LOG: i'll stop the world and melt with you [open]

[cacophonish]

Who: Jeff & OPEN
When: Any time in August
Where: Bonnie's, Dogtown, and various businesses around town
Summary: In which Jeff adjusts to life in Gloucester (and encounters problems with his drivers license).
Warnings: Drinking (prompt I), drugs/hallucinogens (prompt III), magical mind fucking/Spiral-related antics (prompt III)

I. TIME TRAVEL BLUES (various locations)

"So, you're..." Pause for mental math. "Forty... seven years old?" Totally deadpan. The liquor store clerk clearly isn't buying the validity of his driver's license.

Jeff flashes a grin, shrugs a shoulder, casual, like he gets that question all the time. "I look good for forty-seven, right? It's all about clean living." ​

Unimpressed, the woman clicks her tongue and pushes the ID back at Jeff. "Cute. Go home, kid."

Later, he tries his luck at a few bars, but it's pretty much the same thing. One look at his ID, and he's out on his ass. One bartender's at least nice enough to give him a soda for his troubles, with a side of advice: "Try harder next time. You can't just use your dad's ancient license from the 90s."

This is so fucking stupid. After years of getting into bars without anyone giving a shit about his age, now Jeff's getting turned away. And the dumbest part is: he's actually 21! He's totally legal! He's been legally allowed to drink for, like, two months!

But, apparently, when you look as young as he does, and your license lists your date of birth as June 6, 1974, and you're trapped in the year 2021, suddenly everyone thinks you're a dumb kid who got majorly ripped off on your fake ID.

Fellow off-worlders may find Jeff trying his luck at a few bars around Gloucester, either getting turned away at the door, or when he tries to order a drink, or-- once he's decided to try a more strategic approach-- flirting his way into getting others to buy him drinks. Maybe you're watching this happen, or maybe you're one of those, uh, "lucky" others.

II. THERE IS SUCH THING AS FREE LUNCH (various locations)

Oh, is your character enjoying a nice meal at a diner? Checking out a local restaurant (or a ubiquitous Denny's)? Hitting up a coffee shop? Suddenly, they've got a new best friend. Jeff flops down at their table like the two of them were always planning on meeting up here. He smiles, like a languid beam of summer sunshine.

"Oh, hey. I've seen you around. How's it going?" His affiliation with the ADI is loose, at best, but he's stopped by HQ a few times, enough that he can recognize some of his fellow off-worlders. Or maybe he knows them from Bonnie's. Whatever the case, he's just invited himself to hang out-- and maybe he'll order something for himself, while he's at it. Does he actually have the money to pay for his share of the food? Good question. The answer is: probably not.

Look, he doesn't get one of those fancy ADI stipends. But he's always been able to rely on the kindness of (relative) strangers before, so why should now be any different?

"Hey, um... can you spot me? I'll totally owe you one."

III. SCRATCHING THE ITCH (Dogtown & Bonnie's)
[ This one's long and mostly takes place in Jeff's headspace to lay the groundwork for why he's doing what he's doing, so here's the tldr summary for anyone who wants to jump in without reading my totally self indulgent narrative:

Jeff goes on a ghost hunting hike to Dogtown with some college grads, they all take a bunch of shrooms, and eventually he uses whatever magic he can grasp to fuck with their emotions and mess with their heads, feeding the Spiral their fear and powering his magic back up for the time being. He steals a bottle of booze from them in the aftermath and wanders back to town, and your character can encounter him along the way, on the trail, in town, or drinking in the common area at Bonnie's! ]

There's three of them, college grads on a haunted road trip across America. Jeff runs into them at a coffee shop, bright eyed and buzzing with excitement about the day's plans. They think he's another tourist, another amateur ghost hunter, because he's too sun-kissed and his accent's from the wrong coast to be from anywhere close to New England. And they're nice enough, and Jeff gets along with them easily, just happy to find some people his own age. Soon, they're chatting and laughing and fitting together like Jeff's always been part of the group, even though he's a high school dropout and they're all setting out for their next round of higher education. Of course they wind up inviting him on the day's outing: a hike around Dogtown, and the promise of magic mushrooms.

Of course Jeff says yes to drugs.

Nothing really happens on the hike, no spooky ghost sightings or anything like that. They laugh about the weird, motivational stones, take pictures with their phones-- they're even nice enough to put something called Spotify on his phone, even though it baffles and amuses them that a musician doesn't know about Spotify (or Soundcloud or anything else). They tell him everything he mentions-- every artist, every band, every movie-- is classic. Retro. Vintage. Obscure. It makes him seem more cool and detached from the mainstream, because it comes across as, like, authentic, like he really loves this stuff, lives and breathes it, instead of using it for hipster cred. For his part, Jeff has no idea what the fuck they're talking about half the time, though he rolls with it with nods and laughs and vague remarks. Fake it til you make it.

