Act One - The Train: cws: references to immolation, memory loss, paranoia, derealization, depersonalization, substance use
The man asleep in the train car certainly doesn't look like he was prepared for travel; leaning against the window, wild, dark curls hanging loose in his face and stuck between the back of his head and the pane of glass, snoring faintly from the awkward position. He has no shoes or socks on, no shirt - only a pair of tight leather pants and a black pinstriped blazer, worn open so his chest is exposed. Costume jewelry glitters on his fingers and wrists, set against skin pale enough that he may as well not have seen the light in years.
For the most part, he hasn't.
So when he stirs awake, slitting one crystal blue eye open, the sudden change of scenery catches him off guard. He looks around with a start, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. A train? When did he get on a train?
"What-?"
Reeling, he ignores any company he may have and tries to orient himself with the basics, looking down at his own attire with a frown. He's...a diver? No, wait, he's a poet. Or both? Which is correct? They both feel correct and incorrect at the same time. His head throbs, and he pitches forward, grasping at his curls and murmuring to himself in quavering Finnish.
At least, he does until there's a greater lurching, the screech of metal scraping and tearing, and the world tumbles end over end.
The next thing he knows is the sensation of being pinned across the chest and one arm under a displaced, crumpled row of seats, coughing in the thick black smoke that is filling the cabin with alarming speed. He tries to pull free.
He can't.
"Help-" He calls out, weakly at first, confused and filled with vague memories of a burnt out subway car, of charred bodies in great piles inside. Another attempt to wriggle free. There's a backpack on the ground, just beyond his foot. He can't even reach that.
He should be able to do more than this. Shouldn't he?
"HELP!"
Act Two - The Goo: cws: Parasitic control, derealization, depersonalization, substance use
For most people, glimpsing a black, tar-like ooze moving across the ground of its own volition would probably set off some alarm bells in one's head. Shimmering little drops of darkness, seeking, reaching out towards life nearby would probably seem like cause for concern.
Unfortunately, most people haven't spent the last few decades living in a liminal dimension under a lake where the constant drip of animate darkness was the norm.
To Tom, when he reaches down to investigate the substance and it latches onto his wrist like another bracelet, it's pretty much just a normal Tuesday.
The auteur doesn't even realize that anything is amiss, honestly. He sways and staggers as he walks, barefoot, the world spinning around and around in a great spiral until he stumbles to the ground, laying out on the dirt, staring breathlessly up into the sky. His backpack rolls a couple feet from him, but he doesn't feel concerned.
Probably just the bit of mushroom he took this morning to take the edge off of reality.
(It's not the mushroom.)
If approached, he grins, wide and mad, blue eyes glittering as he brings his fingers together like a viewfinder.
"Whaaaaat a GREAT angle! Can y - can you hold still, right there? And let me jussssssst...getmy. Camera."
But he doesn't move.
He's just staring at you.
Act Three - Two Truths and a Lie: cw: references to death/gun violence, unreality, parasitic compulsion
un: YotonYo
Oh, this is a fun game! I want to play, too. =)
1 - I have no idea how old I am. 2 - I have been shot in the head dozens of times. 3 - I have lived for decades on a lake.
Paljon onnea!
Wildcard
((Howdy, I'm Vin! Happy to match format for any of this. Sorry in advance for this menace of a man.
I'm not really on Plurk at the moment, but please feel free to reach out via DM or on Discord at Vincira if you wanna cook something up! =D))
Tom Zane | Alan Wake 2
cws: references to immolation, memory loss, paranoia, derealization, depersonalization, substance use
The man asleep in the train car certainly doesn't look like he was prepared for travel; leaning against the window, wild, dark curls hanging loose in his face and stuck between the back of his head and the pane of glass, snoring faintly from the awkward position. He has no shoes or socks on, no shirt - only a pair of tight leather pants and a black pinstriped blazer, worn open so his chest is exposed. Costume jewelry glitters on his fingers and wrists, set against skin pale enough that he may as well not have seen the light in years.
For the most part, he hasn't.
So when he stirs awake, slitting one crystal blue eye open, the sudden change of scenery catches him off guard. He looks around with a start, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. A train? When did he get on a train?
"What-?"
Reeling, he ignores any company he may have and tries to orient himself with the basics, looking down at his own attire with a frown. He's...a diver? No, wait, he's a poet. Or both? Which is correct? They both feel correct and incorrect at the same time. His head throbs, and he pitches forward, grasping at his curls and murmuring to himself in quavering Finnish.
At least, he does until there's a greater lurching, the screech of metal scraping and tearing, and the world tumbles end over end.
The next thing he knows is the sensation of being pinned across the chest and one arm under a displaced, crumpled row of seats, coughing in the thick black smoke that is filling the cabin with alarming speed. He tries to pull free.
He can't.
"Help-" He calls out, weakly at first, confused and filled with vague memories of a burnt out subway car, of charred bodies in great piles inside. Another attempt to wriggle free. There's a backpack on the ground, just beyond his foot. He can't even reach that.
He should be able to do more than this. Shouldn't he?
"HELP!"
Act Two - The Goo:
cws: Parasitic control, derealization, depersonalization, substance use
For most people, glimpsing a black, tar-like ooze moving across the ground of its own volition would probably set off some alarm bells in one's head. Shimmering little drops of darkness, seeking, reaching out towards life nearby would probably seem like cause for concern.
Unfortunately, most people haven't spent the last few decades living in a liminal dimension under a lake where the constant drip of animate darkness was the norm.
To Tom, when he reaches down to investigate the substance and it latches onto his wrist like another bracelet, it's pretty much just a normal Tuesday.
The auteur doesn't even realize that anything is amiss, honestly. He sways and staggers as he walks, barefoot, the world spinning around and around in a great spiral until he stumbles to the ground, laying out on the dirt, staring breathlessly up into the sky. His backpack rolls a couple feet from him, but he doesn't feel concerned.
Probably just the bit of mushroom he took this morning to take the edge off of reality.
(It's not the mushroom.)
If approached, he grins, wide and mad, blue eyes glittering as he brings his fingers together like a viewfinder.
"Whaaaaat a GREAT angle! Can y - can you hold still, right there? And let me jussssssst...getmy. Camera."
But he doesn't move.
He's just staring at you.
Act Three - Two Truths and a Lie:
cw: references to death/gun violence, unreality, parasitic compulsion
un: YotonYo
Oh, this is a fun game! I want to play, too. =)
1 - I have no idea how old I am.
2 - I have been shot in the head dozens of times.
3 - I have lived for decades on a lake.
Paljon onnea!
Wildcard
((Howdy, I'm Vin! Happy to match format for any of this. Sorry in advance for this menace of a man.
I'm not really on Plurk at the moment, but please feel free to reach out via DM or on Discord at Vincira if you wanna cook something up! =D))