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ilkkavilli_official Desperately trying to reach my destination, a lighthouse, for some urgent reason, I couldn’t remember.

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@miswaken

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

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From Ilkka Villi’s Instagram story, August 4th, 2021.

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@sketchy-panda​

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Alejandro Zambra, Ways of Going Home (translated by Megan McDowell)

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wake up

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wanttohurt·  🔦  DIRECTOR

— < ▼ > Containment breaches happened from time to time. So did accidental visitors. There was protocol for all of it. But not for this precise situation. Wake was spotted on the camera by Central Executive security employees. The mman not even remotely near to the Containment sector, and certainly hadn’t walked in through the front door. His items were, however, tucked away at a remote part Panopticon. The Bright Falls AWE being a rightfully so a confusing mess… Regardless, spotting the one man walking around without an uniform mid work hours, wasn’t exactly a detective work. He stood out like a sore thumb, being spotted nearly immediately, which meant it was on Trench’s desk before he even managed to finish unpacking his Black Pyramid carton. 

                The director sighs, reading over it as he makes his way out of the office and past Barbara’s desk, where he drops the correspondence. She barely acknowledge his exit. Trench isn’t exactly surprised. He walks in a fast pace, not quite a run. Just enough to meet the other halfway to the exit.

                 ❝Mr. Wake!❞ Trench announces, as loud as he can from across the room and doesn’t even pick up his walk into a jog, as he makes his way after him. Despite that, he caught Alan Wake in time. The guards in the area stiffen and look over at the director, awaiting instructions or sign to do anything. Seems they would have left him walk out just like that, unaware that this was a prime candidate they were letting go. Well, possible prime candidate. The rest was left to figure out, but there were high hopes that the writer with the ability to shape the world around him could make a good director.

                ❝I have to ask you not to exit the Oldest House.❞ That request sounded less like a suggestion or offer, definitely having the inserted the director’s authority just enough to leave it as a command. Now, there was a question of whether the other was aware of his surroundings enough to listen to this or if he wanted to risk it. Trench decides to make himself clear. ❝Otherwise we will have no choice but to use force.❞

The  man  who’d  said  his  name  is  unfamiliar  to  him.  It’s  no  surprise.  Alan  tried  not  to  name  his  protagonists  lately.  Names  held  power.  Writing  them  into  a  story  as  vague  notions  rather  than  concrete  was  a  safety  precaution  for  them  more  than  anything.  He  still  remembers  Arizona  and  the  way  Scratch  was  able  to  cause  such  destruction.  But  despite  his  precautions,  he  was  doomed  to  be  a  name  in  someone  else’s  story.  Many  stories.  The  FBC  had  kept  records  of  him  he  supposed,  as  they  did  with  everything  that  could  not  be  reasonably  explained.  He  wonders  about  Thomas  Zane,  thinks  to  ask  before  remembering  where  he  is  and  that  there’s  no  time  for  it.  

The  way  out  is  a  siren  song  he  ignores,  in  favor  of  humoring  whoever  this  was.  Making  enemies  the  moment  he  touched  solid  ground  was  not  the  best  way  forward,  but  it  was  all  he  knew.  There  was  no  trust  in  the  Dark  Place.  No  one  else  to  rely  on  other  than  himself,  which  was  a  shaky  foundation  from  the  start.  Countless  moments  lost  in  his  own  mind,  struggling  to  surface  from  the  riptides  of  insanity.  How  many  times  had  Zane  been  forced  to  pull  him  to  the  surface?  Alan  lost  count.  Stiff  shoulders  loosen  some.  No  longer  on  a  mission  to  hurry  out,  he’s  somewhat  subdued  by  the  realization  that  he  may  need  help.  Alan  looks  up,  meeting  the  other  man’s  gaze  as  he  asks  him  not  to  leave.  One  corner  of  his  lips  twitches  but  doesn’t  quite  form  a  smile.  “Asking  or  telling?”  Alan  asks,  while  knowing  which  it  is.  Snark  had  not  been  lost  in  the  years  since  he’d  vanished.  

“Ah.”  Alan  makes  the  sound  when  ‘force’  is  mentioned.  He  looks  over  his  shoulder,  back  at  the  doors  that  would  let  him  leave  the  building.  It  was  a  way  out.  This  was  his  way  out.  But  this  reality  was  new  to  him.  Even  if  he’d  written  some  of  it  down,  twisting  the  narrative  to  suit  his  purpose,  he  was  still  very  much  in  the  dark.  What  year  was  it?  How  much  did  they  know  about  the  Dark  Presence?  Had  it  followed  him  out  like  it  did  every  other  time  he’d  tried  to  escape?  He  has  no  gun,  no  flashlight,  no  means  of  defense.  Only  the  papers  he’d  typed  ahead  of  time  and  his  mind.  A  mind  that  couldn’t  even  remember  what  he  looked  like.  

