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

Entry tags:

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Damon doesn't know how long it was he was missing only that someone had noticed him gone and put up a network post about it yesterday, and he'd responded to it.

"It's probably been around a week," he says with a light shrug since that was about how long it was for Bonnie, and it seems like the timing is relatively the same? He's not... really sure. "That's the usual when it comes to people being sent back to where they're from. That's what happened to you, right?"

He can only guess. He definitely seems different, more on edge, which is saying something. Wonderland gives a person plenty of reason to be on edge all on its own.

"A week," Alex repeats, eyes blinking shut briefly. God. A week. Really? A week? What kind of day-to-minute ratio does that leave him with? He'd lost track of the days at some point, he always does, they spin ever out of control and he'd still wake up with weeks and months straight-up carved out of his head, but if he does his math right - and there's no guarantee here that he has - he comes up with -

"Four years," he says with a careful, measured evenness. Perfectly controlled. "Roughly. And that counts for nothing there."

Huh.

Interesting.

Damon makes a face immediately when Alex says four years. Four fucking years? Four years in Mystic Falls is like four hundred. Like hell would he want to be sent back there for that long, it's clear he's unsettled by the thought, and Damon isn't easily unsettled.

"...counts for nothing how?"

Because usually time counts for something.

Somewhere. Damon doesn't know anything about Alex's world, only that Max mentioned he was 'secretive'.

"Nothing's changed. It's like I wasn't gone at all." He sounds calm enough. Maybe he's too tired at this point, to allow a little thing like that to surprise him. He's lost time before. Too much of it. Even more now that he's back again.

He shakes his head, externally quite impassive to the whole thing. And internally - well, internally he feels just as dispassionate. He'd consider that curious, but he doesn't really care.

"Weird," he says, as if commenting on the weather. "So what's happened in the meantime?"

It's a deceptive amount of calm, but Damon doesn't question it. His gaze remains on Alex then as he says it's like he wasn't gone at all. "A week isn't much time," he says in a low voice with a shrug. The truth is a week is long enough for the apocalypse to happen, for the whole world to shatter.

There's a pause at the question before Damon shrugs.

"Not much."

Gender switches had really no meaning to Damon given he's as old as he is and gender tends to matter less the older one gets at least in Damon's experience.

"Wonderland being Wonderland."

"Yeah." The word tastes like ash. Civility in general tastes odd, different, like an abstract thing he can't put his finger on. Maybe that's just his life now.

He tucks the gun away at last, shaking his head. Wouldn't make a difference anyway. It helped him feel marginally more secure to have it on hand, but there's little point. He wasn't ever secure, not even when he thought he was. That thing was still out there.

He's fucked either way.

He should say something else, something blandly conversational like, "good to see you," or, "what a day, huh," but the words don't come to mind.

So instead he turns and starts stumping his way back to the mansion, his movements stiff and weary. "What're you doing out here? Can vampires even step outside when it's sunny?"

Damon isn't into bland conversation anyway as he saunters after him without seeming to care about the lack of social niceties. He mostly finds that bullshit is useful for charming the socks out of those he needs to charm, but other than that, it's annoyingly useless.

"Don't believe everything you read in vampire fiction," he says, and granted, he would fry out in the sun if not for the daylight ring on his finger, but he knows holy water has absolute zero meaning in his world, same with crosses. He's immune to both despite fiction saying otherwise. "There are ways to get around it at least where I'm from. I'm not the only vampire in the mansion."

And some vampires aren't from his world so they could have their own fancy tricks up their sleeves and weaknesses which he doesn't know about.

"What am I supposed to think? Didn't come with a manual." It's honestly for the best that Alex is on relatively good terms with all two of the vampires he knows. He's got his hands full enough with the shit he does regularly. He doesn't want to tackle supernatural entities on top of it. Not those particular supernatural entities, anyway. He's only got the one.

"And yeah, I know. I've met Angel. Worked for him." He wonders briefly if that "job" (he uses the term extremely loosely) still stands for him. It's probable that it doesn't. It's equally probable that Alex no longer cares.

