I will scream the word ( open log )

[ployboy]

Who: Tim Drake, others
When: throughout November
Where: Dogtown, Docks, ADI HQ
Summary: catch-all log with gratuitous stalking and poor assumptions; individual threads will warn for content that comes up.
Warnings: ghosts, discussing death, stalking, possible violence, possible compulsions, possible gaslighting



Souls Come to Visit ( CLOSED to Neal ; cw ghosts, potential for compulsion, violence, discussions of death )
November 2. There's still the leaden feeling of the Halloween hangover over what seems like everyone's head, but Tim had found it in him to rise early, stay alert at his work desk, listen in to the serious talk of new waves of supernatural threats. He had declined dinner at B1, instead shutting himself back in his room and reemerging better-dressed: actual oxfords, dark chinos, a decent belt, a blue button-down, Malcolm's sport coat that he promises he'll return to the guy some day soon. He's got a date he says, and he'll be back late if at all that night.

If spends the evening in the graveyards, feeling the temperature drop as the sun begins to set. Dia de los Muertos isn't huge in Gloucester, Massachusetts. There's families coming and going, of course, and colors splashed around headstones which normally wouldn't be there. There's an exhibit on culture and history, and music and refreshments in an artists' cooperative downtown; Tim finds relief in the lonesomeness of the day, the deeper into Dogtown he wanders to reach the more abandoned graves.

He doesn't dare move anything. What's soiled and overgrown with grass or weeds is left as is. But he tries to read the names where the etchings haven't eroded. It's quiet and cold. Even the ghosts keep their distance. It makes Tim look up from where he had stayed for too long, contemplating a lost life he never knew, when he hears someone approaching. It's Neal.

"What are you doing out here?"

Aren't they instructed to keep to pairs around these places? But Tim's question isn't really accusing-- he's curious, is all.

God Killer( CLOSED to Ren; early November, cw stalking, violence )
[It's early in the month and late in the evening; Tim's around Bonnie's most often on weekends-- the freedom to step outdoors is exhilarating, same as it'd been years ago when he was a kid. There's danger in the streets, there's warnings to heed, there's misguided and self-appointed protectors. The nights are turning cold, and a street lamp illuminates his breath.

Gotta watch out for that.

Tim isn't looking to get caught and he's itching to dive into the shadows of the night. Conveniently-- Ren provides him the opportunity. The other guy had been searching for something or someone the past few days. He'd been acting off somehow, like he'd been eager to give chase, too. So Tim had decided to do good on his duty to ADI:

Suspicious activity is to be followed closely.

What is going on with Ren?]

Stick 'Em with the Pointy End( CLOSED to B1 )
So, yeah. Tim's made himself scarce. He even made it a point to go out of his way to avoid Malcolm, terrible as that made him feel, after the fits of endless nightmares. His alibis are solid, he's not sweating anything big, and every now and then he'll brave announcing to the two that he's going to stay out for the night. Mostly that last one is done in a rush, face pink-red as he dips outta Dodge with his backpack slung low over his shoulders and skateboard under his arm.

Then one day he slips off work early, a new break to his newest routine of being a good employee. When Meredith returns to the apartment, Tim will fetch her the gift like a dog would fetch a bone he's particularly proud of: sword cane. It follows the aesthetic model of her usual fashion. Tim lifts it some and twists its mechanism and-- "Concealed carry. Told you I'd do it." --the blade isn't for reckless swashbuckling. But it'll do damage.

Malcolm for his part gets a shoulder-bump some day as they cross paths in Headquarters after the nine-to-five grind. Shockingly, despite the stifled yawn that breaks out of Tim first, he seems ready to carpe the diem, and he wastes no time in getting to it. "How good's your aim?" he asks, matching pace and content to forget about hallucinations and night terrors and fathers-- but not guns. "Arroyo said you had training."

r/BlackMagicFuckery( OPEN; cw stalking, potential violence, compulsion )
I.T. knows Tim fairly well. He's the kid who takes too many breaks and who will occasionally reply to an email with Guinea pig gifs. But a challenge is welcome and the movie magic of Adobe studios and Snapchat filters has ADI finally providing him with a troubling enough puzzle. It'll have to do.

