oceanview || ❝ made a promise i'm coming out alive. ❞

[outlierdirector]

OCEANVIEW III

and now i'm wide awake.

Oh, I died like a million times.
Through the waves, I break
The nightmares finally over CODE BY TESSISAMESS

Comments

꩜ — initiation.

[outlierdirector]

[crazyisinevitable]

Alan Wake? Do you know who I am?

[ The voice over the payphone asks that question, and Alan grinds his teeth in frustration. ] How the fuck could I?

[ It's clear from Alan's tone that he's in no mood for being jerked around by the mysterious voice on the other end of the phone. He's been jerked around by the story too, even killed by it, and he's been through more hell than anyone really deserves, even an asshole like him.

All he wants is to get out of this hellish nightmare, and finally get to go home. But he still sees no end in sight, just more loops, more drafts, more people who are far too vague and seemingly more interested in stringing him along than they are in helping him. Of course, there's a couple of people who are exceptions to that, but the voice on the phone doesn't seem to be one of them.

He and Alan exchange more words, and Alan's frustration only grows. The voice drops more hints, more vague details, and the call ends with Alan finding the mysterious man's room key sitting on the payphone. It's convenient. Almost too convenient. Alan doesn't trust in convenience anymore. He doesn't trust in much of anything.

But what does he have to lose? The Dark Place could screw with him more, and raise the stakes more, but he feels as though it's not tempting fate to say that he's already had so much taken from him that anything else is just par for the course at this point. There is a part of him that expects there to be nothing left of him by the time the Dark Presence is done with him. The only thing that might stop it is if he finds a way to end the story and escape for good, but in his eyes, the likelihood of that is growing less and less all the time.

He doesn't really want to take this detour, but he figures if he does, he can finally find out just who's been talking to him on the phone, and that'll be one less mystery for him to solve. Another one is likely to crop up in its place, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

The hotel is every bit as winding and looping as it's always been, or maybe it's just the Dark Place making it be that way. He passes doors and goes down hallways, sometimes using the Angel Lamp when it resonates with something, but for the most part, the trek to Room 665 is uneventful. That is, until he turns a corner and spots a familiar box that normally contains supplies. He opens it, and instead of finding ammunition or med kits, he finds a keychain. Not just any keychain either. The sight of it causes Alan to let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.

I know this. It's from her, but what's it doing here? How did it get here? I lost it in one of the loops. At least, I think I did. I don't understand anything about this place. Dream logic, I guess.

He moves to clip the keychain onto his bag, but at the last second, he decides to hold it in his hand for a little while. Something about having it makes him feel closer to... well. Someone. It's a fool's hope to think that maybe a keychain could lead him back to that someone, but, well... Alan knows he's a fool sometimes.

An image, or a recollection, flashes into Alan's mind then. It's similar to something he's seen before, but it's changed somehow too. He hears his own voice narrating and sees his own silhouette in his mind's eye, the keychain having triggered a memory of some kind.

I couldn't explain it. But something about this felt familiar. I felt an overwhelming closeness to home. Something was trying to guide me there. I wanted to let it, so I followed that feeling, hoping it took me where I wanted to go.

Alan turns another corner and finally spots his destination: Room 665. He doesn't waste any time inserting the key into the lock, turning it, and stepping inside. ]

Hello?

[ If the person from the other end of the phone call is here, they're doing a good job of hiding themselves. Alan takes another step into the room, still looking around. ]

[outlierdirector]

[ In Room 665 simply sits a projector with a note: PLAY ME.

Upon doing so, Alan finds himself transported to another experience of reality. Much like when Mr. Door pulls him to the talk show, things feel more realistic than normal in the Dark Place. Behind the Writer is a door he has walked through: Room 665. A room that is lived in, hardly kept, and quite obviously some sort of hot spot for art.

A mantle is nearby with the painting of a black and white spiral.

The occupant of the room stands shirtless on the bed. Then, suddenly, he moves. In a jerky instant moment, the long haired man wears a jacket and is in front of Alan with a lamp. ]

In this temple of shadow and mist,
There is a window in the floor
And a door in the ceiling.
There is no knowing
Am I standing still, or running, or kneeling.

[ An odd movement, similar to Taken, happens. The man is standing in front of the Spiral image with a wide smile on his face. ]

Tom Zane. Welcome to the House of Zane! Oh. It's so good to see you again, Alan!

[ Words are exchanged back and forth. Most the time Zane has a way to brush off questions with non answers. A drink is given to Alan and the explanation of "Return" given--a piece of fiction written by Alan to accompany Zane's film. An attempt of artistic collaboration to create art that would see them from the Dark Place.

Oh, but Alan needs a murder site, doesn't he? Something to understand the road he is on to land him with where "Return" might be. All Alan will need to do is follow the waves of the ocean of the Dark Place and the creativity will take him where he wishes to be.

Then, the T.V. clicks on. Zane jumps and gasps. A man--a familiar scientist--tries to find a frequency before static once more. Then, a familiar face. Maybe only familiar to Alan anyways. The color on the screen is monochrome, but the bright eyes should be familiar.

The woman seemingly leans closer to the screen. A voice that harmonizes with itself. ] ｟ Hello? ｠

[crazyisinevitable]

[ Alan just sighs, his hand raising to rub his forehead with tiredness. How many things like this has he seen in his trek through the Dark Place? ]

What'll it be this time? Not another insane musical number, I hope.

[ Luckily for him, it's not. Mr. Door isn't there, the Old Gods aren't either, and there's a quiet that's fallen over the room, except for the ceiling fan and- wait. There's a man on the bed, shirtless for some reason, and as soon as he sees Alan, he moves and appears in front of him. ]

What the hell? [ Clothes and objects appearing out of nowhere isn't the weirdest thing Alan's ever seen, but it still took him by surprise. It's already occurred to Alan that the man's movements are reminiscent of Taken, and so his hand has shifted to rest on his gun in case he needs to lift it to fire. He doesn't trust anything down here, especially not someone who keeps calling him on payphones and being frustratingly vague. ]

Tom Zane. The... the poet. Or diver. Filmmaker. Whoever the hell you are. That was you on the phone?

