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It’s a beautiful day in Manhattan.
The sky stretches overhead, the sun full and warm and bright, not a single cloud to be seen. A flock of pigeons flies past before settling in front of a bench. An old woman tosses them breadcrumbs which are immediately devoured.
A pair of children run past. A boy and a girl. They squeal in joy, the younger sister laughing as the older brother plays keep-away with a red balloon.
A man and a woman stroll casually, walking their dog. A husky, maybe. They stop in order to peer into the window of a nearby store. The woman gushes and fawns over a dress while the man smiles fondly. It’s a very nice dress. Pearl-white fabric that hugs the form of the mannequin tightly. Probably costs a fortune, but they look like the type that would be able to afford it. At their feet, the dog pants heavily. It’s not very hot out. Maybe they’ve been walking for a while.
Dylan Faden sits at a small table outside of a cafe. He is a 34 year old man with chin-length brown hair, blue eyes, and a troubled history. Quiet and brooding, his facade hides deeper complexities. For instance, the same hands that wield the raw, untamed power of the Aberrant can lift the delicate handle of a ceramic coffee mug to his lips.
A lifetime of isolation has left him with an undeniable lust for life and desire for connection. Jesse, his sister, is probably the person he’d consider to be his best friend. The two of them were absolutely inseparable for the first ten years of his life. There’s a bond that siblings have which is incomparable to any other relationship. Sometimes he feels as if the two of them share a mental connection– finishing each other’s sentences, always being on the same page. Though recently, Jesse has been spending a lot of her time with Emily Pope. Good for them. He thinks his sister deserves to have someone that adores her the way Pope does.
He leans back in his chair, taking another moment to take in his surroundings.
In front of him is a small cup of coffee and a plate that holds a single croissant. Briefly, he’s confused. He doesn’t remember ordering either, and he doesn’t remember when he got here. But the feeling quickly fades. He thinks, maybe, he was so deep in thought that he arrived and ordered completely on instinct.
There’s been a lot on his mind lately. How to decorate his apartment, if he should buy a new brand of dog food for Winnie, what birthday present he’s going to get for Emily… It's nice to take a few minutes to sit and breathe. Clearly, he needs it.
A soft breeze rustles his hair, blowing a few strands into his face. He pulls in a deep breath and catches the scent of yesterday’s rain still clinging to the damp dirt. It’s a pleasantly cool fall day— the trees lining the street are various shades of orange and yellow and red. The wind carries with it a few stray leaves. They litter the ground, crunching underfoot as people stroll past.
Something nudges at the back of his mind. He feels like there was something he was supposed to do. Every time he tries to remember, the information slips between his fingers.
He should start making to-do lists. That would make it easier to recall. A to-do list and a journal. There was a nice shop that he passed on his way here that carries journals and writing equipment. It sticks out in his mind because he was surprised that an entire shop of just blank books and pens exists. He read somewhere that writing stuff down helps you process it. What does he need to process? He’s sure there’s something. That’s something he can worry about later.
A woman walks past, pushing a baby in a stroller.
He’s just getting caught up in his own thoughts. He glances down and brushes a stray leaf off of his sketchbook. Now he remembers— he was drawing. The surface of the page carries a pencil drawing of a woman’s face. Not anyone in particular, he doesn’t think. Her face is all harsh lines and barely disguised apathy. He doesn’t know why he drew her.
When he squints, he almost thinks he can recognize her. K. K-something.1 That might be what her name starts with. Maybe he’ll show the drawing to Jesse and see if she recognizes the face.
Flipping to a new page, he rests the tip of his pencil against the paper. Someone walks past, humming a song that he distantly recognizes but doesn’t know the words of.
Is there really nothing he’s supposed to be doing right now? It feels completely alien to just sit around, doing nothing. Or– maybe not alien. Familiar. Familiar in a way that he’s not very fond of. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Someone said that to him, once.
He thinks… wasn’t there something happening in the Bureau? Yes. There’s always something happening in the Bureau. Some escaped Altered Item or rogue Paranatural entity hellbent on causing chaos. But Jesse can take care of it. Jesse always knows what she’s doing. She’s so smart and so strong. She told him that it was okay— he’s protected the Oldest House for long enough. He deserves a nice break.
A break. When was the last time he was able to just sit and rest? He’s not sure he remembers. His head feels like it’s filled with mothballs. A break is a good idea.
He’s spent so much time defending the Oldest House. The FBC. They can handle themselves without him. They managed it for the last seven years just fine.
