LOG: see them talk and see them drown [open]

[cacophonish]

Who: Jeff & OPEN
When: Anytime in November
Where: Around town, Bonnie's, docks
Summary: In which Jeff goes back to his routine, tries to get his music career going, and gets further acquainted with the Spiral.
Warnings: Entity induced delusions and gaslighting in Prompt III.

I. GET INTO THE GROOVE, BOY

After all of the nightmares and trauma of the past month, Jeff's eager to return to what passes for life as usual in Gloucester. So, as soon as the random bouts of narcolepsy and sleepwalking stop? He stops showing up at his admin job with the ADI. It's probably for the best. Jeff's really not cut out for white collar work.

If you're at Bonnie's, you can sometimes find Jeff in the living room, practicing guitar. Or maybe he's helping Bonnie out with some odd jobs, like watering her many (many) plants, or making some attempt at organizing the kitchen. He might need an intervention before he arranges everything in some esoteric way that makes no sense to anybody but himself.

It's also not a totally uncommon sight to find Jeff in the communal bathroom, fully clothed and fast asleep in the shower. There's no supernatural excuse for it. You can be nice and wake him up, or just turn the shower on and let cold water rain down on him.

(He also has a habit of blasting music sometimes. This week, it's Red (Taylor's Version). Hey, he's gotta support artists taking the rights back to their music!)

Around town, you might run into Jeff busking on street corners, though he's unusually skittish if approached, startling easily and looking like a rabbit that's been cornered by a fox. Maybe some of the nightmares have had a longer lasting impact than he'd care to admit.

If you're out at night, you can find Jeff hanging out at any dive bar he can get into, trying to bum drinks off patrons. Buy him a drink? Chase off whichever poor, unfortunate soul he's hitting up? Start a bar fight? Drag his drunk ass home? The possibilities are endless in what passes for Gloucester's nightlife.

At some odd hours-- either late at night, or right around dawn-- Jeff can sometimes be found dumpster diving at local businesses. He's got it down to a science. Want to lend a hand? With a partner, he could loot an entire Thanksgiving feast.

II. THE RISE AND FALL OF THE SALT & PEPPER GANG

The whole week, Jeff's buzzing with excitement, inviting anyone and everyone to come see him play at The Toad In The Hole, a bar near the docks. It doesn't matter if he knows you or not: if you're with the ADI, or he sees you at Bonnie's, he's shoving a scrap of paper at you with the time, date, and address scribbled on it. Could he just send a link to The Toad In The Hole's Facebook event page? Sure, probably. But he's still not totally on board with the whole social media thing.

Anyway. Things are looking up for Jeff! Sure, last month was a literal nightmare, but he's just going to pointedly ignore his trauma and move on with his life (even if he's still not entirely, 100% convinced that he's awake or alive, and that's fine). What matters is: he's going to be on stage, performing, for the first time since he was stolen from a promising career and dumped in this shitty little town, 25 years in the fucking future. Sure, he's just playing guitar and doing backup vocals for a cover band who needed to replace a member after he moved to Florida, but at least it's something. And locally, the Salt & Pepper Gang are a big deal. They're a beloved Gloucester institution!

From the frontman of a wild LA band on the rise, to playing second fiddle to a bunch of dorky white collar dudes in their 50s, it's... a pretty big fall, but honestly, Jeff just considers himself lucky he gets to perform at all. They almost didn't let him audition, taking one look at his baby face and figuring he wouldn't know any of the songs in their repertoire, all the greatest hits of the 70s and 80s. But he convinced them to let him play a Zappa solo, and that was enough to get them to give him a real shot. A couple weeks of rehearsals later, and here they are, ready to debut a setlist with their newest (weirdly young and totally out of place!) member.

Anyone who comes around to The Toad In The Hole the night of the show will be in for a disappointment: a last-minute cancellation by the Salt & Pepper Gang. Apparently, the wildly charismatic lead singer, Dr. Dan, got into a bad wreck as he was leaving his dental clinic, and while doctors are optimistic that he will regain consciousness, it's going to be a long time before he'll be performance-ready. Probably for the best, since Jimmy Magill the drummer just broke his wrist in a freak accident while taking his dog for a walk. As for the bassist, Big Bill? Nobody's been able to get in touch with him all day...

Weird.

You can find Jeff out front, though, sitting on the curb with his guitar case. Apparently, he's not allowed in the bar without the band, since he's still considered underage, thanks to the mistake on his state ID. He looks like he's trying not to cry as he hugs himself and tries to keep warm in the New England chill. God, he's fucking pathetic.

"It's all my fault," he sniffs.

III. HE WAS THE SUN BURNING BRIGHT AND BRITTLE

He finds the mushrooms out in Dogtown one day, in an odd clearing that he doesn't think existed the last time he was out this way. Yeah, it's not like Jeff's got the whole place mapped out, but his wanderings have taken him out here enough times that he's at least reasonably familiar with the area.

