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 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."

[mr_englishguy]

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.

[pseudological]

"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."

[mr_englishguy]

Newt is willing to answer for what he did, to protect the mansion on a whole. But he's not willing to back down in this moment. Not if it meant this man could harm others. Nervous, not even trying to hide that as he shifts. Almost as if he could put himself between Tim and the library. He wasn't sure he could protect it all but he will do his best.

Frowning as the man lowers himself, not sure what to think about this. Not a damn clue what he was doing.

"You can't promise that," he says, wand held up and at the ready though the tip waivers, making it clear he is confused, not wanting to hurt anyone if he didn't have to. "You should go back to where you belong," he says, chin lifting slightly. "This isn't your place. We can fix things on our own."

[pseudological]

And he sounds so confident. As if the Mirrors haven't been created for this place, every hair and molecule, stitched into the very magical flesh of Wonderland. As if they don't have a right to stake every claim, from the Checkerboard Hills to the verdant woodland; from the mansion's rooftop to the lush gardens.

"I belong here just as much as you do," he says, simply. "And even if I didn't - I wasn't even here. Remember?"

The charred stains on the carpet and the smell of smoke will remain, but after a few days, it will all smooth over. As if nothing ever happened at all.

[mr_englishguy]

Newt is a shy man, often timid. Except when that protective mode surfaces. He might not fight hard to protect himself but he will to help save others. So while his hand my shake, causing the wand to tremble with the motion, he holds his ground.

"No. No you don't. You have your realm, and you are welcome to it," he says, wondering if he will try again to start another fire, if he'll rush Newt. His mind racing over the spells he might use to detain him without trying to hurt the man. Even after all this, not wanting to truly hurt someone if he can avoid.

[pseudological]

"Of the two of us, which do you think is native to Wonderland, exactly?"

He still seems utterly amused at the concept, but he won't push it. He understands, after all, when it's best to fold them, and retreat. When it's best to bide your time. He can't say the same for many of the other Mirrors, but windows of opportunity will arise again.

He smiles blithely, and turns to take his leave.

"Be seeing you."

[mr_englishguy]

"Neither," he said, jaw tightening. "The natives here would likely be no less happy with what you've done here than I am," he admits, frowning heavily. Almost as if he felt betrayed. Given Newt's nature, he likely did.

"I can only hope you won't," he calls after him, standing there, at the ready, worried the man may change his mind.

[pseudological]

Nah. He's gotten what he needs from this whole interaction. Plenty of information about a guy named Newt, who's always scrambling, always desperate to help. Even eager to play along if it meant keeping people safe, hypothetically. Susceptible, he should think, to a lot of things.

The Mirror is still smiling when he turns the corner, and his gone.

[mr_englishguy]

It is several long moments before Newt lowers his wand. Shoulders slumping, his eyes closing for a long moment, drawing a breath before pocking his wand and moving to start cleaning things up. Making sure it was set as right as he could, proving that he would do nearly anything needed to help.