entrancelogs | who have i become? i'm still old enough to die young [open]

Who: Alex Kralie and you
Where: All over the mansion's interior
When: April 1st and April 2nd
Rating: PG-13 probs. there's some self-harm and thoughts of suicide in here, plus someone is getting murdered
Summary: Alex's inability to cope with his own emotions (or the lack thereof) causes problems
The Story:

kitchen; open; i'm static like a dead tv screen ( emotionless )

He opens the lighter with a quiet click and watches the stilling flame with complete disinterest. He shuts it again.

He has a purpose to fulfill. All's quiet in his head, at long goddamn last. No voice urging him on. No screams, no static, no tearing of stark white claws into the folds of his brain and carving them into jelly. It's quiet now.

It's his turn to burn.

He spends his flat moments gathering the requisite materials: a box of matches and a knife from the kitchen, lighter fluid from one of the closets. Whoever stands in his way will be dealt with accordingly. He has work to do.

[ooc: Evelyn has dibs on Taking Care of Alex but anyone else who wants to encounter him in his emotionless zombie state is welcome to!]

entrance hall; open; let this stranger have their death wish ( hyper-emotional )

He makes it as far as the entrance hall before panic creeps up on his chest and closes a tight fist around his throat, and he drops against the nearest wall and clenches his fists tight, jaw aching as he grits his teeth.

He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. Brian laughed, Sarah sighed, exasperated until he came up behind her with a chunk of rebar, Tim hadn't even wanted to be there, Seth was just trying to help when he left him to that thing underneath, Jay just wanted the goddamn tapes.

It doesn't matter. He did what he had to, like a hero. That's what he is. That's what he has to be, a hero, a hero, that's what he - what he -

A rage-filled sound tears its way out of his throat as he swings around and slams his fist into the wall. Then he does it again. And again. And again, until the skin of his knuckles is cracked and bleeding. Why didn't he end it right then, after? Who was he kidding, thinking he could escape when he should have slit his wrists and been done with it? Those are the rules, Kralie. You don't just get out and escape this shit forever and ever, you don't get to abscond with your sanity after getting touched with that blank-faced horror.

He deserves this.

third floor; closed to evelyn; if i pass on, then it's a mercy kill

He's compiled a list of potential threats, and cuts through the mansion with crisp, cold efficiency. The steps are cleanly outlined in his head, like something he's done a thousand times (has he? Maybe he has) - first step, kill the targets. A quick blade jabbing in and out of their neck should accomplish this nicely. Second step, burn the evidence. The jug of lighter fluid sloshes in one hand, the sharp tang of gasoline stinging his nostrils and causing his eyes to water.

But it doesn't matter. He has a list. He has a target. First, there's the kid that isn't a kid. Second, there's the one who somehow obtained knowledge of who he was and what he did (didn't they know he had to do it?), and third, there's Max. The thought should make him hesitate, but it doesn't. She knows about what hounds him, what haunts him, and there's only one solution to that. Kill her, kill the others, and then himself.

It's what's necessary.

He stops in front of one of the rooms and, without hesitation, uncaps the lighter fluid and begins to pour until it soaks through the carpet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Your hand. That's all that'll be fixed."

She's pretty new here, but she's gathered that much about the basic rules. The insight about how not quite being able to die might mess you up a little . . . that's all from home.

"Come on. This isn't a road you want to go down." She'd backed up a pace when he wheeled on her, but she steps back in, offering her hand palm-up in a wordless request for his. "Let's sit down and you can tell me what has you trying to beat up a marble wall."

Marble. Is it marble. Marble, like hornets, and a strange, unhinged tickle of noise creeps out of his throat, almost like a laugh if it weren't so broken and near-hysterical.

"You - you don't get it," he manages, but that ugly laugh is boiling up in his throat and he can't hold it in so he makes no attempt to. "How could you - you don't want to. You don't know what it's done."

He can't tell her. He can't, he can't, because that's not rational but since when has he been rational? He's goddamn losing it. Everything's spilling out after he put so much effort into holding everything in, and now he's unleashing all those bottled-up feelings like one hell of a Molotov.

