Dulcinea stares bleary eyed at her latest batch of notes. She blinks stupidly. Pulls one hand behind her neck and squeezes as she rolls it from side to side, wincing at the popping sounds that are so loud you can't help but wonder if she didn't just die. Her head slumps forward again and her attention returns to the numbers and the conclusions she's written about them. 

She stares at the ceiling. She sighs. Back to the notes. Ceiling. Sighs. Notes. Tap tap tap goes her pen. Ceiling. Floor!

"Owowowowow owies! Heck! Darn! Shoot! Expletives! Ow ow [i]ow![/i]"

On the plus side, writhing around on the ground clutching the back of her head where she bounced it off the carpet is an [i]excellent[/i] distraction from today's rather unpleasant surprise discovery. Not to mention how effective it is as a stimulant! Why, she's not sleepy at all anymore, even though she hasn't rested in four days! Hooray!!

But all good things must come to an end. She blinks and groans as she stands up and immediately slumps over her cluttered desk again, adding a potential bonus bruise to her forehead to go with the one on the back. 

"Ho...[i]kay[/i] then. This is proooooobably my fault? But, consider this! It's very definitely not! Maybe! I mean, you know, it couldn't be? Really? Cause, like, I haven't [i]done[/i] this before now. At least... not successfully. I don't think. That I remember? And it's not written down anywhere either so that's, like, confirmation. Probably maybe. No, it can't be me. I can't be the source of what's destroying this place. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not an apocalypse. Even if my high school elected me most likely to be. Jerks."

Tap tap, tap tap. She flips her notebook closed in frustration. Ok Dulcy, it's just like they say in... Texas? 'When in doubt, do the math!'

"Aight. Aight, aight, alrighty. So there's two obvious possibilities here. Option A: there's a heretofore unknown Dulcinea-adjacent genius in this rundown Podunk sticksville towny Town... thing who's conducting high level nightmare science and/or sorcery without my having noticed prior to this incredibly serendipitous coincidence, quite possibly with ill intent given how many of these manifestations have explicitly gone after innocent rubes. Er, people. Yes, the sweet and darling citizenry whom I have nothing but love for and hold in no contempt whatsoever. Those guys. And gals. And non-binary expressing miscellany. Possible? I mean, never say never.

Or! Option B: the person I already know about who I also know has been conducting experiments with various Nightmare Technology for over a year has, through some combination of neglect and willfully devil may care boundary pushing (not to mention dynamite good looks) has... uh, you know, either spawned or forged connections to the Great Beyond that turns mortal works and minds to rot, et cetera et cetera and so forth. Referring to you, in case this is at all unclear. You meaning me. Dulcinea D'Avingon. That person. That I am. Bluh."

Her head thumps softly on the desk as she contemplates the extremely lopsided probability of these two realities. Sleepiness creeps back into her life. She can't let it get her. Not here. With the suit and the... other experiments in various phases of completion, it would be a disaster beyond the reckoning of even a god, probably maybe. She groans and rubs at the dark circles under her eyes.

"Suppose the question would answer itself if I just tracked down this other portal and saw it for myself. Let's see, I'm gonna need a... hm. A Nightmare... uh, Altimeter? Yeah, an altimeter. It's the spikes and valleys you wanna watch for with nightmare energy. So it, I, yeah. Yeah. Height. Relative to nightmare sea level. Uhuh. So for... do I have one of those? Uh. I'm gonna need..."

She trails off for a long moment. With an exhausted, heaving sigh, she pushes herself away from her desk and trudges (though admittedly with very light, ginger steps) through her darkened apartment and around all of the Lego-sharp objects scattered around the floor. 

"Air. Air is what I need. Air and coffee. Cause I gotta... blarg. I would commit legit, real live murder for an espresso machine..."

Her fingers find the doorknob. Sweet air kisses her forehead. And Dulcinea, wearing jazz slippers she's forgotten to replace with real shoes, worn out slacks, and a blouse she's only sort of buttoned the top half of, steps out into the "real world" once again.