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Summary
Emily's clipboard clattered to the floor.
The sound it made was enormous. It went on echoing long after it should have stopped. A dozen people in the lobby turned to look towards it, and then they looked past it, and then every one of them forgot how to breathe.
"Help her," Dylan begged, as he clutched Jesse to his chest.
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- Part 24 of alan wake & control fics
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Work Details
Chain of Custody by Ailren
Part 24 of alan wake & control ficsSeries Information:
ID: 6149421
Words: 32,410 | Works: 24 | Complete: No | Bookmarks: 1
Description:mostly unrelated Alan Wake and Control fics 📝
Published: 2026-10-06
Work ID: 94057016Relationship Tags:
Work Summary:
Emily's clipboard clattered to the floor.
The sound it made was enormous. It went on echoing long after it should have stopped. A dozen people in the lobby turned to look towards it, and then they looked past it, and then every one of them forgot how to breathe.
"Help her," Dylan begged, as he clutched Jesse to his chest.
(Approximate) Last Read: 2026/10/06
Dylan was running through the entrance of the Oldest House, although running was almost the wrong word. Dylan was flying. The doors folded back on their own hinges before he reached them, the way a crowd parts for a stretcher, without a hand laid on them.
It was a while before she looked at Dylan. He was a few feet off, where he'd stopped, standing in the exact spot where the stretcher had passed him and not one step beyond. Nobody had gone to him. Emily noticed that and she hated it. The lobby was full of people and the people were looking at the doors Jesse had gone through, or at their own hands, or at the floor, or at anywhere, and their eyes slid across Dylan and Emily and kept going, the way eyes slide over a thing they wanted to ignore.
She had missed her so much that it had gone past just feeling. It had curdled into internal infrastructure. It was a shelf Emily had built in herself to hold the weight, and now the thing the shelf was for had come back, and she was here, warm against her knee, and the shelf had nothing left to hold, and it gave way.
The lobby lights hummed above Emily's head. She was holding her clipboard against her chest, the way field agents held their shields. On it, in her own small handwriting, was an hourly log:
Every personal effect belonging to an incoming patient, especially in the Oldest House, was to be logged, bagged, and sealed. That was not just a guideline. It was the thing Emily had built her whole self around: that there is a correct way to handle objects that matter, a chain of people each of whom signs and hands to the next, so that nothing is ever simply lost. Hers was a profession of paperwork against the dark. A thing that went from hand to hand without a signature was a thing that could end in disaster.