one man who thought he knew a way to always get through [open]

[rosswood]

Who: Alex Kralie and you
Where: The gardens, the kitchen, and then the fourth floor
When: July 22nd
Rating: PG-13 (guns, mental health and trauma, panic attacks and dissociation, self-harm, Alex's foulmouth)
Summary: Alex returns from his canon update, four years older and filled with self-righteous frustration. Also he has a gun now. Prose or brackets, I'll match either!
The Story:

gardens; playing tricks on the mind, thought that he'd won this time

The breath is choked in his throat from the arm that looped itself around his neck, squeezing and squeezing even though he clawed at it. He aimed for the eyes, but his fingertips touched only smooth plastic. He managed to utter one final strangled shout, and when he breathes in again, he's somewhere else.

Green grass, a temperature easily more bearable than Alabama's ungodly heat, hills and flowers in full bloom. If this is what dying feels like, consider Alex underwhelmed. One hand automatically reaches for his neck, fingertips scraping about a week's worth of stubble, the bruises clustered around his throat where that masked bastard nearly asphyxiated him by crushing his windpipe. It still throbs, like the rest of him, but he doesn't grimace, or flinch, or groan. His jaw sets. He's stomached worse, far worse, and will likely suffer more for what he's had to do.

And all thanks to Jay goddamn Merrick.

His grip tightens on the gun in his hand. Two bullets went streaking out in his shock at being beset upon from behind, but neither scored hits on their intended targets. At least if anyone was dragged here with him, he'll be prepared. He'll be...

Memories that were formerly prickling behind his eyelids abruptly come spilling back. Wonderland. Of course.

So he's back again.

And he's alone.

The rustle of footsteps through grass sparks a flurry of panic rising in his chest, and he spins around to train the piece on whoever's approaching. Sorry, whoever you are. Instinct's a bitch, and his nerves are shot to hell thanks to almost dying just now.

kitchen; he’s roaming corridors and lies in wait for us all

He's been living on the road for longer than he cares to admit. He's been eating out of gas stations, fast food joints, going long stretches of time without anything but the plasticy water bottles cooking in the trunk of his car for god only knows how long, and he's tired of it. Now that he's starting to remember the way the place is set up, the first place he heads is the kitchen to make himself a goddamn sandwich.

He sets the gun on the counter with a quiet click. Then he thinks better of it, and keeps it tucked in his waistband.

He eats ravenously, with little regard for the mess he's making or who he might be offending with his nonexistent table manners. He hasn't eaten genuine food for weeks and maybe months, shut up. He's had no time for it, between Jay being a total moron and Jessica getting involved and Tim being the way he is and Amy being -

The sandwich abruptly starts to taste like ash in his mouth. He...Amy is...look, okay. Okay. He did what he had to, okay, she was getting into shit and she had no idea and it's not like he wanted to do it, but she's - and he had to - and -

Alex braces both hands across the countertop, eyes screwed shut behind his glasses as he tries to get a fucking grip on himself and not panic because he's not panicking all right, he's not, he's definitely not, he's just - he's fine. He's fine, he's fine, it's all fine, just breathe like a regular human being even if he's not, not anymore and act like you aren't some kind of hollowed-out fucking shell. Act like a person.

Instinctively, he gropes for the soothing side of himself (it's got to be himself, right, that voice that hums that it'll be fine, even if it hurts to hear any of those words slamming into his head, distorted and twisted and humming with a sense of wrongness he can't place), but it's gone. It's gone, and he's alone again. Alone and - fuck. Fucking shit hell goddamnit.

He's ended up on the floor somehow, back pressed against one of the cupboards, the handles digging into his back but that's fine, it's all right, and fingertips sunk into the flesh of his arms and - and that's fine too. They're scoring long red streaks down his forearms and a few of the scratches have drawn blood, but it's cool, it's fine, he's got this under control if he could just think through the grayed-out slowness of his own thoughts and turn back to his lunch, or dinner, or whatever's become of the sandwich lying abandoned on the counter, and stop freaking panicking over nothing.

fourth floor; but now you're just empty

Room forty-four, fourth floor. Bile curdles in his throat. It's like a sick joke, after all that shit that masked freak has pulled. Today is your last birthday.

He stands outside his room, still looking as haggard and exhausted and beaten and worn-out as he feels. He stands there for a really long time, momentarily lost in himself or not-himself or whatever alternatives to himself he can grasp at, really, he'll take anything, anything that means he doesn't have to live in his own insufferable head for five fucking minutes.

