i'll be astonishing.

❛ hey, hey. ❜ her distress is contagious, need to soothe it coming in hot and heavy as he closes the gap a little, squats down next to her bed to try and catch her eyes. they are tear - riddled and he is hit with a pang of sadness, wants to wipe them away but opts for the safer ground of offering her tissues from her bedside table. ❛ here, take it easy. i'm sorry, i didn't mean to upset you. ❜ apologetic despite his lack of involvement, eyes meek as he watches her from underneath thicky lashed lids. ryland's fingers steeple under his jaw as he stays lowered, mulling as his chin rests atop his knuckles. he wants to touch her forearm, give some comfort and reassurance that isn't just words, but he imagines physical contact is a sensitive situation right now, isn't sure where the boundaries lie so remains frozen but close.

❛ riley . . . ❜ he tries again when she seems less agitated, doesn't like the negative connotation she will be slowly attaching to her name in his mouth. voice hushes, a sparing glance over his shoulder to ensure they aren't disturbed, as if discussing a secret, a conspiracy : he recognises her privacy, doesn't wish to circumvent it but is equally torn. ❛ you need to tell somebody. this isn't okay — heck, i can tell somebody if it's easier. he can't . . . do this to you. it's cruel. ❜ the word splits in the roof of his mouth, an emotion swelling that he isn't used to, verging on bitter and vitriolic but at war with his usual niceties.

ㅤthe kleenex are a welcome gift, though the arm closest to the proffered box is sealed in a thick cast and propped up in a sling, forcing her to strain her other arm over her battered and busted ribs to take several tissues with trembling fingers. she's certain she must look a mess, her visible blue eye red and puffy from crying, cheeks tear - stained and bruised. it hurts to wipe her eyes. it hurts to do much of anything.

ㅤ" ryland... seriously, i'm— i'm fine. " her voice still shakes, though she seems to have calmed down considerably from her earlier outburst. " it was just an accident. besides, he— he said he was sorry. " unlike the rest of her words, the claims she so stubbornly clings to in order to cope, it's not a lie ; sean had apologized as she was being carted into the hospital, but he's not come back since.

now lara's definitely well tailored to be some criminal mastermind. in fact, she's almost surprised someone didn't try to frame her for some kind of theft or another sooner ( she's certainly guilty of many, not that anyone's aware, she's that good. ) the only drawback is ... lara prefers to do it herself. so really, keeping her on house arrest, or hotel penthouse arrest, seems excessive. assigning her a babysitter, though ? @morally's lucky lara's patience and shoulder stability is not the same from a decade ago. she could still scale herself down a building, she just can't be bothered.

it's not detective bishop's fault that the stint throws lara's plans off. she would have been unraveling the mystery herself were it not for the interruption of local law enforcement, the blues had no idea the depths they were about to be plunged into. she could warn them, but she didn't trust them. not for lack of skill, one bishop has clearly demonstrated keeping her tail on the elusive archaeologist despite her best efforts. less men would have faltered, but not riley bishop. she was determined to keep her caged in the steely watch of her eyes. so lara must play the part of the vexed aristocrat. easier said than done without the gimmicks of champagne flutes and veneered conversation.

❝ i'm afraid i'm not going to pleasant company, detective. your colleague's deck of cards has been an exercise in remaining conscious. ❞ lara warns as she leaves the door open for bishop to make the penthouse welcome, the gilded cage warmer than her own attitude, althought she's grateful it's bishop who takes over the night shift, rather than detective magic tricks whose shoulders sullenly fall as he treads towards the elevator. ❝ tea ? ❞

ㅤ upon her arrival, riley visibly winces at the acidic mention and subsequent deflating of her colleague — bradley, an older and more experienced ( but admittedly lazy ) detective, one whom she learned was more than eager to pass off assignments to others in the vicinity. between the two of them, she was the only one who ever had to file for overtime. " yeah, i'm... really sorry about him. he's nice, but... " clam up, riley. no need to speak ill of your fellow detectives.

