"Though, you could try your luck at Dean Town." she said, "that might be the best place to find yourself."
Finn cocked his head in confusion, but stopped himself before speaking. If this was a lead, he didn't want to brush it off too early; and Morgan's words seemed trustworthy enough for him to head right on out of the motel, not even needing to take a sip or bite from the continental breakfast buffet at the lobby of the establishment.
Spurned with newfound motivation, a familiar one, at that, he ventured out again onto the cold, desolate and unforgiving ocean of purple sand, stretched out as far as the eye can see; his eyes at least. The sky was a vibrant shade of red that cast long shadows upon his form. There was no sun, but there was light. Though he noticed his shadow would take up a mind of its own; he'd have to wrangle it, like a cowboy keeping a wild horse in check. He feared even his shadow would begin to drift. He wouldn't allow this.
This desert stretched, and stretched and stretched, till Finn had begun to lose his sense of his time as he felt days passing. The nonexistent neither rose nor sunk, yet he felt the weeks passing by, with his only shadow to keep him company; boring and drilling into his mind like a wretched vice, threatening to rip itself out and make way for the spilling of his brains, and everything that'd made him Finn.
He saw rolling hills that kept fading into the horizon, floating gently into the edge of that flared red sky. He saw the occasional cactus sticking out, prickly in its orange flesh and skin, standing out like a sore thumb in the endless nothing. He saw grains of purple sand shifting and sinking, shuffling out like cards.
He stopped for a breath. Perhaps rest, or solace in this limbo.
The desolate expanse stretched out before Finn, a barren canvas beneath the unrelenting sun that had returned. The sun, a malevolent eye that gazed down upon the forsaken, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to writhe in agony. He moved through the endless sea of purple sand, each step a weary repetition of the last, like a damned soul eternally retracing its steps through the labyrinth of suffering.
The landmarks of this purgatorial landscape, they mocked him. The jagged rocks, time-worn and weathered, reappeared like the specters of memories he couldn't quite grasp. Each formation, resembling a face he'd seen before. Fairfax, Delado, even his girl, Marcella; or what was it, again? The solitary cactus, its thorns like daggers, taunted him with the knowledge that it had always been there, an eternal sentinel in this arid wasteland.
And then there were the mirages, phantoms of salvation. Finn had seen them before, had stumbled towards them in his previous incarnations, only to watch them dissolve into cruel illusions. They beckoned him like sirens, luring him with the promise of deliverance, only to retreat, leaving him parched and delirious in their wake.
Deja vu haunted him like a relentless ghost. Fleeting fragments of past experiences flickered in his mind's eye, their significance just out of reach. He knew he had been here before, knew that this was no ordinary desert, but the memory of his previous visits eluded him, slipping through his fingers like the purple sand he'd begun to feel himself drowning in.
His actions, futile and repetitive, mirrored his torment. He tried to veer from the well-worn path, to escape the strangest pull of this looping nightmare, but it was as if the very fabric of the world conspired to lead him in circles. He was trapped in a grotesque dance with destiny, a macabre waltz of despair.
The symbols etched into the ground, they whispered secrets to him, secrets he couldn't decipher. They were like hieroglyphs of an ancient language, an enigma that held the key to his entrapment. Finn's frustration grew with each passing moment, and a deep-seated determination took root within him. He would break free from this unending cycle, no matter the cost.
In a moment of clarity, a vivid recollection pierced the shroud of his confusion. He remembered a previous encounter, a defining moment when he had glimpsed the truth lurking just beyond his reach. It was a moment of revelation, a crack in the facade of this nightmarish deluge of consciousness. He saw the cluster of buildings in the distance, protruding out of the horizon. He saw lights. He saw hope. He saw Dean Town.
As Finn made his way towards Dean Town, the cluster of buildings grew more distinct, their structures rising from the desert like ancient monoliths, their shadows stretching across the purple sands. The sight of civilization, even in this peculiar place, filled him with a mix of anticipation and dread. He knew that something awaited him there, something he needed to confront.
The journey to the town seemed endless, the distance between him and the buildings never seeming to decrease. Hours turned into days, or what felt like days in this eternal twilight. His own shadow, now more than ever, felt like a companion from a different dimension, mirroring his every move with a sinister detachment.
The air held a heavy, oppressive silence, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind as it carried grains of purple sand with a haunting rustle. Finn's footsteps echoed through the desolation, and with each one, he grew more aware of the unreality of his surroundings. This place was like a fever dream, a distorted reflection of the world he once knew.
As he finally reached the outskirts of Dean Town, the buildings loomed over him, their architecture a bizarre blend of eras and styles. Some structures appeared modern, with sleek glass facades, while others were weathered and ancient, resembling relics from a forgotten past. It was a town frozen in time, a place that seemed to defy the laws of existence.
Finn's arrival did not go unnoticed. Figures, silhouettes in doorways and on street corners, observed him with curiosity and a touch of malice, the evil eyes gazing holes into his riddled soul. Captives, or denizens; he didn't know the difference.
He pressed on, the street beneath him extending like an unending ribbon, leading him deeper into the heart of Dean Town. The buildings, once static and lifeless, now seemed to breathe with a strange vitality. Lights flickered in windows, and distant laughter echoed from somewhere within.
