PSL: FBC [ @ because ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ OG start ]

[ Scratch decided shortly after Alan left to not work with the FBC. Not that was up for question but put more of a definitive vote in favor of the idea.

FBC nothings came into his room to ask him questions. They had little fucking clipboards and pulled chairs to sit in front of his containment unit. To indicate that they had no intention of leaving easily; to see if that would entice him to answer anything.

The questions were also irritating, at best: "What is Cauldron Lake?" "Could you explain more about what you are?" "Are you just a story the lake made real?" "We tried some Nursery Rhymes, were you able to feel them come into reality?" On and on. It seems for all their observations they still weren't 100% sure what the fuck was going on in Bright Falls.

And he had his own questions when he had enough. "Did you know anyone that went out to that shit town? Wanna know how they died? How they became Taken? What their last thought was?" Scratch believed he could get under their skin, but the scientists just seemed fascinated - excited - to have those questions answered.

At their excitement, he refused to answer further. He clicked his tongue and went silent instead.

"Where's Alan?"

That became his only question. It'd be his only answer to whatever he was asked. They refused to answer him, or maybe, it was part of the condition that Alan had forged.

...

Whenever the door opens, Scratch is standing in the middle of the containment unit. His suit is just as immaculate as it was when he first came to the FBC. His hair is still perfectly styled. His ego and pride wouldn't have it any other way - perhaps the last bit of power that he has in his confinement.

However, the venom and snarling have severely been cut back. He now isn't sure how much time has passed. He doesn't need to sleep, eat, or do anything to pass the time. Even the fantasies he concocted of murdering everyone in the building had grown old.

After Alan smashed one of the lights, it seems they decided to change a few things about how the room operated.

He doesn't look up at the person entering, staring off at some corner of his cage. ]

Where's Alan?

[ Time to start the same song and dance. Repeat the same question until they grow tired and leave. ]

Comments

[because]

[ Scratch had been right. One could negotiate with Alan, though he's not the most cooperative person in the world. He doesn't make it easy. They want to run tests. Many many many many tests. They let him hold something too powerful because it turns out they actually can't take it from him in the first place. Wasn't by choice. They do not want him to have that. He just has it. The Director casually explained something about power objects and guns and Alan's focus kept drifting and interrupting her to ask where his wife went, actually. He doesn't care about anything else. She always listens. She's the only one that actually goes and makes someone call Alice. Tries to help. Looks surprised when he's still here. He tries to tell her they won't let him leave and gets interrupted every time. Every time. Then he's told she's busy. Always. The Director isn't in.

Everyone else says: After this, you can go back to your wife. One more question, Mister Wake. Would you write something for us? Just to see. Sorry, you can't leave just yet. Do you mind typing something on this computer? On this phone? On this tablet? A calculator? Write with this pen. This pencil. This crayon. "Would you write a poem?" and he snaps the pen in half. That's enough for today, they say.

After an hour. A day. A week. Alice, who calms him and holds him then says he can't leave because of the trauma. Because of the culture shock. Because he's too powerful and might not know how to control it. Because they want to help. He starts to suspect that's not even Alice who comes around. He feels fucking terrible for questioning it.

He asks to talk to Barry. The request gets denied and he resorts to "borrowing" a phone and calling the number he knows. But it's changed at some point in thirteen years and he can't guess what it is. Can't get a hold of anyone else. He's not in a cell so he wanders the entire building. Talks to the overly cheerful staff. Talks to the staff that look fearful of him. There's a room he's told he can sleep in in an apparent motel. Nice things. Nice suits. 'Alice' brought stuff from home and filled it. Clothes that are his. Old books he knows the exact bent pages of.

Why the fuck is the typewriter here?

The place disorients and infuriates him. Fuck. This. Light. Bulb. He sleeps on Ahti's couch and dreams of murders, triangles, and Scratch in his box. Ahti's the only place nobody bothers him. The only person he doesn't want to punch in the face.

He walked right to the front door once and got grabbed by the arm and it resorted to a lot of punches, a lot of screaming, someone's broken nose. Let him out. It's too dangerous for him to leave. Hearing phantom typing and not knowing how he got to an entirely different room. Way deep in again. Same as it ever was. He can't find the front door anymore.

Scratch looks meticulously perfect and Alan does not. His hair is half tied up carelessly to get it out of his face. At some point he shaved just to do something but decided he didn't care again. The sleeves of the flannel shirt are rolled to his elbows. It hangs on him.

He taps the swiped key-card against his thigh after closing the door behind him. Ironically, the brightest room in the building is the one with the dark presence in it. He knows. He tried to check every corner. ]

Is that all you ask these people?

[geniusofslaughter]

[ This time around Scratch doesn't immediately attack the walls; he doesn't scream obscenities at the writer.

His eyes dart from the corner he's fixed his sight on to him instead. He takes in what he sees, at first - notes how Alan looks. Turning away, he rubs his chin and drags his thumb against his bottom lip as a ghost of a smile appears and fades away.

He drops his chin before lifting his head. His smile returns in full this time around, but it's not confident or the usual smirk. Instead, it is a humorless grin. ]

It seems to irritate them for some reason. [ Scratch frowns; tone switching to playful. It's different than how he sounded when Alan first entered. Before, while it was the same question he'd been asking, his voice was dull and droning. ] Can't imagine why.

[ Scratch pauses and adjusts his suit. Tugging on the vest to straighten it out, even though it is already perfect, he still makes his adjustments. He breathes out slowly, as he does like he expected this outcome. ]

Ah, Al... you haven't been taking good care of yourself. [ A beat. ] You wouldn't have come because they asked you to, right? So, what can I do you for, buddy?

[ Yes, it's a different tactic than his previous attempt. Rather than brute force things - he decides to try to be a little more yielding this time around. A wedge seems like it's already forming between the FBC and him, so rather than maliciously point it out, he'll just try to seem like the better deal.

The devil he knows. ]

[because]

[ Was Scratch just sitting in a corner this whole time? How long does he stare at the wall? He knows what that's like. Stuck in a room with the same walls. It's almost sad. There's sympathy there he tries to shove into the back of his head and beat with a mallet. He shouldn't feel bad about it. He shouldn't. ]

They don't like it when I give the same answers either. [ Alan smiles, nothing but sarcasm behind it. Hiding pure irritation below the surface of a joke.

His footsteps echo in here, like they seem to do in every room. He's getting sick of the sound. He moves in closer, looking around and noting the changes to the set up. He can't knock anything over now. He taps the key card on his palm, fidgety. This anxiousness he always has now. Trying not to look back at him while he feels the eyes asses him. They see through him. ] Yeah, well, their food sucks. [ He swears they drug him sometimes. He can't prove it. ]

I was just bored. [ Lie. ] Wanted to see what they were doing to you. [ Truth. He's eyeing the room like he's casing the place. A thief planning a heist in his mind. A way out, a way out. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He wouldn't. He shouldn't. But he should know if he could, right?

The enemy of my enemy is- ] Still didn't give you a slot? [ He stops walking and presses his heel back into a light built into the floor, testing it. Nope. That's not going to budge. He moves across the room, slow and careful, an odd path to see if he can stand in blind spots. Eyebrows up. Tapping the key. Tap tap tap. ] I could probably get you a book. A magazine?

[geniusofslaughter]

Wow. I wonder what else we have in common. [ He chimes back; his shoulders shrugging in an exaggeration fashion. ]

Mm - wouldn't know about that one. [ His eyes narrow, watching, calculating. They haven't been playing nice? No - that can't be right. If they hadn't, he thinks things would have already turned ugly for everyone in this facility.

Scratch frowns, carrying on the conversation like normal. ]

They're in the questionnaire phase of their bullshit. Trying to decide, I'm sure, how long I can stand the boredom before I start spilling all my deep, dark secrets. [ He slaps his hands on his face, looking scandalized briefly. ] Normally, I love talking about myself, but these fucks can go punch sand for all I care.