He sits at the canteen a lot, a notebook scrawled on with chicken-scratch shorthand, phone in hand as he scrolls on and on. Most days are a bust and he gives up on his one-man crusade only to trudge off to the gym or to his apartment. But the mounting frustration is a part of the game, and it's a game Tim plays very well.

He's been watching you.

One day he'll approach, or maybe you'll approach him on ADI grounds. "Busy?" He asks, because he's dying to get to work-- he's got a lead. "We'll split the reward fifty-fifty."

Arm Yourself (With Knowledge)( OPEN; cw violence )
[He wonders if he can ever shut off the cameras, maybe put the feeds on a loop. Two minutes, five tops. He'd have to ensure whoever is monitoring the cams will be gullible enough to fool with the simple trick- a new recruit, maybe.

Look. He just really wants to yoink that bo staff he's twirling around in the training room. It's hefty and cost someone a pretty penny, and it's deliciously balanced and it brings memories back with a vengeance. The weapons wall is ignored and Tim hasn't gone through all of his stretches yet, but

whoever's in ear shot, who looks like they can (and would) kick his ass?] Hey! We're sparring. [It's not a question.]

World is my Oyster( OPEN )
[Is it weird to nap on a fishing barge in the middle of a November afternoon? Probably. Will it stop Tim from doing just that? Not really, no.

Or catch him chatting with an old local, something about being interested in the lease of a dock-side warehouse.

Whatever it is, he's... looking blue, like the barrage of Happy Holidays right around the corner is a promise of anything but. It's why he's got to keep busy. Or die trying. You get it, right?]

((ooc, hmu if you want a scene! this will span the entire month, no rush for anything. Brackets or prose- I'll match you!))

Comments

r/BlackMagicFuckery

[aelwyn_aberration]

[Normally, when she's being watched, she just assumes it's Ren's voyeuristic ass judging from his holy tower of righteousness. But she has noticed Tim. Only enough that she'd mostly written it off as just hormonal attraction or the like, but it does seem like he knows something.

She's standing just outside, taking a fresh air break and stretching her arms when she's approached.]

I am busy. With the dullest work imaginable. What do you want, dear?

[ployboy]

[It's true, she is cute. But.]

Yeah, I don't think you're that much older than I am. ['Dear', like, is he supposed to pretend he isn't bit by the urge to volley a pet name back? It was either that or call out the very important, daunting, time-consuming task of stretching her arms.]

I traced some recent activity on social media to Essex. Think I've got a name, if you want to come with.

[aelwyn_aberration]

[That's just how she talks, man. She snickers at the comment about age.]

Really? Hard to tell with you humans, you die of old age so quickly.

[She hums, putting her hands in her coat pockets.] ADI approved, or is this a private investigation? The answer's yes, either way, I'm bored enough to come along, but I thought I'd ask.

Stick ‘Em With the Pointy End

[abrightboy]

“My aim with what?” he asks, distracted, quietly assessing, because the fact that Tim has been avoiding him is obvious and the fact that he’s rolled up now like he hasn’t is weird. “How did your date go?” he asks before Tim has a chance to clarify his own question.

They never had gotten a chance to talk about it.

[ployboy]

The diversion works. Tim's easy to figure out, in the way teenage boys are universally easy to see through. He shuts his mouth and cuts off his own reply, blinking rapidly for a moment before he catches up with his own thoughts.

Dude, he swears. He'll get that coat dry cleaned and back in to the closet it belongs in no time. And then he's wondering which date which can't possibly be a good sign. "It was... kind of awkward," he confesses. The honesty is so refreshing. It gives a small burst of volume to his voice. "But good? It was nice, like, overall, it was me who was making it awkward. I was overthinking it."

[abrightboy]

“If it went well… then why have you been avoiding me?” Malcolm asks him, glancing over with a puzzled look. “Did I do something?”

T-Rexes are licensed to carry small arms only.

