#emilesmuseassembly

Much as she'd sometimes like to, Alice can't spend all her time in Room 665. Duty still calls, and she has a few rolls of film to develop in the apartment darkroom. Zane would probably let her convert the hotel bathroom if she asked -- or would help her carve out some other space in the building -- but a little distance is for the best, she thinks. She needs some time to plan, to focus, without the filmmaker there as a welcome distraction. That and his room is a critical setpiece anyway, necessary for the progression of the loop. Alice can't be there for all of it, even if she knows how to hide behind the camera.

She taps her fingers against the elevator's handrail as it descends, the metal of her rings clinking against the metal of the rail. When it reaches the lobby she pushes off the wall and steps out, mind already working in a thousand different directions. It's not a far walk back home but she hopes it isn't raining -- somewhere in the course of the not-evening her hairtie had broken, and she hadn't brought a spare so now her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. It annoys her to get it wet because nothing ever really dries here, and she really should try to figure out an umbrella...

There's someone else in the lobby, leaning heavily against the unstaffed check-in desk. For a moment she's convinced it's Alan even though the silhouette is all wrong, but then he turns and it's Casey and she releases a breath she didn't mean to hold. He has one hand inside his jacket and she thinks he has a gun, then he's pressing on a wound, then-- he pulls out a flask and takes a swig. Even from a distance she can see his knuckles are bloodied, and he's looking at her with an expression she can't read.

"Casey?" Tentatively she steps closer, one hand rising automatically to the grip of her camera, her own weapon against the dark. She's never seen him here, in the hotel, but Alice knows that he comes by. Knows what he and Zane get up to because she knows just about everything that goes on in this place even if she pretends not to see it. A bitter thought in the back of her mind, then, that Zane's already got the next one lined up -- but she pushes it back. What he does when she isn't there is none of her business, and she'd be a hypocrite to act like she's got any kind of claim on him.

Casey stays leaning against the desk as she approaches, but his eyes roam up and down her frame. When she's close enough they land on her neck, where the camera strap slung over her shoulder is pulling her jacket a little towards her shoulder. Enough to reveal a purpling mark she can feel there, an imperfect impression of Zane's teeth. She stops, swallows thickly as though caught at something wrong.

Alice has tried, with mixed success, not to think about the reality of what she's been doing and who she's been doing it with. She's been alone for thirteen years, and there were certainly people before Zane, and it's impossible to say where her relationship with Alan stands even now. They love each other -- they must, to still be here. But what does that mean, in practical terms? Zane feels like a loophole, a conveniently allowable transgression in the face of everything else going on. Casey's eyes on her turn her stomach, though. Something like shame twists in her gut, and she grits her teeth against it.

"Casey, why are you--"

Say you want me, and I'm yours.

He meets her eyes, then. His are watery and bloodshot but there's no accusation in them. Just a pleading edge. Like he's asking her to make a better choice, offering himself as a lifeline. She's always wondered how he sees her. If she's more of a femme fatale or a damsel in distress in his narrative, if he even understands who she is and why she's here. Her mouth feels dry, suddenly, and she sinks her teeth into the meat of her cheek until she tastes copper. As though the blood might unstick the words from her throat.

"That's not..." He takes another pull from the flask, putting his beaten knuckles in her line of sight, without taking his eyes off of her. She can smell the booze on him, just under the faint tang of seawater. "You're not thinking straight." He's never hurt her, probably wouldn't ever hurt her, but something still compels her to walk on eggshells. "I'm flattered, but I'm not... I'm married." She shifts her camera strap, adjusts her hair, covers up the blooming bruise.

It doesn't stop her face from feeling hot.

"I have to go." She turns for the exit before he can say anything else, point out an obvious lie where he surely sees it. But at the front door she hesitates, looks back over her shoulder at the detective. It's really none of her business what him or Zane do in their spare time, but she's thinking of blood and bruised knuckles and sharp teeth. "You don't have to go up there. Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe... maybe neither of us should." And then she's pushing her way through the door.

favorite color: red! any shade of red, really. just love it.

last song: Locking Up the Sun by POTF. but the current earworm is Sick of Giving You Up by OCT. it's what I've been humming to myself constantly alongside Endgame & Someone Else's Story from Chess.

currently reading: The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett.

currently watching: DS9 rewatch with a friend, a playthrough of Deadly Premonition, and I tried to start Deadwax but Plex told me to go fuck myself so.

currently playing: one of these days I'm gonna finish Requiem. I'm replaying QB and going back for the different paths and now that I put my old hard drive back in my PC and got that save data back I'm gonna go back to my S-Rank run of MMZ3.

currently craving: this headache to fuck off.