[ Yes. He is the monster that Alan knows, but the FBC somewhat understands him. If he can't convince the writer of anything this time around, he can put a little seed in their heads. It's the idea of how domesticated he's become around the writer; he won't jump through the very simple little hoops they set out for him, but maybe he'll listen to Alan. He certainly asks after him enough.

So, if he can't convince Alan this time around with his behavior, maybe next time he can. ]

They already knew I didn't need those sorts of things. [ He cocks his head to the side. ] And as fun as it would be to pretend I'm starving or dying of thirst -- [ Scratch grimaces, turning his nose up at the idea. Even if it would possibly grant him his freedom, he wouldn't debase himself in such a manner. ]

I'd love to see how they'd get it to me. [ A smile flashes before he frowns deeply. ] Ugh... they'd probably read it to me. Like I'm a fucking child.

[ Oops. His irritation is rising. The conversational tone is shifting to anger. He sucks his teeth with his tongue; he's also barely able to snap at Alan and ask him why he's walking the way he is.

However, his thoughts are disrupted by a sudden crackle of a speaker turning on. A voice comes into the room; it's helpfully cheerful like any good practiced customer service voice:

"Mister Wake. We'll ask you to please move a few steps to your right. Thank you for your cooperation."

His head tilts, looking about where the voice came from, before twisting around to look back at Alan. He has to be careful with his expression - but keeps his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing slightly.

He opens his mouth and decides on: ]

Think I could get them to read Return to me?

[because]

[ Alan doesn't think they're nice. Well, they've been sweet on him. He can ask for a coffee anywhere in the House and have one brought to him. It's very nice but also usually proves he's being followed. ]

Wow, you really hate them. [ Conversation carried like normal. Alan intentionally very subtly steps on his shoelace in the middle of his careful path so it's untied. He's nodding along with Scratch's words as he talks, pleased to know that he's sort of doing what he expected. They're just talking.

Someone reading to him. Alan actually laughs once at the idea. The speaker switches on and he kneels down before the request comes out, to tie that shoelace. He goes pulling a marker out of his boot, uncapping it with his teeth. He flicks his eyes to Scratch while doing it. Don't rat him out. Don't say a word. He's drawing x on the floor then lines out the access level carefully on the keycard to scribble in a better one. Flips it so he's tapping it face down. He tucks the marker away after, knots the lace off then stands back up and takes two steps to the right. It's all done as quickly as he can manage. He tilts his head, makes like he's looking for the speaker. ] Is this good?

[ His eyes cut back to Scratch, a careful gaze. ]

I lost the last copy. Probably not.

[geniusofslaughter]

Shocking, I know. [ His face becomes a little more animated - raising his eyebrows and smiling a little more.

He wants to laugh more but pointedly looks away instead. Rubbing his chin, he starts to walk around his enclosure. It's not particularly big, but they don't need to have it be. His knuckles rap against the walls. Is this nervous energy? He wonders; he wonders if he's just being given a scrap of something.

Funny stuff.

The voice chimes in at the question: "Yes, thank you!" He can imagine it's the kind of person who used to take orders from drive-thrus before they somehow landed this position. His eyes roll hard and he just barely prevents himself from kicking the clear siding.

These are the people that are keeping me. Just because they got a little lucky. Continue to be lucky. He gives a glance to Alan. But maybe not for too much longer.

Scratch sighs, turns, and runs his hand through his hair. Again. ]

Killing me, buddy. [ And he points at him. ] Or you wish. [ This time - he does laugh. ] Honestly, I'm surprised - [ He scratches the side of his face, thoughtfully. ] - I would have thought they'd have given up on me.

But you tried to destroy me. Twice. [ He lifts up two fingers. ] Yet here I am. [ It's something he said before. The dark presence has a fondness for him; it loves his stories too much not to want to keep coming back. To slither its way back into whatever story is being written. Whether Alan likes it or not. And, at the moment, it seems like "or not" is tabled. ]

Pretty great, right?

[because]

[ I've had thoughts about the customer service attitudes everyone seems to give around the place to me. The cheerfulness that can only come from a naive belief that nothing is wrong. The sugary sweetness of innocent thinking. Like they don't know any better. You'd have to hire people like that to run something doing the shadiest practices. Simple minded. Easy to manipulate. A trained dog. Fetch. No questions asked. Nothing to worry about. We're the good guys.

Alan nods once. Yeah. He wishes. Except this moment, where the only being he trusts to be how he believes it to be is in front of him laughing. How ironic. He stops tapping the card. ]

I guess being a persistent little shit is one of your better qualities. [ Like a roach. It's very carefully stated, trying to be as neutral as possible. The almost monotone narrative voice. He wonders if Scratch can already figure out what he's doubting as a whole regarding the place. If he stands here long enough, he'll start picking at the paranoia that's seeped deep into his bones. Maybe it wouldn't be lies though. He's figuring things out. How powerful they think he is. Ask him to write down the weather and it rains. ] Maybe they didn't tell me you were asking for me so I wouldn't try to kill you again. Third time's the charm. They made all these upgrades in here. They must want to keep you.

[ He moves next to the glass and presses the key against it, showing it to him. ] Wait- I just noticed. Look how bad this guy's picture is. [ There's no marker. Just a high-level access key. His fingers taps the back of it. He wrote on it, so it is. It shouldn't be that easy. It was never that easy before. Why is he telling him? Clicker's gone. Check this out. He shakes his head and pulls it back, taking seemingly-odd paths around the room again. Looks like a sleep-walker drifting about the room but his eyes are far too alert. All deliberate. Seeing if he can get the speaker to turn back on and kindly admit to where they can't see him. ]

What would you do if you got out of there? You must have thought it all out by now.

[geniusofslaughter]

You can blame yourself for that one. [ He leans back on his heels, pointing at him. There is a dance to their talk - conversational without being too friendly. Animosity bleeds into his words even if they mean so little to him now. The anger isn't for Alan, but it is for their audience to assume it is. ]

Or the fourth, fifth, six - we can see how long the dance goes on. [ He opens his arms wide. ] See who breaks first! [ Still, keeping him alive is not just for Alan, but for the future. He's figured that much out. After all, he isn't the first darkness-made flesh that manifested out of the lake. ]

Aw, sharing a joke with me? You shouldn't have. [ Scratch takes a few steps closer to look at the key. Everything Alan's doing requires careful control of his expression. ] Holy shit. That is terrible. [ He steps back and starts to laugh yet again. Turning away, his hands rest on either side of his head as he walks in a little circle - chuckling to himself the entire time. ]

Oh... you got me pegged. [ His arms slap down to his sides. He stops laughing; his shoulders drop as his expression falls. ] I hope to have an honest conversation with some folks here. [ A quick wink but he isn't smiling.. ] You know the ones. [ The fucking little shits that sneer and call me 'harmless.' Those assholes that talk in their oh-so-cheerful voices in the speakers to me. ] Clear up a few things about me with them. [ His hands move in small semi-circles, gesturing at he talks. ] Have it so that we're all on the same page.

Yeah... yeah... that'll be the first thing.

[ A chime in the room: "Mister Wake?" It's the voice sounding a little more exasperated this time around.

His index finger snaps up and points towards the wall. ]

You're quickly becoming the first person I'm hoping to chat with!

[ "Mister Wake, please, don't make this visit difficult. It's nice that the Shadow is actually talking, but--" The voice ignores Scratch; he makes a quick circle in the air with his index finger and starts paces in his unit. ]

[because]

Yeah, yeah, it's all my fault. [ Another eye roll, a tone that goes dull. There's a chapter in one of his books, where someone Casey had put away turns out to be the only trustworthy person because his coworkers have lined their pockets and are in on a massive coverup. People loved that one. He doesn't want to be doing anything. He doesn't think he'll have to resort to letting the beast out of its cage just to bust through a door.