[ Zane launches into an explanation with too many words and even more crazy metaphors than even Alan can remember using in his entire career. A crazy thought occurs to him and he pushes it away, refusing to even give it the time of day. Zane's answers aren't answers at all, and they just serve to make Alan more frustrated. ]

I don't know why you wanted me to come here. Obviously this is just another waste of time, another pointless trail leading me nowhere. What the hell does "creativity will take me where I wish to be" even mean?

[ Zane opens his mouth to say something, that smile that comes too easily to his face sliding into place, but he never gets to say whatever he was going to. The TV in the room turns on, and both men turn toward it automatically. Zane gasps, but Alan remains silent, just watching and waiting to see what's going to happen. The man on the screen looks vaguely familiar, but it's the next face that appears that causes all the air in Alan's lungs to leave him in a rush.

Green eyes, glowing as bright as always. He can't see her hair, but he knows that face. He'd know it anywhere. He steps up to the TV screen and places his hand on its surface. ]

... Jesse.

[ Is this a message? Obviously it's something, but what? ]

[outlierdirector]

[ Zane hits the floor, hiding behind one of the chairs in the room. He looks around wildly for an exit, debating his chances of being able to sneak off without being noticed. That is, until he notices Alan stands and moves over to the TV. Even puts his hand on it!

The shock!

Jesse's image flickers. Then, she turns away from the screen, as if talking to someone unseen. The static fills the screen before the familiar scientist returns. He looks side to side and messes with old school television ears before smiling. He moves side to side in an excited little dance before the TV once more turns to static.

This time an image of what is best described as a shimmering kaleidoscope appears. Spinning, wrapping around itself. A hand comes towards the screen and presses against Alan's, and in what could make only sense in dream logic, he can feel the hand to his. A familiar touch that he should know well.

A woman's figure can be seen in the shimmering kaleidoscope and a faint familiar hum. Light seems to bounce off the shimmer despite it being such a dark place. There should be no light, and yet, somehow light reflects off it. ]

｟ Come home, Alan. ｠

Ah, no, I wouldn't! [ Zane speaks up in a hushed panic whisper. ] They're onto us, Alan! You can't let them know you're here--or I'm here with you!

[crazyisinevitable]

[ In spite of himself, in spite of whatever Zane's doing, Alan watches the TV, completely riveted. He knows he has to be careful. He won't have Jesse coming back here to the Dark Place, because it's all too clear to him that it's dangerous.

Still, he can't seem to force himself to look away from the screen, no matter what Zane says. ]

They're- What? I don't know what you're thinking, but no one's onto anyone, at least not in a "gotcha" kind of way. [ His eyes narrow as he briefly spares a glance for the other man. ]

What's got you so scared? Whatever it is, I won't say anything about you.

[ Zane's just fallen several rungs down the ladder of Alan's interest. He could run away or leave the room and that would be fine with him. Alan's not scared at all, because he knows just who he's looking at on the screen. The shimmering is just another confirmation of that. He trusts it, and it's a welcome sight. ]

[outlierdirector]

You don't know everything, Alan. Especially when it comes to all this! [ A wild gesture is made with his hand. Then, both hands touch the floor, and he is literally crawling away. ] Don't forget--your murder site is here! In the Hotel! We need "Return" before Scratch gets it!

[ The hand presses further, trying to break through the flimsy screen in the way. If they can properly touch, then maybe the Writer can hear them. The connection could be better established if the Dark Presence hasn't gotten to him again. They could keep him awake...

But, the Dark Presence has gotten to Alan Wake since the guiding star came to the Dark Place.

At least twice more.

Things seem to distort. The static on the screen returns. With Zane having scampered off, a tugging feeling surrounds Alan. He finds himself once more in the empty room of 665 with only the projector having come to an end to keep him company.

An odd sound fills the air. An idea. An echo. The faint sounds of a familiar detectives voice fill the hallway behind him. Distorted and unfocused until Alan turns his attention to them. ]

[crazyisinevitable]

Yeah, well, maybe I would know more of people like you would actually tell me things! [ Alan's frustration boils over, and for just a second, he sounds like his old self with that impatient streak and hair-trigger temper. But Zane's gone before he can say anything more, and Alan doesn't have long before the connection seems to end, the screen being covered by static.

Everything around him warps and distorts and he has the strange feeling of being in between reality. Whether or not that's true, he doesn't know, but he feels a definite shift.

That's not the only thing he feels; something is tugging at him, pulling on him, and he's back in room 665. Alone again. But strangely, Alan doesn't feel too upset about it. Jesse and Polaris are still out there somewhere in their reality, and even a glimpse of them is a jolt of encouragement and reassurance. He'll take what he can get.

He doesn't have too long to linger idly, however, as his attention is drawn by a familiar sound and the sight of a curious circular shape. Muffled words can be heard as he draws his flashlight and flicks it on, shining it over the shape hovering in front of him. ]

What now? Probably something else leading me to that murder site.

[outlierdirector]

[ The reaction is almost instantaneous: the Dark Place bringing forth an idea that was created. A work of art.

Or, maybe, it's really just the Dark Place reacting to a subconscious thought that Alan has. An attempt at bridging two thoughts together to conform them into a coherent string of consciousness. Maybe it just uses the face of the detective that Alan wrote for years. Or... it's simply Alan in his Writer's Room using Casey once more as he needs him.

The vague image of Casey appears again, walking into the hallway, overlapped with his silhouette. ]

『 I came to the Oceanview Hotel because of a lead. Supposedly a theater production decided to hold a play that got out of hand. A play that led to a real ritualistic murder and summoned the Devil himself. Supposedly. Was this Devil the writer, Alan Wake? Or his doppleganger, Mr. Scratch? Wake's ex didn't have the information I needed.

Typical of ex-wives. 』

[ He disappears then reappears closer to Alan. Hands in his pockets, silhouette looking out the window into the never ending dark raining city that modeled itself after New York. The world of the private investigator Alex Casey that Alan wrote about for years. Made him famous. ]

『 Standing here in the hallway, looking out at the city, made me realize something. Almost like remembering a detail I had learned but forgot in a dream. How... did I get this case? WHY was I looking into the missing writer Alan Wake, the Cult of the Word, Mr. Scratch? At first, I didn't have the answer, and it didn't bother me. Standing here, though, in this hallway in THIS Hotel. I asked myself it. 』

[ Casey flickers again, being further down the hall, but still looking out the window. ]

『 Then I found a... keychain. A charm. Something that looked like it came from one of those cheap tourist shops on your way out of a vacation. Something like a "his and hers" little nicknack. I presumed it belonged to the male of the relationship. After all, the missing half was in the shape of a doe. A buck and a doe. Cute.

