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Chapter Text

At first there was nothing. Just… complete and utter emptiness. The man felt weightless as he drifted, disoriented. The air was stagnant and cold, piercing his bones and leaving him shuddering. It was eerily quiet, and everything felt muffled.

… Where was he? He couldn’t… remember. Thoughts slipped from his mind like water trickling through his fingers, draining away. It was so dark. Why was it so dark?

Suddenly, a noise at the edge of his perception caught his attention. It was ever-changing and barely detectable. Even as he listened, it shifted from a deep hum to a sibilant hiss, crescendoing into the sound of gale force winds ripping through the trees. It… sounded like breathing. Was that his breathing? Or something else? Something big and tall that could swallow him whole? Unease tightened along his spine as the noises grew louder, sinister murmurs dancing along the wind. He couldn’t make them out. Was he surrounded? The voices were coming from everywhere, around him and in him.

He tried twisting around, straining his eyes to catch the barest glimpse of something. Anything. But he couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t feel himself move. It was just emptiness, stretching on forever.

Just as fast as they started, the noises suddenly stopped. And then he felt It.

It was something that was almost beyond description. It felt like millions of glittering black eyes boring into his skin, like hundreds of gnashing, jagged fangs ripping into his flesh, snapping his bones, eviscerating him. It felt like cold, endless darkness, drowning him beneath its waves and burrowing into every part of him. It felt like when he first killed a person, like their lifeless corpse had risen again and was pinning him beneath their gaze until he was screaming and begging for forgiveness and suffocating in the weight of his guilt.

Fear, unlike anything he had ever experienced, blotted out everything in his mind. He had to get away. He had to kill this thing. He had to escape. Why the fuck couldn’t he move? He could feel It getting closer with every heartbeat, but he was frozen in place.

Beneath the haze of terror and oppressing darkness, he registered something else. There was a rhythmic, faint… clicking noise. Like a keyboard, but higher-pitched and punchier. And for the first time, he could see something. The faintest pinprick of light shone in the distance, miles and miles away. He could just barely make out the outline of a figure. A person. He tried to open his mouth, to scream in fear, to warn them, to breathe. But no sound escaped him. Even as It encroached upon him, gathering shadows blotting out the light, he could… sense the figure turn towards him. It was a person, holding a flashlight, shining the light at him. He couldn’t see their face. They opened their mouth, fingers clenching on the light, and then-

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Jack jerked awake with a startled yelp, his heart pounding in his chest. Cold sweat was drying on his skin, and his hands were trembling. He was freezing, cold terror licking at his mind and making him want to jump to his feet. A migraine pounded in his head, thumping in time with his erratic heartbeat. Something brushed against his shoulder, and Jack flinched. He whipped around so fast that his neck gave an audible crick noise, dull pain lancing up from something jamming into the small of his back. Blinking owlishly, he saw his brother sitting next to him, an alarmed look on his face. “You were having a nightmare,” Will said quietly, dropping his hand from where he had shook Jack awake.

Jack rubbed the grit from his eyes, looking around in confusion, still one foot in the haze of his dream. They were on a bus, driving through the American Midwest. The bus was barely half full, and the other passengers didn’t spare the brothers a second glance. He had been lying against the cold window, a smudge from his cheek left on the glass. He felt something warm and wet dripping from his nose, and gently touched his upper lip. His finger came away red with blood. Jack swore, bringing a hand up to stem the flow while he dug around in the seat pocket for something to mop it up. He found a stray travel packet of tissues that someone had left behind and prayed that they were unused. He then unceremoniously shoved one up his nose. The nosebleed wasn’t that bad, and had already slowed to a stop. With another tissue, he wiped away any remaining blood, shoving what remained of the travel packet back into the seat pocket.

Endless rows of corn and gentle rolling hills whipped past them on the highway, stretching on to the horizon. Bright golden sunlight streamed in through the window, warming the chill in his bones. Farmland stretched on for as far as the eye could see, and after a moment of examination, he felt like he had already seen everything Kansas had to offer. Experience yourself and the beauties of nature! Fall in love with the beautiful prairie of the Great Plains! An information pamphlet read in agonizingly bright text. It was flecked with drops of his blood, and Jack snorted. The only thing I’m experiencing is regret for agreeing to go on this trip, he thought.

Will was staring at him in that uncanny way of his, his fingers twiddling together as he waited for his brother to speak. “Thanks for waking me up,” he mumbled to Will, conscious of the people sitting behind them.

“What were you dreaming about? Did it have to do with your condition?” Will asked, his head tilted with curiosity and scientific interest.

Jack frowned, thinking back. Most of the dream had already faded away, nothing but lingering unease licking at the edges of his brain. “I don’t remember,” he said with a shrug, though his voice was laden with uncertainty. “I guess it wasn’t that important if I can’t remember it.” Will shot him a dubious look, but returned to the notebook he was writing in without another word. Jack shifted in his seat so that his back wasn’t digging into the arm rest, turning to stare out of the window and watch farmland roll by. He took a few calming breaths to slow his heartbeat, trying to empty his mind of the last vestiges of his nightmare. He tried to focus instead on the terrain, idly counting cars that passed them. “Ok, so remind me. Why are we going to Topeka again?” he asked.

Will sent him a withering glare, and Jack merely smiled innocently at him. “Like I’ve said before, at least five times, we’re tracking down a lead on a prototype component I need to reinforce and improve the Chronon Regulator for you. It’s the only component of its kind in the entire world, and I think that it could greatly enhance the efficacy of your treatments,” he said absently, scribbling in his notebook. Jack’s stomach turned sour at the mention of his treatments.

“Oh. Yeah, right,” Jack mumbled, shifting his gaze back to the window. His hand slipped into his pocket, running a finger over the familiar grooves of the silver bullet attached to his keychain. The image of Paul rose in his mind, unbidden. The last time he had seen his former best friend, he had shot him in the head, right before he had turned into a Shifter. Paul’s own silver bullet had hung around his neck, stained with his own blood. The fact that Jack’s Chronon Sickness was worsening was an unpleasant reminder that he would eventually end up like Paul. Like Hatch. He shuddered at the thought.

The journey to find a cure for Jack’s disease was slow-going and agonizing. While he had every faith in his brother to be able to find and create a cure (the man built a damn time machine after all), a human health doctor Will was not. It had taken months for Jack to be able to steal Dr. Kim’s and Dr. Amaral’s notes on Paul’s Chronon Sickness from under Martin Hatch’s watchful eye, and even longer for Will to be able to decipher them enough to try to come up with a cure. And even then, it had been a painstaking and arduous process to get the things they needed to make it. Will’s grant money was practically nonexistent at that point, and Jack barely ever had any money to begin with. That, coupled with the fact that they didn’t have a lab to create or synthesize anything in, hampered their progress even further.

They had a temporary, patchwork solution to at least slow the progress of his condition. It was a jumble of wires, poorly welded metal, and a concerning amount of radiation called the Chronon Regulator. The idea was pretty similar to the Countermeasure. It was a high-capacity storage capsule that Jack could dump excess Chronon energy into at the end of the day. Though Jack was slightly concerned about the… strength of the materials that had been used to create it. It was mostly made of whatever materials Will had left in his lab, and scrap pieces that Jack stole from junkyards and hardware stores. For Christ’s sake, there was a toaster somewhere in that metal death trap. It could also carry enough energy to rival an atom bomb, which was a lovely concept to think about as it sat sandwiched between a pair of Will’s jeans and his toothbrush.

Will used the excess energy to further his research into a cure and create the current concoction of drugs that Jack was using to slow the progress of his Chronon Sickness. It was fairly similar to the treatment Paul was on, though with a few of Will’s tweaks. Regular access to this treatment was hard to come by, though. They had to buy chemicals and break into labs to synthesize the treatments in large batches. Despite those hurdles, between the treatments and the Chronon Regulator, Jack was able to manage his condition enough to survive.

A sudden prickling sensation crawled up his neck, and Jack frowned, glancing around. The other people on the bus were all keeping to themselves, but the undeniable feeling of being watched crept over Jack’s mind. He took a deep breath, dismissing the feeling as anxiety curdled in his stomach. It’s probably nothing. Just weird feelings from your nightmare, he reasoned. Beneath his jacket, he thumbed the curve of his handgun, secured firmly in it’s holster. Slowly, the prickling sensation died away, and he settled back in his seat. He watched the plains start to transition to trees as they marched on, and he could see Topeka in the distance, gleaming duly in the light. As the bus continued to rumble beneath his feet, Jack tried to ignore the sudden cold pit in the bottom of his stomach.

There was an old analogue clock on the wall. Its hands marched on, never wavering, never stopping. Its ticking noise was a constant in the office. It didn’t stop when the walls rumbled and grew, expanded, contracted, like the lungs of a living beast. It didn’t stop when the crack of a gunshot briefly drowned it out, its previous owner crumpling to the floor in a heap of blood and sightless eyes. It didn’t stop when another noise chanted relentlessly over it, sibilant and sinister, repeating endlessly that you are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you. Happiness comes. White pearls-

The gentle tick, tick, tick of its hands was the only sound that could be heard now. Until the room seized for a moment, crashing and shredding and trembling and-

Jesse’s head snapped up from her desk, her eyes wild and confused as she abruptly woke from her dream. She glanced around frantically, one hand over her pounding heart, the other clenching the Service Weapon in a white-knuckled grip. Fractals glimmered at the edges of her vision, refracting light and sending a soothing wave through her body. Slowly, she felt her heart rate return to normal, and she reluctantly set the gun down.

It was the same nightmare again. Polaris dead. Dylan dead. Emily dead. The whole Bureau, lost to the Hiss. There was some variation to the dreams. Sometimes she was the one who killed everyone. Sometimes it was Trench. Sometimes her brain decided to get creative and throw in a new monster every once in a while, just to spice things up. Tonight, she had seen The Third Thing prowling around, chasing her and snapping at her heels, crushing her ribs between its long, skeletal fingers. She still shuddered whenever she thought of it, icy fear rolling down her spine. Jesse had never been particularly afraid of the dark before, but now it felt like she was leaping at every shadow, its gray, bloated face coming unbidden to her mind.

Ever since she had entered the Oldest House, it seemed like she couldn’t get a moment of rest. When she wasn’t scrambling around putting out fires, working on endless amounts of paperwork, or desperately trying to pull herself together, nightmares plagued her sleeping mind. However, that’s not to say that she wasn’t happy here. She loved running the FBC and working in the Oldest House. But part of her never realized just how much paperwork she had to do after a foreign invasion trashed her workplace.

She had fallen asleep at her desk, her head resting uncomfortably on the hard wood. Her neck and back ached from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, and there was an indent on her cheek from the stack of papers she had been trying to brute force her way through. Glancing around blearily for what had so abruptly woken her up, Jesse saw that she had managed to launch her stapler and about five different pens into the concrete wall next to her office door. With a grimace, she stood up from the desk, stretching to chase away the last vestiges of exhaustion. Her back audibly popped, and she kneaded the sore flesh of her neck. Walking over to the door, she spent a few minutes prying office supplies from concrete, sending a wordless apology to the Oldest House for damaging it’s walls.

Jesse falling asleep in her office wasn’t unusual by any means. She didn’t often sleep at her desk, but most nights she curled up on the small, hard futon in the corner, shifting uncomfortably as her mind roiled with nightmares. Sometimes when she had trouble sleeping, she would go down to Ahti’s office and sleep on his couch, his voice humming gently at the edges of her perception. She didn’t really… have an apartment in New York to go to at the end of a work day. The second she had stepped foot in the Big Apple, she had marched over to the Oldest House to find her brother. Subsequently, she had been trapped inside with the remaining FBC staff due to the external lockdown. But now, she could happily say that the lockdown had been officially lifted.

It had taken months to fully eradicate the Hiss infestation from the Oldest House, but they had done it. After the Hiss incident and being named the Director (and officially accepting her title), a ton of responsibility had suddenly been thrust upon her. Emily and Simon had done their best to help her adjust to standard Bureau life, but it was a staggering amount of work for even the most experienced of Directors. Employees had to be hired, notices of death had to be sent out, problems that had been ignored for far too long had piled up one after another. Everyone had slowly been whittling away at the workload, but they all had their hands full. The FBC had to be practically remade and restructured overnight. With the help of her new management team, Jesse had brought the FBC back from near extinction. The dust was finally starting to settle, and she could now focus on some of the less pressing matters. Like examining quarterly reports, financial statements, and slowly crawling through mountains of classified documents.

Jesse strongly contemplated slamming her head into the desk as her migraine flared. Why does running a government agency that regularly deals with strange, supernatural occurrences have to be so boring? She internally grumbled, though it was mostly just for the sake of complaining. Jesse hated office jobs that confined her to a desk, staring at financial reports and meaningless numbers for hours at a time. She knew that as the Director, she would probably spend most of her time behind a desk approving requests and combing through reports, but that wasn’t how she liked to operate. She enjoyed being out there with her employees, right in the center of all the messes, and fixing them with her own two hands. Or her gun. It was hard to believe, but she actually kind of missed the Hiss invasion. At least if they got back into the Oldest House I could get away from this desk and all of this damn paperwork, she thought, pinching her brow as she sat back down.

She stared blankly at the paper in front of her, struggling to make herself focus. She was trying to help wade through the Investigation Sector’s backlog of lost reports. Since she had killed Hartman, they had moved the few remaining staff from that sector back in and were trying to sort through the mountains of cases left behind the Firebreak. Many of them had to be re-examined, re-establishing connections or surveillance with civilians involved, and trying to determine if the case had gone cold or if they could reasonably divert resources towards opening it again.

She had been halfway through a report on paracriminal organizations when she had fallen asleep. While that had initially piqued her interest, there were very few actual paracriminal groups that the FBC knew about. Most of the report went into detail about rumored groups of paracriminals that might use an Altered Item for personal gain, or even those that had a suspected parautilitarian in their group. There were only three actual paracriminal organizations that the FBC knew about and were actively monitoring before the lockdown; the Midwest organization, the Damned, and the Blessed organization. The Midwest organization had pretty much been dismantled by the time the lockdown was initiated, and the Damned had been nothing more than a fledgling group. As for the Blessed organization, there was only the barest threads of evidence that they even existed.

Jesse sighed, rolling her neck and shifting until she was comfortable. Well, these reports won’t file themselves, she thought with a huff, slowly starting to thumb through files. After about fifteen agonizing minutes of trying to read through an employee complaint form about possessed toilets, the radio on her desk crackled to life. Her head snapped up, and she almost knocked it off of her desk in her haste to grab it. The only people who had access to her radio frequency were her management team, and they generally only radioed her when they needed her help with something. Please be something I can help with. Please be anything besides more paperwork, she pleaded.

After a moment of spitting static, a voice crackled through. “-esse, do you copy, over?” the radio said, almost indecipherable beneath the static of the radio and the shouting of other Rangers.

“I copy, Simon. What’s the situation, over?” She asked, excitement bubbling in her stomach. Polaris flickered at the edges of her vision, sparkling with anticipation.

“We found one of the escaped Altered Items in a House Shift in Containment, inside the Panopticon. It’s acting erratic. We could use your help to contain it, over,” Simon stated, tension in his voice. In the background, she could hear more shouting and the rapid popping of gunfire.

“Copy that, I’m on my way. Out,” Jesse said, a smile blooming on her face. She clipped the radio to her lapel and attached the Service Weapon to her hip, rushing out of her office for the nearest Control Point. The silence that permeated the room after the door slammed shut was only broken by the steady ticking of the clock behind her desk.

He was soaked. Again. Icy-cold rain water slithered down his spine, sticking his hair to his face and pooling in his shoes. Droplets kept dripping in his left eye, and he had given up on trying to wipe them away. He would’ve retreated under an overpass or into a building minutes ago if he wasn’t currently trying to avoid getting his head split open with a meat cleaver.

A translucent, semi-opaque figure made of shadows was lurching around with inhuman movements. It was almost completely noiseless, its movements sounding like the whisper of wind against concrete. The only sounds it made were the mumbled words that seemed to constantly emanate from where it’s mouth should be. The edges of the shade were blurred and distorted, like something half-remembered from a dream. It was currently shuffling around about two feet away from him, and slowly getting closer.

Alan remained as still as a statue, clenching his revolver and his flashlight in a white-knuckled grip. His back was glued against a rusting dumpster, and he had managed to pin himself in a corner. Fear thrummed steadily through his body, dripping down his spine like the icy rain water currently soaking through his suit jacket. He desperately wanted to move. His body screamed in discomfort at having to remain crouched for so long, and the dripping water was just annoying. The smell from the dumpster was making nausea rise in his stomach, but he resolutely tamped it down.

And yet, he remained completely still. The only things that indicated that he was still alive and not a human statute were the rapid flicking of his eyes and the slow drip of blood from his shoulder. The Fade-Out had snuck up on him in a building, some kind of old bank that had been left to rot for years. He had been combing through tables filled with trash and scattered papers, hoping to find one tiny little object. Everything had suddenly wobbled dangerously, and that’s when he lost the plot thread. He had spaced out, again, and hadn’t heard the shadows coalescing behind him until the dulled edge of a meat cleaver had cracked down on his shoulder. He was lucky that it hadn’t been a sharper blade, or else his arm would’ve been cleaved right off. It still fucking hurts, though, he thought with a grimace, desperately trying to resist the urge to shift and readjust his position. The Fade-Out lurched forward another few feet, and Alan could just see it around the edge of the dumpster. He tensed up, eyes wide and completely frozen as the Fade-Out’s head lolled towards him, that whispered chant growing louder. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me, he silently pleaded, his grip on the revolver tightening. He only had ten bullets left, and with his shoulder still completely numb and that arm mostly unusable, he didn’t know if he would be able to kill the shade in time.

The Fade-Out turned to face him, and took a step forward. Aw, hell, Alan thought, fear and resignation warring with each other in his mind. Just as he was about to shoot up from his crouched position, something loud clattered in the distance further down the alley. The Fade-Out’s head (or what generally represented a head, it was hard to make out concrete shapes between the darkness of the alley and the blurred edges of the shade) snapped to the left. It lurched forward several feet in the span of a single second, a warbled cry radiating from the darkness around it. The Fade-Out faded into the shadows of the alley, and Alan slumped down to a kneeling position, breathing hard and trembling.

Holstering his revolver and his flashlight, he brought a hand up to his injured shoulder, sucking in a breath at the sharp spike of pain. For a second, he seriously considered just laying down on the slimy pavement beneath him. He wanted to curl up amongst the trash that littered the ground and just… stop for a while. An ache slowly wormed its way behind his eyes, pulsing through his head in time with his heart beat. The streetlamp several feet away- the only illumination in the alley- flickered for a moment, casting harsh shadows everywhere.

Alan eyed the light, waiting to see if it would flicker again. No matter how much he desperately wished he could take a break, even to just fucking sleep, he knew he had to keep moving. Still, he decided to indulge for a few moments and just remain kneeling on the ground.

One hand splayed against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat and his trembling breaths. Alan felt slightly reassured by the action, reminded of the fact that he was still alive. Fear and tension slowly drained from his limbs, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.

As much as he wanted to stay, Alan only allowed himself a single minute to rest. Just as he was getting ready to move, he heard something clatter in the deeper darkness of the alley. Grimacing, Alan slowly stood up, all of his joints popping and groaning in protest. He couldn’t stifle the noise of pain that slipped past his throat as a dull ache spread through his body. I’m getting too old for this shit, he thought, slowly stretching. He took a moment to wipe the water and grime from his face, his nose wrinkling at the smell on his hands. He patted one of his suit pockets to make sure he still had the damn object he had nearly been killed to find. Alan let out a sigh of relief when he felt it’s cool metal beneath his fingers. With a final check down both ends of the alley to make sure there weren’t any Fade-Outs creeping around, he unholstered his revolver and flashlight and started his way back to one of his Safe Rooms.

Alan set a brisk pace as he left the alley behind, constantly vigilant of any threats lurking in the dark. Neon and fluorescent lights burned from the shadows, their harsh buzzing constantly filling his ears. Large buildings loomed behind them, fading into the smoggy night. This dark, twisted version of New York City felt grungy and unwelcoming, more like the setting for one of his Alex Casey books than the actual city it was based in. The Dark Place had a way of twisting everything it came in contact with, making it darker and more violent. It constantly drew from Alan’s mind, his every thought made real in service to a story he desperately hoped would free him from this hell. Even as he walked, The Dark Place subtly changed and shifted to match his thoughts. As he listened to rain dripping against metal light posts and concrete overhangs, he almost imagined that they sound like the keys of his typewriter clicking away. And then he was suddenly slipping and crunching over a pile of broken type bars and ribbon spools, shattered typewriter casings splintering beneath his feet.

Alan grimaced, stepping back onto the grimy pavement as he traced a familiar route through the city. He had no idea how long he had been trying to escape The Dark Place. The way time moved and undulated down here was confusing, and often non-linear. Dark waves would wash his memory away, leaving him standing in some place he had no recollection of entering, with no idea what he needed. It helped that he had manuscript pages to refer to if he ever truly got lost, but they only got him so far. In the end, he just had to trust his gut and try to roll with the punches.

Up ahead, a green neon sign advertising a bar called The Scratching Hag gleamed duly through the night. It blinked steadily, red bulbs flashing on the ends of the sign. It had a crude image of a woman in a funeral dress at the bottom, a wide smile beneath her mourner’s veil. Alan angled himself towards it, picking up the pace. He was trying to get back to one of the few Safe Rooms that existed throughout The Dark Place. Safe Rooms were areas in The Dark Place that were generally calmer and less reactive to his mind. They would more or less remain unchanged and stay in the same location, and they were less prone to attacks from malevolent forces. It was in these areas that Alan allowed himself to relax a bit and let his guard down. They weren’t fool-proof, but they were the best places for him to take stock of his inventory and re-examine his manuscript pages so he could figure out what he needed to do next.

Stepping into the alley, he skirted around a pile of soggy cardboard boxes and broken glass to get to an old wood door with an iron-wrought handle. He grabbed it, nearly having to kick it in before the door unjammed and swung open. He stepped inside the building, ramming his shoulder into the wood door to get it to shut again. The sound of rain was greatly diminished in the bar, and most of the lights were out. Cobwebs spanned across every corner, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. Trash littered the floor, and he could see the reflection of his light skittering off of dozens of dirty beer steins. The only source of illumination in the room was a small strip of yellow light pouring from a crack in the door to the storage room.

Alan’s shoulders slumped with relief at the sight, holstering his revolver. Expertly weaving around the mess of overturned tables and shattered wooden chairs, the writer spun around the bar and padded over to the light. He opened the storage room door with a loud creak, stepping inside and making sure it shut firmly behind him. And then he felt the cool metal of a gun barrel press against his temple.

Alan immediately froze, tension coiling in his limbs like a wound spring. Fuck, why did I holster my gun, he thought frantically, wondering what the chances would be of getting shot if he tried to hit the mystery gunman over the head with his flashlight.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from his right, followed almost immediately by a weary sigh. “Fuck, Wake. I thought you were a Fade-Out. Did you forget the damn password?” A male voice asked, the gun withdrawing from his face.

Alan let out a harsh breath, jittery and anxious from nearly getting shot. He turned to face the man that had threatened him, hot anger flaring deep in the pit of his stomach. “What fucking password?” He ground out.

Sergeant Tim Breaker glared back in equal measure, still untrusting of the writer before him. He had holstered his service pistol, but his arms were crossed and his brows were furrowed in an angry line. Sergeant Breaker was a few inches shorter than Alan, though he certainly made up for it in posture. He was broader in the shoulders and more muscular than the writer, and he carried himself stiffly around Wake. He was wearing a typical Washington State Trooper uniform, though he had long ago ditched the campaign hat. He had short-cropped brown hair and a short salt-and-pepper beard. His blue eyes narrowed at Alan, pinning him beneath his gaze and making the writer look away uncomfortably. They way the light didn’t quite meet his eyes still unsettled Alan. “The password that we set up so that I knew that it was you and not some random ass Fade-Out!” Sergeant Breaker shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. For reference, he brought a fist to the door and rapped a staccato pattern. Three short knocks, then a pause, followed by two longer knocks.

Alan’s face blanked, rearranging into the careful, perfectly still mask that he used to put on for press events. Aw, hell. Did we actually set up a password? He wondered, his mind racing as he tried to piece together fragments of memory. Actually, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t even remember showing Sergeant Breaker this Safe Room in the first place. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, muddying his thoughts further.

After a long moment of silence from Wake, Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you don’t,” he mumbled, pacing away. Alan felt the hot surge of anger rear its ugly head again, though he felt suddenly off-kilter and unbalanced. He opened his mouth to retort when he was cut off. “Yeah, I know you can’t help it. Did you find the thing?” Sergeant Breaker interrupted, turning to face him again.

Alan glared at him for a moment longer. The whole reason that he had been ambushed by the Fade-Out in the first place was because he had been helping Sergeant Breaker find a locket. He couldn’t remember when he first met Tim, but he knew that the State Trooper had refused to work with him unless Wake helped him track down a family heirloom.

Alan dug around in his pocket, slamming the locket on the cheap folding table in the center of the room. Immediately, Tim’s face softened and his posture relaxed, relief evident on his face. Even Wake‘s anger drained away at the sight, replaced with melancholic exhaustion. With a groan, Alan plopped down into a hard plastic folding chair, kneading the flesh around his injured shoulder.

With reverence, Tim gently picked up the silver locket and cradled it in his hands. It was a relatively simple necklace, made of silver and hanging from a long, thin chain. There were no markings on the exterior, but the metal was scuffed and worn. He flicked it open, revealing a family photo of him, an older man, and a slightly younger woman that made something in Alan’s chest seize with bittersweet memories. Staring at Sarah Breaker’s face made his throat constrict, so he focused instead on the floor by his feet, trying to mentally catalog all of the papers strewn across the concrete. After a moment of silence, he heard Tim sniffle and the barely-perceptible sound of him undoing the clasp before re-clasping it behind his neck. He gently tucked the locket away underneath the body armor he was wearing before slumping down into a chair next to the writer.

Alan eyed the man next to him, surprised at the lack of hostilities. Sergeant Breaker seemed much more open and less stiff than before. “Thanks for getting this for me,” Tim said quietly, not quite meeting Alan’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Alan gruffly replied, kneading his shoulder again.

Tim’s eyes tracked the movement, and he frowned. “Are you hurt?” He asked.

“Yeah. But it’s nothing-“ Alan started, though Tim was already moving to the first aid kit attached to the back wall of the storage room. Alan sighed, resigning himself to getting fussed over. With a hiss of pain, he shrugged off his messenger bag, setting it on the floor gently next to him. He loosened his tie, tossing it onto his bag, before slowly worming out of his jacket. Every little movement had jolts of pain rolling up his arm, and he grit his teeth to stop the tiny whimpers from crawling out of his throat. The jacket joined his tie and bag on the floor, and he could already tell that the wound would need stitches. It had bled through his shirt to his jacket, and he could see fresh blood still welling up. He slowly started undoing the buttons of his dress shirt with shaking hands as Tim kneeled in front of him. With practiced efficiency, Tim pulled out a pocket knife and cut a horizontal line from the cuff of his shirt to the collar. He then cut the remaining fabric of the sleeve off at the shoulder, pulling it off. Alan yelped when the shirt was peeled away from his wound, crusted blood making it stick to torn flesh. The wound itself was relatively large, but not that deep. There was a significant amount of bruising around it that was already starting to turn an ugly shade of purple. He had regained feeling in his arm, but now the entire limb was prickling with pins and needles.

Breaker examined it for a moment, his brows furrowed. “Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “That’s gonna need stitches,” he said, passing Wake a gauze pad and a pair of sterile rubber gloves. “Press down on the wound to slow the bleeding.”

Alan did as he was told, putting on the gloves and biting back another hard yelp as his shoulder burned with white-hot pain. Tim prepped a needle, gently sliding thread through the eye and disinfecting it. He was also wearing gloves, and he hummed a vaguely familiar song as he worked. After a few minutes of pressing down on the wound, he had Alan lift it to check if it was still bleeding. Apparently he was happy with what he saw, because he grabbed disinfectant and started to spray down the torn flesh. Alan jerked violently in place, and he couldn’t stop the startled cry or the violent kick that nearly hit the Sergeant. “Hold still!” Tim barked, still disinfecting the wound. Alan panted, riding out the waves of discomfort until Tim leaned back with the needle and thread. “We don’t have any local anesthetic. You ready?” He asked.

Alan nodded sharply, tensing as he closed his eyes. “Just fucking do it,” he growled, grabbing the edges of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. Moments later, there was a searing pain in his shoulder, and the feeling of something being yanked through his skin. He grit his teeth, trying to muffle the distressed noises he was making and stopping himself from twitching. After a few minutes of white-hot agony, he heard a snipping sound from a pair of scissors, and he cracked open an eye. Tim had cut off the last stitch, and was grabbing a large swath of gauze to press against the wound. With practiced efficiency, he tapped down the edges of the gauze and rocked back on his haunches, satisfied with his work.

“Alright, that should be good. Just don’t jerk your shoulder hard or you’ll rip your stitches,” Sergeant Breaker said, packing the remaining supplies away and stripping off his gloves. Alan tossed his own gloves away and the remains of his desecrated shirt, grimacing at the dull pain pulsing through his shoulder. He dug through some of the lockers to his left, searching around for new clothing. He found a dark navy blue dress shirt. It was a little big on him and hung off of his frame, but it was better than nothing. With shaking fingers, he buttoned up his new shirt and shrugged back on his jacket.

“So, what now?” Sergeant Breaker asked, grabbing a Remington 870 from the floor and checking it over. He started loading the shotgun, feeding in seven shells and racking one in the chamber.

Alan stared blankly at him, his mind still hazy from pain. “What?” He asked.

Tim paused in loading, pinning Wake with an impatient glare. “You asked for my help earlier. I only agreed if you helped me get my locket back. What did you need help with?” He said, talking slowly like he was trying to explain something to a toddler.

Alan blinked, before pinching his nose and letting out a harsh breath. Fuck. What did I need help with? He thought, anger and anxiety warring in equal measure in the pit of his stomach. “Just… give me a second,” he mumbled, slumping back down at the table. Tim scoffed, but went back to his weapons check. Alan grabbed his messenger bag, flipping the top open and pulling out a stack of papers. The edges of his vision went blurry as he did so, the dull glow from the pages catching his eye. In the distance, he could hear the faint clicking of a typewriter, one that he knew by heart. It was his old manual Remington, the one with the sticking J-key. He spread the manuscript pages out over the table, leafing through them to get his bearings.

Since he was prone to losing time and forgetting what he needed to do, he constantly wrote down notes to himself to keep him on track. Even now, he could see hand-written annotations on the pages describing how he had gotten Tim’s locket. Shuffling forward a few pages, he started skimming until something caught his eye. He picked up a page and started reading.

The mall was dirty and abandoned, covered in cobwebs and clinging shadows. The remains of a Ferris wheel had collapsed in on itself, twisted metal blocking the entrance to the makeup store I needed to get into. The lights on the wheel still flashed, like the last instinctual twitches of a dying animal. It reminded me of the macabre remains of a childhood, twisting fun memories into something animalistic and terrifying. Sergeant Breaker paced the length of the floor, eyeing the front door with distrust. His gaze swiveled over to the rusting metal that blocked our path, his fingers twitching on his gun. “Alright, Wake. How the hell are we supposed to clear this shit?”

Alan set the page down, his mind spinning. He had hoped the page might trigger some memories, but his mind remained frustratingly blank. Still, he knew what he had to do. “Alright, Sergeant. I have a plan,” he said, his mind racing with ideas. He could hear the pounding of typewriter keys in the distance, and the air around them seemingly shivered with anticipation.

Chapter Text

Cold steel dug into her back as Jesse slammed against a stack of metal crates, grunting in surprise. Despite the panic in the air, she had never felt more alive than when she was out in the field, dealing with problems instead of being chained to a desk. Her Service Weapon hummed in her hands, charging and spinning with potential. Polaris glimmered at the edges of her vision, sharp and radiant.

Simon took cover next to her, breathing hard. He had a bloody lip, and his eyes were narrowed in concentration. “You alright?” He shouted over the cacophony above them.

