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]

[He tuts, a sharp tic of tongue against teeth, and shakes his head.]

George, George. I gave you a perfectly serviceable lead that you never followed up on.

[He slides something out from his pocket - a small, grayish square. A tape that's a bit dated, even for his time period, but must be something of an antique from her perspective. Crusted with dirt and dust, but playable.

And incriminating.]

Fortunately, unlike my illustrious Real, I'm actually pretty good at following up on my promises.

[choosetruth]

Wow, it's almost like I can tell when someone's trying to play me.

[She spares the... is that a tape? a glance and then raises an eyebrow.]

I'm pretty sure Buffy would actually cry if she saw that.

[pseudological]

I'm a Tim. Of course I'm playing you. It's in our nature.

[He twirls the thing idly between his fingers, regarding it as though it were an ace up his sleeve. Which it is, so to speak. In some ways.]

Hey, don't blame me. Alex was always the retro kind of hipster. Figured that filming on tape lent things a unique look or something. [He snorts, shaking his head.] I wouldn't know. I'm not the movie guy.

[He smiles faintly, as though it's a private joke. And then, only briefly jiggling it between pinched finger and thumb in warning, tosses the tape in her direction. Catch!]

[choosetruth]

[Slowed reflexes is an early sign of conversion. George's hand snaps up to catch the tape.]

So what the fuck is this, then? Besides clearly a trap.

[pseudological]

[He scoffs.]

Yeah, my incredibly cunning plan to get you to watch a tape. It's a piece of that puzzle you've been pretending not to be interested in putting together.

I'm giving you a freebie, George; don't act like you're too good for that.

[For all her promises about not pursuing Tim's story further, he's banking on her being unable to resist a good lead when it's dropped in her lap.]

[choosetruth]

I'm too good to believe in freebies. [Especially from someone who admitted to trying to play her. She holds up the tape, waving it at him.] This has a price tag. I want to know what it is.

[Even if it's just giving Mirror Tim the satisfaction of her doing what he wants her to do. That's still something.]

[pseudological]

It's not a price tag for you, silly goose.

[He tips his head to one side, one corner of his mouth coiling upward in a small, indulgent smile.]

But I guess you're gonna have to choose which is more important to you: keeping a promise to the Real me, or getting those answers you can't help but look for.

[choosetruth]

[Silly goose. Wow. She keeps her expression blank, only the slightest twitch of her mouth giving away how little she likes that pet name.]

Oh, please. Keeping my word is important to me, but even if I hadn't made that promise I'd still be extremely skeptical of any lead you handed me.

[Like he's the first person to try and push her into chasing a lead. Anyone this insistent that she has to follow up on what they're so kindly giving her is trying to wield her as a weapon. She's had enough of that. No one chooses her stories but her.

But she still can use more information. And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't curious. She hates lying.]

If you want me to watch your damn archaic tape, and keep in mind that's still not a promise that I'll do anything with the information, you're going to have to answer some of my questions first.

[pseudological]

Hey, I'm just handing you the keys. You're the one who chooses whether you open the door.

[She's bound to watch it, though, no matter what kind of advice she gets about burning tapes, from Tim or from Jay. She's bound to watch it because Tim kept it, and he really should have known better. He couldn't relinquish even that small step.

But she detests the patronizing, the fluff, the pet names. That much is obvious.]

I thought I wasn't a reliable source. But if you're set on that sort of inherent contradiction...

[He trails off meaningfully, shoulders listing into a shrug. Shoot.]

[choosetruth]

Unreliable doesn't mean useless. [It just means she's taking anything he tells her with a whole salt shaker.] Why are you here? On the Real side?

[She's pretty sure she knows the answer to this one. She's talked to a lot of other Mirrors already. But that's part of why she's starting with it. If he lies now, she'll know what to expect.]

[pseudological]

There was something on my side Tim needed to see.

[That, technically, isn't a lie. Or rather, not from where he's standing. It answered the question perfectly well; if she has a problem with it, that's her personal opinion.]

[choosetruth]

[Acceptable. Personal motivation doesn't have to be the same as the Queen's, though that he answers that instead of with the Queen's orders is interesting. Admitting to having his own motivations? Dangerous.]

What?

[pseudological]

That's for me to know and him to tell you about, providing you can weasel it outta him.

[Spilling the beans now would just spoil the dramatic tension. C'mon, George, where's your sense of pacing?]

[choosetruth]

Wonderful. [She does not like Tim's mirror.]

Are you making an effort to catch the rogue mirrors?

[pseudological]

They got plenty of other people on their case.

[Which is a perfect non-answer, since he's not exactly not looking for them. Just not going outta his way. The Mirror, for his part, simply grins.]

[choosetruth]

Do you know who they are?

[Georgia does. But she's not sharing. He can find out in her article like everyone else.]

[pseudological]

Why wouldn't I?

[He's very definitely putting "be as infuriating as possible to someone who wants straight answers" into practice.]

[choosetruth]

[She raises her eyebrows.]

So that's a no, then.

[pseudological]

[He simply smiles. She's free to draw her own conclusions, naturally. It's no skin off his nose, one way or the other.]

Are those answers enough for you, or do you wanna know my blood type and whether or not I appreciate long walks on the beach?

[choosetruth]

Neither of those were on my list. [She represses a sigh.] I don't have time for games. I guess we're done. Just don't expect anything to come from your damn tape. I don't even have a way to watch it.

[pseudological]

Ask around. I'm sure Alex left some of his old cameras around somewhere.

[There's a breadcrumb, if she feels like following it. The Real Tim would be loathe to bring Alex up of his own volition, naturally, but this? Why, this is just another piece of that puzzle.]

[choosetruth]

[She suppresses an eyeroll behind her sunglasses.]

And who the fuck is Alex?

[pseudological]

[He doesn't just smirk this time. He grins.]

Ask around.

[Because she won't have to go far.]