What happened in the last seven years? If he can’t remember it, it’s probably not important.
Someone approaches. He looks up from his sketchbook in time to see a woman sit down across from him. She’s dressed in a beige coat that covers a dark brown sweater. Round, chestnut eyes watch him, a soft face painted with clear amusement.
Zoe. He knows Zoe. They’ve spent so much time together recently, but he doesn’t mind seeing her again. In fact, she’s one of the few people that he actively looks forward to spending time with. Langston is fun and Dr. Flores always has some new perspective that he’s interested to hear, but his relationship with Zoe is special. She’s the first person since Jesse to really give him a chance. He’s always liked meeting new people, but it’s hard for him to make friends. Sometimes people have the wrong idea about him. They think he’s something he’s not.
Unless he is? What do they think? It’s becoming harder to remember. Maybe he hit his head on something. Maybe he’s on bed rest.
Zoe is talking— her mouth is moving, forming words. She has her chin propped up in one hand, her other arm resting on the table in front of her. Her lips are curled into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. When she opens her mouth, her teeth are pearl-whiteyellowred and straight. “I’m glad you suggested meeting here,” She says, and he’s finally able to make out her words. “The food’s always so delicious.”
He glances down at his plate. A single egg rests on the gleaming white ceramic.
“Uh. I guess so,” He responds plainly. Has he been here before? It feels familiar. All of this feels familiar.
She had commented that he invited her here. Is that why he feels like he isn’t remembering something? It’s a tidy explanation. But would he really forget about this? He thinks this would be an event that he’d be constantly stressing over, trying his best to make sure every single detail is perfect. Would it really just slip his mind? He feels like he’s not usually this forgetful.
Zoe giggles— a sound he’s never heard from her before— then reaches out and places a hand over Dylan’s, guiding the pencil he’s holding in lazy circles. Whatever he was thinking about is quickly smothered by the warmth that builds in his chest. Her hand is almost impossibly soft— her long, slender fingers find the tiny divots in his hand, like they were made for each other.
His throat grows tight and he thinks that he should probably say something back to her, but he can’t think of anything. This is how it’s been ever since the sinkhole. Every time he hears her voice crackling over the radio, his heart skips a beat.
Is it love? He’s not sure he’s ever felt this way before, but he thinks it must be. The answer feels correct. Feels like that’s the only possible explanation. Nothing else would fit.
The scratching sound of the graphite against wood pulp digs into his brain. His body is uncomfortably hot. Sweat begins to form on his forehead. Has Zoe ever touched him like this before? No. Only a small shove at his chest when he was being unreasonable. She’s not the type that goes out of her way for physical contact.
But maybe she is? She’s the one that chose to touch him. Not the other way around. He doesn’t think he’d ever be brave enough to try it. Out of the two of them, she’s always been the one that knows what she wants and how to get it. It’s one of the many things he admires about her.
She’s perfect. It’s the only thing that he can think about. How perfect she is. Her laugh and her smile, the way she tucks a loose strand of hairmustbeeaten behind her ear. She’s home. She reminds him of home. He’s taken—
A sharp, splitting pain courses through his skull and he flinches away from her on instinct. His head is too full. The bone of his skull creaks against the growing pressure. Too many things in too small of a space. Bleeding red swarms behind his closed eyelids. He clutches at his head as the thunder
song courses through his
Insane
Hurts to
be
[THE SPARE/LOVE INTEREST/PROTAGANIST IS BEING WARPED/SHRINKY-DINK/MANIPULATED]
Dylan clenches his jaw and grits his teeth hard enough to risk cracking a molar. The— he knows the name of what’s happening but it’s so hard to think. The name slips from the front of his mind like water off a duck’s back. He knows it. He knows that he knows it. It knows that he knows it.
Them? More than one. Definitely too many. He feels warm blood2 trickle down his nose.
“Oh, Dylan, are you not feeling well?” Zoe’s sickly-sweet voice floats into his ears, her hands cradling his jaw and gently lifting.It isn’t her but it looks like her and when has he refused to listen to her? When he manages to fight the pain and crack one eye open, her face is only a few inches away from his own. Her breath ghosts across his face. It smells like roses and old perfume. She strokes her thumbs across his cheekbones.
“You look like you need a nice, long break. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea? Resting, not having to worry about anything…” Her tone is lilting and soft— like she’s in the middle of sharing a secret with him. “You can stay with me. It’s so much nicer than being out there, fighting for your life, breaking yourself in half for people that don’t care about you…”
This isn’t right.
