App samples, for posterity's sake
First-Person Sample:
Landel's Institute, Day 1 (December 12, 2017?)
To anyone reading this, my name is Lana Skye. I am the Chief Prosecutor for the Los Angeles Prosecutor's Office, and I am being held at Landel's Institute against my will. Institute records may list me under the name Mary Franklin; this is a fabrication.
Aside from holding me against my will and claiming that I am someone else, that all of my life is a delusion borne of self-defense, the Institute appears to be an ordinary, well-run psychiatric facility.
The descriptions given by fellow inmates, on the other hand, are nothing short of fantastic. Horrific monsters, human experimentation, time travel and magic. The stories were remarkably consistent without appearing coached; they differed solely in emphasis and in personal familiarity with certain elements.
Night is falling. If there is any truth to these tales, it is time for me to see it for myself.
Third-Person Sample:
"Thank you, Detective, that will be all." Or, at least, quite enough. Lana didn't -- quite -- smirk. It wasn't often that the Police Department's seeming inability to put together an orderly testimony made her job easier. "I'll remember this come review season."
The judge, meanwhile, looked like he had lost track of either the trial or his gavel (or both.) "Well, that was certainly...actually, I'm not sure what that was."
"Have no fear, Your Honor. The next witness should be able to provide us some...perspective."
"Very well."
"The prosecution calls Mr. Jerry Sweet to the stand. Mr. Sweet, if you could please state your name and profession for the record?"
"Well, sure. I'm Jerry Sweet, owner and operator of Sweet Chariot Piano Movers, the only outfit in the biz with the patented Swing-Lo suspension. Guaranteed to keep your instru--"
"Objection!" Oh, so now the defense had lost his taste for endless elaboration? "The witness will please remember this is a court of law, not an advertising--"
"Objection!" Lana slammed her right hand on the bench, drawing a matched set of wide-eyed stares; judge, defense, and witness alike. This was going to sound petty, but there was no way around it. "I believe the witness was just...overwhelmed by professional pride. It's a pleasure to see someone who takes such pride in their work, isn't it?"
"Of course. Why, just last week I was talking to my bro--"
Lana cleared her throat. For once, subtlety prevailed; the impending Judicial monologue was averted.
"Ahem." That, or throat-clearing was contagious; either way, the Judge was already continuing. "Witness, if you please."
"As I was saying -- the only company trusted by the Los Angeles Philharmonic. In-town, in-tune, on-time, or your money back!" Sweet punctuated his final sentence with no less than three winks; Lana crossed her arms and kept all traces of a wince from her expression.
"Mr. Sweet. Please tell us how you came to witness the events of Wednesday morning."
"I was downtown a little early -- on-time, in-town --"
"Objection." This time, Lana said nothing.
"Sustained."
"Okay, okay. I was downtown, waiting for a gig. I had plenty of time, so I got a cup of coffee and a donut and pulled onto a side street to wait." So far, so good. Everything matched the interrogation transcripts, and Lana leaned back, content to let the defense talk the witness through the details -- two sugars, raspberry jelly, parked in a fifteen-minute loading zone.
"And so there I was, for a good half-hour. No-one went in or out of that building."
"Hold it!" The defense, again, unable to let a point in their favor lie unquestioned. "You watched the door the entire time?"
"I didn't have to. See, I've got a little camera in the cab for security. Ms. Prosecutor over there and her friends asked me the same question, and I gave them the video." The courtroom erupted in whispers; "hiding evidence", "wasting time", "I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart" all trickled through before the gavel finally came down.
"Order, Order. Ms. Skye, this all seems highly irregular. In fact, if the prosecution has nothing further to present, I'm prepared to--".
"Hold it! Your Honor, the videotape in question was presented with the rest of the evidence. I can verify the witness's statement. No-one enters or exits Cartwright Street Bank the entire time. The prosecution merely would like to allow the witness to tell his entire story before continuing. Mr. Sweet, can you confirm the accuracy of the camera's clock?"
"The clock? Oh, you mean the little numbers in the corner? Sure, it's right. Set all my clocks every morning. On-time, in-"
"Objection!"
"Sustained."
"Well, within a minute, at least."
"And by the footage, you were parked on Cartwright Street from 6:14 until 6:45, correct? Could you tell us what you did then?"
"Yeah, that sounds about right. I'd finished my donut and my coffee was getting cold, so I thought I'd head on over and see if the Philharmonic boys were out of bed yet."
