given and when there is a knock and greeting at the door. Not JUST a knock, either - a cheerful shave-and-a-haircut number, strong and sharp. When the door is opened, it will reveal a grinning, disheveled "Alan Wake," sporting no shoes, an unbuttoned black waistcoat with no blazer, and carrying a half-consumed bottle of scotch in one hand.

He looks delighted, rakish, and sleazy all at once, but tries to keep at least a measure of manner in his posture. At least until he gets let in.]

Guess who's just two doors down, neighbor?

[crazyequalsgenius]

"Mr. Wake," Jim calls out, loud enough for appearances without being obviously performative. "Come on in."

He's lounging on the couch with the computer in his lap, a bottle of almost-empty orange sports drink and a bag of pretzels on the table beside him. Shoes, socks, coat, tie, and dress shirt have all been discarded on one of the two nearby chairs. A tote bag of Lighthouse donations sits nearby, disheveled enough to tell that he's already rummaged through the offerings.

"My hospitality's shite right now," he says with a roll of his eyes, his tone that of a kid who had to stay home sick on field trip day. "But have a seat."

[tolduimapsycho]

The door swings open, he strolls inside...and the moment the door is shut behind him, the act rolls away as easily as if he had just taken off an overcoat. Even in the trap house, there had been a measure of facade - just in case someone had walked around the corner - but now the sense of Wrong is visible, palpable. Nodding his thanks, he slinks into the living room, unceremoniously throwing himself into the offered seat.

"If you had hospitality to give, it'd be wasted on me anyway. Save that shit for people who require humanity." He winks, uncorking the bottle in his hand and taking a swig straight from it. Dark eyes flick over his current companion for a moment, sizing his current state up.

"House caught up with you, huh? I got out with just a couple scrapes and bruises, but I didn't hard reset the way you did."

emeto dialogue

[crazyequalsgenius]

It's almost uncanny, the way Jim's own Wrongness slips out at the same time as Scratch's, like some invisible hand had reached out into the apartment and flicked a large, cartoon switch that said EVIL MODE.

"Dying three times will apparently do that to you," he said, his voice sliding down in a mocking tone for a moment. "All told, I'll take this over the alternative, even if I did forget something for the privilege. I don't suppose you feel like sharing that bottle? My wholesome happy welcome wagon care package only came with cheap electrolytes and if I take one more sip of salty fake orange, I'm going to upchuck."

cw: alcohol use

[tolduimapsycho]

Jim doesn't have to ask twice - the bottle is thrust in his direction with a chuckle. "That's why I brought it, pal. Figured you could use a drink. Talking works better over booze anyway, I figure."

Once the bottle is passed, he leans forward, elbows on his thighs, hands fidgeting together. He's not nervous - not at all - but he does seem to seek sensation at all times, in one way or another. Dark eyes watch his new friend carefully, more animal than man.

"You forgot something? That happens?" A beat, and then - "I guess if it happens to me, odds are good it won't be my own memories I'll lose."

Why not lay his cards on the table?

[crazyequalsgenius]

"The whole doppelganger thing," Jim acknowledges: it's clearly not a guess. He takes a long drink from the bottle and sighs in satisfaction at the burn. It cuts nicely through the haze of exhaustion that had settled over him, and helps him think a bit better for a moment. Clocking Alan's age was child's play, but figuring the rest out was more a shot in the dark, drawing inferences from what he had already heard and read.

"If most of the memories are his, you must not have been ... yourself for very long at all, giving yourself those kind of odds. Man in his late thirties, early forties ... and you only you for ... what, a year at best? Maybe two?"

if you noticed me misclicking and replying in a new thread no you didn't

[tolduimapsycho]

"Got it in one," he laughs, lounging back in his seat and crossing his ankle over his knee. Perceptive guy, but then he HAD nearly immediately told the story of how he had stolen the crown jewels for shits and giggles. There's a reason the Herald of Darkness is kicking it in his living room, willing to let him in on the fun.

"Couple years or so, I think. Time flies when you're having fun, you know? Before that, I was just...part of something much, much bigger."

Leaning forward again, he sticks out his hand, moving in as if for a handshake.

"Listen - you're too smart to bullshit. I feel like we're on the same page. I like you. So...let me introduce myself for real, huh? I sort of don't have a name. Not one the human tongue can say. But...Mister Scratch is about as close as someone can get."

His grin is too wide, his eyes too dark.

"Nice to meet you for real."

