and in the end if i don't make it on the list [ open ]

[postictal]

Who: Tim Wright and YOU! ...and guest
Where: It's a Wonderful Wonderlandland
When: January 19th - January 23rd
Rating: PG-13 probable
Summary: Tim's ideal world is simple. Incredibly simple. Except for the part where it's impossible.
The Story:

19th - 20th ; fantasy ; give me a boost over heaven's gate

Once he gets over how he has to shade his eyes against the diamond reflection of a too-bright sun, of the pumping lights and blinding colors of what looks like what might've been the end result if Lisa Frank took a couple tabs of acid and decided to start her very own apocalypse, he figures, correctly, that there's probably more to it than this. He prowls the edges of the bubble of increasingly absurd imagery, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It does.

He turns a corner, and there they are.

Sarah's hair falls back in a dark curtain as she laughs at something Seth just said. A little further - he can swear that's Jay there too, squirrely as ever, and the broad shoulders of a silhouette that couldn't belong to anyone but Brian.

But most startling, terrifying, unnatural than anything else, than the fact that they're there at all, is the way they all laugh and grin and joke freely and without abandon.

It's in the way they all look happy.

He doesn't breach that perfect world just yet. If this is his chance to watch what the world might have been without him, then why would he spoil it a second time? He can see them all like this, like they were meant to be, and no matter how thickly the nostalgia might build in his chest, how blindingly the ache of longing might tighten its stranglehold around his throat, he doesn't draw any nearer.

He simply settles down on the grass, draws his knees up beneath his chin, folds his arms around them and...watches.

21st - 23rd ; but i'm a missile that's guided to you;

Of course it wasn't real.

Apparently music is how you're supposed to destroy the things, but he's kind of lacking the instrumentation and an additional pair of willing voices for the sake of the three-part harmony that's supposed to be the kicker here. And, frankly, in his adrenaline-soaked, survivalist state, he doesn't have much of an instinct for memorization of lyrics from the Top Ten Hits From the Nineties listings in an off-brand version of a world not unlike his own.

It's kind of hard to be scared of zombies at this point, though. He'll give Wonderland that much; it sure knows how to desensitize.

He's not doing too badly, all things considered. You'll find him perched just alongside a sluggish river of viscous, rainbow-tinted water, having deftly dug a trench out from the sparkling earth and filled the bottom of the ditch with knitting needles, points up, to catch any one of the slavering horde that decides he looks interesting enough.

It's not a permanent measure by any means, but it's only until he can figure out how to get the busted karaoke machine he's been tinkering worth to start working again.

wildcard ; you're the one habit i just can't kick

[If you want a closed prompt with either Frisk or Tim, let me know here or at arrpee! Just because this is initially a Tim log doesn't mean I can't toss Frisk in if you wanna do something with them! I will match prose or brackets!]

Comments

23rd, and i'm so sorry

[shrinkage]

A tall man in a bright orange backwards ballcap, matching hi-tops, and cut-off blue jeans is hanging perilously above the knitting needles of doom. He lets out a soft wail of effort but the rest of him is soft, too, and his hands are starting to slip.

"Help. Help! Help, help, help," he pleads. It's utterly pitiful. "Someone? Anyone? Help?"

why would you ever be sorry for this

[postictal]

Why this.

Why is this happening. This was supposed to be a zombie flytrap, not a means of attracting yet more neon-clad denizens of this imaginary Wonderlandland. Assuming that’s what he is - it’s hard to be sure.

Tim might be an asshole, he knows full well, but he’s not so heartless that he’d leave someone to fall to their horrible death by knitting needle impalement. With a sigh, he leans over and stretches out a hand.

“The hell are you doing?”

asljdkf; so you like manbabies huh ok good to know

[shrinkage]

Being an utter turd.

But Ray does at least have the ability to grab that hand and start hoisting himself upward, all scrabbling and huffing and puffing. Once over the edge, he rolls onto his back in exhaustion.

The bright red letters of an old D.A.R.E. t-shirt are mocking and unkind. He finally answers.

"Thought I could jump it?"

TO HELL WITH US

[postictal]

He has to dig in his heels, teeth ground shut Sonje doesn’t make even more noise that might draw the things to the pair of them, not that he’s getting much help from Mr. Sunshine over here. Whatever’s with the getup, Tim’s sure he doesn’t want to know.

“You could’ve asked. Holy shit.” And his shirt says - wow. That might explain it. “Do you take all the slogans on your shirts literally, or am I just lucky?”