It brought back the memory of what started me on this crazy fucking case to begin with. A woman, of course. A dame looking for a missing man. "Find Alan Wake", she said. I pointed out to her he had been missing for over a decade. Gone diving, never swimming back up to the surface. Still, she insisted, like all women head over heels for a man. 』

[ Casey disappears once more, finally appearing at the doors to the elevator that led Alan to Room 665. ]

『 How had I forgotten who gave me this case to start with? Forgot what she looked like. Forgotten her voice. It wasn't her voice in my head in the memories... just some harmonious tune that mimicked the voice of a real person. Like a resonating echo that was trying to jog the memories from my booze and trauma ridden brain.

"Find Alan Wake." Better said than done in this hell hole of a city. 』

[ The idea comes to a close, and the stillness of the Oceanview Hotel returns. However, the door to the elevator opens. ]

— initation 9: gone.

[outlierdirector]

[ The Oceanview Motel is starting to feel unwelcoming.

Or, maybe she's starting to resent it.

The Motel had always been a nice place to retreat for a few hours to get away from things. Trench said something similar over the Hotline once, and that is honestly what gave her the idea to start with. Not that she's ever felt truly trapped by her job as the Director of the Federal Bureau of Control. No, instead, it has always felt liberating in a way.

And, besides, it's not even the Motel she's starting to resent.

It's "Return."

She's stood standing in front of the television in one of the rooms for... god, who really knows how long. Time doesn't flow the way it should in the Motel in between the loops. Not that it really matters anyways. Her eyes have been blankly staring at the screen that turned off some time ago. The words and thoughts keep going over and over in her mind, even if she's used other doors to leave and come back to the Motel. She's crossed paths with another Alan Wake since the message, but she inevitably keeps coming back to Room 226. ]

『 Hi, Jesse. I don't really know you, and you most certainly don't know me. But, none of that matters, because this is when things all start to end. 』

Alice Wake smiled at her in the message. Or, at least, what Jesse could only assume was a message. It was different from other messages she'd received. Not over the Hotline, but more like the time she had seen Alan in the Writer's Room. Except the room Alice looked to be in was a fancy high rise apartment in New York City. The lights were off besides one lamp behind her. She was pale, her blonde hair pulled back, but it looked oddly thinned.

『 I've been trying to get a hold of you for a long time now. Things... shift, in the Dark Place. You could be in the right place for me to contact, but then Alan would move, and you would move after him. Not that you are in the Dark Place. It's just... 』 Alice paused. 『 I think we both know how much of a gravitational force Alan can be. Positive or negative, he draws you in and you can't let go. It makes for the best times and the worst times. The highs are high, and the lows are low, but that just is part of being with an artist of any kind. It's probably something you're not used to. 』

Her lips pressed together and her hands folded in front of her. Fingers gently moved the ring on her finger. Jesse felt a stab of guilt then, almost like being caught in some love affair. But, Alice never seemed to be upset in the message. Contemplative, rather.

『 I owe you an apology to start with. Alan dragged you into this by the connection I had to your people. They took me in after what happened in Bright Falls... and I went back to them when the hauntings began. Scratch coming to the apartment every night. Except, at this point, you and I know Scratch isn't just the Dark Presence. Part of it is Alan. All the worst parts of him. That's what the Dark Presence does: it pulls the worst out of a person and consumes them with it. And, it's my fault he's there. He stayed there so I could get out. I swam to the surface and he sank down into the depths.

Originally, all you were supposed to do was take care of Hartman. That's the role that Alan gave you. Someone who could receive his messages and take care of a loose end for him. Someone who had a piece of the Dark Presence in him and it could of been catastrophic if he continued it. Maybe he thought he could use that further to get out. I'm not sure. 』 Alice paused and let her shoulders sag. 『 He wouldn't know this, but I was the one that left the idea to use you in "Return." Bring back the hero that he used once to help him get to where he needs to be in order to escape. Someone that's like him. Not an artist, no, but someone with an extraordinary ability I could never understand. There had always been a part of him I couldn't reach. Some part that I could never understand. This was it. If he could learn from you, and your guiding star, then maybe he could find a way to the surface from his spiral. Both of us helping him in the ways we could.

I didn't think it would go like it did between you two. But, I'm glad it worked out the way it did. It gives him more of a reason to keep going--something to come home to. As I won't be there for him anymore. 』 Alice Wake smiled sadly then. Eyes flicked down in guilt, but, she shook her head.

『 That's another reason I need to apologize to you, Jesse. Alan thought you would be the hero to pull him out of the Dark Place. Physically, if needed. But... you aren't. That's not your role in the story. Only Alan can save himself by working through everything that the Dark Presence is using to keep him in the Dark. He doesn't need a hero--he has to be his own. What he needs most of all is someone to guide him. Show him the path and illuminate it until he can see where it goes on his own. I know, that's a poetic way of putting it, but I'm sure your guiding star knows what I mean.

What I need you to do, for me, is not to give up. Don't stop loving Alan, even if it feels like he's going to break your heart. "Return" will be over and he'll find his way back from the night. I'll make sure of it. Just keep the lights on so he knows the way to the lighthouse to come home.

This is the final time around, Jesse. I promise. 』

Jesse's gaze drifts away to the side from the television once more. She feels the message is almost burned into her mind. Maybe something deeper than that, but Jesse has never been artistic or poetic in analogies. She doesn't want to start being that way either. This, whatever it is that hurts in her, is painful enough. Realizing she has no control in the situation. Nothing she can do will change the outcome of the story because the ending has already been written. They just need to play the steps out to make sure it happens.

« That's all we're here to do. Make sure it follows the path it needs to be on. No interfering. No trying to changing the story. Get Alan and Saga where they to go so they can stop all this. Shit. I wish she would of told me from the start. »

Her eyes gaze lifts as she feels Polaris give a tug at her mind. A gentle brush, as if her best friend understands the pain she's in. Jesse refuses to name the emotion rampaging through her. The moment she does? She'll break and she isn't sure if she could do what she's supposed to do.