[crazyequalsgenius]

"Jim Moriarty," he says with an equal sort of dark glee. "Much the same. The name I gave you earlier is an alias. Has a whole persona with it, too. No one's going to expect a thing. ... So then ... are you a demon or something?"

He wiggles his fingers and adapts a pose of mock horror. Whatever Scratch is, he's as limited here as any of the other people he's heard whining about how they can't do what they used to. Being human is a point in Jim's favor for the moment, as strange as all the alternatives seem to be.

action; liminal spaces event

[grivences]

[ Robin has no idea how long it's been since she and Max were separated. Hours? Days? She hasn't felt comfortable stopping to sleep, spurred on by the emptiness of her stomach and the uneasy feeling that even though the rooms and hallways she's walking through are completely empty, somehow she can't help but think she's not alone.

She keeps going, keeps walking, legs tired and aching but feeling too nervous to stop, like a weird mishmash of a shark that will die if it stops swimming, and a prey animal, startled by the slightest sound. She feels like an odd mix of predator and prey, having started to change into a new kind of monster, but without any of the murderous hunger she felt the last two times she stopped being human.

She's in a long hallway, with doors dotted along either side. At first, she tried opening every door she came across, hoping that one of them would lead out. But after a dozen or so doors, she's accepted that the better course of action is to see what's at the end of the hallway. Only... The hallway doesn't seem to have an end in sight. As she looks forward, it keeps going and going, curving subtly to the right in such a way that it vanishes from view before she sees where it leads. If she turns and looks behind her, the view is the same. She is only half sure she's still heading in the same direction she started in, when suddenly one of the doors behind her opens, and she whirls around at the sound, eyes wide, not sure what or who to expect. ]

sorry for the wait!

[crazyequalsgenius]

Jim freezes just as still halfway through the door when he sees someone already in the hall. He doesn't move, just ... stares as though he's not sure she's really there, at first. (She is, he can hear her breath and her heartbeat.) He recognizes her from her eyes, the shape of her face, but is still coherent and together enough to pretend not to at first.

"... Wait. ... Robin?"

[grivences]

It's her, alright. A little shorter, and spikier, and decidedly more blue than before. But still Robin.

"Jim? You're here too?"

They haven't really seen each other in person since the first place they were trapped in. Robin really hopes this isn't going to form a pattern...

[crazyequalsgenius]

He does, too, though he knows the pattern is already in place and has nothing to do with anything either of them have done. For his part, he looks the same... a bit more pale, his movements a little stiff somehow, but still very much the man from the broom closet.

"Well, we're certainly not hallucinating each other. What door did you step through to get here?"

[grivences]

Robin gestures towards (what she thinks is) the way she came from. "Some door down there. But there was another door before that. And another door before that one. Et cetera and so on. There've been... a lot of doors..."

She's so tired, she's been running on fumes ever since she lost Max. It's hard to keep track of where she's been and where she's trying to go, other than the nebulous destination of Out.

"I don't suppose you know how to get back to the real world?"

[crazyequalsgenius]

"Hmmmm." He thinks it over, looking back down the hall in the direction she indicated. Of course, he had already guessed as much, but confirmation was good in a place like this where the facts of a situation could change with every door they went through. "Same for me. All I know is, I was coming from the other direction. But there's a door I didn't take, so ... maybe we could back-track?"

If that door was fruitless, they could try to retrace Robin's steps too: he had the memory to know the way back to where they were currently... or at least, so he thought.

"That color looks good on you, by the way."

[grivences]

They don't really have many options to choose from. Back tracking makes as much sense as trying to push forward, especially if Jim was coming from the other direction. So, Robin nods, and gestures for him to lead the way.

She's so tired, she almost misses the compliment. Instead she just kind of blinks owlishly up at him for a moment, before she remembers that words are a thing people use to communicate with each other.

"Oh, uh. Thanks. I didn't exactly plan for it, but... It's not so bad, so far." At least she hasn't felt hungry yet like she did as a centaur or as a weird angel-devil hybrid.

"You don't look like you've changed all that much."

Inwardly, she adds, 'Lucky duck.'

[crazyequalsgenius]

"Only on the outside," he snorts, pushing open the door. "It's all plastic and metal under the skin. Hurt like hell for a few days. Think of the worst muscle cramp you ever had, but put it everywhere."

He peers into the door and does a double take, then swears under his breath.

"This isn't even how it looked ten minutes ago. It was a locker room then, and now it's a cubicle farm...? Fuck, if it weren't so annoying I'd be fascinated."