<333

[shrinkage]

He shrugs because yeah OK that is a really good point. Next time, Ray. Just ask.

And then he peers down at his irony clothing and grins sheepishly before replying: "Well ... I'd call you lucky but it might be the bad kind of lucky."

Ray sits up finally and dusts himself off as he gets to his feet. "Or maybe not. Are you out here alone?"

[postictal]

Seems pretty in line with what he’d expect from his own track record, sure, seeing as “luck” so seldom plays a role in his fucking life. Fine. Good to know.

“Not anymore,” says Tim pointedly. “If you start drawing them to us, you’re going straight back over.” He’s totally not; the threat is as empty as they come. But it’s not like he expects the other guy to know that right off the bat.

[shrinkage]

"I won't!" He yells before realizing what he's just done and shocking himself into clapping a hand over his own mouth. He lifts it just after to reassert his compliance with a stage whisper: "I mean I won't."

He probably will. He's a lug. But he keeps trying to whisper, at least: "If we find a third we can sing them to death, right?"

[postictal]

Oh my god is he actually twelve years old.</>

“...yes,” says Tim, drawing out the word slowly as his brows knit down and he starts to ponder if maybe, just maybe, this is some kind of joke in poor taste. Possibly. “Assuming I can get this damn thing working.” He nudges the busted karaoke machine with the tie of his shoe, scowling.

[shrinkage]

Yes. Well actually, it's worse. He's like a year old in some ways? It's... complicated.

The machine grabs Ray's attention, but as he reaches for it, he hesitates-- he's only a janitor these days. Using those skills on purpose these days tends to be a little touch-and-go.

"Are you good at that stuff? I could keep watch while you, uhh, tinker."

GOD I LOVE MOBILE TAGGING

[postictal]

"Me?" Tim snorts. "No. I'm just hitting things and hoping that something starts working. Are you?"

Honestly, if he is, that'd make it his, uh entrance entirely worth it, as far as Tim's concerned. If the guy can earn his keep, that is. Because this? This little needle-pit of land? This is currently his sole domain.

He's had better.

tbf i briefly thought about being kind and prompting you to edit and then i was just lazy

[shrinkage]

"Possibly," he replies. It's not very confident. "Here, I'll give it a whirl at least? Maybe it'll come to me if I just start poking around in there."

He almost explains why, but Ray's already made himself look like an utter fool today. And contrary to all evidence otherwise (ie, his entire life) he does have some semblance of self-awareness.

So he just pulls said karaoke machine toward himself and starts a little jiggery-pokery.

I mean IT WAS MY OWN FAULT SO

[postictal]

All told, that’s not a ringing endorsement. But the worst that happens is the thing just gets even more broken, which doesn’t derail the goal of needing to pick up and find someplace safer anyway. All told, there’s jot much to lose besides possibly Tim’s own patience.

Then again, that’s dwindling already.

“Possibly?” he repeats, vaguely bemused - but only vaguely. “You don’t actually know?”

that's what your phone WANTS us to think

[shrinkage]

"Not exactly, no."

But he's willing to give it a shot, at least. It'll be without his usual fanfare and showboating, but let's be honest that's just for the better. Except that he also doesn't want to overwhelm a new friend with too much detail.

"It's like that old saying about riding bikes except less easy. Especially without tools." But he's still plugging away at this sucker and has at least managed to get into the guts of the thing.

RUDE PHONE

[postictal]

The more hints he drops, the more it teases something out from the center of him. Everyone here is amnestic to a degree, he knows. But some people are more than others. Some people lose time consistently, or have lost so much that they can no longer say which parts of themselves are still present.

“Amnesia?” he ventures at last, not so much wary as he sounds almost hopeful.

Stupid. Stupid of him. What kind of person hopes for something like that?

[shrinkage]

Ray huffs, heavy and akin to longing. Maybe he's a mind-reader? No, no. That would be ridiculous.

"Gosh, that would be easier, honestly," he finally admits. Being directly asked, well, that does help pop his cork. "Something happened to me-- parts of my life just don't add up now. I was different here, before I left and came back a few weeks ago. Smarter, and braver. I built a bunch of stuff on purpose instead of accidentally just hodge-podging things on a hunch I didn't understand."

Sort of the way he's doing now. As he clicks the main board back in and flips the switch, his voice warbles from the speaker: "Oh! I'm Ray, by the way."

[postictal]

Yeah. Stupid.