« It makes sense. Of course it does. The Director of the Federal Bureau of Control stops AWEs. Just, here to do the job in the end. The rest doesn't matter to the Bureau agents, the people in Bright Falls and Watery, Saga and her daughter, Casey, Breaker. In the end, that's even what Alan needs us to be. The Director and Polaris. »

Jesse comes to a stop and realizes she had been moving down the darkened hall of the Motel once again. Her gaze lifts to the Spiral door beside her. She inhales sharply, fingers curling into fists at her sides. Polaris brushes against her mind once more. Lips press together and she gently shakes her head side to side.

« No. I don't want to try again. It doesn't WORK anymore. How many times have we tried? YOU tried, Polaris. We can't reach him. I don't--I don't know why. If anyone picks up it's that other Alan. Not the one we know. I... I don't want to try and not get an answer again. » ]

[crazyisinevitable]

[ The Dark Place is starting to feel unwelcoming. But it has always been unwelcoming. Hostile. Bent on destroying everything that makes Alan who he is. It's taken so much from him that he wonders if anything of him is even left.

Who am I? Who is Alan Wake?

All he knows is loops upon loops and deaths that keep happening again and again but he never gets to sleep, no matter how many times he dies to the threats and the dangers of the Dark Place. Every time, he wakes up back in the Writer's Room at the desk that he's beginning to hate.

With each time that he jolts awake at the desk once more, he becomes more resigned to the fact that he'll never go home again. He'll never walk among the living as they make their way along the streets of New York or wherever it is they call home. He'll never see Jesse again, never do any of the things they talked about... the things that are becoming lost to the waves of the Dark Place.

Hope seems to be a distant dream, a thing that other people have, but not Alan. Another loop is on the horizon, about to start, and when this loop ends, another one will begin. Maybe the loops will just continue until everyone that he knows who still lives and breathes and hopes and dreams outside the Dark Place will be gone.

Barry, Rose, Tim.... Jesse. I'll be the only one left. I'll still be here, starting over at the beginning again and again until... Until what?

....

I'm so tired. Everyone's gone, or they will be gone. Alice... Oh, God, Alice.

It crashes on him like a ton of bricks. He saw it playing out before his eyes, the revelation that Alice is dead. Gone. Gone forever. He comes back to the Writer's Room when he dies, but Alice won't ever come back.

He had nightmares of her dying, being murdered by him or by someone who looks like him, but what he's seen is worse: a million times worse. She died from the one thing he couldn't protect her from: illness. Nothing he could have done would have saved her. And what's worse is he wasn't there when she died.

Oh, Alice, I let you down.

A thudding sound echoes in the empty room, the sound traveling around the space and bouncing against the walls and amplifying itself until it's all Alan can hear. He hasn't even registered that he's dropped to his knees, breath escaping him in harsh exhales. It doesn't register with him that those harsh breaths turn increasingly into something resembling hyperventilating as waves of grief and panic and complete despair sweep over him.

The rapid, grief-stricken breaths continue in a furious, senseless pace until exhaustion settles in and all that's left is an exhausted, broken man kneeling on the floor, unable to move or rise from where he kneels. His arms have fallen too, as if he can no longer hold even them up. Something burns in his eyes but there's no sign of tears on his face.

He feels nothing but his grief and his despair, and he hears nothing but the roaring of waves in his mind. The waves are rolling back in, and soon they'll pull him out to sea with them. He'll drown in the waves because he has no fight left.

At least then I won't have to feel this. I won't have to feel anything.

He isn't reaching out to the waves, to the darkness that's circling around him like a shark circles when it senses blood in the water, but he's not pulling away from it either. The darkness can sense that his will is wavering, and that is the time for it to strike. ]

[outlierdirector]

[ As the water slowly begins to fill in and the waves entice him, a gentle touch trickles down the back of his neck. Or, at least, something that seems like a touch. Something that seems like--and yet isn't entirely--the familiar touch of who Alan Wake knows. A nudge at his mind, a tug, a hand reaching out to him as he stands off the shore in the waters.

Someone who has been trying for a long time to reach him. Now, she can. There is no distractions from the joined stories of "Initiation" and "Return" to pull his mind from. Here, at the worst part of the spiral, she can finally reach to him. One last time to guide him along. One last attempt to give the Writer what he needs before the story starts one last time to come to an ending once and for all. ]

｟ Alan Wake. ｠

[ The voice is more of a harmonious tone that echoes in his mind. Resonates in him, touching that spark threatening to go out. Using it to make herself stronger. The voice is borrowed to a degree--knowing the writer will hear that voice no matter how dark the waves. ]

｟ Alan. ｠

[ The touch rests on the back of his shoulders. No pressure, no pushing, just the call of the resonance. Faint. Far away. Alan called to them once in a similar manner. Except there is no desperation or sense of drowning.

Just the feeling of loneliness and longing.

The resonating feeling tries to guide his attention to the door that has closed behind him. A glimmer of light using the lamp on the desk to reflect. A geometric pattern. ]

｟ Come home. ｠

[ Polaris reaches to Alan because she reacts to her host. Just as she reaches to anyone her host needs. Polaris knows the things that keep her host strong--and in return she is stronger. Perhaps there is also a relation of wanting to aid her host. The two are symbiotic now.

Friends. Partners.

Her host needs the writer to listen and to hear her. This final time around the spiral has to be precise. It has to go the right way by design. Step by step. This will ensure it for both parties.

On the other side of the door, Jesse rests her hands against the wood. She feels Polaris vibrate through the door. Her friend works on her own designs and Jesse can do little to stop it. ]

[crazyisinevitable]

[ The water is rising and some part of Alan's mind registers that gentle touch at the back of his neck, but something else is trying to drown it out. A parade of images flashes before the writer's eyes and he visibly recoils from each one as if he's being struck by invisible blows.

Blink.

Alice turns and stares through hollow eyes at something in the distance, knowing that dramatic gestures were never her cup of tea, but if this is going to be her last act, it's going to be dramatic simply by virtue of what it is. Now, her fate is in her own hands, and this is going to be done on her terms.

A cliff lies just in front of her, and beneath it is a lake. Or is it an ocean? She turns to face the cliff, and slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, she walks off the cliff.

"You lose, Scratch."

Blink.

Scratch's face twists into an ugly smirk as a bizarre light of triumph flares in his eyes. A figure lies huddled on the floor, light brown hair framing her face as she lies there, unmoving and far too still.

