Alan, Elias, and Murphy stood in front of the captain's station door.
Alan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands awkwardly tucked in his coat pockets. His eyes lingered on the metal door, thick, industrial, humming faintly with an invisible tension. The dim light above flickered once, then steadied.
That door… it's suffocating. Like it's watching us. Why does it feel like something's waiting behind it?
He glanced left, Elias stared down the corridor with a stoic, unreadable face. To his right, Murphy stood casually, though his arms were crossed a bit too tightly.
Alan leaned slightly toward them, lowering his voice.
"Is this normal? It feels like I'm about to walk into a crypt or something."
Murphy met his eyes, calm, almost amused.
"You'll get used to it."
Alan's lips pressed into a guilty, sheepish smile. "Okay…"
He scratched the back of his neck, hesitating, then glanced again at Elias, who hadn't even twitched. Should I ask Elias? Nah... He'll just dodge the question. Probably say some nonsense.
Turning back to Murphy, Alan asked, "So… what now? Do I knock?"
Murphy tilted his head toward the door. "You can. Not required, but it saves us from waiting too long."
Alan gave a small nod, his face finally settling into a look of determined awkwardness.
"Alright."
He stepped forward and raised a hand. Three deliberate taps with his middle finger.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The muffled sound of footsteps echoed from within, slow, measured, deliberate. Then silence.
A woman's voice called out, muffled by the door but calm and clipped.
"What's your request? The captain is occupied. I'll speak in his place."
Murphy answered without missing a beat.
"The new recruit's here. He and Elias would like to see the captain."
A pause.
Then, with a soft creak, the door opened inward.
She stood poised in the doorway, the embodiment of quiet authority. Her indigo-trimmed military bodice flared into a structured pleated skirt layered with soft tassets and leather belts, swaying with calculated grace. A storm-gray cloak draped from her shoulders, clasped with the Night Clerk sigil. Her diamond-white hair, twisted into a half-crowned braid with loose curls, caught the gaslight like frozen silk. Ice-blue eyes, unblinking and exacting, fixed on Alan with the focus of a ledger ready to be corrected.
Her voice, smooth but devoid of warmth:
"Understood. The captain has agreed. Only the new recruit may enter, Elias remains here."
Elias stepped closer to Alan, leaning in just enough for his whisper to brush his ear.
"I forgot to mention… that's Lucille Coulston. She's twenty-seven, same age as me. Very strict. Very scary. Just do exactly what she says, and she'll pretend you don't exist."
Alan's gaze shifted to Elias, eyebrows raised slightly.
No. You didn't forget. You chose not to tell me. And why now? Right before I walk into whatever this is? Should I even follow your advice?
His eyes drifted back to Lucille.
And the door behind her, still slightly ajar.
Waiting.
Alan kept his gaze low as he approached Lucille, his movements measured, cautious, like a stray step might trigger something. He lowered his head slightly, voice polite but laced with restraint.
"Hello… nice to meet you. My name is Alan Moriarty. I'm twenty."
Lucille's face didn't twitch.
"No need for introductions," she said, tone dry and razor-flat. "The captain's been waiting."
Alan gave a small nod, somewhere between nervous and resigned.
"Alright then…"
Wait, seriously? That's it? No inspection? No grilling? Elias made it sound like she was a living guillotine. That was… anticlimactic. Huh. Maybe he was just messing with me… No, knowing him, he probably meant to leave it vague. Whatever. Less drama is a blessing.
He stepped through the doorway and into the captain's office.
A pale wash of gaslight filled the room, bouncing weakly off the grayish walls. Files, dozens of them, lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. The chandelier above hung crooked, its crystals dust-dulled and swaying gently with the room's draft. To the left bookshelves crammed with documents and dog-eared folders. To the right: a lonely desk, neatly bare, likely Lucille's.
Huh. This place is dry as chalk. Do they actually clean in here, or just sweep everything under the papers? Anyway… focus, Alan. This isn't a time for sarcasm. You're here for answers.
Near the tall, oddly bright window stood a figure, slightly hunched, shoulders rounded with age or burden.
His dark hair had begun to gray, especially near the crown, and though his back was to the room, there was an unmistakable weight in his stance.
A window…? I don't think I've seen one of those since arriving here. I want to look. But no, not yet. First, the captain.
Without turning, the man spoke, his voice deep, with a gravelly undertone like tired gears grinding through thought.
"So you're here. The new recruit Elias Ashford brought in."
He turned, walking toward Alan at a slow, deliberate pace. His steps were steady, his eyes sharp despite the soft exhaustion carved into his features.