Yet. ]

Won't be me. I guarantee it. [ He shrugs, exaggerated. Alan's expression is trying to be neutral but he's never been capable of really acting with his eyes. Can't hide shit with those. People always seem to know when he's upset before he opens his mouth. ] Eh. Since we're stuck here, might as well share something funny. [ Might as well.

His eyes drifts back to Scratch in between counting steps on the floor after he moves back, too thoughtful. Unsteady the way it goes back and forth to note every movement. Trying to pierce together if he'll help him. If he'll destroy him the second he has a shadow to leap through. If he can even destroy him at all. He probably can't. If Alan could destroy him. If he even wants to... ]

[ His head bobbing in small little nods as the other talks. ] Are they getting too much wrong? They asked me a few times but I don't have answers that clear anything up. [ They don't have a damn clue. The speaker makes him stop walking. He looks back to the spot where he drew the little X then the door, calculating if he could jump it. ]

Hmm? [ A feigned innocence, mockingly throwing the sugar tone back. ] But? But what? [ He stays where he is, folding his arms. What will they do to make him move? They both need to know what the answer to that is. ] I'm apparently being too difficult for our conversation, Mister Scratch.

[geniusofslaughter]

You shouldn't make guarantees about anything, buddy. You know that won't get you anywhere.

[ It's what he chimes back with - give a reason for whatever emotions are seeping into Alan's eyes. Look, he can play nice and well with what's being done. ]

Mm.

[ He hums - pauses - and starts again. The melody is a familiar one; the one that initially summoned the writer out of the lake. But he cuts it off before he even gets to the chorus. ]

Yeah. Yeah...

[ The two affirmatives spoken more like placeholders. He tilts his head to the side, more like he's stretching his neck than anything else. Irritation building up with nowhere to place it, and not wanting to correct anything.

He frowns, comically exaggerated, as he scratches the inside of his ear. ]

I hate that - I don't tell them anything about you. I just ask them where you are.

[ Why should I share anything with these fucking paper-pushers?

Furthermore, Alan belongs to him. It's a fact that he didn't even have to stumble upon. It isn't a grand revelation; he already knew it; it is something burned in his head.

Sure, he lets his temper get the better of him. Sure, he killed him multiple times in the Dark Place, but deaths there can be undone. He wouldn't let anything happen to him now. Especially not by these people. Scratch tried to explain that before but desperation devoured his words to nonsense.

But he holds off on that explanation. For now.

He recognizes it's hardly the time to get into that when there are other pressing issues to focus on. Like adding an assist to hear the rest of their weak excuses about why Alan should move. ]

For once, I think you're fine. We're having a grand ol' chat. How about that? Isn't that what you like? You just said it's what you like. [ He's pointing in the vague direction of the speaker. "But, Mister Wake, there's protocol with interacting with the Shadow." The tone is more measured little less customer service, more like being firm on the rules of conduct.

Scratch rolls his eyes and snaps: ]

I'm not "the Shadow." You fucking deaf cow!

[ The speaker catches the sound of the worker clearing their throat. But it doesn't sound like one out of being hurt or flustered by the insult; it is the noise of being prepared to read some rules(tm).

"Bad things will happen if safety protocols are not followed. We still don't fully understand the Shadow due to its uncooperative and volatile nature. We are willing to admit that much, and so we have to work within the parameters set before us until it decides to work with us to help us understand."

Scratch mouths the word 'its' before smiling; his chin dropping as he nods along.

"I won't get into every single one of our protocols." A clearing of their throat, again. "But everyone needs to be seen by our cameras at all times during interactions. And it's for your protection as well, Mister Wake! The Shadow has expressed a desire to kill you in the past. So, going forward, if you hear one of our voices, please be sure to move as directed. Thank you."

He turns to Alan once the spiel is finished. His wrist flicks to gesture towards the wall. Bloodlust seeps into his eyes; the blue turning to a dark, violent ocean. A plea wraps itself in his barely contained frenzy.

Let me have them. I'll do whatever you want after. Give me this. ]

[because]

[ Alan recognizes and doesn't recognize whatever Scratch was humming there. Familiar. Just on the tip of his tongue. He wasn't exactly the one driving while it was happening. Some part of him splits focus, trying to put words to it. How'd that go? Scratch never gets to the chorus and he can't figure it out.

The key gets put in his back pocket and switches it with a sheet of paper, unfolding it as he stands there, scratching at an elbow and reading it quickly.

The writer writes 'EXIT' across the floor tile in hastened fasten. He could he pull it up like an escape hatch. His nails prying the corners of it from the floor and ripping the tips of the skin. Finally, it comes free and he pushes it aside. Wake slid into the tunnels below and ran as fast as he could through the dark unlit corridor. Winding. Easily turned around. Quiet except for the sound of distant drips echoing throughout a route that hasn't been used in years. There was light after what seemed like hours. He breached the surface only to be met with flashlights aimed at his face. Blinding. That's not the way out. He'd been caught and they'll watch him even closer. A wider brim of security up and the scientists delighted to study every bit of the attempt.

The typewriter jams. He rips the paper up with frustration and shoves the pieces in the pocket of his flannel. He looks at the blood on the tips of his fingers. Nope. Try again! ]

Yeah? I appreciate you giving me a modicum of privacy unlike- [ He leans his body sideways, putting his face in frame ] -SOME PEOPLE! I swear there's cameras in the bathroom. [ Scratch doesn't like these. He doesn't either. The cameras used to be private. He knew where they all were in the dark place. They could stare right into them. He had stared right into them. His own face on screens just for him to see. Scratch could see. He leans back. Back in the blind spot. He rubs his temple. His head hurts from how bright it is in here. How bright the whole building is, really. Worse in this room but that artificial lighting. Dark circles under his eyes. Like he's constantly staring at a screen for hours. The light sensitivity was always there. Exacerbated by years in the dark. They're not helping him when none of the sources are the sun. The lights in the room ebb with his breathing. Dimmer then brighter. He's not aware of it.

The throat clear has him cinching his brows and looking at Scratch. A mutual irritation. Deaf cow. Ha ha. He wonders why they don't name him. Alan had given them his name. Called him nothing else. He supposes names give power. Lets it keep a form. Maybe he's been feeding into him. Maybe he's not a black mass because Alan prefers it with a face. ]

Sorry! Nobody thought to run through the protocols with me. Or maybe they did while I was busy wondering why I wasn't allowed to use the phone and didn't hear them. Can I get them on a list? You guys got a handbook?

[ A hair strand falls loose from rubbing his head ] Bad things are going to happen to who? What's there to understand? You told me you were getting rid of him. [ Lies. Lies lies lies. ] I think I'll stand here. Thank you!

[ Eyes focused on Scratch. Wait. Alan is testing them. See if they'll force him. As Directed. It's a bad idea. It's a terrible idea. His head hurts. It's too bright in here. It's a plot thread that would work. It's too desperate. Are they even doing anything wrong yet? Where is Alice? Is she coming back? Would anyone with a rational mind let him leave? Doesn't he deserve this? They're making everything worse. They want to use him to control the world. It's right there in their name! His fingers rub circles on the side of his head. He sighs.

Ebb and flow. A light flickers and his head turns like he wants to look at it without taking his eyes off Scratch because if he looks away he might move, eyes wider now. He didn't mean to do that. If he blinks they might all go out now. The story is more interesting if he makes a deal with the devil. Ripples on the lake. I think I've made a terrible mistake. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ Scratch watches. Eyes narrow slightly, he sees the blood bloom on the tips of his fingers. With a measured gesture, he lifts his hand to his mouth - lightly bites at the end of his index finger and licks along the mark he made.

He doesn't make eye contact with Alan this time around, rolling his eyes up to look toward the ceiling, and dropping his hand back down to his side. ]

Quite the invasion of privacy. [ He tsks, chiming in again like he didn't take a short second to himself.