Tagged by: @emilesmuseassembly (ty!!)

@emilesmuseassembly continued from here!

Freedom awaits, yet the threat of death, crawls even closer. While she had tried to find help, others may have already made their escape. Both soothing and terrifying idea. To be happy others made it, but also... to know to be left behind.

Laurie leans against the wall, feeling it tremble in more and more frequent waves as time runs. She proceeds an unknown path, holding her wounds, focusing on each step with a painful foot. Determined to make it. Behind the veil of steam stands a figure - another survivor she hadn't seen since the beginning of the trial. There he is. almost a stranger. One who stayed and waited for her. She knows him by the name.

"Alan! Where's the way out...?" || @emilesmuseassembly

Miles didn't think he'd ever be grateful to be back in the goddamn asylum, but as it turns out, the inside beats the outside. He takes a moment to catch his breath, but hisses a pained noise through his teeth with he tries detangling his hair with his fingers. Right, still down two -- open wounds at that, and he doesn't really want to think about the tetanus shots and rounds of antibiotics that await him after tonight.

Somehow he's supposed to keep following Father Martin in spite of how turned around he is, but it's not like a better option has presented itself. At least this part of the ward is well-lit, unlike the rest of the area. Miles clicks off the camera's nightvision and starts rummaging through a desk in search of batteries. He'd drained the last of his supply stumbling around in the outside darkness, and he's not about to face down whatever the inside darkness has in store without a way to see it coming.

He finds a file folder instead, and he's so focused on scanning through the document inside that he doesn't notice someone else approaching until it's too late to hide. Miles looks up, startled, but doesn't drop the folder.

Not everyone here is an aggressor -- he's learned that. But just because this patient isn't running at him with an ax doesn't make them friendly, either. "I'm not-- not here to hurt you." There's only one door into this office, and the patient is blocking it. Miles could kick himself for getting trapped so easily, but it's not like he can change that now. Best he can hope for is buying himself a couple seconds, talking up a distraction before he tries to bolt. "Father Martin, the priest, you know him? He told me to come this way, to follow him. That's all I'm trying to do."

STARTER / @emilesmuseassembly

The Entity's world—if world it be—had a knack for all manner of surprises: sentient Fog swirling hungrily at one's boots, a supernatural horse, even creatures that, by all rights, shouldn't even exist. Yet the most surprising to the Grave Walker was espying a survivor traversing the haunted space far from the safety of the campfire. It was free territory, certainly. There was no rule that stated they could not travel openly across the realm; it was just stupidly dangerous. A gamble that was so often lost. Ended crudely by the malevolent hand of a less forgiving, even territorial killer. Yet of all the survivors to glimpse creeping through this wooded nothingness, Feng Min was one of the least shocking.

"Wouldn't go that way if I were you." His voice rang out from an alcove of shadow in a copse of trees. There where the Reaper lounged, leaning against the creaking trunk of an old elm. In his hand was a book, its title long worn off. It was all about as unthreatening as any masked man sitting in shadow could possibly be.

He continued, "A very grumpy Myers is in that direction."

For anyone walking in perhaps nothing might have seemed out of place; Chris sitting on the floor, legs crossed, focused on working on something in his lap, his bulky frame easily keeping said thing out of sight, perhaps cleaning his gun, what most would assume. Except it was one of those rare instance in which Chris had his back turned towards the door, the first telling it might not be what it seemed, at least for the ones paying attention. And the quiet erupts of giggles breaking the silence around him, the second and far more important tell of what was happening.

The Poet strolled down the street, tapping his fingers against the pocket of his acid wash black jeans to the rhythm of the song playing through his headphones.

He'd been travelling around for a while, stopping in sleepy towns and big cities in search of Imagining Friends to pass the time. There was always someone in need of him. Someone searching for something better, something more than what they already had. A new dream to immerse themselves in...and the Poet was always willing to oblige their desires. It was a fun game.

Perching on a low wall to pause and admire his surroundings, he took a deep breath of pine scented air and smiled to himself. He always liked small towns. There was so much mystery and wonder to be found in the mundane routine of everyday life; something wondrous in its simplicity.

Just as he was about to move, he stopped himself from crashing into a forlorn looking young girl.