He's pretty sure the clearing wasn't here before.

Maybe.

Who knows.

The mushrooms are pretty fucking weird looking, with veiny, fractal patterns all over their caps, and smaller fungal offshoots growing off of each other. All together, they seem to be growing out, not in a fairy circle, but a spiral.

Jeff crouches down and really studies them, even though he doesn't know a fucking thing about mushrooms out in the wild. But there's something about the veiny lines and weird patterns spreading all over that he can't help but stare at. Are they moving? Changing? Growing before his eyes?

He doesn't know how long he's there before the thought comes to him. Eat me, he thinks, with a giggle. Jeff picks one of the mushrooms from the dirt, and it's like something else is moving him, puppeting his limbs, as he stuffs it into his mouth and starts to eat it.

The next thing he knows, he's back in town. How many hours have passed? How'd he even get here? Who fucking knows. He doesn't really care, to be honest. His head's just... it feels like someone shoved a bunch of cotton balls in his brain. His memories from life before Gloucester are... they don't make any sense. There's a disconnect. Like if he thinks about LA, and his friends, and his mom and dad and brothers and demons in his head and magic-- all that magic-- it feels like he's just watching movie clips. None of it feels real. It's not real. He may not be sure of much, but he knows that much now, with perfect clarity.

It's like waking up from a dream.

Yes, his name's Jeff Calhoun. No, he wasn't born in 1974, that's insane. He must've been born in 2002, like it says on his ID. Is he even from LA, or was he just... some fucking kid from nowhere, who ran away from home years ago, and only made it as far as Gloucester? His mom isn't a witch with paint and clay, and his dad can't spin words into magic. That's all just fairy tales, a fantasy life dreamed up by a lost, lonely boy.

He can't be the only one with a head full of lies. Does anyone else know?

Whether out on the streets, in a local shop or at Bonnie's, Jeff will stop anyone he finds-- recognizes-- from the ADI, grabbing their arm with a wide-eyed look of absolute conviction, laced with fear.

"You've gotta help me. I need-- I need to get out of here."

Gloucester, he means, and away from the ADI. He needs to find the truth of who he really is.

IV. WILDCARD
[ toss anything at me!! you can reach me at weeyotch or weeyotch#8200. ]

Comments

I

[abrightboy]

Malcolm sees Jeff on the sidewalk and it’s like the worst kind of deja vu. But he hasn’t seen Jeff around since that night.

He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a breath and approaches.

[cacophonish]

It doesn't matter that he's in the middle of a song, Jeff's breath catches in his throat when he sees Malcolm, and he stops playing. His eyes go wide in that prey animal way. The impulse to run is hammering away in his chest, but he doesn't, not yet.

Martin Whitly was never really here. He has to remember that. Martin Whitly wasn't real, not the one he met, anyway, and he's not lurking around right now.

Except he could be. What if he showed up at the ADI? What if Jeff's still dreaming? There's no way of knowing. If a dream feels real, leaves real cuts in his psyche, weaves so seamlessly with the waking world that it's indistinguishable, then it is real, isn't it?

His eyes dart around, looking for serial killer dads lurking in the shadows. If somebody killed him right now, right on the street, would anyone even care?

"Hey, Malcolm," he greets, and it's hard to keep the nerves out of his voice.

[abrightboy]

“Hi Jeff,” he replies, stopping to lean against the wall beside Jeff, not on the sidewalk facing him.

He’s on Jeff’s side, the posture says without saying it.

“How’ve you been?”

Since the dream stuff; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to clarify. Tim had been avoiding him. He thought maybe Jeff needed some space before he was ready to see him, too.

[cacophonish]

It helps, having Malcolm move beside him instead of standing in front of him. Helps him feel less caged in, if it comes down to it. Jeff sets his guitar down in the case, though he isn't looking to pack up yet, just hugs his knees to his chest and shrugs.

"Um."

It's not just Martin, and all that fear and helplessness, weighing on his mind. There's guilt, too, roiling around inside. The last time he'd seen Malcolm, he was something else, some twisted version of his own silly tattoo, made real.

He'd killed Neal right in front of him. He would've killed Malcolm, too, if he hadn't been distracted by some office worker's screams and gone after them, instead. Does Malcolm know that thing was him? Should he tell him?

"Fine. I'm fine. I'm just-- I'm glad I don't have to hang around the office anymore." Not that anyone forced him to take on that admin job. But it felt safer, at the time, than being out here and vulnerable. Jeff looks up at Malcolm. "What about you?"

[abrightboy]

“The murderer in my head killed most of the people I know, so… I’ve been better.” He looks over. “I was hoping to see you,” he admits. “I was… hoping you were still working on songs.”

He remembers, before Martin interfered, that Jeff had wanted to show him one.