He  runs  a  hand  through  his  hair,  the  motion  stiff.  

“You’re  in  charge.”  Alan  knows  of  him,  knows  his  purpose,  but  little  beyond  that.  He  unfolds  one  of  the  papers  in  his  hands,  bright  eyes  skimming  what  he’d  written.  

The  Director  looked  at  me  suspiciously.  The  fluorescent  lighting  cast  harsh  shadows  on  his  face.  I  wouldn’t  make  it  out  of  here  without  his  help,  but  that  didn’t  make  this  any  easier.  Before  I  could  go  and  find  Alice  I  had  to  play  by  the  rules  of  this  organization.  It  was  the  only  way  forward.

“What  do  you  want?”  Alan  asks  as  he  folds  the  paper,  trusting  in  what  he’d  written.  

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fanaiceach·  🔦 hunter

@voidauthor·

      It’s the smell of blood that tips him off first – the ferrous tang of it clinging film-like to the roof of his mouth as it assaults his senses. Human blood. Fresh and vibrant, soured slightly with alcohol – and God knows what else – he can detect even at a distance. He doesn’t need to shift the world into a shadow and ash view to find the scent’s source, instead following the soft but unmistakable noise of pain and the taste of the air alone to the mouth of a nearby alley. Without a second thought he feels the fangs slipping down, crowding against his gums. But it isn’t the blood already shed that piques instinctual interest. 

      No, his crimson prize belongs not to victim, but to assailant. Not an Ekon on this side of the pond, but alike enough in nature to be a sort of cousin. Geoffrey’s seen all types in his travels, met and caught and killed species neither Priwen nor the Brotherhood would have conceived of back in their day. Still, a fair number of their kind orbit around a similar set of principles, similar strengths and weaknesses. 

      Light always reveals them.

      A car passes and that’s all he needs, palms tingling with a familiar burn as he reaches out with invisible intent. Under his care the light shifts in trajectory and makeup, the artificial glow of headlights magnifying to something cleansing in its intensity. The alley lights up as though the passing vehicle is suddenly in possession of blinding high-beams and is about to careen down the narrow passage – when in reality the car continues along the main road, unknowing. Geoffrey feels the burning at the back of his neck, the protestation of skin close to blistering. And he isn’t the only one.

      It lasts for all of a few seconds, no more than the length of a few stuttering heartbeats, but it’s enough. More than enough. The vampire detaches itself from the human’s throat, expressing the unexpected anguish of smoldering skin with a protesting shriek at the same moment the hunter leaps through the shadows – the alley falling back to darkness around him. The jump brings him in close range, enough that the knife he slips from a place beneath his jacket finds immediate purchase between the offending vampire’s ribs. Just because a blade to the heart won’t kill them outright doesn’t mean it won’t slow them down – and make the killing blow easier to achieve.

      “Preying on drunks in the middle of Manhattan hardly requires much finesse – you lot are really losing your touch.”

Alice  had  gone  home  to  see  her  family  for  the  week.  It  had  been  a  long  time  coming,  and  she’d  insisted  on  Alan  coming  along  with  her,  but  they  both  knew  he  couldn’t  make  it.  He  liked  his  in-laws  well  enough,  but  he  needed  to  get  started  on  his  next  book.  Easier  said  than  done  with  how  hard  of  a  time  it  was  to  put  a  single  word  down  let  alone  thousands  of  them.  But  he  did  try  at  least.  On  day  one  he’d  sat  in  front  of  his  laptop  for  the  entirety  of  the  afternoon,  staring  at  a  blank  screen  void  of  any  progress.  The  next  day  he’d  decided  to  try  something  different,  and  after  an  hour  of  zero  progress  he’d  read  some  books,  hoping  to  inspire.  This  made  him  feel  worse  rather  than  better.  

By  day  three  he  had  given  up  on  writing  and  decided  to  go  out  for  the  night  and  drink.  Barry  had  been  needling  him  about  having  something  to  show  the  team.  That  he  only  needed  one  page  from  Alan  and  the  vultures  would  stop  circling,  but  Alan  couldn’t  give  him  a  single  sentence.  Maybe  after  he  drank  himself  into  a  better  state  of  mind,  he’d  be  able  to  write.  

