I. INTO THE ENDLESS.[ground control to major tom β the snow is what wakes dr. casper darling β the way it falls onto his cheeks, his eyelashes, the wetness forming at the collar of his shirt. the night ( is it night? the snowfall, the fog, the thickness of the trees; he can't seem to discern the time ) is freezing β beyond cold, the way the wind seems to cut him to the bone. darling stands, shaky on both legs, before he decides that setting off in any direction would be better than waiting for someone to pass, especially in this weather.
the last thing darling remembers is hedron. the communication that had settled between them β the warnings she gave. he wanted to see for himself what her protection meant, and the night before the outbreak of the resonance β he was gone. is this where she has sent him? the cold, the wind, the ruthlessness of the fog that seems to be endless? he doesn't understand, and he might never. darling is fine with that, for the most part, as he's learned not to question hedron and her guidance. in this moment all he wants is to find warmth, to find someone to ask what day it is, month, even year. he feels so distant from the bureau β he could be anywhere, at any time. while that's an exciting prospect, he can't help the overwhelming sense of dread that wraps around his mind and tugs.
when darling approaches the fork in the path β his eyebrows contract over his eyes. there's another pang of glacial anxiety; the unease that drops into his guts. which to choose? the fog continues to roll in, the condensation of it making the air icy but humid, and it gathers on his forehead in a thin sheen. thinking feels fuzzy, feels strange and far off. maybe it's the apprehension, maybe it's the strange environment β but finally, after a long period of thoughtful consideration, he takes the left fork. the dark seems to press against his eyes, his glasses on the end of his nose, fogged-up and hardly useful.
walking for what seems like miles, darling notes that the trees seem to bend into his path, the wind carrying the leaves across the dirt. it's a strange thing, the way that this path seems longer than the last. there's no fork this time, no signs or other form of markers. the snow flurries crunch under his shoes, the sloggy weight of the wetness that eats at his socks miserable. as darling pushes his glasses up, trying to make his way through this endless barrage of horrible weather β a clearing seems to be ahead. he welcomes it with a sigh, an airy laugh that bubbles up from his chest. rest. stepping into it, the break from the trees, the fog β he can hardly believe it. the moonrays ( night! winter! two things he's gathered on this strange journey ), illuminating the small patches of grass and rocks. he continues, and then β
β the ground is split, a chasm so deep that darling could have walked right into it. he swallows, thick and scared, the pebbles around his feet causing him to slip right to the edge and almost over. he's taken the wrong path, that much is certain. shifting his weight backward and away, slipping all the time, he gains traction by digging into the dirt with his fingers.
then, darling runs. ( from what? the ravine? or the adrenaline pumping through his heart that he wants to escape from? ) the chilly air enters and exits his lungs quickly as he cuts back down the path back to the fork. ]
II. BODIES WITHOUT SOULS.[ the tapping on the glass of the bookshop is what catches darling's attention. he pauses, adjusting his frames before trying his best to see through the dirty film that coats the windows. there are lights β flashlights, maybe? β flickering inside from what he can tell. ( which, honestly, isn't much. ) he taps back with a rap of his knuckle, but no one responds. the lights continue to weave in and out of his scope of vision, the way they shudder this way and that β there's a sense of strangeness to it. almost inhumanly so. the fine hairs at the back of darling's neck stand up, and a shiver runs up his spine, straight into his brain.
investigating is either a very smart idea or a very stupid one β but darling hopes against hope that smart is what it pans out as. opening the door to the bookshop, mind braced for whatever he's about to see, and β nothing. not one light is flickering, not one person is present ( at least he thinks ) to tap on the glass. out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the lights seem to have moved outside. he quickly ducks his head, checking, one foot inside, one foot out. again, nothing. no one. not a single soul but himself. how odd. deciding that perhaps being inside would be safer, darling closes the door behind him. the portrait is the first thing he notices β the way it hangs stiffly against the wall. he observes it for a moment, the eyes following him as he steps fully inside. it's creepy, of course, but once he takes his eyes away from the picture, he feels more at ease. stable. alright.