When has Zoe ever acted like this? This fawning, overly sweet version doesn’t feel right at all. He doesn’t know her. Not this version. A copy of a copy of a copy. An image replicated over and over again until it barely resembles what it used to be. The blinding pressure in his head makes moving an impossible task, but he still tries his best to pull his face away.
Jesse isn’t here. Jesse is in a coma and it’s all his fault. No one is coming to save him. He has to save himself, doesn’t he?
Their surroundings have melted away, replaced with an angry mix of red and dull grey and white. The colors shift erratically, like they’re vying for his attention. Black clouds form in the distance, heavy with thunder
song
███ ██ ███ ████ ███ ██ ███ trust
the word that describes
this is3
Her grip holds firm. Fingernails digging into the skin of his face. Her eyes are wild and crazed— bloodshot. “You really should stay here with me,” She says, her voice coming from inside of him. Any affection is gone. “We’re meant for each other. Meant to be together. Don’t you want that?”
[STOP LISTENING/EAVESDROPPING AND FIND A WAY TO LEAVE/GAME OVER/ABSCOND]
The vibration from the Board’s anger causes his entire body to shake. It definitely doesn’t make him feel any less like his head is about to explode.
Everything is spinning. He pulls in air and his tongue is coated with the taste of old pennies and licorice. He’s drowning.
This isn’t Zoe. He knows it isn’t her. It— whatever it is— is using her face. Masking itself. With trembling hands, he grabs onto her—its— wrists. Underneath his grip, he can feel something inside of the not-Zoe shifting, like its insides are filled with loose gravel and worms. He pushes, wrenching his face away, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at Zoe’s face twisted into a hateful snarl.
He just needs to—
You have always been here, the only
[MOVE WITH PURPOSE/SKIP CUTSCENE UNLESS YOU/WE/US WILL BE DESTROYED/DEMOTED]
“Dylan! Are you there? Can you hear me?!”
You want this to be true
[STUPID BOY STOP LISTENING TO THE IMPOSTER/YES-MAN]
Dylan Faden has too many nitpicking passengers and is unfit for the love offered to him.
When Dylan Faden opens his eyes, he’s laying on the ground, staring at the unassuming ceiling of an Oldest House office cubicle. It takes him a long time to realize that he’s awake, and even longer to regain feeling in his body. A weak, raspy groan escapes his throat as his pounding headache slowly begins to ebb away. Through the floor, he can feel vibrations. Like a car’s engine has been placed next to him then turned on.
Slowly, though still too fast and thus nausea-inducing, he tilts his head to the side. Aberrant lays on the ground, buzzing and flipping and chattering angrily. Past it, he can see neat rows of desks and chairs and computers. A poster on the wall reminds him that house-induced timeshifts don’t count towards overtime pay.
Shit. Now he remembers why he’s here.
He clumsily slaps at his chest with one hand until he finds his radio. “Zoe,” He says, his voice wheezing and ragged. “I figured out what happened to all those rangers. There’s an Altered Item down here. I think it… sucks people into some sort of Threshold.”
Her response comes immediately. “Finally! Jesus, I’ve been trying to get a response out of you for the past hour!” She sounds plainly annoyed, but they’ve spent enough time talking that he’s able to pick up on the clear worry in her voice. “But. Y’know. I’m glad to hear you’re okay. Did you manage to find any of the rangers themselves?”
Biting back a pained groan, he forces himself to stand up, staggering towards the table holding the Altered Item. He frowns down at the paperback book. The cover depicts a muscular, shirtless man holding a frail-looking woman in his arms, leaning her down as if he’s about to embrace her in a passionate kiss. The words Threshold of Our Passion is writing in neat, cursive lettering across the top.
“No. I think it’s a… personalized experience.” That’s enough of a response. It’s probably for the best that he leaves out some details.
As carefully as he can manage, he lifts the book between his outstretched hands, now knowing better than to touch it directly.
“I think the only reason I managed to get out is because the Hiss and the Board didn’t want to play nicely with whatever’s going on inside,” He continues, casting a sidelong glance towards Aberrant, which is still throwing a tantrum. “I’m sure Langston will want to check it out.”
As long as no one else gets stuck inside, he’ll consider his little detour to be worth it.
When, later, Zoe asks about what he saw inside of the Threshold, he tells her that it was nothing and thanks every god imaginable that she can’t see how red his face is.