ㅤ" anyway, i uh— " she holds up a plastic takeout bag, a potential peace offering. she doesn't want to be invading lara's personal space any more than lara does, but it's her job. the least she could do is make their time together more enjoyable. " i brought burgers? i didn't figure you'd eaten, and i don't think bradley's touched a spatula in at least a decade. i didn't know if you liked fries or onion rings, so i got both, and there's ketchup and mustard and mayo... "

❛ yeah. ❜ it's all he can offer feebly as she stammers through the same disjointed thoughts that swallow him up and he wants to laugh both at the glee and the abnormality of it all, but then she's leaving to a quieter place and he follows through masses of bodies with an urgency, as if she might vanish or fade away. he wants to catch that hand in his, feel the solidity of another person — no, not just another person, of her — but the tide of the reunion is taking him, smile of disbelief and convergence into the twinkle of her own. ❛ i'm here. ❜ he repeats it as if it were a mantra, one he can't fully accept himself, struggling to connect the dark vastness of space with that comforting room they had once resided in, dimly lit after hours and laughing.

❛ not long. i had a pit stop with the petrova task force, what's left of them— ❜ it seems inconsequential, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. restoring the sun's light won't have any effect for maybe another decade, but here and now the light of riley shines through. ❛ wow. i just can't believe— ❜ a shake of his head, hand rubbing the line of his temple, eyes glossy as they take her in once more. ❛ can you pinch me ? ❜ it's half joke and half genuity, the reality of what his mission has meant settling in. in saving the world he saves her. she is real and alive and she's going to make it.

except there was more to riley's plight than the comparatively simple fact of the sun's diminishing. it comes back to him in waves, their time together, the days off work, the hospital stays. the bruises and withdrawals stark against the watercolour softness of their exchanges, gifts and giggles traded like currency. his teeth clench unwillingly at the thought and his question is carefully placed under the guise of their mutual connections, of colleagues and kids and inevitably, the source of her woes.

❛ is— is anyone else still around ? ❜

ㅤhis request to be pinched is met with the immediate, instinctive lift of her hand, fingers almost aching to reach for his face, feel the stubble that coats the slant of his jaw beneath her fingertips, and she very nearly touches it... only to stop herself short, abruptly pulling herself out of whatever bout of longing to which she'd nearly been lost. flushed, she pulls her hand back and smooths out her shirt.

i knew, but hearing it is something else. i knew, but hadn't known the delusion it came with, thought maybe this was a situation she was getting herself out of, but even that is a stupid reasoning on my behalf. i should have asked, asked more, pushed for an answer before today. what has the benefit of the doubt done for this ? the outcome is right in front of me.

it is selfish to take any form of blame for this but he does, as quick to land the bullseye on himself as riley is. it is easy to feign ignorance or take the more passive option, but it is a harder pill to swallow now, when things might have been otherwise different. ❛ that's not— ❜ his sentence shuts off like a valve in his voicebox, words pulling back into the roof of his mouth. who is he to establish what love is ? he's never known it in full, has certainly not treated people right himself when push comes to shove. he runs when the water gets hot, leaves people in the lurch at the zenith of intimacy. this is something different entire, a violence so visceral and raw he could never be capable of inflicting it, of imagining it. ryland, who had been put off by a one night stand asking him to choke her, is quite frankly horrified at the very notion. ❛ riley, he's put you in hospital. you don't think he needs a little bit more than 'help' ? ❜

ㅤ "  y- you don't... you d- don't understand, "  she insists, shaking her head. she's having trouble talking, and it's not just from crying ; her breathing is sharp and erratic, the sudden stress and honesty about a difficult topic throwing her into a mild panic attack. "  he shouldn't h- have to... t- tell me twice. i know... b— b- better. " 

ㅤand she does know better, doesn't she? it's little things like not having dinner ready when he decides it should be. ' flirting ' with another guy in public, when all she's doing is being polite. but he still finds the need to remind her that she's his, that she knows not to do these things. and then he's sorry, he'll take good care of her, he won't do it again, it's just that he just loves her so much, doesn't she know that? and yet—

❛ yeah. i just thought . . . something to brighten up this place, you know ? all the white and . . . machines. ❜ he trails off feebly, eyes unable to tear away from the equipment that feeds into her, unsure if this is commonplace or a new low for what she has going on. he wonders briefly if the flowers are a mistake, if they could somehow endanger her further — something so representative of life now insidious with implication, another source of fuel to an anger unprovoked. ❛ how are things with me ? ❜ it is said with a fond disbelief, because only riley could make this about him, could care about what's happening outside of the bubble of her pain. he is not naive enough to dismiss the deflection of it, his brow in a permanent furrow of concern even as his simper falters.