Jesse shot him a grin. “Never better!” She said, peeking her head above their cover. A ceramic, ornate teapot was currently hovering in the air above them, vibrating violently. Any time anyone would get close to it, it would shatter into hundreds of tiny, dagger-sharp shards that would attempt to embed themselves in the person’s flesh. After a few moments, the teapot would reassemble, cracks smoothing over until no one could tell that it had ever shattered in the first place. Every time they backed off and the teapot reassembled, it would just vibrate higher and higher up the open central column of the Panopticon. They were currently hunkered down on the fifth level, taking a breather and watching it slowly inch up towards the sixth. Several Rangers had already been injured from ceramic shards, and their numbers were starting to rapidly dwindle. Since Jesse could levitate, she had had the most success in trying to corral it thus far, but being in the air left her far too exposed for her own liking.

Even as they watched, the teapot started shaking harder, cracks splintering across its surface. “Incoming fire!” Simon shouted, and everyone hunkered down. Moments later, they heard the telltale sound of ceramic shards exploding on metal before reforming back into its original structure.

Jesse poked her head up again, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Off to the left, there was an open gap in the concrete wall of the Panopticon that led to one of the corridor rings. “I might be able to force the teapot in that corridor,” she said, nudging Simon’s shoulder and pointing towards the wall. His head snapped to where she had pointed, his brows furrowing. “At least that’ll stop it from rising. We’ll be more hemmed in, but there’s a possibility we could get it into a Black Rock cell,” she continued.

Simon nodded slowly. “That could work, but it would take the Rangers a while to loop around to that section of the corridor. Would you be able to keep it there long enough?” He asked.

Jesse cracked a smile. “Don’t worry, I got it. I can keep it contained until you all get there,” she said. Polaris shimmered in her head. More like we can keep it contained, Jesse amended, and Polaris glittered in appreciation.

Simon examined her for a moment longer before nodding sharply. “Alright, you’re the boss. Just don’t get killed,” he said with a half-smile.

Jesse smirked back. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to,” she said, before standing up and pushing off into the air. The teapot immediately started to quake again, building up energy. But before it could split apart, Jesse raised her hand and pulled. The teapot came flying towards her, shaking erratically as it was jolted from its position. Without wasting a second, Jesse twisted in mid-air and launched the teapot through the opening in the concrete wall. She heard the sound of ceramic exploding in the corridor and had to dodge as an errant shard flew towards her face. She glided over to the hole, jumping inside and immediately rolling into cover behind a concrete pillar. Well, that worked. Now what? Jesse thought, peeking around the corner. To her dismay, the teapot was vibrating more violently than ever. It was close to ping-ponging around the corridor with how erratically it was shaking.

In the corners of her eyes, she saw Polaris glimmer. What, you think we can cleanse it and calm it down like we did with Altered Items that were possessed by the Hiss? Jesse thought incredulously. Fractals swirled in acknowledgement, and an alien determination burrowed into her mind. Alright, I trust you. But first, we gotta get close enough to actually grab the teapot, she mused, examining the corridor. There were plenty of places for Jesse to take cover, but she ran the risk of the teapot skittering further down the hall. She hummed in thought, her eyes narrowing. If I use the evade ability, I should be able to get close quickly enough that I can avoid being skewered, she thought. Polaris flashed in agreement, and Jesse nodded to herself.

She turned again to watch the teapot as it bounced around the corridor and exploded. The moment that the teapot reformed, she rolled out from behind the pillar. Digging deep into herself and finding the tether that linked her to the Carousel Horse, she grabbed that link and launched. She had managed to launch herself forward several feet, and was now within grabbing distance of the teapot. Using her telekinesis, she yanked the pot close to herself, holding it in the air inches from her fingers. The teapot vibrated angrily, cracks spidering across its surface. Hot steam poured from its snout, the lid nearly flying off and hitting her face. Jesse strained to contain the pot for just a moment, trying to keep it still. And then she completely surrendered herself to her partner and let go.

Instantly, the world around her grew quieter. Everything became muted and cool, and it was like she was watching through hundreds of fragments of glass, or through someone else’s eyes. Cold energy rushed through her arms, coalescing in her palms and blooming outwards like a bouquet of shattered glass. Polaris’ energy enveloped the teapot, and for a moment, it stilled.

Jesse-Polaris grit their teeth, their finger-glittering-shards curling with the effort. Twisting, they oriented the pot towards a Black Rock cell to their right. They levitated over to the cell, their boots dragging against the ground. Jesse-Polaris entered a side door that opened into an observation room with a loud beep, the sound harsh and grating against the resonance-human. They growled with the effort, the sound splintered and warped and distinctly inhuman. With a spike of energy, they managed to get the second door open and launched the teapot into the cell.

Without a moment to waste, Polaris ceded control back to Jesse, who immediately slapped a button that slammed the door shut and locked it. The teapot screeched, shattering ceramic mixing with the sound of whistling steam. It threw itself against the walls, breaking and reforming itself until it became perfectly still and silent, settling on the pedestal in the cell.

Jesse let out a shaky breath, her legs wobbling dangerously as she nearly collapsed to the floor. A dull headache pulsed through her head from overexerting herself, and Polaris glimmered weakly in her head. You did amazing. Rest up, I’ll take it from here, she soothed her partner. She felt Polaris’ acknowledgement before the other entity retreated into the dark recesses of her mind, leaving her head feeling strangely empty. Jesse left the observation room, walking slowly back into the corridor. Exhaustion clung to her bones, seeping into her muscles and fuzzing her mind. Chunks of concrete had been blasted from the walls, dust settling all over the floor. Jesse followed the trail of destruction, concerned that the teapot might have damaged any cells. The last thing we need is another containment breach, she thought.

Near the end of the corridor, Jesse stopped, her heart twisting with guilt. In the cell in front of her was a single typewritten page, water damaged and lonely. It glowed dimly in the darkness of the cell, and most of the words on the page had been violently scratched out.

Memories of the man who had written it came to her mind unbidden. Alan Wake had been cracking at the seams the last time she had seen him, struggling to hang on to the last shredded remains of his sanity. Wake’s continued disappearance was something she still felt guilty about. He had helped her eradicate Hartman and clear the Investigations Sector of the Hiss, and she hadn’t done anything to return the favor. After the last of the Hiss had been cleared out and the external lockdown lifted, she had contacted the Cauldron Lake Lodge Monitoring Station in Bright Falls to see if there were any updates about an AWE in progress. However, the researcher she had spoken to had told her that there had been no AWE alert, and that nothing had changed. She had been disappointed and confused when she heard that. Had they actually received a signal, or had the Oldest House been messing with their equipment? To this day, she still didn’t know.

While any leads on finding Wake had gone completely cold, she still made sure that the monitoring station kept a diligent watch on Cauldron Lake, and she always checked the spiral doorway if she ever had to go through the Oceanview Motel and Casino. To this day she had no idea how to reach Wake, and seeing a reminder of that man still trapped wherever he was made guilt curdle in her stomach.

The sound of pounding footsteps and jostling equipment broke her out of her thoughts. Simon and the remains of the Ranger squad came running down the corridor, their guns unholstered and their eyes flickering around for a rampaging teapot. “At ease. I contained it,” Jesse shouted, exhaustion weighing in her chest.

The squad slowed down to a jog when they drew near her, and Simon’s eyebrows had flown up into his hairline. “Wh- you contained it? Already?” He asked, his eyes rapidly flicking over her to check for injuries.

She waved off his concern, motioning to the cell further down the corridor with the teapot contained inside. They all walked back to the cell to see the teapot sitting perfectly still and silent on its pedestal, almost like it was a normal inanimate object again. “I’m fine, just tired. You missed one hell of a show though. It did not like being in an enclosed space,” she said, her lips quirking into a tired grin.

Simon glanced back at her, a relieved smile on his own face. “You continue to impress, ma’am. Uh… Jesse,” he said with a wince.

Jesse’s face broke out into a wide smile as she nudged his shoulder. “Simon, it’s been four years! How are you still calling me ma’am?” She asked incredulously.

Simon shrugged, looking entirely unrepentant. “Force of habit,” he said, before his expression shifted to something more commanding. “Alright. Guttierez, Johnson, I want you both to stay here and guard this cell until Langston and the research team get up here. Avery, Nowell, check the lower bridges and help out anyone still injured to the medical wing. I want the rest of you to do a sweep of each floor of the Panopticon to make sure no other Altered Items escaped,” he ordered.

Every Ranger snapped into a salute before peeling off for their duties, leaving her and Simon to slowly walk back to the Panopticon elevator. “You gonna get that looked at?” Jesse questioned, motioning towards his busted lip.

Simon just shrugged, touching it gingerly. “Nah, it’s not really that big of a deal. You up for some coffee?” He asked.

Jesse scoffed, grinning. “Do you even have to ask?" She said. Simon made a damn good cup of coffee, and it was something she could never refuse.

Simon smiled, glancing at the floor. “Maybe you should invite Emily? See what she thinks about the teapot? Maybe spend some time with her outside of the Research Sector?” He not-so-subtly probed, nudging Jesse’s shoulder.

Jesse immediately blushed, glaring at her Head of Security. “Come on, Simon. It’s not like that,” she said.

Simon just shrugged, still grinning impishly. “Fair enough. But the offer still stands if you want to invite her,” he said as they both got into the elevator. With a press of a button, the doors loudly clanged shut, the elevator screeching as it descended.

Jesse gave him the side-eye, but she was genuinely considering it. Emily always brightened her day considerably, no matter where she was. She just seemed to have that effect on people. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how Jesse’s heart stuttered every time she listened to her Head of Research go off on some kind of tangent.

As the elevator groaned to a halt, they were met by a team of Rangers, some Research Sector staff, and Langston. “The Altered Item has been contained on the fifth floor, unit 13,” Simon said.

As the team started filing into the elevator and Jesse and Simon stepped back out, Jesse motioned towards Langston and jerked her head to the side. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” She asked.

Langston stiffened, glancing longingly at the elevator that was about to take him towards his Altered Items. He let out a long sigh. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, stepping off and following her a few feet away to the edge of the bridge. Simon followed her, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “What did you need from me?” Langston asked, fiddling anxiously with the clipboard in his hands.

“Have you gotten any updates about that Bright Falls AWE alert from a few years back?” Jesse questioned.

Langston stilled in surprise. “Uh… no, not that I’m aware of. The signal that we got disappeared pretty quickly, and the monitoring station staff at Bright Falls said that they never got any indication of a potential AWE. Most likely the one we received was only a ghost signal,” Langston explained.

Jesse hummed in acknowledgement, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah, I figured. Just… let me know if you ever pick up any other ‘ghost signals,’” she said.

“You got it, boss,” he replied, striding back towards the elevator.

Jesse let out a sigh, motioning for Simon to walk with her back towards the Sector Elevator. “What was that about?” Simon asked, keeping pace with the agitated Director.

She shrugged listlessly. “I just saw an old Altered Item relating to the Bright Falls AWE, and it got me thinking about it,” she explained.

“In my experience, a lot of things often get left unresolved here. You think you can tie a case up with a nice, neat bow, and then everything falls apart on you. I guess it’s just part of working such an unpredictable job,” he said, absently fiddling with the pouch hanging from his neck. “You still up for that coffee?”

“God, yes. Please,” Jesse said, shooting him a small smile. However, despite Simon’s words, she couldn’t shake the images of a lonely typewritten page and an ajar spiral door from her mind.

Jack scuffed the toe of his shoe on the sidewalk, already tired. They had checked into their motel in Topeka two days ago and had been searching for Will’s contact ever since. The person that stole the prototype component had been flighty and skittish when Will had first contacted him over some Internet forum. It had taken about a month for the man to finally agree to meet the two brothers in person. Now that they were actually here in Topeka, the man had been giving them vague promises about meeting each other. He kept giving them locations and times to meet up, and then inexplicably backing out an hour or two before the meeting time. This was going to be their fourth meeting attempt, and Jack was just about ready to grab this guy by the shoulders and shake him.

Their stay in Topeka wouldn’t have even been so bad if the city wasn’t so boring. It somehow took the most basic and bland aspects of a major city and cut out all of the interesting people on street corners and in local shops. It just felt so… bland. Even the bars and shops in their area felt dull and almost lifeless.

Jack shuddered as a cool breeze bit into his skin, goosebumps rising across his flesh. The weather was also weirdly dramatic in Topeka, though he figured that was more of a Midwest thing. Yesterday, it had been 85 degrees and extremely humid. Today, it was 55 and rapidly dropping from wind chill.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at his brother walking besides him. Will was burrowed in a zipped-up cloth jacket, the hood up to ward off the chill. His eyes were slightly vacant and glassy, lost in his own head. Jack had to repeatedly nudge him out of the way of stray trash cans and pedestrians.

They came to a stop at a street corner, with Jack having to grab Will by the hood to stop him from meandering into oncoming traffic. The bastard didn’t even have the gall to look that bothered that he was nearly pancaked. A large brick church loomed to their left, two spires poking out from the front of the building and coming to a steep point. They were swallowed up by the shadow of the church, and the building felt strangely imposing with the sun setting behind it. Further to their left, a few streets over, he could see I-70. The elevated highway cut a path through the outer edges of Topeka, and he could hear the constant sound of cars racing along to somewhere else.

Will squinted at a street sign when he registered that they had stopped. “So we’re on…” he started, trailing off.

“Van Buren Street,” Jack supplied.

Will bobbed his head, glancing around for the adjacent street sign. “So we should turn here on Third Street,” he said.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. You’re killin’ me, man, he thought. “No. The message said to walk past Third. He specifically mentioned turning a few blocks past the church, on Jackson,” he argued.

Will shook his head, adamant. “No, I’m pretty sure the message said to turn at the church,” he retorted, turning sharply.

“Well, you’re pretty wrong,” Jack replied, flicking his brother’s shoulder just to annoy him. “Face it, Will, you suck at directions. Remember when you got lost trying to drive home from university one night and accidentally got on the highway? It should’ve been a thirty minute drive, and yet you drove for two and a half hours to Philadelphia.”

Will glared at him, fidgeting in place. “That has nothing to do with this. That was years ago. Besides, I’m always right,” Will stated, turning sharply on his heel and starting to walk away. Jack rolled his eyes. “Now come on, it’s thiiiii-“ Will started, before everything around them shattered.

Jack felt a wave of pressure immediately swamp him, both of his ears popping. For a moment, a sound lower than the human ear could hear thrummed though him, but he still felt the deep bass in his ears and chest cavity. And then there was nothing but dead silence. The only thing he could hear was his own frantic heartbeat.

Jack came to an abrupt stop, nearly choking on his own spit when he involuntarily sucked in a breath. The air tasted stagnant and cold, a strange chemical coating his tongue. The air felt like television static against his arms, pins and needles prickling through his skin. The distinct smell of ozone and melting polyurethane assaulted his nose. Fractals shattered the world around him, crystalline shards of glass rippling through the ground. Everything had taken on a sharp turquoise hue. Aside from the fractals twisting through the ground and the buildings and the trees, everything was still. Will was frozen mid-step, his sentence dragging on into infinity. The few other people walking around had also frozen in place, all hard angles and broken glass.

Jack panted for breath, his eyes flicking around. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to breathe. He couldn’t sense any living things around him, but he knew how quickly that could change. Even then, in the corner of his vision, something flashed. An ever roiling mass of silver and black, glittering and refracting light as it shifted endlessly. It stared at him, its head tilting. He didn’t know how long he stood there, stock still, before the pressure released. It was like someone had popped a balloon filled with water as time rushed back in. People started moving again, and the air felt warm. The thing was gone.

“-is way,” Will said, his voice snapping back to his body like a rubber band. He kept walking a few paces until he realized Jack had stopped. Will turned around, fully expecting to launch into another long, drawn out argument with his brother, until he caught the look on Jack’s face. Jack was as white as a sheet, his eyes wide and panicked. “What happened?” Will asked, scenarios visibly racing through his mind, ever the scientist.

Jack took a moment to respond, his breath shuddering in his chest. His hands glowed with fractals, ice cold. He shoved them in his jacket pockets, a chill racing through his frame despite the warm sun. “Stutter. It lasted a while. Maybe a minute and a half,” he said.

Will sighed, chewing his fingernail anxiously. Jack absentmindedly slapped his brother’s hand away from his mouth. “Damn. They’re getting worse,” he said.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jack snapped, hackles raised. White-hot anger had suddenly boiled up beneath his skin, blotting out the fear he had felt moments ago. Tense silence passed between them, broken only by sounds of cars on the highway and the cool breeze blowing through the street.

Will was eyeing him strangely, not quite meeting Jack’s gaze. “Are you… okay?” Will asked haltingly, concern laced in his voice.

And just like that, the anger had drained away, leaving shame in its place. Jack sagged, dragging a tired hand over his face and scratching his stubble. “I- no. I… didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry,” he apologized.

Will hummed, taking out a notebook and jotting down a few notes, chewing on the end of his pen. The notebook was filled with dates and times of previous stutters, as well as notes on the progression of Jack’s sickness. Both had been progressing at an alarming rate. Previously, stutters had only occurred maybe once every few months. Now, they were occurring once every few weeks. According to Will, natural stutters were a thing. The flow of Chronon particles from the Meyer-Joyce field wasn’t constant. It ebbed and flowed, and sometimes it barely released enough for time to kick back up again when it stuttered to a stop. However, with how rapidly the stutters were approaching, they were both concerned that time could end again in a few years, maybe even a few months.

“It’s not your fault. You’re sick,” Will said bluntly, still focusing on his notes with a crease between his brows.

And wow, isn’t that a fucking punch to the gut, Jack thought, guilt and anxiety clawing up his throat. He shifted restlessly, glancing at his watch. “C’mon, we should probably get to the meeting place before this guy decides to cancel on us again,” Jack mumbled, steering Will further down Van Buren and away from Third street. For once, Will didn’t protest.

It took them almost ten minutes of walking before they reached their destination. The man had told them to meet in a small brick alleyway between two large storage facilities. Dumpsters lined the alleyway, and a faded newspaper page drifted aimlessly in the wind. Slimy garbage water coated the asphalt beneath their feet, and Jack wrinkled his nose at the smell. The entire alley was cast in shadow, and something about the deeper darkness made the skin prickle on the back of his neck.

Will just meandered down the alley, but Jack followed a few paces behind, alert. Being in this enclosed of a space set off alarm bells in his mind, and he kept his head on a swivel. They stopped at a wall with a graffiti mural of a cat eating a bird, Jack leaning against it while Will paced restlessly.

After a moment, Jack shifted a bit, concentrating and letting the world around him wash out into muted blues and grays. Energy coursed through his limbs like a small electrical current, making his skin tingle pleasantly. Next to him, Will burned a warm yellow-orange, leaving a trail of Chronon particles in his wake. The air around Jack was starting to transition from that muted blue to a more turquoise color, reacting to the sheer number of Chronon particles his own body produced.

Seeing Chronon signatures was a useful ability that Jack had continued to hone after he had gotten his powers. It allowed him to track any living thing in about a half-mile radius, especially if they were more Chronon-active than the average person. Most of the time, people would appear to him as greenish-yellow streaks, fading into the dull blue background. If someone had been in contact with Chronon radiation but wasn’t Chronon-active like him, their colors would start to deepen more towards an orange color, like Will. People who were Chronon-active showed up as a turbulent, shifting mess of reds and purples, their energy leaking out and staining the environment around them. The surrounding area was almost completely devoid of people, with only the occasional person walking by.

Jack eyed both ends of the alley, checking his watch occasionally. I swear to God, if this dude cancels on us one more time I’m gonna strangle him, he thought. After almost ten minutes, an energy signature peeled off from the main road and started approaching them. It almost felt… off. He didn’t know how else to describe it. The seller looked the same as any other normal human, but something just felt ever so slightly wrong. Jack straightened up, reflexively crossing his arms, his fingers twitching towards the handgun concealed under his jacket.

Will stopped pacing, noticing the change in Jack’s posture. “He’s here?” Will murmured, eyes skating up and down the alley.

“Almost,” Jack said. When the man was a few paces away from the end of the alley, Jack blinked to clear his vision, color bleeding back in and the Chronon signatures fading away. Moments later, a man appeared at the end of the alley, swathed in shadow. Jack tensed, uneasiness prickling down his spine.

The man froze for a few seconds before quickly walking down the alley towards them, his eyes flickering around constantly. He looked nervous, hunched over, picking at his nails. He was wearing a thin green jacket, and his black hair was wind-tossed and greasy. He had on glasses that were smudged and dirty. The most important thing that Jack noticed was that he wasn’t carrying anything with him. Where the fuck is that component? It can’t be small enough to stash in a jacket, can it? He wondered, adrenaline starting to pulse through his veins.

The man stopped a few feet away, not meeting either of their eyes. His gaze flickered nervously from either end of the alley back down to his feet. “Are you John?” The man asked quietly, his voice trembling.

“Yeah. And you are?” Jake said, taking a step forward and squaring his shoulders to make himself look bigger. They had decided to play it safe and use a fake name when buying components in shady, back-alley deals.

The man remained hunched, though his hands slowed in their fidgeting. “Not important. But I guess you can call me Dan,” he said, the barest hint of a sardonic smile quirking the edges of his lips. Jack grimaced.

“Do you have the part?” Will interrupted, imitating his younger brother and crossing his arms.

Dan eyed Jack and Will, his eyes narrowing. “… you didn’t say there would be two of you,” he muttered suspiciously.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Look, does it matter how many of us there are? If you have the part you won’t have to worry about either of us in a few minutes,” he snapped.

Dan pinned Jack beneath that unsteady gaze, looking pensive. Jack got that strange feeling again, and he couldn’t stop the slight shudder that crawled up his spine. Dan slowly smiled again, his eyes flicking back down to his shoes. “Yeah. I have it. You got the money?” He asked.

Wordlessly, Jack shifted a bit, showing the backpack hanging from his shoulder. “Now where the fuck is the part? I imagine it’s not small enough to hide in your coat,” Jack said, his own smile tinging towards malice. This guy set off all of the alarm bells in his head, and he wanted himself and Will out of Dan’s sight as quickly as possible.

Dan smiled again, almost like what Jack said was some kind of joke. He shifted nervously, starting towards Will and Jack. Jack stiffened immediately, his hand subtly drifting down towards the handgun hidden in his jacket. He grabbed Will by the collar, jerking him back as Dan walked quickly past them. “It’s in this warehouse over here,” he murmured, jerking his thumb to another warehouse a bit further away. It looked rundown and old, the brick walls crumbling and some of the glass windows broken. Weeds crawled up the side of the building, choking the sidewalk and the trash surrounding the perimeter. One of the large loading dock doors had been left wedged open just enough for a person to slip through. Dan effortlessly melded into the shadows as he slipped through the doorway, impatiently motioning for the brothers to follow him.

Jack and Will exchanged a glance, Jack shooting his brother a grimace. This is an awful idea, he thought, his eyes darting around to see if there was anyone else around. Will just shrugged, walking over to the door and slipping inside. Jack sighed, following after him. He was confident enough in his skills with a handgun and his abilities that he could get himself and Will out of a firefight, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get trapped in a building with no escape. Jack shimmied in after his brother, the metal door scraping uncomfortably against his back.

The warehouse was dark and largely empty, old wooden crates and crumbling cardboard boxes stacked in the corners. Sunlight filtered in through holes in the roof and the windows, and weeds had started to snake through the concrete floor. Darkness clung to the corners like sticky cobwebs. Dead leaves were scattered everywhere, and Jack could faintly hear something small rustling through the leaf litter in the closest corner. Cobwebs coated every surface, and dust swirled thickly through the air. Will abruptly sneezed, looking startled.

Dan led them to the center of the warehouse, kicking leaves out of the way. Jack and Will cautiously followed, Jack eyeing the shadowed corners. Old metal shelves had collapsed in on themselves and leaned against the brick walls, rust chewing at their joints. At the center of the warehouse was a plastic folding table, covered in dust. It sagged beneath the weight of a large metal component, cut wires hanging from the edges and tubes encircling the hardware. The component was about the size of a college textbook, but fairly dense.

Will let out a noise of curiosity and excitement, gravitating towards the component. Jack followed behind, eyeing Dan distrustfully. As Will peered at it, examining every nook and cranny of the component, Jack turned to face Dan. Dan was smiling that strange smile again, flashing yellowed teeth even as he shifted nervously. “I imagine it’s to your satisfaction?” He asked.

Will only let out a noncommittal grunt, clearly only having eyes and ears for the hunk of technology in front of him. “Yeah, it’s fine,” Jack answered for him, turning to face Dan. After a moment of hesitation, he shrugged off the backpack, zipping it open and revealing its contents to Dan. Dan stared inside hungrily, his eyes skating over the stacks of hundred dollar bills.

Dan looked up at Jack, suddenly stilling. Jack immediately stiffened, a deep, pervasive sense of wrongness making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Dan was standing perfectly still and straight, in complete contrast to how he had been nervously hunched over before. Dan’s eyes were cast in shadow, no light reflecting from his pupils. Jack took a cautionary step back, one hand drifting towards his gun, the other reaching for Will’s arm. “Thank you for doing business with us,” Dan said.

“Us?” Jack asked, before he heard a startled, muffled exclamation from Will. Jack whirled around, his gun already in his hands, to see that Will had been grabbed from behind, a foul-smelling cloth pressed against his face and nose. Shit! Jack thought, raising his gun. But before his finger could even find the trigger, something flashed in the edge of his vision as something heavy and black rammed into his skull-

There was a glass filled with amber liquid in his hand. Alan blinked, staring at it, struggling to focus. Everything around him felt distant and murky, like he was trying to pull his head out of a deep body of water. Images blurred and wavered in front of his eyes, the world tilting and sliding beneath him. It reminded him of Alice’s old enlarger in her dark room, the images always blurry and unclear until she twisted a knob and focused the picture.

He stared at the liquid in the crystalline tumbler, slowly sloshing the liquor around until the image came into focus. It still felt like his head was stuffed with cotton, but he could at least see without vertigo kicking his ass. Another tumbler entered his field of vision, clinking against his glass before retreating. Someone above him said something, their voice muffled and strange. On reflex, Alan downed the alcohol. It burned his throat on the way down, tasting like acid and making his stomach roil uncomfortably. Alan nearly gagged, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand.

With a deep breath, he looked up to examine the room he was in. It looked like some kind of fancy hotel room. There was a living area separated from the single bedroom, warm mahogany wood walls accented by Persian rugs, ornate leather furniture, and a flickering gas sconce. A bookshelf decorated one wall of the entire room, the names of the books blurred and distorted. Crumpled white papers littered the floor, the text scratched out violently on each page. A king size bed sat in the next room, silk sheets unkempt and tossed haphazardly on the floor.

Slow swing music was playing from an opulent gramophone in the corner, the gold horn gleaming duly in the lamp light. A man was dancing slowly to the music, humming along. He was doing some kind of swing dance, turning slowly with his hands in the air like he had an invisible partner to dance with. He was wearing a loose-fitting white collared shirt and a pair of tight leather pants, his longer hair pulled back into a loose bun. As the man swung around, Alan froze in shock. The person dancing had stolen Alan’s face. He had the same easy smile, the same crinkles around the eyes, the same dark hair that had been on the front page of literary magazines for years. But there was something… off about his appearance. It felt more like a caricature than a real person.

The man opened his eyes, winking at Alan. Wake couldn’t help but notice that the light didn’t meet his eyes. “Are you gonna get up and dance, or just sit there all night like a boring lump?” The man asked. Thankfully, he hadn’t stolen Alan’s voice. There was an odd lilt to his speech, some kind of European accent that he couldn’t quite place.

Alan remained frozen in his seat, his eyes flickering around as he desperately tried to remember what was happening. It all felt like a bad dream. “Who… who are you?” Alan asked, his voice wavering at the end as he tried desperately to claw at the shredded remains of his sanity.

The man stopped dancing, his shoulders slumping and his head tilting back as he groaned loudly. “You forgot again,” he said, annoyance creeping into his tone.

Alan flinched, uneasy. “I… I can’t…” he started, but was cut off.

“My name is Tom. Tom Zane!” Zane said, his eyebrows shooting up and his hands moving in an exaggerated motion like he was trying to explain a simple concept to a five-year-old. He poured himself another glass of liquor, downing it in one go and smiling at the writer. His teeth were pearly-white and completely straight, and something about that felt so inhuman and wrong. Alan shifted, his mouth opening again. “I know, I know. I don’t look the same. I had to… borrow a new look for a little while. The Diver was a character in my old film, ymmärtää?” Zane said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Alan blinked rapidly, still feeling as if his brain was blanketed in cotton. “What… what’s happening?” He asked.

Tom scoffed, grabbing a small rubber ball from the leather couch and setting down his glass. He threw the ball against the wall a few times, bouncing it off the ground and trying to perform a few trick shots. “You’re writing. I’m editing. It’s as simple as that,” he said, as if that cleared anything up. The sound of rubber smacking against wood was distracting Alan. The glass in his hands started to slip from his fingers, the outside slick with condensation. Every time he tried to focus on Zane, the rubber ball drew his attention away, the noise sounding like a hand smashing against a keyboard in his brain. “But we’re close now. We just have a few more kinks to iron out,” Zane said, glancing back at the writer.

“What ‘kinks?’” Alan asked.

Zane shrugged. “Oh, nothing major. I’ll take care of it. Now, I believe you have some business to return to?” He prompted. Alan stared at him blankly. Zane laughed. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll meet again soon,” he continued. As Tom smiled, his eyes looked cold and dark and utterly empty. There was no trace of the comforting light that shone from the Diver, and no trace of the warm, guiding presence that first helped Alan escape the Dark Place. Tom turned to face Alan, taking a step towards him. Wake started to stand, and that’s when everything went black.

There were fingers digging into his injured shoulder and a hand clamped over his mouth. Alan was torn between shouting in pain and biting whoever had him trapped in a bear hug. “Snap the fuck out of it man!” A voice hissed in his ear, followed by the barely perceptible mumblings of a Fade-Out.

Alan froze, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t see any threats in his line of sight, but he could feel how taut the person restraining him was. Slowly, they released him, and Alan slithered out of their hold and onto the grimy asphalt beneath them. He glanced back to see the pale face of a man in a State Trooper uniform, his Smith & Wesson MP40 held in a white-knuckled grip. It took a few seconds, but Alan’s brain clicked into place. Aw, hell, he thought, reaching for his own revolver.

They were both curled up against the back of an overturned food cart, rotten food mingling with the smell of garbage water and bloated corpses. The street around them opened into a large walkway, rimmed by huge skyscrapers that disappeared into the deeper darkness of the sky above. Greenish-yellow gas lights lined the street, casting a sickly glow across the pavement. Trash littered the sidewalk, yellow newspapers and crumbling fast food wrappers soaked to the ground by the ever-present rain. The electronic billboards attached to every single building flickered half-heartedly, occasionally showing glimpses of an episode of Night Springs, some kind of hard-boiled detective movie, and most disconcertingly, Wake himself. They were currently on the outskirts of the Dark Place’s version of Times Square, and there were at least eight Fade-Outs milling around ahead of them. One of them was starting to stray far too close for comfort, its whispering growing louder.

Tim snapped his gaze down to glare at Alan, righteous anger burning in his eyes. “Stop fucking spacing out before you get us killed,” he snarled quietly.

“I can’t exactly help it!” Alan whispered angrily back. He peeked his head above the top of the food cart, eyeing the surrounding buildings.

“Fine, Wake. Whatever. Where’s your magic hand mirror?” Tim asked, his eyes trained on the nearest Fade-Out. They were trying to make it into one of the large department store malls near the center of Times Square. Inside, there was a hand mirror that had been lost in the Dark Place for decades. Supposedly, according to the manuscript, it would allow someone to pierce through the veil between realities and get a message through. How that worked, Alan had no idea. But he trusted his manuscript enough to just roll with it.

Alan scanned the skyscrapers, eventually finding their target. “There,” he whispered, pointing to a building near the Red Stairs. “That’s where we’re going.”

Tim eyed the distance between their position and the mall dubiously. “And how do you propose we get through this many Fade-Outs?” He asked.

Alan hummed, examining the scene before him. If I was writing this, which I am, how would I progress the plot? He wondered, his eyes skating around. In the distance, he could see a single, brightly lit street lamp. It was down a side street to their left, in the opposite direction of the building they needed to head to, but it gave Alan an idea. “Just trust me,” he said.

