entrancelogs | 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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well, there will be no arguments here. Even if this Asgore paints considerably sadder a picture, the novelty of him makes it at least vaguely more interesting than his dudebro counterpart. "Vaguely" being the operative word there - when the operative word isn't, of course, "operative."

"You gotta be eighteen years old before you can buy 'em." He laughs as he says it. The guy's so damn sincere, he's really gotta hand it to him. "At least, in the state of Alabama you do."

Which technically isn't even where he's from; born and bred in Wonderland with a host of false memories, of course. But who wants to hear about that?

"Oh, in Alabama," says Asgore. "You have to be eighteen years of age to purchase them."

Asgore was going to say something about children and danger but then he realized that coming from him that's sort of the most hypocritical sort of topic imaginable.

You can witness a succession of thoughts passing across his face, as he moves from casual interest to sudden realization to momentary shame to an attempt to look casually interested again.

"Are there other things that you can only do when a human is 18 years old in Alabama?"

"Drink." He indicates Asgore's mug of bad life choices with a subtle tilt of his chin. "Among other things."

What an absolute dad, this guy. Like, unquestionably shitty, he's pretty sure - the lady goat on his side of the glass is fairly outspoken about the nature of Asgore's crimes - but he presents that fluffy, innocent disposition so well that he can't help but admire him for how thoroughly he's adopted it.

"Don't want kids getting wrapped up in stuff like this too young, now, do we?"

You're starting to hit a little too close to home there, son. What with your comments about kids and youth and danger.

"Ah, no, I suppose not. Alcohol and cigarettes are probably not good for growing bodies." Among other things. Asgore takes an actual drink from his beer. Good old thoughts of dead kids and all.

"It's a bit... bitter," he says. "But not in the way that tea is bitter, it is... less complex, do you think?"

Maybe you should have ordered a craft beer, Asgore. A nice wild cherry biere de garde with accents of coffee, perhaps, instead of the dadbrew that you picked out.

"And here I had you pegged for a guy fond of eating his wheaties," the Mirror laughs, as though this quaintly complacent goat man is at all comparable to the arrogant flex-maniac he's grown to, unfortunately, know by sight.

Maybe he should add some protein. That always goes over well.

"That stuff goes right to your gut, you know."

What you are dealing with here, my bro, my friend, my pal, my buddy, my guy, is the difference between a bodybuilder and a powerlifter. Both lift the heavy weights, but they approach it with a very different aesthetic.

"I am not sure what a 'Wheaties' is but since you think I am the sort to eat them, I will ask the kitchen for some the next time I go. And anyway, I already have something of a gut, and so it will find a pleasant home there, do you not think? And at any rate, so long as I do not indulge too often, I feel that it is not likely that I will add too much that cannot be worked off later."

"Yeah? You work out often or something?" If he looks amused at the whole exchange, don't worry about it; it's probably just some private joke. Or something along those lines. It's nothing to get concerned over, surely. He's just expressing some casual, polite interest.

He'd correct him by saying that eating your wheaties is just an expression but, you know what? This is way better. He wants to know that Asgore might, down the line, ask the kitchen for some wheaties and end up with the blandest cereal brand possible.

"Well, you see, Tim, when your wife leaves you and you're left with hundreds of years alone by yourself, you learn to take up hobbies... gardening... combat training... weight lifting... to help you pass the time." Asgore takes another drink of The Beer (tm).

"Lifetimes worth of working out, Tim. If you are ever interested in learning how to lift weights, I can teach you what I know, and you don't even have to worry about things like not getting your ears smashed beneath the bar while you're doing shoulder presses."

The Mirror snorts. He doesn't even make an attempt to hide it, or conceal it behind the back of his hand, or subdue it. He snorts, shoulders hitching, and after a few moments, lapses into out-and-out laughter.

"Oh my god." He's grinning, like this is the best joke he's ever heard. And it is. Oh, but god, it is. "How pathetic are you?"

"Well, it's a bit rude to point it out and laugh, but the answer is very."

"What were you expecting?" He's still having the best goddamn time of it right now, snickering into the heel of one hand. He just up and admits it! No point in even hiding it! "Someone to pat your ass and say it's all gonna be okay? You're the one wallowing in it."

"I am not sure what I expected out of it, but I didn't imagine it involved you laughing at me. I think I would prefer it, if you are only going to laugh at me, for you to either stop laughing, or leave."

You can't shove a man down who already lives at the bottom, Faux!Tim. Not really.

"I was here first," says the Mirror. "I'm not here to throw you a little pity party, pal."

At least Asgore's Mirror is too busy flexing wildly to wallow in his own inability to get the hell over what happened years and years ago.

"I am not asking you to leave the bar, but my table," relied Sad Dad.

He's very disappointed in you, Timothy the Human.

Oh, the horror. He's disappointed in him. How will he ever survive. The Mirror laughs, sticking his cigarette between his lips, and scraping his chair back as he stands.

"Whatever you say, pal," says Tim. He kicks his chair back in and tilts his chin by way of farewell. "Whatever you say."

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

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bro i thought u were my friend

bitch you thought

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