- living on borrowed time - log - ota

[conning]

Who: Neal Caffrey, YOOOU
When: Early September to the beginning of the September event. (Rough timelines specified.)
Where: ALL 'ROUND
Summary: Neal scouts out this place in which he's found himself and gets up to some shenanigans, as well as like... having trouble with the local weirdness.
Warnings: None as yet, will add if necessary.



➥ mirror, mirror (throughout the month until event, feel free to make up your own scenario)
He's in an ADI unisex bathroom, washing his hands, and when he looks up the weaselly face of Matthew Keller stares back at him, ashen with surprise, a hole in his forehead dribbling a trail of blood down across his nose.

Neal jerks back, almost tripping over himself in the need to put distance between him and the image.

It happens again later, though this time it's not Keller's face. Neal notices right away. As hypervigilant as he's had to be over the past few months, anything odd in his periphery gets immediate attention.

A decorative mirror behind a bar where he's been integrating himself. Something shifts in it and Neal looks up sharply, to see the space around him popping, melting, burning and reforming, like traditional film held over heat. He closes his eyes tight, blinks them open again--

And now there's Keller, raising a glass, that hole still in his head. He's naked, Y incisions marked across his body, and when he drinks his beer it leaks out of the cuts with blood and pus.

Neal leaves. Quickly.

The third time lasts the longest. It doesn't matter what building he's in, it doesn't matter what room, it doesn't matter what he's doing. Every mirror gives him the same visual, the same hunted feeling. Eyes and smiling teeth, the room gone dim around them, encroaching and retreating and, at one moment, the teeth snapping shut next to his ear.

He whips around at that to find--of course--nothing there.

Deep breath. Reclaimed calm. He flashes the closest person an apologetic smile.

"Didn't sleep well last night."

➥ haunting tunes (ongoing)
He's out for a jog. Minding his own damn business. Flashing a Hollywood smile at anyone he passes, because it doesn't hurt to be remembered as friendly if one is remembered at all.

The song, the memory, it's the feeling of a distant silver arch and the taste of macaroni and cheese made with spaghetti. It's Meet Me in St. Louis, or something very like it, and Neal can't decide whether he's drawn to it or wants to recoil. Either way his steps slow. His mind starts to wander. Maybe he forces himself awake a moment before running into you, or maybe he's dozing at a bus stop, or walking in front of the bus. Maybe he's keeping you from walking in front of a bus. Anyting is fair game.

➥ they'll probably never miss it (THROUGHOUT THE MONTH, he wants nice clothes okay)
Neal does not like his standard issue ADI habiliments. He does not like the mild improvement of thrift store and off-the-rack pieces, which he still knows how to coordinate with a fashionista's practiced eye. Yes, he has the suit he came in, but that's going to wear out fairly quickly if he abuses it and who wants to wear the same thing every day?

To wit, he is stealing stuff. That is to say, he's picking the pockets of obviously (and not as obviously) wealthy pedestrians, focusing his attentions on tourists. Every once in a while he'll snag a particularly fancy watch, necklace, bracelet, et cetera. At one point he even manages a single earring--more for shits and giggles and because he didn't like the way the woman looked at her server than anything else.

He knows what will pay well at a pawn shop, and he's selective, never staying too long in one area from day to day. He's just a friendly resident, making his way through town with curiosity of someone unfamiliar with their new home.

➥ Wildcard
Neal is rapidly coming to the conclusion that he does not like this place. To put it in socially polite terms. As though the mirrors weren't enough, as though the disturbing reflections haven't spread to other surfaces, as though the eerie songs and ghosts of memories haven't made him balk at going outside. Now there's... this. Whatever it is.

Ugh.

Comments

They'll Probably Never Miss It

[abrightboy]

Malcolm notices him on Tuesday, examining a watch a few paces after brushing past a haughty gentleman in a fine suit. He sees him again on Thursday, in a cafe, holding the door for a woman who was rude to the waitress. She walks past the window wearing only one expensive earring.

When the man walks out of the cafe, Malcolm does too, jogging to catch up and draw alongside him.

"Is it a Robin Hood sort of thing?"