[bossyboiler]

[ Kate has a very simple workout routine. In the morning it's yoga. In the evening, it's training. Today is no exception. Weight training, fall training, and practicing throwing punches with stretches beforehand to warm herself up. One, two, three, nice and easy.

So when she walks out into the gym and hears some bozo loudly proclaim that they are sparring, her reaction is this... ]

No. No, we're not.

[ployboy]

Uh.

[Wow, okay. Be that way.

Tim is, funnily enough, disappointed. And it shows, not just in his stammer but in his small waver as he leans against the staff in a wayward attempt to play it cool.

He needs a way to not seem... too interested in Kate. So far-- so good. Can't say he's not looking forward to breaking her resolve.]

Why not? You were throwing some mean left hooks, you could take me. Practice is what you're here for, isn't it?

[bossyboiler]

Yes. I am here to practice but I don't have any experience fighting with a staff.

[ She would rather not get her ass kicked and make a fool out of herself, thank you very much. ]

Now, if you're willing to teach I would be willing to learn.

God Killer

[forethinking]

(Few people have the answer to that question. Ren's been lurking in the shadows, fighting whoever it is he finds deserving. It's too similar to what he did back home, and yet, not similar at all. There was a sense of anonymity using the Metaverse, not an outsider could have thought that the Phantom Thieves were none other but school kids, taking back justice from corrupt hands into their own.

Here, he might have his mask, but he's definitely more in the open, more liable to be caught, and yet, it hinders him at nothing.

There's a small sense that he's being followed, but that's been common. Paranoia, ever since he started feeding, albeit it not being his main goal. Either way, he'll walk through the alleys, make wrong turns, all for the sake of security, until he reaches an abandoned warehouse.

It's not exactly that. Criminals from around town meet here, and Ren's been keeping an eye at that ever since. Once he looks around, certifies himself that there isn't a soul nearby, he allows an electric blue fire to dissipate his clothing, trading it to his usual Joker attire. It's time to get to work.)

[ployboy]

[There it is: magic. Tim's not even talking about the costume quick-change. It's the... the way he can feel alive tonight, befriending the shadows and earning their trust, learning and keeping their secrets. It's not the first time he can feel a welcome stir of emotion in this city, but Tim figures this could be the first time he's felt so free.

It's too similar to what he did back home.

There's a jump of concern, though, and a silent exhale of relief when he gets his head on straight and acknowledges that, no, this isn't his warehouse. And this isn't his stakeout. Whatever game Ren is playing against the gangsters congregating inside, it won't be up to Tim to spoil the plan.

He'll stay close (enough), and bide his time.]

cw drugs

[forethinking]

(It might not even have been Tim. A noise has him turning, and suddenly, his vision turns into a much more interesting picture. Remainders of coke lines glow upon surfaces, things that Ren would rather not have seen turn as bright as the morning sun under Third Eye.

The outline of a person in the dark does, too. Ren's knife flicks, and he points it in the direction of the silhouette. His thundering voice echoes, and Ren demands:)

Come out, or I'm coming to you.

World is my Oyster;

[ratjesus]

You look like shit.

[ There's probably a better way to address the fact that the guy who's been poking around the warf looks a little blue on top of the usual exhaustion. Something like, 'hey kid, you seem down in the dumps, want to talk about it?' ​Maybe even 'hey, I noticed you look a little sad, can I buy you a beer?' It's awful rude for a stranger to say something so pointed to someone they don't know, and yet here we are.

Kugrash's always been kind of a dick without meaning to be. It's part of the territory when you dedicate your life to New York City and lurk in the subways. You forget how to talk like a normal person.

They're by a boat, the smell of fish and a few other gross smalls making Kugrash feel right at home even if his human form leaves him looking more like a yacht guy. He likes walking around here. It reminds him of the East River, so sue him. A guy can't feel homesick every once in a while? He's in fucking Massachusetts, it's basically the same as hell, and he's been to hell. Sort of.

Besides, this isn't about him, this is about the guy he's seen at Bonnie's flop house from time to time. Probably an ADI agent, right? Isn't that how this works? ]

[ployboy]

[Please, sir. Don't hold back on his account.

