fade//in

Casper didn't make a habit of drinking like this alone, not unless there was something on his mind he had neither the ability nor the will to deal with. The scent of booze was strong, strong enough to be concerning, and Trench could feel how clumsy it made Casper's fingers as he struggled with the buttons at his throat, brushing against his neck in a way that made him swallow back a sigh.

If he could see clearly, he imagines he'd see Casper's eyes blown wide, glassy and unfocused, a desperate look on his face. Imagination will just have to do.

Trench digs the palms of his hands into his eyes, pressing against them until stars explode in his vision, chasing off the last of the sleep-haze. It makes his vision no clearer—Casper is still blurred, especially around the edges, threatening to dissolve into the furniture—but it makes him feel that much more awake.

"Casper." Not being able to see properly sends a spike of anxiety rolling through him. Any disruptions to his sight directly affected his ability to do his job, to react and respond as was expected of the Director, and the idea of such vulnerability made him uncomfortable, even in intimate settings. Trench adjusts himself, reaching for the side table, minding Casper and the ache in his neck that aggressively protests his chosen sleeping arrangement for the night.

His imagination hadn't been too far off.

Trench listens silently, his eyes sharp and alert despite the exhaustion running rampant throughout the rest of his body. His fingers find their way to Casper's head when he drops it on his chest and he cards them through his presently dishevelled hair, a silent gesture that speaks to his presence—his commitment to listen.

Now, he was going to be torn between Director and partner, two halves that should never have been allowed to mingle.

This was not a conversation for whatever godforsaken hour it was, though it was an inevitability looming on the horizon ever since Marshall barged into his office, resolute fury etched into every line on her face. Bearing all the single-minded focus and deadly grace of a predator hunting its prey, she had set him in her sights, dispensing with pretense and formality to carve straight to the heart of the matter.

"You know why I'm here. Put the boy down, Zachariah. This pet project of Darling's has gone on long enough. He's uncontrollable. A risk. You have a responsibility to the Bureau. To your agents. Your feelings can't cloud your judgment on this." Marshall's finger jabbed at his chest, her eyes blazing, and Trench met her gaze head-on, his face carefully neutral, not rising to the bait.

"I've no doubt Darling will come running to you if he hasn't already. Feed you the same shit he fed me, champion for the boy. It's not a discussion, Zachariah. It's a threat, one to be neutralised, and Darling's blinded by his latest toy. The facts are laid bare for you in that report. What more do you want? Leave this, do nothing, and it'll escalate. Roberts now, but who next? Will it take redacting descriptions of what he did to Darling's body in the next incident report for you to see reason? Know this—if you won't do what needs to be done when the time comes, I will."

To his credit, he had waited until the door slammed shut behind Marshall to sink heavily down into his chair and bury his face in his hands, the strength sapped from him.

"—Easy, Casper," Trench says with a gentleness that sharply contrasts the urgency, his hands moving from where they were carding through his dishevelled hair a moment ago to cup his face, anchor him in the here and now. There's an inherent selfish worry buzzing beneath the press of his fingers, the closeness allowing him to check for any immediately obvious injuries from the incident he may not have disclosed. His thumb brushes gently across Casper's cheek and Trench notes the absence of his glasses with the slight furrow of his brows.

They don't need to add broken glasses to the list of their troubles. This isn't what his ability should be used for, wouldn't be under any other circumstance, but whether Casper is aware of it or not, he tests his resolve in such matters and for a brief moment, they're not something to be feared but to be used in service of the person he loves.

The glasses get relocated to the side table for safekeeping.

"I hear you. I'm aware of the situation."

Dylan. The boy. P6. The rabid animal Marshall thinks is better off put down. The child Casper still sees promise in. The Bureau's only current candidate for succession waiting in the wings. P7, Jesse, she was progressing well, facing every challenge in life both Bureau-manufactured and natural with grit and determination, displaying exemplary wit and problem solving skills, but it was still too early to make a determination. They needed more time. Time was a luxury in short supply.

"Breathe. Look at me." Concern writes itself into the creases on his face. "Casper, you witnessed something traumatic—I understand your concern, but have you made time to speak to someone?"