The  nicer  bars  in  Manhattan  were  off  the  table.  Too  many  people  knew  who  he  was  there.  He  had  to  find  a  decent  middle  ground  between  dive  and  swanky.  Thankfully,  he  managed  just  that.  He  got  a  booth  to  himself  in  an  otherwise  fairly  quiet  bar  that  had  some  pre-recorded  boxing  match  playing  on  the  television  screens.  Whiskey  was  his  drink  of  choice,  and  Alan  makes  sure  he  doesn’t  drink  too  much  to  keep  him  from  getting  home  safely.  Just  enough  to  numb  the  nagging  voice  of  self-doubt.  After  settling  up  his  bill  he  steps  out  of  the  bar  and  onto  the  sidewalk,  sighing  as  he  heads  back  towards  the  street  to  hail  a  taxi.  

Someone  roughly  grabs  him  from  behind,  and  Alan  instinctively  throws  an  elbow  back.  His  assailant  hisses  but  doesn’t  let  go.  Hell  they  laugh  at  his  attempts  to  dislodge  them  before  they  slam  him  against  the  brick  wall.  His  vision  whites  out  for  a  second.

“What  the  hell  do  you  want?”  Alan  asks,  adrenaline  eating  away  the  buzz  he’d  paid  to  get.  

They  don’t  answer.  One  hand  with  nails  like  claws  forces  his  head  to  the  side  and  then  there’s  a  searing  pain  at  his  neck.  Alan  shouts,  driving  a  knee  upward  but  it’s  useless.  A  vampire?  This  was  unfucking  believable.  His  writing  sometimes  had  a  hint  of  the  supernatural  to  it,  especially  his  earlier  works  back  when  he  was  a  teenager,  but  to  think  that  a  vampire  was  real?  He’d  of  laughed  if  it  wasn’t  his  blood  being  drank  with  an  enthusiasm  to  rival  a  kid  on  Christmas.  

Bright  light  suddenly  blankets  the  alleyway,  causing  Alan  to  close  his  eyes  against  it.  When  he  opens  them,  the  creature  had  let  go,  claws  retracted  as  smoke  drifted  up  from  its  blistered  skin.  Someone  else  is  there  too,  holding  it  at  bay  as  Alan  watches.  The  vampire  thrashes  and  rakes  its  nails  at  the  other  man,  not  dignifying  his  insult  with  a  remark  as  it  tried  to  turn  its  fangs  on  him  instead.  How  drunk  was  he?  Apparently  drunk  enough  to  have  not  even  seen  this  guy  move  to  get  in  as  close  as  he  had.  Too  drunk  to  realize  the  danger  he  was  in  when  he  stepped  foot  outside  of  the  bar.  

The  vampire  did  not  stand  a  chance  against  a  hunter  such  as  Geoffrey,  barely  able  to  lay  a  scratch  on  him  before  being  disposed  of.  Alan  presses  himself  flat  against  the  brick,  addled  mind  trying  to  catch  up  with  what  he’d  witnessed.  

“What  the  fuck.”  

[voidauthor]

Adonis, Selected Poems; “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea” (tr. Khaled Mattawa)

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And now to see your love set free You will need the witch’s cabin key Find the lady of the light gone mad with the night That’s how you reshape destiny

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🔦 starter for @wanttohurt

There   already   existed   an   entity   that   he   could   take   advantage   of   ––   a   product   of   the   darkness   that   humankind   kept   struggling   to   try   and   understand.   What   they   didn’t   know   was   that   there   was   no   logic   there,   no   deeper   meaning   or   underlying   sense   to   it.   Only   madness,   pain   and   a   distinct   loss   of   self.   Alan   had   no   way   to   track   time   in   the   dark   place,   and   he’d   long   since   given   up.   All   of   his   energy   was   directed   towards   writing   a   way   out   while   holding   onto   the   strands   of   his   sanity.  

Which   was   where   the   FBC   came   in.   Alan   took   what   he   could,   writing   it   into   a   story   of   his   own   making   that   would   get   him   out.   Small   steps   at   first.   A   change   of   scenery   that   wasn’t   as   drastic   as   the   Arizona   desert.   A   motel   room.   A   switch.   A   door.   The   typewritten   pages   warn   him   about   another   man,   one   that   he   sometimes   talks   with   in   his   room.   He’ll   try   to   change   the   story   and   twist   it   to   his   own   liking,   but   Alan   isn’t   even   sure   he   can   remember   who   that   is   anymore.   Nonetheless   he   has   to   push   past   that   barrier,   and   focus   on   the   beacon   of   light   in   his   mind.   The   way   out   that   he   found   himself   barely   grasping   onto.  