"I win. I always win in the end. I would have preferred to make you mine, but now neither of us can have you."

Blink.

"I win again, and I'm going to just keep on winning until I've taken everything from you."

Another figure lies on the ground, face hidden by locks of flaming red hair. Scratch's expression is uglier now but more elated as he revels in what will surely cause the poor, unfortunate, lost writer more misery.

"You should never have challenged me. I win every time."

Blink. Blink... blinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblink

A thud, louder this time, sounds again as Alan's fists hit the floor. He's bent over now, still on his knees, but his fists are grinding into the floorboards and he's staring at them with wild eyes. ]

｟ Alan Wake. ｠

[ Alan startles, because he knows that tone. He knows that nudging feeling, that tug pulling him away from his numb, shellshocked grief. He sees a hand reaching for him, just waiting for him to reach out and take it. ]

｟ Alan. ｠

Help me. [ The words are clear; not loud, not shattering the silence of the Writer's Room, but they're there. ]

｟ Come home. ｠

Please, help me. [ The darkness stirs and lurches, sensing an intrusion into its realm. Polaris is an unwanted presence, an interloper, and interlopers need to be driven out. It wants to keep Alan pressed down: drowning, despairing, about to give up, but Alan has other ideas even though that grief is still clinging to him like a cloak. A vein pops out on his neck as he fights the darkness that's pressing down on him, trying to force himself back up into a kneeling position.

His gaze shifts from the floorboards to the door with the spiral on it. He feels that pull, that tug drawing his attention to the door. Why?

He doesn't hear an answer, but he sees that glimmer of light, that curious geometric pattern, and he knows the door is important. It's the door to his prison, but it's more than that. Something is behind the door and Polaris wants him to focus on it. Or maybe it's just her host that wants him to focus on it, but he's not in a position to pick apart nuances right now.

If he was capable of it, he'd feel something like hope springing up inside him, but the pressure from the darkness is stifling anything that he'd normally feel. He tries to stand, tries to push back against the force that's holding him down, and a muffled sound escapes him as he strains against the darkness that's doing its best to defeat him again.

He isn't strong enough to push against it, but he can crawl forward. Again, he lowers his hands to the ground, not to slam the floor in anger and despair, but to move towards the door. Something he needs is behind the door. Someone he needs, if he dares to hope for it. How will it help? Whoever's there can't breach the door. Alan doesn't know how it will help, but Polaris is guiding him to it for a reason. He has to get to the door.

His progress is slow, and he seems to move less than an inch at a time, but he keeps going. Keeps crawling on hands and knees until he finally gets there, finally presses his fingers against the wooden surface of the door.

Now what? ]

[outlierdirector]

[ The hand bathed in geometric patterns remains stretched out to him. Beckoning, inviting, pulling him along each step. That may be how his mind sees it, where as Polaris shimmers brightly at the door. As bright as she can in a room filled with dim light.

The owl watches him closely with every motion he makes.

His fingers press to the door.

Then, a sound of mental dropping. Rolling. A piece of round silver rolls until it hits his leg. It stops promptly, landing face up. The charm Jesse had given him at the start of these loops. A deer and a doe.

His and hers. ]

｟ Alan... ｠

[ In the darkened Motel, Jesse places her head to the door. She can still feel Polaris rolling from her hands into the door. Her friend is working hard, trying to reach out to their missing writer. Jesse isn't sure why. Nothing has really worked.

« I just wanted to bring him home. I can't even do that. Just like with Dylan. Just bring him home. If i can't do it, maybe you can. There has to be more than we can do than just be on the sidelines... »

Even if she knows, deep down, that it's the truth. That's the role in the story. The job of the other worldly aid for the heroes. It isn't enough--it doesn't feel like it's enough.

Jesse slides down to her knees in front of the door. Hands shake, tears piercing her eyes. ]

[crazyisinevitable]

[ The hand is one he wants to reach for, because he's seen things that beckoned him to reach for them only for him to recoil in horror at the last second. No one wants to take hold of a dead, rotting hand, but that's what the Dark Place has made him see. Well, one of many things he's been forced to see. He knows the patterns covering the hand he's reaching for; it's Jesse's guide. It's Polaris. His heart has lodged itself in his throat, but a part of him doesn't dare hope for the impossible.

Something in his coat pocket rustles as he crawls forward: papers, shoved in unceremoniously. Some of them have scribbles on them while others are blank. But Alan's not thinking about that right now.

He finally reaches the door and he presses first his fingers then his entire palm against the wooden surface. ]

She's there, isn't she? On the other side of the door. I- I just want to talk to her. Somehow.

[ He glances down when he hears the sound of metal hitting the floor and rolling. He feels it hit his leg, and he squints to look at it. A rush of breath leaves him all at once as he picks up the his and hers charm and holds it carefully but tightly in his hand. ]

Jesse.

[ Not knowing that Jesse's doing the same thing on her side of the door, Alan leans his head against his side of it. ]

What is she doing here? No, I know what she's doing. Why she's here. I- God, this isn't going to work, but maybe... maybe if I just try it.

[ A pencil is in his coat pocket as well, even though he doesn't remember placing one there. He plucks out one of the folded up papers and after taking a moment to remember something from what feels like a lifetime ago, he scrawls on it hurriedly, but not to the point that it's illegible. ]

A desperate man oftentimes does desperate things. Let's not find out just how desperate I can get. A lake can sometimes be an ocean. Not everyone knows how to swim.

Writing is the key. Art is the key. Knowing who your enemies are is half the battle. Everyone needs a hero sometimes.

[ If his hunch is wrong, then what he's written won't make any sense at all, but if he's right, then it should get the result he's been hoping for. But hope doesn't carry a lot of weight down here, and luck is a completely nonexistent concept. Still, Alan feels just the smallest bit of hope as he slides the piece of paper beneath the door and holds his breath.

The paper may just get shoved right back beneath the door. It's a fool's errand and a fool's hope, but he watches and waits for something, anything, to happen. ]

[outlierdirector]

[ If Jesse had been in the frame of mind, she would of explained that their keychains are now Altered Items. Things changed by paranatural activity--changed by them. A set of keychaind that resonate with a frequency that tries to bridge the gap of realities. One's that operate kn the same resonance, but only seem to react when they are in some sort of similar distance. Jesse, though isn't thinking of any of that. She's simply letting herself feel everything.

