Alan Wake (alan_wake) wrote in lost_world, @ 2013-12-16 21:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !status: complete, alan wake, clark kent |
So much for that flaming eye of Mordor (Clark)
Waking up in strange places that he couldn't remember writing about or being in had become commonplace. Half the time, he was fighting for his life while during the other half, he was lucky he wasn't curled up on the floor of the cabin while his own psyche did its best to tear him apart. Whether it was a fevered dream or not, Alan didn't really care. Obviously, he could see some of his early references coming to life with the whole medieval, Lord of the Rings thing going on, but the fact that he was there, in the middle of a town, with a bunch of people he didn't even recognize, scared the shit out of him.
The fact that both his pistol and flashlight were missing too didn't make him feel any better. In fact, he wanted to know who the fuck had dressed him and where all of his stuff had even gone. It didn't look like cell phones were all the rage yet, but if they had been, he might've just thrown it at someone out of rage. He'd always enjoyed Back to the Future, but never had he actually wanted to experience any of it.
As he wandered around, he began to notice things too. The men were there, but it seemed like they were outnumbered by the women. That might only have been a perception of his, but with every person he pushed past or bumped into, he saw more women holding weapons. Not many men were on the streets without a female escort of some kind. And while his 21st century New York perspective was more than definitely showing, he couldn't recall anything like this being in the history books. Deciding to try his luck, he tapped the first person - a woman wearing armor - on the arm and frowned. "Excuse me, but would you mind pointing me in the..."
She responded in some kind of old English and none of it sounded friendly. Holding up both hands, Alan just apologized and tried to keep his temper. Whatever kind of nightmare this was...it was definitely different, but he needed to know how many hours of daylight there were and fast.
Yet naturally, he had to back up into what he was supposing was the town's resident brick shithouse based on how he bounced off the man alone. Spinning around, he hoped there wasn't going to be a swinging fist or worse, a swinging sickle or axe. "I didn't mean it," he said wearily. "Just trying to figure out where the tavern is."
Was there a tavern? He hoped he'd used the right words, or else Alan figured he was screwed.