The speaker crackles as the worker does start to sound frustrated - heard it how the microphone catches the harsh sigh and inaudible grumble. He breathes in sharp, enjoying the sound. It's breaking through their little routine.

"We'll go through them later with you. However, I don't know what is planned for the Shadow. That is clearance higher than mine. ... but one of the most important pieces is this, Mister Wake, I mean, well! ... We were worried you might alter... never mind. You should know it, too. So you can trust us."

A pause.

His head cranes. Hesitation? Why?

"'The Shadow is harmless in the containment unit.' That is what everyone in the Oldest House knows. It was written repeatedly in our report at Cauldron Lake."

Silence follows.

Scratch processes what is said. His eyes dart side-to-side before he snaps his head up. ]

You motherfuckers!

[ The light flickering; the lights dimming. He can hear the soft scrambling as they seem to notice it, too. They aren't sure who is the blame, however.

"The Shadow is harmless in the containment unit." It's repeated louder and firmer, like a sharp reprimand. He snarls in turn and further back to look to Alan. His head shakes - irritation boiling over. His fury bathing everything in red. He wants the red to be real - to actually smell the blood in the air as he rips through them.

Just like Alan is his; he's Alan's. How the fuck dare they mess with their story? Add pieces to it that isn't something the writer approved? Wrote? He may not love every edit, but he takes them. But these people?

He loses composure and starts screaming - it's just noise. It's just frustration. How dare they?! How dare they! How fucking dare they!

"Mister Wake, we'll ask again to please move or we may have to ask you to leave the room." A sigh, tired, exhausted. "The researchers are going to be upset about this development... and so I hope you are prepared for their complaints later, too..." ]

[because]

[ Eyes affixed. Lips part. An exhale of breath. Unsteady. Alan starts wringing his fingers after that and has to force himself to keep them at his sides and not pick at the blood.

Everything on listening to this foolish foolish employee following orders. His head tilts up and it's the only time he takes his eyes off him. Words not coming out of his mouth but obviously there. Questions. He wouldn't have wrote Shadow to describe him. Gone? Yes. Contained? No. They told him this was a stepping stone. Temporary confinement. We promise. It'll do exactly as we've promised. His hand goes in his pocket full of shredded paper and realizes too late it can be strung together like a ransom note. That's not how the story goes. That's not how his mirror works. That's against his rules. Against the narrative. There are consequences when the story doesn't flow.

Bathed in red light. A photo developing in the lab. The light under him goes out and he's the one in the shadows. Scratch can't do anything about it on his own now. They want Alan to move so he doesn't take the muzzle off. Puppet on strings. Where did he hide the scissors? He takes a few steps closer to the box where he knows he's still out of view. ] I don't care if they complain. [ The door opens behind him. "Mister Wake, can you come with us please?" ]

What else did they do, Scratch? [ What did they make him do? He ignores them for a second and they tell him his wife is here. He looks back. How convenient. Is she really? They're just telling him that. He looks back to Scratch and points at him. His arm is touched and he yanks it back. ] We have a deal when I find out.

[ This was a test and they failed it. Red pen all across their answers. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG WRONG WRONG! He's grabbed and tugged lightly. ] Don't touch me! [ An attempt to usher him out of there. Gently, at first. Come on, Mister Wake. Then less gently because he hits one of them. Sir, there's no need to be violent. Two of them. They're trained. He's not. He's not well. They are. He was never going to win that fight. They try to hold him still and he bites one of them. He gets hit back once and loses focus. World spinning. The lights flicker fast. Holds his cheek. ] Fuck! Ugh...

[ Sorry, Mister Wake! So sorry. You were being unreasonable, they say. They don't want to have to sedate you but your wife gave permission. ] That's a fucking lie and you know it! [ Please don't make them resort of extreme measures in order to maintain protocol. This is for your own protection. This is for our protection.

He's lead to the door. He makes to hit one of them again. Dragged to the door. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ The screaming helps. It blocks out what is being said; it blocks out everything but his fury and his ability to sort through the fucking mess in front of him.

How did it happen? Just writing it in their fucking little reports wouldn't do anything. It wasn't a story. Cauldron Lake wouldn't accept such shoddy work - he might if it worked in his favor somehow.

There is a string of violent, venom-filled cursing mixing in his thoughts. It's loud. Everything is red. A light shines through the rage. They did write a story. A story in their reports. A story they're trying to add to collective consciousness within the building. It's another test.

He realizes what happened; he understands.

Bait and a test subject. Scratch isn't a test subject like he thought he was.

He is and he isn't.

He goes quiet, and twists his head to look at Alan, acknowledging the question. ]

... I thought I was the only one who wrote stories under your name.

[ They fucked around with their little nursey rhymes. They're fucking around with Alan's name to see how much they can use to warp reality by invoking his name in their stories.

They'll eventually write to see how else Scratch'll change, but they don't want to do too much in case it cancels out the safety they've written for themselves. Too much hesitation right now since they weren't sure the story they wrote using Alan's name would control him. Named him "the Shadow" because they could exert some control over that character. Like a poorly translated piece of art but treating it as an "adaptation" of Alan's work.

Like he said himself, he takes all edits even if he doesn't love them. If they come from Alan, he'll begrudgingly accept them. Work within the confines of the story as the writer works in the confines of his horror.

The scene warps back into focus for him. He's at the wall, growling something under his breath. His hands slam on the surface - it doesn't get their attention; it doesn't do anything.

Lights flickering. His eyes roll up - not enough to break out, but can do one thing. There is darkness building their hearts; these bastards can't be without it.

That's the plan - that's the hope - bring them the horror they keep playing around with and tear this place apart with their people.

But the HRA protects them; and keeps the darkness from swallowing them. Their shadows just elongate for a second; spread out like the black might rise to choke them. The HRAs block out the noise and the shadow recedes.

A wasted effort.

Vitriol rising inside of him let it boil and burn his insides. ]

That's my writer!

[ The last of what he can say before Alan's dragged out.

His fantasies will come back to him now. He'll return to figuring out what he's going to do to these people. He won't get bored with it this time. He can't. Not after this insult. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ It's later, like the person on the speaker said, that the researchers come to talk to him. Talk at him. ]

Alan didn't write that fucking shit, you fucking hacks!

[ The researchers let out their little sighs, and write in their little clipboards. He has been imagining how he'll break their fingers, rip off the digits, and use them as writing instruments.

They won't die fast; they're going slow.

"Mister Wake is working with us." ]

No, he isn't.

[ He openly dismisses what they say, like they were trying to deny what he saw. Yet despite his denying what was holding him, he couldn't break free.

Because Alan won't yet say that it can't. He just thinks it won't hold me forever. The lights flickering. It's weakening.

Pressing his hands on the wall, he leans down to look one of the researchers in the eye. ]

You are going to die ugly for what you're doing to him. To us.

[ They don't flinch; they don't even look bothered. "We've explained things. You still being confined here shows he believes in the FBC." Their words are calm and clinical. Practiced. Their narrative is preserved.

His eye twitches as he lets his hands drop.

The researchers mumble amongst themselves; they seem pleased that he's talking more, but he's not saying anything of use to what they're trying to observe. They shake their heads in a comically dramatic way, before leaving, still mumbling.

He doesn't care anymore what they're saying; what they're planning.

My writer. It sets his teeth on edge as he runs through what is going on. His face feels flushed with rage; he breathes out slowly.

Alan will come back.

All he has to do is wait. ]

[because]

[ Scratch answered his question and confirmed a lot of fears at once. Like a shadow cast upon the place, despite all their efforts. The salvation to not falling to their whims lied with the thing that left the lake with him. The fact he was still here, in essence, prevented him from ever truly believing a word they said. It makes him difficult.

