A trip almost entirely without note in terms of danger or new oddities, with safe passage at the end. Lunge made his way back to his room in a quiet reverie, brow furrowed as he re-ran his memories of the day and combed through them for anything of note: there was the book store to consider of course, but other than that it had been a largely fruitless day. Which didn’t sit at all well with Inspector Lunge, of course. Time wasting was a terrible habit to get into.
The book store, though- that was something he should have noticed more quickly. He’d anticipated a lack of local history books and, as Jones had noted, national newspapers- not an entire section. No general history books, travel books, nothing that would give away so much as a hint towards the context of Doyleton and the world they’d fallen into. Did they even know what year it was here? What decade? Or, more chillingly, did it even matter?
‘Artificial’. He’d resisted the idea at first, but now he was having trouble seeing Doyleton as anything but false. In that case, what kind of an illusion was this place? Was it all real in the sense of it almost being like a film set, with actors in the role of townspeople? There was also a good chance that it was all created from that mysterious computer on the third floor they’d heard, too, though Lunge disliked entertaining that possibility for too long. There was still so much more he needed to know before he could start making decisions about methodology, particularly when it potentially was so far-fetched.
When he arrived at his room, Dent was already lying on the bed- a strange choice, considering he'd been upright most every other time he'd arrived. Lunge considered it for a moment, then took a seat. "Were you injured last night or today?" That would be a reasonable conclusion to draw.
no subject
The book store, though- that was something he should have noticed more quickly. He’d anticipated a lack of local history books and, as Jones had noted, national newspapers- not an entire section. No general history books, travel books, nothing that would give away so much as a hint towards the context of Doyleton and the world they’d fallen into. Did they even know what year it was here? What decade? Or, more chillingly, did it even matter?
‘Artificial’. He’d resisted the idea at first, but now he was having trouble seeing Doyleton as anything but false. In that case, what kind of an illusion was this place? Was it all real in the sense of it almost being like a film set, with actors in the role of townspeople? There was also a good chance that it was all created from that mysterious computer on the third floor they’d heard, too, though Lunge disliked entertaining that possibility for too long. There was still so much more he needed to know before he could start making decisions about methodology, particularly when it potentially was so far-fetched.
When he arrived at his room, Dent was already lying on the bed- a strange choice, considering he'd been upright most every other time he'd arrived. Lunge considered it for a moment, then took a seat. "Were you injured last night or today?" That would be a reasonable conclusion to draw.