His thumb makes another pass along Casper's cheek. "Marshall isn't going to do anything right now, don't worry, but she's made her position perfectly clear. I can't deny that she raises valid concerns. This was a serious incident, Casper. The boy has blood on his hands. The team, including yourself, will need counseling. Roberts is dead. I have to notify his family, feed them a lie about why he won't be coming home, why there's no body for them to bury."

It never gets easier.

Sniffling and woozy, the familiar deep roughness in Zachariah's voice cut through at least some of the anxiety, a comforting sound that always seemed to bring him back from the brink. Oh, but the hold was tenuous this time, wasn't it?

"It wasn't his fault, Zach. It wasn't. I'll take full responsibility for poor planning if need be, but we can't hold a super-powered fifteen year old responsible for an emotional outburst. He was already agitated and then he felt threatened. Dylan knows no means no, Roberts didn't listen--" Darling knew what he was trying to say, but the more he spoke the more the anxiety built again, he felt like he was making less sense just repeating himself over and over. His point was still relevant. Roberts touched Dylan when Dylan said no, grabbed his arm when he was already upset by all the tests and so many interviews and therapy sessions and evaluations, one right after the other with barely a break for the last four days. "Dylan didn't mean to hurt him, he just wanted Roberts to leave him alone, he was upset and scared. Zach, he lost control of his telekinesis, his emotional outburst made a simple push away explosive..."

There had been so much blood and screaming, until Agent Roberts' spine snapped in half. Then it had just been...stunned silence.

Silence until Dylan had started crying.

Alan stares, studying the man before this place can warp him, wrench him from his hands and memory, hollow him out until there's only the empty feeling of something that was.

He's never seen him before in the Dark Place. They've never spoken before now. But judging by the way he starts to panic, he must have done something, something that was enough to land him here—or maybe this is some type of power, the ability to walk through dreams the way he and Zane can manipulate the narrative—

He's not hostile, though, and Alan needs an ally more than anything.

"Slow down—what are you talking about? What happened? Is—is that why you're here? How you're here?"

The story about the government agency.

It was already too late. The Trenches were overrun—their last line of defence compromised. The force had spread throughout the House, seeking the minds of the unprotected.

The sound burrows deeper, deeper, an earworm a tune you can't stop humming in a dream. They wanted to listen. They didn't want to listen. They didn't have a choice.

"Casper?" Alan's face twists as he tries to place the name, coming up empty. A surge of something hot bursts in his chest, panic or rage, perhaps, he isn't sure, and he pulls his lips together in a thin, frustrated line. Casper—lost—because of him? Should he know him? "Who the fuck is Casper, I don't—" He shakes his head. "He's here too?"

With Zane? With Scratch? Another artist dragged down by the Dark Presence to take advantage of—?

That doesn't matter now. He'll keep it in the back of his mind for as long as he can in case they should ever cross paths down here.

Alan swallows, the feeling in his chest cooling rapidly until he puts it out of his mind entirely. The kindness catches him off guard, cuts to the very heart of the matter. He has no idea—he's so fucking tired—and Alan drags his free hand through his hair, looking at the man with a spark of hope that cuts through the shadows of exhaustion darkening his eyes.

Dylan wasn't sure why his breathing was staggered nor why his heartrate was peaking. He could hear the monitors behind him, which only made his anxiety worse. Feeling someone touching him in a dream, the feeling so vividly real, his grip tight and desperate.

It was overwhelming.

He was trying to re-direct his thoughts, to organize them properly; it was always hard in a dream-state, but he was being asked direct questions and he genuinely wanted to be helpful. It just wasn't as simple as he'd like. His arm was shaking, his eyes were wide and doing their best to focus on the man's face.

He was the first person to reach back to him in a Dream.