But maybe not too far off base. He’s not ideal in terms of who to talk to about this kind of thing. Pretty fucking far from it. He just happens to know a thing or two about losing your mind. Call it hands on experience.

“Sounds like maybe you got pieces of yourself swapped, or something.” But. Hey. Turns out he can fix a karaoke machine. Useless in most situations, but here? Something of a lifesaver. “Tim.”

[shrinkage]

"Howdy, Tim." Because in Wonderland it's not actually exactly nice to meet anyone, really. He holds up the working machine with a lopsided smile.

"Got any other buddies around here? Rumor is we need three. I'm a tenor, if it helps." He's not, that would require him to have tone and be able to carry a tune. Had he either of those, his life would likely be a very different one.

[postictal]

"I have no idea what I am." He'd make a joke about how he doesn't have nearly enough friends to make a trio, but he had to go and accidentally make friends with entirely too many people and ruin them with his own problems, so he can't even say that in good faith.

"Or where anyone else is. Kinda set this whole thing up as a short-term measure," he says, gesturing loosely at the makeshift stake pit. "Didn't really plan in the, uh...long-term."

[shrinkage]

That'd also open up this cheerful idiot to identify himself as Tim's brand new friend so bravo Tim's way ahead of the curve there.

"Well, if this were a video game we'd have two choices. Camp or keep moving. And you already made a pretty defensible area," Ray says. He smiles at Tim (uh oh that's a friendly smile). "Maybe between us we'll see someone passing through like you saw me. We'll be a team!"

[postictal]

A pity that Tim isn’t the smiling sort by default. Or maybe it’s a blessing; honestly, the shape of his face doesn’t feel like it lends itself very well to joviality. That might end up spooking people more than it does appeasing them, or making hjm seem any more innately approachable.

“Won’t last us long in an actual crisis.” Moving on seems the more agreeable option, though Ray’s exuberant use of the term “team” nearly makes him wince.

“You, uh...sure. Team.” That’s not, you know, terrifying on a few levels. “I guess we’ll hsve to be. And, uh, moving on, too.”

Except, right, there’s that little hitch.

“...you gonna actually make the jump this time, or am I gonna need to pull you out again?”

[shrinkage]

"Oh, yeah! That's a great plan. I'll totally get it this time."

Does he sound convincing because he doesn't feel it. But he also doesn't blanch at Tim's lack of enthusiasm, either-- Ray's always had more than enough to make up for anyone's lack. Ray holds up the karaoke machine and more cheer than any one person has the right to have in this world.

"Why don't you go first and I'll toss this to you, and then I'll follow?" It's a suggestion that's both about the karaoke machine and also about Ray probably not making it the second time either...

[postictal]

A sigh, but he acquiesces, though not before yanking one of the oversized knitting needles from where it’s buried in the trench and offering it out.

“It’s not much, but it’s a weapon,” he says with a pointed glance in the direction of the not-terribly-distant zombie hordes. “Good idea to carry one.”

In fact, he’s going to arm himself as well, with one of said bizarre fucking knitting needles, and he’ll pkant it at the bottom of the trench as an impromptu vault pole, arcing over the spike pit to land on the other side with a stumble.

[shrinkage]

He takes the needle without protest, and once Tim's on the other side, balanced and settled Ray heaves the karaoke machine over.

He follows, a flailing mess of limbs save for the one arm jutted away from his body. It's a good thing too because he lands back and winds up in a pile of himself without getting impaled. It doesn't take too long for him to hop back up, shaking his head.

"I'm good, I'm good." A little dizzy but, he's on his feet and reaching out for the karaoke machine again. "And I had an idea. I can do it while we move, just-- lead the way?"

[postictal]

He catches it, thank fuck, which is for the best considering he really does not want to make Ray have to fix it again. It’s sircived a lot for a cheap little machine, and he doubts it’ll last another tumble.

Debatably more important is the fact that Ray himself has managed to clear the jump without any pierced limbs. Tim’s almost set on helping him to his feet, but he manages a hell of a lot better than last time. Props to him for that, Tim supposed.

“What’s up?” he says, obliging by cutting an unerring line between two slowly converging hordes.

[shrinkage]

"What if we could fake a three-part harmony? You, me, and recorded me?" Ray follows dutifully, almost as if he prefers to have a lead to follow while his brain works on other things.

So, needle tucked in his armpit, karaoke machine in one hand and microphone in the other, he makes one last crappy joke:

"Any requests?"