- 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

[conning]

"Sounds like there's a story there." He sips his coffee, very blue eyes not leaving Malcolm's face.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs, then looks down into his cup, where his fingers are still fidgeting.

“It’s the same story as all my stories,” he admits softly.

[conning]

Gentler, both on instinct and because his own heart demands it, Neal says, "No fourth date?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks up from his cup to Neal from under his brow, like just looking at him is taking some kind of a chance.

“You have to have a second date and a third date to get turned down for a fourth date.”

He presses his lips together, glances down into his cup, then looks at Neal.

“I have a very pronounced case of complex PTSD. It doesn’t lend itself well to making friends. Or… retaining employment with the FBI. Or. Anything else.”

[conning]

Neal studies his face silently for a moment, suddenly not surprised that "My dad is a serial killer" was Malcolm's opener. The naked honesty in all of this makes Neal feel like he at least owes a crumb in return.

"The FBI isn't all it's cracked up to be," he says, tone somewhere between conciliatory and dismissive. "I did some consultation work for them. Theft, art crimes, forgery. Extracting fair payment is like pulling an annoyed tiger's teeth."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks at him, his expression brightening a little.

“I consult for the NYPD now.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I forget to bill them.” He watches Neal for a moment. “Have you ever recovered any famous paintings?”

[conning]

Neal takes another, deeper sip of his coffee now that it's starting to cool off. It's not terrible. Not as good as some of the places he's found in New York, but that's to be expected, really.

"You're in it for the justice and the chase." He lifts his shoulders in a prolonged shrug. "If you don't need the money, it can be... specialized volunteer work."

Neal tilts his head, grinning a little. He thinks you could say that would be a little too much information. What he goes with is true enough for government work. "We tracked down a cache of art and artifacts stolen during the Second World War. Quite a few famous pieces there. Someone stole a Haustenberg from a private residence and we found the thief and returned the painting to its proper owner. Interesting story behind that one--the painting was "Young Girl With Locket"--I know, creative--but it was smuggled out of Europe in the 1930s by Haustenberg's illegitimate daughter, who turned out to be the girl depicted."

[abrightboy]

“Irony is that now I do need money and there are no jobs like that.”

At the story of the treasure and then the painting, his eyes widen slightly and he leans forward a little.

“Are paintings that have been stolen, historically, worth more? They have a more interesting providence, right?”

[conning]

“They do. And not just paintings. About six years ago—” He stops for a moment as the number hits him. Then shakes his head and goes on. “About six years ago, there was an auction for the Franklin Bottle, a bottle of wine that was gifted by Marie Antoinette to Ben Franklin when he was ambassador there in the 1700s.”

It’s clear Neal is forgetting to maintain his veneer a little as it gives way to simple enthusiasm. “Normally it would have gone for, oh, three hundred thousand? It’s a collectors item, really, there’s no way to tell if the wine had gone to vinegar or not, not when it’s the only one known to be in circulation. Anyway, someone submitted a second Franklin Bottle, which passed every authentication test except the cesium test, which—-doesn’t matter.”

He forces himself to wave off an explanation of what the test is for. “The point is, the auction got held up for hours and the fraud made the digital papers before it even sold. In the end it went for seven figures. Most expensive bottle ever sold by a margin of a half-million dollars.”

[abrightboy]

“Cesium test? …Like… as in the radioactive isotope?” Malcolm asks curiously. He doesn’t know much about four hundred year old wine, but he has more than a passing interest in science.

[conning]

There’s absolutely nothing fake about Neal’s tiny brightening at Malcolm’s interest.

“It’s used in cases where definitive proof is needed that a wine is older than the last seventy-odd years. When the US used nuclear weapons against Japan,” a pause as his expression twists slightly at that, but he goes on, “it introduced traceable amounts of cesium into the atmosphere that traveled around the planet. Cesium isn’t naturally occurring, but it’s pervasive. Any wine grown and bottled after 1945 contains trace amounts. Only wine bottled before then, unopened, is cesium-free.”

[abrightboy]

Malcolm leans forward. “Can they tell without opening the bottle? Does it, like, irradiate through the glass or something?” he asks.

[conning]

Neal leans forward a little in response. "That's the beauty of it. It will only be cesium free if the bottle has never been opened. It's impossible to fake wine earlier than the 40s, literally impossible.The gamma rays can escape the wine and cross the thickness of the glass without any problem, so it's a matter of sensitive radioactivity detection."

[abrightboy]

“I just think it’s amazing that anyone even thought of that. Do they use cesium detection for any other kinds of authentication?” he asks.

[conning]

"It was actually originated for testing potentially forged paintings by a woman named Elena Basner while she was working as curator of 20th-century art at the Russian Museum in St Petersburg."

Neal's smooth exterior melds comfortably into real enthusiasm. The restraint of years keeps him from completely letting go of the pretense of pure charm. "She worked with some chemists and other experts to develop a test where they take a micro sample from a painting and see if the paint contains caesium–137 and strontium–90. If it does, post-1945. Not foolproof though--you can get around the test by using reconstituted paint from other pre-war works and canvases from whatever period you're aiming to recreate."

[abrightboy]

“If they do that, is there any way to tell it’s fake?” Malcolm asks curiously.

[conning]

"Oh, absolutely. Tests of the paint composition for artificial dyes or incorrect regional or historical ingredients, mass spectrometry, microscopic analysis of the way the paint has cracked over time, x-rays to look for ghosting on a reused canvas. In some cases analysts use infrared reflectography, if the artist in question was known to underdraw their pieces before painting them. 'Underdrawing' is marking the canvas, whether with a few dots of paint to establish desired borders or whole sketches to paint over."

He pauses to take another drink of his coffee. "Most forgers these days stick to 20th century works because they're significantly easier to fake."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm laughs. “I guess a lot of technical professions are crazy simplified on tv. I didn’t think some guy could just walk in and peer at it over his glasses and go ‘it’s a fake! The brush strokes are two millimetres smaller than the brushes this artist typically used!’”

[conning]

"Well." Neal takes another sip of coffee, this one a chance to look away from Malcolm and out the front window of the cafe. "Experts are the first line of defense. It's like a... quick blood test versus a comprehensive exam, if that makes sense. An expert might be able to tell right away, or might be able to see something is off enough to send it to the next round of testing. Of course most auction houses these days skip the expert and go straight to the scientific method--a lot of them bought companies that specialize in that kind of thing in order to do it all in-house and save money."

[abrightboy]

“Is that the kind of work you had in mind when you learned all this?” he asks.

[conning]

Well played, Neal thinks, amusement touching his eyes, without any other major reactions.

“I’m something of an art buff and I love history. Dating paintings authentically lands at the crossroads.”

[abrightboy]

It had been an honest question but his non-answer pings something in Malcolm’s mind. He tilts his head as he looks at Neal.

“Do you steal paintings?”

[conning]

“That’s a big jump from pickpocketing.” He gives Malcolm a teasing look.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder and turns his cup around in his hands.

“A lot of us have taken a big step down here.”

[conning]

“That’s true.”

It’s an answer!