[conning]

Neal looks sidelong at the short man keeping pace with him, eyebrows going up. If there's one thing he's learned since his wayward youth, it's not to act dumb in the face of someone who's clearly part of the game unless you're in it to annoy them. This guy... He doesn't quite have a read on him yet. The clothes are cheap, as cheap as Neal's, inexpertly coordinated shades of "dark" without much adornment. The watch, though, is anything but cheap, and worn on the inside of his wrist.

It gives Neal an inkling, but he won't move on it yet.

He palms the earring lightly, letting it see the sun for a moment before it vanishes back into the pocket of his close-cut jeans. "You don't think it suits me?"

[abrightboy]

"Maybe if you get your ear pierced," Malcolm notes. "You'd look like a pirate." He gives him a cheeky look. "Fitting."

[conning]

All right, Neal likes this guy. In that superficial way he takes to someone or doesn't immediately, that measure by which he decides if conversation is worth it.

"I've never been a fan of on-the-nose styling."

[abrightboy]

“And yet you are a fan of style.”

The man had managed a lot better than he had with what’s on offer. Malcolm is accustomed to being dressed. This man dresses himself to the same effect, he expects, though on a level playing field he dresses far better.

“Is that what you need the money for?”

[conning]

Neal's studiously friendly expression crimps into the slightest smile. So that's the game. He does like this one.

"Some of us have to learn color coordination the hard way." He raises his eyebrows, reaching over to dust an imagined bit of something from the breast of Malcolm's shirt. "You've made a good start, but I can definitely give you some notes."

When he pulls back, he has Malcolm's watch in hand, studying it carefully. A little battered, but still worth a number significantly north of fifty grand. Too bad there isn't a pawn shop in a hundred miles that would give that much for it. He offers it back to Malcolm. "If I needed it, there are a half-dozen places within a few blocks that would provide more than enough in one go. Let's say I'm saving toward some personal improvements."

[abrightboy]

“I’m doing okay without notes. My roommate helps me out,” he says, watching Neal handle his watch. “You won’t rob a place like that. You rob people who can afford it.” A beat. “Or you think deserve it.”

[conning]

He gives an amused little huff of a laugh, a few more small pieces clicking into place.

“Someone was a criminal profiler in a past life. Old money, though—-very old, I’m guessing. So you’re in it purely for the chase or for the justice.”

He cocks his head consideringly. “Or both.”

[abrightboy]

“One more than the other,” he concedes. “You’re not in it for the money either, but you want it to look like you are.”

Haunting Tunes (CW, injury mention, not detailed)

[henchgal]

Meredith definitely appreciates being pulled out of the way of the bus; given her condition, she'd likely have been in trouble if not rescued. However, the arm he tugs at is the one whose shoulder was recently fucked up, so there's a definite wince as the pain wakes her up as much as the danger.

"On the one hand, thank you. On the other hand, be gentle with me, I'm fragile."

[conning]

Neal lets go gently, raising the grabbing hand in a small 'I come in peace' kind of gesture. His smile is both apologetic and friendly, the kind of neutral hello offered by a curious man to a pretty stranger.

"Sorry. It seemed better than the alternative."

[henchgal]

That smile brings out her own, polite and civil and so understanding.

"Oh, of course. Thank you so much for the help." Back on script, back to the mask she's almost always seen wearing. Using those big blue eyes and her blonde hair to seem like just another doe-eyed sweetheart. "Could I buy you a coffee as thanks? I could clearly use the caffeine."

[conning]

"You and me both." He does the gentlemanly thing when the light changes and waits to see which direction she's headed in, falling in beside her and keeping pace. "Any recommendations for places around here? I'm pretty new to the area."

[henchgal]

"I know this great hole-in-the-wall Mexican place that makes paella on the weekends. And a mom-and-pop Thai restaurant, too. Or were you looking for another sort of recommendation?"

Her pace is slower than most people's, but she appreciates him matching her, that smile not dimming a watt.

[conning]

His smile is a little more meant this time. “Any and all, but in this case I meant coffee. I lived in New York and Paris before this—-coffee hunting is something of a hobby.”

[henchgal]

She considers the question thoughtfully. "We're actually close to Castaways Vintage Cafe. They do smoothies as well as coffee, but the cold brew's nice and mellow, and I've also enjoyed their chai lattes on days when I'm just not in the mood for coffee."

The staff's a bit granola, but after living in Hightower, she can appreciate some small town local color.

