where the wailing of a baby meets the footsteps of the dead [open]

[postictal]

Who: Tim, Tim's Mirror, and YOU
Where: Mirrorside and Real side; skinside and inside
When: May 13 - May 20th
Rating: PG-13 for references to trauma, gore, and some harsh language
Summary: noʎ uo ɓuıʇıɐʍ
The Story:

mirror side; real tim; hell is such a lonely place

He wakes up in a grayed-out cast of his room, even more bereft than is typical, or should be typical. The wrongness prickles in his fingertips, behind his eyelids, in his lungs. A clock ticks backwards. There's pages plastered to the walls, the dark imprint of rough pencil marks leaving dark scores in the paper.

His throat bobs nervously in a slow, shuddering swallow. There's a message inscribed on the glass of the mirror across from the bed.

Smile for the camera :)
Tim jerks on the spot as though struck. There's no reflection. No reflection on the other side at all. He's staring at his own bed, at his own room, but there's no him there. There's simply a camera positioned neatly on the sheets, and the red light blinking at its shiny black corner might as well be drilling into the center of his head.

The more he scours the place, eyes raking across every corner of the room, the more he starts to see them.

Cameras.

Like shining black beetles, sequestered away in every corner. A thicket of digital lights gleaming out from under the bed, on the desk, mounted in the topmost corners of the room. He turns on the spot, muscles in his neck working as he swallows. His fingertips fumble with the knob, slicking it with his sweat, but the door is locked - locked, apparently, from the outside.

He pounds at the door with the butts of his fists, howling himself hoarse. Let him out, let him out. Please, please, please just get him out of here -

Let him out.

Let him out.

checkerboard hills; mirror tim; as the devil sticks his flag into the mud

[Tim strides through the hallways of the mansion, the Real mansion, with an artless nonchalance that, for anyone who knows the Real Tim, is more than a little uncharacteristic. He picks his way to the sixth floor, room nineteen, and turns over the belongings within. Poises a few of his own cameras in some selective, careful locations, live feeds that won't last forever, but will certainly be durable enough to give the Real him some good, old-fashioned spooks. He doesn't bother to mask the smirk that plays across the corner of his mouth as he fetches the black square of a cracked and dusty tape from its hiding place in Tim's desk, and then the orange cylinder of his medication. He tucks both safely into his pocket, and then - then he's on his merry way.

The first thing one might notice is the spring in the Mirror's step, so unlike his Real's heavy, dour tread. He strides down along the Checkerboard Hills, two fingers hooked around the handle of a heavy red jug that sloshes with an acrid-smelling liquid. A cigarette pokes out between his lips, trailing a wavering stream of smoke behind him.

He unstoppers the jug with a deft, fluid twist of his wrist and begins to splash great lashes of gasoline across the grass in a careful patterning. He hums a jaunty tune as he works, shifting back a step to admire his handwork with a lazy grin.

With the click of a lighter, a small flame spritzes to life between his fingers. He drops it across the grass soaked in gasoline, lighting the message up in a highly visible, cheery blaze:

HE IS A LIAR.

It's probable here that no one's heard Tim laugh before; at the very least, they've never heard him laugh quite so freely, a guileless, elated burst of noise from between his lips as he strides away from the conflagration lit up in the Checkerboard Hills. It'll raise some questions, that's to be certain. And with what's about to come after - it'll raise even more. He's sure of it.]

bar or library; mirror tim; and you'll die with the rose still on your lips

He might as well kill a little more time, as long as he has it. Kill a little time, kill a little space, kill something else, while he's at it. Tim doesn't know a great many people, but he makes so little effort as it is, hiding away in his room all the damn time. The Mirror, for his part, is one thing that Tim can never so much as hope to be.

He's charming.

He smiles, he laughs, he parks himself in the bar and lights up a cigarette. He puts on a record in the library, and performs a waltz with an invisible partner. He stands and moves with a fluid ease that belies the Real Tim's choppy, disquieted disposition, his shadowed gaze and restive eyes.

He's a liar, but he's a damn fine and fun one. Just don't get too close.

He has been known to bite, and worse.

wildcard; and we're all inside a decomposing train

[Anything you want done? Want a closed starter? Smack me over at arrpee or PM me for any questions or prompts! I'll match prose or brackets, whichever!]

Comments

Checkerboard hills. CW for abuse mention and murder ideation

[zackthekiller]

[God, this has been a weird week. First he wakes up in Wonderland, then the rooms go morphing on him, then writing starts showing up on the mirrors, and now this shit?]

[It's understandable that Zack would decide to take his scythe and get the hell out of the mansion today. The fresh air should do him wonders, and it kind of feels like forever since he saw the sun. This should help his nerves...]

[Should. That's the key word.]

[Unfortunately, Zack just had to walk in on some psycho setting the checkerboard hills on fire. He almost screams, backing away from the flames as they almost threatened to eat him alive. Again. Zack didn't like being on fire as a kid, and he certainly didn't want to be on fire now.]

[Then there's the bastard who started the fire, laughing like a madman with that damn grin on his face. Zack's first instinct is to slaughter the bastard. Make his joy turn into fear as his flesh is ripped open. But the flames... The flames are so close...]