Except the one emotion she won't let herself acknowledge.

Her eyes open at the sound of shuffling paper. They dart to her sides, finding no doors opened of people within the darkened Motel. Like always. However, on the swing back, Jesse sees something sticking underneath the door. With one hand she tugs the paper.

The breath in her lungs escapes as she sees the handwriting. Alan's handwriting. The one that had her name scribbled in its writing all over one of the boards.

A hand extends from the door. Whistling comes around her with the use of her abilities. A pen sails through the air and lands comfortably in her palm. She uses the Spiral Door to write a reply.

Except it's not really writing.

Jesse doesn't know what to say back as she tries to keep her emotions together.

« How did he do it... how did YOU do it...?

I just want him home. »

Jesse pushes the paper back underneath the door. "Desperate man" is underscored. The shape of an old telephone is drawn above the words. Next to the words about a lake is "a land" scribbled above it. "Hero" is circled with an arrow below it with "guiding star" written at the point. ]

[crazyisinevitable]

[ Even without the explanation, Alan holds onto the keychain as if it's the most important thing he's ever had. It represents them, their relationship, their being together, and even if other forces are conspiring to keep them apart, it's what leads them back to each other.

He holds onto the charm as he waits for something to slide back under the door. If Jesse's there, she won't just ignore the paper he pushed over from his side of the door. If she's there, she'll jump at the chance to try and reach him.

Unless she doesn't. Unless she's tired of being jerked around and she's decided it's not worth it anymore. No, that can't be what she's decided. She wouldn't, right? She didn't come here and have Polaris reach out only to decide to give up.

He straightens up slightly when he hears the rustle of paper and spots the corner and then the rest of the page sliding under the door. ]

It worked. It really worked. I don't know how, but I'm not even going to ask.

[ Reaching for the paper with a suddenly shaking hand, Alan's eyes scan over it, taking in Jesse's additions. It's little things, mostly, that tell him it's her. The underlining of certain words that only they'd know as significant confirms it for him. He brushes over the drawn telephone with a finger and his lips turn up slightly, but not into a full smile.

The pencil is suddenly in his hand again, but this time, he hesitates. What should he say? What should he do? Suddenly, his mind feels as though it's gone blank, with all thoughts wiped from it. He'd imagined what he'd say to Jesse if he could talk to her again, but now that he can, it's as though everything he imagined has just faded from his mind. It could be his exhaustion talking, or his grief about Alice, but Alan's drawing a blank.

Finally, he scribbles something down and pushes the paper back under the door. ]

what has lakes but doesn't have water?

— initiation 0: songbird (🐦).

[tearings]

( cont)

[ A few steps one way. Another few steps another way. Not quite pacing, but moving as she listens. The Dark Presence can change its form and shape. How it is seen. Which means it has a true face of a monster deep beneath all the allure.

Elizabeth knows a few things about monsters and the faces they wear. ]

How many people actually know what it is that would underestimate it?

[ Elizabeth comes to a stop then and her arms fold. Water glistens on the blue velvet jacket she wears. Blue eyes like the sky settle on the writer.

It's interesting to simply observe Alan Wake. He is someone who has traversed a door and been unable to open it again. Yet, there are still ties to that door that would take him home. Some of those ties are more obvious than others. He could use them to go back to his world... but he doesn't. Or, perhaps, it is more accurate to say he won't? ]

You can call me Elizabeth. [ Her arms remain folded as she turns to look at him properly. ] I don't need to talk to anyone to know things, Mr. Wake. I'm not afforded such a simple luxury.

[ There are so many ways she can phrase what can be said to answer his questions. None seem as satisfying as the flair of drama she can build. More of her father is in her than she would like to admit to sometimes.

A hand raises and gestures to his person. ] Look up, Mr. Wake.

[ The Writer's Room is dim as always. A single light on the desk casting a light into a muted room. Chalkboards to one side, a pair of windows behind the writer, and an ever watchful owl. Dust settles everywhere.

However, one thing has changed. A variable in a set of constants.

Elizabeth stands in front of the opposite side of the desk. Her arms crossed until Alan addresses her. Then, they lower to gesture to the room around them. ]

The attic room. This is actually where you are... and the New York City is a construct? Something you created to navigate the outside world. [ Despite the tone of fact checking, Elizabeth sounds impressed. The frayed bob at her cheeks moves as she turns her head to look over the room again. A radio, a television. ] You've learned how to shape this world to what you need to explore and learn it further.

[ A hand raises to the ceiling. ] If you can change the surroundings... then why haven't you given more places for the light to come in? I doubt you can create things that don't already exist somewhere. But, can't you at least give the opportunity for the Dark Presence's antithesis to exist here?

[crazyisinevitable]

[ He watches her moving, not really pacing, but walking, first one way then another. He can tell that she's listening, and that's what matters most to him. She's listening, and she seems to be taking what he's saying seriously. That's a step in the right direction. But he could talk for a million years and never really find the tip of the iceberg that is the Dark Presence. It's shifting and changing and unpredictable, but all he can do is give warnings. ]

That depends on how you define "actually knowing". There are people who know of it, who have seen what it's done: the people who live in Bright Falls, for one thing. Maybe they don't know exactly what it is they've seen, but weird things have been happening there for years.

[ His gaze shifts as does his expression when he feels her gaze land on him, beginning to observe him. He crosses his arms in front of him as if the examination unsettles him on some level. What she's looking at and what she's seeing when she looks at him, he can't be sure, but he still finds the act of observing him a little unsettling even if she doesn't present an unsettling figure. Still, he knows better than to underestimate someone. ]

Elizabeth. All right. [ His eyes narrow slightly at her next words, and he can't stop himself from inquiring more. ] You don't? So what are you, then? Some kind of clairvoyant?

[ She tells him to look up, and almost automatically, he does as asked. He startles slightly when his senses catch up with him and he's sitting at the desk, hands poised over the typewriter. At first, the scene looks the same as it always does. Everything's in place, and he's in his place, and- wait.

What the hell? How- Huh? Is she another parautilitarian like Jesse? How did she get in here? ]

Yeah, that's right, I've done all of that, because that's the nature of this place and how it responds to art, but... How do you know that?

[ She continues talking, and then she asks that question, and something in Alan's jaw seems to tighten as he responds. ]

The Dark Presence's antithesis? [ He's shaking his head already. ] I know someone who... represents light. Or at least, a positive resonance. It's not safe for people here. It's not even safe for not people.