Tim glared at the writer, his brows furrowed. After a long moment of consideration, he sighed and nodded. “Oh, what the hell. You lead,” he said, holstering his duty pistol and grabbing the shotgun that was slung around his shoulder.

Alan nodded, surveying the environment. After a tense moment of waiting for a Fade-Out to turn away, he slunk towards a pedestrian barrier for cover. He could just barely hear Tim moving behind him, his footfalls near-silent. Another Fade-Out turned its head in their direction, the sound of its whispering growing in volume. They both froze, turning their flashlights off and waiting.

The Fade-Out paused for a long moment, quiet. Then it suddenly lurched a few feet away with a wild screech, the golf club it was holding slamming into an overflowing trash can. Alan flinched, eyes wide. The Fade-Out seemingly calmed down after that, its arms and legs melting to its body to become some kind of amorphous shadow. Alan and Tim remained still for a few minutes, waiting to see if it would move. When it didn’t, Tim squeezed Alan’s shoulder and they started creeping forward.

They kept bunny hopping from cover to cover, biding their time and watching for Fade-Outs. There was another close call when a Fade-Out suddenly peeled itself away from the shadows of the concrete block they were hiding behind, nearly brushing against them. The Fade-Out emanated cold, their breaths visible in the air in its wake. It also smelled like rotten meat that had been left to stew at the bottom of a lake, and it took everything in their combined willpower not to gag.

Eventually, they made it to the side street. Tim lagged behind, sticking to the wall of the building and watching their backs as Alan crept over to the street light. He paused in the pool of light for a moment, closing his eyes. It wasn’t real light, more the idea of a light. But it still made him feel just the slightest bit safer, and it helped soothe the pain in his shoulder. With a reluctant sigh, he pulled the Angel Lamp from his bag and held it up.

The Angel Lamp was this strange lamp that his mother had in their cramped house. They had never found the lampshade for it, leaving its bulb bare. The actual lamp post was in the shape of a bronze woman with angel wings arcing behind her, holding up the bulb. It had about two inches of cord still attached to the base, though the place where the light switch was supposed to be had been sheared off. Alan couldn’t say for sure, but he was pretty confident that the Clicker had actually come from the Angel Lamp.

With the Angel Lamp held aloft, Alan tightened his grip on it and focused. He imagined the ebb and flow of light, photons zipping frenetically to their destination, and he yanked. With a sucking sound and a sudden click, Alan pulled the light from the streetlight and stored it in the Angel Lamp. The streetlight immediately burnt out, the glass bulb shattering. Alan grimaced, covering his head with his hand as glass rained down from above. The street was now swamped with darkness, shadows clinging to every corner. The Angel Lamp glowed brightly, pulsing with radiance and warmth. Almost reverently, Alan tucked the Angel Lamp back into his bag, turning back around to get Tim.

Sergeant Breaker was diligently watching the end of the street, his eyes narrowed. He eyed the lit lamp in Alan’s bag, but didn’t comment when the writer approached. “You got what you needed?” Tim whispered. Alan nodded, pulling out his revolver. They turned back the way they came, and suddenly came face to face with a Fade-Out about to cleave their skulls open with an ice pick.

“Mother fuck!” Tim shouted, firing the shotgun point-blank in the Fade-Out’s chest just as the blunt part of the pick slammed down on Tim’s hand. Sergeant Breaker grunted in pain, nearly losing the shotgun. His flashlight had been knocked out of his hand and rolled out of sight behind the Fade-Out, the plastic casing audibly snapping. “I do not want to be lobotomized today!” Tim snarled. The Fade-Out was forced back a few steps by the sheer force of the shotgun blast, its form writhing violently. The Fade-Out staggered for a moment, and then it howled. It was a long, loud, inhuman noise that brought to mind the shrieking of caribou and drew the other Fade-Outs towards them.

Alan cursed wildly, turning his flashlight on and aiming it directly at the Fade-Out before them. The shade threw up an arm that morphed into several shapes in the light, never quite settling on something recognizable. In one moment, it looked like the leg of a deer. In the next, it looked like a meat hook used to string up dead animals. And in the next, it writhed endlessly with spikes, sharp points that could spear both men in an instant. Alan gripped his flashlight harder, concentrating on the enemy before him. As he concentrated, he felt the casing of the flashlight warm beneath his touch. The beam of the flashlight brightened, focusing and pinning the Fade-Out beneath its light.

The Fade-Out roiled beneath the light, hunching over in pain. Its form became amorphous and indistinguishable as the shadows crawled over it in a desperate attempt to escape. With a bright flash of light that left spots in Alan’s eyes, the shadowy barrier over the Fade-Out dispersed. Beneath the shadows, it almost looked like a person. The best way he could describe it was like looking through frosted glass and seeing the blurry shape of a human through the other side. Any distinct features shifted and blurred together, but Alan could still make out bloated, gray skin and sopping wet clothing.

With instinct that had been honed over the years, Alan’s gun snapped up and fired off four rounds. Three hit it dead in its center mass, and the last nailed it between the eyes. The Fade-Out shrieked as it faded away, the sound harsh and grating like nails on a chalkboard. However, before either man could breathe, more Fade-Outs started pouring into the mouth of the side street.

Tim racked another round in the chamber, stepping forward. Alan backed him up, pinning another Fade-Out beneath his own flashlight. Just as the protective shadows around the second Fade-Out slithered away, another Fade-Out dashed forward, its bat already swinging down to crack on Tim’s shoulder. Alan raised his flashlight, directing the beam at the third Fade-Out. It screamed, aborting its attack and lurching away. However, after a moment, the flashlight spluttered, its light weakening. He desperately slapped it against his thigh as both men started to backpedal, squeezing the casing like his life depended on it. The flashlight flickered back on for a moment, the beam wavering. “C’mon, c’mon,” Alan muttered, smacking the flashlight against his thigh again. The beam solidified for a moment before its light winked out.

Both Fade-Outs advanced, the whispering growing into demented, babbled speech. “Wake! Do something!” Tim shouted. He took aim and fired another round at both Fade-Outs, stalling them for a moment and staggering them. Alan’s hand snapped towards his jacket, his palms slick with sweat. He yanked out a flare, pulling the cap off and striking it against the ignition surface. He was suddenly blinded by an extremely bright red flash, bathing the entire street in light. The Fade-Outs squealed, lurching back and away from the radius of light. Heat radiated from the flare, and Alan raised it above his head so he could see.

Quickly, Tim began reloading the shotgun, his eyes swiveling down both ends of the street. “We need to keep moving,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, no shit,” Alan bit back, handing Sergeant Breaker the flare so that he could reload his revolver and put fresh batteries in the flashlight. “I don’t have enough ammo to take out all of these Fade-Outs. We need to make a run for the Red Stairs.”

Tim eyed him. “Fine. You ready?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Alan said, the flare starting to sputter weakly above them. With a nod, they both took off at a dead sprint down the street, red light bouncing along the concrete walls. Just as they reached the end of the side street and stepped out on the main walkway, the flare died. More Fade-Outs materialized around them, their chanting growing in volume until they were almost shouting. Tim twisted, throwing the spent flare and nailing a Fade-Out in the place where its face should be. It snarled, lurching after them and violently swinging the rusted, sharpened remains of a stop sign at their heads. Alan whirled around, firing off a single round in the Fade-Outs skull, knocking it back a few paces.

He dodged under the outstretched limbs of another Fade-Out, the shade grabbing the collar of his jacket and jerking him back. Alan spluttered, his air flow getting abruptly cut off by the shirt collar digging into his throat. Tim grabbed a knife from his belt, attempting to stab the Fade-Out in the eye. The blade merely skated off the coating of darkness, but it gave Alan enough breathing room to wedge his revolver under the space where the Fade-Out’s chin was supposed to be and pull the trigger. The Fade-Out screeched in pain, the muzzle flash from the gun weakening its barrier of darkness. Alan turned his flashlight on it, boosting the light until the darkness faded away with a crackle of light. Tim fired two rounds from the shotgun, turning the Fade-Out into nothing more than motes of light.

As they rushed for the Red Stairs, a sickle came whizzing out from the darkness and nearly hit Tim in the back. Without looking back, Alan yanked the Angel Lamp from his bag. Just as they reached the first step, a Fade-Out materialized in front of them, snarling as it raised an axe. Alan reflexively ducked down, his arm snapping up with the Angel Lamp. Closing his eyes, he grit his teeth and pushed.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. After a moment of nothing but desperate panting from the two men and his own racing heartbeat, Alan cracked open an eye. Times Square was lit up like it was New Years Eve. Lights shone brightly from every corner, bathing the street in luminance. Every electronic billboard was turned on, their lights flashing across the square. The Angel Lamp was cold and dead in his hand, the light it carried transferred to Times Square. All of the Fade-Outs were gone, nothing but the faintest streaks of black soot and a lifetime of nightmares to remember them by.

Tim cracked open his eyes, slumping with relief. After glancing around, he shot Alan a half-smile. “Nice thinking,” he said, clapping the writer on the back. Alan just grunted in acknowledgement, kneading the sore flesh of his shoulder. Adrenaline was still buzzing through his veins, making him antsy. After a moment of silence filled only by panting, Tim said, his smile widening, “I guess you really brought those guys to a stop, huh.”

Alan groaned. Loudly. “Jesus, your puns are awful. You see a shadow wielding a stop sign and that’s the best thing you can come up with? Get better material,” he snarked, cuffing the Sergeant on the shoulder as he slowly stood up. All of his joints popped loudly in protest, and he couldn’t stifle the groan that slipped past his throat.

“Alright, grandpa. Let’s get you back to the nursing home so that you can take your meds and have a nap in front of the TV,” Tim said with exaggerated concern, putting his hands under Alan’s arms from behind like he was trying to manhandle the writer into a wheelchair.

Alan deftly elbowed the younger man in the ribs, stepping out of Tim’s hold. He arched one eyebrow at the State Trooper as Tim wheezed on the ground, clutching his side. “They say silence is the best medicine. That, and a nap,” Alan said, turning his attention back to Times Square.

While the city was completely silent, there were videos playing on the billboards. The one video that caught his eye was of himself, typing frantically on a typewriter with frizzy hair and a vacant look in his eyes. The Writer was muttering manically to himself, but Alan couldn’t hear what he was saying. Scattered manuscript pages littered the table, and there was an empty glass of whiskey next to him. The Writer’s movements were jerky and erratic like he might snap and lurch up from his seat at any moment. It was the picture perfect image of insanity, and Alan grimaced. Tim stared at the billboard, his eyes calculating. “That is one fucked up son of a bitch, huh?” He said, his voice warping unusually around the words and sounding wrong. Alan just turned away from the screens, slowly plodding towards the building they needed to get into, too tired to respond.

The building they were aiming for was one of the many tall skyscrapers in the center of Times Square, made of concrete, glass, and huge electronic billboards. When they got to the revolving door, it took the combined shoving of both men to force the rusty metal door to squeak open just enough for them to slip through.

The inside of the building was structured similarly to a mall, with rows of department stores stretching up at least four floors. It looked like it had been abandoned for decades, wooden planks covering shattered storefront windows and graffiti scrawled across every surface. Cobwebs clung to every corner, their thin, gossamer strands glittering in the light from Alan’s flashlight. Dust, dirt, and general muck was splattered all over the inside of the mall. Disconcertingly, Alan could see dried pools of blood dotted here and there, macabre streaks painting the walls.

An old Ferris wheel used to stand in the middle of the mall, stretching towards the ceiling. Now, rust had eaten away at its joints, and it had collapsed in on itself. The twisted metal carcass blocked most of the mall, including the storefront they needed to get into. Alan eyed the wreckage with unease.

In the distance, something metal and hollow clattered to the floor. Alan and Tim both froze, their hands drifting toward their weapons. They glanced at one another, trying to assess the threat. Suddenly, with a screech of tearing metal and a blinding flash of light, the Ferris wheel turned on. Alan and Tim both jumped about a foot in the air, yelping in fright. Distorted carnival music warbled from the machine, its notes sounding sinister as it whined in a minor key. The lights on the edges of the wheel lit up, yellows and reds flashing through the store. The bulbs were all coated in dirt, which made the light shift unevenly as the bulbs flashed. It almost made the Ferris wheel look like some great living beast, twitching on the floor, dying. Even the sounds of the wheel settling sounded like the final death rattle of some big animal.

The air wavered dangerously around them like heat waves as the Dark Place took his thoughts and tried to make them real. Alan blinked sharply, digging his nails into his thigh. Stop thinking! He hissed at his brain, trying to force his overactive imagination to quieten. Slowly, the shimmer in the air faded away.

Tim was eyeing the Ferris wheel with wide, distrustful eyes, immediately tense. His gaze started to swivel up and down the length of the mall, checking for any Fade-Outs. Any hint of humor and camaraderie they shared before had been shattered by the threat of the Dark Place.

Alan wandered over to the storefront that they needed to get into, completely blocked by the remains of the Ferris wheel. It had been some kind of makeup store at some point, though the windows had been boarded up and completely covered in graffiti. “Alright, Wake. How the hell are we supposed to clear this shit?” Tim asked, pacing along the length of the mall, his hand inching towards his duty pistol.

Alan felt a sense of déjà vu, rubbing his head. “Give me a minute. Watch my back,” he said, fixing Tim with a look. Tim just nodded, pacing restlessly. With a deep breath, Alan closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax and breathe. With a significant amount of effort, he unmoored his consciousness from his body and let himself drift.

Any and all sensation fell away. It was like he had entered the void of space, just floating through nothingness. It was scary, and quiet, and almost peaceful. After an indeterminable amount of time, he felt his consciousness hook onto something, and he blinked.

Alan was back in Bird Leg Cabin. Though it had changed over the years, it was still the place that his physical body had been stuck in for who knows how long. At this point, Alan could kind of… fracture himself and project parts of his consciousness into different areas of the Dark Place. It was similar to when he had first found himself trapped beneath the lake and had involuntarily split himself in two in a fit of madness, but this time it wasn’t just two facets of his mind. It was more like he had given part of his consciousness a physical form and sent it off into the unknown to act as the main character for his story. Splitting himself in two took a tremendous amount of work and energy, but it was necessary to complete his story.

Alan was sitting at his desk, his fingers poised over his typewriter. He groaned as he slumped back in the chair, cracking his neck and working out the stiffness in his fingers and shoulders. The wound on his shoulder was gone, replaced instead with stiffness from sitting and typing for so long. With a long, drawn-out sigh, Alan forced himself out of his chair and slowly walked over to the plot board. What had started out as a neat collection of notes had, at some point, devolved into an entire blackboard’s worth of insane scribbles and dead plot threads. Alan flipped the board around, finding a folder of photos and cards to act as major plot points that had to be deliberated over. He pulled out the photo of the mall, the Ferris wheel clearly visible, and pinned it to the board. He then started to rifle through various plot threads, pulling them out to examine.

After a long moment of consideration, Alan plucked a plot thread out of the pile, pleased. It simply read, “Opera.” Alan pinned it to the board underneath the photo, ideas already flowing through his mind. After getting himself another draught of whiskey, he slumped down in front of his typewriter. He stretched out his hands, rolled his neck, and set his fingers on the typewriter. He then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and splintered his consciousness to send himself back to the scene.

Pain jackknifed through his skull, white hot for a long moment before abruptly fading. It was replaced by a dull throbbing in his shoulder as he drifted through that void again, trying to re-anchor himself to his body.

After a long time, he felt sensation slowly return to his body, his vision slowly fading in like a photo developing in a dark room. Alan blinked to clear the black dots from the edges of his vision, swaying with exhaustion. A migraine was starting to form behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Pins and needles raced up his limbs, and he shook them out to regain some feeling.

Time had stopped. He could see Tim frozen in place, stuck in the middle of his anxious pacing along the edge of the room. The lights of the Ferris Wheel had frozen mid-blink, casting the room in a dull orange hue. For a moment, he could almost see his typewriter in front of him, hear its keys clacking as the Writer changed the scene before him to follow the plot thread.

Within a heartbeat, the scene had changed. The entire building was clean and looked brand new, covered in rich wood paneling and opulent red drapes. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, candles burning merrily in its frame. Instead of a Ferris wheel, there was a large stage set into the ground, though it was completely abandoned. The graffiti and the boards were gone, replaced by sparkling glass and elegant signs. The way through the makeup store was clear.

Similarly, Tim had changed as well. Instead of pacing anxiously at the front of the mall, he was lounging against a sign in front of the makeup store, looking around without a care in the world. “Man, this is one spiffy place, huh?” He asked, gesturing around.

Alan just grunted noncommittally, walking past the Sergeant into the store. He didn’t bother trying to correct Tim. He didn’t know how much the State Trooper even remembered of their fight through Times Square, or the previous iteration of the mall. It wasn’t worth the energy to try to explain it all, so he just let it be.

Tim followed behind Alan, glancing around curiously. “What are we looking for again?” He asked, his eyes going glassy for a moment.

“A hand mirror. You’ll probably know it when you see it,” Alan muttered, starting his search. The makeup store had plenty of hand mirrors and regular mirrors, but nothing that Alan particularly gravitated towards. It took about five minutes of searching, but when Alan wrenched open the door to the staff room, he immediately felt something off. The room was dark and mostly empty, save for a pedestal sitting right in the middle of the floor. It came up to about hip height, and sitting on it was the hand mirror that they had been looking for. Alan cautiously approached it, suddenly uneasy. He couldn’t explain it, but the mirror felt wrong. It grated against his mind, seemingly pulsing with dark energy that drew Alan in no matter how much his brain screamed at him to run away.

Tim poked his head into the room, his eyes wide. “Is that it?” He whispered.

Alan paused in his approach, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. It is,” he whispered back, his hand stretching out to grab it. Anxiety crawled down his spine, settling in the pit of his stomach as his hand hovered uncertainly above the mirror. With a deep breath, his fingers lowered, skating against the cool glass. Almost immediately, stinging cold shot through his limbs, invading his brain as he-

Red hair tangled around her face in a messy halo as she snarled with righteous anger, smashing rocks and trees into the opponent in front of her with her mind. Her Guiding Star glittered dangerously, sharp points stabbing outwards, dagger sharp-

He was lying face-down on the ground, watching as the goon put a gun to his brother’s head. He squirmed, snarling, fighting the restraints that cut into his wrists. Cold energy coursed through his veins, collecting in his palms as fractals as he so desperately wanted to ripteardestroyrendfleshstopmovingstopmovingpleasepleaseplease-

She stared unseeing out across the perfectly still and smooth reflection of the lake, unease churning in her gut. Glancing at her partner, he looked just as concerned as she was, the lines on his face taut with tension and uncertainty. Suddenly, the surface of the lake rippled, and they saw a man rise from the center-

The writer swallowed by darkness. The fire and her guiding star. The traveler lost in time. Find them.

Hello, writer. Long time, no see.

Chapter Text

There was a body in the alley. Another victim of the Cult’s murder spree. Their ritual to bring their prophet back. Fucking cop killers, a deep, gravelly voice whispered into the air, into his brain.

That’s… who said that? Alan said, thought. He had no mouth to speak. Images bloomed in front of him, tinged green. Like a photo developing in a dark room. Like ink dripping onto a page. Silhouettes of a man flashed before him, but he couldn’t make out a face. Everything rippled.

Wake stood before me, his gun smoking, wisps curling into the air. The blood of the victim pooled in the rain, draining into the sewers to become one with the bile of the city. Another body of his work. A lurid chain of events leading up to this moment. Had I caught him, or had he let himself be caught? The voice continued.

Alan blinked, and realized that he was standing. That he had a physical body. That the green silhouette was a person standing in front of him. It took a moment longer for his brain to reconnect with his body and to finally process what was happening.

He was outside in an alleyway, everything cast in deep shades of green from a neon sign advertising a whiskey brand. It was pouring rain, soaking into his clothes and swirling around his feet. His gun and flashlight were in his hands, the revolver still smoking from firing a shot. There was also the barrel of a Beretta 92FS pressed to his head, and a finger on the trigger, and a remarkably steady hand that led to a torso in a leather coat with a paisley tie and a face lined with anger that Alan almost recognized and-

Oh. Oh, fuck, Alan thought belatedly as his brain caught up with the narration running in his mind. This was Alex Casey, Private Investigator. The hard-boiled detective that haunted his previous life as a successful writer. And now he was apparently an actual person trying to kill him, like everything else in the Dark Place. He looked exactly like how Alan always envisioned the man to look like, which was jarring. Casey’s face curled into a sneer, his eyes flickering down to the ground. Alan followed his gaze, and froze.

Sergeant Tim Breaker was dead. A bullet was lodged in his skull, blood pooling around him, mixing and swirling together with the rainwater into a miasma of filth. His face was pale and his eyes stared sightlessly towards the sky, uncaring of the rain dripping on his face. Arterial spray coated the far alley wall, glittering a deep, rich red in the beam of his flashlight. Alan glanced back down at his gun, the barrel still warm, his mind going blank with panic. Fuck. Fuck! What did I do? He thought numbly. The last thing that he remembered was trying to find the hand mirror with Tim. He had seen… something, but the memories were lost in the haze of his mind. How did we get to this point? How much time am I missing?

“Drop it,” Casey growled, his eyes narrowing with righteous anger. “Now!”

Alan hesitated, torn. On the one hand, he didn’t want to risk his only protection against the Darkness being taken away from him. But on the other hand… How can I trust myself if I just murdered my only ally down here and can’t even remember pulling the trigger? He thought. “I- Okay… okay. I’m putting it down,” Alan mumbled, his voice trembling. Shock was numbing his limbs, and he barely even registered himself laying his revolver on the ground, or the gun barrel still pressed against his skull. Casey grabbed the revolver, tossing it away further into the alley and out of their reach. Despair and guilt welled up in Alan’s chest as his eyes drifted back down to Breaker’s still-cooling corpse. A headache was starting to worm its way through his head, breaking past the shock.

The barrel pressed more insistently against his skull, and Alan’s gaze snapped back up. “Alan Wake. The writer,” Casey said. “What do you know about the Cult of the Tree?”

Alan blinked several times, his mouth going dry. “The… the what?” He rasped.

“Don’t lie,” Casey warned, his finger inching closer to the trigger. “The Cult is copycatting the murders in your books in some kind of insane ritual to ‘summon’ you. You’re their leader, under the guise of Mr. S̶̷c̶̷r̶̷a̶̷t̶̷c̶̷h̶̷,” he stated, like it was actual fact.

Alan twitched at the name, horror flooding his limbs. Oh, fuck. How does Scratch tie into this? I thought… didn’t I kill him in Arizona? Unless… Alan trailed off, his headache spiking. His memory was so spotty and frail that for all he knew, his escape attempt in Arizona was just another trick from the Dark Place. “Listen! You’ve got the wrong man! I’m not him, we just look alike!” Alan shouted.

Casey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s the excuse you’re going with?” He asked.

“Yes, it’s the truth! I’ve never heard of the Cult of the Tree before!” Alan said.

“Are you sure about that?” Casey prompted.

Unwillingly, Alan’s eyes drifted back down to Tim’s body. Can I be sure about that? I… I can’t remember anything. For all I know, maybe I am leading a murder cult. But why? He wondered. “I… I never killed anyone,” he mumbled, but even he knew that was weak.

Casey gave him an unimpressed look. “You kill characters in your books all the time. You killed those people in Bright Falls. You killed that cop,” Casey spat, pointing to Tim.

Sudden pain lanced through Alan’s skull, white-hot agony ripping through him. It felt like there was some tremendous pressure building in his brain, like he had just been stabbed in the skull and someone was twisting the knife over and over again. For a moment, he saw a flash of a face, snarling, coated in blood and wreathed in shadow. Alan cried out at the sudden pain, stumbling back and clutching his head. An unnatural surge of panic and fear blanketed his mind, blotting out any rational thought. “Fuck! He’s here!” He gasped out. Up above, the neon sign flickered, winking out for a moment before blinking back on, bathing the alley in red light.

“You’re guilty, Wake. And I’m ending this shit. Right here, right now,” Casey snarled, his eyes cast in shadow from the sharp light. His finger curled around the trigger, and panic surged through him.

“No! It’s S̶̷c̶̷r̶̷a̶̷t̶̷c̶̷h̶̷! He’s here! Run!” Alan pleaded, shoving against Casey. Pain ripped through his brain again, so intense that his vision turned white. Primal terror was clawing, snarling, snapping, scratching at his mind. He had to get away. He had to.

The next thing that Alan knew, he was sprinting down a completely different alley, Casey nowhere in sight. He almost stumbled in shock at the sudden change in scenery until he felt the darkness closing in behind him. The brick walls on either side of him were exploding into clouds of dust and debris, trash cans slammed against opposite walls, their contents spilling across the ground. A swirling, malevolent cloud of darkness rushed behind him, brightness flashing in its center, howling wind and screeching echoing around them. Images battered against his brain, pounding against his fragile skull and drilling into his head. He couldn’t tell what was real in front of him and what was the Dark Presence. Icy cold pain lapped at his back where the darkness was encroaching. No matter how fast he ran, it was right on his heels, destroying everything in its path.

Alan skidded around a corner, the Dark Presence howling behind him. Up ahead, he could see a door left ajar, bright light spilling into the alley. His vision was starting to darken at the edges as the Dark Presence grew closer, shapes melding together. “Fuck! Fuck off!” He shouted. The door was close. So close. He just had to-

He slipped. Caught himself. But it was a fatal mistake. Darkness rushed over him, blotting out his vision, sinking everything into high contrast black and white. Agony shredded through every fiber of his being, the darkness ebbing and surging, flowing into every neuron. It felt like his brain split open, something worming its way in, sheltering in his head and his chest where his heart should be-

And then he collapsed just inside the door, in the beautiful pool of light. The Dark Presence shrieked, screamed, howled in rage and pain. Alan couldn’t stop his own shout as he curled up, clutching his head, the pressure too much, too much!

And then the Dark Presence was gone. It couldn’t enter, couldn’t survive in the light. He was safe, for now. Alan shuddered, curled up in a ball on the ground in the center of the light, clutching his head. A headache was still viciously pounding through his brain, but at least it didn’t feel like someone had smashed his skull open on the pavement. That overwhelming panic and fear slowly faded, replaced by a perfectly normal level of terror. He could sense the Dark Presence retreating, fading away, and finally let himself breathe.

Alan groaned, feeling like he had just been run through an industrial-sized crusher. What… what happened? He thought groggily. He had just been in that alley with Casey. How did he end up in another alley? Where had Casey gone? Had he started running and just forgotten?

Slowly, Alan dragged himself to his feet, wobbly. He was exhausted on every front. It felt like his brain had been ripped to shreds, and he felt emotionally numb. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to let the questions go for now. He had been in the Dark Place long enough to recognize that sometimes you just had to stop worrying about the things you couldn’t control, or remember.

He took a moment to take stock of himself. His body tingled from the cold shock of the Dark Presence, and his shoulder was throbbing again, but he felt physically okay otherwise. His revolver was long gone, but he still had his flashlight and a single remaining flare. He was absolutely soaked to the bone from the downpour, and he shook some water out of his hair, unsuccessfully trying to slick the dark strands out of his eyes. God, he really hated the rain sometimes. Mentally, he wasn’t doing too well. His memories were a jumbled mess, and he was struggling to separate reality from fiction. Tim’s death weighed on his conscious, guilt curdling in his heart. He forced himself to take a deep breath, focusing instead on the room he found himself in.

He was in some kind of small closet, shelves filled with cleaning supplies and boxes. Most likely a janitor’s closet based on the stack of brooms leaning against a wall. Disconcertingly, the door that he had entered through was gone. There was nothing there but a smooth brick wall. There was another door in front of him, plain and unremarkable.

After taking a moment to gather his bearings, he cautiously opened the second door, peeking his head out. There was a long, empty hallway. The walls were unmarked, and the only thing of interest was a door with a spiral painted on it at the very end. The door looked familiar, but Alan couldn’t quite figure out why. The familiar burn of resentment at his own memory surfaced, but he resolutely tamped it down. He slowly started walking towards the door, very aware of how deathly silent it was. There was no hum of machinery, no sound of voices traveling through the walls. He was by himself. At about the halfway point, he paused, something shifting in the air around him. He eyed the walls like they would suddenly melt away. It wasn’t an entirely unfounded worry. After a moment of stillness, he sighed, letting his shoulders slump. Geez, paranoid much? He snarked at himself. He took another step, his hand on the wall, and then-

-and then there was clapping, and music playing, and lights shining so brightly in his face that he couldn’t see the room beyond. Alan froze up completely, like a deer in headlights. Wh… What the fuck? He thought, fighting the urge to bolt.

There was a sudden hand clapping on his shoulder and another grabbing his arm, shaking it with a squeeze. He jolted, startled, and turned to see another man smiling widely at him. He had dark skin and short black hair, and was wearing a crisp black and white suit. He didn’t recognize the man. Was he supposed to?

The man turned to face the light, his grip tightening on Alan’s shoulder as he half-guided-half-shoved the writer towards a ring of furniture. Alan took the moment to examine his surroundings, letting himself be led. He was on some kind of stage, curtains and false wood walls marking the edges. In front of him was a strange arrangement of a desk, a blue armchair and couch, a coffee table, and a purple rug. A three-person band was playing to his left, dressed like heavy-metal rockers despite the slow jazz music they were playing. They looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember why. Squinting past the bright lights, he could just barely make out seating for the audience, segmented into two floors. There were multiple cameras and teleprompters set up, and Alan’s stomach sank when he realized why the set-up looked vaguely familiar.

Why the fuck am I on a talk show? He wondered, suddenly worried. Is this part of the story? Is this… is this real? A memory? For a moment, his doubts crowded in, overwhelming him. Had he really made everything up, like Hartman had said? No! Alan thought, digging his nails into his thigh. No, it’s all real. This is still the Dark Place. It’s just fucking with me, he thought unsteadily.

Paranoid, he checked himself over. He was perfectly dry now, no evidence that he had been running in the rain earlier. His hair and beard were clean and styled, and there was makeup on his face. His holster, flashlight, and bag were all gone. What the actual fuck, he thought numbly. Maybe… maybe I am really just delusional.

The man guided him over to an armchair, and Alan slumped down, too shocked to offer any kind of resistance. The man was smiling jovially, flashing perfect white teeth at the audience. He settled down behind his desk just as the band finished their song and the uproarious clapping from the audience died down. “Welcome, welcome! It’s so good to see you again, Alan!” The man said, turning to face the writer.

Alan just sat there, struggling to comprehend everything that was happening. Above the talk show host’s head on the far wall, he could make out a logo. ‘In Between with Mr. Door.’ Never heard of it, he thought.

The silence stretched on as Alan sat there, frozen with shock. The person he assumed was Mr. Door tilted his head, raising his eyebrows as if to say, Hey, that’s your cue, idiot.

I should probably say something. This is getting awkward, Alan thought, starting to panic. “Uh… nice to see you, too,” he said, trying to smile. It came out weak and strained, but either Mr. Door didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

“When I heard that you were writing a sequel to Departure, I thought that there was no way that you would be able to top the original. I mean, the story is so intriguing, the characters are so interesting, and it leaves on such an exciting cliffhanger!” Mr. Door said, reaching beneath his desk and grabbing a hardback book. He flashed it for both Alan and the audience to see, and Alan stiffened.

Wait, I never published Departure. The only manuscript is down here in the Dark Place with me. I would never publish anything like Departure, no matter how well it might sell… right? Fuck, what if I did? He thought anxiously.

“I mean, what would you even classify this book as? Mystery? Psychological thriller? Auto-fictional thought experiment?” Mr. Door asked.

He glanced up at Alan to see how pale and stricken the writer looked, his eyes glassy as he tried to wrap his mind around the absolute clusterfuck he had somehow managed to get dragged into. Mr. Door frowned, tapping the hardback cover thoughtfully. “Are you alright, my friend? You look a little pale. Keeping your nose to the grind?” He asked with a smile, though his eyes glittered with something that made Alan feel insignificant and small.