[Zack backs away from the fire, his scythe firmly gripped in his hands, deciding not to try and charge at the guy yet.]

What the fuck are you doing, you sicko?!

[pseudological]

[Oh, that's cute. A guy right out of the worst kind of Internet creepypasta, with a scythe and a look to him that he can't help but find hilarious, in his own dark fashion. The Mirror half-turns with an indulgent smile, opening one hand in the direction of the merry blaze.]

Toasting marshmallows. What's it look like?

[There are no marshmallows to be seen. He's just being a tool.]

1/2

[zackthekiller]

[He's being an annoying tool, and it's refueling Zack's urge to kill.]

You want to know what it looks like?

[He glares at the Mirror.]

You really wanna fucking know?

2/2 CW: MURDER ATTEMPT

[zackthekiller]

[He readies his scythe, with a murderous glare in his eye.]

I think it looks like some asshole's about to get torn to pieces!

[The Mirror may want to start running, because there's now a clearly armed psychopath charging at him, and he isn't gonna give you a head start.]

[pseudological]

[Well, that sure fucking escalated quickly. Either the guy's just real goddamn trigger happy, or he's got a problem with fire. Fortunately, he doesn't seem smart enough to do much besides blatantly telegraph his intent, bullrushing the guy with a gasoline canister.

The Mirror sidesteps neatly, swinging the jug of gasoline up and over his head. If he ends up clocking the bastard with it, fine. If he ends up drenching him in a wash of bitter-smelling liquid - even better.]

You're a pretty simple fellow, aren't you?

[zackthekiller]

[He barely managed to do either. Zack swings wildly and manages to knock the can out of the mirror's hand, the edge of the blade coming very close to the Mirror's chest.]

[Great. Now you're playing matador with an angry killer.]

Shut up, smartass!

[pseudological]

[The can goes pinwheeling out across the grass, landing not far from the guttering flames, the hot belch of oily smoke pouring from the edged fire. The Mirror grins as he ducks, dropping into a roll in time to fetch the gas can back. The guy doesn't like fire, it seems like.

Let's see if he wants to dance in the fire.]

You ever think about therapy, maybe?

[He skips backwards and, timing it right - springs neatly over the burning stripe of grass that forms the capitalized "R" in his little message. Come and get him, if you don't mind a little heat.]

I hear there's great practitioners on this side of the glass.

Library

[mr_englishguy]

Newt has had too many close encounters in his short time in Wonderland. A death, terror, uncertain what and who in some moments, he was all too ready to try and find an answer or solution when things seemed to start going back in Wonderland.

Having carefully locked Andy away for the duration of things in a safe (he hopes) crate in his room, he is spending his time roaming, helping those he can and avoiding mirrors as he has since he learned of the other side. Newt has no interest in meeting himself.

Yet he is rather nervous about anyone else he meets either. Already he's made one mistaken moment of identity and his coat is the worse for wear for it. It's left him in waistcoat and long sleeved shirt, a tear in his right sleeve. Perhaps that's why, as he follows the sound of music to the library, his wand is in hand.

Stepping a few steps inside, pausing to watch the man dancing with himself.

[pseudological]

What's not like about the music? It's got a low, almost mournful wistfulness to it, a slow, waltzlike tempo. The Mirror hums aloud to himself as he goes, drifting on the spot in a simple box step, waiting until the last of Waits' gravelly tones fade and the record scratches into silence.

He's acquired an audience, it seems, in the interim.

The Mirror smiles, seemingly unbothered by Newt's disheveled state, and extends a hand with the unmistakable expectation that Newt will take it.

"Tapping in?"

[mr_englishguy]

Straightening when he realizes he's been noticed, Newt opens his mouth to apologize.

Yet he only manages to just stare, jaw hanging a bit, gaze going from the man's hand to his face and back again.

"Pardon? I mean me?" Blinking at Tim, confusion etched in every line of his face. "Oh you wouldn't want that. I am not only not a good dancer, but a bad dancer. Like there would be injuries," he assures the man, as if that is the only issue in that moment.

[pseudological]

The Mirror blows out a dismissive puff of air between his cheeks, the motion leading easily into the smirk that curls one side of his mouth. The Real Tim never smiled so easily. But the Real Tim has been missing out, let's just say, on a great deal for a very long time.

"We can take it slow," he says patiently, brow creasing in sympathy that - looks earnest enough. He certainly doesn't seem very hostile.

If he ends up slipping a blade between your ribs, at least he'll be charming about it.

[mr_englishguy]

"Well, that's kind of you. Certainly..." Newt flusters easily. Right now, because the confusion and the redness staining his cheeks, it was entirely possible it was considering combusting. For a man who was trying to avoid death again, the look on his face says he is definitely considering that option.

"I should... I should be..." In truth, Newt is not used to people even asking him such things, even if he's fairly certain this is not a good thing. "Won't your previous partner be upset?"

Yes, because that sounds sane.

[pseudological]

Christ, the guy is lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. It'd be adorable if it wasn't kinda sad. He's just so sincere about it, letting himself be haplessly strung along. It pays, of course, to not have met him for Real prior to now.

