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

[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.

[zackthekiller]

[Oh, you are fucking kidding.]

[The scythe has a bit of reach, so here comes another swing or two at the Mirror. Maybe he'll knock him over into the fire.]

[Wait... This side of the glass? The question forms in his mind, but he doesn't quite think about it. Too focused on murder.]

[pseudological]

[The nice thing about scythes is that, despite their reach, they're not exactly what you'd call precise weapons. They're large and unwieldy, and the great arcing swipes in the Mirror's direction simply press him further back and back, dancing on the edge of the flames.]

What's the matter, pal? Scared of a little fire?

[zackthekiller]

[Now you're pissing him off.]

[At least Zack notices the Mirror's on the edge here. He growls as he stops wildly swinging for a moment... Then proceeds to shove the blunt end of his blade HARD into the Mirror's stomach.]

[pseudological]

[Another sidestep, but this time the guy clips him around the side, and lemme tell you, it is not a lot of fun to get the round edge of a wooden stave rammed right above your liver, fabricated or no. Tim grunts, but he still manages to flash a dazzling, winner's grin; can't let a little wear and tear get in the way of pissing this guy off even further, am I right?]

That all you got, buster?

['Cause he's moving back, back, and back - further and further into the rising flames.]

[zackthekiller]

[Well, you're managing to piss him off, but Zack's starting to feel the heat of the flame.]

[CRAP. He doesn't want to burn again. But then there's this asshole, mocking him. He managed to get him in the liver, but the flames-]

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHH!!!!

[Zack makes one final attempt to hit the Mirror with his weapon, aiming lower to give him less room to duck, before the killer is finally forced to retreat from the fire.]

[He'll be coming after you later, asshole. He won't forget this.]

[pseudological]

[That gives him some valuable information, at least; the guy hates fire. So the Mirror retreats plus one bruise across his ribs and plus one long cut across his front. But all in all, it's not a bad haul.

Especially since he plans on being long gone by the time Zack tracks "Tim" down again.

His Real won't be pleased about that, and that suits the Mirror just fine.]