entranceway | ( one; voice )

[Emma has read what information has been made available, she’s walked the grounds and the corridors of some of the mansion’s ground floor, and she’s combed through what public postings she could find to look through on the device she’d found in the pocket opposite of where she kept her own phone. She’s been digging for evidence since she got here, but what she’s found?

She’s not buying it. The message that comes through is voice only, not wanting to reveal her face or her exact location right away-- though she’s pretty damn sure that whoever’s responsible for this is watching her and has a good idea of where she is, if not who.]

Look. I know someone is out there listening.

[She doesn’t know exactly who, but someone.]

This game of yours? I’m not interested. I don’t know how you got me here, or how you set all this up. Maybe it’s some messed-up alternate reality game, but I didn’t opt in for any of this. I don’t care how elaborate it is, or how much work went into it-- my kid is at home waiting for me, and I am not screwing around.

[Her tone is hard, angry rather than anxious, determination winning out over uncertainty.]

‘Wonderland.’ Cute, but I’m not impressed. All I want is for you to point me towards the exit. You can do me a solid and we can do this the easy way-- or we can do it the hard way. Trust me, whatever weird stuff you might be into, I can promise you won’t be happy if we go that route.

[She stays on the line, just to wait for any kind of possible response-- but she doesn’t really know what to expect. This entire thing has her out of her depth, even if she’s not willing to admit it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Depends. You the creep who made this happen?

[She grimaces, unseen.]

Yeah, I read that in the 'tourist's guide' this place provides. That doesn't make it true. Anyone can write whatever they want on a piece of paper or post whatever they feel like on a network.

[That doesn't make it real, or even remotely believable.]

It's not nice to call people names. But no, I'm not. Stuck here, just like you are.

[Not that he sounds like he cares. The owner of the voice pauses, just to take a drag on a cigarette.]

And, sure, anyone can write anything they want to, but how many people do you need to confirm something before you accept it as fact? Empirical evidence is abound, if you're actually open to listening to it.

You don't sound too bothered by it.

[Which is suspicious as all hell.]

There's nothing 'empirical' about a place that claims to be magic. There are a dozen other explanations for why a place like this exists, right now my money is on someone with an endless bank account, nothing better to do and a seriously damaged psyche.

Don't mistake my apparent composure for ease, madam.

[Just for that moment, his tone turns sharp, but the edge fades off as quickly as it rose up.]

Your money would be wrong, on that count. [A pause, then--] The damaged psyche part wouldn't be too far off, though, I suppose. I'd just love to hear your other theories.

Don't call me 'madam.'

[The response is both pointed and immediate.]

I live in New York. You'd be amazed at the kind of shit people do just to mess with other people when they've got the resources.

[The possibilities are endless.]

Right now? I'm not interested in discussing theories, I'm interested in finding my son. I can't trust that he wasn't dragged here, too, whoever might be responsible. If they found me, there's no reason they couldn't have grabbed him, too.

[Oh, you bet he's noting that one away in the back of his mind for later.]

Right, right, the kid. [You humans and your fixation with your offspring. How do you even do it?]

What's his name. What does he look like. Milk carton stuff, really. These things tend to help.

[Her voice remains terse.]

Henry. Twelve years old, almost thirteen. Five-foot-two, dark brown hair.

[Blood type and fingerprints are right out.]

[He pauses for long enough that he might actually be thinking about it.]

I remember a young boy called Henry. Seems overly fond of fairy stories.

[Sound anything like your kid?]

We never personally spoke.

Remember? From when?

[If her son had been to a place like this before, wouldn't she know? It wasn't the sort of thing a parent could just overlook-- but what little he does give her is almost enough to make her hope.]

Mm. [Give him a second. Time stops having too much meaning when you can pass a hundred years asleep and call it a catnap.]

A few months ago. A couple of weeks before Halloween. He was asking about... [Ah-hah.] ... writing stories. Of course.

[That does sound like him, but--]

Before Halloween, he was home with me. He wouldn't have gone anywhere without my knowing.

[It's impossible for him to have been here. The timing doesn't line up, and she's nowhere near ready to start accepting what people have been throwing at her in the last half hour as anything resembling truth. All of this is just crazy.]

Look, thanks for the attempt to help, but--

[It's not enough when she can't even begin to process what she's hearing. Her brain just won't allow it.]

I need to go look for him. I'll walk every square inch of this place if I have to.

[If he's not here, then that's better for him, but she needs to know-- she has to know for sure.]

[She's not really listening, but... that's fine. It's fine, because Crowley doesn't actually care enough to put too much of his energy into convincing her otherwise. There are plenty of other people around here who will do that without him needing to.

So the demon shrugs to himself and makes a sound of agreement.]

Sure. If he's here, he'll have one of these devices, just like you do. Good luck-- [A pause, he checks her name.]

-- Emma.

Thanks.

[It's not all that genuine-sounding, thanks to the panic she's having a hard time keeping beneath the surface, but it's not as hostile as she started out, at least. She won't rest until she knows Henry's safe-- but no amount of luck is going to make that possible.]

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