When he comes back to himself, his lip curls in a sneer. He flicks his middle finger up at the 44 symbol on his door, slow and deliberate.

Yeah. Fuck you, totheark.

Comments

gardens

[eyething]

Damon lifts an eyebrow when Alex spins on him abruptly, and he doesn't move an inch or raise his hands like any sensible person would. He's not sensible, and he's not human. Guns aren't going to kill him so there's absolutely no sense of caution here (even when he is about to die, he has no caution. Damon is reckless like that).

"That doesn't work."

It's all he says before his gaze drifts over him cautiously. There's something different there even if he can't figure out what it is.

"Welcome back."

[rosswood]

Breath tight, heart thudding painfully in his chest - yep, he sure is a haggard, paranoid mess at the moment. Shut up, you don't get to judge him, or blame him, you have no idea what he's been through, and - and -

And it takes him a moment to realize that his self-righteous diatribe is both in his head and wholly irrelevant.

Tall guy. Standing there like a gun pointed to his face means nothing. Alex blinks a few times, rapidly. Damon. Vampire. Right.

The gun lowers slowly.

"How long've I been gone?" His voice is rough, scratched at the edges from shouting, as if his vocal cords are bleeding.

[eyething]

Damon remains as casual as ever with the gun in his face or with it pointed down. Granted, it would hurt if he was shot, but he wouldn't die. He's been shot before. It's annoying.

"Not sure. Someone put up a post asking where you were yesterday, but I think you've been gone longer than that."

A week's about the usual, but it's not like Alex missed much. On the other hand, it looks like he went through some hell back wherever he's from.

[rosswood]

Someone. Someone who? His mind scrabbles briefly for purchase, to grasp at the list of people he knows and likes versus the people he knows and hates. It's not coming with any immediacy.

He can check. Yeah. That'll be fine. He can check.

"Yesterday," he repeats with an air of skepticism. How long, he'd thought he'd have to ask, not how short.

He blows out a long breath. "Jesus Christ. Yesterday? Really? So it's been...it's actually been days."

Gardens

[tattooedredheads]

"Whoa!" Kay raises his hands to show that they are empty. His own gun is safely tucked away on his person but it isn't something Kay wants to use as long as there is another option. Besides, this guy looks kinda familiar for some reason. As he speaks, Kay slowly lowers his hands again.

"Not really interested in getting shot at the moment. Besides, you look like you could use the clinic. Why don't you put down the gun and I'll help you get there."

[rosswood]

"Clinic?" he rasps. The gun doesn't go down. He doesn't know this guy, and after the hell he's just been through - tackled and kicked and nearly strangled and generally shit all over for the past few years, mentally and physically - he's not overly inclined to just up and trust whoever damn well says hello.

But, right. He's got a ring of bruises around his neck. Probably looks worse for wear too. But whatever. That's fine. That's tenable. He's had worse.

"Who're you?" says Alex sharply, his grip on the small gun unwavering.

[tattooedredheads]

"Name's Kay." He'd add his occupation but he doubts it would mean anything. "Nice to meet you..." Kay trails off in the hopes that he'll get a name in return.

[rosswood]

Alex stares at him, hard and suspicious, before slowly lowering the firearm with a sigh. He doesn't seem threatening, so he's got that going for him. But then again, neither did Jay.

He thought he took care of the little asshole.

"Alex," he says shortly, manners be damned.

kitchen

[endingpoint]

When Jane wanders in to see about actually making a meal rather than letting the mansion cook up something, she pauses when she sees the half-eaten sandwich first. Then she looks down and sees Alex who has the honor of being the first person she's known and liked to disappear. But now he's back, and it doesn't look good, and she frowns, voice soft.

"Alex? You came back."

He's really not good, and she kneels in front of him but not too close, not wanting to invade his personal space.

[rosswood]

There's someone here. Someone not tall and thin and faceless, but someone he should know, whose voice sounds vaguely familiar. He jerks oddly, trying to look at her straight through the tunneling of his vision.

Her name escapes him. Like Jay did, like Jessica, and it's not his fault they got away but christ this is unbearable. He grits his teeth, hard enough to feel the grinding of them, hard enough for his jaw to ache.

"Yeah," he manages at last, through the fog of his own thoughts, and he still can't remember why can't he remember is his brain just slow, sluggish from nearly getting the life choked out of it? "I'm getting that."

[endingpoint]

"I'm Jane. Do you remember me?" It's so odd to be on this side of it, to be the one asking this question and not watching others ask her.

