+ some wonderlands are kind

[Mark's filming himself again, in a quiet corner of the library. He makes an effort to look at the camera head-on--to project trustworthiness--but his tone is quite subdued, all the same.]

'Evening.

I--ah--I know this is coming a bit late to help with everything that's happened. I'm truly sorry about that. But I'd appreciate a minute or two of everyone's time, all the same.

We all know events--or crashes, I guess--draw on aspects of our memories, or our worlds. Often the worst of them. The network is a wonderful tool for warning people, if one of us recognizes something familiar, but sometimes people don't hear in time, or are cut off. So. A while back, Souji and I hit upon the idea of collecting everyone's speculations about what dangers we might bring with us from our worlds, and putting it somewhere everyone could access it.

[Adding it to the network database, say, or the notebooks, although he's not going to mention that publicly.]

For instance, I came here from an underwater ruin full of superhuman madmen. [He winces a little as he says it. It's been years now, and it still sounds crazy, especially in brief like that.] I'm currently recording everything I can remember of the place, and when I'm done I'll put the file on the network.

I'm happy to talk now, or anytime. But if you want to write something up and share it anonymously, I've got a low-tech solution here. [He gestures at a heavy metal lockbox sitting on the table beside him.]

You can leave whatever you want here, and I'll come back for it later. Or just slip it under my door. I'm in room three, second floor. And I promise not to trace you.

[He's picked up some momentum and confidence--projects have that effect on him--but here he falters again.]

At the moment I've got no way of knowing whether what winds up here is trustworthy. I'm all right with that--I'd rather have a mass of information with some flaws than nothing at all--but I'd welcome suggestions to...streamline this. If anyone has them.

Thanks, everyone. Please be safe.

On the second night of the event Mark is crouched against the far wall of his room, waiting for the midnight broadcast. He knows instinctively that this will lead to nothing good, but the promise of seeing Cindy again--even another blurry silhouette--has overridden good sense.

He watches the broadcast quietly at first, mesmerized by the clear picture. His heart knots--purely metaphorically--at how thin she is, at her dirty feet and yellow eyes, but it doesn't frighten him anymore. This is what he's permitted, he'll accept it gladly.

That's before the muttering starts, cracked, coaxing voices asking her to slow down, don't be selfish, share some ADAM sweetheart--Mark doesn't need to hear this. He surges to his feet and fumbles at the television controls to no avail, clenches armored fists and pounds on what should be flimsy wood and electronics but most definitely is not. The broadcast continues. Mark makes a strangled, animal noise.

Onscreen a twisted figure drops from the ceiling, something sharp and glinting in either hand. Cindy shrieks, starts to run; the screen goes dark, and immediately shatters, yanked from the wall and thrown to the ground.

The sounds Mark makes as he takes his room apart are audible a few doors down in any direction: splintering wood; crash of broken class; metallic thuds and clangs. It'll be worst for his downstairs neighbor, whose ceiling might suffer some structural damage before Mark gets ahold of himself.

When he's done he stalks out into the hallway, tall and broad enough in his makeshift armor to fill the space. He leaves his door open, hanging awkwardly from one hinge.The cameras catch him on his way outside, but he won't respond to network calls. In fact, beyond the unavoidable heavy footsteps, he's eerily quiet.

((Interested parties can intercept Mark in person or explore the open room after all the ruckus. Just specify for me in the response or subject line!))

At first there’s nothing but darkness and crashing waves. Then low, speaker-buzzing groaning. Too deep. Unsettling. Inhuman.

But this isn’t right, is it? This isn’t a person.

There’s a howl of static: a badly played theremin, a radio clumsily tuned. The pitch of the voice rises, grows hoarse and pained.

Better.

More tuning. The sufferer takes a deep breath--and promptly chokes on seawater.

There’s quite a lot of panicked and undignified splashing after that, during which the broadcasting device tumbles into the breakers.

The camera view eventually clears to reveal a gently swaying view of the night sky--and the sound of retching.

On the beach, Mark Meltzer sits stiffly back on his heels and wipes his mouth. He’s very cold and very wet, and there are some distressing blank spots in his immediate memory. But he remembers Cindy. She was right there, he’d held her--and she needed help, needed a cure that for all he knew might not exist. Everything else can wait--he’s got to find her.

He jerks to his feet and manages a few long, purposeful strides along the shoreline before he comes across the comm device, bobbing in the incoming tide. He blinks at it. Scoops it up.

“Oh.” Realization. One or two of those blank spots jar into focus. Anger, fear, loss. “Oh, no.”

He could--should--call for help, find out who’s still out there, how long he’s been gone, get back to work. Instead he folds slowly forwards, arms wrapped tight around his ribs, and starts to cry.