A   familiar   voice   speaks   at   his   back,   whispering   discouragement   as   his   fingers   wrap   around   a   doorknob.   He   ignores   the   pessimism,   the   words   of   doubt,   and   twists   the   knob.   What   had   once   been   a   locked,   impossible   barrier   to   his   freedom,   was   now   opening,   and   as   he   stepped   through   and   into   an   unfamiliar,   white   hallway,   he   finds   himself   wondering   just   how   this   story   was   going   to   turn   out.  

Alan   had   learned   from   his   previous   mistakes,   although   they   tended   to   blur,   he   remembered   the   need   to   keep   the   story   open,   the   words   fluid   and   dynamic   so   he   could   better   adapt   to   any   wrenches   the   darkness   threw   at   him.   He   blinks   against   the   harsh   fluorescent   lighting,   lifting   one   hand   to   shield   his   eyes   as   someone   from   down   the   hallway   makes   a   call   over   the   radio.  

A   man   had   just   stepped   out   of   a   door   that   hadn’t   been   there   moments   before,   into   the   Oldest   Building,   with   sheets   of   crumpled   paper   clenched   in   one   hand.  

He   feels   like   he’s   drowning   still,   but   he   pushes   forward,   intent   on   finding   the   way   out   of   the   FBC   and   into   the   city.   He   needs   to   see   Alice,   he   has   to   find   her.   Make   sure   his   doppelganger   hadn’t   done   any   more   damage   already.   The   kind   of   exhaustion   that   permeates   his   soul   cannot   be   described.   He   turns,   and   walks,   determined   to   make   this   ending   be   the   final   one.   He   ignores   those   he   passes   by,   a   few   trying   to   get   his   attention   but   none   seem   willing   to   intervene   or   interact   with   the   newcomer.   It’s   not   until   someone   says   his   name   that   he   pauses.  

The   typewriter.   The   thermoses.   All   that   remained   of   Alan   Wake’s   legacy   from   Bright   Falls.   Notes   in   a   bottle   to   wash   up   from   the   lake   and   keep   him   from   being   forgotten   as   Thomas   Zane   had   been.  

“I   don’t   have   time   for   this.”   Frustration   laces   his   voice   as   he   turns   to   face   whoever   has   finally   decided   to   try   and   talk   to   him.

[voidauthor]

Hush (2016) dir. Mike Flanagan

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Something is going on inside my head lord, Something is going on inside my head lord…

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MILES  🔦 walriding​

      He’s been a barely-there passenger for enough of the conversation to know, vaguely, what has transpired between him and it. Between a man he’d once called a friend and the thing holds a claim to every inch of his being. Even now it lingers, waiting and watching, whispering in his skull with things Miles shouldn’t know. But he doesn’t think he needs that sixth layer of sense to get a read on Alan now – to know that something about him is so different he might not even be the same person anymore. 

      By the looks of things, he might not recognize himself as the same person anymore. It’s in the way his fingers card through his hair, as though Miles’ mention of its length sparked some bodily realization he’d been yet to have. As though his hair, his appearance, hasn’t been on his mind for quite some time. Miles can’t exactly relate. He has to sink lower than his lowest before vanity falls by the wayside. The wisps of gray in his curls are as darkly dyed as always, not that signs of age aren’t present elsewhere on his person. That’s less to do with the years themselves and more to do with the trials packed within them. The dark circles under his eyes are ever-present, along with the slightly ashen undertone to his skin. At any given time Miles looks like he’s a few stumbling steps away from an open grave.

      And yet with all of that  – his appearance, his backseat presence in his own body, his obvious attachment to something infernal – Alan’s question has the reporter hitching his eyebrows up to his hairline, almost incredulous. His hand drops away from his nose, the bleeding staunched but the remnants of the flow of it still tacky on his face, and he looks at Alan like the query has caused personal offense.

      “What the hell happened to me? How about what the hell happened to you?” He shifts slightly, turning to face Alan head on again from where the other man had taken to observing at an angle. Reality is sinking in all at once, and the reporter can’t help but sounding a little upset. This is Alan Wake. His friend. His friend who’s been gone for a decade.  “You go on vacation, you fucking die, and now – now you’re just. Here. Asking what the hell happened to me.”