"You can think whatever you want, but where I'm from, most of that stuff's garbage," Damon says with a light shrug as he walks behind him, glancing at him quietly, curiously. "...huh. Mc-Hero-Hair really does spread that around like wildfire, doesn't he?"

Angel had told Damon that he tends to open up with the I'm a vampire thing, because it aids in trust, which seems strange. It also seems to work in this place likely where there are any number of people and creatures living in it. It means working on a whole different strategy.

"So... glad to be back? I mean, you look like shit so I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark here."

Mc-Hero-Hair might've garnered a laugh from Alex, if he still had a sense of humor. As it is, he simply shrugs. It benefits him if people are open about who and what they are, so he has nothing to complain about.

"Better than where I was," he says dully, and it bubbles up like reflex. Hilarious. Or maybe once it would've been. Like he said, the sense of humor got carved out of him along with most of his humanity. That's the price he pays for being dogged by that thing for every waking second. But that's Jay's fault. He shouldn't have stuck his neck in where it wasn't wanted.

"Turns out being strangled really sucks."

Damon tilts his head to the side with a light shrug at that, because after almost 200 years, he has been on both sides of strangling. He's been strangled. He's strangled someone else (mostly he's on the side of strangling someone else).

"That's saying something about where you were," he says, glancing at him carefully. He's changed. Damon can tell that much very easily. He's... less stable, more on edge. It makes him more dangerous to people, people like Elena. "Yeah, it sucks. So who the hell was strangling you?

"A freak in a mask." He gestures vaguely at his neck, the ring of purplish bruises that are altogether far too stark. But he doesn't care. It doesn't matter, and he doesn't care. "Guy from back home. Thought I took care of him but - apparently not. Apparently breaking a guy's leg isn't enough to keep him down."

What are you doing.

You can't tell people this shit. You can't tell people any of it. But he's not touching on the specifics, just the bare bones, so - so what's it matter, anyway?

Damon catches sight of those bruises, and he makes a face at the sight of them without saying much more. "Sounds like someone very intent on doing whatever the hell he wanted."

Broken legs usually do the trick especially on people who are human. It puts them down on the ground in the pain of it.

"Must have thought he had a real good reason to strangle you."

"Apparently." He sounds droll, dry, disinterested. Whatever grievances Tim had with him, it wouldn't matter. Tim was just a pawn in a much bigger game, and Alex should've watched his fucking back, and he should've made damn sure that he'd well and truly put him the ground when he did.

But some of these people are - god, they're like roaches. Nothing keeps them down for long, and he keeps messing up and he can't afford to.

"He wasn't even supposed to be there," Alex scoffs coldly. "I told him to stay clear."

If by "telling him to stay clear" Alex means, "I broke his leg and figured that'd keep him off my damn back for a little while," then yes, he did exactly that.

Damon's gaze narrows at him as he speaks. He turns slightly to look at him along the way, and there's something- The predator has been brought out. His teeth are sharper for a moment, sharing it as his gaze drags over Alex.

"He didn't listen."

His voice is low.

"Clearly."

There's a glint of something, and it would tingle down Alex's spine if he weren't so grayed-out and empty and worn. But he doesn't flinch. He simply looks, unflinching. Trying to discern what emotion he should be reading from this.

It's difficult to tell.

"No," Alex says simply, "he didn't. A lotta people ended up sticking their necks in where they weren't wanted. Things were going fine up until then."

Great, even. He had Amy, he had a place with her, he had...

He cuts the thought off, viciously. No point in dwelling. It's all gone and dead and burned now. That was the price he paid.

Damon looks carefully at Alex then as if he can see how grayed-out, how empty, how worn. Usually, there are reactions, but there aren't any now. That means something too, and Damon doesn't know what it means.

"Yeah, people have a tendency to stick their necks in where they aren't wanted. They're annoying like that," he says after a moment in a low voice, but it's true. "At least you're away from all that now, right?"

Even if it seems to live inside of him just the same-

Can anyone really escape their own world even in a place like this that seems to be in-between? He doesn't have Stefan here being a ripper, but there's Klaus, but there's Damon still being Damon ruining everything he touches regardless of where he is or what he is touching.