Alan flashed a weak thumbs-up. “Yeah. All… all good. Just, uh… I’ve been working a lot,” he said. Mr. Door leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile, turning back towards the audience. Alan saw the red light jump from the broadcast camera filming him to the one focused on Mr. Door, and he let out a shaky breath. Closing his eyes, he tightened his hands into white-knuckled fists. You can do this. You used to do interviews drunk off your ass all the time before and managed to come out through the other side okay. Just put on a face, get through the segment, and freak the fuck out later, he thought. With a forced smile, Alan slipped on the, ‘Famous, Suave, Party Animal Writer’ mask he had used so often when he had done press tours for the Alex Casey books. It was one that he hated, especially now with Scratch almost personifying it.

“I find the concept of Departure so fascinating. A famous author named Alan Wake must fight supernatural shadows to save his wife, all while finding pages of a manuscript he doesn’t remember writing. What was your inspiration for that concept?” Mr. Door asked.

“Well… I’m not sure. It just kind of came to me in a dream, I guess,” Alan lied, fidgeting in the chair.

Mr. Door hummed, tapping the book thoughtfully against his desk. “Any truth to the fiction, Alan? I mean, do you think your work can change reality? Has this conversation already been written by you?” Mr. Door asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Alan paused, struggling to come up with a decent answer that would please Mr. Door and the audience. “Uh… maybe? Who knows? I certainly don’t,” he said. There was a steaming cup of coffee in an Oh Deer Diner mug on the coffee table in front of him. Alan picked it up, taking a sip so his hands had something to do. The coffee tasted like ash in his mouth, and he grimaced, setting it back down.

Mr. Door grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Alan. You always get so meta with your books,” he said, reaching beneath his desk. “Which is why I am so excited to be the first one to announce this to the entire world. Finally, we have the long, long awaited sequel to Departure. Return, everyone!” Mr. Door slapped another hardcover book on the table as deafening applause and cheering broke out through the entire auditorium.

Alan froze, staring at the cover. I never published Departure, and I definitely never finished Return. I’m still writing it, right? Who the fuck wrote that book? He wondered numbly. He shifted uncomfortably as the applause continued, shrinking slightly. A long time ago, before visiting Bright Falls, he would have soaked up the praise gleefully. He had enjoyed the trappings of fame, and the feeling that people loved his books. But now? Now he just felt like a fraud, like an imposter walking around in someone else’s skin. He didn’t write Return, and he could barely remember writing Departure. He didn’t deserve this praise, not when his writing had gotten people killed countless times over and dragged the ones he loved down into the depths of hell. And he especially hated the person that fame made him become. All the alcohol, all the parties. They forced a wedge between Alan and Alice, and he hated himself for falling back on dark habits. And now, he could see all of his fears, insecurities, and dark thoughts reflected back to him through Scratch. He was trying to be a better person, but this place didn’t make it easy.

Mr. Door flipped the book open, scanning through the pages. “Now, I normally don’t have time to read these kinds of books. You know, life gets in the way, I have a show to run. But this time, I actually sat down to read this one cover to cover. And let me tell you, if you’re a fan of Departure, you’re going to love this book!” He said. “Tell me, Alan, how do you feel about finally releasing this book after so many years?”

“I… I’m sorry, this isn’t right. I haven’t written anything,” Alan corrected. As much as he was trying to play along with the show, he had to put his foot down. He couldn’t risk part of his brain conjuring up a false copy of Return that might accidentally change something in the Dark Place. Or, even worse, if that copy somehow made its way to the real world and started affecting things up there.

Mr. Door pinned Alan beneath that stare of his again, and Alan shifted uncomfortably. After a long moment of staring, Mr. Door’s face broke into an unexpected smile. “Well played, man!” Mr. Door shouted jovially, slapping his knee. “Playing the role of the character, it’s always so fun to have you on!”

“Well, I’m-“ Alan started, but Mr. Door had already turned away, ignoring him.

“Return continues the story of Alan Wake, a fictional author who has been trapped in another reality and must write to escape. However, the reality he’s trapped in is malleable. Anything he imagines can become real, and more often than not, will attempt to kill him. Meanwhile, he’s being chased by his dark double as he tries to piece together ideas for his story,” Mr. Door said, snapping the book shut. “I find this concept of fiction versus reality to be very fascinating. Wake is a very unreliable narrator in the story. You’re never quite certain whether anything he’s experiencing is real or just in his head. Now, I almost hate to ask this, but… is there any resemblance there between the book Wake and yourself?”

Alan stared at him, unable to come up with an answer. Oh, you mean like right now on this talk show? Or just every waking moment in this hell dimension? He wanted to snark, but he couldn’t get the words out past his dry throat. He went to take another sip of coffee, but paused before the mug could reach his lips. To his shock, the liquid had turned gummy and thick. It was almost the consistency of molasses. He had the absurd thought to just pour it out on the floor and watch it slowly drip. He resisted the urge, still somewhat paranoid that this was all real and he was actually on television. What the fuck is going on? He thought, setting the mug back on the coffee table, confusion muddying his thoughts.

There was a sudden shift in the air around them. It was so subtle that it was almost undetectable. Mr. Door was still smiling that strange smile, but it felt more sinister now. Alan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he gripped the arms of the chair tighter. “It’s hard to tell, right? I mean, how do you even know if any of this is real?” Mr. Door asked, making a sweeping gesture to the room. The stage lights above them wavered, flickering in and out. Alan could see things moving beyond the blinking lights, amorphous shadows gathering at the edge of the stage. He tensed, feeling suddenly naked without his gun and flashlight. “Am I real?” Mr. Door asked, pointing to himself, his eyes gleaming in the flashing lights. The smile dropped from Mr. Door’s face. “Are you?”

Alan tightened his grip on the arms of his chair, his knuckles going white. His brain was screaming with danger, and something in his gut told him that he was about to be ambushed. He pushed off of the chair, standing up, and-

-and he was bumping into a shelf filled with cleaning supplies and storage boxes, a single light bulb humming above his head. Alan froze, his heart beating out of his chest, still expecting to be ambushed. I’m… I’m back in the closet from before? He thought, rubbing his head. His brain felt fuzzy, like he had jumped in the ocean and had been spun around endlessly, unsure of which way was up and which was down.

Alan took a moment to re-center himself, trying to take as much control of the situation as he could. Okay. That was weird, he thought, waiting for his heartbeat to settle. I wonder who Mr. Door is. I’ve never heard of him before, but my memory isn’t exactly the best. Maybe I was on his talk show once in the real world? I mean, I can’t just invent people down here in the Dark Place, so I must’ve met him at some point.

One he felt like he could breathe again, Alan slowly opened the door of the janitor’s closet, poking his head through. It was the same long, empty hallway. The same door with the spiral symbol sat at the end. He frowned, unsettled. He was used to the Dark Place sending him adrift back to unexpected areas, but he still couldn’t quite shake the whole unreality feeling plaguing him. Alan cautiously started down the hall, alert and aware in case he was dragged back to the stage. He got to about the halfway point of the hallway and paused, ears strained. This is where I got snatched last time, he thought, looking around. He couldn’t sense the Dark Presence or anything else nearby. He took a few more careful steps forward. Hm. Maybe whatever pulled me through is gone, he thought, slowly allowing the tension to drain from his shoulders. More confident, he took another step, and-

-and there was cheering, and music, and bright lights shining everywhere, and why the fuck was he back here. Alan stared unblinking into the audience, caught on the wrong foot and floundering in the darkness. There was a sudden hand clapping on his shoulder and another grabbing his arm, shaking it with a squeeze. Alan turned to face Mr. Door, who was still smiling broadly. “Welcome back, Mr. Wake,” Mr. Door said.

Fuck, I’m caught in a loop, Alan realized, torn between annoyance and fear. He had gone through these kinds of loops before. They were more common than one might think in the Dark Place, but they were still just as dangerous as any linear scene. I have to find something different narratively or I’ll just be going through this interview until the end of time.

He let himself be guided back over to the armchair, feeling slightly shell shocked and extremely annoyed. It all felt like a bad dream. Which, considering the place that he was trapped in, actually checked out. Alan sunk into the chair, not really feeling the stiff blue upholstery. He took a moment to observe his surroundings, and frowned.

There were subtle differences in the room that he had to squint to see. It felt like the room had fallen into a state of disuse. There were smudges all over the normally polished black stage floor, and some of the lights flickered or weren’t quite the same color as the others. The cameras were sagging on their tripods, cables strewn haphazardly across the floor instead of coiled neatly. Even the band wasn’t spared. Parts of the drum set had fallen over, and the cymbal stand was leaning aggressively to the side. The singer’s guitar had two snapped strings, and the bassist was missing part of the neck of his instrument. One of the amps also occasionally spat out static until the drummer kicked it. Alan squinted past the bright lights into the audience. He still couldn’t see anyone past the stage lights shining in his eyes, but it almost looked like part of the upper floor balcony had collapsed down to the ground floor.

Mr. Door sat down behind his desk, slapping the wood and acting like nothing was amiss. “Thank you, thank you! Welcome!” He shouted at the audience that was still cheering and clapping, quietening them with a wave of his hand. “We have a great show here tonight. As you can see, our guest tonight is Mr. Alan Wake!” He said, gesturing to the writer.

Applause broke out again. Uncomfortable, Alan took a sip of coffee from the Oh Deer Diner mug on the table in front of him, grimacing at the oily, chalky taste it left in his mouth. Jesus, that coffee tastes like motor oil, he thought, setting it back down.

“But that’s not the only guest we have tonight! Stick around, and I promise you’ll be glued to your seats by the end!” Mr. Door said with a wink, turning to face Alan. “Speaking of which, it’s so good to see you, my friend!”

“Yeah, you too,” Alan lied, probably sounding very unenthusiastic.

Mr. Door chuckled, drumming his fingers on the wood desk. “Life got you down, Al?” He asked.

Alan stiffened at the nickname, but swallowed down the instinctual flare of anger. There’s something wrong with this talk show and with Door. He feels… different. Not like something I would write into the story. It’s freaking me out, he thought. Alan just shrugged in response, shifting in the armchair.

“Well, here’s hoping you’ll feel a bit better by the end of the show, hm?” Mr. Door said. He was smiling, but the way he worded it felt like a vague, undefined threat. “Now, I’m sure everyone here knows of Alan Wake. But for the few that don’t, he’s the famous author of the Alex Casey novels and The Journey series. Tell me, Alan, how was it writing those books?” Mr. Door asked.

Alan shrugged, slipping the mask back on with some effort. He hated playing someone else’s game, but he wasn’t exactly in control of where the currents of the Dark Place wanted to drag him to. “It was nice. The Alex Casey books were fun to write, though Casey was a gloomy guy to spend all of your working hours with. I’m glad I finished the series when I did,” he said.

“And for Departure and Return?" Mr. Door prompted.

Alan grimaced, wishing he could have avoided that question. “It’s… been a long road,” he said.

“Been on your own Hero’s Journey to write these novels?” Mr. Door asked, grinning.

“You have no idea,” Alan mumbled, grabbing his coffee mug to take another sip. However, to his shock, it had turned into a prop mug. What the actual fuck, he thought, twisting it around. The mug was the same, but the coffee inside had been replaced with a hard, waxy resin. In disbelief, he turned the mug upside down, and nothing came out. For a moment, Alan’s vision went wonky around the edges, spots appearing in his eyes. He blinked them away, frowning.

“I want to talk a bit more about Alan’s life,” Mr. Door said as Alan was still peering at his mug. “Tell me, when did you both first meet him?”

Wait, what? Both? Alan thought. Why is he talking about me like I’m not here? There was a rustle of fabric on the couch next to Alan’s armchair, and he almost jumped out of his seat in surprise.

“Well, we’ve known each other a long time. I met him when we were little kids,” an achingly familiar voice said, though there was an undercurrent of wrong beneath the words. Alan went ramrod still as he turned to see Barry and Alice sitting on the couch next to him. They both looked exactly like how he remembered them. Barry had traded out the ridiculous parka and cargo shorts for a slightly more respectable red suit and white collared shirt, but he still kept the Christmas lights and the headlamp. Alice was wearing the outfit she usually wore for gallery showings, which was a black suit and a simple light blue blouse. In her lap was one of her favorite film cameras, a Canon AE-1 with a telephoto lens. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, though a single unruly strand curled behind her ear. He remembered her always being annoyed at that one strand never staying in place, and he had the urge to reach over and smooth it down for her like he had done countless times before.

“I met him about a year before he wrote the first Alex Casey book, at one of his previous jobs,” Alice said with a sad smile, fiddling with the camera strap. Her voice also had that undercurrent of wrong, something warping and twisting beneath her words.

“… Barry? Alice?” Alan croaked out, feeling like someone had just punched him in the gut. However, neither of them turned to acknowledge him. They… they can’t be in the Dark Place, right? I made sure they got out. I’m the only one down here, right? He thought frantically. He reached out for them, tried to rest his hand on Alice’s, and-

-and it just passed right through her fingers, her skin devolving into a burst of static. Alan quickly withdrew his hand as if he had been burned. He felt like his heart had shattered into a million shards, like someone had tossed him to the ground and curb-stomped him until his chest caved in. They’re not here. They’re just figments of my fucking imagination, Alan realized. Part of him was glad to find proof that they weren’t trapped in the Dark Place with him. But the much larger part, the selfish part, the one that had been mentally beaten and bruised and ripped to shreds by the Dark Place was absolutely devastated. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths, ignoring how much they shuddered and how wet his eyes suddenly felt. It had been too long since he had last seen or heard of Barry and Alice. They were his lifelines down here, especially Alice. The whole reason why he was stubbornly refusing to just curl up and die was because of how much he wanted to see his wife again.

Mr. Door hummed and nodded, tapping a pen against his chin. “And how would you describe Alan?”

“Thoughtful. Kind. Stubborn as all hell,” Alice said fondly, her eyes downcast.

Barry snorted at that, readjusting on the couch. “If I had one word I could use to describe Al, it would be stubborn,” he agreed. “But he was loyal to a fault, too. He didn’t care as much when the insults were directed to him. But if you went after someone he cared about, he would make you regret it.”

“You make a good point, Barry. We’ve all heard of the famous Alan Wake temper. The smashed paparazzi cameras, the fights, the late night parties,” Mr. Door interjected, ticking off Alan’s faults with his fingers. Alan winced at that, uncomfortable at having his shortcomings spoken of so bluntly by a complete stranger.

Barry and Alice frowned at one another. “Yeah, Al had some problems. But so did everyone. He was-“ Barry started, before the lights above them flickered.

Alan’s vision went fuzzy for a moment like television static, faint impressions of images flashing before his eyes. He thought he could see a rippling lake. Or maybe it was the night sky? Or maybe even the smooth surface of a hand mirror. Pinpricks of lights spun in his vision, antlers dripping blood onto obsidian, eyes staring sightlessly into the darkness above. He squinted through the haze, trying to focus on Barry and Alice in front of him. The air around him wavered, Barry and Alice briefly turning into Sarah and Tim Breaker. They were both in their uniforms, brows furrowed, drenched to the bone. He could feel leaves beneath his feet and the cool patter of rain on his skin. Alan blinked, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear away the flickering images. They were only there for a few moments, but then the lights stabilized as his eyesight cleared. What the hell was that? He thought, glancing around in confusion. The room was back to normal, Barry and Alice smiling at Mr. Door like nothing was amiss. Barry was talking, his voice cutting back in as Alan refocused.

“-He was one of the most annoying people I ever met. A real asshole. I mean, he partied all the time, and he was a mean alcoholic. He blew off his wife constantly, almost let her drown in a lake in backwoods Washington, and then didn’t even have the gall to apologize to her before killing himself,” Barry said. His voice had shifted and warped, deep layers overlapping his own and nearly obscuring his speech. “I mean, the dickhead almost got me killed dozens of times over the course of a week, and the last time I saw him, he was pointing a gun at me!”

“He was a complete asshole,” Alice agreed, bobbing her head. Her voice was similarly warped, and sometimes what she was saying didn’t quite sync up with how her lips moved. “He never made time for us, it was always about him. His problems, his issues, his tortured artist crap. I had my own art that I tried to maintain, that I tried to get out there. To make a name for myself. But instead, this self-centered psychopath always dragged me down with his shit. I was constantly miserable with him. He would get drunk and pissed off at me constantly, and I don’t think he could ever get through a day without a bottle. I was at my breaking point with him when I suggested we go on vacation. Honestly? I’m glad he drowned, so that I don’t have to see his shitty face ever again,” she said with a wicked smile.

Alan felt like he had been slapped in the face. But strangely enough, he was starting to calm down. He knew these echoes of Barry and Alice were fake, and he knew that anything that came out of their mouths was bullshit. The words they spoke hurt, needling deep into Alan’s heart. But they weren’t real. It was just the Dark Place and his own mind creating strange, fucked up illusions to drag him down deeper beneath the ocean of darkness. But to his relief, their inclusion was having the opposite effect. He could take a deep breath and rationalize the fact that these two things in front of him weren’t actual people.

The lights blinked again, static spitting in Alan’s ears. Sudden images flickered across his vision, too quick to see. He thought he could see a forest, or maybe many thin fingers, endlessly splitting, multiplying, shifting, growing towards the starry night sky. And then the images disappeared, and Barry and Alice looked more like their normal selves. Why the hell do I keep seeing things? What’s happening? He wondered.

“Now, I’m sure this may be a touchy subject for you. But who came up with the idea to create the Alex Casey movies? Didn’t Alan express his reservations about any adaptations?” Mr. Door asked.

Alan blinked at that, caught off guard. Well I wasn’t expecting that. Did they actually make Alex Casey movies? He wondered, resigned. A large part of him cringed away at the thought. He was fairly protective of his work, so hearing inklings about movies based on his writing made him want to shake whatever producers came up with that idea.

Barry and Alice glanced at one another and shrugged. “We were approached multiple times by different studios. Alan never really wanted to have his work be adapted unless he had primary creative control, but… we felt the fans deserved something,” Alice said.

Barry nodded. “Trust me, it was a struggle for a while. Alice and I made sure the movies stayed true to the books, at least as much as we could. I think we came up with something that Al wouldn’t hate,” he said. Alan let himself relax a little at that. His work was in good hands. He could trust Barry and Alice.

Mr. Door hummed in thought. “While I can understand the business side of things is going well, I want to get a little more personal. Alan was part of both of your lives for a long time. You two probably knew him the best out of anyone. How have you both been holding up since he died?” He asked.

“I’m not dead, asshole,” Alan muttered petulantly. However, no one reacted to his comment.

Barry seemed equally fired up, his eyes flashing with rage. “He’s not dead, he’s-“ he started, and then suddenly Alan’s vision went white. Here we go again, he thought. Static ringing burst through his ears, louder than anything he had heard before. On instinct, he clapped his hands over his ears, grimacing. The white narrowed into two cones that were rapidly approaching, highlighting every leaf and twig on the side of the road. It was headlights, he couldn’t move, it was about to-

The bright white faded back to normal stage lighting. Alan was shaking with adrenaline, anxiousness coursing through his veins, half convinced he almost had been run over by a car. He slowly pulled his hands away from his ears, still ringing from the sheer volume of the static. To his surprise, the stage had shifted. Everything had switched sides, flipping the space around. Alice and Barry were now on his left, and Mr. Door was on his right. His coffee mug now held some kind of thick, dark brown smog, almost like the smoke wafting off of dry ice. “-bon'ɟ γou ʇoɿϱɘɟ iɟ,” Barry said, leaning back.

Alan blinked, caught off guard. What Barry had said was English, but it was extremely difficult to understand. The way his mouth moved was unnatural. It was like he had spoken in reverse, and someone had played footage of the speech backwards so that the words could be understood. The way that he was moving also looked like footage that had been played in reverse. His suit jacket didn’t quite settle right when he shifted, and the beginnings of his movements were far too jerky.

Mr. Door sighed, readjusting his glasses. “You’re right, I apologize. He’s still officially missing, and I understand that this can be a touchy subject. I just wanted to see how you both were faring. I know the anniversary of Alan’s disappearance is coming up,” he said.

Alice sighed. “We’re… we’re okay. It’s been a long time. It still hurts, sometimes, but we’re getting through it. I think focusing on work has helped,” Alice said with a small smile.

“And what is that work?” Mr. Door prompted, leaning forward with interest.

“I’ve been getting back into photography, specifically large format film. I normally shoot with a 35 millimeter camera, but I’ve been trying to switch to a 4x5 to explore the theme of Chiaroscuro with New York architecture and landscape photography,” she explained.

Mr. Door smiled, pulling out two photos and showing them to the audience. Alan squinted at the glossy prints when they were briefly flashed towards him. One was of a rectangular concrete skyscraper stretching up, disappearing into the inky darkness of the night sky. The second photo was of tall pine trees, similarly stretching up into the sky, their gnarled branches curling down to create a semi-open grove. There was a rock in the middle with something placed on it, but he couldn’t tell what. Both photos were high contrast black and white, and they both looked frustratingly familiar to him, though he couldn’t remember why.

God, they’re beautiful, he thought sadly, sorrow squeezing his heart. He missed his wife. He missed how she could light up a room with her smile when talking about different cameras. He missed how she could both effortlessly hail a taxi with a single whistle and also spend hours hiking through the woods without breaking a sweat. But overall, he just missed her.

“I have to tell you, this work is absolutely stunning. I mean, the contrast alone is so captivating, but you really explore a wonderful brutalist, dark tone in these photos. Will you have them in an exhibition soon?” Mr. Door asked, staring at the photos.

“Yes, I hope to put one together soon. I just have some more cleaning up and organizing to do,” Alice said, smiling.

Mr. Door set the photographs down, his own smile broadening. “Well, that’s almost it for our show tonight. I just have one last question for you both. Any words of advice for aspiring artists out there?” He asked. Above them, the lights started to rapidly flicker again, some shutting off and casting the stage in near-darkness. Alan tensed, waiting for them to lose power and shut off.

“ວo diϱ oɿ ϱo ⑁omɘ!” Barry said, his words jumbling together again. He did the motion of playing air guitar, but his hands and fingers moved strangely in the air, slipping and jumping around at unnatural speeds.

Alan turned to Alice, and was surprised to see her staring directly at him, almost like she could see him. “…Alice?” He asked quietly.

She stared at him solemnly, her hands balling into fists. Her face was closed off and masked, but he could see the hidden urgency in her eyes. “Find the C̴̡̛̙̥̫̺̯̰̅͐̀͗͛̂ͅḷ̴̨̟͉͈̳͙͐ï̸̧̳̪̐͊ç̵̰͓̤̊ͅk̵̛̹̩̜̹̫͖̭̩̂̓͋̒̈͌͘͠ͅ-̵̀̈̔͝" she started, her voice devolving into static. The lights went out, and-

-and he was back in the closet, the lightbulb above his head buzzing incessantly. Alan abruptly sat down on an overturned bucket, burying his face into his hands. Waves of emotion threatened to drag him into the undertow. He was tired. So, so tired. Everything felt pointless. Nothing he did mattered down here. He was just stuck in a loop, doomed to repeat everything over and over, never advancing. He considered just curling up on the floor until the lightbulb above his head shattered, letting the darkness claim him. Maybe then he could finally sleep. However, he knew rest would never come. He would just end up at the beginning of the loop. Or worse, he would be aware but unable to move, trapped in a body that was nothing more than a meat suit for the Dark Presence. Another lost soul claimed by the lake.

No. I can’t give up. I’d never forgive myself if I just threw in the towel now after surviving all of this time, he thought, scrubbing his face with his hands. He decided to wait a few minutes to get his bearings and brace himself for the inevitable loop back to the stage.

That last interview was weird, he thought, frowning. I mean, the Dark Place is always weird. But I kept seeing… something. Visions, maybe? And everything in the room kept changing on me every few minutes. The Dark Place isn’t normally that fluid or volatile in that short a period of time. He thought of the images he had seen, overlapping his vision like some kind of double exposure. They felt real. He had felt the rain on his skin and the leaves in the forest. He had been utterly terrified when that car had been barreling towards him. It was almost like he was watching something on television, two bad signals overlapping one another and bleeding through until the main program was almost indistinguishable beneath the static.

The lightbulb above him flickered. The light winked out for a moment before the entire bulb shattered. Alan tensed, getting up from his impromptu seat. I guess it’s time to go, he thought, nerves crawling up his spine. He flicked on his flashlight, cautiously moving forward, trying to keep his footfalls quiet. The hallway was cast in complete darkness now, his flashlight beam the only light guiding his way.

After a minute of walking, he passed the halfway point of the hallway. He tensed, expecting to be pulled through to the stage at any moment. Still, he continued on, desperately clinging to some hope that he could reach the spiral door at the end of the hall. However, it was a fool’s notion. He was about 12 feet away from the door when he felt the air waver around him. Tensing, he stepped back, and-

-and felt his back hit a curtain, bright lights making him squint for a moment before they flickered and died. Alan blinked the spots from his eyes, glancing around to take in the radical new changes to the stage set.

The entire set was flooded, muddy water soaking into his shoes and lapping midway up his shins. The desk and sitting area were gone, replaced with smashed tree limbs and uprooted stumps. All of the stage lights were either out or flickering sporadically. The only working stage light was pinned on Alan, but even that one blinked occasionally. The band and their equipment were both gone, a fallen truss in their place, spotlights sagging into the floor. The second floor had partially collapsed to the ground, all chairs swept away by the flood. He could see shadows moving at the perimeter of the room, and he stiffened.

Alan had also physically changed. Instead of looking clean and presentable like he normally did during the loop, he was soaked to the bone, mud splattered on his suit. He had managed to keep his gear, but his flashlight was spluttering weakly. For the moment, he clicked it off, trying to preserve as much battery as he could.

Something shifted in the deeper darkness towards the other end of the stage. Alan tensed, his hand drifting to the flare in his suit pocket. Before he could pull it out, however, the shape wandered forward into the light, revealing Mr. Door. Alan slowly released the flare, some of the tension draining from his limbs. “Door? What… what happened?” He asked.

Mr. Door remained silent, pinning him with an unreadable expression. Half of his face was cast in shadow, and Alan couldn’t stop the shiver that ran up his spine. The friendly talk show host persona was gone. The person in front of him was something else, something impassive and angry and cruel.

“Is this how the story was supposed to go?” Mr. Door asked. His voice was even and emotionless, his eyes cold and empty.

Alan stiffened, caution warring with the instinctual flare of anger. “What are you talking about?” He asked.

Mr. Door simply tilted his head. It was a very jerky, inhuman movement that reminded Alan of a predator studying its prey. “All of this,” he said, making a sweeping motion to the stage around them. “All of them.” Alan was about to retort when a flash of white in the water caught his eye. He took a step back in horror, eyes widening.

There were bodies in the water. There were over a hundred at least, all crammed together, bloated limbs spilling on top of one another. Blood was swirling through the water, soaking into his shins. Alan tried to step back, but he bumped into another body. It was Casey, his eyes glassy. His skin was littered with freezer burn in strange, whorling patches. A good indicator that he had been killed by the Dark Presence. Alan had to freeze in place, nausea roiling in his stomach. “Was this all necessary for your perfect story?” Mr. Door said, vitriol dripping from his words.

“I didn’t-“ Alan started, fighting back a gag as he felt clammy, cool skin brush against his ankle. “I didn’t do this.”

“Did you?” Mr. Door asked, raising a single well-defined brow. “These are all people who were Taken for your story. Killed for your story. Those who had their lives ruined because you decided to play god.”

Alan flinched, guilt warring with horror. “I- I didn’t write the first story. Not intentionally. That was the Dark Presence,” he argued, though it felt weak, even to him.

“But you still wrote it. And you still continue to write, aware of all of the people you’ve hurt. Like him,” Mr. Door said.

There was a violent splash to his left, and Alan jumped. The ripples stilled, and he could see a face rising from the water. Tim stared back at him, his skin still pink, blood flowing down his face from the bullet lodged in his skull. “You killed me. Put a bullet in my brain. Why?” Tim asked, his eyes wide and betrayed. His voice sounded layered and wrong, pitched down until it was almost unrecognizable.

Alan felt like he had been kicked in the gut. “I- I didn’t-“ he stammered.

“Tell me, Mr. Wake,” Mr. Door said. Alan’s head snapped up to look at him. “Were you the one who pulled the trigger, or is Tim dead because you saw the smoking gun and thought you killed him? You said it yourself, once- the effect must follow the cause.”

Alan shook his head, his brain struggling to work through Mr. Door’s statement. Did I actually pull the trigger? I can’t remember ever shooting at or near Tim. But does it even matter? He’s still dead, and it’s my fault, he thought. Mr. Door must have seen the internal crisis unfolding on his face, and he gave the writer a tight, unfriendly smile.

Alan shook his head, guilt warring with anger in his gut. He could recognize some of the bodies in the room. They were people from Bright Falls that had been killed or Taken in Departure. People that he had put down, their shadowy forms fading into motes of light. He could even see Barry and Sarah’s bodies drifting a few feet away. Even further, he could see Alice, face-down in the water. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he sharply glanced away, looking up to the ceiling instead. I had no choice. It was kill or be killed. The Dark Presence forced me to write the story. I wasn’t the one who directly killed these people, he tried to reassure himself, though it still felt weak. But it was enough to light a spark of determination in his chest. The Dark Place was just throwing more obstacles in his path, trying to stop him. To trick him into giving up. “I’m not listening to this shit,” Alan snapped, glaring at Mr. Door.

He felt the water grow wild and choppy beneath his feet, brackish water spraying on his chest as it broke over his legs. And then just as fast as the churning started, the water grew still. The bodies around him wavered, flickering before fading away into nothing. To his immense relief, all of the bodies were gone. It was just him and Mr. Door.

Mr. Door sighed, looking displeased. “Mr. Wake, you destroyed lives with Departure. And now, you’re bringing in new people to throw in harm’s way. Ripping them away from the lives they knew to act as pawns for your story. And for what? Some small shot at freedom?” He asked, taking a step forward.

Alan took a step back, trying to maintain distance between them. He had no idea what Door was talking about, or even if the man was lying to him. “Fuck off,” Alan spat. He knew it was probably a horrible idea to insult whatever Mr. Door was, but he was too angry and scared to care.

Mr. Door tsked, shaking his head. “All I can offer you now is a single piece of advice,” he said.

The air behind him rippled, and Alan froze, something tingling in his brain. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like there was an electric charge in the air. Fuck. The Dark Presence. It’s here. It’s caught up to me, he thought. He could sense it gathering in the room, the single remaining stage light flickering before going out entirely.

“There are many ways to exit a room, but not all will save you. Don’t mistake a window for a door, or a door for a hatch,” Mr. Door said. The Dark Presence coalesced into a mass of writhing shadows, the water growing violent and choppy beneath it. Alan grit his teeth as white-hot agony burned in his brain, his vision going fuzzy around the edges when he tried looking directly into the darkness.

Without another word, Alan turned on his heel and threw open the curtain behind him, sprinting into the backstage area. The last that he saw of Mr. Door was the man standing still and silent, almost like a statue, as the darkness rushed over him, around him, through him to get to Wake. Alan jumped down a set of stairs, running to a pair of double doors. He slammed them open, and-

-and he was back in the same hallway as before. The Dark Presence was in the closet this time, roiling and howling. It surged towards him, tendrils of darkness ripping holes in the walls. Alan sprinted towards the spiral door, hoping, praying it would work. Let me in, let me in, let me in! He thought as he grew nearer, shadows snapping at his heels.

Just as he got to the spiral door, it flung itself open, beautiful light pooling into the hallway. Alan ran inside, grabbing the door handle and yanking it closed. He braced against the wood with all of his might, struggling against the howling mass slamming into the door.

With one final screech, the rattling outside stopped. The overwhelming pressure in his head slowly lessened, and Alan slumped against the door in relief, breathing harshly. Fuck, that was close, he thought. As he regained his breath, he thought back to the final interview, frowning. Did Door just give himself up to the darkness? Why? He didn’t even try to fight it or run before it was practically on top of him, he wondered, dragging an exhausted hand across his face. Probably just another mystery that I’m never going to get an answer to. At least I’m safe now.

“Safe? Et ole turvassa, you are going from the ditch to the duck pond,” a heavily-accented voice rumbled behind him.