       Not that Miles has much of a right to talk. Pot meet kettle.

      “People keep claiming they’ve seen you, like… like you’re a goddamn Bigfoot sighting. Christ, Alan, where the fuck have you been?” A sobering thought settles in, then – is this really Alan? Something in Miles’ expression falters at the notion, turning his features from upset to uncertainty. “Are you Alan?” He’s never been anything if not direct.

Reading other people had always been a pastime of Alan’s in the past, long before he’d met Alice and much longer before he’d dove headfirst into Cauldron Lake. Now, he feels as though he has to learn how to read again; how to make sense of the arrangement of letters before him. It takes him far too long to realize the way Miles’ face shifts. An expression that warns of what’s to come, but Alan has no frame of reference to prepare him for the way Miles turns the question around on him. A divot etches its way between his brows and he looks confused, then offended before he understands some of what he’s asking. “I know, I know I was gone. It was the only way to make things right again.” Softly, to himself more than Miles he mumbles, “To save Alice.” Sometimes he forgot about her, which made remembering all the more disturbing. That he could forget about his wife, his reason for doing what he did .  .  . but even now he couldn’t remember the way she looked. Much like he didn’t remember Miles’ until he was face to face once more.

His eyes snap back up to Miles when he talks about vacation – Night Springs, no Arizona, no. Bright Falls. Wait – “What?” Alan perks up at the mention of death, brows further furrowing. “No I didn’t, I never died.” Though there were times when he wished he had. Moments of sanity lost to the darkness and very nearly entirely wiped away before he finally wrote a way out that wouldn’t undo all his years of suffering, or the ‘happy’ ending he’d given Bright Falls.

“You had a fucking being of darkness talking to me through you Upshur. What the hell am I supposed to ask? How’s the weather been?” Some of the old Alan slips through for a moment, clarity like a strike of lightning allowing for his wit to step forward, a clear mind allowing him some form of brevity before the fog of darkness creeps in at the edge of his thoughts once more when Miles talks of sightings.

“No.” It’s a hushed word of fear and Alan reaches into his jacket, searching the interior pockets until he finds the folded-up pieces of paper. Notes written down for himself so he could remember. His hands tremble slightly as he looks over the words, the reminder that He was out there. Alice. His head snaps up, and he glares at Miles, “Of course I’m me. You’d know if it wasn’t me.” He speaks in a rush, “Where was he last seen? That son of a bitch. If he touched Alice I’m going to shove a goddamned floodlight into his –” Alan cuts himself off, realizes the tangent he’d gone on and he flinches. “What .  .  . What year is it Miles?”

He has to gather his thoughts, has to come up with a plan of some sort. It can’t be a repeat of Arizona. Has to be better. Get rid of Scratch once and for all. But if he were out of the Dark Place then could he write still? Should he? Alan stuffs the notes back into his pocket and from another takes out a torn piece of flannel, holding it out for Miles so he can wipe off the remaining blackness that had dripped from his eyes and nose like a leaky faucet.

“I’m me Miles, I’m Alan Wake. I know it sounds  – I sound crazy, but I .  .  . I’m trying to remember.” His voice wobbles near the end as he fights the shroud of darkness that hangs over his memories.

[voidauthor]

WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER ARC?

tragic hero arc

we all know how this story goes. when it began, you were almost the perfect hero, but almost is never enough. you lacked introspection, or you were too stubborn or vengeful or reckless - as reckless as the world that helped to ruin you. you were not perfect, and that's okay. we knew the story ended in blood and we watched it anyway. we knew you would die in the end and we still couldn't help but love you, just a little bit. at the very least, you are more human than a hero could ever be.

tagged by: @walriding , bless :’)

tagging: i only follow like two people here and one is moss so  if you see this consider it a tag!

[voidauthor]

MILES 🔦 walriding​

      Reigns are not so easily relinquished. Perpetuating one’s existence is a necessity for any living creature – and, like it or not, its attachment to a living Host puts it in that category. It doesn’t often need to override Miles’ will completely. Usually all aspects of their being are in accordance when it comes to calling upon the Swarm’s strength. As the years have passed the reporter has grown less reluctant to rely on it. But there are times when he slips, when the fragile nature of a very human subconscious that’s been worn to fraying at the edges cannot hold itself against the constant thrumming onslaught. It is nothing if not a creature of opportunity – and when his entire being falters, it is quick to step to the helm.