❛ nothing you'd miss. ❜ the world has stopped, kids are of course still kids and life goes on, but ryland's worry has been eternal and all - consuming. he has thought about her on long stretches, discarding rubik's cubes mid solving and setting his pen down amidst marking papers when a new distraction presents itself : that of her wellbeing. he is not appeased by the sight of her, his fears verified, heart in his throat and fists curled gingerly but with something akin to indignation brewing in the clasp of his palms. ❛ riley . . . ❜ her name is a warning to a prelude, something that stills the air around them with the knowledge of its introduction, questions hot in his mouth but never settling on which is the right one to ask. he knows from prior experience how this will go, but presented so starkly with the evidence he can't stomach ignoring it.

ㅤfor a moment, she considers lying. i fell. i tripped. i wasn't looking where i was going. you know how clumsy i am. but surely he's tired of these excuses, perhaps even tired of her. she can't blame him. her smile, half - cocked and weak as it is, fades instantly — and with it, any bolstered cheeriness she'd been able to muster. now, she looked closer to how she had that night : small and scared, the eye not swollen shut burning with tears that threaten to spill.

ㅤbut ryland is owed more than another lie. he's the only person who's come to see her ; even sean hasn't dropped by. hasn't called. he never does. the last doctor who spoke to her, flippant and angered by her refusal to press charges, said she had an addiction. and maybe it's not necessarily called that, but it is one. it's knowing that something's bad for you, that it's going to kill you someday, but getting just enough euphoria in the good moments ( however rarely - seen they might be ) to make your brain signal that it's worth it, that the times when you're beaten down and despairing don't seem so bad a trade.

ㅤ" he doesn't mean to, " she finally whispers in resignation, voice barely audible even without the pained wheezing from her crushed throat. split lips quiver as she hesitates, eye locked on some fixed point on the wall beside her. " he just... h- he gets angry sometimes. when i do things wrong. he, uhm— " despite her best efforts, the levees crack and break before his eyes, her own welling with tears as a choked whimper nearly strangles her, sends her into a painful series of wheezing gasps. when it settles, she speaks again, exhaustion tainting her words.

hospital.   receiver is told that  sender is in the hospital. — @morally.

it hadn’t been the news he expected, but he supposed asking the question had invited the cold and hard truth of it. a couple days had passed now without that playful knock on his desk, without the door of riley’s office ajar in invitation. there is a loneliness that instils itself, but more importantly concern. when he poses the query in the lunch room it is with a measured tone of casualness, feigning an almost interest despite his worry. so riley’s been off, there a flu going around ? working with kids means a wide array of sicknesses and viruses is part and parcel, but when the real cause is dropped ( so lightly and airily, as if it were nothing but mere scandal ) his throat tightens imperceptibly, eyes losing a little of their light and replacing it with gravity, an abyss. but you didn’t hear it from me.

there is no need to ask what happened, a thousand words unsaid and told via the map of her body, the stumble in her words when drawn attention to, the sleeves pulled down and gaze lowered to match. something akin to anger bubbles in a man made for anything but, and when the day finally pulls to a close he makes a decision — or rather, the decision is made for him. keys are pocketed, rucksack bolstered and with only a brief pit stop at the store to get some basic comforts to tide her over.

when he reaches the ward he’s greeted with a nurse’s inquisitive smile and breathlessly matches it with his own, entirely lacking in rehearsal but understanding he may need to not be entirely honest about his being here. ❛ hi. i’m here to see riley bishop. i’m her b— . . . ❜ he nearly says boyfriend, the first natural direct connection that springs to mind, but then remembers her reasons for being here and the word dies in his mouth, disdain coating his tongue. ❛ brother. ryland . . . bishop. ❜ the familial resemblance isn’t exactly present but he hopes the similar names bolster some kinship, and while he’s sure protocol would demand some form of identification, the nurse takes him through. he doesn’t know whether she’s just taking him at face value, doesn’t care, or doesn’t know any better, but for once he’s grateful for incompetency.