it's just a bunch of dusty books. where is the harm in that? he walks through the aisles, fingers dusting off certain titles, and he hopes that he can find out what year it is, exactly. paperbacks of horror authors, sci-fi, romance β none of them resonate with a sense of solid, concrete dates or times. disappointed, he glances over to see that the aisle is longer than he had previously ascertained. it stretches, and darling can't help the dread that washes through his chest. a sneeze rattles his insides, his dust allergy rearing its head, but he's determined to keep forward, to keep looking through this store for any semblance of normalcy.
down the path darling goes, following the floorboards where they creak under his feet. the books pass, each and every one of them caked with years ( years and years, maybe ) worth of dust and grime. he can see the specks floating before his eyes, sticking to the lenses of his glasses. darling continues despite it, and as he finally reaches the end β there's a door. the hinges are rusty, even more so the knob, and he reaches forward, trying to jimmy it with a rustle of his palm. there's no avail to that exercise, so instead, darling pushes his weight against the door, shoulder pressed to the wood. on the third try, the door gives way enough that he ends up forcing the hinges to open.
the papers on the desk β that might give darling a date. he shuffles through them, the yellowed leafs stained, but without information of any use. with a sigh that leads to another sneeze, he turns, only to have the safe catch his peripheral. scratch marks stretch across the green-painted face, and curious, darling approaches it. he kneels down on his haunches, giving the lock a spin, but he hears nothing but old, worn-out clicking. again, again, again β time passes, and a sheen of dirty sweat gathers at his brow. giving up, darling stands, looking down at it, brows inched toward his hairline. this isn't going to work.
with a short huff, he leaves the office, but darling's feet stop in their tracks. the front door is right there β the aisles are no longer stretched, the books no longer in rows that seem never-ending. he blinks, then turns back to the office, then back again. he does this twice more, chest rising and falling with unease, with anxiety. without wasting another moment, he leaves the store, shutting the door tightly behind him. ]
III. THE END APPROACHES.[ what darling doesn't like is the fact that the building is so quiet. his footfalls are the only sound that fills the hall, his worn shoes creating a solid thump with every step he takes. he had initially entered the building in search of answers β anything that might give him a better sense of where, when, and most importantly β why. the reception desk is covered with a thin film of something he can't quite place, so he decides against looking over it for clues. the chairs are also coated in the same filth, so waiting for someone to show up is out of the question as well. with a brief sigh, he feels the pull in his gut to leave, to not investigate further β but that's when he catches sight of the bulletin board.
the map is sprawled across it, the name mathias township in the upper corner. mathias. the name scribbles itself across darling's mind, the importance of where he is stored away and locked. this is where he is, but the two other questions still remain: when and why. darling leans in, pushing his glasses up his nose, and he examines the words: HE IS COMING. that alone makes his heart pound, the way that it's written in β what is that? against better judgment, he reaches up, rubbing his index finger gently against one part of the smeared substance, and that's when it hits him β it's blood. darling practically jumps back, dusting his hands off quickly. he doesn't know if the blood is human or animal, but does it matter? his lips purse, and as he glances around the board for another clue as to what's going on exactly β he sees the scribbles in different handwriting.
needs for supplies, needs for services, those offering services β darling doesn't know where to begin. he sees a mathematical equation, one that's easy enough to solve β but there are other symbols, ones that he doesn't recognize. this is odd enough, but the paper and pen catch his eye next. darling snatches a piece up, then a pen, his handwriting a bit desperate as he leaves his own note:
dr. casper darling β physicist. former govt. employee. open to information of any kind.
darling then backs away, placing the pen atop the stack of papers. he stares at the board, eyes darting again from message to message, and suddenly he doesn't feel as defeated. there are others, and they've all been here, at this exact point. his heart attempts to slow, but still there, big and bold β HE IS COMING. who? he? what does it mean? darling shivers, swallowing thick, unsure of what to do next. ]
dr. casper darling β remedy's control β post-game ( spoilers abound ) β will match format.