"You've seen him?" he says innocently, eyebrows lifting. "I've been keeping an eye out for my old partner, but he's...been pretty absent, I guess."

Which is a real shame, honestly. He looked ever so dapper in that suit of his.

library

[choosetruth]

[George is back from the Mirror side, and she has work to do. She's not just saying that because she wants to do anything but stop and examine her feelings. This article is important. It's got information people need. She needs focus, she needs quiet, she needs....

She stops as she comes into the library and sees Tim of all people invisibly waltzing to music. It... can't be the Real Tim. Tim might annoy her sometimes, but he isn't waltzing in the library annoying. Either way, her response is the same.]

I know you're from the past, but I'm pretty sure headphones were already a thing. You're in a library. Use them.

[pseudological]

[He doesn't miss a beat, pausing only to cock his head and lift the corner of his mouth in an artless grin. It's obvious enough that this Georgia isn't the one he knows; she's not quite as interesting as her Mirror, just yet.

But she's got something he wants. Or rather, he has something she wants. And isn't it nice if people help each other?]

And spoil the atmosphere?

[choosetruth]

You've already spoiled the atmosphere. It's a library. It's supposed to have a quiet atmosphere.

[She crosses her arms raising an eyebrow over her sunglasses.]

Any reason you've decided this has to be your new dance studio?

[pseudological]

'Cause the rest of the mansion is just so quiet this week.

[Paired with a completely innocent smile - not exactly an expression most people associate with the Real Tim, but she's just never met a version of Tim that's actually tolerable on the social front.

Not that the Mirror is, you know, even remotely tolerable.]

It's got a nice feel to it. Don't you think?

[choosetruth]

[The expression makes her skin crawl a little. Tim doesn't smile. But this isn't Tim, so that makes sense. She hears her own mirror's pretty smiley as well.]

What is your game here? We both know this isn't the side you belong on.

[pseudological]

A lot of people aren't on the side they belong on.

[He shrugs, unconcerned. Why should it matter to her, what he does or doesn't do? Admitting to some kind of emotional attachment to the Real Tim would be a subtle victory in its own right, but it wouldn't exactly accomplish anything.]

Don't see why you're worried.

BAR. I want to meet charming liar Tim instead of earnest basketcase Tim

[alphyswhatsabara]

Asgore Dreemurr is nursing the world's largest beer.

It is basically just the 'pitcher of beer' option only it lacks the spout and the spare glasses for you and your friends to share. Sitting, forlornly, looking into his pitcher-o-ale, your anti-mirror's friend (???), Asgore Dreemurr.

He mumbles something about "suns out guns out," but it's indistinct.

more like BARa

[pseudological]

Yep, that's definitely the Real version. The Mirror one is kind of outspoken in his obnoxious endeavors, and this Asgore - though considerably more sad-faced and wearying, melancholia practically oozing off him into a puddle around his feet - is a change of pace. A bracing difference.

That's got to count for something, right?

The Mirror scrapes up a chair to park himself beside the forlorn goat man, propping his chin up on the butt of his palm, elbow to the table-top.

"What's eating you, then?"

oshit son good pun

[alphyswhatsabara]

"Ah, Tim, uh, there was, uh, someone took some photos from my wall, and also a sweater what Chara had made for me. They were, well. I do not think you have ever been to my room before, have you?"

It's a genuinely sad place there, M!Tim. Like, a chair, empty pie tins, a nice bed, and nothing on the walls but some photos two dumb murderchildren took.

"Well, they brightened up the room, the photos. And also the sweater, as well. And I have been in a bit of a rut ever since. I came here for a, uh, drink."

Asgore doesn't drink a lot of beer.

[pseudological]

Yeah, he's got no idea what that's really supposed to mean, nor does he exactly care. He lights up a cigarette and sticks it between his lips with a slow, unconcerned sigh.

"Sounds rough, buddy," drawls Tim, without a hint of irony. Yep. Just dripping with sympathy, this guy. He squints one eye in Asgore's direction in an exaggerated narrowing of his gaze, scrutinizing him as he gestures with the hand that has the cigarette held between two fingers.

"You never struck me as the alcoholic type."

THANKS, ZUKO.

[alphyswhatsabara]

"Ah, no, Tim, I am not an alcoholic. I usually just drink tea, but it seems the right sort of moment to request a beer. I suppose I'm allowed one."

Really if anyone in this wretched pocket dimension is allowed license to drink a beer, it's Asgore "Dead Son, Estranged Wife" Dreemurr.

He looks over at the cigarette being held coolly in you hand like a hip 60s movie star.

"And I suppose that I did not know that you smoked."

B)

[pseudological]

Movie star? Nah. He's not the movie guy. Much more of a behind the scenes sort of fellow.

"You suppose you didn't know? What, did you suspect it or something?" The Mirror chuckles, bringing the thing to his lips for a long, unhurried drag. He's enjoying this, albeit distantly. Can't help but wonder where things are likely to end up the longer he plays this card.

Seems Asgore's got no clue that he's not talking to the Real Tim.