                      〘Ͻ〙 Flashes of time, broken, the egg is cracked, what came first the chicken or the egg. "Th...the manuscript page. When they put me under, sedate me, medical coma, whatever...it speaks to me. Louder than the other things here. I know your voice. I know you. I...I thought maybe I could try...u-using it as a doorway--"

Y̶̺̕O̷̞͝U̴̫̿ ̷̘͊H̸̪͘E̸̟̍Ä̴̦́R̶̛̫ ̸̣̾Ö̶̳U̶̮͋R̵̖̈́ ̴̠̉W̴̮͛Ỏ̸͖R̶̜͛Ḋ̶̻S̵̟͐ ̷̢̓B̸̖̆U̷̠͊T̴͇́ ̷̼͝Ỵ̶͝Ó̶̙Ù̶̢ ̴̣̈́F̵̩̌Õ̴̯R̵͚̀Ģ̵̌Ḛ̷̒Ţ̸͑,̸̼̓ ̴̆͜P̵̾ͅU̵͙̕Ṣ̶͝H̵̻͠ ̴̖̽Y̷͇̎Ỏ̸̝Ǘ̶̩Ṟ̴͒ ̴͚͑F̵͕͛I̶͘ͅŃ̸͚G̶̝̍Ę̷̐R̵͓̊S̷̖͊ ̶͙͋T̵̩̆H̷͖͆R̷͍͠O̷̝͆U̸̘̚G̴͕͒H̵̳̅ ̶̳̔T̴͕́Ḣ̵̹Ĕ̸̬ ̵͍͗S̶͍̈U̵̩̍R̴̙͝F̸͕̿A̵͓͝Ç̶̉Ë̸͍́ ̸̙͝Ȋ̴͍N̸̪̾T̴̼͘O̴̧͘ ̴̈́ͅT̸͕͆H̴͇͐Ḙ̵͝ ̶͎͐W̴̰̔E̶̠͑T̷̹̆-̷͉̿-̶͔̎.

Red red red everywhere, head splitting open, it keeps trying to crawl inside, get it out get it out GET IT OUT--.

"Y..you are home, you remind us, happy..." Words catch, throat tight; don't let it in, quiet quiet. "I'm...I'm sorry, Alan. Dream logic...it hurts trying to...make sense. Nonsense thoughts...songs...things like that m-make it easier to keep them out. Um..."

The Diver and his Siren in their pocket dimension, happy healthy bright--

His voice was barely a whisper, mumbling, "--it's not a lake it's an ocean, a deeper and darker ocean green where waves are Wilder and more Serene, the lighthouse guides the way, the spiral staircase the exit is the spiral the door is the exit the spiral is the door the door is the view of the ocean--" Tom is Zane but Zane is not Tom, he can't be trusted, S̸͓͛c̴̮̈́ṙ̸̻å̴̱t̴̻̓c̴̣̓h̶͇̉ his name off the guest list. No no no. "You...I keep seeing you walk through the door, but you're on the wrong side, it's a pull not a push-- No, don't shoot!"

The crack of a gun, spotlight flash, CUT...good take. Now that is drama.

Bullet right between the eyes, one helluva shot. Never misses. The scene shifts, Dylan behind the writer's desk in the writer's room. Dead. Bullet to the brain. Goodbye Charlie, hate to see you go--

The scene shifts. Take two. Dylan's gaze has drifted, staring down at Alan's hand that had been clutching his wrist. Dylan was holding his hand, tightly, afraid to let him go. Any second, the dream could be over. Alan would be gone. Dylan would be alone again. Ocean blue meet stormy grey, focused.

"Th...things get easier if you just keep moving forward, Alan. Ngh...the Trenches have fallen to forces unknown, perhaps you should answer the phone. Fuck, this h-hurts, it hurts, they keep clawing at my brain, at the back of my eyelids...I can feel myself...waking up..."

I don't want to go--

Sarah Breaker, in New York, working for the feds? Alice tried to hide her look of surprise, but in her mind that could only point to one thing. She must have been with the FBC. Again she felt resentment for the agency bubbling up inside of her. They clearly had an interest in Bright Falls, in Alan's case and in whatever information Alice could give them. And yet they'd never treated her with anything more than cursory attention. Like a vaguely interesting footnote, but not the focus of the story. And they might have had Sarah Breaker working there and never thought to put her in touch with Alice.

Still, it wasn't her place to go throwing wrenches into family business. "I hope she's alright -- god knows the government likes their secrets." She took another sip of her coffee, refocused on the moment instead of old grievances. The FBC wasn't going to help her, but they weren't going to stop her either. Truthfully she also wasn't sure how helpful the current Sherriff would be, and there was a part of her that would've much preferred just looking around on her own. But it wasn't always wise to take matters into her own hands, Alice knew.