Alan yelped in fright, his back slamming against the door as he whirled around to face what he thought was an empty room. There was a man in the center of the room, leaning on a mop handle and looking Alan over with something that vaguely resembled amusement. He was wearing blue coveralls and work boots, with an ID badge clipped to his lapel and keys hanging from his belt loop. He looked friendly enough, but Alan knew not to trust anything implicitly in the Dark Place. Squinting around the room, Alan realized they were in some kind of green room. There were mirrors with lights set into the far wall, tables strewn with makeup, magazines, and little trays of snacks. There was a television against another wall, though it was shut off. In the far corner he could see a janitor’s cart, some kind of grandiose tango music playing quietly from a radio sitting on top of it. On the wall to his left, he could see another door with a strange symbol on it.

“Who… who are you?” Alan asked, tension coiling through his muscles like a wound spring. Is today the day that I meet every single person in the Dark Place? He thought wearily.

The man’s head lifted a bit from the mop, and he smiled wide. His face was lined deeply with age, and shadows pooled in the crags in his face. It made the man look older than he was, and it made something in Alan’s chest squirm nervously. It was similar feeling to Mr. Door, where something just didn’t feel quite right. “Miksi et muista minua? I am Ahti, the janitor! Ja olet hukassa, ystäväni,” Ahti said.

Alan blinked, his brain racing a mile a minute to try to decipher what Ahti was saying. “I… My name is Alan. It’s nice to… meet you?” he settled on saying, not quite certain what to make of the man in front of him. I’ve never met this person before in my life. I’m positive I would remember. Who is he? He wondered, suddenly anxious. “Are you trapped here too? In the Dark Place?” Alan asked.

Ahti waved a hand at him, his smile broadening. “No, no, no! I am not lost. The one who only looks forward is never missing,” he said cryptically. “But you are looking like last winter’s snow, as if you are waiting for the rising moon.”

Alan frowned. “I… don’t know what that means. But I’m just trying to get out of here. Get back to my wife,” he said.

“Ah! Näen, että tuli ei ole vielä jättänyt sinua! You have been trying for a long time, no? But one’s moped starts doing wheelies. You are lost like a diver at sea,” Ahti said, bobbing his head thoughtfully.

“Yes! I’m lost. And no matter how much I write, I can’t find the one thing I need to get out. The Dark Presence is doing everything it can to stop me, and I never have a plot thread strong enough to carry me out of this place,” Alan said, beginning to pace along the far wall of the room.

“Then you must go find that inspiration. I find that holiday and sauna are always good for clearing the mind,” Ahti said.

Alan sighed, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “I wish. But I’m still stuck here. And until I can finish Return, I can’t leave,” he said dejectedly. “It’s almost like I’m missing some vital component to my story. I need something… or maybe someone? Something strong enough to fight back against the current of the Dark Presence long enough for me to pierce a hole through the veil between worlds. But I don’t have much influence up there, and I’m still bound to the rules of the story down here.”

Ahti laughed at that, the sound rich and full-bodied and almost sounding like water lapping on a shore. “Well, all you must do is ask! The work shall instruct the worker,” he said, digging around on his belt loop among the many keys he had. “If you must go to the surface for thoughts, then swim to the light on the far side! At least you are picking up your bones.”

“What?” Alan asked, confused.

Ahti let out a noise of triumph, finding the key he was looking for. “The missing piece of your work is not here. So, this will take you to new oceans, mistä löydät tarvitsemasi,” he said, plucking the key from his belt.

It took Alan a long moment to process what was said. But suddenly, it clicked into place. “Wh- you can send me out of the Dark Place? How?” Alan asked, feeling like he had just been jabbed with a live wire. Adrenaline flooded his nerves, excitement mixing with desperation, fear, and uncertainty.

Ahti smiled wide. “The janitor always has the keys!” He said.

“But… I haven’t finished Return. How can I get out if I haven’t written the ending?” Alan asked. He wanted to believe Ahti. He so desperately wanted to trust that the man before him could just yank him out of the Dark Place as effortlessly as he was promising. And yet, Alan was a cynic at heart. He knew that wasn’t how the story was supposed to go, and he knew that it wasn’t that simple.

Ahti waved a hand, holding out the key for Alan to take. “It is not important for now. The brave eat the soup. But this snow will not stay frozen for long,” he said.

Alan paused, staring at the key for a long moment. “Why are you helping me?” He asked warily.

Ahti sighed, leaning heavily on his mop handle. “Can a friend not help a friend as the winter drags on?” He asked, smiling sharply. There was some kind of deeper, hidden meaning in Ahti’s words, and his eyes didn’t quite match the smile on his face. Alan felt like he was making a deal with some kind of inhuman being that wanted something he couldn’t give them. He hoped that he wouldn’t regret it.

Slowly, like he expected Ahti to disappear into a puff of smoke, Alan took the key from his palm. It was heavier than he thought it would be. It was an old, brass-wrought ornate key with a green diamond motel tag on the end. The tag had a symbol on it- two triangles stacked on top of one another, almost like a tree. “I- Thank you,” Alan choked out, gratitude warring with caution.

Ahti laughed jovially, beaming at Alan. “Ah! Now Lyyti begins to write! But you must hurry, pimeys lähestyy kovaa vauhtia,” Ahti said, clapping Alan’s shoulder.

Alan nodded, taking a step back, stunned. I’m… am I actually about to leave the Dark Place? Just like that? Alan thought. So many conflicting thoughts and emotions warred in his brain. He didn’t know how he felt. He knew that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, that this attempt was just as likely to fail as the previous ones. But he had to try.

Just as he was about to turn away, he heard Ahti say, “Kirjailija!” Alan turned to face the janitor. “If you see my assistant out there, tell her that there is always more work for the axe. Tell her that holiday is holy, and mine is extending,” Ahti said with a cryptic smile.

“Uh… will do,” Alan said, turning away. That is one of the strangest men I’ve ever met in my life. And that’s saying something, he thought, facing the door to his left. In the background, he heard the sound of water sloshing and Ahti humming along to the radio.

The door in front of him was old and made of polished wood. The polish had faded in time, and cracks had appeared in the door itself. The brass hinges were starting to sag. While the doorknob used to be ornate brass, it had since oxidized into a deeper brown-gold color with some green along the edges. The same image of two triangles had been painted on the wood, though the black paint had chipped and worn away with time. Nerves raced through his body, excitement clashing with fear and dread. With sweaty palms, he inserted the key into the doorknob. Turning it, he heard the satisfying thunk of a deadbolt sliding out of a lock. He slowly twisted the doorknob, letting the door swing open with a loud creak. With a deep, shaky breath, he stepped through the threshold and was swallowed in the darkness beyond.

Chapter Text

Jesse stared at the desk before her, her eyelids drooping in a vain attempt to stay awake. Stacks of reports, old cases, and a giant map of the entire United States of America was spread across her desk. Most of her personal effects had been swept off to the floor or the couch to make room for the sheer amount of paperwork before her. She was once again lending a hand to the Investigations Sector, tracking trade routes to see if there was any evidence of Altered Items being smuggled through the country.

Her current job entailed combing through Dead Letters, FBC reports, and any odd incident reports from local or federal law enforcement. By doing so, she could rule out where potential Altered Items may have cropped up, and if they had occurred naturally, or if they had been intentionally created. At the current moment, she had found absolutely zero Altered Items and was getting ready to just give up and pass it off to a subordinate so that she could sleep.

Before she knew it, her eyelids had started to drift shut again, the world going blessedly dark around her. It took a particularly sharp stab from Polaris inside her head to snap her out of her doze. Jesse jerked up from where she had started to slouch in her seat, rubbing her eyes viciously until she saw floaters in her vision. “‘M up, Polaris. You don’t have to jab me,” she mumbled, much to the amusement of her partner.

Jesse tried to blink the bleariness from her eyes, her vision slowly focusing on the map in front of her. Her head had begun to pulse with an oncoming headache, her heartbeat pounding duly in her temples. Polaris swirled with mild concern in her mind, guiding her gaze to the futon. It did look comfortable and inviting, but Jesse stubbornly shook her head. I have work to do, a Bureau to run. We’re still completely backlogged with reports, I can’t just give up every time I want to take a nap. I’m not even that tired, she retorted mentally. Like the absolute traitor her body was, it decided that that was the perfect moment to yawn, her jaw popping uncomfortably. Polaris sent a shiver of annoyance at her, and a memory tinged in blue fractals popped up in her mind. Jesse blinked. I’ve been up for 39 hours? She thought dumbly, glancing around for her clock. It took her a moment to find it on the wall behind her, and she squinted until the numbers came into focus. It was currently 2:48 PM. Or AM? She couldn’t really tell. Okay. Maybe I should sleep, she thought, rubbing her eyes. But I should at least finish this map analysis. Polaris sparkled in a mixture of annoyance and fondness, and Jesse smiled.

Jesse took a seat back at her desk, cracking her neck and checking her coffee cup. To her dismay, it was empty. She sat back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. While she hadn’t been lying earlier when she said that there was too much work to be done, that wasn’t the only reason why she was avoiding sleep. She was just tired of nightmares. Tired of constantly reliving her worst fears every night and waking up on the verge of screaming. Tired of returning to the same monotony, day in, day out. Tired of the fear constantly nipping at her heels now that she was responsible for so much. Tired, tired, tired…

Resolutely, Jesse shoved those thoughts away and pulled her notepad closer to her. Stretching out her fingers to work out the stiffness, she stared blankly at the map before her. So far, she hadn’t found any evidence of Altered Items cropping up in the Bureau’s absence. There were no hints of paracriminals forcing the creation of Altered Items, or of their illegal transport across state lines as far as she could tell. But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t happening. They had to drop observations of illegal paracriminal activities for years while the Investigations Sector recuperated from The Third Thing and the Hiss. For all they knew, paracriminals were running rampant in their absence.

Jesse pulled a stack of local and federal law enforcement reports closer to her, slowly sorting through them. Most of the time, it was just inane, useless information that didn’t tie back into an AWE or an Altered Item. Sometimes, however, she would find something that was just weird enough that it niggled at the back of her brain and warranted further investigation. Scanning the reports, she stopped when she got that exact feeling from a page from the Los Angeles Police Department.

Officers arrived on scene at the University of California, Los Angeles campus at 11:42 on 08/13/2023 in response to a 10-50 call (person(s) under influence of narcotics). Johnson, Alison (20, F) and Serra, Lana (20, F) were found at the scene. RA unit arrived shortly after at 11:45. Symptoms of both individuals include dizziness, nausea, difficulty breathing, muscle weakness, and cramps. An unidentified, black, tar-like residue was found on their hands. Both victims were transported to the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center for treatment. Initial drug tests came back negative for any substances consistent with symptoms.

Both individuals said they were walking to class when they were overcome by symptoms. Serra said she “bumped into” an unfamiliar adult male at about 11:20, which was when both individuals began experiencing symptoms. Adult male was described as Caucasian, mid-30s to early 40s, 5’6-5’9, wearing a beige trench coat and a gray ball cap. Campus was canvassed for the suspect, and more tar-like substance was discovered near Dickson Plaza. Suspect is presumed to have departed campus, and a search is ongoing. The Los Angeles County Department of Health has been notified of the substance, and testing is currently underway. UCLA administration and security have been advised of the suspect.

Jesse frowned, staring at the words on the paper. This feels like more than a simple narcotics case, she mused. Polaris swirled in agreement. You think maybe someone was poisoning people with an Altered Item? She questioned. Polaris remained still and silent.

With furrowed brows, Jesse dragged the stack of reports closer to herself and started sifting through them with a keener eye. After a minute of searching, she found a similar police report from Salt Lake City, Utah.

Officers arrived on scene near Lady Finger Point Trail at Antelope Island State Park at 15:13 on 08/15/2023 in response to a 10-54. Victim was declared deceased at 15:24. Body was found at the edge of the hiking trail hidden in brush.

Initial autopsy suggests muscle spasticity as cause of death. Rigor mortis was extremely severe and has yet to fade as of 08/23/2023. The coroner had to cut the victim’s tendons to force the arms and legs to lie flat. Victim died curled up, all of their muscles contracted. Heart and lungs failed soon after, also affected by the contractions. Notable detail from the coroner report; the victim’s fingers are curled into claws and cannot be relaxed without cutting tendons. There was a strange, black powder under the fingernails. Toxicology screen is currently underway to identify the substance.

Jesse ran a hand across her face, sighing deeply. Her headache had arrived in full force, stabbing behind her eyes and deepening into her sinuses. Polaris swirled in her mind, directing her eyes back to the transit map on her desk. Jesse’s eyes flicked down, tracking the line between Salt Lake City and Los Angeles. “Shit. This is definitely an Altered Item. And it’s being moved,” she mused, eyeing the map. The most likely route the item took was on a Union Pacific Railroad line from Los Angeles, through Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Denver, Topeka, and Kansas City. Sure enough, as she dug through more reports, she found more mentions of dizziness, muscle ache, and even more bodies in Denver and Las Vegas. However, there was no mention of reported symptoms beyond that.

Instead, she switched gears and began following the other connecting Union Pacific lines, searching through police reports in major cities connected to those lines. Nothing stood out to her until she started thumbing through records in Houston. This time, there were reports of mass hysteria dotted sporadically around the city. All locations affected by hysteria came from areas of key transit close to the Union Pacific railway. The reports trailed up from Houston, Fort Worth, Oklahoma City, and stopped in Wichita. And there were reports dated even further back of something causing nerve damage and dizziness traveling from Minneapolis, to Des Moines, and vanishing in Kansas City.

Jesse leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her face. Shit. Someone’s been moving Altered Items for the past year under our noses, and we haven’t noticed because we’ve been neck-deep in the Hiss, she thought worriedly. Polaris shimmered in agreement, directing her attention to the central point on the map where the railroad lines all converged. You’re right. Whoever’s moving Altered Items is storing them somewhere in or around Topeka. We should get agents out there to investigate, she thought, continuing her search through the stacks of paper.

Suddenly, a loud slam interrupted her thoughts. Jesse jumped, her hand flying towards her Service Weapon as her head snapped up to the door. Emily stood in the open doorway, looking startled. The door had swung open and slammed into a large stack of machinery that Jesse was supposed to examine at some point, the stack wobbling dangerously. Emily was carrying a packet of papers in her hand, looking flawless as usual. Light from the hallway flowed around her, diffusing through her short hair and casting her in an angelic backlight. Jesse felt her heart stutter to a stop, all tension draining from her limbs. Emily smiled apologetically, eyeing the disheveled state of the room. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Your door was unlatched,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Jesse cringed at the state of her office, suddenly acutely aware of all the usual contents of her desk scattered across the floor. “No, it’s my fault. I was so stuck in my own head that I didn’t hear you approach. Please, come in,” Jesse said, trying to subtly smooth out the wrinkles in her shirt.

Emily smiled even wider, her eyes sparkling with analytical interest as she caught sight of Jesse’s desk. “Doing some research?” She asked, striding right over and coming up shoulder-to-shoulder with Jesse to peer at the map.

Jesse blinked rapidly as heat crawled up her face. She felt Polaris’ amusement at her expense and mentally flipped her off. “Uh, yeah. The Investigations Sector is still bogged down with work, so I’ve been helping them look over some old cases. And I actually think I found something,” she said, forcing her brain to snap into a more professional mindset. Emily perked up at that, giving her full attention to the Director. Jesse pulled out the police reports she had found earlier, passing them to Emily to examine. “I think someone’s been using railroads to transport Altered Items across the United States. There’s been some strange reports consistent with one another in major cities on certain rail lines, and they all lead to Topeka, Kansas. I think there’s either a group set up there harboring Altered Items, or there’s an underground black market.”

Emily hummed, and Jesse could practically hear the cogs turning in her head. It made Jesse swoon a little at just how seriously her Head of Research was taking her. “There does seem to be a pattern, and it’s highly likely that we missed something like this due to the lockdown. This also isn’t entirely unprecedented. There have been cases in the past of illegal Altered Item black markets cropping up. Do you want an investigative team sent out to Topeka?” She asked, glancing up at her.

Jesse nodded, smiling warmly. “Yes, please. Thank you. Now, what did you come here to talk about?” she asked, placing a hand on Emily’s shoulder.

Emily stilled for just a moment before her entire face broke out into a radiant grin. Crows feet crinkled around eyes shining with a light that seemed to both invigorate and weaken Jesse deep in her core. Her heart felt like it had exploded, and she was struggling to keep a straight face and not go all mushy. “Well, I just finished my last round of tests on the Teapot Altered Item. I figured that you’d still be up and working, so I thought I might drop in and give you the report,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement about her research.

Jesse’s own smile grew at the warmth radiating from Emily. She just seemed to have that effect on people. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to hear about it,” she said, and then silently winced. Smooth, Faden, she thought to herself, Polaris glittering in amusement. However, whatever Emily was going to say next was forgotten as Jesse’s traitorous body chose that moment to make her exhaustion known with a large yawn. Her headache flared in response, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Emily smiled fondly. “Maybe a coffee break and some food is in order?” She asked.

“Oh my god, yes. Please,” Jesse replied. She took a step away from her desk, stretching her arms above her head and leaning back to release the tension in her lower spine. Emily glanced away for a moment to grab her stack of reports, the faintest tinge of pink staining the hollows of her cheeks. Jesse grinned in response, despite the sharp lance of pain from her headache.

“How do you feel about the cafeteria?” Emily asked as they started to make their way out of Jesse’s office. The bright light from the hallway stabbed her eyes, and Jesse squinted as her headache increased.

Jesse shrugged in response, careful of her movements. “It’s fine. I don’t know if we would have the time to actually go out into the city and go somewhere else,” Jesse said, a sad smile lining her face. Not to mention that I barely leave the Oldest House once a month as it is, she thought somewhat depressingly. She rubbed at her eyes, suddenly aware of the strange speckles crowding the edges of her vision. Maybe I should take a break and get some sleep, she thought reluctantly. She opened her mouth to say something, when suddenly her head split open, pain driving like an ice pick into her skull, fractals shattering in her mind’s eye-

A typewriter clicked in the distance, the sound muted and far away. A man was desperately typing away on the machine. The image flickered in and out, like an old television with a poor signal. With a jolt, Jesse barely recognized the man in front of her. He looked awful. “Wake was desperate,” Wake’s voice whispered, so muted and quiet that she barely heard it. It sounded tinny and far away, like she was trying to listen through one of those playground talk tube telephones she and Dylan used to use. “Desperate enough to try anything… he clawed at the surface, grasping any connections he could… near… far… Wake tugged on these connections… new story. Wake needed a hero… he knew that desperate acts had grave consequences…” Wake suddenly stopped typing, curling in on himself. Even with a connection this poor, she could see the overwhelming panic wrack his frame. “Forgotten… I had a plan… he’s here!”

“Wake?” Jesse shouted, trying to catch his attention. If he could hear her, he didn’t respond. Faint images flashed across her vision, difficult to parse. Bloody antlers twisted into rustling pine branches, which dripped into a glass of whiskey and dark smoke wafting over a pool of water.

The voice fizzled out again, before reappearing much louder than before, swarming into her mind. “Find them. The writer swallowed by darkness. The fire and her guiding star. The traveler lost in time,” Wake said. The sudden image of a spiral, an ouroboros, endlessly twisting and dragging her deeper, deeper, deeper. Jesse grit her teeth as visions flashed across her mind-

Warm light and liquor sloshed together across his skin as he spun in a circle, too-familiar and too-dark eyes staring back at him, crinkling with malice and barely-repressed anger hidden by a toothy smile-

Trees whipped past his head, dead branches gnarled and twisting towards the sky like fingers. Rain slapped his face, icy cold and turning the ground beneath him to mud. He slipped, crashing against the ground. His breath stuttered in his chest, desperate and pleading. “P-Please. No!” He screamed. All he could see was moonlight glinting off of a knife and the sharp, twisting antlers of the deer mask. Pinpricks of red glowed behind the mask, sucking all of the air from his lungs. The knife plunged down, blood spraying against the forest floor as he screamed-

She could do nothing but gag and cough. Water invaded her lungs, soaking her clothes and dragging her down. Mud clung to her face as she was pushed further into the lakebed, gloved hands holding her down no matter how hard she writhed. When the masked man flipped her around, she didn’t have the breath to cry before he ripped a hole in her chest, reaching in to grab her still-beating heart-

Jesse came to on her hands and knees, clutching her head to try to abate the pain. Polaris was roiling in her mind anxiously, bristling outwards in dagger-sharp shards like a defensive shield. The echoes of images washed against the back of her eyelids, beating against her mind like ocean waves pounding against the shore. However, Polaris was keeping them back long enough for Jesse to breathe. She realized she was panting for breath, dark spots crowding the edges of her vision. Exhaustion clung to her bones, barely abated by the rapid beating of her heart. Complete and utter terror clung to her mind like a blanket of fog, but it felt strangely disconnected. It took her a moment, but she suddenly realized that the fear she felt wasn’t her own. It was Wake’s.

“-esse! Jesse!” A worried voice shouted near her, piercing through the haze in her mind. Jesse jerked to the side, sucking in a gasp of air, muscles coiled with tension as she reached for her gun-

But it was only just Emily, staring at her wide, worried eyes. Her hands were hovering in the air uncertainly, not touching Jesse but close enough that she could feel the heat coming from her Head of Research. Jesse blinked rapidly, trying to knock her exhausted and panicking brain back into place. “Jesse? Are you okay? What happened?” Emily asked, worry plain on her face. However, she was doing a remarkable job of keeping her voice relatively calm and reassuring, a solid rock that Jesse latched on to. Before she could even try to respond, the loud ringing of the Hotline swarmed her mind, slipping past Polaris.

< We implore/demand that you ignore/discard/destroy the communication you received >

< Do not obey/agree/follow the Signal >

< Remain at the House/Home >

< Failure to comply with the Board will result in punishment/reprimand/uh-oh >

Jesse blinked again, taking a deep breath and digging her nails into her thighs to ground herself. Get out! Just… gimme a minute! She shouted to the Board, dragging herself out of the hazy white outline of the Astral Plane. The fear and the visions pounding against her mind slowly faded away as whatever connection between her and Wake dispersed. Polaris slowed in her frantic fracturing, though she was still curled protectively around Jesse. “I’m- I’m okay,” she said, breathing through the vestiges of fear. “I’m okay,” she repeated more confidently. In response, Polaris sent a soothing wave through her partner, gradually relaxing her bristling shield.

Emily slowly sunk down to her knees next to Jesse, putting a calming hand on Jesse’s, over her thigh. Butterflies squirmed in her stomach, but they were largely drowned out by the adrenaline rushing through her veins. “What happened?” Emily repeated gently, her brows scrunched together.

Jesse sighed, scrubbing her face. “I think I had a vision of Alan Wake. Or something watching him. I don’t know, it was hard to hear anything he was saying. It was so far away, I couldn’t understand half of the things I saw,” she explained, worried.

 “Alan Wake? From the 2010 Bright Falls AWE case?” Emily prompted. At Jesse’s nod, she looked contemplative. “You mentioned you’ve had these kinds of visions of Wake before, when he contacted you over the Hotline in the Investigations Sector. I wonder why this time it was so difficult to hear him?”

Jesse shook her head. “I don’t think he contacted me through the Hotline. I think he sent this message to me directly. That’s why it was so violent and hard to understand. He’s desperate, and he’s terrified,” she said, shuddering at the reminder of Wake’s fear. She didn’t know how that man hadn’t completely lost his mind yet.

Emily stared at her like she had grown another head. Amazement shone in her eyes as they went glassy, clearly mulling through that information. “That’s… that’s incredible! Wake actually managed to send an intentional telepathic communication without use of the Hotline from another plane of existence! I wonder how he managed to do it? I mean, no one at the Bureau has ever managed to send telepathic messages, and we’re not aware of any Objects of Power that grant that ability. And at that distance, from another dimension… According to our files, Alan Wake had no outstanding parautilitarian abilities until the Bright Falls AWE-” Emily started breathlessly, excitement radiating from her awed expression.

“Emily?” Jesse interrupted, placing a hand on Emily’s arm. Emily immediately quieted, focusing back on Jesse. “I think he needs help, and I think something’s going to happen in Bright Falls. I saw people get murdered. I’m afraid that’s something that will happen, not something that’s already happened. I’m going to fly out to Bright Falls to see if I can help,” she implored.

Determination set across Emily’s shoulders as she nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry. He must be desperate if he’s not sending messages through the Hotline,” she said.

“Unless something is stopping him from using the Hotline all together,” Jesse said, suddenly uneasy.

She and Emily shared a grimace before they both got to their feet. “I’ll get in contact with the Cauldron Lake Research Station and with Jameson, our travel coordinator. He should be able to get you out on a private flight to Seattle, or any other smaller airports closer to Bright Falls. And I’ll get that investigative team out to Topeka to search for any paracriminal activity,” Emily said, already scribbling notes on her notepad.

“Thanks, Emily,” Jesse said, warmth pooling in her chest. Polaris glittered in equal parts appreciation and concern as Jesse wobbled from exhaustion. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’ll deal with the Board later. They can’t expect to keep us locked up in the Oldest House forever, she thought, some resentment towards the Board flaring to the forefront of her mind.

“Of course, Jesse. I’m always happy to help. But now you owe me coffee and breakfast,” Emily teased with a radiant smile.

Jesse forgot how to breathe for a moment before slapping a shaky smile on her face. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget. How could I?” she said fondly, and then winced. Real, real smooth, she thought.

Emily just looked amused. “Go on, we can hold down the fort here,” she said.

Jesse nodded gratefully. “I gotta go pack a bag, but let me know when Jameson is ready with that flight,” she said, already backtracking to her office. With a final smile and wave, she and Emily split off in different directions. Well, I guess we’ll finally get to repay Wake’s favor, she thought. However, despite how sure she was in traveling to Bright Falls, she couldn’t stop the lingering sensation of fear from crawling up her spine.

At first there was nothing. Cold darkness permeated the air, blocking everything from sight. It was eerily quiet- he could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. He felt weightless and waterlogged at the same time. Cold pierced through his jacket, leaving him shuddering.

Suddenly, he heard faint clicking. As it grew louder, he realized that it was a typewriter. The sound came from all around him, inside of him. It felt like the typewriter keys were clicking against his bones, his blood used as the ink to write the story, his muscle and sinew acting as the delicate wiring around the keys. It felt like the story was changing him, like he was changing the story.

Slowly, the oppressive darkness lifted to reveal a man sitting at a desk, typing feverishly. His dark hair was matted and tangled, curling past his jaw and limp with grease. A wild, untamed beard was beginning to grow out, giving the man a disheveled appearance. The brown suit jacket hung off of his thin frame, rumpled and dirty. His eyes were an unnatural shade of blue, so bright that they almost glowed in the semi-darkness.

Faintly glowing pages were scattered all across the thick wooden desk and on the floor. A lot of the text on the pages had been violently scratched out, hastily scrawled notes scribbled in the margins and at the edges of the pages. A flashlight and a gun rested next to the typewriter within easy reach, along with an empty crystalline glass and ashtray. A stuffed owl sat on a fixture on the wall above the man’s head. Its wings were spread, blank eyes watching over the room. Two circular windows at the back of the room overlooked pitch black darkness. If he squinted, he thought he could see the shadows moving beyond the glass.

“Wake was desperate,” a voice suddenly said. He jerked, surprised. The other man didn’t react at all. The voice came from every corner of the room, resonating in his head, through his heart, like a thought. Somehow, he knew it belonged to the man feverishly typing away. “Desperate enough to try anything. A long time ago, he would have been too prideful to ask for help. Now, he clawed at the surface, grasping at any connections he could. Even before he was Here, Wake had always had strange dreams. A New York detective who lost it all. A diver sinking to the bottom of the sea. A federal bureau succumbing to a beast of its own design. A man fighting through broken time. He used these dreams as ideas for his stories. Now, trapped in the Dark Place, Wake realized what these dreams really were. Glimpses of people and places, near and far. Very… far…” the voice continued, trailing off for a moment. “Wake tugged on these connections, drawing them into a new story. Wake needed a hero. A hero needed a crisis. He knew that desperate acts had grave consequences. However, his need for escape overrode any other thought in his mind.”

The typing suddenly stopped. The entire room shifted for a moment, the walls wavering like a heat mirage above asphalt. It felt like he was trying to look at a blind spot caused by some kind of brain trauma. It hurt too much to look at for long, and even then he could never figure out what he was seeing. Everything around the room flipped, inverted, fuzzed out around the edges like a poor signal on a monitor before clearing. Something was distinctly different, but he couldn’t tell what had changed.

The man sitting at the desk hunched inward, clutching his head with a whine. His fingers wove into his hair, grabbing the dark strands in a white-knuckled grip. “I’ve forgotten again,” the voice said. It sounded exhausted beyond measure, confused and strained and wholly, utterly defeated. “Nothing holds still. I can’t… how can I escape? What can I do when I can’t even remember anything? Have I had this thought before? Had I written this before? How can I know what’s real? There’s something there but I can’t remember! Why does this feel so familiar?” The voice continued, wavering between panic and utter sorrow. “I… I had a plan. I know it!” The voice whispered, trailing off into the darkness.

There was a lapse of silence, the man shuddering with panicked, silent tears. Suddenly, he went rigid. His hands unwound from his hair, grabbing the gun and the flashlight. “It’s coming. I’ve got to get out of here. Right now,” the voice whispered, terror laced in every word. There was some kind of animalistic screech in the distance, echoing and reverberating and skipping over itself. He placed his hands on his temple like he was trying to physically push the information into his brain. “Find them. The writer swallowed by darkness. The fire and her guiding star. The traveler lost in time.” The man at the desk glanced over, locking eyes with him. For a moment, all he could see was the man’s bright blue eyes, shining in the dark. And that’s when a monstrous shadow burst through the door, swallowing the room in nothingness.

Y̷̡͕͎͖̤̞͈͐̓̌̍̚͘ ȍ̷̧̡̳͍̱̜͙̫̮̔̂̉̆̎̕͢ṵ͍̠̥̜͔̌̂̀͛́͗̓͗̌́  h̵̢̢̖̟̜̳̮̮̭̳̀͑̾͌̊͘͘͠͡ạ̸͔͕̤̦͚̝̐͌̊̂̿̋͂͠ͅ v̡̛̪̩̪̟̗̜̼͂̍́̃́̈͜͞͝ͅe̛̦̲̩̯̱̥̻̓͛̎̏͜  b̡͔̥̼̻͕̱͐̐̊̔̎͟ͅ e̡̨̨̢̩͌͂́͑̀̽͌͟ ĕ̺͎͔̼̗̻̱̈́̑̆͛̃̏͛̄́͢n̲͕̼̹̟͇̽͛͌̍͂̉͒͡  w̵͈̝͇̻͕͒̓̉̍̍̑̆̚ͅǎ̺͕͕͔̖̟̓̑̽̋͘̚͜ͅr̤͚̞̫̹̟̒̿̏͛̄̚ n̸̡̩͓̲̻̩͎͌̂̅̄̓ ę̬͇̼̠͛͒̅̌̽͛́͆d̡̩̹̤͚͎̝̫̂̇̐̀̇̈́̔̇͠

Jack jerked awake with a muffled yelp, terror clawing at his mind. Everything was dark and hazy, pain pulsing through his temple. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots in his vision as he fought not to let the panic overwhelm him. It felt like he was drowning. He could almost taste tepid, muddy water on his tongue. It took almost a minute for his brain to finally catch up with his body, and that’s when the panic started to recede.

He wasn’t drowning in a dark ocean, he was curled up on the floor in a dark room. He was lying on his side on a cold concrete floor, leaf litter and dust coating his clothes. While he couldn’t see much, he could just barely make out a few blinking lights in the far distance. That, coupled with the fact that he couldn’t hear his own panicked breathing echoing back to him, told him that he was in a larger room, possibly a storage room or factory of some kind. His hands and legs were bound, though with what he couldn’t tell. Pain pulsed on his forehead, and he could feel something hot and sticky dripping into his eye. It smelled like copper. To his right, he could hear someone breathing evenly, and he automatically tensed up. What the fuck happened? He thought, so disoriented that his own thoughts melted through his fingers like water.

It took a long moment of careful thought, but his memory clicked into place. Oh, shit. That’s right. We got ambushed, he realized, letting his head thump down on the ground with a low groan. He felt weirdly hazy and uncoordinated from the head injury. He slowly stretched his legs, trying to wade through the headache pounding in his mind. His limbs burned distantly with pins and needles, and his head felt like it was spinning. Gritting his teeth, he slowly swung his foot around. It took a few tries, but he managed to find the person next to him and tap them. He shuffled on the ground, incessantly poking the person’s thigh. Eventually, he heard a low whine of discomfort, and he stopped poking, raising his head.