Tim's initial reaction is to want to level the guy with a look, something unmistakably unimpressed. Maybe he can follow it up with a quip on how Mr. Eau de Poisson looks like he spends his days trawling through WallStreetBets, has lost his wife and dog because of the weekend's Dogecoin market crash.

Sadly, he was raised better than that. Tim sighs, though.] I was just checking out the cockpit, the hardtop. Is this your boat? [God.

If there is such a thing.

Please don't be a yacht guy. Please be ADI.]

[ratjesus]

[ oh, wow, he's been given a Look. Water off of a ducks back, at least in comparison to running around a New York subway in front of tourists. Kugrash grins as an immediate response, the too white teeth of his human form making it look more like a challenge than anything. He's not really the best at first impressions. Or good impressions. Or any impressions other than 'oh, shit, what is that?'

Wait a second, is this guy from the flophouse? He's seen him around Jeff, hasn't he? Sort of. Or maybe it was Ren.

Dammit. Most of the time he only goes to Bonnie's when he's dog tired. ]

I fucking wish, pal. [ He used to have one, though, and maybe there's a tiny bit of longing as he looks at the ship. ]

Aren't you Jeff and Ren's buddy?

( Antiques Roadshow ) closed: cw body parts

[ployboy]

[Nobody has to believe him when he says he has everything under control. In fact, it's oftentimes better if he's underwhelming. Predictably, consistently not good enough. It brings freedom, you know? Expectations that are failed to meet and criticisms flung his way are water off a duck's back, because the secret that he has everything under control is Tim's to know and his alone. Really. It's a blessing that few people will understand and bask in as he has.

That's what he's supposed to be telling himself, anyway.

That Little Shop of Horrors finally called his name. Which is to say, he needed to... not be in  ADI's offices today. The blue light of the screens he stares at for hours on end has finally fried his retinas, and the headache had been insufferable. He had left to the canteen, and then wandered off to get himself a mission slip for reconnaissance that didn't rely on computers. And. Here is he. Ugly yellow hoodie, hair that's been tousled by frustration in the whopping seven minutes he's been in the shop. The keeper, quietly and politely (but firmly), had walked over and told Tim that he would be paying for that vintage cassette recorder in his hands. Tim had hurriedly agreed, hoping for the void to take him as heads of some tourists swiveled to snicker at the misfortune.

The misfortune:

The recorder itself was hideous, as most things here were. The buttons to operate it were teeth (bedazzled), where the cassette inserts is a fleshy-looking mouth. Tim had been tempted to stick googly eyes on it. The small pile of cassette tapes in a basket (quaint-looking) had promised the sweet, sweet tunes of the likes of Chopin and. like. Bach. Tim had stuck it in the recorder. The recorder had promptly barfed up the black tape. Everywhere.

Damn kids and their inability to--

Tim's pretty sure he did nothing wrong. His attempts to open the recorder result in a more stubborn jam. He sulks to the front desk to pay, stupid antique (yes, the 80s are for antiquities) in his hands. And that's where he runs into Strange. Because of course it's Strange here, today, at this hour of the morning.

He's apprehensive, more than reluctant to reach out. Tim figures being found out in failing to reel in tape from a bedazzled teeth-encrusted recorder will do that to a guy.]

Uhh.

[The cassette guts are leaking.]

Can you help?

[sorser]

[After the unmitigated disaster of a communally shared nightmare, Stephen had thrown himself into his work — mainly, working double the rounds at Medical until his colleagues had told him, quite bluntly, that he needed to take a break. That he, too, needed time to rest and recover, and that things would not fall apart without him there; they had existed long before Doctor Stephen Strange had graced them with his presence, after all.

Begrudgingly, he agreed. Though there’s more than one way to skin a cat, as the saying goes, and therefore more than one way to spend too much time busying oneself with what needs to be done in this world. Always an investigation to see to, always something to stick his nose in: today, it’s this very terrible shop of curiosities.