"There's one girl in the HR department who swears I should be taking one of their juice shots with turmeric daily for 'inflammation'." That comment comes with the slightest of eye rolls. She can't wholly suppress her reaction there.

[conning]

Neal raises his eyebrows, that statement and reaction an answer to a question he wasn't going to ask.

"Ah. That inescapable person who knows how to deal with your chronic condition better than you do. Would you object to Castaways as a destination, or were you headed somewhere specific?"

mirror mirror;

[ratjesus]

Kugrash is slumming around the ADI. Half of it is trying to figure out what the fuck to do, the other half is because the break room has tons of snacks and at the moment there's an ungodly amount of donuts.

Kugrash's fanny pack is filled to the brim with glazed delights, having shoved so many of them into the stained and faded little man-purse it barely closes. He's also got a strawberry frosted in his grubby little hands, a bit of the pink around his snout, snarfing it as sits on the counter. It's definitely not sanitary.

He's not tiny but he is rather small, only two feet, so he's not surprised when the almost too handsome man doesn't notice him. Kugrash's plans had been to finish his donut and maybe explore the vents a little, but way the other in the break room is looking nervously at the too-shiny fridge reflection immediately nixes that plan. Kugrash is incredibly aware of the mirrors, courtesy of a little jaunt with Harry.

"Mirrors and reflections will mess you up here, pal. No idea why. Someone's reflection tried to shoot me, it was fucking rude." It's a miracle anyone can understand him with how full his mouth is.

"What'd you see?"

Re: mirror mirror;

[conning]

Neal jerks in sharp surprise, wrenching his focus away from another vision of Matthew Keller with a hole in his head giving way to decay. When his attention falls on Kugrash, the rat man gets a brief blank stare.

"I'm sorry," Neal says politely. "I feel like I'm still hallucinating."

[ratjesus]

"You might be," Kugrash agrees. "I think we all might be. One mirror? Curse. Two mirrors? Weird. Three or more? We're talking entity or mass hallucination. At least I hope."

Neal's blank stare is met with Kugrash taking another bite of donut, though his gaze wanders to the keurig. The fact that Neal hasn't answered what he asked originally is something that sticks to Kugrash, though he keeps it for himself for the time being.

"Hey pal, you know how to use that thing?"

[conning]

Neal would obfuscate if he did repeat the question, so there's that at least.

And this is not going away. He is not snapping out of it. But somehow, of all the things he's encountered here, the talking rat on the countertop is the one he truly can't get his head around. Even though he has a cat for a roommate. Neal pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment and decides to roll with it. There's not much else he can do.

"Neal. Neal Caffrey. And you are?" He goes to the keurig and checks to make sure someone didn't leave a used pod in it--they did, rude--before gesturing to the things on offer. "Particular preference?"

[ratjesus]

"There's different flavours? It's fucking coffee. This is crazy." His already pinched rat face becomes more pinched as he shimmies over to the pickings, wrinkling his nose as he stares at the varieties.

"What the fuck---look at this, look at this. Jesus Christ." He holds two pods up, probably a little closer to Neal's face than nessecary.

"What's the difference between donut shop and morning blend? It's the same goddamn thing."

[conning]

Neal takes a slight step back to keep from having coffee shoved up his nose.

"When it comes to keurig-quality coffee, there is no real difference," he says dryly. He gestures to the machine. "It's all poor to middling quality generics with beans that might have been close to some kind of flavoring once. Not that a good coffee needs flavoring."

[ratjesus]

Beggars can't be choosers, he supposes. Kugrash is innately aware of that, him more than most, but his snout turns up and his beady black eyes narrow.

"It's coffee. There is absolutely no difference between Starbucks, a donut shop and this shit, there can't be. You ever eat coffee grinds?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Exactly the same. Eat it outta the dumpster, even, it's free. No selling you a pour over for 12 bucks."

But...

"Uh... But, uh, if you had to pick, which would you choose? You're a fancy lad and shit."

[conning]

"There is absolutely a difference," Neal says, borderline offended. "And yes, I have eaten coffee grounds, as part of a steak rub. I've used them in Turkish shortbread and macaroons, among other things."

He looks at the little pods, plucks them lightly from Kugrash's paws, and then--with a tiny hnnngh expression and a moment of hesitation, waves to his shoulder. "Is it rude to say climb aboard? I have no idea. We're going and getting actual coffee."