“Wh…” the voice mumbled, their words slurring. “Wh… wh’re ‘m I?”

Jack let out a shaky breath, recognizing Will’s voice. “I dunno… we got jumped,” Jack said. As the reality of the situation sunk in, he felt his heart rate spike. Adrenaline and Chronon energy rippled through his limbs, cold pins and needles rushing through his arms.

“Wha’?” Will asked. “… J’ck? Is tha’… tha’ you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Jack replied, wincing at the dull pulse of pain in his head. “What do you remember?” Jack asked.

He felt Will shift under his foot, a slight tremble raking his frame. “We were… buying the part,” he mumbled, so quiet that Jack had to strain his ears to listen. “You got hit… I was…”

“You were drugged,” Jack said, closing his eyes. He had begun to shiver, a feverish sweat clinging to his skin. The air was stagnant in the room they were in, but it felt like he was locked in a freezer. “I don’t know what they want with us, but it’s not good. Just be prepared.” Jack started squirming around, trying to take stock of the situation. They were both incapacitated, tied up, and knocked out for an indeterminate amount of time. They had no idea where they were or what their captors wanted with them. Already, Jack could tell that his gun was gone, along with his phone, wallet, and the hidden knife in his boot. Miraculously, they let him keep his keys. He would’ve been pissed if they took the silver bullet from his keychain.

Suddenly, they both heard the sound of a door slamming nearby. The sound echoed around the room, lending credence to Jack’s theory about them being stashed in a warehouse or abandoned factory. They heard a faint clicking noise and the distant rumble of a generator before the room was swamped with light. Jack hissed, eyes burning at the sudden light. Having a head injury definitely didn’t help with his light sensitivity. Next to him, Will sucked in a breath of air, completely freezing in place.

He heard the sound of multiple booted feet stomping towards him, kicking aside leaves and what sounded like glass bottles. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, the sound drowned out by the incessant whine of fluorescent lights and Jack’s own heartbeat. His hands were starting to buzz with energy, and he had to clench his fists to soften the glow of Chronon particles.

The stomping stopped a few feet away from them, and Jack forced his eyes to crack open. Light flooded in, blinding him, but he could faintly see the silhouettes of multiple pairs of legs. Blinking rapidly, he cleared the spots from his eyes, realizing that the room was still spinning. Everything was hazy and out of focus, and it was a struggle to understand what he was seeing in front of him. The light hurt his head, but it was at least tolerable now. Okay. Okay. You can do this. Figure out a plan to get out, and don’t get killed, he thought, taking a deep breath.

Slowly, a figure stooped down, less than two feet away. Jack squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus. It took a moment, but he recognized the greasy hair and yellowing teeth. “Hey, Dan. Nice place. Love what you’ve done with the paint. Ooh, is that a new jacket? Très chic,” Jack said with a wide smile.

In response, Dan’s eye twitched, and he made a motion with his hand. A huge man with biceps thicker than Jack’s neck stepped forward and slammed his fist into Jack’s face. Jack’s head snapped back, smacking into the concrete ground and momentarily blinding him. He bit back the yelp of agony, gasping through the pain. Everything around him was spinning violently now, weird spots popping up in his vision. “Well, good morning to you, too,” he wheezed out.

As the spinning slowed, Jack took a moment to examine their surroundings and get a better picture of the shithole they had managed to get themselves in. They were being held in an abandoned factory, probably not too far from Topeka. Old brick walls stretched up towards the ceiling, broken shards of glass clinging to the frames of boarded-up windows. Rows of dilapidated shelves lined the edges of the room, stretching off into darkness. Fluorescent lights shone from above, flickering occasionally. Leaf litter was strewn across the ground, hiding layers of trash and grime. They were currently lying down in the middle of the factory floor, in some kind of cleared space. Doorways to offices and other sections of the warehouse were visible just beyond the group. Old production machinery littered the far wall, sagging from rust.

He shifted his gaze over to his brother. Will looked okay, if still a little hazy from the drugs. His hands were bound behind him by handcuffs, and his legs were tied together with rope. Jack was bound similarly, and he wondered if he might be able to find something sharp enough amongst the leaf litter that could cut through the ropes on his legs.

The group before them consisted of eight men and two women. They were all wearing body armor on top of winter clothing, grime streaked on their faces. To Jack’s concern, they all had varying degrees of weaponry. He saw a few automatic rifles, some pistols, a lot of knives, and a sniper rifle. Shit. This isn’t a gang or a ragtag team of desperate people looking to make a quick buck. This is a militant group. That makes escaping much more difficult, he thought, shifting his gaze back to Dan. Dan was holding himself much more confidently and commandingly than when he had first met the brothers. The glasses and ratty green jacket were gone, replaced by body armor and combat gear. His hair was slicked back and his jaw was clenched, giving him a much more aggressive expression. His eyes were like hardened shards of flint, and his posture just screamed, look at me! I’m the authority here! It made Jack’s hackles raise.

Dan smiled, flashing off those disgusting yellow teeth again. “Ready to play nice, Jack?” He asked condescendingly.

“What is this shit? We gave you the money, unless you’re as blind as you are stupid. What’s the fucking deal?” Jack snapped.

Dan’s smile slowly broadened, which sent a chill up Jack’s spine. Before he could so much as twitch, a hand had grabbed his hair and was yanking him upright into a sitting position. Jack yelped, writhing against the person that was trying to scalp him. Another group member strode forward, yanking Will’s head back by his hair and putting a knife to his throat.

Jack immediately stilled, the blood draining from his face. Will was as stiff as a board, his eyes wide with fear as cold steel pressed against his neck. His eyes had gone glassy and blank, and his breath was starting to come in panicked gasps. The smile on Dan’s face widened. “I would watch your tone if I was you,” he said casually, getting up to slowly pace. “If you speak out of turn, threaten me or my men, or so much as twitch in the wrong direction, I’ll kill your buddy here. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he continued, his tone laced with condescension. The knife on Will’s throat inched closer, a single bead of blood rolling down his throat. Jack bit back a snarl of rage, instead staring down Dan with as much vitriolic hatred that he could muster. He remained silent, hoping that Dan understood just how much he hated him. Dan stooped down and grabbed Jack’s chin hard enough to bruise, yanking his face up to stare directly in his eyes, looming over him. “Would we?” Dan emphasized, shaking Jack’s head for good measure.

“… No,” Jack growled, refusing to break eye contact. Fuck, this guy isn’t just some shmuck. He’s trained, probably ex-military. The rest of these people aren’t worth shit, but this guy’s a psychopath. He’ll actually kill us, Jack realized.

After a moment of silence, Dan’s smile stretched impossibly wider. “Good boy! I knew you had it in you!” He said, patting Jack’s cheek like he was a dog. Jack had to resist the temptation to bite his hand. Anger boiled in his chest, snapping at his mind.

“What do you want with us?” Jack asked stiffly, acutely aware of his rising temper.

“It’s less about what I want from you, and more about what I want you to do,” Dan said, smiling.

Jack stilled, blinking. “What? Then why did you set up the buy? Why not just kill us right off the bat?” He asked, glaring.

Dan scoffed, stepping away to pace again. “I don’t actually give a shit about either of you. You could both be rotting in a gutter for all I care. But, you do present a unique opportunity,” he said, looking thoughtful. “I want to send you boys back to headquarters with a little ‘gift’ for your bosses. I’m sure they’ll just be ‘dying’ to get it,” Dan said, grinning at his own joke.

Jack just stared at him, caught off guard. “…What?” He asked, confused.

Dan let out a huff through his nose, looking displeased. “Oh, please. There’s no need to keep up the act. I know what you are, where you’re from,” he said, his tone laced with acid. Jack stiffened, exchanging a glance with Will. “You’re law enforcement. FBI. FBC. CIA. Whatever.”

Jack let out an abrupt laugh, too shocked to actually process what was happening. “I- you think we’re law enforcement? Buddy, I’m sorry to tell you, but we’re about as far from the law as you can get. We’re just two regular dudes trying to build some slightly-illegal machines. We’re not narcs or anything,” he explained.

Will swallowed, another bead of blood curling down his throat. “We’re not law enforcement. I’m a scientist. I need that component for my research,” he said, eyes wide.

Jack had to fight back the instinctual rush of pure rage at the sight of Will’s blood, Chronon energy rushing through his body. Dan just scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s no use lying. We’ve been observing you for some time. We know you’re feds.”

“Then why lure us here? Why not run? Why fake a buy just to kidnap us if you think that we’re feds, which we’re not,” Jack asked.

Dan sighed, crouching down again in Jack’s space. Jack had to fight not to lean away, his nose wrinkling. The dude’s breath smelled awful. “Because I’m curious about how you found us, and because I want to teach you government asshats a lesson,” Dan said sweetly. “I’ve been trying to teach you to leave us alone for years, but no. You just can’t stop yourselves from sticking your noses where they don’t belong.”

“… What?” Jack asked.

“Evidently my little fondue set gift for the America Overnight staff didn’t get the message across. It’s a shame. I liked that Karen lady,” he said, trailing off with a faint smile. “But, no matter. I intend to send an even better and more spectacular gift this time, and I intend to send it back with you two!”

Will and Jack exchanged a glance. Fondue set? Jack mouthed, completely lost. There was something that he was missing, some big element that Dan knew about but that Jack didn’t.

Dan ignored Jack, instead twisting around to pull something from his coat pocket. He put on a gas mask, which set off all of the alarm bells in Jack’s brain. He could see the other group members doing the same out of the corner of his eye. Dan pulled a small black box out of his other coat pocket. He then cracked open the lid, cradling something in his gloved hands. It was an old egg timer, the casing slightly cracked and yellow with age. Some kind of black, tar-like substance had bubbled up out of the crack, dripping down onto the floor. Instantly, Jack felt dizzy and nauseous, his entire body seizing up and trembling. It smelled like rotten eggs, and it was so bad that Jack would’ve gagged if his entire body wasn’t a hair's-breadth away from going into a full seizure.

After a moment, Dan slid the egg timer back into the box and shut the lid. The rotten egg smell abated, as did the worst of the symptoms. Jack slumped in the man’s hold, gasping for breath. He still felt dizzy and nauseous, and his body wouldn’t stop trembling. His muscles felt weak and sore like he was running a fever. “What. The fuck. Was that?” He snarled out.

Dan positively beamed, taking his gas mask off. “That, my friend, is my gift to your lovely superiors! And that’s just how it feels when it’s turned off! When it’s ticking away, well…” he paused, grinning. “Let’s just say an atom bomb pales in comparison.”

Jack stared at Dan, his eyes wide. Holy shit, this guy is absolutely insane. It’s an egg timer, not a nuclear warhead. But that black stuff… it must be some kind of nerve agent, or something. That’s bad. Really bad. These guys aren’t just in it for the kicks, they’re a terrorist cell, he thought, stunned. Will looked equally confused and exhausted, his gaze pinned on the black box.

Dan just pat the box lovingly like he was caressing a favorite pet. “So, I figure I’ll just kill the both of you and ship your bodies back to headquarters with the Altered Item. Your bosses find the box, open it up, and get this lovely little surprise, along with a message to stay the fuck out of our business. Capiche?”

“I… no? What the fuck’s an Altered Item? What’s wrong with that egg timer? And also, we’re not fucking feds!” Jack growled, jerking against the hand still fisted in his hair.

Dan tsked, looking disappointed. “Jacky-boy, don’t be like that. I feel like you and I could get along much better if you told the truth. Besides, you’d be saving your buddy here a lot of pain and suffering. Isn’t that worth something?” Jack paused, glancing at Will. Will looked terrified, but he minutely shook his head no. Jack saw the blood drying on his throat, and trembled with barely-suppressed rage. The anger felt like a living, roiling thing in chest, pressing on his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. Jack turned the full force of his anger onto Dan, remaining silent. After a long moment, Dan sighed, scrubbing his face. “I guess it was too much to hope that you would crumble. I suppose we can get to the tougher line of questioning now,” he mused. Suddenly, the hand gripping Jack’s hair yanked back harder, baring his throat. Jack writhed, animalistic panic warring with unbridled hatred. Dan got right up in his face, his hot breath skating across Jack’s skin. “We were so careful. We took every precaution to keep ourselves hidden, until we set up this trap for you. How did you find out about us?” Dan asked, his eyes dark and full of anger.

“About who? We don’t even know who you are, jackass!” Jack shouted.

Dan shook his head. “Wrong answer,” he said, before slamming his fist into Jack’s stomach. Jack coughed as pain exploded across his torso, struggling to breathe through the agony. “Who do you work for?” Dan asked again, looking increasingly impatient.

“I fucking told you, we’re not feds! We’re not federal agents, or government employees, or police! We’re just regular people!” Jack wheezed, earning another punch to the face. His head snapped back, blood running in earnest down his temple. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” Jack shouted, writhing in the man’s hold.

“How did you find us? Who do you work for?” Dan repeated above Jack’s loud screaming, turning instead to face Will.

“No one! We don’t work for anyone!” Will shouted, trying to lean away from the knife at his throat. He immediately froze when the knife drifted closer, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Don’t lie! We know you work for someone. Now tell me, who is it?” Dan snapped.

“We’re telling the truth! Please!” Will said, his breath heaving in his chest. He looked like he was close to completely dissociating in his panic, his gaze glassy and far away.

After a long moment of glaring at the brothers, Dan stepped away with a sigh, looking upset. “Oh, well. I suppose it was a long shot trying to get information out of them. Let’s just box them up with the Altered Item and send them back where they came from,” he sneered.

“Which agency do we send them to?” One of the men asked, shifting on his feet.

“The FBI should be fine. The location of the FBC is too well-hidden to reliably send them this lovely gift,” Dan said, unholstering his handgun.

Jack immediately tensed up, adrenaline and Chronon energy flooding his body. He locked eyes with Will, who was trembling so hard that the woman holding him had to shake him to get him to stop. Shit, how do I get us out of here? Jack frantically thought, looking around for anything he could use to his advantage.

“Let’s start with the runt. Give Jacky-boy here a little something to remember before we blow his brains out,” Dan said, handing the gun to one of his subordinates. The man grabbed it with a somber look on his face, striding over to Will.

“No! You fucking bastards! Let him go!” Jack screamed, desperation starting to mingle with the raw anger. The man grabbed Will from the woman previously holding him, kicking him to the ground. Will jolted at the contact, looking dazed. He tried to squirm away, but he couldn’t escape the barrel of the gun pressing against his temple. Jack snarled, a very much not-human noise clawing up from his throat, fueled by rage and pent-up energy.

That was when the power went out.

For a moment, chaos reigned. People started shouting over one another. Jack was slammed face-first into the ground, his arm digging into something sharp and uncomfortable. A hand was pressed between his shoulder blades, crushing him into the ground and squeezing the air from his lungs. He heard Will cry out, and a mixture of panic and rage flooded his brain. The anger was overwhelming him, surging through his chest and filling his lungs like hot smoke. During his frantic writhing, his hand clasped on something jagged and sharp amongst the trash and leaf litter on the ground.

The lights flickered on, wavering and dimming until they shut off again. They were replaced instead with the blare of an alarm, red warning lights flashing. “Perimeter alarm has been tripped!” Someone shouted over the cacophony of the panicking militia group.

“Quiet!” Dan shouted above the noise, and everyone immediately silenced. “Everyone, outside to do a sweep of the perimeter. Mason, go check on the generator. Johnson, watch the prisoners. You can kill the runt, but I want Jack,” Dan snarled, locking eyes with Jack. Jack shuddered. Dan’s eyes were cast in shadow, but they still felt unnaturally cold and bright.

Immediately, everyone in the room rushed out to follow Dan’s orders. The man pinning Jack to the floor leaned his weight off, taking the handgun from the other man. Johnson stepped around, grabbing Will by the shoulder and hoisting him into a sitting position. “Dunno what’s so special ‘bout you two, but orders are orders,” Johnson said gruffly.

“You don’t have to do this. You don’t, man. Just let us go!” Jack pleaded, writhing on the ground. He had started desperately cutting at the binds around his legs with the shard, but it was taking too long.

Johnson just shrugged, the lines of his face cast in deep shadow from the blinking red alarm lights. “This is payback for you fuckin’ with us earlier. You nearly wiped us out, and now we’re getting our revenge,” he said, leveling the gun to Will’s head. And that’s when Jack’s thin veneer of control over his emotions snapped.

The fear, rage, and anger exploded from Jack, ripping through him like a torrential flood. Chronon energy burst from beneath his skin, shattering his scream into hundreds of different voices, warping and skating into pitches the human ear couldn’t perceive. His skin crackled and snapped, reforming hundreds of times over, flickering in and out of existence. The air shimmered with distortion, time moving non-linearly. It felt like he was wading through an old buffering video. One moment, everything was frozen. The next, everything was moving at five times the normal speed, and sound was struggling to catch up to movement. Time felt weirdly stretchy, like a rubber band that he was constantly stretching away before letting it snap back. His heartbeat flickered visibly in the air, Chronon particles pulsing in time. A red haze descended over his vision, blotting everything out. It hurt . Everything hurt, and he just wanted to make it stop. There was something moving in front of him and it was hurting him stop it make it stop nownownow-

Then the bubble around them popped, and it felt like the rubber band snapped back into place. Jack crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. With tremendous effort, his body stitched itself back together into one whole being. He shivered violently, completely sapped of energy. Steam wafted from his body, curling into the cold air. He could still feel his heartbeat wavering in the air, Chronon particles undulating around him. Pins and needles prickled throughout his body, and that chemical smell had invaded his nose. There was a dull ringing in his ears, and he couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus with the flashing lights. His fingers itched and burned, and he had the alarming need to dig his claws into something and rip it apart. His brain felt fried even as he used his remaining energy to stomp down the anger still threatening to choke him out. Shit, Jack thought numbly, letting his head hang.

“Jack?” He heard Will quietly ask, the slightest tremble of fear permeating through his voice.

Jack’s head snapped up, despite how dizzy the motion made him. “Will,” he croaked out in response, his throat burning in agony. “What…”

“Your Chronon sickness flared up. It was bad this time. I thought you were…” Will mumbled, trailing off.

Jack took a moment to examine the aftermath of his rage. His legs were free, the rope that had bound him nowhere to be seen. The handcuffs were still on his wrists, but he had managed to snap the chain holding them together. He was clutching the sharp shard in his palm, metal digging into his hand and slowly dripping with his own blood. Chronon particles wafted freely from his hands, excess energy racing through his nerves like lightning. Johnson was dead or unconscious. He had been flung clear across the room, blood leaking from a large wound on his head. Jack winced at the sight, guilt and shame warring with the panic and fear already consuming him.

Slowly, Jack staggered to his feet, nearly tilting over again. He stumbled over to Johnson, guilt making his stomach churn. He checked the man’s pulse, and felt sick when he realized that he was dead. They were going to kill us. You had no choice, Jack thought numbly. He was no stranger to killing, but the guilt never really went away. He ran his hands over the body, checking for keys for the handcuffs. They weren’t there, which probably meant that Dan had them. Johnson’s gun was also gone, lost somewhere amidst the trash and leaf litter.

Jack stumbled over to Will, numbly cutting the rope from his brother’s legs. When the final rope snapped, Will sat up and leaned his shoulder against Jack’s. Will was normally awful at communication, but sometimes he knew just what Jack needed. Jack closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth and trying to beat back the wave of emotion threatening to drag him under. He took a deep breath, grabbing all of his swirling thoughts and emotions and pushing them down as far as he could manage. “We should move,” Jack said reluctantly.

“Did Johnson have any keys on him?” Will asked, yanking on the handcuffs that still bound his hands together.

“No. Dan probably has the only copy. Sorry,” Jack said, throwing the bloody shard away and helping Will stand. He cast his eyes around, cataloging everything he may have missed while his sickness had consumed him. There was faint shouting beyond the walls, and he could occasionally hear the pop of gunfire. The main lights were still shut off, red alarm lights blinking sporadically and casting everything in a bloody hue. Alarms wailed in the distance, adding to the cacophony of noise. All of the doors were shut, and he couldn’t see an obvious way out.

“What are they shooting at?” Will asked, nerves shaking in his voice.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” Jack said, his mind rushing with ideas of how to get out of the warehouse. His vision flooded with gray as he started tracking Chronon signatures, soft pulses of blue-green appearing through the walls. To their left, through one of the smaller doors, he could sense… something. It wasn’t a living being, but it had a strange Chronon signature. It flickered between blue-gray to purple intermittently, and it pulsed strangely. Jack blinked, clearing the Chronon signatures from his vision. “Over here,” he murmured, motioning to the door that hid the strange object.

They both crept over to the door, Jack keeping his head on a constant swivel to check for any surprises. Without any weapons and Jack’s powers exhausted and on the fritz, they were vulnerable. Suddenly, there was a loud scream that echoed through a nearby hall. Will jumped about a foot in the air before Jack dragged him into a crouch behind a large metal table. “No! No! Stop!” A woman screamed, before they heard the rapid popping of gunfire. There was a sudden crunching noise, and then everything grew silent once more. Jack and Will remained completely still, their panicked breathing the only noise that they could hear.

After a minute of straining his ears for any noise, Jack motioned for Will to keep moving. They crept along, now extremely aware of every leaf or bit of glass that crunched beneath their shoes. Every noise that reached them had them both freezing in place, searching for the threat.

Finally reaching the door, Jack leaned against the wall and grabbed the handle, twisting it. To his surprise, the door swung open slowly, and he immediately pulled back. Cautiously glancing inside, he checked for any militia members, but found none. On the opposite end of the warehouse that Jack and Will were in, there was a loud crash and several voices shouting. The noises were quickly coming towards them. Jack froze with indecision for a moment before grabbing Will’s arm and dragging him into the side room. He slammed the door shut behind them, grabbing an old, wooden folding chair next to the door and jamming it beneath the door handle.

Will let out a shuddering breath, his hands twisting nervously in the handcuffs. Jack pressed his ear to the door, listening for any other noise. He heard footsteps rush by their hiding place, and he tensed. Thankfully, the footsteps just continued on past the door. Jack sighed, dragging a hand across his face. He turned to examine the room they were locked in, and paused.

The room was fairly clean and empty, as opposed to the warehouse they had woken up in. Everything was made of concrete, and a single bare lightbulb hung from a string in the middle of the ceiling. The corners of the room faded into shadow, their contents hidden. There was a small concrete pedestal in the middle of the room that came up to about mid-chest height with a camera sitting on it. The camera was sitting in the center of the pool of light, its dark case gleaming duly. It was a Canon AE-1 with a telephoto lens, it’s thick black leather strap hanging off the edge of the pedestal. There was something written on the camera strap, but Jack couldn’t make it out from where he was standing. He realized that the camera was the source of the strange Chronon signature. What the fuck? He wondered, slowly standing.

“Are we safe?” Will asked nervously, glancing at the shadowed corners outside of the pool of light.

“For now? Probably. Just… stay on your toes,” Jack said, wandering over to the camera. “I wonder what’s so important about this camera? It’s the only thing in the room,” Jack mused.

Will glanced at it, looking thoughtful. “It must have significant meaning if it has an entire room dedicated to it. It’s sitting on a pedestal underneath a single light source, and it’s unlikely that it’s used often based on the layer of dust around it. Could be that this camera has some sort of nostalgic or sentimental connection to the group. Perhaps it’s what brought them together, or perhaps they’ve used it to document their ‘grievances’ against the government. The pedestal suggests a level of display or worship that is reminiscent of a museum or an altar. Perhaps the group is structured around the concept of death as art? Killing people and then photographing them to create works of art as a way to stand out? I can’t really say for sure as we don’t understand the purpose of the group. Are they simply black market dealers, or something more sinister?” Will said.

Jack stared at his brother. “That’s… I’m not even going to try to dissect all of that,” he said, rubbing a hand through his stubble. “What I do know is that the group is militant, but disorganized. I’d bet you my life savings that most of the group members have never pointed a gun at someone before, let alone killed anyone. Dan and a few of his upper cronies are the only ones we really have to worry about. He’s provided structure and weapons to these people, and he’s focused them towards a single goal. What the goal is… I don’t know. But I do know that he’s batshit insane, and a psychopath.”

Will hummed in agreement. “It’s all so strange. I feel like we’re missing something here. Like the broken egg timer. It was leaking some kind of toxic substance. Egg timers don’t normally do that.”

“Yes, thank you, Will,” Jack snarked. “He was also saying something about a fondue set earlier and something called an ‘Altered Item.’ Maybe he thinks this camera is altered in some way?”

“If so, how is it altered?” Will asked, sharing a glance with Jack. His eyes flickered over Jack’s shoulder, and that’s when Will’s face suddenly paled.

At the same time, a hand clamped down on the back of his neck. Jack had a single moment to think, Ah, fuck, before he was being ripped violently away from the pedestal.

“You government fucks! Always meddling with our shit!” A voice snarled above him. He was bodily lifted into the air before Jack was slammed face-first into a concrete wall. Hard. Stars burst across his vision as his head slammed against the wall, struggling to focus on the sudden fight before him.

Dan was standing above him, looking manic and angrier than he had ever seen. Blood was splashed on his body armor and he had an open gash on his cheek, but the most disconcerting thing were his eyes. They had been green before, but now they were empty and black. They melted into the shadows on his face, backlit by the single bulb in the room. Before Jack could even try to scramble out of the way, Dan’s hand shot down and closed around his throat, digging his fingers in and squeezing. Jack choked, flailing wildly in Dan’s grip. Fuck, when did he get so strong? He thought frantically as black spots started appearing in his vision.

Suddenly, the hands around his throat disappeared. Jack slumped back, coughing and heaving for air. Dan had stumbled back a few paces, a wild, bewildered snarl on his face. Will had slammed his shoulder into the other man, his eyes now wide and terrified. “Will! Run!” Jack choked out between coughs. Will backpedaled, his back thumping against the wall, cornered. With his hands still bound behind his back, there wasn’t much he could do.

“You sent those things after us! Didn’t you?” Dan said, his eyes wild and unfocused as he advanced on Will. “And now half my team is dead. And it’s all your fault!” He lunged for Will, hands outstretched, and that’s when time slowed down around Jack.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, clearing his mind. He staggered to his feet and jumped onto Dan’s back, grabbing him in a headlock and yanking backward. “Go!” Jack shouted to Will even as energy surged through his limbs. Dan refused to budge, nearly grabbing Jack by the collar of his jacket and ripping him away. Instead, Jack decided to change tactics. He shifted his grip so that he was clutching the back of Dan’s body armor, before summoning his energy and warping them forward straight into the opposite wall. In less than a second, they had crossed the entire length of the room. Dan’s face slammed into the concrete, bone crunching beneath the force of his inertia. Haha, how’s it feel to be the one getting your face slammed in, asshole, Jack thought, right before Dan’s elbow lashed out behind him and nailed Jack in the gut.

Jack grunted at the spike of pain, warping back to the opposite wall next to Will to gain his bearings for a moment. Adrenaline and Chronon energy buzzed through his limbs, making him nervous and twitchy. He hated fighting in such an enclosed space, especially with Will in the line of fire. To make matters worse, Jack hadn’t entirely thought his plan through. Dan was now pressed right next to the only door in the room. To get himself and Will out, they needed to switch sides with Dan.

Dan had frozen at the opposite wall, his eyes wide and unblinking. Shock and confusion were battling on his face as he processed the impossible things Jack had done. His gaze flickered down to Jack’s hands, Chronon energy dripping from them like dry ice. Jack took the moment to breathe and try to come up with a plan as fast as possible. “You… you’re a parautilitarian?” Dan asked, sounding incredulous.

“Man, I have no idea what the fuck a parautilitarian is,” Jack growled. “Just let us go!” He saw Dan tense up, and felt Will shift next to him. He subtly turned towards his brother, glancing back and catching his eye. “I’m going to try to get Dan away from the door. When he’s clear, run. I’ll be right behind you,” he murmured. Will looked reluctant to leave Jack behind, but he eventually nodded.

“You’re FBC. You have to be. There’s nothing else you can be, not when you’re a freak like that. I can’t let you leave. You’ll tell the government about us. I can’t let you compromise everything I’ve built here. Not again,” Dan was spitting out rapidly. He had a look of manic glee in his eyes, and he was actually starting to froth at the mouth.

Oookay. Something is seriously fucked up with this dude, Jack thought as Dan continued to mumble incessantly to himself. Does he even realize we’re still here?

Jack took one step to the side, and that’s when Dan lunged for him with a scream. Jack warped out of the way, his shoulder slamming into one of the corners. “Now, Will!” Will jolted, scrambling away from Dan. However, the other man was faster. Switching directions, Dan lashed out, slamming his fist into Will’s face. Will’s head snapped back, narrowly missing the concrete wall behind him. He slipped to the ground, stunned by the hit and the sudden pain.

Jack growled, throwing himself at Dan and trying to slam him into the ground. Dan grabbed at his shoulders, and they started grappling with each other. Will stirred groggily on the ground, still in shock from the hit and possibly concussed.

With a snarl, Dan gave a particularly hard shove, knocking him back several paces. Jack’s back slammed against the concrete pedestal, his elbow hitting the camera and knocking it off. Dan’s face morphed from one of rage to horror. “No!” He shouted, lunging for it in vain.

Jack took the moment to flip him off, watching the camera fall almost in slow motion. It hit the concrete floor and shattered, and Jack had a single moment to process a roiling black shape moving inside the camera body. Oh, fuck, he thought. And that’s when everything around him exploded in black and white, foreign energy ripping through his body, tearing apart every follicle of skin, shredding every sinew, pulverizing his bones, scattering his atoms across the universe, where was he, who was he, what was he, why did it hurt, please stop, stop, stopstopstopstop-

a miasma of dark and light, high contrast waves ripping through the world

chiaroscuro, blacks crushed and whites hot, scattered stardust bleeding vermillion red

red trickling down, pooling, swirling to mix with black, undulating and flowing and snapping around to sickening hues of viridescent green

green lake sinking to inky ocean darkness, churning and chopping and spitting seafoam, swallowing the final pinprick of light

Fuck. I’m so fucked, Alan thought, just as an axe slammed into a tree about two inches away from his face. Swearing loudly, he jerked away in the opposite direction, nearly slipping and hitting the ground. Cold wind whipped past his face as he ran, dead leaves and broken chunks of asphalt crunching beneath the rhythmic pounding of his feet. Alan leapt over a root, sucking in short, desperate gasps for air. His breath clouded the icy air around him, rain slapping his face and making it hard to see. His lungs ached from the cold and the exhaustion, and his muscles burned from overexertion. But no matter how hard he tried to push himself, he was starting to slow down.

Shadows wreathed around him, mixing with the smog in the air that only got thicker as he sprinted up the slope. He could hear the demented whisperings of Fade-Outs behind him, closing in. He heard the sound of something whistling through the air, and he ducked down just as a sickle came flying out from behind a tree.

The door he had stepped through had taken him to some strange mixture of the Dark Place’s version of New York City and Bright Falls. It was like the city and the forested mountains of Washington had bled together in one macabre display. Skyscrapers rose into the dark, empty sky in the distance, crumbling with age and partially collapsing in on one another. Gnarled, dead trees covered the landscape in a dense forest, making navigation difficult. Their dead branches twisted together into some kind of canopy that blotted out the night sky, and he had to be careful not to trip on the roots breaking up his path. A mountain had grown up from underneath the city, breaking roads and ripping apart buildings. The asphalt street he was running on had shattered and crumbled, roots snaking through the old road. Occasionally he could see a yellow street lamp flickering weakly or a newspaper stand covered in graffiti, but as he wound his way up the mountain, the city died away. To the best of his knowledge, he was currently climbing up the Dark Place’s version of Mirror Peak, trying to reach the lookout.