[ ground control to major tom β the snow is what wakes dr. casper darling β the way it falls onto his cheeks, his eyelashes, the wetness forming at the collar of his shirt. the night ( is it night? the snowfall, the fog, the thickness of the trees; he can't seem to discern the time ) is freezing β beyond cold, the way the wind seems to cut him to the bone. darling stands, shaky on both legs, before he decides that setting off in any direction would be better than waiting for someone to pass, especially in this weather.
the last thing darling remembers is hedron. the communication that had settled between them β the warnings she gave. he wanted to see for himself what her protection meant, and the night before the outbreak of the resonance β he was gone. is this where she has sent him? the cold, the wind, the ruthlessness of the fog that seems to be endless? he doesn't understand, and he might never. darling is fine with that, for the most part, as he's learned not to question hedron and her guidance. in this moment all he wants is to find warmth, to find someone to ask what day it is, month, even year. he feels so distant from the bureau β he could be anywhere, at any time. while that's an exciting prospect, he can't help the overwhelming sense of dread that wraps around his mind and tugs.
when darling approaches the fork in the path β his eyebrows contract over his eyes. there's another pang of glacial anxiety; the unease that drops into his guts. which to choose? the fog continues to roll in, the condensation of it making the air icy but humid, and it gathers on his forehead in a thin sheen. thinking feels fuzzy, feels strange and far off. maybe it's the apprehension, maybe it's the strange environment β but finally, after a long period of thoughtful consideration, he takes the left fork. the dark seems to press against his eyes, his glasses on the end of his nose, fogged-up and hardly useful.
walking for what seems like miles, darling notes that the trees seem to bend into his path, the wind carrying the leaves across the dirt. it's a strange thing, the way that this path seems longer than the last. there's no fork this time, no signs or other form of markers. the snow flurries crunch under his shoes, the sloggy weight of the wetness that eats at his socks miserable. as darling pushes his glasses up, trying to make his way through this endless barrage of horrible weather β a clearing seems to be ahead. he welcomes it with a sigh, an airy laugh that bubbles up from his chest. rest. stepping into it, the break from the trees, the fog β he can hardly believe it. the moonrays ( night! winter! two things he's gathered on this strange journey ), illuminating the small patches of grass and rocks. he continues, and then β
β the ground is split, a chasm so deep that darling could have walked right into it. he swallows, thick and scared, the pebbles around his feet causing him to slip right to the edge and almost over. he's taken the wrong path, that much is certain. shifting his weight backward and away, slipping all the time, he gains traction by digging into the dirt with his fingers.
then, darling runs. ( from what? the ravine? or the adrenaline pumping through his heart that he wants to escape from? ) the chilly air enters and exits his lungs quickly as he cuts back down the path back to the fork. ]
II. BODIES WITHOUT SOULS.
[ the tapping on the glass of the bookshop is what catches darling's attention. he pauses, adjusting his frames before trying his best to see through the dirty film that coats the windows. there are lights β flashlights, maybe? β flickering inside from what he can tell. ( which, honestly, isn't much. ) he taps back with a rap of his knuckle, but no one responds. the lights continue to weave in and out of his scope of vision, the way they shudder this way and that β there's a sense of strangeness to it. almost inhumanly so. the fine hairs at the back of darling's neck stand up, and a shiver runs up his spine, straight into his brain.
investigating is either a very smart idea or a very stupid one β but darling hopes against hope that smart is what it pans out as. opening the door to the bookshop, mind braced for whatever he's about to see, and β nothing. not one light is flickering, not one person is present ( at least he thinks ) to tap on the glass. out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the lights seem to have moved outside. he quickly ducks his head, checking, one foot inside, one foot out. again, nothing. no one. not a single soul but himself. how odd. deciding that perhaps being inside would be safer, darling closes the door behind him. the portrait is the first thing he notices β the way it hangs stiffly against the wall. he observes it for a moment, the eyes following him as he steps fully inside. it's creepy, of course, but once he takes his eyes away from the picture, he feels more at ease. stable. alright.