He asks to smoke and they tell him no. It's bad for you. There's no smoking in the building. Alan follows Ahti to the furnace while the other's headphones play a familiar song. For garbage, Tom. Alan starts burning pages he finds after that. Ones he knows he wrote. Escape attempts. Things of the future. He reads them and destroys them. He's caught with one once and eats it defiantly. He ate the words. It makes him ill and he has to lay down. He doesn't feel right in here. He has a constant headache. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this.

They hand him something and tell him he wrote it. He questions it because he can't sleep. Because the nightmares came back. They're full of ever changing halls and murder and disorienting giant eyeballs and Scratch in his box. Because he's an insomniac. Because he realizes after a full 72 hours of not sleeping that he's not tired and maybe he doesn't actually have to sleep anymore. They said he timed it all wrong. You're still human. He questions it. It's only been a few hours. They give him things to put him to sleep. An assigned Doctor to him. Alice Wake signed off on it, they say. You need to rehabilitate after so much time in there. Something for the sleep. Something for his mood swings. Something for the light sensitivity. He refuses and it's coaxed to him. Forced to him.

He's asked what he dreamed about and accurately states everything on the news by accident. The murder. The storm. The fire. Where's Alice? "You just talked to her." Did I? He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this.

He's dazed and he loses time. Blacks out. Is it the House and the drugs and being in the light? All of the above. He blinks. The hallways change on him. Some Night Springs script about a contained Shadow is slid to him across a table. He doesn't remember when he got in the room and asks. The story talks about a reoccurring monster. The monster needs to sleep now. He's told he wrote it. Alan points out the syntax is all wrong. He wouldn't write this. Why would a monster like that need to sleep? They try to mimic him better after. Sometimes he falls for it. It never works when they write the Shadow. He points at the paper and calls it stupid. Uncreative. Boring. Nerfing your monster doesn't make for a good story. Am I supposed to sympathize with the monster or the scientists? He sympathizes with the monster. Alan takes the pen they gave him and scratches out entire lines of dialogue. Rewrites it. They can't hold it forever. The protagonist and the Shadow should be connected more. The "heroes" in this story should be the villains. This is a tragic love story. They scribble notes on their clipboards and pull the script away to switch with something else. An episode about a monsoon. He's told he wrote it. Okay, he says dazed. Lost. Drowning on land. He doesn't want to write anymore now. He's tired. The radio playing the news on someone's desk talks about a monsoon.

He asks to visit the containment. They ask why. He shrugs. That's too dangerous for you. Don't worry. He's harmless. The shadow is harmless in the box. What if the box breaks?, he asks. They insist it can't. They next paper they put in front of him Alan is writing windows into the cell of the Shadow. So you can hand it things. It's boring if there's nothing in there with it. They try to cross it out. But there's a window already in the box to hand him things. Someone comes to Scratch with one of Alan's books to read. They go to read it to him like a child then notice they can just slide it into a slot on the box so they do. They leave it and leave the room, back to their post.

He sneaks into the Panopticon and gets the man in there talking. And talking. Talking and talking and oh god why won't he shut up. Alan nods and smiles strained while the man explains six Alex Casey movies to their original author in full detail while he peaks into every cell for something useful. Alan steals a familiar thermos right in front of him to test if he can. The man stops to point out he can't take that. Alan points out the last scene he described wasn't in the books and it gets him talking again. He walks out with the thermos. He sees if anyone else in the building is as useful. He reaches the Directors office and gets dizzy. Loses his food in a potted plant. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this.

He makes a point of coming back to containment to let the man ramble at him. Langston. He's a big fan. He gets bits of information among too much detail about cats and movies and old girlfriends. Did you know if something happens to the Director, technically Alan would be in line for it as the only other functional parautilitarian in the building? Alan says he had no idea. Where is the Director? Can you call her for me? No. That's classified. The man eventually admits that the spot they put Scratch's box was originally meant for Alan. But Alan is theirs, a member of the House, and the Shadow is harmless in the box. He can walk freely. Alan says what. Alan Wake is theirs. A member of the House. Alan doesn't think that sounds right. He has it repeated at him again. The floor tilts and passes out in front of a fridge. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this. Stop it. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. The building is too cold. What was the plot of this? You wrote this. This isn't right. He didn't write anything. You wrote this. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this. Am I awake? He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. Help. Please! He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this. I want to go. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. Alan writes a way out, he thinks, and gets lost in a maze. He doesn't have the music. Ahti has the music. You wrote this. Everyone in here deserves to die. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. Alan fistfights security again and gets a black eye. The Shadow is harmless in the box. You wrote this. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. You wrote this. He can't find Ahti. He had the way out. Where the fuck is he? Alan Wake is a member of the House. The black eye is gone and it's only been an hour. They tell him he kept track wrong. It healed normally, Mister Wake. He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. He tries to get to Scratch and they grab him. You wrote this. There's a window in the floor and a door in the ceiling. Alan Wake is a member of the House. Is he standing still, or running, or kneeling? He comes to sitting at a table and a script is slid in front of him. Alan Wake is a member of the House. He knows people's names he never met. You wrote this. He enters a hallway and every light goes out. Alan Wake is a member of the House. He thinks he's in the box instead. You wrote this. I have to get out of here. You wrote this. He manages to get a gun off security. You wrote this. If he aims it at his own head, will the spiral go to a new cycle? He didn't get out, did he? You wrote this. The clip is empty when he checks it and they strongly suggest he goes to sleep. That's enough testing for now. Please take a break. They offer to escort him and he shakes his head. No. He got it. He can go himself. He wrote this.

Alan opens the door to Scratch's room with a borrowed key and presses his forehead against it after closing it, taking in a deep breath. Out of breath. He ran there. The room with the most lights makes his head stop spinning, funny enough. Thump thump thump. He turns, carefully and presses his back to it so he can look towards the other and there's this odd horrible sense of relief that he's exactly where he left him. That he remembered how to get here. He keeps his hand along the wall to keep steady once he moves his back off the door. He put on layers. An old tweed jacket over a hoodie over this grey sweatshirt provided to him compliments of the house. The building is making him shiver. He walks along black marker Xs marked on floor like he's on a tight-rope. ]

Sorry, I'm late. I brought coffee. [ He shakes a thermos he pulls out of his pocket. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ "You need to sleep."

His head cocks to the side at the statement; he turns away to start laughing. What the fuck did they think he was? They haven't been giving him fucking anything and suddenly announce he needs sleep?

His laughter echoes off the walls of the room. It sounds of a massacre to come; of screaming that will shake the foundations.

He knows what they're doing - he can feel them trying to see how much they can alter his existence.

Scratch continues to laugh.

The lights flicker more these days. The bulbs have to be changed out - they have to be careful about a shadow touching the walls. He asks irritating questions like how many generators it takes to power the entire room. They quip something about the Oldest House and how it doesn't matter.

He smiles and tells them that they should be careful Alan doesn't hear about that; it sounds like a plothole to him. It makes things too convenient for everyone.

They have a second - it's much longer - of looking worried. The light bulb is changed. They leave.

A slot appears on the side of his container. He reaches out to press his hand against it. Alan. He scans the room like the writer will appear. He doesn't. His book does, though. Scratch accepts it. One of the Alex Casey novels. Cute.

The shadows that the pages cast aren't something they can do anything about, but the Shadow is harmless in the box. The dark evaporates before he can do anything with it. He can hear violent scribbling over the microphone whenever he tries to manifest his power and fails.

Someone else comes to see him other than fucking researchers or the crew to change the ever-dimming lightbulbs.

It turns out that he's head of wherever he is. For a first introduction, it seems right to be face-to-face, so the man says. He apologizes and says the next conversations will be by the speaker - "Research Department orders, like that, should mean anything considering where we are." Scratch is unamused, but the man keeps talking to him. It's less of an "at" like those that come in with their clipboards. He's awkwardly searching for a topic but admits he's trying to find a way to get along with an Altered Item like him. He violently kicks the wall. The man retracts the statement and says he didn't mean it like that; like he's a thing; it's a quick apology. But it sounds sincere so Scratch doesn't follow up with how he's going to kill him.

