[ Outwardly, Alan appears still... calm, unmoving. But inside, he is anything but calm. His mind is racing with a cacophony of thoughts crashing into each other with no sense of order or reason whatsoever. Interspersed with his thoughts are words, lines that he could have written. Did he write them? Did he write this?
...Wake needed a hero, but there were no heroes left. It was just him and the darkness that seemed to stretch on for miles. In the darkness lurked things that could not be seen, and things that Wake did not wish to see.
What was happening? Time seemed to be moving in odd ways, odder than Alan could remember, and somehow, he knew that something was happening. How did he get here? Where exactly is here? He could hear voices, but they sounded muffled. Who did they belong to? Did he write about them? What is happening?
Between all the muffled words, certain words sound clearer than others: Coffee. Investigation. Star witness. Agency. FBC.
What is happening? Alan registers the sound of footsteps leaving the room, or maybe coming into the room. He can't tell. He can't see. Maybe he doesn't want to see. His head remains in his hands, mind still racing at what feels like a million miles per second.
Did I write about this? I don't remember.
Someone else is in the room with him, sitting across from him, but he doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to know. Knowing causes trouble. It makes things happen, things that shouldn't happen.
Mr. Wake?
His hands lower away from his face by just a fraction, but he still doesn't look at whoever it is that is sitting there with him. Instead, his mouth opens slightly and a slow flow of words spills out. ]
Revise. Rewrite. Write again. Tear it apart. Wake needed to escape. He couldn't escape.
[ He pauses and frowns, and then he continues: ]
There's no escape. There's never an escape. There's- [ He cuts himself off midsentence and his fingers curl, gripping at his too-long hair as he goes silent again. ]
no subject
...Wake needed a hero, but there were no heroes left. It was just him and the darkness that seemed to stretch on for miles. In the darkness lurked things that could not be seen, and things that Wake did not wish to see.
What was happening? Time seemed to be moving in odd ways, odder than Alan could remember, and somehow, he knew that something was happening. How did he get here? Where exactly is here? He could hear voices, but they sounded muffled. Who did they belong to? Did he write about them? What is happening?
Between all the muffled words, certain words sound clearer than others: Coffee. Investigation. Star witness. Agency. FBC.
What is happening? Alan registers the sound of footsteps leaving the room, or maybe coming into the room. He can't tell. He can't see. Maybe he doesn't want to see. His head remains in his hands, mind still racing at what feels like a million miles per second.
Did I write about this? I don't remember.
Someone else is in the room with him, sitting across from him, but he doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to know. Knowing causes trouble. It makes things happen, things that shouldn't happen.
Mr. Wake?
His hands lower away from his face by just a fraction, but he still doesn't look at whoever it is that is sitting there with him. Instead, his mouth opens slightly and a slow flow of words spills out. ]
Revise. Rewrite. Write again. Tear it apart. Wake needed to escape. He couldn't escape.
[ He pauses and frowns, and then he continues: ]
There's no escape. There's never an escape. There's- [ He cuts himself off midsentence and his fingers curl, gripping at his too-long hair as he goes silent again. ]