it's just a bunch of dusty books. where is the harm in that? he walks through the aisles, fingers dusting off certain titles, and he hopes that he can find out what year it is, exactly. paperbacks of horror authors, sci-fi, romance β none of them resonate with a sense of solid, concrete dates or times. disappointed, he glances over to see that the aisle is longer than he had previously ascertained. it stretches, and darling can't help the dread that washes through his chest. a sneeze rattles his insides, his dust allergy rearing its head, but he's determined to keep forward, to keep looking through this store for any semblance of normalcy.
down the path darling goes, following the floorboards where they creak under his feet. the books pass, each and every one of them caked with years ( years and years, maybe ) worth of dust and grime. he can see the specks floating before his eyes, sticking to the lenses of his glasses. darling continues despite it, and as he finally reaches the end β there's a door. the hinges are rusty, even more so the knob, and he reaches forward, trying to jimmy it with a rustle of his palm. there's no avail to that exercise, so instead, darling pushes his weight against the door, shoulder pressed to the wood. on the third try, the door gives way enough that he ends up forcing the hinges to open.
the papers on the desk β that might give darling a date. he shuffles through them, the yellowed leafs stained, but without information of any use. with a sigh that leads to another sneeze, he turns, only to have the safe catch his peripheral. scratch marks stretch across the green-painted face, and curious, darling approaches it. he kneels down on his haunches, giving the lock a spin, but he hears nothing but old, worn-out clicking. again, again, again β time passes, and a sheen of dirty sweat gathers at his brow. giving up, darling stands, looking down at it, brows inched toward his hairline. this isn't going to work.
with a short huff, he leaves the office, but darling's feet stop in their tracks. the front door is right there β the aisles are no longer stretched, the books no longer in rows that seem never-ending. he blinks, then turns back to the office, then back again. he does this twice more, chest rising and falling with unease, with anxiety. without wasting another moment, he leaves the store, shutting the door tightly behind him. ]
III. THE END APPROACHES.
[ what darling doesn't like is the fact that the building is so quiet. his footfalls are the only sound that fills the hall, his worn shoes creating a solid thump with every step he takes. he had initially entered the building in search of answers β anything that might give him a better sense of where, when, and most importantly β why. the reception desk is covered with a thin film of something he can't quite place, so he decides against looking over it for clues. the chairs are also coated in the same filth, so waiting for someone to show up is out of the question as well. with a brief sigh, he feels the pull in his gut to leave, to not investigate further β but that's when he catches sight of the bulletin board.
the map is sprawled across it, the name mathias township in the upper corner. mathias. the name scribbles itself across darling's mind, the importance of where he is stored away and locked. this is where he is, but the two other questions still remain: when and why. darling leans in, pushing his glasses up his nose, and he examines the words: HE IS COMING. that alone makes his heart pound, the way that it's written in β what is that? against better judgment, he reaches up, rubbing his index finger gently against one part of the smeared substance, and that's when it hits him β it's blood. darling practically jumps back, dusting his hands off quickly. he doesn't know if the blood is human or animal, but does it matter? his lips purse, and as he glances around the board for another clue as to what's going on exactly β he sees the scribbles in different handwriting.
needs for supplies, needs for services, those offering services β darling doesn't know where to begin. he sees a mathematical equation, one that's easy enough to solve β but there are other symbols, ones that he doesn't recognize. this is odd enough, but the paper and pen catch his eye next. darling snatches a piece up, then a pen, his handwriting a bit desperate as he leaves his own note:
former govt. employee.
open to information of any kind.
darling then backs away, placing the pen atop the stack of papers. he stares at the board, eyes darting again from message to message, and suddenly he doesn't feel as defeated. there are others, and they've all been here, at this exact point. his heart attempts to slow, but still there, big and bold β HE IS COMING. who? he? what does it mean? darling shivers, swallowing thick, unsure of what to do next. ]
WILDCARD.
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