The man talks about the novel he has; he says it's one of his favorites but then again he loves everything that Alan's written. Scratch turns more towards him and agrees that he's a fan. His smile isn't nice, but the man smiles back at him - seemingly pleased; he comments that it's nice they have a connection and topic to discuss. He adds that it takes someone of great caliber and self to know how to pick an author.

...

Langston's weird, but he's better than the researchers. He talks to him about Alan - over a speaker as orders demand. Someone else's voice occasionally joins in to tell him that he is to be mindful of the information he relays to the Shadow. He promises what he says isn't classified or harmful. It's true. It's just chatter - like how he talked to Alan about the Alex Casey movies that came out; like how the movies still weren't as good as the novels; like how they got a lot of things wrong and wouldn't have happened if Alan had written them.

It's always a nothing conversation but it appeases him some.

Maybe he'll kill him last. Maybe ... he does talk a fuckton.

But when the researchers come in after their chats, he waits a bit before he tells them how they're going to die.

He hasn't let it go; he hasn't gotten bored of his fantasies.

He will kill every one of them.

The door opens. Scratch lets out a loud sigh as he turns a page of the book. He likes having it in his hands; it adds a certain level of asshole to his behavior; making sure they know they're interrupting his time. He enjoys it. Anything to dig under their skin until he can do it with something sharp and broken.

But he hears him breathe and the book is dropped. He's already up and at the transparent wall. He frowns as he looks him over. He'll kill them; he'll kill them; he'll kill them; he'll kill them -- the line repeats itself over and over.

He's starting to see red again and shakes it off to speak. ]

I can actually have some. [ He lifts his hand to knock it on the slot. ] How mad were they? [ How badly do you want them to suffer, Alan? As much as I do? More? ]

And hey. Thanks for the book. It's helped eat up the long hours of standing around and waiting.

[because]

[ The book drops and he sort of jumps at the sound of it. The way it echos against the nothingness in the rest of the room. How everything else had been quiet but the hum of the lights and his own labored breathing. His eyes dart to it then back to the other's face and smiles about it. Ha. It worked. ]

You can. [ He moves over, looking up because he has to step out of the safety of his x-lined blind spots to get to the spot. If he got this right, the person that watches this particular camera shouldn't be paying attention. Not until they realize he never made it to his destination. He bee-lined so that should give some time without supervision. ] They tried to- [ A breath ] -line it all out immediately after I put it on the page. [ He puts a hand on the glass, fingers splayed out. Leaning there for a second, squinting one eye shut and nodding. Trying to just get a full control of himself. The longer he stays in here, the better he feels. The lights seem to dim with his lack of energy. Like a run down battery. ]

Yeah, no problem. [ He shifts and leans his entire shoulder on it instead, sliding down it into a half-crouch, sitting on his feet and taking the cup off the top of the thermos. ] You asked for Return but- [ He makes a vague gesture with his hands. Best you get. He lost that copy. A cup gets poured unsteadily, he spills a little of it and makes a face. Looking at the spot on his jacket like it's the worst thing that could've happened in that moment. Spilled coffee on him. ]

You didn't sleep, right? [ He asks it with concern slipping into his voice before he can mask it. ] They make me sleep. [ He pulls the slot open, sticking his arm through it with no hint of fear behind it to pass him the cup after sipping it himself first. It's good. This is the best thing he's ever stolen. Or didn't steal. He's pretty sure this might be his first. It's the only thing that doesn't make him nauseated lately. Scratch won't hurt him, putting his hand in the cage. The Shadow is harmless in the box. No, no no. That's wrong. He isn't going to hurt him because they're the same. They're not opposing forces now.

He tries to remember his plan after he got in here, cradling the rest of the thermos to his chest with his other hand and watching him. He had a plan. What did he plan? He burnt it. What was it he wrote down? He was supposed to be able to remember things once he was out and they're holding him under water on purpose. Easy to control. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

Why do they have to be so rude to us? [ He lifts his hand; his fingertips lightly over where Alan's are. Scratch doesn't look up when the lights dim - not this time. ]

Well... the answer is that they're scared and don't know how else to be.

[ He turns his hand how it's lightly pressed against the glass, rubs his knuckles against the surface instead. Like he's able to stroke the inside of Alan's palm. Only takes his hand away when the writer moves his. ]

What can you do? [ He shrugs, mirroring the gesture, with a little more animation. ] They'll probably find some of the manuscript pages somewhere. [ Not enough to have the full novel, but it'll be nice to know the story survived. Even if it sticks in his craw that the ending was changed. No need to rub salt in an open wound. ]

Mm - they told me I needed it. [ A smile flashes - filled with an untold amount of cruelty to be had. ] I laughed at them. [ A beat. ] But no - no sleep for the wicked. [ Other changes he's noted, though.

The lack of hesitation in sticking his arm in is noted. Is it because he's been effectively rendered useless? Or something else? Well, the story isn't horror, anymore. ]

You should think about using Langston. He has enough sympathy to open this cage. [ Scratch reaches out; he holds his wrist lightly, and gives it a small squeeze. He draws his hand back to take the cup. ] I'll even let him live as a "thank you."

[ Quiet, thoughtfully spoken. It's a lie. He would let Langston live regardless. He thinks he might like the guy. Not too unlike how he somewhat liked Barry - but different. It's weird, strange. So he couples it with trying to ruin whatever happiness Langston could have in the future; ruin any aspirations he may hold. That makes sense to him.

He lifts the cup to take a small drink. Frowning, he nods - it is surprisingly good. Scratch makes a thoughtful sound as he tips the cup back, thinking - thinking. Thinking of how to word his next question, but deciding honesty will be best. ]

Has the narrative proven that the majority deserves to live? [ A brighter smile. He always wants to turn it back to horror, because it's what he understands. But, but, but - the story isn't a horror story right now.

He drops his voice down to a whisper - as the topic shifts. ]

We should go home, Alan.

[because]

Fear can lead to terrible things.

[ I would know, goes without saying. Something's changed. Softness to the gestures. The movements non-threatening. Alan wouldn't have to think they're threatening right now, even if they were. He wonders if the drugs are just kicking back in and he's not even awake right now. Not really. Maybe he never woke up to begin with. He tends to drop and they move him. He wants so desperately to just feel okay again. He doesn't remember how. ] I've been burning what I find. [ A sad admission. He wonders if that's why he can't grasp a hold of this. He can't trust them with them. They won't keep them in a neat little binder like Tim. They've been playing scrabble with his words and making him play God against his will. There's twice the amount of staff in certain sectors and he thinks they used him to recruit. Make up their numbers they lost after the Hiss tore through the building.

His head leans on the glass next, scanning Scratch's face with his eyes. Taking him in. He looks so nice still. Bastard. ] Good. Fuck 'em. They should get laughed at for that. It's not going to work. [ He shifts so he's not sitting on his feet. Just sitting. ] I keep noticing when it's about you. [ Adjusts to make his arm dangling into the Lion's den more comfortable, no plans to pull it back. ] What's that say about me? Not an ounce of wickedness at the moment? [ He puts the thermos down and mimes shooting himself in the head. ] Pushed it all out the back? [ He looks up, squinting around the room for a second. How are they powering these lights?

He frowns, brows knitting. He looks surprised then half-smirks ] Does he talk at you too? I like him. Annoying as hell but he understood my vision. Those movies sound terrible. Barry's probably living it up with my money from it though. Good for him. [ Arm going incredibly still at the squeeze. His head tips where it leans, looking at the contact. Blue thinking deep on it. An ocean of thoughts. A heart that picks up the pace. When the cup leaves his hand it feels cold without it, he doesn't pull back. On the contrary, he turns his hand, palm up and gestures with it. Give me your hand. Can you keep me awake? ] He has to live. Think of the cat. We can't destroy that family. [ We. He pauses, staring downwards. Wondering if there's any truth to actually letting someone live. If he can spare someone. Anyone. He's been dreaming of murders. He thinks he knows why. This wasn't supposed to be a horror story anymore. Lets them fall into silence while they're both thinking.