Maybe it’s no surprise that Tim is here. He half expected to run into a familiar face given ADI’s interest in the establishment, but he didn’t expect to be met with a nearly defeated ask for help — concerning an old cassette player. The poor thing has its guts hanging out, probably disemboweled by what Stephen can only assume is a deep unfamiliarity of analog.

Kids these days.]

I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.

[And good lord, that cassette player sure is. Something.]

But I can give it a try. [Arching a brow, he holds out a hand for Tim to give him the sad-looking object.] Here, let me see.

[ployboy]

[Insane how viciously the droning of an old scifi show can commandeer his thoughts. There's a memory there that Tim can't access, is half convinced in that very moment that it's not a memory at all, but it floods him with a nostalgia that's hard to shake off.

Stupid antiques store.

Tim hands over his treasure, apples of his cheeks flushed in mortification.]

I was going to get the Bee Gees to sing backwards.

[Like, if he can cover one blunder with another, it'll all cancel out. Tim watches and continues, convinced the cursed thing will prove a challenge for Strange. --that's mean, isn't it?

No, it's testing a hypothesis.]

It's supposed to sound like a Gregorian chant and summon a demon.

[No, that's the tailwind of that aforementioned nostalgia encouraging the stream of bullshit. Tim shuts his trap. And waits.]

The Pointy End

[henchgal]

Meredith is definitely delighted to see an actual weapon hidden in a cane. After everything she's been through, she's happier to have a blade on-hand. But there's still an important question...

"Is the cane just as sturdy as my old one?"

[ployboy]

Dang, okay, maybe he shouldn't have used that dog imagery; Tim isn't an happy go lucky guy, once upon a time not that long ago he might've been described as rambunctious. Point being that he's not usually in a happy... buzz. But there's contentment warming his cold dead heart blah blah--

he grins, and it's kind of embarrassing. "Yup. You can consider it an exact reconstruction."

Okay maybe not exact.

"Obviously the weight is going to be a little off from what you're used to."

Someone doesn't know the meaning of the word Exact.

"You'll barely notice. Promise. There had to be some allowance for the sword to actually be worth it-- do you know how to work a sword?"

[henchgal]

"No, but Winter's been teaching me to use my can for self-defense, and I handled myself alright on Halloween, up until the end."

Never mind how awful that end actually was.

She takes the cane, feeling the balance and leaning her weight on it--if it won't support her, it's no use as a cane.

Souls Come to Visit

[conning]

"Invading your space, it would seem." He's dressed well himself, in a flattering sweater, close-cut jeans, and autumn boots. The trench coat is new, an acquisition from the closet of a nice restaurant. He tilts his head a little, studying Tim.

He has his own reasons for being out here, of course. Distance, solitude, a chance to try and get his head around the events of the last few weeks. Or a chance to walk until he's able to stop thinking about them. Tim looks like someone dressed for an event, and that plus their surroundings gives Neal an inkling of what.

"I'm taking advantage of the fact that Gloucester is much easier to find solitude in than New York City."

Arm Yourself WITH A TWIST!!!

[inlieuofadad]

Hey! We're sparring, Tim shouts, and Gil clears his throat loudly behind the kid.

"No you're not. We're talking."

[ployboy]

It's that manic, frantic sort of energy that Tim hasn't felt coursing through him in ages. It aches, a little, much like his chest does when he all but leaps into the air in surprise.

Graceful he is not. And that choked little squawk of indignation does a good enough job at cementing the fact.

At least he didn't turn to bop Mr. Arroyo with that bo staff he's got in hand.

That would have sucked.

Tim's heart is racing-- his blue eyes are searching the man, like he can't figure him out. "Oh, come on," he says, breathless. He pushes the staff to Arroyo, a puppy pushing a well-loved bone to its master in a dying hope for indulgence. "There's gotta be something you can show me, right?"

(Chipper. Frantic. Only lightly terrified.)

[inlieuofadad]

"How to break a bone," Gil says dryly. He takes the staff anyway, weighing it like he knows what to do with it other than inexpertly smack someone.

He keeps it. "Come on, kid. Either we talk now or we talk later, but we are gonna talk."