      But only once had it truly quashed his will and taken overly completely. Those first few seconds on the floor of the underground lab, when Miles hadn’t been aware enough to understand what was happening. It had risen like a vengeful tide inside of him, almost high off of the panic fear pain of its newest Hosts, and the dying ember’s of the Hope boy’s perpetual rage. Granted, Miles had caught on quickly, and was all too amendable to the idea of tearing the ones that killed him to pieces – but for a moment, all the Walrider needed was his safety, and it would have stopped at nothing to ensure it.

       Its grip on Miles now is not enough to smother him entirely, but looking at Alan Wake it considers it. His nature, unbeknownst to him though it may be, could pose a danger. And it will not fail its Host so willingly. But Miles is there, a pressure mounting in his own skull, and Wake is… presumably nothing that it cannot handle.

      “Always under the skin,” it confirms. A less than subtle threat, if anything. It will be watching. And then all at once the air stills, and somehow the silence manages to be just as deafening as the all-consuming static. The reporter’s body seems to sag, and he makes a low noise of pain. There’s a wetness caught in his lashes as he blinks – not unlike tears, but thick and bloody and black. A few escape down his cheek, less of a problem than the tarry nosebleed that he curses and attempts to staunch with the back of his hand only after a few viscous droplets make it to his collar.

      “Ruined another goddamn shirt.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming for a long time and only just thought to stop. It isn’t immediately clear if he’s aware of Alan’s presence – at least, not until he glances up, expression triangulated somewhere between apologetic and confused and relieved.

      “Alan–” his hand is still pressed up against his nose, and he’s afraid to lower it and worsen the impression he’s already given. Miles is at a loss for words, notable for how rare an occurrence it is. The gun in the writer’s grip doesn’t escape his notice, and the reporter swallows thickly. He’s been shot enough for a lifetime. And with that something seems to click – the absurdity, the improbability of it all. Where the fuck have you been? is what he wants to say. What the fuck is going on? makes for a close second. So much has transpired but Miles is still mostly Miles and Alan still looks like he’s mostly Alan, and that’s his friend, what the hell, and where the actual fuck have you been asshole and–

      “–you need a fucking haircut.”

There is an undercurrent between them, drawing Alan in and then pushing him away. Like the ebb and flow of the ocean’s waves. The anchor that rests at the center of his chest keeps him from drifting too close to this Other being of darkness, but there’s certainly a draw there. A similarity to what he’d experienced before and a twisted sort of comfort in knowing the unknown. As much as there may be a draw, there is a repulsion of magnets as well. Distance is needed. He’s still uncertain about where he is, how he has managed to get there, and most importantly how long it had been. Perhaps the draw is Miles and not the thing that speaks through him.

A twitch of his eyes, narrowing when it confirms that it will linger. Always. Alan tenses, jaw locked up, tightly grit as he watches the changes come over his former friend. The pained sound that escapes the journalist has Alan sliding the flashlight into the pocket of his jacket. The gun’s safety is reengaged and he slides it out of view as well, but not out of reach. Alan takes note of everything. The blackness that leaks from his eyes, the same blackness that drips from his nose and collects above his lip. He tilts his head, disturbed and concerned at the same time.

When he speaks, it lacks the distance of the Other. Miles sounds like Miles, but he’s not the same as the one Alan thinks he remembers. The author stares much as he did before, not making the first move and instead taking a sidestep to get a different angle on the situation. When their eyes meet, he goes still, head tilting a little further when Miles says his name.

“Upshur…” He returns the greeting, uncertain of how to hold a normal conversation now that he might be facing someone who he knew before. Even if he was different – dead but not gone – there was a past between them. A shared history that he was going to struggle to recall. Alan hunches a little, his posture worse and somewhat lower, not quite on Miles’ level, but closer. He blinks in surprise when Alan comments on his hair. One hand drifts upwards, fingers running through it.

It’s a lot longer than he remembered it being. He did need a haircut.

The comment is innocuous, but it makes the author realize something.

He doesn’t remember what he looks like.

Alan stares at Miles without seeing him. A dark void wherein he goes somewhere else for a moment, mouth opening slightly as though he were trying to say something but couldn’t wrap his lips around the words. 

“I guess so.” He finally mumbles. There’s a sense of wonder in the normalcy of needing a haircut, with a touch of despair when he tries to picture his own face.

A ceaseless light, something blinding where facial features should be.

“What the hell happened to you Miles?” Alan asks, disregarding his own alarming situation, eyes flicking back towards Miles.

[voidauthor]

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Alan Wake’s American Nightmare - Developer Diary No. 3