"I thought I was." His hands flex unconsciously, an arrhythmic spasm of fingers clenching into fists and uncurling again. "But it's been here before, the thing that - caused all this. It's been here, and it's - "

He snaps his mouth shut. Shut up, Kralie. Shut up. Unlike damn near everyone in this mansion, he actually gives a shit about Damon most of the time. Most of the time.

Another attachment. Another bridge that'd doubtless be better off burned. Thing is, he can't afford to burn a bridge that might bring him down with it. Not when so much is still required of him. Jay's still out there, and Jessica - he has to keep going, for their sake. To put their bodies in the ground and ensure this never happens again.

Damon shakes his head. If it's been here before, it could be here again, and he needs to know so he can be prepared for it (so he can protect Elena from it, so he can fight against it). Alex is one of the few friends that Damon has in this place even if he's incapable of putting such a label on it because what would that say about him?

"What is it?"

He turns to him then, moving until he is in front of Alex.

"What the hell is chasing you?"

And why?

and how do they stop it when it's here? If it comes back.

His teeth grit painfully as Alex grinds to a halt, stopping dead in his tracks, trying to stare past Damon and failing. He's stonewalling him, figuratively and literally. People keep asking that. Of course they would, because he's not exercising the proper discretion and - fuck. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck Jay especially, for bringing this crashing back down over him. He was free. He was out, and Jay had to go and ruin it.

"Don't ask me that," he ratchets out, the words clipped and broken off sharply at the consonants. "Never ask me that."

He's being infuriatingly cryptic, isn't he.

Better that than too forthcoming.

"The more people I tell," he adds, as if it takes a great effort to continue speaking, "the more chance it has of getting out. Okay?"

Damon stops in front of Alex. His gaze narrows then as he tries to figure out what the hell he's even talking about. He can't. This is beyond Damon levels of knowledge since his world's supernatural is its own beast, and he can't warp his head around what Alex is talking about.

"Well, too bad. Because I asked."

He doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. If it has the chance of making it here again, Damon wants to stop it.

He wants to know.

"It has a chance of getting out no matter who you tell though, right? I want to know what the hell I can expect. I'm a vampire, Alex."

It's not like he is going to easily be fucked over by some other supernatural thing. He's already dead.

Oh, great. Another fucking detective bent on unearthing Alex Kralie's Greatest Mysteries. Alex narrows his eyes. He's treading on thin ice. If he doesn't give Damon what he wants -

Well. The end result may be a touch bloody.

If he does? The end result will still be bloody. He can't win.

Story of his goddamn life.

"Doesn't matter," he says harshly. "It doesn't matter if you're a vampire, or what. It's not your body this thing messes with, it's your brain. Dying's the only thing that stops it."

And lucky Damon, looks like that little easy way out is off the table.

Damon narrows his gaze. He's not much of a detective unless something directly threatens or affects him ~~or Elena~~ in some way. This seems like it has that possibility, but it's not like he can say he has any idea what Alex is talking about.

He wonders if his own ability to compel might protect him from it, but it's not a chance he really wants to take either.

"So what the hell does it want? Just to screw with your head... Is that why you're so..."

He waves a vague hand in Alex's direction. Paranoid, messy, it's hard to say what Damon means.

So what. So beyond help? He doesn't need a broody vampire to point that out. He was doomed the moment he stepped outside and his camera fixated on a distant point on the horizon and the screen tore in two.

His jaw sets as he weighs how much he's willing to discuss openly.

"I don't know," he says at last, trying not to feel sullen as he snaps it out. "I don't know what it wants. I just know that it showing up is never good. Not for anyone. It gets in your head and it spreads."

Well, Damon wouldn't have put it that dramatically. Alex just seems very on edge, very paranoid, very shoot-first-ask-questions-later. He can't read everything off of him, but he can tell.

"Okay." He lifts up his hands in acquiescence. "Obviously, I don't want freaky mind shit to spread so no more questions."

He's really no detective. "You might want a drink or something though. You're back in Wonderland."

For whatever that's worth.

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