"Hold it!" And here was the missing piece; the one Lana hadn't dared press in interrogation. Falling right into her hands, without a word from her. "If the job was right around the corner, why did you leave so early?"
"Well, I couldn't be late, and if I'd stayed around I'd have gotten mixed up in the whole police cordon, now wouldn't I?"
And along with it fell the last argument for Sweet being an unwitting conspirator. She narrowed her eyes and brought her hand down a second time. "Objection! The Police Department never saw a moving van at the crime scene. Thus, the witness not only left before the cordon was instituted; he left before the first cruiser arrived on the scene." She glanced over at the opposite bench; the defense wasn't as slow as she'd feared; his jaw was hanging wide open, and he wasn't looking at Lana at all.
"Ob-objection?" Lana's glance lengthened into a knowing look; the judge, after determining that that was, it seemed, all the defense had to say, ignored him.
"Your Honor, the prosecution requests a twenty minute recess to prepare an arrest warrant for Jerry Sweet, as well as a search warrant for the van in question."
"Er, what? Oh, yes, certainly. Court will resume in twenty minutes. Dismissed."
A voice, and then the radio dissolved into static. Ema, we had this discussion. Adaptive sleep-cycle clocks are weekend-only proj-- As she was readying her arguments, Lana reached out for the clock. It was when her knuckles slammed straight into a wall where there should have been only empty space, or, at worst, some bailing-wire and cardboard contraption perched on her bedside table. But there was nothing -- and her eyes had already opened. It was pitch black in the room.
No, not pitch black. A thin, wavering sliver of light shone around the door, rising and falling eratically. Emergency lighting? Where was she? This was a cot, and the wall painted cinderblock. Power outage? Earthquake? It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
Alright. The fact that she didn't remember the incident was mildly disturbing, but temporary trauma-related amnesia was remarkably common, even if less so than was claimed under oath. She ran her hands over her scalp; they found no cuts, contusions, or sore spots. Though it did feel like she'd fallen asleep on a rock. No, not a rock -- a flashlight. Finally, some indication of competence in this fiasco. Someone would be getting a raise. That was, if it worked. Which it did, throwing a thin beam over a small, entirely unfamiliar room. This was not the courthouse infirmary. Nor the one down at the precinct, or any facility she recognized. This was a large two-man cell; or a small dormitory room, but the lack of both windows and basement damp made the latter unlikely.
There wasn't a prison or detention facility in the county whose halls she hadn't walked sometime in the last five years; she was sure of it, and this was none of them. Fourteen prisons in Los Angeles closed in five years with the advent of the initial trial system. But the heat was on; when her bare feet met the cold floor, there was the faint thrumming of the HVAC system. Hospitals, schools, and nursing homes were all required to provide emergency lighting in residential facilities -- where were the lights? (Incompliance seemed unlikely. The building inspectors made the Prosecutor's Office look like argumentative dilettantes.)
No memories were bubbling to the surface, no dizziness set in as she started cataloging the content. No disorientation -- just, if she were scrupulously honest with herself -- complete bewilderment. First, a desk full of generic, inexpensive office supplies. She went to pocket the spare flashlight batteries, but whoever had redressed her hadn't seen a need to check for pockets. She sighed, and left them on the desk. Then there was an entire closet full of near-identical clothes. She wouldn't call them uniforms -- retro-casual athletic supplies? Either way, the overcoat and shoes were a remarkably close fit. Too remarkable, even for a woman of average size.
The radius of possible calamities was expanding. Widespread disaster -- had she picked these out herself before an injury? Kidnapping? This went far beyond an elaborate prank, or any conceivable hostage situation.
Either she was grossly overestimating her colleagues or the Los Angeles criminal underworld, or someone had picked up the wrong person. She made no sense as a target. No wealthy relatives, no active cases with any unresearched connections, and, as was widely reported, absolutely no sense of humor. Office gossip was tedios and never reliable, but in this particular case, it sufficed. Lana Skye was no use to anyone as a hostage.
It also meant she had no idea whether anyone was looking for her. No-one had come to the door as she rummaged about. While she hadn't been loud, it certainly would have alerted anyone specifically listening. Did anyone know she was here? Know she was missing? Oh, Ema... At least one of the theories was easily enough tested. She strode over to the door and turned the handle. It opened smoothly onto a hallway that was just as dark as the room, though not as deserted.
"Hello?" Her voice rang out clearly, more order than question. "Who's there?"