He heard the sound of a Fade-Out screeching behind him, and he jumped just in time to avoid having his head caved in with a golf club. Instead, the Fade-Out managed to grab the bag hanging from his shoulder. Panic seized his chest as it tried bodily throwing him by the bag, the strap digging into his chest. “Fuck off!” He shouted, pinning the Fade-Out beneath his flashlight beam. The Fade-Out stumbled away, but he could hear a snap as one of the metal clasps securing the flap of his bag shut tore off. The light sputtered weakly in his grasp, the beam flickering. Shit, he thought, leaving the Fade-Out to continue running up the slope. He had no guns and he was out of batteries. His flashlight was about to die, the beam weakening by the second. The half-finished manuscript of Return sat in the bag hanging from his shoulder, the Angel Lamp resting just above it. He checked the bag as he ran, making sure none of the pages fell out in the tussle. Above, he could hear an unkindness of ravens circling over his head, waiting for him to leave the cover of the forest to swoop down and rip at his skin.

Alan rounded a bend, scrambling up a boulder and darting along a tiny forest path. Up ahead, he could see the lookout just beyond the trees. He was close. Closer than he had ever been before. Come on, come on! He shouted at himself, willing his tired body to move faster. His lungs felt like they were about to pop, but he couldn’t afford to slow down now. And then the darkness surged around him and howled.

Alan stumbled in his tracks, nearly collapsing to the ground. He clapped his hands over his ears, a soundless cry of agony ripping out of his chest. Pain jackknifed through his skull, the pressure overwhelming. Scratch. He’s here, he thought, stumbling forward. Something in his chest writhed, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, the warning that Scratch was right on top of him-

Alan stumbled onto the lookout just as the Dark Presence burst from the tree line, surging forward. The darkness rammed into him, slamming him into the ground and pinning him on the dry soil. He choked, the air driven out of his body from the sheer force of the hit. He tried to scramble up, away, but tendrils of darkness surged through the soil like roots, ensnaring his limbs and giving him no wiggle room.

Alan’s breaths came in sharp, panicked gasps as he looked around for something, anything to help him. It was so hard to think with the agony pounding in his skull. It physically hurt being this close to the Dark Presence, it’s touch alone making his brain feel like it had split open. The dark tendrils burned from where they circled the bare skin of his wrists, icy cold pain arcing through his limbs.

A shape formed above him, shadows coalescing together to create a physical body. Alan stared as his own face emerged from the darkness, hatred and fear boiling in his blood in equal measure. Scratch was still wearing the three-piece suit he seemed to always favor, the white cuffs and collar of his dress shirt soaked with dark red. His hair and beard had grown out to mirror Alan’s, blood smeared through his beard and on his cheeks, giving his doppelgänger a deranged look. Scratch actually looked ecstatic, wine-red eyes gleaming in the flickering light of a nearby gas lamp. He was holding a knife, the blade and his arm soaked in blood up to the elbow. Strangely enough, the edges of his form were bleeding into the deeper darkness around them. He looked fuzzy and out of focus, like he couldn’t fully maintain a physical form.

“Long time, no see, writer,” Scratch growled above him, his voice shifting and warping in pitch until it settled on something decidedly human and decidedly Alan’s.

“Fuck you,” Alan spat, struggling against his bonds.

Scratch just tsked, stooping down until he was almost nose-to-nose with the writer. His breath stank of copper, and Alan could see actual fangs and chunks of meat in his mouth. Scratch has changed since Arizona. He’s more animalistic. Less of a copy of me and more of a poor caricature of an animal pretending to be human, Alan realized, his heart sinking into his chest. He used to have somewhat of a grasp on how his doppelgänger operated. Now? He had no clue.

There were sudden fingers digging into the wound on Alan’s shoulder, jerking him out of his thoughts. He screamed, agony flooding his nerves at the contact. Scratch pulled back, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “God, I love hearing that scream. Is that narcissistic?” Scratch asked mockingly. Alan just glared, breathing harshly to ride out the waves of pain. Scratch sighed, rocking back on his haunches. “You know, we don’t really need to drag this cat-and-mouse game out much longer. It’s been fun all these years chasing you, but could you imagine how much more fun it would be if you just gave yourself up?” He said, leaning forward for emphasis.

Instead of responding, Alan jerked his head forward and spat on Scratch’s face. “Fuck. Off,” Alan snarled. Scratch paused, the expression on his face indecipherable. Alan took the moment to paw around on the forest floor, desperately hoping he dropped his flashlight somewhere within easy reach.

Scratch’s eyes glittered maliciously in the darkness. Before Alan had a chance to react, a fist was slammed into his face. Stars burst across his vision, momentarily blinding him, pain pulsing across his cheekbone. “Yet you still continue to fight. Why?” Scratch growled. Alan coughed, struggling to blink the afterimages from his eyes. “Is it because of Alice? Our lovely wife?”

“Fuck you! Don’t fucking talk about her!” Alan shouted, anger sparking in his chest. His fingers curled around something cylindrical on the ground.

Scratch sighed. “Perhaps it’s time I paid her another visit,” he said. The blood drained from Alan’s face at that statement, and Scratch grinned triumphantly. “Yes, Wake. I’ve been visiting her. ‘Haunting’ her, if you prefer. I only let her catch glimpses. But she already thinks she’s losing her mind. Her dead husband terrorizing her in the night. Seeking revenge for leaving him behind. It’s so… poetic, don’t you think?”

He’s torturing her. Terrorizing her. I have to get back to New York. I have to stop Scratch permanently. But how? Alan realized, panic building in his chest. “I won’t let you hurt her,” he snapped.

“Oh really? And how do you plan on doing that? Are you going to use your little magic lamp to chase the scary monsters away? You going to try to write a happy ending to your story?” Scratch asked mockingly. “Well it’s too late. I caught you in my trap. You’re mine.”

Scratch’s form started to waver at the edges, physical features melting away as he pooled into the shadowy form of the Dark Presence. For a moment, he was in some strange transition between human and amorphous shadow cloud, and that’s when Alan struck.

He lurched upwards, swinging his leg with all of his might against the binds. He managed to connect with Scratch’s still semi-solid ankle, causing his doppelgänger’s leg to skitter out from beneath him. The shadows receded just enough in surprise for Alan to rip out of his bonds, rolling away and scrambling to his feet, the flare he found earlier gripped in his hand. He heard the darkness scream behind him, pain surging through his head.

Alan turned to face the cliff’s edge of the Mirror Peak Lookout, and paused only for a moment. He didn’t really know what he needed to do to get back to Bright Falls, but he did have one idea. It fit narratively with the style of the story, and it followed a logical pattern in Wake’s own writing. That still didn’t mean that he wanted to do it. He scrambled forward to the cliff’s edge, dodging as a shadowy tendril lashed out towards him. Without a backwards glance, Alan dove over the edge of Mirror Peak.

Wind rushed around him as he plummeted towards the dark reflection of Cauldron Lake, a scream ripping from his throat. The swarm of ravens that had been trailing him in the forest dove after him, blotting out the sky like an ink stain in water. In less than a heartbeat, they had swarmed him, ripping at his clothes and hair and clawing at his skin. He felt one raven slam into his bag, the strap snapping. The bag snapped open, manuscript pages ripped out by the force of the wind. They fluttered around him like falling stars, trailing after him as he fell.

Gritting his teeth, Alan held the flare in his hand up, striking the cap against the ignition surface. Red light burst across his vision, disintegrating the birds closest to him. Ash and feathers exploded around him, the flare’s light highlighting hundreds of glittering black eyes in the sky. The flare illuminated the falling pages, glowing dimly in the darkness. The surviving ravens flew away with murderous shrieks of rage, unable to get close. Alan let the flare slip from his grip, his entire body tensing up as the water approached. Aw, hell, he thought as he slammed into the surface of Cauldron Lake, the shock of cold water invading his lungs. He drifted down, down, down,

down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down,

down, down, down, down, down, down,

down, down, down, down,

down, down, down,

down, down,

down,

spiraling into darkness.

Chapter Text

For a moment that could have been a heartbeat or an eternity, he simply existed. Sensation came and went. He had no body, yet he could feel. Touch. Hear. The sharp sting of pain. Hot, then cold. Voices whispering, the words lost in the darkness. He took a single breath without lungs and felt everything expand with him. Pressure mounted, squeezing him until he scattered into stardust. It felt like he was pinned within the musculature of the universe’s heart, trapped within a beat and waiting for it to release.

It may have been seconds, months, or years later when the heart finally unclenched. He felt himself slowly settle, something pressing against a spine he didn’t have. New sensations filtered in slowly, blooming across his consciousness. His atoms gradually stitched themselves back together, his body rebuilding itself. Static raced through his limbs, overwhelming in its intensity.

A memory bloomed across his mind, unbidden. The one time he needed to get a filling for a cavity as a kid, they had to put him on nitrous oxide because he kept trying to bite the dentists. The gas had coated his throat and tongue, stinging and cold. It had felt like he was melting into the chair, his muscles liquefying as static burned in every nerve. That was the only thing he could compare this experience to.

He felt the entire void shift. Something turned its attention to him, pinning him beneath its gaze. Fear clutched his heart in a vice grip as one great big eye peeled open, staring down, unblinking. And that’s when he woke up.

Jack’s eyes snapped open, sensations overloading his fried mind. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire, needles stabbing into his skin. The muscles in his body were tensed, so tightly wound that he felt like he was about to tear something. His chest spasmed, his lungs refusing to take in air as he silently choked. He could feel his heart as it clenched, struggling to beat. And there he sat, agonizing, in the moment in between.

Finally, something in his chest loosened. He desperately sucked in a lungful of air, his heart kicking back in. The tension in his muscles drained away, leaving him weak and feverish. Coughs wracked his frame as he fought to get air into his lungs. His body felt like one big bruise. It hurt to think, to move. His brain was scrambled and muddy, he couldn’t make sense of any of the things he had seen. Even now, memories of his dream faded away, leaving him floundering in the dark. But at least he was alive. Probably.

What… the fuck happened? He thought groggily. The last thing he remembered was…

Shit. Will. They kidnapped us, he remembered with a jolt. He and Will had been bound and left in a warehouse. He still had the cut on his head and the handcuffs on his wrists to prove it. He remembered getting up and escaping to another room where they were ambushed by Dan. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to think past the fog in his brain. We fought. There had been… a camera. I knocked it over. There was something… That’s the last thing I remember, he realized. Shit, where’s Will?

Slowly, Jack forced himself to roll over onto his stomach, a low groan of pain slipping past his teeth. It felt like he had been chewed up and spat out by some kind of industrial grinder. Rocks scraped against his arms as he moved, water rolling in beads down his face. He slowly sat up, blinking rapidly to clear the spots from his eyes. Where… where am I? He thought numbly, glancing around.

It was dark, and it was cold. He had already begun to shiver, his fingers going numb from either the cold or the pain. He was somewhere outdoors at night, but… he definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. He was lying on the shore of a large lake, the water as smooth and dark as obsidian. A layer of fog curled over the lake, ethereal and unnerving in the moonlight. Mountains surrounded the entire lake, curling inward to form a large bowl shape. Huge trees swathed the entire area, taller than he had ever seen before. He was sitting on a shore of gravel, mud, and sand, gritty particles sticking to his fingers. Gentle waves lapped against the shore, breaking over piles of driftwood. Scattered storm clouds drifted across the sky, occasionally releasing droplets of rainwater. They blotted out some of the stars, but what he could see sparkled radiantly without light pollution to mask it.

Jack shuddered, rubbing feeling back into his arms and wiping the rain water off of his face. Oookay. This is definitely not Topeka, he thought, glancing around. For some reason, his eyes kept getting drawn to the lake. The surface was perfectly smooth and still, darker than ink. It was so dark that he couldn’t see the stars reflected in its surface, which made uneasiness churn in his gut.

Tentatively, Jack reached out with his senses, letting Chronon energy wash over his vision. Immediately, he was rewarded with a sharp, stabbing headache. He winced, eyeing the Chronon radiation in the air. There was something distinctly wrong here. He was having a hard time trying to find any Chronon signatures, his vision stuttering and going hazy. He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but something was different. Nothing felt like how it was supposed to, and time moved strangely. Before, whenever he used his powers, it had felt like he had immersed himself in the ocean of time, allowing the current to slowly push and pull him as it deemed. Now, it felt like he had been sucked into a rip current and was being dragged further and further from shore. Jack shook his head again. You’re being ridiculous. You’re probably just scrambled from your sickness flaring up and from… whatever happened with the camera, he chided himself uneasily.

Ahead, in front of him, something caught his eye. Normally when he’s tracking Chronon signatures, everything around him is washed out in a blue-gray haze. But crumpled on the shore about fifty feet away from him was… nothing. It was the pure absence of Chronon energy. It looked like someone had spilled ink on his eyes. Fear and uncertainty coursed through his veins at the sight. Everything has a Chronon signature because everything has Chronon energy, that’s how time flows. So how the fuck can there be something that doesn’t have any energy at all? He thought, his heart hammering in his ribs. He blinked away the blue tinge from his vision, eyeing the dark lump further along the shore. It was hard to see with the driftwood in the way but… it looked like a person.

Fuck. Is that Will? Jack suddenly thought, fear making his throat constrict. His head snapped around, desperation mixing with the dizziness of the motion. He couldn’t see his brother anywhere near him. All he could see was the dark shape. Shit. Shit, shit. That can’t be Will. But then, where is he? If it is… what does it mean if I can’t sense his Chronon signature?

Slowly, Jack forced himself to stand. His legs wobbled dangerously, but adrenaline helped to chase away the exhaustion. Fear and uncertainty churned in his stomach, and he felt frozen with indecision. After a moment, he started to slowly creep his way forward, wary of any movement.

Nerves raced along his skin, making him want to grind his teeth. The air felt charged and heavy like the moment before a thunderstorm. Darkness yawned from the mouth of the forest, the trees’ shadows seemingly lengthening before his eyes. There was something distinctly wrong. It wasn’t until he was almost halfway to the shape that he realized why.

He couldn’t hear a thing beyond the rapid beat of his own heart. No birds chirped, no squirrels chittered in the underbrush, no animals squealed after being caught by some nocturnal predator. The air was dead and stale, no breeze biting at his skin, and no tree branches clattering together. Even the lake was eerily still and silent, fog hanging low over the surface. There was nothing but the sound of his own nervous breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.

Goosebumps rose across his skin, the hair on his body standing on end. Alarm bells were blaring in his head, but he continued forward nonetheless, his dread mounting with every step.

As he got closer to the dark shape, he could see the carcass of a deer lying a few feet away. It had begun decomposing, rotting meat hanging off of its bones, the stench of decay cloying thick in the air. It looked like something had ripped a huge chunk from its side, bite marks visible along its flank. Weeds from the bottom of the lake were tangled around its horns, and driftwood had begun to pile up against its back. Its mouth was left hanging open, its eyes staring blankly at Jack. He shivered, feeling like he was being watched.

Slowly, Jack crept over to the lump, sweat beading on his skin and making his hands clammy. The lump was, in fact, a person, which only made the tension ratchet higher. However, it wasn’t Will. He didn’t know if he should feel relieved or scared shitless by that. It wasn’t even Dan. It was just some… man. A naked man, at that.

Jack kneeled next to the body, conflicting emotions raging in his chest. The man was almost certainly dead, his chest still and his skin pale. He was lying on his front, his head turned away from Jack and his face obscured by his hair. Reluctantly, Jack reached forward, his fingers settling against the man’s throat to check for a pulse. His skin was icy cold, but to his utter shock, he felt a faint, thready pulse beneath his fingertips.

Jack froze, his eyes widening. Shit, he’s alive. Just barely, he thought. First aid training floated to the forefront of his mind, but there wasn’t much he could do. The kidnappers had taken everything from his person, including his phone. The only thing he had left were his keys, which wouldn’t be much help.

Jack frowned, rocking back on his haunches and wiping the rain water from his eyes. The man was naked and worryingly thin, his ribs and hip bones starkly visible beneath the skin. His skin was pale and criss-crossed with white scars. The damp hair that was plastered against his face was tangled and matted, and Jack could see an untrimmed, scruffy beard. To his mounting concern, he could also see a gash on the man’s shoulder that had been stitched up. The bruising around it was still an ugly purple-green color, which meant that it was relatively fresh. Damn, what happened to this guy? How did he end up here? Jack wondered. It looked less like the guy had just passed out on the beach and more like someone had tried to dump his body without realizing he was still alive.

Jack glanced around, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t see any footprints in the sandy mud, nor were they any signs of a struggle. It was possible some evidence was washed away by the rain, but he couldn’t even tell if the man walked down here himself or if he had washed ashore from the lake. He did see a white clump wrapped around a piece of driftwood a couple of feet away from the man. Curious, he leaned forward to examine the clump.

It was a piece of printer paper, though it had obviously been in the lake or left out in the rain at some point. It was soaked through and wadded up, sticking to the wood. Carefully, Jack untangled the paper, slowly unfolding it so that he didn’t tear it. To his confusion, he realized that it was a title page for… something. A book, most likely. The title of the book was Return, but the author’s name had been violently scratched out with a pen.

He glanced back down at the man, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. I can’t help this guy. I don’t have any first aid equipment, I don’t have a phone to call for help, I don’t even know where on Earth I am. I need to figure out where I am and where Will is, he thought, worry for his brother overriding his curiosity. That didn’t stop the sick feeling churning in his stomach when he realized this man probably wouldn’t survive much longer if Jack left. The image of the deer carcass rose in his mind unbidden, and he shuddered. Guilt and indecision raged in his chest, but Will took priority. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do,” Jack whispered to the dead night air, his hand settling on the man’s shoulder. And that’s when the man’s eyes snapped open.

With a strangled shriek of fear, the man rolled onto his back and threw a wild punch towards Jack’s face. Jack lurched away with a startled shout, the punch clipping his chin. The man scrambled back wildly on all fours until his back thumped against the trunk of a dead tree, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

The first thing that Jack noticed about the man were his eyes. They were such a bright, unnatural shade of blue that they seemingly glowed in the scant moonlight. There was something off, almost inhuman about them. The man was staring at Jack without blinking, and he shuddered.

The second thing that he noticed was that he recognized the man. Holy shit, this is the dude from my nightmare, he realized, numb shock and confusion spreading through his limbs. It felt like the man had actually punched him in the face.

The man had curled up against the tree, his eyes wide and glassy. He was shivering violently, either from the shock or the cold night air. With tremendous effort, Jack forced his questions away, focusing on the situation at hand.

Slowly, Jack took a step forward. “Stay back!” The man immediately shouted, a feral snarl marring his face. With a wild swing, he nearly smacked Jack in the head with a stick.

Jack jerked back, swearing. “Hey! Watch it!” He snapped.

The man continued to stare at him, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Who- who are you?”  He whispered, his voice scratchy and hoarse. He sounded terrified, and Jack felt a surge of guilt for snapping.

Jack took a deep breath, forcing himself to look as non-threatening as possible. “My name is Jack,” he said softly. “Who are you?”

The man’s eyes went glassy at the name. His fingers curled up in his hair, gripping the dark strands in a white-knuckled grip. “I… I feel like I know you. Do I know you from somewhere? Where do I know you from? I’ve forgotten… I can’t have forgotten, I needed… I needed to remember something. Something important. What was it? What was it?” He said, distress bleeding into his words.

Jack froze, concern mixing with panic. Shit, what do I do? He thought. He had some experience snapping people back to reality, mainly Will. After their parents died, Will had become more erratic, dissociative, and retreated more often into his head. Jack had developed methods to drag Will out of his thoughts, to make sure he ate and slept, and to make sure he didn’t accidentally drive into oncoming traffic. However, he didn’t know this man. He didn’t know what might calm him down or what might make the situation even worse. “Hey, hey, hey! It’s okay. We’ve never met before,” he said in a rush. The man paused in his ranting, trembling. His hands unwound from his hair, wrapping around his chest instead as he shivered. Slowly, Jack crouched down to his level, putting his hands out like he was trying to approach a feral dog. “It’s okay, man. Can you tell me your name?” He asked, his voice quiet.

The man looked at him, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times before a distressed noise crawled up his throat. “I don’t… I can’t remember,” he whispered, the whites of his eyes bright with fear.

Shit. “Hey, that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Do you, uh… do you remember how you got here?” Jack asked haltingly, wincing at the question. Another round of shivering wracked the man’s frame, so bad that his teeth started chattering. Wordlessly, Jack shrugged off his jacket and handed it to the man. After a moment of hesitation, the man took it and slipped it on. The fabric swallowed up his thin frame, but at least his shivering lessened.

The man shook his head. “I- no, I don’t think so. I remember… I…” he paused, screwing his eyes shut. “I remember water. And darkness. So much darkness,” he whispered, shuddering. Jack automatically glanced at the lake, and the man followed his gaze. A flash of recognition crossed his face, his eyes widening. “Cauldron Lake…” he mumbled.

Jack snapped his head back to the man. “Wait, do you know where we are?” He asked urgently.

The man clutched his head, grimacing. “I… think so. It’s all a blur, I can’t-“ he started, gritting his teeth.

Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand through the scruff on his face. I definitely don’t remember seeing a “Cauldron Lake” on the interstate map anywhere near Topeka. So I still have no idea where the hell I am, but at least I have a name for it. Cauldron Fucking Lake, he thought, forcing that initial burst of annoyance down to focus on the situation. Still though, if he can remember where we are, maybe he can remember other things, too.

“Listen, this is kind of a long shot… but, do you remember seeing anyone else before me? Maybe a guy, a few inches shorter than me, short brown hair, vaguely crazy look in his eyes?” Jack asked.

“No. I’m sorry. You’re… the first person I’ve seen. Or remember seeing, anyways,” the man said softly, looking miserable.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Disappointment and fear warred in his brain, and panic was starting to dig in. I need to find Will. I can’t lose him again, he thought.

“… Why? Who is he?” The man asked.

“He’s my brother. We got… separated. I’m trying to find him,” Jack muttered.

The man’s gaze went blank at that. “Find them…” he mumbled, trailing off.

Jack shook his head, his eye caught by the stark white glint of paper. “Oh, I found this nearby. I doubt it’s important, but just in case… does this spark anything?” He asked, grabbing the page. Immediately, the man’s eyes locked on the paper. Before Jack could even blink, he had snatched the page from Jack’s grip, staring at it intently. “Jesus. Just ask, man,” Jack grumbled, though his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You do recognize it, don’t you?” He asked.

The man didn’t respond. His eyes had glazed over, and he had seemingly retreated deep inside his own head. “Return…” he breathed, running a finger across the scratched out author’s name with furrowed brows. Multiple different emotions flitted across his face at once before it settled on recognition.

Jack opened his mouth to repeat his question when suddenly, he felt a deep, bassy thump rattle up from his ankles to his chest. For a moment, the ground heaved beneath them, Jack nearly toppling over from where he was crouching. But just as quickly as it had started, the shaking had stopped. What the fuck? Jack thought, glancing at his companion. The man’s face had drained of color, stark fear lining his expression. And that’s when Jack felt It.

Unbridled fear slithered down his spine, soaking into his limbs and clouding his mind. It’s real. My nightmares were real. What the fuck is that thing? He thought, his heart beating wildly. He could sense It in the lake. The monster that had haunted his nightmares since he first arrived in Topeka. An unnatural, all-encompassing level of terror swamped him. Panicked instincts flashed across his mind. He wanted to run. To hide. To find the damn thing and kill it. Anything other than just sitting here.

Next to him, the man let out a strangled noise of pain, clutching his head. Jack snapped his gaze over to the lake, Chronon particles flooding his vision. Pain stabbed through his skull at the action, and his vision went hazy. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see anything. Shaking his head, he blinked away the blue tinge and stared at the water.

Towards the center of the lake, he could see the fog part. Water rippled outward from the center of the lake, shattering the smooth, mirrored surface. He could see something dark and amorphous rise from the center.

“We have to run,” the man whispered next to him, his eyes locked on the figure in the lake.

“What?” Jack asked, his brain scrambling to focus through the panic overwhelming his senses.

“Run!” He shouted, scrambling to his feet. With a burst of adrenaline and panic, Jack leapt up and took off at a dead sprint towards the woods, keeping pace with the other man. The man had paused only once to shove the soggy page into the pocket of Jack’s jacket, his eyes wide with panic.

It was then that the wind around them roared. It was an unnatural, high-pitched shriek, snapping their clothes against their bodies and buffeting them from the sheer force. The wind howled through the trees, branches snapping together. The ground shook as if the earth had split open, and in the distance they could hear trees falling and crashing. Any moonlight was immediately blocked out by racing storm clouds, the sprinkling rain from before turning into a downpour. Birds screamed above them, their cries snatched away by the howling wind.

“What the hell is happening?” Jack shouted above the wind, frantically jumping over a rock as they ran.

“Just go!” The man yelled back, deftly leaping over a root. Water splashed over their legs, mud sucking at their feet and making it harder to run. The sandy gravel shore had transitioned to a muddy pit thick with undergrowth as they darted past the tree line. The forest floor had flooded close to the lake, the water reaching up to their mid-calves in some places. Beneath the cover of the trees and with little moonlight, it was almost impossible to see where they were going. Jack swore as he dodged around a tree, the thorny branches of a bramble bush catching his sleeve and cutting his bare arm. Meanwhile, the other man was darting quickly along some kind of small, barely-detectable animal path, deftly avoiding sharp rocks and thorny bushes that may have cut his feet or arms.

“There! Up ahead! Get into the light!” The man suddenly shouted, pointing to a small workman’s shed. The light inside the shed had been left on, brightness spilling out through the doorway.

The earth beneath their feet heaved once more, stronger this time. Jack was knocked off of his feet from the force, the impact rattling through his bones and making his teeth chatter in his skull. The man slipped and stumbled, clinging to a tree to stay upright. That same howling wind raced through the forest once more, panic flaring in Jack’s mind. He less-than-gracefully stumbled to his feet, helping the other man up and running to the shed. Come on, come on. Almost there, he thought, the light just a few feet away.

With a shout, Jack barreled through the door of the shed, skidding to a stop and nearly ramming his hip into a table. The man sprinted in a moment after, his momentum too fast. He slammed into the opposite wall, yelping at the impact. “Close the door, close it!” The man shouted. Without a moment to waste, Jack rammed the door shut, locking it with the small deadbolt. Outside, he heard something screech, a force slamming into the door and rattling the walls of the shed. And then, all went still.

Jack backpedaled until his back was against the wall, his heart hammering in his chest. His lungs burned from the impromptu sprint, and his entire body was trembling with fear. They weren’t exactly in the most structurally sound building, which only set his teeth on edge more. The walls of the shed were made with thin wooden planks, and he was worried that something was about to rip through the walls and snap them up in its jaws. “What… what the fuck was that?” He gasped, glancing at the other man.

However, the man wasn’t looking at him. He was staring up at the light bulb, his expression pinched with fear. The bulb dimmed and flickered for a moment before bursting, glass raining on their heads. Jack flinched in shock, the shed now plunged into darkness. “We’re not safe here. We have to move,” the man said, his voice heavy with certainty and dread.

A mix of confusion and anger stirred in Jack’s gut as the man glanced around the shed. “You know what’s happening. What that thing was,” Jack accused hotly as the man grabbed an old, worn pair of workman’s overalls.

“It’s… complicated. Can you check that desk to see if there’s anything useful in there?” The man asked stiffly, pulling the clothing on and tightening the straps, before shrugging Jack’s jacket back on.

“I’m not doing anything until you-“ Jack started, until they heard another distant roar, followed by the sound of something big crashing to the forest floor.

The man paled, any color in his face draining away. “Look, I’ll explain later when we’re somewhere safer. But right now, we have to go!” He hissed back.

With a glare, Jack angrily ripped open the first drawer of the desk, glaring at the stacks of boxes of loose nuts and bolts. He shut it, yanking open the second drawer, and paused. There, next to a box of ammo, was a Colt Magnum .357 in a leather case. Yeesh. Talk about poor gun safety, Jack thought, unzipping the case. The revolver was worn and a little dirty, but otherwise in good condition. Jack popped open the cylinder, spinning it for good measure before loading in six rounds and shutting it.

“You found a gun?” The man asked, suddenly appearing over his shoulder as he was emptying the box of ammo into his pockets.

“Yes. And you’re not touching it,” Jack said, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans with a grimace. He didn’t have a holster to put it in, so this would just have to do. The man opened his mouth to angrily retort, but Jack glared back at him. “Dude, you have memory loss and your brain is about as whole as swiss cheese. Even if you did know how to use a gun before you lost your memory, you might end up accidentally shooting yourself now,” he said, crossing his arms.

The man glared back at him, and for a moment, it genuinely looked like he was contemplating taking a swing at Jack. However, he ultimately conceded with an angry huff, stepping back. After emptying the drawer, Jack checked the last one and found a flashlight, as well as another piece of paper. Before he could even reach for them, the man had already snatched them away, his eyes fervently scanning over the text. This guy really needs to learn some manners, Jack thought, rolling his eyes. “What even are those?” Jack asked, frowning.

The man opened his mouth to reply when suddenly, there was a very quiet thunk noise against the back wall of the shed. Both men froze. There was silence for a few moments. In the semi-darkness of the shed, Jack could see the man tense, his eyes wide. The noise repeated again, this time in a deliberate tapping rhythm. What the hell- Jack started. And that’s when a hand punched through the wooden slats, grabbing the shoulder of the man’s jacket before attempting to bodily rip him through the wall.

Jack lunged forward, grabbing an old, rusting hammer sitting on the desk. With a shout, he swung it down and slammed it on the arm. Instead of the arm breaking like he thought it would, the hammer instead ricocheted off of the limb and swung back up, throwing Jack off-balance. Still, the arm was jarred loose from its hold on the man’s jacket, which Jack quickly grabbed the back of and yanked away from the wall.

The man stumbled with a yell, his eyes wide with panic. “Fuck! Go!” He shouted, unlocking the shed door and throwing it open. Jack ran after him, yanking the revolver out, the grip slick in his sweaty palms. Rain immediately lashed against his face as he darted outside, mud and water squishing beneath his shoes. The forest was somehow even darker than before, only the barest hints of moonlight allowing them to see. Wind howled above their heads, tree branches clattering against one another. Up above, he could hear birds shrieking. The shadows seemingly raced with the wind, moving over the ground faster than should’ve been possible.

Suddenly, the man skidded to a stop. Without warning, he grabbed the collar of Jack’s shirt and yanked him down into a crouch. Moments later, a hatchet flew through the air and embedded itself in a tree where Jack’s head had been. “Shit!” Jack swore, staggering back up to his feet.

In front of them, a man seemingly materialized out of the deeper darkness of the forest, hefting an axe. Another man and a woman stepped out from behind the trees on either side of them, effectively surrounding them.

Jack squinted at the group of what appeared to be loggers, adrenaline rushing through his veins. It was strangely difficult to look at the people in front of him. They melted into the darkness of the woods, and it almost looked as if they were covered in a layer of twisting, living shadows. Any defining details were hard to make out, but Jack could clearly see the weapons in their hands.

“Stop! Don’t come any closer!” Jack shouted above the wind, raising the revolver. He felt his stomach sink as he watched all three people advance, hefting their tools.

“ Logging is one of the most profitable jobs in Washington! ” The lead man snarled, his voice warping and twisting, distorted by the shadows flickering over him.

What the fuck? Jack thought, freezing at the unnatural sight in front of him. And that’s when the logger lunged with a shriek, swinging his axe wildly. Jack raised the revolver, snapping off a single shot straight into the chest of the logger. To his shock, the man barely even stumbled, unharmed by the shot. Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck- Jack thought, backpedaling and firing again, much to the same result. The logger just shook his head, hefting his axe and charging.

It was then that Jack’s companion darted up next to him, flicking on the flashlight and pinning the logger beneath the beam. The logger stumbled in his tracks, the shadows visibly writhing across his body. Jack squinted past the bright light, artifacts appearing in his vision. A moment later, the shadowy covering dispersed with a shriek and a bright flash of light, sending the logger to his knees. His skin was bloated and pale gray, like a rotting corpse that had been dragged up from the bottom of the lake. Some of the skin had actually begun to deteriorate, showing layers of decomposing muscle and sinew beneath the skin. The logger’s eyes were pitch black and filled with unending malice.

“Always make sure your axe is sharp! Never chop trees with a dull blade!” The logger growled, getting back to his feet and lunging once more for Jack. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jack raised the revolver and fired off two rounds straight into the man’s head. Black blood sprayed against the foliage behind the man, dripping onto the waterlogged ground below. The logger slumped to the floor, twitching before ultimately going limp. As Jack watched, the logger’s body dissolved into motes of light, vanishing before their eyes.