But her concern isn't about herself, it's about him. "Are you hurt anywhere?" She glances at his arms, then back at his face.

cw suicide ideation

[rosswood]

Jane. Yeah. Jane Doe. Empty name, scraped all out of her head, just like him. Only he's stopped trying to stitch himself together. He knows how it has to be now. Stick a gun to his mouth when it's over and he'll pull it and it'll all unravel all over the place teeth and blood and all of it but first he's got to do what's necessary to himself and to all the rest and he doesn't want it god help him but he didn't ask for this -

His fingernails bite into the flesh of hims again, and he shakes his head numbly.

"No. I mean, yeah. I know who you - " Breath. Deep breath. Out again. "I remember."

[voiceinthedark]

[Oh, Sam knows that look. How many times has he seen it before? Too many to count. He stares for a moment when he enters the kitchen and then sighs, shoulders slumping.]

You know, if you eat all that at once, when you haven't for a while, you might make yourself sick. I did that once.

[rosswood]

[HOW 'BOUT MAYBE YOU CHILL

Alex glares at the guy who just ups and offers his opinion, and partially out of spite, doesn't slow down in his chewing in the least. He looks vaguely familiar, but Alex doesn't bother to track that line of thought. It'd be useless anyway.]

What's it to you?

[voiceinthedark]

[Sam shrugs, but doesn't take his gaze away. he's not stupid.]

Just seen it before. People go for long enough without proper food, then make themselves ill. It won't actually help you feel any better.

[rosswood]

I'm fine. Just sick of eating gas station shit.

[He doesn't paw for the shape of the gun tucked away, but his hand twitches.]

Does Wonderland shit even count as real food?

kitchen

[normandysbest]

Shepard doesn't always prefer to have the mansion make her food for her- not that she's any kind of a chef, or can even cook in the least, but it just feels weird to have anything wait on her hand and foot. She's got a lot on her mind as of late, considering a lot of different scenarios for her future here, so much so that she damn near trips over him rounding the corner he's behind, before she stops, abruptly, and realizes who she's looking at.

"Kid. Alex." She kneels down, confirms it's him, makes sure not to touch him because wow, this looks like the opposite of anything good. "It's Shepard. Haven't seen you in a while."

[rosswood]

Kid. That almost makes him laugh, but he lost the sense of humor somewhere down the line, between the crack of bone under cement and the bang of two missed gunshots and someone who screamed and charged at him even though she should've just stood still and taken it.

Kid, she calls him. Her name isn't coming to him. Good thing she gives it right away.

He grits his teeth and doesn't look at her, reddened half-moons torn into the skin of his forearms where he gripped them too tight.

"Wasn't in the area," he says. His voice sounds atypically distant, but precise, controlled, sharp, even while his body trembles.

[normandysbest]

She's tense, keeping herself in a position where she can run if she has to, even if she doesn't intend it, as she surveys him. She'd been told he was gone, knew he was back home, and he'd talked about how shitty it was for him then, but this is... so much worse. She has to do something, lord, anything.

"Hey. Breathe for me, okay? Count five in, five out." She shifts her breathing to match, counting in her head. "I know Wonderland's messed up, but you're safe right now. You're in the kitchen, getting some food. You're gonna be okay." Shepard has no idea about his situation, and can't get into specifics, but hopefully this is... reassuring? Or something? Her basic qualifications for helping someone with a panic attack is that she gets panic attacks, and that's not an incredible qualification when most of those end in screaming and punching a wall.

"I've got you. Nothing's coming while I'm here. Breathe. Five in, five out."

The fourth floor; hope this is okay!

[mypartnerintime]

It's dark now, though the hallway itself flickers with the light of the candles hanging all over its walls. Max shouldn't be out- she should trying to do the responsible thing and sleep. But everyday since Alex disappeared, she's been visiting his room.

To check up on him. To be there for him when he gets back.

...And to read his notes. His many strange papers. Maybe to even watch tapes. When else would Alex Kralie let her see that side of him? She had to take that chance... but he's now come back sooner than she expected.

Regardless, she's shocked to see him standing there, hand raised in his mean gesture at the innocent room numbers. She quickly closes the gap between them, calling out to him.

"Alex?" The closer she gets, the more she's sure it's him. But he looks so much more... fatigued. And older, too. God, how long was he away? Wonderland is so strange. "You're back!"

always!!!

[rosswood]

He jerks in alarm, hand again closing on the handle of the gun tucked into his waistband, but he resolves the movement into a clumsy groping for the handle of the door.

It takes him a moment to recall her name, but it comes remarkably easier, quicker than any of the others.

"Max," he says, more as means of affirming of her name to himself than actually addressing her. Why's she here? She doesn't live on this floor. Has she been checking on him?

