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apocalypsehowcomm2021-11-05 09:49 pm
ployboy) wrote in apocalypsehowcomm2021-11-05 09:49 pm
I will scream the word ( open log )
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!))
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!))
no subject
[The offense slides right off of him, but it's worth pointing out. Maybe the grey at his temples gives the wrong impression, or the perpetual tiredness around his eyes, but Stephen very much appreciates disco for what it is, too; but music is a less-known interest of his, often overshadowed by medical and magical work alike.
Anyway.
The tape winds back into the cassette with a slow effort, and Stephen pockets the pen and retrieves the player. In it goes, the front clicking with a satisfying snap.]
This happens. [Ignoring the fact that it isn't a Walkman, Stephen didn't lie about owning one of these, once upon a time. Sometimes, they just spit out their guts.] Rewind too fast, fast forward too much, everything spills out. But I'll keep my five bucks.
[Here, he attempts to hand it back.]
I prefer vinyl anyway.
no subject
Tim surrenders his overblown theatrics and tells himself that pitching a fit never worked, anyway. He accepts his prized Gaping-Maw-Thing, no longer vomiting black, and he hates it. Hates it and it's bedazzled teeth and spongey tongue. Hates it as if it's run over his dog or something. --that's his bruised ego talking, yadda yadda. He clicks his tongue and it sours him how much he was just reminded of Damian.
Non-sequitur: You know... this guy must've been a pretty good doctor.
All that patience and whatnot?
Anyway.] Look at you being hip. [Tim gestures to the rest of the shop, some back wall where he picked up his current ugly pet. He's not keen on the wandering eyes of a small gaggle of tourists who might recognize him but he hadn't been done with his snooping, yet.] There's some in there. My dad had a small collection, the old phonograph with the... flower-looking speaker. [he's trying.] Antique.
no subject
[Six hundred. Probably seven.
But it's a throwaway comment, even more so about him being hip -- he just likes music, thanks -- and Stephen's eyes wander to the rest of the shop and its vaguely disturbing curiosities.]
Music's what got me through med school. Took to memorizing album names, release dates, and song titles along with every piece of neurological terminology you could imagine. [Seems like forever ago.] Is your dad big into music?
no subject
He's interested. But not intrigued.
He wonders about slipping Jeff's name into the conversation. He feels unpredictably vulnerable at the idea, and decides that Strange gets enough musical intervention in the form of the bard blasting music through Bonnie's thin walls.]
I don't know.
[Is that-- weird? Maybe it's because he was trying to keep Jeff out of his mind for now that Tim's failing at that task, too. The worm of anxiety is just under his skin, the way it was that day at the beach. Or maybe it's the gritty feeling of his blood running like dust, his body disintegrating out from under him. Tim shrugs.] He had a sizeable collection of old... things. He was an amateur archeologist, when he wasn't attending to business. [Past tense will be good for creating space, Tim figures.] He loved the history.
no subject
[The correction is quick and logistical at best. The difference is less in knowledge than it is in how that knowledge is practiced, and Stephen sees no need to clarify further. One thing is for sure: the state of his hands is a very obvious hint as to why he no longer practices in the operating room. (Multiversal change of address aside.)
And of course, the past tense is duly noted, though the space it creates is negligible at best. Stephen tries no harder, nor less, to pry than he did only seconds ago.]
Sounds like he was an interesting man. I didn’t earn an appreciation for “old things” until a little later in my life.
[Not until a career shift.]
Well. If you need suggestions as to what else you should feed your terrifying new adoption, [the recorder/player] I can rattle off a list. It won’t spit up tape every single time. Practice makes perfect.
no subject
(It's always going to be there, the small welling of pride in the face of any positive thing said about his father, and right now interesting [as predictable and safe and sterile as it is] seems to have hit the mark.)
His father would be so disappointed in him. Tops of the list of Why would be the sight of his adult son holding the terrifying new adoption with both hands, at eye level with the human teeth fashioned into buttons, as if Tim could pinpoint and remove whatever speck of dust had humiliated him.
Gotta love mornings.
There's a nauseating roll... in Tim's stomach. He nods. He likes... to learn. He likes to win even more.] Sure, if you've got time to kill.
[...ha.] I took the rest of the day off. They let me go; I had a headache. I don't know if you've got a shift coming up.
no subject
(Mileage may vary.)
An accidental time pun. How novel. Stephen has the strength to ignore it, and so he does, instead charging forth with a very doctor-like question:]
You’re not getting sick, are you?
[He doesn’t have a shift. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, forcibly whiling away the idle hours with an investigation that is producing… dubiously helpful results.
It’s a question that has his focus narrowing a little on the state of the young man—signs of fatigue, namely. But Stephen works with more than just his senses, now, and he judges his surroundings by how they resonate with his innate, magical awareness, too. And—
He can’t quite tell, but something seems different about Tim since they last spoke. Like an invisible thorn, stuck in someone’s side. Or a seed planted where no one can see, but germinating if perceived in far more esoteric ways.
Well. He’ll let Tim answer the question first.]
no subject
--a stupid oversight.
--two for two for puns. So at least he's got that going for him. Which is nice.
It's not nice. Tim doesn't care about scrutiny; he'll die on that hill. His face covers gossip mags and fuckin' billboards, he's on city buses and daytime news, he's been on the receiving end of the Batglare countless times. He's turning Vinnie over in his hands, frowning again because it's comfortable for him to be so on guard. Because he's disappointed in himself. An oversight. All of this has been an oversight. He thinks-- he gets it. And he looks up and past Dr. Strange, over one of the sorcerer's shoulders. There's a security camera trained on their corner of the shop. There's a flickering old light past that. And Tim's exhausted (when isn't he?) and keeping the working hours that he does both in and outside of Apex isn't sustainable--
but damn it will he try, and Strange isn't going to get in his way. Tim sighs and turns back to the man.] I don't think staying in here is helping, actually. [--he can still control this. There's a lilt to his next words,] Flu season's not great for staying in small, enclosed spaces, and technically I'm immunocompromised. Thanks for the offer to help with [baby Vin], though. [He should step out, he means. And he will.
It's like the whole of the store is laughing at him.]
well now that notifs are actually working
So when they're on the sidewalk outside with the breeze brushing by, Stephen casts a precursory glance at his surroundings, making sure there are no ambling crowds who might overhear something odd, and whips his attention back to Tim. He speaks up, voice obviously demanding some kind of attention.]
No, think something's off with you, Tim. I can feel it.
[Magically.]
You're different now.
[How.]
no subject
Strange is following. Tim doesn't care to turn back. His strength has always been veiled irreverence; the late morning is cool. Tim shrugs the hood of his jacket up. And he wonders if he could lose the man with a well timed sprint and a jump of a fence.] I have no idea what you're talking about.
[Voice like he's shrugging off past-due homework. Except... something hurts. It's not guilt, because that would require having done something wrong. Tim hasn't.
He's different. Is that what it is? --as if he didn't know the answer, as if he didn't wake with overwhelming urge to
run.
So he runs.]