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

Entry tags:

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

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!]

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"Far too many," the Mirror agrees, disarmingly warm. But he's still standing here, and the record's still spinning, and no one's tapped in to take the dance.

Perhaps he'd be remiss to break this little moment they're having, but he sets it forward, one final time, one side of his mouth coiling in a smile, fainter this time. Perhaps less menacing.

"You got something against joining the dance?"

Newt suspect this is the worst idea he's had, but if this man is from the real side of Wonderland, why not indulge him? If he's from the other side, then not indulging him could well be dangerous. Newt has already died once, and he isn't in a hurry to do it again.

"I suppose not," he says, giving a nod. "Certainly. That sounds like a splendid idea."

He's got no metric for how Tim should be acting at all, does he? No notion of the potential danger he's in. The Mirror looks appropriately pleased.

"Never too late to learn something new," he says warmly. "And, hey. I'll even give you a head start."

...sorry, what was that last bit?

Newt blinks, shifting at those words. Wait. He was pretty sure he has been keeping up wit the entire conversation, but now with that last statement, he isn't at all sure what was going on.

"I'm sorry. A head start? I... I have never been aware of dances that include a head start. Am I missing something?"

Oh he's pretty sure he is. At least by the way his fingers tighten on the grip of the wand.

He grins, loose and easy, flicking the small, silver square of a lighter up into the air and down again. It spins lazily before landing in the groove of his palm, and he jiggles it with a teasing, careless indifference.

"You've never danced with my partner." That tall man always did favor fire, see.

Newt's gaze follows the spinning metal, not having ever seen something like it in his time, and not certain what kind of threat it may pose. "I'm not sure what that is, Sir," he murmurs, gaze moving to his face.

"I had thought you meant yourself. I... I'm not certain I'm the sort your partner might wish to cope with. I tend to step on toes," he says, trying to tease, to lighten the mood. Despite how tense he is, balancing on the balls of his feet, considering if it is time to back away or not.

"Magic," says Tim, lazily. Which is hilarious, 'cause he doesn't even fully grasp the irony of who he's talking to. But it might as well be magic, shouldn't it?

He clicks at the lighter in his hand, and a small tongue of flame flares to life with a soft, guttering flicker. Small, inescapably a danger, and yet, for now - small enough to be considered harmless.

"That's fine." The Mirror is still smiling. "He doesn't have toes."

"Oh? Really. Interesting. I'm most used to another means of casting," he admits, utterly confused and it shows in the furrow on his brow, the hard curving frown of his mouth as he taps his wand lightly against his legs.

"Oh. Oh well. Interesting way of finding a flame. I hadn't realized you were a wizard." Or whatever his form of magic was called.

"I..." No, he didn't see. "And magic allows him the skills to dance?"

He's much too curious, caught up between mention of magic and how wrong so much of this sounds.

What an absolute square. He's actually some kind of wizard, isn't he? Some kind of fucking magic man. Which presents something of a problem, in the long term, but...hey, he's not gonna think about this.

"More like he doesn't have, like...limbs. Not how we'd perceive them." The lighter click-clicks, on and off. On and off.

On and off.

Lighters in Newt's time where a metal box with shavings within. Another five years or so though and Zippo would become a thing.

"Your... I mean, since I can't see him.. is that why?" He doesn't want to ask if the partner was imaginary, as he has just said he wouldn't judge them as that merely because he can't see them. "A lack of limbs seems to make dancing a bit difficult, don't you think?"

Yes, because that is the logical answer in the face of talk of running, and the playing of flames before him.

"He's a strange guy, no doubt." The Mirror slips a box from his pocket - cigarettes - and feeds the end of one between his lips, lighting it up with a soft flare at its end. Smoke wisps from between his teeth. He regards Newt, unblinking, all thought of the proverbial dance apparently forgotten.

"Tall, dark, and...mysterious," says Tim, drawing the word out with a relish. "The finest tailoring on that suit of his you could imagine. And his face, well..."

His head lists to one side, eyes drifting out of focus. Just for a moment.

Before he smiles.

"Nothing like it in the world."

"Oh! Well, isn't that a delight over matches," he says, almost seeming in relief as he sees a use for the item rather than merely making fire with that constantly clicking sound.

Newt listens, giving the other man his attention. Though with those words, he cants his head slightly, considering how it all sounds. "He seems... I mean, to say, you seem to be quite smitten with him. How lucky you are to find such things in this place," he says, and he's sincere. He's got it all wrong, but damn he's sincere.

He's real damn sincere, that's for sure. Can't help but talk like he's believing a word of this, like this isn't a complete danger he's skirting right here and now, like he's not in danger of something worse.

"Funny story, actually." He pinches the cigarette between index and middle finger, exhaling with a languid nonchalance. "He found me. When I was just a little kid. Maybe, uh...maybe even before then."

The lighter click-clicks in his free hand. On and off. On and off.

"Maybe I was always going to be his."

Knowing he's in danger, and running from a chance to possibly help someone else, is not the same for Newt. Sadly he will take risks that could mean getting himself hurt, especially if it meant he has a chance to help another.

Though the things he's saying sound so terrifying, especially as he talks about being found as a child, and yet this "partner" has no limbs and is not visible to others.

"Oh. Well. I suppose if someone is in your life that long, then certainly you care about them," he says, trying to sound calm, to sound as if life is just normal and none of this is that sort of thing that weighs heavily on a person's mind.

"Perhaps then I should let you both have your time," he says, thinking that at least sounds calm, relaxed, even if he knows he's not.

