The Failed Loop [Alan Wake/Alice Wake]
Within the shortest measure of time ever thought of, Alan feels the Dark Place shift beneath his hand. It’s a little shudder, barely perceptible—yet mesmerizing during the moments he can still remember.
Blood underneath nails and soaked into his undone suit will be more temporary than the headache from the previous return.
But this one he can tell: it’s a failed loop.
Between bruises are spots the size of many fingertips, scattered over the places he had been touched. Some ghosts around his forearms, some are dullness eating his skin away, and all are remarks of carelessness. Alan’s feet don't stand him any longer. His eyes tire at the vaguest light above his head. They call him—Wake, Wake, Wake—and Alan has almost answered one. Almost. What if he wanted to give in? His hair has grown so much. This place pulls him deeper through establishments he recalls and forgets at the same time. It drags him bloody and tired and cuts his inspiration in half, only to resprout in doubles he must bleed again to make sense. He doesn’t even know if there is a key out. Doesn’t even know if they lie. Rain falls, dripping over his head, and he wants to give in. Only once. Begs forgiveness.
“Alan.”
His breath is caught, deep and hurting, and he leaves the self-made spiral. Her voice has never escaped the Parliament Tower before. It must mean something, it—it must mean anything. It must be the key out.
Alan stares down to where he has been touched. It would not kill someone who has always been there. He covers himself, gets up, and in the same way he’d heard Alice then, he tries to tolerate the light. The Oceanview Hotel is just ahead.