no amount of mental preparation would have sufficed for the sight he finds : there is nothing beautiful about it, not in this moment. her neck circled with an angry red, no doubt voice hoarse and cracked should she speak, forearms mottled with marks ( some old, speaking of times not yet healed before new lashings had occurred ) and her face. her poor, sweet face. his expression crumples at the sight and the knowledge that really this is the easier part, her internals a ruin and plenty more to be found under the clinically white bedsheets, more equipment than he’s seen attached to a person keeping her stable. ❛ oh, riley. ❜ the ache of his voice stirs her, lashes batting gently awake but the pinch of her brows remains as pain still suffuses, a long way to go yet before recovery. when their eyes meet he is sheepish and she startled, and he quickens to rectify and reassure, realising his intrusion in the way she shifts with some urgency, moves slightly more upright.

❛ i’m only stopping by. i thought . . . well, i wanted to— ❜ he stammers through an empty explanation before raising the bouquet in his arms as silent gesture, a vivid peace offering. ❛ label said they’re irises, tulips, craspedia which i’ve never heard of— ❜ he feels himself rambling and trails off, awkwardly sets the flowers ( dusty pinks, pops of yellow, rich purple accents ) aside on the table, alongside a carrier bag holding some more humble essentials : a couple snacks, some wipes, a tiny stuffed bear he saw at check out with a tinier bandage over one eye that says get well soon. he clears his throat, the elephant in the room stifling but one he knows she won’t want mentioned. it doesn’t feel right to sit, make himself at home in somewhere so sparse and cold, so he pushes his hands into his pockets and tries to act nonchalant enough to not leave her restless.

❛ how, um . . . how are you feeling ? ❜

it seems the most meaningless of questions for me to ask when the answers are right in front of me, but what else is there to say ? her wound runs deeper than any cut or bruise or broken bone, and i’m supposed to what, just sit here and deal with that ? it doesn’t seem fair. the last thing i want is to exacerbate that discomfort, shuffling on my feet and feeling the need to clarify above everything.

ㅤher eyes open groggily and, upon being met with the sight of ryland standing in her room — witnessing her now, like this, all pretenses dropped and poor excuses rendered untrue — she panics a little. tries to sit up a little straighter so as to appear even marginally less pathetic, only for her broken ribs to scream in protest and leave her trembling as she instinctively places a hand against her midriff, taking a sharp inhale through the cannula situated in her nose, tube looped over her ears.

ㅤtucked away in the hospital bed, she looks so small, so terribly frail.

ㅤ" hey, " she says weakly, mustering an equally feeble smile to match. it's clear that she's trying to dredge up her normally upbeat, cheery self, but falling dangerously short. she is, at least, able to make some half - hearted, albeit morbid joke, eternally the optimist: " don't worry. they've... got me on the good stuff. " here, she sluggishly raises her arm just a little, where the morphine drip's administering some level of relief for her pain.

ㅤ" and of course it- it's okay you're here. " the unnatural rasp to her quiet, sweet voice even sounds painful — once soothing, now sandpaper roughly chafing the throat and ears alike. tired blue eyes, rimmed with circles ( and one, purple - black and swollen ) follow him as he sets the bouquet down on the table. " you... brought me flowers. " when was the last time, if ever, that she'd been given flowers? given anything? " they're... s- so pretty. thank you. "

ㅤa silence settles between them then, heavy and poignant. words left unsaid, and perhaps better that way. she is in no position to continue her dishonesty, her denial, and he is no longer able to reluctantly humor her constant deflections of the truth. not when the physical evidence is laid out so plainly before him. not when it has been beaten into every inch of her broken body.

they lurked and stalked from the familiar darkness -- the only safe haven they'd ever known. it had been over half a century since they heard the screams of the midwife upon their birth; only the muffled screams from below kept them company now.

months (impossible to know how many) had passed since they were thrown into these tasteless trials -- months since easterman's betrayal, yet arora remained ill at ease about the whole affair. to be forced into rubbing elbows with the unwashed cattle; to be poked and prodded into acting the mummer in these ridiculous plays of his -- with my own creations, no less. indignity beyond feasible words!

