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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
Kugrash squints, looking at him, wondering if this is a weird joke or not before shrugging. Fuck it.
"Grab the whole box," he says about the donuts, and with the practiced ease of someone who's done this a million times before, climbs onto Neal's shoulder via his arm. "I saw a bunch of bums in the alley, we should give it to 'em."
no subject
He picks up the donuts without further comment. "I can do a little better than chain-store donuts for them next time."
Next time he goes out? Next time he take Kugrash for coffee? Who the fuck knows. Not Neal.
Either way, he exits the building looking cool and comfortable and like it's not at all strange to have a two foot rat riding shotgun.
no subject
"Hell yeah," he states, though it's more of a half-shout of triumph than anything else. He doesn't have to carry the onuts, either, which is a plus. This guy may look smarmy as hell but Kugrash is incredibly surprised at how much he isn't.
"I'm Kugrash, by the way. Let's help some people out. I want to see what my human form looks like drinking in public. Usually people just think I'm a really large rat or an incredibly hairy baby."
no subject
He pauses before leaving ADI's grounds, eyebrows raised.
no subject
He may or may not be rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
scream i thought i tagged this
Though he can't deny his own curiosity. After a moment he mentally shrugs and steps over the proverbial line.
no subject
Maybe he can make a difference here.
"Hey--let's check the dumpster at whatever cafe you take me to. Day-old scones are the best."