A sensation, one he couldn't quite describe, began to creep over him. It was a feeling of déjà vu, an eerie sense that he had walked these streets before, that he had stood in this very spot in another time. But the memories remained elusive, slipping through his grasp like sand.
After wandering for a while, he'd found himself at a building; FARADAY PRODUCTION COMPANY. He cocked his head, being more confused than he thought was possible at this point. He jerked the door open and wandered through, seeing empty blanks of where movie advertisement posters would be. These posters would spiral up, with the cylindrical staircase that led up to the highest floor of the crooked building.
At the end of the staircase, there was a hallway that ended at a front desk, occupied by a dark haired, pale-skinned woman. She beckoned for Finn to approach, and he did, without much pensiveness. He was a tired, lifeless husk. An unliving, unfeeling, uncaring thing that'd lost all sense of autonomy. And instead of wondering why he'd been doing what he'd been doing, he just moseyed his way on.
She greeted him with a smile, "hello."
He nodded in acknowledgment and leaned on the desk, breathing shallowly and weakly.
"Do you have an appointment?"
Finn nodded again. "With Mr. Faraday, yes."
"What time would that be?" Asked the lady.
Finn'd look around, his neck cranking like a broken jockey. He scanned the room for a clock, or any other timekeeping device but came up dry. He shrugged at her, his head hanging limply from his neck.
"Would that be before, now or soon?"
"When's now?"
The lady nodded somberly, and led Finn to the door that he hadn't noticed before.
Before him was a man sitting on a chair and staring out of the window that looked over the Town. He was dressed in a vibrant yellow Hawaiian shirt with little palm trees all over it. He also had a bucket-hat on. It looked perfect for his head and he made it work. Finn could see a faint vapor of smoke or whatever it might have been, wisping off from his left side. One could assume it was a cigarette, and Finn did.
There was a silver gun on the desk, squarely in the middle.
He spun around like the devil. The man looked no older than fourty-two, by the looks of it. He didn't even move an inch; only the chair. That fine brown leather chair that just barely reached above his shoulders. He had glasses on. Pink lenses with golden details. He knew it was gold 'cause they were so goddamn shiny. Might've been some special brand of aviators; he'd never seen someone wearin' those, before.
"Took you long enough." said the man, taking another long drag from his longer-than-usual cigarette.
Finn had recognized the man as himself, if not older.
He was taken aback, staring at the man who bore a striking resemblance to him. The room seemed to warp and shift, as if reality itself was playing tricks on his senses. The older version of himself sat there, cool and composed, an enigmatic aura surrounding him.
"You're me--"
Finn smiled wider than his face could handle, "better in every way. The downgrade staring at the upgrade; exchanging glances, both asking the same million dollar question. The husk wonders; what the hell is going on here?" He said mockingly.
"I'm confused--"
He took another long drag, but not before cutting Finn off. "'Course you are. This place must be confusing, I get it. It was tough for me, at the start, too. I also had your hope, your determination; your hunger to make it out there. This time, though, you look different. I hope things are different."
"What's the gun for?"
"A parting gift, a little something to give us a way out."
"You're talking in riddles."
Finn took another drag, "it's a choice. It decides who makes it out and who doesn't. You or me; or rather," he chuckled bitterly, "me or me."
"The hell is going on?"
"Trust me, you'd be better off taking things at face value; and if you're too damn dense, still, you might as well pull the tape back and see what you missed on your journey here."
"This is--", then they both spoke, "insane. This is way too much; I don't think I can handle this."
"There are no rules here; it doesn't matter how you feel, what you think, or what you're gonna say. This path of ours has been taken a million times over, a million Finns that came before us, and a million more to do the same, if you don't make it."
Finn's eyes widened. "No. This is nuts."
"I said the exact same thing, same way, same tone, and with that same stupid look on my face. Or, I should say our - dressed in the same clothes." he said, "you've found yourself. The million dollar question remains; are you happy with who we've become, or do you wanna have another shot? Either that or I can get rid of you, wait for some other me who's worth it."
"What happens if I take the shot?"
"Shoot me, you take my place and try again; giving it another shot to make it. If you make it here, you make it anywhere. This is true."
Finn swallowed hard, "and if I shoot myself?"
"Our story ends, without resolution, without success and certainly without fame. The one thing we've been salivating like dogs after. And wouldn't that be a shame; after all that effort to just keep folks hanging? Folks that'll never see what came of all this."
"Yeah," Finn said with measured resignation. He glanced at the gun, "a real shame."
"What's it gonna be?" he said, "you gonna die like a dog, or are you gonna take destiny by the horns?"
"This is insane." Finn said, his voice trembling with disbelief. "Utterly fucking insane."
He groaned loudly, his head hanging on the headrest of the chair. "There is one bullet in that gun, with our name on it. Make your choice or I will. You can be damn sure only one Finn is getting out of here alive."
After a pregnant pause, both came to an understanding. Finn grabbed the gun, resting his finger on the trigger. The chilled silver metal cold against his skin. His head is a whirlpool of swirling visions and burning questions. He wonders how many times this has happened; reflecting on the recent string of events. He looks to his older self; a husk of what he used to be. A spectre like everything else in this damned place. It stares back, with a welcoming smile. He brings the gun, feeling the culminating finality of it all. He takes the shot.
"Next stop, Dean Town."
The End..?