"I want to know what's making you hurt yourself." She's already good at staying calm in charged situations, but with her mind settled as it is, steadiness is effortless. Everything is sorted into its base components. This stranger isn't well. She wants to help him. And the first step is figuring out what's making him try to bust up his own hand.

"You might be surprised what I can understand. Why don't you try me."

"Don't you know?" he says, faux-brightly. "If I tell you, I'd have to kill you!"

He wishes to god he was joking. He wishes he could claw this all out. He wishes he couldn't feel anything. That was better. He needs to turn it all off. Why can't he turn it off? Why can't he do anything right?

He looks at his hands, the knuckles blistered and bleeding. Yeah. He deserves that. He deserved to get a shiv in the stomach, too. Problem is, he has to make sure his work here is finished, first. Can't go carving up his own throat until he knows it's safe.

". . . okay then. You're trying to break your hand for secret agent reasons."

Maxine doesn't take the statement entirely seriously, as far as ambiguous maybe-threats go, but she doesn't completely disregard it either. It means she doesn't try to move closer, doesn't move back, just crosses her arms and looks at him levelly.

He didn't want to kill them. He doesn't want to kill her. She's not taking him seriously, and that's fine. That's better. It means maybe he can chase her off.

Or maybe he'll have to kill her too. He doesn't want to.

"Does it matter?" he snaps. "What do you care? You don't. You shouldn't."

"I'm a doctor." Even when she's been worn down to practically nothing, too tired or beaten-down to think straight, she's a doctor. Caring isn't a feeling, anymore, so much as a habit. "So actually, yes, I should."

Another ragged laugh rips its way out of his throat. Golly, gee, he just keeps running into doctors so eager to fix him, doesn't he?

"Think you can fix me, Doc?" he sneers. "Think there's anything worth fixing in here?"

There's such a delirious rush of power in getting to say all this shit aloud after clenching it tight for so long. He doesn't care! He can't care! He can do, and say, whatever he goddamn well pleases!

"I have no idea. But I made a promise to try to help."

She gives his hands a nod with her chin, unphased as she holds his gaze.

"As for whether there's anything worth helping?" And this - this is where she's better like this. Cooler head. Clearer thoughts. "That's not my call to make. All I can give you is medical advice. And common sense advice, like the fact that while slamming your hand into the wall might feel right, or even good, it helps literally nothing."

"You can't." That's the long and short of it. He grins, a savage, mirthless flash of teeth verging on the deranged. "Nobody here can."

How do you fix someone who had the core of their brain fucking eviscerated by a faceless horror, who brained people over the heads with a piece of rebar and left them to die. How do you fix someone who knows he has to die?

"How 'bout this, Doc?" He hardly knows what he's saying anymore, just letting the words run their course out of his chest cavity. "How 'bout you clear outta here, and I'll stop making the walls my personal punching bags. Will that make you happy?"

It's not ideal. Not even close. But what's ideal and what's possible aren't always even close, and she nods after a pensive moment, sighing.

"If you change your mind, you can find me in the clinic." She steps back, lifting her hand in a mild farewell. "Dr. Maxine Myers. Take care."

"The clinic?" He laughs again, high and crazed. "Are you serious? Last time I went there one of your nurses tried to taze me."

That was today, actually. He was remarkably steadfast throughout the ordeal, but he can't figure out how to switch himself off and refocus on the tasks at hand. He's a wreck. A murderous, crumbling wreck.

"One of- what?" She blinks, not even sure how to parse that. "Not my nurse, but that's . . . huh."

It's something. Wrong. Out of place.

"Let me look into it. In the meantime - room forty, first floor. All right?"

"Next time I feel like getting assaulted, I'll give you a ring," he retorts dryly. He's not overly inclined to trust doctors or nurses or anyone of the medical persuasion just now.

Everyone wants to fucking fix him. Too bad they don't realize there's nothing to be fixed.

who have i become? i'm still old enough to die young [open]

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