Someone in Bright Falls had to know more than she did. She'd stayed away for so long, refusing to reopen old scars. People who lived here, worked here, they must have seen something. And starting with the police just felt like the most logical line of questioning.

If he helped her, that was a win. If he didn't, then Alice would at least know to keep her own investigation as subtle as possible.

Thankfully he was willing to get right to the point. Alice could respect that. She knew how to be social of course, how to play the politeness game, but this was more than just an outing to smile her way through.

"Maybe next time -- I'm not in the mood for dessert at the moment." Mostly true -- Alice rarely turned down a sweet -- but there were other priorities. She set her mug down and folded her arms in front of her, leaned forward slightly over the table. Her expression wasn't unkind, but the photographer clearly meant business.

"I'm guessing you probably know why I'm here. Alan's case... it's been a decade, now." A little over, actually, but she didn't think she needed to rattle off an exact countdown. "I know it's been closed. Considered closed, anyway, but I just..."

She couldn't tell him the real reason why she was suddenly interested in it all again. For so long Alice had gone along with the idea that he was dead. It was easier to stomach than any number of horrifying alternatives, and she'd forgotten so much of what had actually happened that it really was the most logical conclusion. Alan was dead, she'd moved on, only now he was back and tormenting her, and here Alice was where it all started. Like everything since Bright Falls had been some irrelevant side plot.

She'd dropped him off at the diner to pick up the cabin keys while she went to get gas. By the time she picked Alan up he'd been annoyed, on edge. Something about annoying locals and creepy old women, and she'd laughed and said that was just small town America for you.

What did he see?

"I'm just... trying to understand more about what happened. They wouldn't tell me much at the time, and I figured maybe it's been long enough now that you can tell me more." And I didn't want to talk over the phone because I wanted to see you avoiding the truth.

Now whether or not that was Alan or the missing Tom Zane was up in the air. It didn't change much, especially considering their renewed energy put into the search when Alan went missing as well. Tim was certain the two disappearances were absolutely connected, but he'd been having trouble finding evidence. So many files from 1970 were missing or so heavily redacted they were unreadable. It wasn't going to stop him from trying to connect the dots though.

"It's...well, it's not a closed case. Not here, anyway. Sarah and my Uncle Frank, both former sheriffs here, only dropped it on an official basis due to pressure from "the Feds". I honestly hate that they kept calling it that, but I knew that Frank had been a cop in New York City and had been employed by a an undercover federal investigative agency during the 70s before he retired. Seems like Sarah's following in her dad's footsteps, but it was best I didn't ask too many questions at the time. I have my suspicions, though, always do. But as for Alan's case? "Closed" as far as we just don't talk about it openly, but Frank and Sarah had organized search parties up until Frank passed away in 2012 and Sarah left a year later. Then it kind've fell on me. The interim sheriff wasn't touching it with a twenty foot pole."

Honestly, they just didn't talk about the interim sheriff at all, to the point of no one remembering his name. He definitely hadn't been a local, and Thornton mentioned seeing him talking to Sarah and the agents that had come to collect her. Government plant, it would make sense but Tim as a deputy had hated the guy.

Pompous, dodged questions, shifty, tried enforcing rules that didn't fit with a small town police crew, super cagey and really really irritated with Tim seemingly on a constant basis. Really weird.

"I was here for Deerfest that year, you know? Sarah and Frank had me in the loop, setting up supply drops, evacuating people that had been camped out too close to the lake, setting up defensive and offensive precautions based on how Alan had been protecting himself. It was...wild seems like a strange way to describe it, but that's how it all felt. People, locals, possessed by...feral Shadows? People saying they really saw the Witch of Cauldron Lake, that she would get in their heads, make them do things. Then this insane storm, quite literally throwing everything in sight to slow Alan down. And then it was dawn. Daylight. We found you at the edge of the lake and Alan was just gone."

It felt incredibly weird saying all this aloud again after keeping it in his head for so long, but...she did ask.