[cacophonish]

He frowns sympathetically, and for a moment, he's about to offer some platitude, like, 'It wasn't your fault', but it seems kind of pointless, an empty gesture. Jeff knows all too well that those kinds of assurances, no matter how true, really don't do much in the face of guilt.

"Yeah, uh." He rubs the side of his neck, nervous and fidgety. "I've been writing new ones. Music's the only thing I'm good at so--" He lets out a short laugh. "--I'd be fucked if I gave it up."

[abrightboy]

“You had one in your head that day,” Malcolm recalls. “I’d like to hear it some time.”

Even if now is too soon.

[cacophonish]

Jeff actually cracks a smile at that, though it's short-lived.

"I don't... remember if it was a real song," he admits. "Or... or if it was just dream bullshit. You know?"

After a beat, he adds, "But. I wrote one about the, uh... the kelpies? If you wanna hear it."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm smiles at that.

“I do want to,” he says, tilting his head towards the guitar.

[cacophonish]

"Okay. This one's called Horsing Around." He's relaxing more now, looks less like he's ready to run away at the first sign of a malignant narcissist lurking around.

Jeff takes up his guitar, and he starts strumming the first notes of the song. It's a playful melody, one of those songs that sounds cheerful and lighthearted, until you really pay attention to the lyrics. Maybe it's about love and heartbreak, some overwrought metaphor involving horses and water and drowning, but those who were there know it's a lot more literal than that. He sings to somebody he calls 'Bunny' (run, rabbit, run) and by the end, Bunny's carried into the ocean by a horse and drowns.

It's a sweet song, though, if you only pay attention to the guitar and the sound of his voice.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm’s not capable of not listening to the words and he smiles as it wraps up.

“I like what you did with the imagery,” he says. “Excellent metaphors.”

[cacophonish]

"Yeah?" Jeff perks up, like his whole demeanor just brightens, because he wasn't expecting that. Sure, he's gotten compliments on his music plenty of times-- on his playing, and his singing, and-- back home-- showmanship. But the lyrics?

Lyrics were never his strong suit. The songs he wrote were always considered pretty juvenile, compared to Ally's. If a song was deep, or evocative, or meaningful, it was almost certainly written by her. If it was just, fun and stupid and catchy, Jeff was likely to have written it.

"Thanks! I've never been complimented on my metaphors before." And then he seems to realize what he said, and he winces a little. Like he was just advertising how fucking stupid he is or something.

(Really, it's just lingering insecurity from. Well. Martin.)

[abrightboy]

"I guess a lot of people don't listen to music that carefully. But you're very talented. Do you find a lot of inspiration for new material here?" he asks.

He's well aware that the Martin that killed Jeff was in his subconscious. He feels responsible. He really wants to put Jeff back at ease with him and he's not sure it's possible. Not to be like it was before.

[cacophonish]

He's grinning. He's trying not to grin too much, because he probably seems... dorky? Pathetic? Who knows. But it's like.

It's a nice compliment. It's a different kind of compliment than he's used to. It sort of feels like being praised by a teacher, which was a rare sort of thing, in his experience. He feels a little embarrassed by just how much it perks him up.

"Yeah. I've been writing a lot here. Like, totally sparked my-- I dunno, my muse or something." Is he even making sense? "But, uh, back home? My best friend-- Ally-- she usually writes all the lyrics."

[abrightboy]

“Well, you’re honing your own craft now. Maybe when you go home, you can split that responsibility with her. Like the Beatles,” Malcolm suggests.

He’s gratified that Jeff looks happy. He’s more resilient than Malcolm is, Malcolm thinks.

[cacophonish]

He does have that going for him, even if he doesn't quite realize it. But hey, as far as Jeff figures, he's totally damaged already, so... You can't break what's already broken, right?

His smile does fade, though, and he looks down at his guitar, considering.

"You.... you really think any of us are getting home again?"

[abrightboy]

“I mean… I’m not sure I really want to go back…” He looks at Jeff. “Can I tell you something? About my father? I… understand if you don’t want to hear it.”

[cacophonish]

Jeff grimaces, and with his nonexistent poker face, it's probably pretty obvious that he doesn't want to hear anything about Martin Whitly.

But.

Malcolm's his friend. And he's just admitted that he may not want to go home, and that's pretty fucking important, right? Malcolm's listened to enough of his problems. He could stand to return the favor.

So he nods, even if it's a little hesitant.

"Yeah. Go ahead."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm glances around and scootches closer.

"Right before I came here, my father had broken out of prison. It's... a long story, how we got there, but he rescued me from another serial killer and then drugged me and kidnapped me and took me to Vermont. He had this idea that if we hunted down this other serial killer that I hadn't been able to find when I was with the FBI, we could... bond or something. He could prove he'd changed his ways. But. Psychopathy doesn't work like that and once we found the killer and saved the victim he'd kidnapped, I called the police and gave him up. Again. He decided to kill me. With the knife he used in my dream. But I wrestled it away from him just enough to stab him with it instead."