Scratch seems to be reading his mind. He looks back up, fearful. Guilty. The smile too bright for the question. A light fades out completely in the room. He doesn't look up at it. What was the plan? What was the plan? It's right there. They're going to come back and he will have accomplished nothing. Home. Right. He has to leave. He has to get the fuck out of here. He sits up a little and whispers back. ]

Where is that?

[ He doesn't want to go back to that town. That ocean. To the Dark. The apartment probably got sold off by now because he can't picture Barry paying that rent. They're both dead. "Alice" only visits when he needs to be wrangled in and betrays him and stopped visiting at all because they think they can control him without evoking her name now. She isn't where he can reach her and the feeling that followed the realization is insurmountable. Everyone that could help him is unaware. Like the Director, he imagines.

This leaves Scratch. The one presence in his life. The irony. He trusts him to be him. He knows him. He needs him. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ It's a second before he admits a failing. He sneers briefly before his expression returns to neutral. ]

Those little HRAs are keeping them safe from me. Blocks out my influence. I really should thank the Hiss for making life so much more difficult for us. Because, if it was just us, this place would be crawling with Taken by now.

[ He can feel it; something squirming beneath them. He could use it all to twist their insides and fill it all with dark water. But he can't - and he knows the other reason why.

[ He sighs. ] The story be a little derivative, wouldn't it? [ A beat. ] I'll have to do everything myself.

[ But the FBC holds a lot of confidence in their Director. He sometimes hears them murmuring that even if he gets out, she will be able to deal with him. She's fought the Hiss multiple times - and won. She wouldn't fall to him.

Scratch refuses that truth. Alan's the only one allowed to defeat him, to outsmart him. He got himself a co-author, but it was Alan's words in the end. If she was on her own, she wouldn't have won; it was because of Alan any of them could have done anything to him.

The two of them were too close, too connected. They belonged to each other.

He reassures himself; he feels reassured. ]

Keep burning it. Eventually, you'll be able to write whatever you want, buddy. [ A cheerful promise of the future.

He only frowns for a second at the miming gesture. He doesn't like it; he doesn't like how it took him from Alan. But that'd be telling, he smiles and quips back instead with: ] Or I got all your best parts - again. I've always said that much.

[ Scratch blinks, looks him over, again. The rage burns inside him; boiling like the darkness that swirls in his head. He can only stand to see Alan ruined if he's the cause. He can undo whatever's done; they can just start again when it gets to be too much. Alan can write multiple stories of killing him, of having him taste fear and death. They start again. A new page. A new story.

It's a love song that he comprehends. ]

Yeah. He certainly never runs out of words, but he knows how to say the right thing. So, he doesn't need to have a visit from me. [ Hm. ] I wrote about Barry. Your best friend is living well with the money. Can't escape the guilt he feels, though, about the Andersons, about you. Not really. He's trying. It's cute.

[ Soffly, he continues: ] His part in the story ends quietly, slipping off to find the means to forgive himself - or fall to pieces somewhere we can't see. [ Scratch shrugs; he liked the little clown. He leaves the ending up for Barry to decide, but knows which one he votes for, despite that fondness.

He reaches, takes his hand, and holds it. He thinks about leaning down to bite the skin; remembering the blood that bloomed on the fingertips. Later? Now? He'll think about it. If his mouth is full of blood, he won't be able to keep talking.

Later it is. ]

Alfred would be heartbroken what with his separation anxiety.

[ The pause and thoughtful silence follows. What to do with the people - what does the narrative say about FBC? Is it worth saving? Preserving? Some people, maybe. A minuscule crew that will once more limp forward to build itself back up from another tragedy. What's the moral there? Does the story need a moral? Too much shock value and the story becomes trash. He wouldn't want Alan's name associated with anything other than perfection.

Scratch wants to go back into the dark, but stops. Down there - chaos and violence mean nothing. Pouring a glass of water into the ocean. But Alan made it mean something to him.

However, the two of them worked hard for thirteen years to return to this reality. It wouldn't do to throw all that work away. This isn't like Alex Casey. They have only written so much and there's so much more that can happen. He can't have it end.

So, he has to backtrack, has to change his initial answer. ]

Anywhere but here. [ He smiles. ] I was around for a long time before, but never saw a place worth staying. But I was on my own. We can find a better place. [ We - Us - Them. They can do it. ]

[because]

They're all blocking you then? That sucks for you.

[ Alan's mind is trying to search things he knew from years ago through the haze. The loops. Everything in his system. The one time he managed to actually make contact with the outside. Break through a barrier because the walls in the House were vulnerable. Made a phone call. ]

I wrote that one. [ A dull reciting. ] You are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you. Happiness comes. White pearls, but yellow and red in the eye. Through a mirror, inverted is made right. Leave your insides by the door. [ It feels like opening a door with a fire behind it. The handle hot to touch and warns of danger. He looks back to his double and stops talking, pressing his lips together firmly. He was never at risk to that himself. He licks them. Mouth feels dry. He takes a sip out of the thermos. The Hiss and the Dark Presence. They're not compatible completely. That's why Hartmann was... Something else entirely. ] It'd be too easy. It's not the same frequency. They'd have to be making constant adjustments. [ His eyes wander back up to the lights. He puts the thermos back down after another gulp of it. ] Sorry, I made it harder for you. [ Ha ha. Then, as if losing his train of thought: ] How do they keep these on? Did you ask? [ His fingers tap on the ground next to him with his free hand. Miming typing. Maybe he is. A generator room of some sort. Putting logic on a building that tries not to have it apply. It's malleable to his whims. Too many plot holes he can fill. ]

[ The Director is how they got him. He trusted her. Just her. She vouched for her good employees. Told him what she believed to be true. He hasn't seen her since. How long can they keep this from her? Where's her attached force to hear his pleas for help? Why won't she pick up the phone? ]

I hope so. [ He's not used to feeling like Scratch's affirmations had actual validity to them and made him feel better. He raises an eyebrow and looks the other up and down at the quip. A genuine once over. His better parts? Better visuals. He clicks his tongue and looks away again. ] Uh-huh. That's got to be it. [ More coffee is drank. He can feel it trying to counteract the cold and the vertigo that hits before he feels like he needs to pass out.

His full focus goes to him. Don't write about Barry. There's concern all over his face, in the way his hand, offered to him, tenses up like it might pull back if any fear about it is confirmed. It's not. Not really. He stays. ] I read an email he might've joined a cult. [ Note to self: Get in contact with Barry once out. A-S-A-P.

The hand he's holding is gripped tightly. Held on to like he's trying to use it to drag himself up from a cliff. He likes holding hands. Always has. Alice used to grab it and pull him along places. The one he's holding right now has a lot of blood on it. Still, he wanted to take it. ]

You wouldn't hurt a cat, would you? [ Alan wonders if he feels more for the cat having a late dinner than if most of the people in the building died.

The smile draws him in for once. Anywhere but here. Here is terrible. And he's right. The cat would be preferable. Everyone else could have their necks snap and he wouldn't care. The growing bubbling anger in him has the visual of one hit his head and it's a little too satisfying to be comfortable with. Lights flicker. Someone with his face grabs a hold of a guard's head and twists. The body hits the floor with a sickening crack. Blood pools from wounds he can't see the sources of. He grips Scratch's hand in a way that would hurt if he was a person. And his pupils shrink. His head turns, very slowly to the door and the blood pooling under it. There isn't any. Something that didn't happen yet. His other hand jerks, picking those still typing fingers off the floor. Wait. No. He didn't write that. He doesn't want to kill anyone. That's how the story would go if he got out though. They'll never let him leave. He has to write that. He wrote that. That's how it has to go. That's the only way. The Shadow is harmless in the box.

