❛ 𝔸𝕍 ❜

My Dead by Daylight mains all in their Christmas cosmetics :)) 🎄🦌🎅

a drawing of my favourite guy from my least favourite (affectionate) game for its 8th anniversary

This is a redraw from 2019/2020 which is below!

Wouldn't be the weirdest explanation he's heard for... well, for anything, really. The mundane is so much easier to believe, to compartmentalize, to accept. Everyone wants to blame haunted houses on carbon monoxide poisoning because that doesn't fundamentally alter your perception of reality.

The thing is that this guy hasn't seemed bothered by the notion that he'd skipped from one reality to another until now. When they found him in the motel he'd been casual about the circumstances, then apparently relieved when they pulled him out of the Oceanview and into the Oldest House. From what Miles gathered from the preliminary notes, the man has some understanding of shifting planes and alternate dimensions. He'd been lost -- trapped -- in another one, a darker one, and now he's here. That should be an improvement, and he'd been acting like it was one around the other agents and scientists until Miles entered the small interrogation room.

Interview room. Interrogation feels too pointed, too accusatory, even if the space is set up like every crappy procedural cop drama known to man. An ergonomic metal table and chairs. Obnoxious fluorescent lights. One-way glass off to the side. Except instead of officers and lawyers there's a slew of labcoats and clipboards on the other side, and the whole space is lined with Black Rock, and the light source isn't entirely identifiable. Still, he doesn't want to think of this guy like a criminal -- even if the way he's looking at Miles borders on twitchy. There's an easygoing persona about him, but the way his eyes keep darting across Miles' face suggests he's searching for something and coming up short.

That, and he said Miles' name the minute he walked in. Like it was a question. Like he recognized him. Not in a way that asked you must be but in a way that said is that really you?

Miles has let him do most of the talking. It's taken some prompting and persuading, and he can't fault the other for the lack of trust. He knows he hasn't gotten the full story by the time the man -- Ace Visconti, a fake name if he's ever heard one -- leans back in his seat and offers the neat little hallucinatory gas explanation, like he knows he sounds crazy and is trying to downplay it.

He's not looking at Miles anymore, but even then he's implicating him with his words. We both know that's bullshit. Like he's expecting the agent to go along with it. And the thing is, Miles almost wants to. He has half a mind to laugh like it's a joke, crack one of his own like this is a friendly conversation where he knows exactly what kind of comments he can get away with.

Do I know him? Do we know him?

The back of his skull prickles like pins and needles. That isn't a no.

"Mass hysteria's less common than you think -- real cases of it, anyway, not paranatural incidents the FBC has convinced people are all in their heads. Of course, this could all just be in your head, that's more likely than anything on a collective scale." There's humor in his tone in spite of the words themselves. He's not making light of what the other has been through, but his sense of tact is warped to say the least. "But you're right, I do know that's bullshit. Your story sounds credible to me. Fucked up, yeah, but credible." That nagging sense of recognition lingers, but he pushes it to the side, not wanting it in whatever official report comes out of this.

"So congrats for managing to dimension hop without scrambling your brain in the process. That's a rare feat around here."

He scoffs, still unable to match the other man's gaze.

Ace had wanted to go for a walk. It was boring by the fire waiting for others to return from their trials. He always got antsy during times of extended silence, and if sleep wouldn't take him, when Solitaire became dull, a walk was the only other thing to do.

He hadn't expected to find this, the motel, any of it. He had found a library of sorts in the woods. The Fog was like that, he discovered. Sometimes wandering off led you to an empty trial- perfect for looting some good finds. A lot of his walks sometimes caught him in loops, forcing him to make his way back to the campfire. But this had been different.

The study he found was in chaos. He knew the signs of a struggle when he saw one, having been on the receiving end of many. A lot of the books had single-word titles, almost written haphazardly. Ace had picked one up from the shelf-- Conviction, it read --but before he had taken a look inside a door caught his eye. It was oddly placed, tucked away down a shelved hallway, squished between two rows of books. It almost looked out of place. Among the worn varnish, there, in the middle of the door, sat a large triangle. It was still pristine from god knows how long this place had been here. Growing up, Ace had been scolded for his curiosity. He had been a nosey kid and that hadn't exactly gone away as he had gotten older, and that wasn't about to change then, either. So, naturally, he opened the door. The worst that could happen was he died, and that wasn't unfamiliar territory.

And that had led him to the motel, then here. A room full of florescent lighting and a drowning sense of familiarity, that Ace was currently watching circle the drain.

It ended up being some sort of secret government base he had stumbled into- the Bureau of Control. They served as some sort of hub for the paranormal. They assured Ace that it wasn't a prison, but the off-gray sweat suit wasn't exactly supporting their case.

The heart in his mouth now hangs somewhere suspended in his chest, tight and uncomfortable. Ace is trying to wrap his head around the concept that this isn't Miles-- his Miles --but some other guy who hadn't seen his guts time and time again. He almost doesn't believe him, that Miles doesn't recognize him sitting here. Fuck, he's almost embarrassed in the way he almost imminently shot up when Miles walked into the room.

He's trying to ignore how he doesn't laugh back, or how his stoic expression remains unmoved. Ace isn't lost on the dust of humor that's carried in his delivery. He gives a slight smirk at it but he can't ignore how it stings, as much as he tries to hide it. This feels like a joke.