Jack didn’t have time to process what had just happened. The other two loggers were trying to flank them, raising their weapons with snarls. Jack’s companion raised the flashlight, hitting the other male logger until the shadows covering him had dispersed as well. The logger swung a cant hook towards their heads, but with two well-placed shots from Jack, he dissolved as well.

The woman attempting to circle around them suddenly ran forward with a scream, swinging a pruning saw like it was a club. Jack and the man both dodged, rolling out of the way. Quickly, Jack flipped the cylinder of the revolver open, dumping the spent bullet casings and slamming in two new ones. The man was already beating her back with the light as she shrieked beneath the illumination. As soon as he saw the shadows smolder and disperse beneath the light, he raised the gun and fired. Two shots rang through the woods, marking the end of the woman’s life as her body dissolved into motes of light. The only evidence she had ever existed was the fallen pruning saw, and the splatter of black blood that was already being washed away by the rain.

Jesse let her duffel bag slide off of her shoulder with a huff, setting it down on the sidewalk. Plane engines roared in the distance, muffled by the sounds of cars honking and people shouting. She was currently standing in the pick-up area of the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Crowds of people flowed around her, parting like a great tide as they all rushed off to their own destinations.

The setting sun shone in her eyes, glinting off of every surface and making her squint. Storm clouds were starting to gather in the sky, but it didn’t quite look like it would rain yet. A cold breeze bit into her hands, and she was suddenly thankful for her leather jacket. Rubbing her arms to get feeling back into them, she craned her neck around to look for the car that was supposed to be picking her up. There, through the long line of traffic, she saw a black, four-door sedan pull up slowly before parking right in front of her.

A woman with brown hair tied back into a bun and a serious, impassive look on her face strode around from the driver’s side. She immediately stiffened into parade rest when she reached Jesse. “Director Faden,” she acknowledged, curt and professional. “I’m Agent Kiran Estevez, the field agent in charge of the Bright Falls AWE.”

Jesse smiled at her, leaving her posture intentionally loose. “A pleasure to meet you, Agent Estevez. No need to worry about any formal greetings with me. And please, call me Jesse. I don’t really hold with formal titles,” she said, holding out her hand to shake.

After a moment, Agent Estevez relaxed slightly, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. “Sorry. You never quite know what you’re going to get with new management staff, especially in a position as high up as the Director,” Estevez said, cracking a small smile. “Please, let me get your bag,” she continued, picking up Jesse’s duffel and tossing it in the back.

Jesse slid into the passenger seat, examining the interior of the car. It looked like every other government-issued vehicle, but there was evidence of Estevez’s use over the years. A box of files sat in the back seat next to Jesse’s duffel bag, papers sticking out of the open lid. The words, WARNING: Confidential Files. Removal of contents from premises is a federal offense, were printed in big red letters on the side of the box, the FBC seal just beneath it. Estevez’s FBC badge was hanging from a lanyard from the rear-view mirror of her car. There were some forlorn gum wrappers in the cup holder in the passenger-side door, and Jesse could see a few CDs in the open glove compartment.

Estevez slid into the driver’s seat, grabbing her lanyard off of the rear-view mirror and tucking it into her coat before shutting the glove compartment. “You ready? It’s a bit of a drive to Bright Falls, around three and a half hours,” she said, sticking the key into the ignition and starting the car. Immediately, ‘80s metal music started blaring from the speakers, nearly deafening Jesse. Estevez immediately cranked the volume down to a far more tolerable volume, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, It’s from a local band. You’re welcome to choose something else on the radio or in the glovebox.”

A huge grin split Jesse’s face. “Oh my god, are you kidding me? I love Old Gods!” She exclaimed as the guitar solo of Balance Slays the Demon wafted quietly from the speakers.

Estevez visibly relaxed, nodding her head to the radio. “The surviving members of the band live in Bright Falls. Their music kind of… grows on you after living there so long,” she explained, bobbing her head to the bridge.

Jesse glanced back at the box of documents as they pulled away from the curb and onto the main street, Estevez expertly weaving through traffic. “So, I’m guessing those are from the research station?” Jesse asked, motioning back to the box.

“Yes, ma’am. In case you want to read through some of our case files on Bright Falls and the surrounding areas. Though, uh… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to the research staff. They’re a little… touchy about classified documents leaving the premises,” Estevez said nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t committed a federal crime.

Jesse winced at the title, cringing slightly. “Thank you. And please, no ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel like I’m in my seventies,” she said.

Estevez laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, amusement clear on her face.

“Have you been briefed on the situation?” Jesse asked, reaching into the backseat to pull out a few of the files from the box. Most of them were records of the previous AWEs at Bright Falls, with a few reports from the research team on studies that had been conducted.

“Dr. Pope filled us in while you were flying over, though she was a little vague on the exact details of what happened. Something about a potential reoccurrence of the Bright Falls AWE,” she explained.

Jesse hummed, nodding. “We have reason to suspect that Alan Wake is still alive, trapped in the threshold beneath the lake. And we believe that he’s attempting to write his way out, which could potentially spread beyond the threshold and affect the surrounding area of Bright Falls,” she explained.

Estevez frowned, tapping the steering wheel with her fingers to the beat of the music. “As far as I’m aware, the Cauldron Lake Research Station has received no major AWE alerts since 2010. There have been a few false alarms here and there, but nothing that would indicate an upcoming AWE,” she said thoughtfully.

Jesse frowned as well. “The strange thing is, there was an AWE alert for Bright Falls back in 2019,” she said. Estevez glanced at her in surprise before turning onto a highway, the setting sun casting long shadows beyond them. “Wake managed to contact me indirectly through the Oceanview Motel. Somehow, he got a signal past the lockdown and broadcast an AWE alert for Bright Falls, but the date was set for a few years in the future. Actually, it was set for this year, now that I’m thinking about it,” she realized, feeling slightly disconcerted.

“Well, that’s… a real head scratcher,” Estevez mused. “Good news, the station hasn’t picked up any signals of paranatural activity for the past few months. Bad news, we have a reoccurring issue with fraying wires, especially at our auxiliary stations at different points around the lake. The locals complain of ‘rabid’ raccoons that chew through wires, but none of the traps we’ve set have really caught anything.”

“How are raccoons getting into those panels to chew through wires?” Jesse asked incredulously.

Estevez scoffed. “Exactly what I said. But our head researchers, Dr. Marmont and Dr. Marmont, brushed me off. Said that I was ‘overthinking matters that have simple explanations,’” she said, making air quotes with her fingers. “I advised them that it was worth posting guards at the stations where the wires are tampered with the most, but they didn’t want to divert any additional manpower away from their experiments.”

Jesse smiled sympathetically. “Sounds like the heads of research there are some real hardasses,” she said.

Estevez’s eye twitched, and it seemed as if she was visibly restraining herself from saying anything worse about her colleagues in front of the Director. “Yeah. They’re… difficult at best,” she said. “Bad news is, they’re the head researchers, so what they say goes. But, good news, the rest of the research staff is a lot more friendly.”

“What kind of research do you even conduct down at the station?” Jesse asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Well, the researchers would be able to explain them better than I would,” Estevez said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “But we run the usual battery of tests that we would at the site of any AWE. We regularly check soil, water, and air samples to measure pH levels, chemical compositions, air toxicity, et cetera, et cetera. Cauldron Lake sits on top of a dormant volcano, so we also run periodic seismograms. And then we get into our more complicated tests, which the research team should be able to fully brief you on,” Estevez said.

Jesse nodded, settling back into her seat. Take Control had started playing from the radio, the song bringing memories of the Oldest House to the forefront of her mind. Estevez grinned, turning the volume of the radio up a bit and bobbing her head to the beat of the music. Jesse smiled at that, allowing some of the tension in her own body to drain away as she settled in for the car ride.

Polaris shimmered at the edges of her vision, circling around Estevez. I like her, too. She’s smart, tough, and has great taste in music. I think we could be good friends, she thought. Still, no matter how much she tried to relax to the music, nerves ate at her mind. Wake’s message sounded urgent. Even if we get there in time, how exactly do we help him? It’s not like he left us instructions, she wondered. Polaris glittered with worry, a distant, heavy feeling like a blanket settling around her shoulders. I know. Hopefully the staff at the research station can help us. Wake just needs to hold on for a little while longer, she thought, glancing at the dying light of the setting sun just beyond the trees.

“The wilderness can be dangerous! Never leave the campground by yourself! ” A demented voice shrieked. He dodged just in time, rolling out of the way as a hatchet slammed into the boulder he had been pressed against, ricocheting with a spray of sparks. The Taken snarled, whipping around to face him. Unfortunately, he was stuck on a sheer ledge with very little room to dodge, and he had managed to back himself into a corner between two rocks. Just as the Taken was getting ready to cleave his skull in two, gunshots echoed through the trees. The Taken’s head snapped back, its body dissolving before it even had a chance to crumple to the ground.

He abruptly slumped to the ground, panting for air, his whole body trembling from nerves. God, he was tired. A hand descended into his field of view, and after a second of catching his breath, he took it. His new companion, Jack, hauled him to his feet, careful of the rocky slope they were pressed against. “You okay?” Jack asked, similarly winded.

“Just peachy,” he grumbled, rubbing his head as the fear slowly faded. It ached duly, a persistent pulse that fluctuated with the racing shadows. He flicked off the flashlight he was holding, trying to conserve as much battery as possible.

Currently, they were hiking through the woods, trying to put as much distance between the lake and themselves as they could. They had headed in the complete opposite direction of the lake, mostly sticking to open trails where they could to avoid floundering through the undergrowth. By their best guess, it had been almost an hour of continuous walking, with a few Taken encounters here and there. Their current goal was to reach a large radio tower, the red obstruction lights blinking steadily against the night sky. It was the only sign of civilization that they could see, and they desperately needed to find a way to get some help.

Jack eyed the deeper darkness of the forest as the flashlight shut off, wariness lining his gaze. “Come on, Guy. We should keep moving. I don’t want to get ambushed on this ledge again,” he said tersely, hopping up a steep shale slope.

He groaned in response to the nickname Jack had given him, but he dragged himself up the slope nonetheless. To be fair, he couldn’t remember his actual name. For all he knew, maybe he was named Guy.

His headache suddenly spiked, drilling deep into his skull. He paused, gritting his teeth as he rode the wave of pain. Gravel was knocked loose from under his feet, skittering down the slope. It echoed disconcertingly as it fell, the sound magnified by the rustling of the trees around them.

In all honesty, he wasn’t doing too well. He was constantly out of breath, his limbs were shaky and numb, and he could barely think past the fog in his brain. His entire body hurt, a persistent, bone-deep ache that only worsened as they hiked further away from the lake. He felt constantly weak and feverish, and he was struggling to stay conscious as it was. His hands and feet were completely numb from the cold, and he was soaked to the bone. Rainwater dripped into his eyes from his hair, and just about every inch of him was caked in mud. It was honestly a miracle that he hadn’t dropped dead yet from exposure, a morbid part of his brain whispered. And yet, the worst part of it all was that he still couldn’t remember a damn thing.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the most simple of things. Memories danced around his fingertips, slipping away before he could ever get a solid grasp on them. It was infuriating. But more than that, it was terrifying. I can’t even remember my own name. How am I supposed to remember anything else? He thought miserably, shivering.

And yet, there were things that he inexplicably could remember. The memories were fragmented and disjointed, but they were there. And what he could remember scared him shitless. He knew about the Taken, and about the darkness trapped beneath Cauldron Lake. He knew how to fight them, and how to know when they were coming. And he knew that the manuscript pages were important. He didn’t know why, but every time he saw the telltale glint of a white page in the deeper darkness of the forest, relief and dread would flood his body in equal measure.

Thinking of the lake and his lack of memory made him question, not for the first time that night, what had happened to him. For a moment, he wondered where he may have come from- if he had been dumped on the shore of the lake like Jack thought, or if he had somehow risen from the depths like every other horror they faced tonight. He shuddered, the feeling distant. There was a cold, sucking emptiness in his chest, like a pit had opened beneath him. The world started to darken and tilt, and he felt his knees wobble dangerously. For a moment, he felt like he was drowning, falling deeper and deeper beneath the surface of a smooth, dark lake. In the distance, he thought he could hear something clicking repetitively.

“Whoa! Be careful,” a voice said, snapping him out of his head. He blinked, his breath rattling in his lungs as he realized he had almost toppled backwards down the slope. Jack’s hand was snagged on the lip of the overalls he was wearing, concern lining his features. “Are you okay?” He asked.

He shook his head, blinking the spots from his vision, fear making his heart thump in his chest. He felt… hollow, for some reason. Like he wasn’t fully present. “Yeah. Sorry, I just… got light headed for a second there,” he said, though he couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince Jack or himself.

Jack gave him a worried look, but stepped back. Well, at least I’m not totally alone out here, he thought, mildly reassured. Jack was also soaked to the bone from rainwater and coated in a thick layer of mud, grime streaked across his face. He had been wearing a regular t-shirt beneath the jacket he had given Guy, and his bare arms were pale from the cold and the rain. He had what looked like handcuffs on his wrists, but the chain between them had snapped. A faded bruise hovered just above his right eyebrow, a scabbed-over cut sitting in the middle. He briefly wondered what happened to Jack prior to them meeting on the shore, but just as quickly dismissed that thought. Focus on surviving now, share your life stories later, he thought.

All in all, Jack had taken the news of shadowy lake monsters fairly well. While he wasn’t quite sure that they trusted each other yet, they didn’t exactly have a choice. After killing the first few Taken, they had managed to find an old trail shelter with a still-functioning light inside. Once they were inside, Jack had vehemently refused to keep moving until Guy had explained what was going on.

“What the hell were those things? And how did you know how to kill them?” Jack had hissed as they huddled beneath the lone lightbulb.

“They’re called Taken. They used to be human, until the darkness took them over. Now they’re basically corpses puppeteered by shadows,” he had growled back, kneading his aching head.

“And just how exactly do you know what they are?” Jack had snapped, tension boiling thick in the air between them.

“I don’t know! I can’t exactly remember anything else at the moment,” he had said hotly, the burn of anger familiar in his chest. “I just… I know that they come from the lake. And that they’re hunting us. And I don’t know why,” he finally ground out.

Jack scoffed, pacing the back of the shelter. Eventually, he paused, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Fine. So how do we stop them?” He said.

“Light is the key. They have barriers made of darkness that protect them. You burn that darkness away, and that’s when they’ve vulnerable. But you have to kill them. Don’t-“ he started, cutting off Jack when he opened his mouth to retort. “You saw them, how their bodies dissolved when they died. How they kept coming for you even after you stripped the shadows away. You can’t save them. The darkness still controls them, and they will kill you.”

Jack had remained quiet at that, his arms crossed, staring at the far wall as he mulled over everything he had been told. “Of course it had to be fucking something. God damn shadow zombies,” he finally grumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We can’t stay here. We need to keep moving, or we’ll just get ambushed again,” he said tersely, eyeing the darkness beyond their little safe haven. They both knew that their chances of survival were slim at best. They were both exhausted and injured, and they were stumbling blindly through woods infested with Taken. They needed help, badly.

Jack let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. We’ll stick together, find help. Get the fuck out of these woods. But after that, I need to find my brother,” he had said.

Jack grimaced, staring at the shadows yawning from the forest around them. “Come on, we should keep moving,” Jack said, nerves thick in the air around them. With a wordless nod, they both began their ascent up the steep slope, hoping to reach the trail just above them.

It took them a good few minutes to clamber up to the top, and they were both significantly more sweaty than before. When they finally reached more level ground, Jack started digging around in his pockets. “Shit. We’re almost out of ammo. Any bright ideas?” Jack asked.

He frowned, casting his gaze around. There, among the deeper darkness of the forest, he could just make out a vague, human-built structure. “There, up in the trees. I think it’s a hunting stand. Maybe they have some ammo up there,” he said, pointing at the shape.

Jack squinted at where his finger pointed to. “Where? I can’t see shit, it’s too dark,” he said.

“There,” he said, gesturing again. It was dark, but it wasn’t so dark that he couldn’t see the obviously misshapen lump in the tree. Before Jack could open his mouth to retort, a branch snapped behind them. Loudly. They both jumped, whirling around to check for danger. Nothing moved in the deeper darkness of the forest, but he felt suddenly exposed. “Come on,” he hissed, motioning back towards the dark structure. With a cautious glance, they both started moving towards the shape, wary of any movement. Unlike before when they were closer to the shore, it was relatively quiet and still. The wind still bit at their skin and rain slapped their faces, but it had lessened to a manageable degree.

As they got closer to the structure, they realized it was, in fact, a hunting stand. It was a small wooden platform nailed to the trunk of the tree. A wooden ladder was built into the trunk, leading up to the entrance. The ladder itself was just several 2 x 4 planks of wood nailed to the trunk, almost like what one would find for a child’s treehouse. That line of thinking made him vaguely dizzy. For a moment, images of an abandoned, dilapidated tree house crawling with the ghostly remains of childhood memories overwhelmed his mind. He could almost see children racing around inside the small structure, which quickly morphed into the image of Taken lurking in the deeper shadows of the stand. He vigorously shook his head, banishing the images. The stand was draped in camouflage netting, no signs of movement inside.

Jack stared up at the shelter, tapping his foot thoughtfully. “Damn, how the hell did you see this in the dark?” Jack asked, impressed. He just shrugged in response. “I’m heading up. Cover me with the light,” Jack whispered, holstering the revolver. He bit back a retort at being left without a weapon, but acquiesced nonetheless. Flicking on the flashlight, he eyed the surrounding woods as Jack scaled up the ladder. Poking his head inside, he scanned the interior before glancing down at his companion. “All clear!” Jack whispered. Turning off the flashlight, he scurried up the ladder after Jack, feeling light headed by the movement.

“Anything helpful up here?” He asked, turning to Jack.

Jack was pawing through the netting, unearthing a long, thin container. Opening it, they both slumped with relief when they saw the Remington 700 BDL hunting rifle sitting in the case. Jack picked it up, checking the safety before sliding back the bolt to look inside the magazine. “Well, they’re stupid enough to leave the gun case unlocked, but at least they were smart enough to leave the gun unloaded. The firearm safety out here is abysmal,” Jack muttered, inspecting the rifle for any damage.

“Says the guy who just stole two guns to go shoot their previous owners,” he said sarcastically.

Jack glared back at him, looking around for any boxes of ammo. “I’m not taking gun safety advice from the amnesiac Swamp Thing,” Jack retorted.

He threw his hands up, affronted. “You didn’t even find me in a swamp! It was a marsh at best,” he snapped, shoving the box of rifle ammo in Jack’s face. Jack grunted in acknowledgement, the air filled with tension.

This isn’t helping anyone, the rational part of his mind thought, guilt mixing with his rapidly-cooling anger. Jack is stuck here, same as you. Maybe you could stop riling him up? He admonished himself. Slowly, he forced the annoyance in his chest to simmer down. He and Jack kept snapping at each other’s throats, and it was going to get them killed. “I’m sorry,” he apologized stiffly as Jack started to rapidly feed bullets into the magazine.

“… Yeah. Sorry,” Jack replied back tersely. After a long moment of tense silence, Jack sighed, closing his eyes. Pulling out the revolver, he handed it to Guy. “Do not make me regret this,” Jack warned, pinning him beneath his gaze.

He held it, some unspoken message passing between them. “I won’t,” he replied firmly, taking the revolver and cradling it in his hands. For the first time that night, something in his chest physically loosened. It felt like he could breathe again. A gun and a flashlight. My old friends, he thought sardonically, then frowned. Where the hell did that come from? He physically shook his head, rubbing it. His brain still felt foggy, but at least some things were coming back to him.

Jack pulled the revolver ammunition from his pockets, passing them to him. He slipped the ammo in the pocket of his jacket, glancing around for anything else that was useful. With a burst of relief, he found another box of revolver ammo and a second, sturdier flashlight. “Here. Early birthday present,” he said, tossing the flashlight to Jack. Jack snorted but took the light, flicking it on to check the battery.

As he was emptying the box of revolver ammo in his pocket, he saw the dull white glint of another manuscript page. He grabbed it, carefully scanning the contents before folding it away into the inner pocket of his jacket.

After shoving the rest of the ammo into his pockets and making sure the rifle was fully loaded, Jack rolled up part of the camouflage netting, scanning the surrounding woods. “I don’t see anything, but we should keep moving,” Jack murmured.

“Agreed,” he whispered back, “You head down first, I’ll cover you.”

With a nod, Jack pocketed the flashlight and slung the rifle over his shoulder, making sure it was snug against his back. As Jack descended the ladder, Guy checked the surrounding woods, the grip on his flashlight tightening until the casing creaked. Jack jumped down from the last few rungs, landing firmly on his feet. Pulling the rifle off of his shoulder and flicking on the flashlight, he scanned the forest for any movement. “You’re clear!” Jack whisper-shouted. Guy had to fight the urge to loudly shush Jack, instead choosing to roll his eyes. The only reason he didn’t was because he knew Jack would try to shush him back.

Shoving the revolver and flashlight into his pockets, he gripped the edges of the plank of wood he was clinging to with sweaty palms. He slowly descended, his sore body protesting at the strain on his arms.

Suddenly, a spike of pain drilled violently into his skull. He flinched back against the ladder, his vision going fuzzy for a few seconds. At the same time, the earth heaved beneath them, the kick jarring him from his hold.

The next thing he knew, his grip on the ladder slipped, and he hit the ground hard. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him from the fall. “Shit, are you okay?” Jack asked urgently, kneeling next to him.

He shook his head, something shifting at the edges of his awareness. Terror blanketed his mind. “We have to go,” he managed to gasp out, rolling over onto his front.

“What?” Jack asked, yanking Guy up to his feet. And then he stiffened as well, his head snapping up. Everything had come to a complete standstill, a claustrophobic feeling permeating the air. He and Jack both froze, one hand on each other’s arms, the other mid-grab for their weapons. It was unnaturally still and silent. It felt like someone had just pressed pause on the world. The only thing they could hear were the frenetic beating of their hearts and their short, panicked breaths.

Neither of them dared to move, to break the stillness of the forest. Goosebumps rose across his skin, the hair on his neck raising. “We can’t stay here,” he hissed urgently to Jack, his voice sounding loud in the dead silence surrounding them.

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Jack hissed back, tension visible in his coiled frame. His eyes flickered back towards the direction of the radio tower, the blinking lights barely visible through the treetops. “Okay. I say we start making our way over to that slope,” Jack murmured, nodding his head to their left. They would have to scramble up another steep slope, but then it looked like they would hit an area that plateaued for a while. He nodded in affirmation, forcing himself to push away the fear that held his heart in a vice grip. At Guy’s confirmation, Jack started to quietly pad forward, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the casing of his hunting rifle.

He followed after Jack, keeping his footfalls purposefully light to create as little noise as possible. The grass and undergrowth swished beneath their feet, the ground soft from the rain. His heart was pounding, and every little step they took seemed like it was magnified in the silence of the forest, the sound echoing around them. Wait a minute, he thought, pausing abruptly. He hadn’t been imagining it. Their footsteps were being magnified.

Whirling around, he turned just in time to see the glint of a metal fence pole before it cracked against his side. White-hot agony flooded his ribs as he lurched back, driving out what little air he had left in his lungs. Four Taken had been following them, bleeding into the deeper darkness of the forest. They were all wearing variations of hunting clothing, camouflage vests and pants soaked in black blood. “Look out!” He shouted to Jack, his chest burning with the effort. It felt like his heart had exploded from fear.

Jack whipped around, ducking just in time to avoid getting a skinning knife to the eye. “Fuck off!” He snarled at the Taken, shoving his flashlight in its face.

Guy stumbled back against the rocky slope, turning his attention back to his own enemy. The Taken darted forward, shockingly fast. Shit, shit! He thought, jumping out of the way of a wild swing.

“Every part of a deer is useful for something! Don’t be wasteful!” The Taken gibbered. Behind him, he heard the crack of the hunting rifle, followed by the ping of a bullet casing ejecting from the chamber.

Whipping around, he pointed his flashlight at the Taken and concentrated. He gripped the casing of the flashlight so hard he heard something pop. After a moment, something in his chest gave, and he felt the casing warm beneath his fingers. The light seemingly brightened and narrowed, pinning the Taken beneath a concentrated beam of light. Black spots appeared at the edges of his vision the longer he concentrated, the action costing energy on his part. Suddenly, the light on his flashlight spluttered. He smacked it against his thigh, the light flicking back on.

And that’s when the Taken’s friend appeared, slashing at his arm with a bowie knife. He jerked back, losing his footing and tumbling backwards down the slope. Gravel bit at his skin as he fell, branches whacking him in the face. He only managed to stop when he rolled right into a tree, his side burning in agony. Ow, he thought eloquently, gasping for air. It felt like someone had wedged a white-hot poker in between his ribs, but other than that, he was relatively okay.

Of course, that’s when the hunter Taken materialized above him, shadows dripping from its body. “Would you like some deer jerky? ” It spat, raising the pole. He scrambled to his feet, rolling out of the way just in time.

“Fuck your deer jerky!” he snapped back, raising his flashlight. The Taken dodged, ducking behind trees to stay out of the light while continually advancing forward. Guy had to back up, forced into a deeper thicket within the woods. The second Taken materialized right behind him, slashing up with the bowie knife. He jerked away, turning the flashlight on it. This Taken was significantly slower, and its shadow barrier dissolved quickly. With two well-placed shots, the Taken was killed.

He was now in a more open clearing, the Taken having less places to hide. The second Taken charged at him with a demented shriek, swinging the pole. He swung the flashlight around, halting it in its tracks as the last of its protection smoldered beneath the beam of his light. He missed his first shot, the Taken jerking out of the way. But he managed to get the next two shots in quick succession. Finally, the Taken slumped to the ground, its body dissolving into nothing.

Oh, thank god, he thought, his head hanging as he watched the Taken vanish before his eyes. As he stood in the middle of the clearing, panting for breath, he realized one terrible fact. He was completely lost.

He whipped around, fear surging in his limbs. In the darkness of the woods, he had been so preoccupied with dealing with the Taken that he hadn’t kept track of where he had come from. To make matters worse, his flashlight was dying. Fuck. Fuck, shit. Fuck! He thought, smacking it against his thigh. But no matter how much he jostled it, the light winked out a moment later, the batteries dead. He was now alone, in the woods, at night, without any light. He had the impulse to smash his flashlight on a rock, but he forced himself to take a deep breath instead.

His head had begun aching again, pulsing in time with the livid bruise on his side. The oppressive darkness of the forest pushed in around him, making panic slither down his spine. He didn’t dare call out for Jack, too fearful that he might draw in a Taken instead. In the distance, he could hear the occasional rifle shot. But with how the sound reverberated around the woods, he had no idea where it came from.

A branch snapped to his left, causing him to jump. He whipped around, raising the revolver despite the complaint from his side. Another rustle from the bushes behind him had him spinning around. There were noises all around him now. Demented warbling, bushes rattling, tree branches clacking together. He thought he could hear a dog snarling somewhere in there. He grit his teeth, trying to wade through the sudden fog clouding his mind. Get a fucking grip! He thought. For a moment, he thought he could see images of something else bleeding across his vision. City streets, skyscrapers, and dull neon signs assaulted his eyes, swirling into the dark miasma of the forest. And then there was light.

He jerked back as brightness seared his eyes, burning the shadows away around him. Shock made him freeze like a deer in headlights, uncertainty flooding his brain. The light was so bright that he had to throw a hand up over his eyes. It hurt to look at it after spending so long in the dark. Jesus, what the hell is that? He thought. “Hello?” He softly called, trying to look through the bright light streaming through his finger tips.

And just as quickly as the light appeared, it faded away, leaving nothing but afterimages. Anxiety was coursing through his veins, making his hands tremble. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes to clear the dark spots away. “Hello?” He called again, almost whispering. No one answered, and uncertainty pooled in his stomach. He slowly crept over to the boulder that the light had materialized near, checking to see if there was anyone hiding. There was no one there, which left an unsettled feeling in his mind. He did see a manuscript page, the pristine paper marred by a single muddy boot print. With trembling fingers, he carefully picked it up and folded it away into his jacket pocket. And that’s when a hand clamped down on his shoulders.

He jumped about a foot in the air with a shriek, whipping around. “Hey!” Jack hissed, looking pissed off, one hand clamped on his shoulder. He had a gnarly looking gash on his arm, but he seemed okay otherwise. “What the fuck, man? I turn around for one second and you’re fucking gone!”

Guy just stared at him, his brain struggling to process everything that had happened. “You- you didn’t-” he started, struggling to come up with words. “You didn’t just fucking see that?” He asked incredulously, motioning behind him.

Jack frowned at that, pulling away. “See what?”

“The- the giant fucking ball of light!” He retorted.

Jack’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline. “Uh… no?” He said. His gaze spun around the clearing, looking for anything unusual. “Are… you sure you saw it?” He tentatively asked.

“Yes. I’m sure,” Guy spat, folding his arms across his chest. He shuddered from the cold.

After a moment, Jack paused. “There, look up at the tree,” he said, pointing to a tree a good fifteen feet away from the boulder the light had appeared on. He squinted at the tree, following Jack’s gaze. He could see a small, red, blinking light. “It’s a trail camera. There’s probably an old motion sensor floodlight nearby that you accidentally tripped.”

“... Oh,” he said, rubbing his head. He suddenly felt very tired, like someone had drained him of his energy. But… I could’ve sworn I saw something, he thought distantly.

After a long moment of silence, Jack’s expression morphed to one of concern. “You okay? You look kinda pale,” Jack said.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he just replied, woozy. “We need to get out of these woods. I don’t-“ he started, struggling to come up with something to adequately describe what he’s feeling. “It’s not good,” he finished lamely.

Jack snorted, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. “Yeah, no shit,” he said, though his voice had a softer edge to it than it did before. “You good to walk?” Jack asked.

Before he had a chance to reply, another stab of pain splintered into his skull. For a moment, everything whited out. He could see several things flash across his vision. Dark water churned at his feet. Blood soaked into wood planks. His own face stared back, mirroring his expression. A radiant light, blinding him.

Blinking rapidly, he came to to Jack gripping his jacket, shaking him. There was an awful, sucking pull in his chest, squirming endlessly and leaving him gasping for air. It felt dark and wrong, corrupting everything that it touched. Somehow, he knew. The darkness was close. “We have to go,” he whispered. Fear was making his heart beat wildly, eroding his mind until nothing but animal panic was left. Trees toppled in the distance, their crashes shaking the forest floor beneath them. The wind had picked up again, that unearthly howl echoing across the valley.

Jack’s eyes widened, his eyes scanning the treetops. “Shit,” he said eloquently.

With one glance at each other, they both took off at a dead sprint through the trees. “Where’s the radio tower?” He shouted, his voice snatched away by the howling wind.

“Up there! Just beyond the ridge!” Jack shouted back, grunting as he ran head-long into a pine branch.

The darkness roared once more around them, another arc of pain stabbing into his chest. Fuck, it’s getting closer, he thought, panicked. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart beating so hard that he was afraid it would pop. He dodged around a spruce tree, slipping along a smaller animal path that was barely illuminated by the moonlight. He heard Jack swear as he almost tripped right into a bramble bush, his arms wildly pinwheeling through the air to keep his balance. He glanced back at Jack to check if he had fallen, and that’s when he ran face-first into a fence.

Pain blossomed across his face as he slammed right into the metal fence, bouncing off of it and nearly tumbling back down the hill. Only Jack’s arm snapping out to grab the collar of his jacket saved him. “What the fuck?” Jack spat, slamming into the fence. It was thick and tall for a metal wire fence, with barbed wire circling the top. The fence stretched on as far as the eye could see in both directions, which meant there was little chance they could walk around it. The lights of the radio tower blinked duly beyond the fence, mocking them.

He shook the fence experimentally. Jack might be able to climb it, but he definitely wouldn’t be able to. He caught Jack’s gaze in the scant moonlight, and he knew that the other man had come to the same conclusion. “We’re fucking trapped here,” he whispered, terror sinking into his chest like ice. And that’s when the darkness howled above them, blotting out the night sky.