"The hours are a little erratic," he says. "I don't know if they were planning on being open tonight."
Were planning on, because if so, whatever they're chasing clearly had different plans. He's glad, though; no people around means no bystanders, and hopefully no deaths. (In his head, he thinks of it as "civilian casualties," as if he isn't also a civilian here.)
Wolfgang touches the padlock on the chain and it pops open. He is naturally inclined towards breaking locks, it's one of the more annoying side effects of his magic and is going to be a problem when his house is done and he keeps fucking up the front door, but for now it's useful. Unwrapping the chain from the gate, he leaves it -- with the lock, which he hopes he didn't break -- on the ground, pushing the gates open for them so they can enter.
Joyland at night in the dark is only marginally better than Joyland during the day. At night, the darkness clouds everything in dramatic shadow, giving even the most benign decorations a sinister edge -- but the darkness also mercifully hides much of the park's grunge, the little details like dead mice and questionable stains. That doesn't make it any easier to pass a giant clown's face, its gaping mouth the threshold to a ride, grinning down at them with manic soulless eyes, the paint on its face mostly chipped away enough to give it the appearance of melting.
"I don't feel anything," he says after a bit of initial exploring, keeping his voice down although he's certain whatever they're chasing already knows they're here. He starts to say that, anyway, because a few meters ahead of them there's the unmistakable sensation of movement out of the corner of his eye -- but he only feels it in his head, there's nothing really there, no figure darting away, just the feeling as if something just disappeared into a hall of mirrors.
Mirrors are dangerous in Baedal. How they've gotten away with having that many in one place for so long is anyone's guess.
"There." He takes a breath and heads in that direction, his left hand glowing again, this time not with a steady light but with the crackle of electricity, pulsing through his arteries and giving off just enough light that he can see by. Weaponless, all he has is magic, so he's improvising; if anything comes at them, he is going to punch it in the face with a fistful of lightning. That kind of consequence-free vulgar magic is possible in Baedal, which he's glad for. No one is taking any chances here.
He stops inside, startled at seeing themselves reflected dozens of times. But there's nobody else in any of the reflections -- not yet, at least. But something is in here with them, he knows that much, but...
It doesn't feel the same. It feels like what he sees every time he passes a graveyard here -- or lets his mind drift on the train home, opens his eyes to see someone sitting across from him that nobody else notices -- or watches as they pace in circles around one spot on a street ruined from the invasion, still ignored weeks later because no one really cares about Badside.
Frowning, he heads further inside, towards that presence, mindful of getting too close to the mirrors, but. Well, it's hard to tell reflection from reality. It's wrecking havoc on his nerves, because Wolfgang's ability to tell what is real is already...
no subject
Were planning on, because if so, whatever they're chasing clearly had different plans. He's glad, though; no people around means no bystanders, and hopefully no deaths. (In his head, he thinks of it as "civilian casualties," as if he isn't also a civilian here.)
Wolfgang touches the padlock on the chain and it pops open. He is naturally inclined towards breaking locks, it's one of the more annoying side effects of his magic and is going to be a problem when his house is done and he keeps fucking up the front door, but for now it's useful. Unwrapping the chain from the gate, he leaves it -- with the lock, which he hopes he didn't break -- on the ground, pushing the gates open for them so they can enter.
Joyland at night in the dark is only marginally better than Joyland during the day. At night, the darkness clouds everything in dramatic shadow, giving even the most benign decorations a sinister edge -- but the darkness also mercifully hides much of the park's grunge, the little details like dead mice and questionable stains. That doesn't make it any easier to pass a giant clown's face, its gaping mouth the threshold to a ride, grinning down at them with manic soulless eyes, the paint on its face mostly chipped away enough to give it the appearance of melting.
"I don't feel anything," he says after a bit of initial exploring, keeping his voice down although he's certain whatever they're chasing already knows they're here. He starts to say that, anyway, because a few meters ahead of them there's the unmistakable sensation of movement out of the corner of his eye -- but he only feels it in his head, there's nothing really there, no figure darting away, just the feeling as if something just disappeared into a hall of mirrors.
Mirrors are dangerous in Baedal. How they've gotten away with having that many in one place for so long is anyone's guess.
"There." He takes a breath and heads in that direction, his left hand glowing again, this time not with a steady light but with the crackle of electricity, pulsing through his arteries and giving off just enough light that he can see by. Weaponless, all he has is magic, so he's improvising; if anything comes at them, he is going to punch it in the face with a fistful of lightning. That kind of consequence-free vulgar magic is possible in Baedal, which he's glad for. No one is taking any chances here.
He stops inside, startled at seeing themselves reflected dozens of times. But there's nobody else in any of the reflections -- not yet, at least. But something is in here with them, he knows that much, but...
It doesn't feel the same. It feels like what he sees every time he passes a graveyard here -- or lets his mind drift on the train home, opens his eyes to see someone sitting across from him that nobody else notices -- or watches as they pace in circles around one spot on a street ruined from the invasion, still ignored weeks later because no one really cares about Badside.
Frowning, he heads further inside, towards that presence, mindful of getting too close to the mirrors, but. Well, it's hard to tell reflection from reality. It's wrecking havoc on his nerves, because Wolfgang's ability to tell what is real is already...
A polite word would be "shaky."