Log: Completed

[unbewildered.livejournal.com]

When; Evening of May 12th
Rating; PG
Characters; unbewildered and impolitical
Summary&Notes; conversation with inflore triggers a reaction from Evelynne, who goes out on a quote-unquote "manhunt." informal tagging; mostly dialogue with prose introduction.
Log;


About two weeks of searching the city for one of those convenient neon-green exit signs she had grown accustomed to back home had done no good for Evelynne. For one thing, she still hadn't found an exit. For another, it certainly wasn't doing her any good in looking for--

Well, maybe he wasn't here. In which case, she could probably run a good night of looking before going back to midnight building, eleven minutes in--to a bed she had grown a little bit too comfortable with in the past two weeks. It would be as easy as that. And then it would be back to frustrating hours of wandering the city because lately, that was all she ever did, checking every last door in the vague and useless hope that it would lead her somewhere that wasn't here, wasn't this hellhole of an existence where there were switches to turn off guys and girls and lights and sounds.

If there was anything she could beg for at this point, it was normalcy. Normalcy. But right now, she had more pressing matters on mind.

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[impolitical.livejournal.com]

A few hours. Any minute now, someone would be ringing in on the cell phone, telling him that it was all some really silly mistake. The worst mistake he had ever witnessed in the entirety of his life, but one that could be rectified.

At least, they had better rectify it. Because a few hours had been enough to witness sights that he knew were impossible: lights flickering off and the sensation of a man speaking from everywhere and right behind at once (a search? for whom?), fountains shooting water into the air and raining down images of a life only a few years short of three decades, people wandering who seemed restlessly content in a circus of a world.

It was bad enough that it had been an elevator mistake, but he held out on the hope that he was still in his right mind, and it was some sick joke. A convoluted, very expensive joke.

A few hours. Still too long for him to stand around waiting. He had immediately checked his belongings (all accounted for), turned on the laptop (wireless? without kinks? this was almost more unreal than this, that, and the other thing), and searched out somewhere to at least sit down and wait for the joke to end.

It wasn't ending. And the café bustled with people, people laughing and dreaming and talking about home, and a slightly sick feeling twisted his mind at the thought that this might not be a joke. He had to admit that it was a far-fetched idea, but one could always hope. And hope he did, even though he looked out at the sun setting while thinking about the fact that a few hours ago, when he had stepped into the square, it had been dawn in New York City.