"I wonder why he did," he said, voice still low but laced with curiosity. "Elias is clever, too clever, really. The most unpredictable man in the group. Doesn't usually bother with recruiting… or social anything, for that matter."
He tilted his head slightly, thumb resting beneath his jaw as he studied Alan.
"Hm. Since he did, though… welcome to the Night Clerks. Name's Marcellus Edison. I'm the captain here, forty-something, not that it matters. You can probably tell this place could use some fixing up. But what it lacks in polish, it makes up for in unfinished paperwork."
He gave a small, dry chuckle, nodding toward the floor littered with files.
Then his gaze met Alan's, direct, and unblinking.
"So. Why did you ask to meet me?"
Alan stiffened slightly under the weight of Marcellus's eyes. His brows drew together, not in fear, but in thought. His lips parted slightly, then closed again. His fingers curled at his sides.
Should I ask now? Or wait? Maybe it's too early. But if I don't ask now, who knows when I'll get the chance again. Information… that's what I need. That's the only way to survive in this place. Alright. Just do it. He's going to be my captain anyway.
He gave a small shake of the head, cleared his throat, and stepped forward.
"I've been wondering since I arrived… what's the real purpose of the Night Clerks?"
His voice was steady, but underpinned with curiosity and the slightest tremble of tension.
"What kind of job have I walked into? Why does everyone look like they've seen ghosts… and worse? There's this weight here, this feeling like everyone is tired."
He paused, then added, softer but resolute:
"It's okay if you can't answer… but I'd really prefer if you did."
Marcellus turned back toward the window, the light casting long shadows across the creases in his coat. He stood still for a moment, staring at the city's faint glow far beyond the glass, if there was even a city, or just his memory of one.
Then, his voice came low, gravel-lined.
"We Dream Wanderers aren't saviors. We're just the wretched fools too stubborn to die sane, scribbling over a corpse and calling it a map."
He let the words hang for a moment, letting their weight settle into the cold room.
Turning slowly, Marcellus faced Alan again. There was no intensity in his gaze, only a quiet weariness, the kind that came from carrying too many questions too long.
"That's a famous quote. One all Dream Wanderers, and soon-to-be ones, should know." His voice dropped to something faintly bitter. "Perhaps I was just as foolish as you once… stumbling into this mess by accident. But nothing changes, right?"
He looked upward slightly, as if speaking to a memory just above him.
"I studied that quote for a while… kept asking the chief what it truly meant. All she could say was, she didn't know. Said we're all different. Said something else, too… something that stuck."
His voice softened.
"She said. 'But all of us are equal. We can't escape our destiny… and perhaps this was the madness already bestowed to us, as inhabitants of this dying world.'"
He paused, eyes dimmed with distant thought.
"Our world, Buried Terra… it's no different from a dead world."
Alan felt his shoulders draw in slightly. The gravity in the room thickened. A heavy silence pulsed behind his ribs.
Maybe this was a mistake. Asking him… I thought it'd give me clarity, but it's just more weight.
This job… it's not a job. It's something else. And what's with this 'Dream Wanderer' title? I should've asked sooner.
He took in a breath, squared his stance, and pushed the doubt down where it belonged.
"Could you perhaps give me clarity about the word Dream Wanderers?" His voice was steady again. "Will I walk in dreams?"
Marcellus met his eyes for a breath, then closed his own. He pulled in a long drag from a tobacco pipe Alan hadn't even noticed earlier, the smoke curling lazily in the cold air. Then he lowered it, and exhaled slow.
"Yes," he said simply. "You'll be using dreams to investigate Night Shades, or any… indescribable activities."
Another pause. A longer one.
"I'll ask Lucille to help you with your ritual. And with discovering your way in Dream Writing…" His gaze flicked away again, like recalling a half-forgotten pain.
"The Recorder Shape… is my Shape."
Alan blinked.
Dream Writing? Shapes? What the hell does that even mean? Should I ask? No, no, maybe it's better if I ask Lucille. She might explain it without turning it into a parable. But I need to start from the beginning… learn the basics first.
He steadied himself again, voice a little more cautious now.
"Why do we need to specifically use this… uncanny method? Why can't we investigate Night Shades with other tools?"
Marcellus let out a slow sigh, this time, from the chest.
"Because the things you're trying to investigate…"
He looked at Alan, eyes hollow but firm. "They're terrifyingly hard to distinguish. One might be walking the same street you came from. Or there might be hundreds, all in one place."
His words slowed.
"And they will devour your sense of self… until there's no difference between you and them."