"Should you?" He cocks his head to one side, suddenly, as though the other man has said something particularly confusing. And he has, in a way, hasn't he? He's proposing that this is simply how things should be, that there's a way out now, from all this.

No.

He's trying to sound calm, but the tremor in his tone gives him away.

"No, actually." The lighter clicks on and off again, a rhythmic snap and pull of pins and rasping flint. "I think you should stay."

In truth, Newt has certainly felt threatened more than once in his lifetime. None of those times felt anything like this. Less threatened directly and more certain something was entirely and very wrong. Kindness, it seems, wasn't seeming to play into Newt's favor in that moment.

"That's... Kind of you," Newt says, trying to sound calm and normal and failing at both. "You seem quite fine and there's others that may need help," he adds, backing up a step, making that motion to flee for the first time.

He's floundering, flailing, but seems oddly unwilling to make any genuine attempts to exert a forceful end to this encounter. Gentle vocal pressure seems about the extent of what he's willing to do.

How far can Tim push him, exactly?

Now seems as compelling a time as any to find out. He smiles, warmly, and matches Newt's retreat, step for step.

"What kind of help, exactly?"

There is never anything good that comes from someone matching you step for step. Nope. Not ever. Even Newt knows that.

Yet he doesn't run because if there's anything else he knows? You never run when a predator is moving towards you, when you're their attention, and he's pretty sure that's what this is.

"To be there for anyone who might have been hurt. Some have been rather aggressive and violent and help has been needed."

He stares at Tim the most intently that he's made eye contact with anyone, as if trying to make it clear he knows he's in that situation himself.

"I wouldn't worry about that. Lots of people around here seem to like playing Good Samaritan." He cocks his head to one side, almost birdlike. They're both dressing their words up awful pretty for two people who know full well what the other is thinking; it's just a matter of who elects to move first.

The Mirror is content, for the moment, to play the role of the coiled snake, and wait. Patience has always been one of his few virtues.

"Like you."

Rarely does Newt think of another human being in the terms he does creatures, but this is definitely one of those moments that changes things. He can't think of this as the odd muggle, but rather as the sort of predators he's seen in various countries. Dangerous and deadly. In their element and Newt certainly wasn't.

His mind is racing, not wanting to use a spell against the other unless he has to. Even if only to use stupify or lumos. Something to distract, to buy him time. Sadly, his reluctance is in the fear of how others might see him should he hurt another.

Even if he's fairly sure that other is most definitely an escapee from the otherside of Wonderland.

"I don't see that as a bad thing. The more of us that are helping, the better chance we have of this ending with fewer deaths."

The Mirror hums contemplatively, cocking his head to one side. He imagines this will, inevitably, end in death. It will end in chaos, in disarray, because surely that's exactly what Mirrors are for. Why else would Her Majesty send the lot of them over, if not to wreak endless havoc and sow discord on her behalf?

"You really think this will end in death?" he asks, almost sadly. Almost as though he's offended that Newt would make that assumption about the content of Tim's character.

His eyes shutter closed. For a moment, he looks almost pained.

Then in an abrupt, precise unfurling of motion, the Mirror spins, hurling the lighter. The open flame lands on the top of the record player, and the flimsy wood catches alight at once with a quiet whoosh.

He's grinning in earnest, now, a warm, pleasant flash of teeth.

Sadly, they're actually on the same page about that. Newt's heard of other deaths. He's heard screams. He's not ready for this to be his own death though. Not again. He's already had one, and that's more than enough for him.

"I think it will for some," he admits, voice tight then. "Perhaps not here, but with someone. There's been too many screams for it to not to." Which is sad to admit, but it's the truth.

Newt gasps, wincing as the violence, such that it is, comes though not for him. He reacts in an instant, leaving behind his fears to rush past the man if he can.

The wand already in hand, crying out the word, "Aguamenti." As he runs, aiming the wand so that the water rushing from the wand to the fire. Ironic, he realizes, that his death came with water, and now it was possibly saving others from the same fate.

He hopes.

He doesn't smile; that would show his hand. A pointless display of violence that does very little besides reveal the capacity Newt has for magic. A thin stick of wood that spurts water indicates an obvious weakness.

If Newt is deprived of his wand, he loses his capacity for magic. Presumably, in any case. Tim's willing to bet on those odds.

"Better check with the librarian, pal." He's laughing, now, bright and clear. "I hear she hates it when you ruin her precious books."

Using the wand to do his best to put out the fire, not having enough water in that moment to get it all. Moving then to do something he hated doing, pushing the player to the floor as he pulled off his jacket.

Frowning deeply as he tugged off his vest, using it to try and smother out the flames that remained. Looking up at Tim, the expression on his face particularly dumbfounded, not understanding why he would even do what had just been done.

"Perhaps you should leave," he says, knowing it isn't exactly a request to be listened to.

"Maybe I should," he says mildly, eyes roving about the selection of books whose spines have been dampened, the acrid cling of Real smoke stinging his nostrils.

If anyone were to stumble across the scene, well...it'd be pretty startling to discover one lone wizard wrecking things to the best of his ability, doing his absolute best to patch up the destruction incurred by a Mirror who will be, sadly, mysteriously...not there.

It won't mean much, in the long term. But it's an isolated incident. And those are the best sorts of incidents for his purposes.

"How 'bout this." Slowly, he kneels so he's at Newt's eye level. "I'll make you a little promise. That this, any of...this..." He breaks away to gesture loosely with one cupped hand.

"...never happened."

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

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