A realization hits him. The typewriter gets pushed at the end of a sentence for a new line. There's a wild look to him suddenly and he remembers. He put a hole in the box. He turns to face him completely, so suddenly, tipping the thermos with a foot. Spilling good coffee all over the floor. On his jacket. The stain will never come out. Alan pulls his arm back in to himself and yanks Scratch's hand, tightly gripped, with it through the slot. A violent pull so their hands will end up against his chest. No HRA. No block. He's sitting in a shadow cast by Scratch himself. Out of the box. Anywhere but here.

He holds his breath. Fuck. What did he just do? ]

1/2

[geniusofslaughter]

Right?

[ He tilts his head, lets out a strained sigh. Holding Alan's hand, talking like this, it's - it's nice. He's feeling better than he has in a while. Scratch drinks more of the coffee; he thinks that it wouldn't be so terrible if he needed to worry about these things. It's brief and fleeting - no, he doesn't want to be more human. Not that way, anyway. ]

Hmmm - and they know that, too? [ With a small jerk of his head, he gestures towards the door. His gaze drops down to the half-drunk cup of coffee; he looks amused.

The thought of throwing the cup against the wall hits him, but he'd be the one suffering for it. Maybe? Would it stain the transparent material? Affect how the light shines in?

Lights dimming. Will he get out another way? A way that doesn't have to sit around the smell of stained coffee? Besides, Alan put a lot of effort into sharing it with him. Another way - then. He drinks more. ]

I did ask. They explained it's related to the Oldest House. [ With the cup, he makes a small little semi-circle in the air. ] They've got themselves power plants. They don't ever have to worry about electricity or outages. [ He squints his eyes, looking at Alan. ] Doesn't sound right, does it?

[ But also, he was just talking to the people who changed the lights - or people who don't want him to know for sure. Yeah. There's probably more to it. Has to be. But so long as he can say it's a plothole or a weakness in the design; it's fine.

The seed is planted, and he carries on.

He leans back a little. ] Did he join one? That wasn't me. [ Scratch brings the cup around to rest against his chest. He is quick to deny that he had anything to do with that course of direction. ] But I support the decision. [ He then smiles around the rim of the cup as he takes a small sip. Getting too comfortable, he's saying one-or-two things he shouldn't.

And it's a second before he recognizes it. ]

Barry will be fine. I didn't peacefully write him out of the story just so that he could get got by cultists. [ Because he can't see Barry doing ritualistic murders. This means, if he balks at that, he might get targeted. And if anyone should be allowed to murder Alan's best friend, it's him. And if he doesn't want to, then no one should be allowed to; simple as that.

He matches how Alan holds onto his hand, clinging to him, too. He doesn't want to let him go. Why should anyone be allowed to have him? ]

No. [ The answer is quick, laced with mild offense. ] I'm not going to make a Pet Cemetary rip-off and I want to get to know people. Even if it'll hurt him, I can just hurt him.

[ Also simple and effective.

He thinks he might be sad when this visit is over. ]

[geniusofslaughter]

[ Something changes in the air. He can feel it. He isn't sure what it is. Maybe it's the moment of honesty and compromise he gave. We don't have to go back to the lake. You don't have to pull anything else through. It can just be us. It should just be us.

Lights flicker. The way his hand is being held feels desperate. Alan has faded from the conversation. He doesn't have to worry about carrying it on, then. He takes a step forward. He lifts their joined hands; he opens his mouth to bite his wrist.

Later's now.

It's not to tell him to stop holding on because he hasn't loosened his grip either. He's giving a simple series of statements: Pay attention to me. Where did you go? But his eyes widen as he realizes he can't even draw blood. Not that he won't, but he isn't able to bite down hard enough. It would only need a bandaid for a little bit. It's like he's trying to argue with his limitations.

But if he had an inch, he'd take a mile.

He drops the hands back and keeps holding on. Disappointed.

The disappointment shifts to surprise. His mouth did start to open to chastise him for spilling the coffee. Scratch doesn't expect to have Alan yank him closer, doesn't expect him to bring their hands against his chest. He does as he wanted to before, and tosses the cup against one of the walls.

His eyes are filled with hunger and excitement.

He doesn't hesitate. His body vanishes from inside the box. Instead undulating darkness burts itself free. The shadows smash themselves against the walls, spreading across the surface. Lights shatter, break; rains glass. The brief sound of a speaker making some noise before it also is torn from where it is and crashes into the containment unit.

The darkness attempts to wrap itself around Alan, to return home. But he has his own body. It seems to know it. Smoke and mist recede as he stands out in the actual room. He pauses to look down at his hands, back at the containment unit, at the speaker sparking on the ground. Offering a weak light source before it dies.

The room is pitch black but he can see.

Scratch steps forward - his shoes crunching the broken mess that he's made. He has a casual smile but is filled with so much vibrancy. He reaches out to rest on either side of Alan's face. Taking in his expression; hopefully, his approval of the destruction; he's buzzing with all the promises he's made; all the plans he has for the people here. ]

This is just the start.

[because]

[ The conversation had faded out on him. He would have liked to keep it going actually. Try to figure out what the House has as a power plant. Thank him, in a way, for the fact that he wrote Barry safely. Keep the steady hold of their hands.

They had been out of time, of course. Alan’s timing almost perfect. Everything clicked into place the second people realized a precious asset wandered off the designated path. They’ll know where he went. They’ll immediately know where he went. They’re already outside the door.

Alan’s eyes were full of fear and desperation. And a third thing. Pure determination. He can control this. Get him the fuck out of here.

The glass falls and Alan covers his head with his arms as he’s plunged, once again, into pitch black. He expects to be plunged into sleep with Scratch in the driver’s seat by the end of it and is at a loss when he isn’t momentarily. They’re not the same person. Scratch doesn’t have to do that. A sigh of relief between the deep breaths. Don’t pass out.

Cautiously, he shifts, while things are sparking and he loses the last source of visuals before he can’t see in the room. He tries to stand and slips in the damn coffee on the way up. A squeak, the crunch of glass and a slight thud as he hits it. Alan hissing in the dark and swearing Motherfucker under his breath. He gets back up, finding nothing on the ground for purchase that isn’t covered in glass. Bloody handprints to start the chaos are his own. Will they think it was a struggle?

He gets up and rubs at his wrist instead, the intent of teeth. Everything stings and it keeps him awake. Eyes adjusting. Trying to see. Phantom typing. He clicks a light in his hand and illuminates his own face. Written into the scene. The handle slick with his own blood. This, he knows. The darkness. His one source of light. Scratch before him. He aims it at the floor when he hears the glass crunch under shoes. Doesn’t move when he touches him. Keeps the light down away from the shadows he set free.

Blues a deep ocean to drown in that focus on the other’s face. A heart rate that goes too fast. He puts one of his hands over his, soaking it up. Alan doesn’t quite approve. Expression more resigned. A righteous fury. It has to go this way. They’re using him to play God. He can’t keep his focus. A wave of nausea. The sound of an alarm in the distance and footsteps in unison. Armed guards. They have contingencies for this. HRAs and beams of light and will try to twist his words in their favor. Alan Wake is a member of the House. Alan Wake is a member of the House. The scene changed. The cell different. It has a door. A bed. Coffee drips off the wall. Langston’s bit of information. Did you know the room was originally for him?

He clenches his eyes shut, a headache. He holds on to Scratch’s arm. No! These are his words. Get out of his story. The scene goes back. Glass in his hands. Alan nods once. Do it.

The door opens from the first response. There will be a lot more where that came from. Armed with flashing lights. Mister Wake step away from the Shadow, please! We do not want to hurt you by accident! You are not the target but we will disable you if necessary! Step away!

Wait what? He moves a step behind Scratch. ]

Are you serious? Fuck off!