[ That sounds ridiculous as soon as he says it, but he can't call it back. ]

Look, I don't think that would help even if I tried doing it. There's too much darkness everywhere here. I'd have to have a hundred floodlights, and even that wouldn't be enough.

[ Not that he's tried that, but he just thinks it's impossible. ]

[tearings]

[ Bright Falls.

Elizabeth ponders the name as she waits for his senses to return to him. It must be the name of the place he came from. The world beyond the door he stepped through. It would make sense such a place would have myths and legends to explain things beyond their knowledge. Things that seem more ungodly or otherworldly.

Something else she knows a thing or two about.

Elizabeth pauses. It responds to art. Her mind wanders to the paintings that littered her room in the Tower. Places she had seen through doors. Paris. The mere name sends an old familiar painful beat in her blossom.

That was a long time ago. Wasn't it?

Her eyes focus on the ceiling. They move along each plank of wood, each crossbar. Looking. ]

No, I'm not a claravoyient. It would never be so easy to describe me. [ She doubts scientific terms would help either. Even if those are the words she knows. Her hands raise again beside her as she steps back, eyes continuing to scan the ceiling. ] Think of me as someone who can see all the woods. What's behind all the doors. Everything that remains the same or changes. Sometimes I meet others... sometimes I don't.

This is one of the times I've met someone.

[ Her eyes widen slightly. ] Aha, there!

[ A hand raises and waves. A blue ripple appears in the ceiling above her. A distortion in time and space, allowing something to slip through that shouldn't be there. It flickers then fades to reveal an old ceiling lamp. One that fits the era of the cabin. ]

Here, Mr. Wake. Shine a light on it. Either from the lamp on your desk or a flashlight.

[ Art can be whatever he makes it. Who is to say you can't light a light with another? ]

If the Dark Presence can't stay in the light, then that is what will put it in check. If one is Dark, why not a Bright?

[crazyisinevitable]

[ Part of him would tell Elizabeth that if she's waiting for his senses to return, she might be waiting a long time indeed. Even when he's semi-stable, he still feels like he's losing his mind. He thinks he can feel the darkness clawing at him, pulling at what makes him him, and taking away pieces of him one bit at a time. He just considers himself fortunate that he still maintains this much control of himself. Maybe a time will come when he loses that control. He hopes no one is around to see it when that happens.

Alan watches her carefully, with a hint of wariness in his gray eyes. She's a stranger to him, come from who knows where, and he doesn't know a thing about her. She doesn't seem hostile, at least not yet, but he still can't help but be cautious. ]

Sometimes someone who can see too much is just as dangerous as someone who can't see anything at all. I know this is going to sound really rude, but- why should I trust you? It's just that this place makes it hard to know which way is up and that includes everything from trusting what you see and what you think and remember. You seem real, but you could also be something I'm imagining.

It's not personal; I just have to be sure.

[ He hopes she understands his perspective, but if she just turns and leaves, well- maybe that's for the best. It's safer for her, at any rate.

But then she exclaims and points at something above them, and his eyes zero in on the blue ripple. It looks like an echo, something he's seen in his ventures around this version of New York, but it's different at the same time. It can't be too different, though, given her instructions.

He decides to take a leap of faith, so to speak, and trust that she's not someone with nefarious intentions. Pulling out the flashlight that's served him well this whole time, he points the flashlight beam at it as he's been directed. ]

There was a Bright Presence at one point, I think. I don't really remember specifics because... well. [ He taps the side of his head with his free hand. ] My memory isn't what it used to be, and it feels like it's been a long time. [ It feels like a long time and not very much time at all. That's just the way the Dark Place functions. ]

[tearings]

You're the claravoyient here, Mr. Wake. Aren't you? I'm certain your intuition would tell you if you could or couldn't trust me.

Though... being cautious isn't a bad thing.

[ Her blur eyes remain trained on the light above. Her hands move slightly up or down for him to get the angle just right. The ceiling light comes to life once that shift has happened. Light floods the room, and even Elizabeth has to hold her hand up to shield her eyes while they adjust. One doesn't realize how dark the room truly was until a light comes on. ]

There, that's much better.

[ Elizabeth takes her time to wander around the attic as Alan adjusts to the light. The gloom still somehow remains clinging to the space. Perhaps it's source is the Writer and not the Dark Place itself. She weighs the options as she stops in her wandering in front of the blackboard that has the map of the New York City that has been constructed within the Dark Place.

With the room illuminated, more details of her appearance can be seen. The dress that is in fashion of the turn of the 20th Century. The white lace choker around her neck with a broach of a bird flying with outstretched wings. White lace is at the bottom of her velvet skirt, but is torn in some places. The velvet itself on the jacket and skirt is damaged in some places.

Her arms cross underneath her bust. ]

I can see all the doors and what's behind the doors because of what I am. A writer may not understand the intricacies of a quantum superposition. [ Her head tilts back slightly. ] I traveled through one and it brought me here. There is nothing more or less to it.

[ Elizabeth pauses to consider how to answer the next statement. ] No. Not "was", but "is." Just because you can't precieve something hardly means it isn't present. Can you see the wind? Gravity? [ She turns to look at him, arms folded, head canted with the frayed bob framing her face. Almost as if the hairstyle was done by her own hand. ] You have to write to escape. Is that right?

What makes writing a door to leave so difficult?

[crazyisinevitable]

I'm... Well, I'm something like that. You're right, though, I've met people that I couldn't trust. You don't seem like them.

[ But he still retains some measure of wariness because he knows by now that things have a funny way of turning around, and not always for the better.

He has to pause too, blinking repeatedly until his eyes adjust to the light. It always takes time, even if the source of light seems like a drop in a bucket of darkness, but he gradually adjusts after a minute or two.

Once he does, he gives Elizabeth a glance, taking in her appearance and just observing her for a second. There's something about her that he can't quite put his finger on, and looking at her isn't really clearing anything up for him. ]

Doors. [ His mouth presses together forming a thin line. ] Why is it always doors? Does the name Warlin Door mean anything to you? Quantum... what, like quantum physics? No, I don't know much about that. About either of those things. And I wasn't kidding, by the way. It's really not safe here, so as soon as you can, you should travel back through and get to safety.