a sudden, shrill alarm filled the air and yellow overhead lights began to flash. it was almost time to step out from behind the curtains. almost time for him to grip the reigns of power he was owed. otto felt his sister's heart begin to pound once more, gave her delicate hand a reassuring squeeze, and lumbered out towards the stage; arora's frame swaying with his every step.

the trial environment had been scaled down dramatically, for this would be like no other trial murkoff had performed. a large and rather colorful platform was erected for the twins to lord over the reagents -- as befit their betters -- with a covered underside. a sea of red, white and blue patriotism surrounded them. with campaign posters, political placards, ticker tape, and even dozens upon dozens of 'voters' in attendance, the theme had been set. the countless grotesque mannequins waited patiently for their guest in frozen anticipation.

yellow lights became viridian, and the telltale metal screechings of the prisoner transport meant their last voter had finally arrived.

" it's showtime, dear sister. be brave, " otto whispered, reaching behind to comfort the emaciated woman conjoined to his back.

with her half-vestigial arm sprouting from the side of his neck, arora reached down to place a gloved palm over her lover's heart. " when i am with you i fear nothing. i'm ready to begin. "

ㅤaccording to the flyers they'd left behind, they all had one thing in common: the murkoff corporation. it was ironic, in a way, to have sent someone so desperately in need of actual therapy into the very mouth of madness. the ride there had been more akin to a kidnapping than anything else — dragged into the back of a car, a bag shoved over her head. upon arrival, she'd been stripped, prodded, poked. drilled into. and when they were satisfied, they'd sedated her, and she'd woken with a start in a strange bedroom.

ㅤand shortly thereafter, she was thrust into hell itself.

ㅤshe and three other newcomers — reagents, the doctor had called them — were ushered onto a shuttle through metallic pod - like doors, strapped down and forcibly gassed with hallucinogens to unnerve them before the trial proper, made to witness gruesome images of mangled bodies pulling at their own intestines like spaghetti, prime assets abusing the corpses of dead reagents.

ㅤthe trial had been a visceral ordeal. she'd encouraged cooperation throughout, tried to help her fellow reagents in any way she could... but in the end, it was not enough. she'd clocked one's bloody demise only by their screams of terror from a far - off room. the other had died crying and pleading for help, trying futilely to reach for her hand. the ride back to the sleep room was silent, neither of the remaining women able to speak.

ㅤsince then, she's grown fairly apt at avoiding the pushers in trials, metal braces creaking amidst the puff puff of their gas nozzles, their psychotic rambling, coaxing, about therapy and fixing the reagents through full psychosis, cured only by the mercy of finding antidotes… or managing to outlast the skinner man's pursuit. she'd seen firsthand what happened to those who failed: tied down and wheeled off on gurneys, their minds irreparably damaged and making them now ineligible for the program. the therapy.

ㅤshe was not sent into this trial with help, and some strange part of her can't decide whether that's a relief. the doors open, and she steps out, immediately eyeing an empty bottle that she has to wrench from a corpse's rigor - set hand. soon enough, she's found this trial's main attraction, and steps into the sea of awaiting onlookers, corpses and mannequins alike focusing what remaining eyes they had on her as she approached.

#⁎ SCREEN TEST⁰³◞     :     “STARTER CALL”     [⭑]     @morally  as  RILEY  BISHOP  &.  @ext-backlot  as  ALAN  WAKE.

DISSOLVE TO: ALAN GRIPS HIS COFFEE CUP—CHEAP AND DISPOSABLE, MADE OF STYROFOAM—AND STARES DOWN AT THE GROUNDS SWIRLING INSIDE. ACROSS THE TABLE, DETECTIVE BISHOP STARES AT THE RING ON HIS LEFT HAND.

ㅤhands clasped atop the desk, she stares at him with clear concern. it's unsettling, somehow, the way that even now, after he'd been afforded a shower and fresh clothes, the murky blackness of the lake seems to cling to him still.

ㅤ " mr. wake... " slow, gentle, a verbal approach to an agitated animal. " is there... anyone i can call for you? " a subtle way of drawing attention to the ring, determining whether or not he remembers leaving things on good terms. whether he remembers anything at all. as of yet, he's spoken in nothing but looping riddles.

ㅤ " i want to help you, but i- i need to know how. "