Neal Caffrey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
conning) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
apocalypsehowcomm2021-09-20 07:08 pm
conning) wrote in apocalypsehowcomm2021-09-20 07:08 pm
- living on borrowed time - log - ota
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.
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.
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"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."
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Her pace is slower than most people's, but she appreciates him matching her, that smile not dimming a watt.
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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.
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"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?"
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Oh, he's good. Catching the undercurrents without getting nosy, commiserating. She's definitely intrigued by what he has going on.
"One question first. You're not a local--did you come from very far to get here?" She's not going to mention ADI outright, but if this guy is with them, she trusts him to understand the implication, especially with the slightest emphasis on 'very far'.
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Which wouldn't be much of a giveaway of anything. Except she has yet to meet anyone else from a world in which Hightower exists, let alone is one of the top ten largest cities in the USA.
"Well, Federal Heights, but I used to take the train into the city."
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"Are you staying in company housing, or out in town?"
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Invitations already? Well, she has her ulterior motive. Tim and Malcolm have their own radars for people, quite possibly better than hers.
"What did you do before moving here?"
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He sighs at her second question, smiling a little and looking off into the middle distance as they amble along. "Consultation. Art and art crimes, forgery, high security. That kind of thing. I miss it already, I can tell you that."
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"You never know what opportunities might arise here. I can see the company taking an interest in the museums--in Salem or Boston, if not here in Gloucester. You might find opportunities to bring those skills to the table."
Speaking of the table, they've arrived at the cafe, which is busy but not swamped.
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He holds the door for her, but it’s a simple gentlemanly gesture, not because he assumes she can’t do it herself. “What did you before ending up here?”
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She is very, very good at delivering corporate doublespeak and excuses that go in circles, after all.
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He takes in the kitschy little shop, smiling a bit. “Find this place while rambling or did you have it pointed out?”
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She glances up at the menu. "For me, playing a good loyal employee while on company property is a default defense mechanism, strong enough that there's others among the non-local staff who assume that's the reality of the situation."
She did the same at home--enough to create that default. Keep your head down, do your job, don't speak poorly of the boss anywhere that might be bugged. Because that's normal to need to do around tech CEOs, right?
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Neal studies the menu himself, frowning slightly. Looks like it's a long con whether he likes it or not. "Which I guess means throwing myself unwillingly back into the colorless cubicle maze, for the time being."
He flashes her a smile. "No insult intended. I can't file for beans and my typing skills are shaky at best."
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Because she is an amazing bullshitter, in case Neal hadn't noticed.
"...you might actually do alright there, media relations. You have a trustworthy face." Well, he does, but Meredith suspects it to be as much a cultivated thing as her own.
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In many ways, it's what he did, before transitioning to work as a security consultant. ...'Transitioning.' He uses his ironic amusement to make his smile genuine. "A trustworthy face. Not a compliment I often get, but I'll take it."