[ At her next words, Alan just laughs dryly. ] No, you can't see those things, but look around. Other than here with the light on, everything's pretty dark. It makes sense that something light wouldn't like being here, doesn't it?

[ Alan doesn't mean to sound so skeptical, but- well, he is skeptical. Disbelieving. ]

Yeah. I write to escape. It's what I'm good at, apparently.

[ His eyes snap back to hers when she asks her next question. ]

The whole process is difficult. It might look simple on the outside, but there's so many ways for it to shift even if you didn't mean for a shift to happen. And unlike you and your doors and your traveling... A door can't be created out of nothing. I can't create a door out of nothing.

[tearings]

I assume that's because most people have reasons to hide the answers to your questions. [ Elizabeth decides then she simply will not answer them if he asks something she can't answer. Somethings are better left unknown. ] Hidden agendas. Plans in plans. It seems no matter where I go, that remains a constant. Plans. Extorting the people around you to get what you want. It's all the same.

[ A sliver of bitterness leaks into her tone. She wonders who is using Alan--who he is using in return.

Eyes scan over the maps once more to memorize it. She locates where she had spoken to him moments ago. A finger presses to it, then trails up along the streets. He was soaking wet due to the rain, but she could hardly tell where he was headed. ]

Door?

[ Elizabeth pauses. Her mind seems elsewhere for the briefest of seconds. Then, sky blue eyes turn to look at him. She turns to face the writer. The light catches off another detail that can now be seen. The pinkie finger on her right hand has been damaged. Half of it is gone, but capped with a silver thimble. She hardly seems to notice or even be bothered by such an oddity.

"I don't see myself as a gate. I remain humble. I'm something smaller. A hatch."

Something and someone like her. ]

No. I haven't met the man. But, I know of him. Who he is. What he is. If you caught his attention? You must have done something. You did do something. Didn't you, Mr. Wake?

[ She listens quietly to his explanations. Light can't reach him with how far down in this oceanic like reality. He writes to escape as this reality responds to art. A question about quantum physics. He can create art of things in existence but not make things out of nothing.

A delicate process indeed.

Elizabeth turns back to the blackboard with the maps. Then, both arms unfold. She swings her weight to the balls of her feet and grabs atop the board. With a grunt of exertion, it gives way and spins to the blank side. She reaches over to the board beside her with notes and grabs a piece of chalk. Once more she is on the balls of her feet and begins writing as high as she can. ]

There's a million, million different worlds. Some all similar and some all different. [ She draws several small boxes. Then, a line between them and a circle around them. ] Me... people like me. We exist in all of them at once. We can see them all and precieve them all. I can be here in your attic, I can be in your constructed New York City... I can even be in a diner in that town, Bright Falls. All at once. Seeing them all at once. Noticing them all at once.

Everywhere and anywhere but not necessarily anchored to one. Not having a "home" world. Although, I believe you'd call them realities.

[ She draws a line from the several boxes down the board. The line then rounds to become a circle--almost like a underground lake. ]

This place connects to all of them, doesn't it? You need to use your art not to make a door... but to use a door to escape. Not just any door. The right door to the right reality. Back home.

[ A sad look croses her eyes before she turns her head back to Alan. ]

I find things I can bring into a reality I am in. Teacups to opening spaces. It's just really using a connection and door that already exists. I guess you could say it's the right door to the right key.

[ Alan has brought up a point that in all technicality, she has no purpose in being at this door. There is no reason to stay. No reason he can see. However, Elizabeth can see the reason. It's all around her.

Someone else trapped in a cage. ]

I wasn't always like this. As I grew up, I was ... restricted, you could say. I could open "tears"--windows--and see other places. Bring things over. I could never leave. [ She taps the chalk in her hand harshly. ] I was locked away from the world by my father. I taught myself to paint and would try to use the painting to open a way to escape.

[ She sighs and gives a shake of her head. ] All of that is to say, Mr. Wake, that I understand what this is like.

[crazyisinevitable]

And maybe I have no business asking questions. Maybe I should just mind my own business and stay out of other people's. Of course, the problem is that it's not that simple. Even if I don't want to learn things about people... sometimes it just happens. It's not on purpose, and I'm not doing it to learn information I shouldn't have, but- it's complicated.

If it helps, the only plan that I have is ending this story and finding a way back home.

[ He watches Elizabeth's reactions, wondering how she's taking everything he's telling her, and everything that he isn't. She has a look about her that makes him think she's perceptive, with or without her abilities, and that makes him wonder what she really thinks. ]

Yeah. Warlin Door. I thought he was a night talk show host, but I'm starting to think that he's a lot more than that. I don't know what he is, exactly, but there's more to him than meets the eye.

I guess I did do something. Several somethings, if you ask him. He talked about peeking in, poking holes, and just being an unwelcome nuisance. But I guess all nuisances are unwelcome. All I'm doing is trying to get home, but my efforts are apparently putting me in his way.

[ His eyebrows lift when she spins the blackboard. She's another one who seems to be more than meets the eye. When she starts to write, he's briefly reminded of Tim and his crazy wall. ]

That's... Well, it's a lot to take in. But wait, if you can exist in all of them at once, can you... No, that's crazy, forget about it.

[ If I wanted to try and reach Jesse, I could do it. I've done it before; she's reached me before. I don't need to inconvenience someone I just met. I don't want to use people. I don't care what Casey says: I don't like to use people. ]

How do you not go crazy, knowing what you know? If you see all of them all at once and know what's going on in each one, how do you not go completely nuts?

[ He rubs the back of his head as he tries to make sense of all this. It's a lot, even for him. Trying to understand it all makes his head hurt. ]

How am I supposed to find that door? That's like searching through a haystack trying to find a needle. Even if I could see all the doors and what's behind them, how long would that take? And the Dark Place isn't connected to every door ever, at least not as far as I can tell. What happens if I open the door to the wrong place? What if I open the door and step through and get immediately eaten by a lion?

Maybe that's not likely to happen, but what if it is? What if there's a door out there with a lion behind it? The lion doesn't even have to be a lion. It could be a person with a knife.

[ No, the more Alan theorizes about this, the less willing he is to go poking around trying to find the right door. ]

I'm sorry. That sounds like it was rough. But I assume you managed to escape in the end, didn't you? Maybe one day I'll be able to escape too. I hope I can, anyway.