She knows, she knows, she knows. That's right. Because he told her. How much? His door might not've been locked - he didn't plan on taking a four year vacation to the Rosswood area, he'd just up and vanished spontaneously, and anyone could've gone through here and he hadn't been around to replenish his security camera tapes and he has to stifle a frustrated groan.

"I...yeah. Just got back." He looks at her warily as he opens the door with a brusque jerk of his hand. He expects a fine patina of dust to be settled over everything, but there's a notable lack of it. "I guess."

[mypartnerintime]

She isn't sure how much he remembers about his room. Every time she picked something up, she set it back down in the same place- but maybe turned over, or tilted to one side, or piled up in the wrong order. She didn't think he'd mind, really... no. No that's not correct. She didn't think, period.

She eyes him back just as warily, especially once he looks into his room. So what? She went in. That's not something she needs to hide, right?

"Are you okay? You look... older." She walks over to follow him into his room if he goes in. "I was worried."

Her mind keeps going to her pepper spray, stowed away in her bag. Who knows what he went through back home? Maybe he got better... she hopes, she hopes.

[punful]

Sans has discovered that the water sausages you get from the kitchen are a bit higher quality than the ones you get from a room closet. Maybe because kitchens are more food oriented? Probably. Whatever. The point is, he's here to restock his hotdog stand, and what does he find? A guy he doesn't really like all that much having an obvious panic attack on the kitchen floor.

Looks like Alex is back. He looks...well, like shit, but also maybe older? It's kinda hard to tell with humans, mostly because Sans doesn't know all that many adult humans. Just the ones who are here, and Wonderland probably isn't the sample group. No researcher worth his salt would ever accept this lot.

Sans mostly just wants to turn around and walk away, but...panic attacks suck. This reminds him too much of Alphys, or even of the rare occasions when he wakes up wrong and has to sit in the corner of his room for a little while until he remembers how to function.

"...hey. alex. can you hear me?"

[rosswood]

His vision's graying out, which is fine, it's really just fine and perfect and dandy and he's going to be cool in about two minutes once his heart stops racing. It's just so goddamn inconvenient when this starts happening, and he feels sick to his stomach. Look, he tells his brain desperately, he didn't have a choice, all right? And it was quick. It was quick for her! What do you want from me?

Literally anything else, his brain snarls back, sounding suspiciously like the blare of static that accompanies one of those cryptic fucking videos uploaded by what's-his-face - totheark. Totheark. What bullshit.

Then there's a voice and he looks up out of reflex and there's white, there's white and there's white and there's white and there's white looming over him and he wishes whoever was shouting would shut up until he realizes that it's him, he's the one shouting -

Alex doesn't even realize he's fired the gun until it's already happened, the tip of it smoking, the air sharp with the acrid smell of cordite, his grip on the revolver trembling.

[punful]

So. Alright, then. This is what he gets for giving suspicious people the benefit of the doubt. Serves him right, honestly. You'd think he'd know better by now. It's one of those habits that he just can't break.

Normally, a dodge is exactly that, a dodge--verbal, mental, physical, just some kind of sidestep or lean and the swish of a MISS. If you can see it coming, you can dodge it, unless--well, haha, unless it's a piece of metal traveling at supersonic speeds toward your rib cage. The only think that's ever really been quick about Sans is his mind, so all it takes is the shout and the flash of metal to realize, okay, this was a terrible idea, and that's a gun, and it's aimed at him, and that means it's time to dodge.

He has very little experience with guns. Sometimes the anomaly comes at him with a gun, but it's empty, and Sans is pretty sure it just fires...maybe raw Determination or something? Doesn't really matter. What he knows about guns comes from books and movies and a few of those slow motion videos that involve a bullet shredding through some inanimate object. One time he actually looked up how fast the average bullet travels and yikes. Monster bullets aren't that fast. Half of them practically float.

Needless to say, he's good at dodging, but even he can't dodge real bullets. He has two options that boil down to "probably dying" and "probably not dying," and 0 seconds to decide what to do.

There's a brief flicker of electric-blue light, something that smells faintly of ozone, and abruptly Sans is about three feet to the right. The bullet hits the wall behind where he was standing and holy fucking shit, he had absolutely no idea that gunshots were that loud. His skull is ringing.

"alex, stop, it's me. it's sans."

The smart idea would be to teleport about a mile away and leave Alex to his devices, but. But. But the next person who walks into this kitchen is almost certainly going to get shot, and it could be Frisk, or Chara, or Papyrus, or anyone at all.