They make their way to a nice little secluded spot in front of a long-abandoned building, perfect for drugs and a picnic, settle in, and take the shrooms in responsible, respectable doses. Nothing too crazy, just enough to really vibe with the energy here. Jeff lays back on the blanket, looking up at the face of a future doctor as he waits for the shrooms to kick in, and he's beginning to realize they all think he's quaint, a weird and adorable fucking novelty who's never even heard of Instagram, whatever that is.

"I didn't grow up with computers," he says, which isn't a lie, really. Eventually, there was a computer in his house, for his dad, for work stuff. Jeff never gave enough of a shit to use it. "Or the web," he adds, and they make a weird face and then giggle because nobody calls it the web anymore.

"What, were your parents luddites or something?" a future lawyer asks him, and Jeff shakes his head and tells them with total sincerity that, "No, they're not religious." They laugh like he just told a joke, and for the first time, it feels like they're laughing at him, not with him.

Jeff joins them, bursting out in a vibrant laugh of his own. He wants to cry. He can't even pretend it's just the shrooms making him emotional. The truth is, he wants to cry most of the time, usually when he gets all tangled up in his thoughts. He reaches for a drink to coax himself out of his hole, and things get easy again. They pass the time talking about nothing, conversation drifting further away from whatever the topic was as a wonderful trip begins to bloom inside of them. At some point, he looks up at the future doctor again, and he realizes she's glowing with the sunset. She's so radiant, and pure, and she's looking down at him like he's another radiant and pure thing (which he isn't), and they retreat into their own space together, in the abandoned house. The walls breathe around them, shallowly wheezing with age, and Jeff dances with her-- she leads, he follows. It feels like magic, and in the moment, he thinks that maybe this can scratch the itch for magic magic.

It doesn't. There's still a hole where the Gift used to be, and as they lay together in the bones of a once-loved home, he feels it more achingly than ever. Eventually, they join the others again, and chill out around the illumination of a flashlight, babbling about the energy of the land, the ghosts of Dogtown, and just, like, the viiiiibes of this place. Jeff doesn't say much, he just fixates on that hole inside of him, retreating into his head, wishing he could climb right into that hole and get lost. Maybe he'd find himself back home. Maybe he'd end up in that Other place, the "aether," his grandparents' generation would call it. That space in reality where the magic lives and breathes in its purest form.

That's where Ziggy came from, before it fell down to earth and landed in his head. If he climbed inside that hole, would he land in Ziggy's head?

He wants to cry. Even now, he still wants to cry. Jeff giggles suddenly, and it sounds sharp and discordant to his ears. Nobody seems to notice, since they're all giggling, anyway, from whatever it is they're experiencing right now.

Make them feel what you feel, something says from inside that hole where the Gift used to be. For a second he thinks it might be Ziggy's voice, inasmuch as Ziggy had a voice at all, but he realizes it's just his own voice. He doesn't know if it's spite or loneliness fueling the impulse. He doesn't even know how long it lingers and rattles around in his head, because it's not like time's flowing normally anymore. All he knows is he continues to sink into his own trip, and he's laying on his side, eyes on the flashlight that's standing in for a campfire. Eventually, the future professor asks him to sing one of his songs. He's a musician, right? He's in a band? The future lawyer and future doctor chime in. They all want to hear a Nervous Tix hit.

Make them feel what you feel...

Jeff sits up, blinking like he's just woken up from a dream. He thinks for a moment, then hums softly, wandering through melodies until he lands on the right song. 'Lick The Pole.' It's a silly one, juvenile and irreverent, full of innuendo that's so thinly veiled it barely even qualifies as innuendo at all. Jeff always sings it with a smile, and tonight's not any different. And they don't know the song, so it's not like they can pick up on the tiniest changes in inflection, the way the pitch goes a little this way or that, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, weaving magic into the melody. The Gift isn't here; he can't feel it, hasn't felt it since his arrival, but he still sings as if he's harmonizing with it, and he could swear he feels something coiling around in the hole where the Gift used to be.

The chorus is easy enough to pick up on, and they're singing along soon enough.

Make them feel what you feel.

There's nothing bad about that. It's just... melting his emotions into theirs, bringing all of them together as one unified being of pure empathy. The ultimate bonding. It's not cruel to spread his feelings to them. People always loved it at Tix shows, the manic crush of pure revelry that would bring the show to the next level. Back home, people would say there was something else about a Nervous Tix show, that it was a fucking religious experience.

And here, in this intimate setting, it should be no different. But they don't know what he's doing. They don't understand why they begin to cry, partway through the song, but they know there's something wrong about it. It feels like an infection. They want to laugh and sing along-- or, at least, they know that's what they wanted to do before the wave of loneliness and alienation and grief crashed over their heads and drowned them, and now they can't stop wailing, and they feel like they're going fucking insane. They know what they're feeling is incorrect and unnatural, but they can't stop it, and it's like a nightmare they can't pull themselves out of. Jeff keeps on singing the song until completion, like Nemo or whoever the fuck it was, that Roman asshole with the fiddle.

When he's finished, he feels complete. There's still a hole where the Gift used to be, but now it's occupied. There's something there, and while it doesn't feel like the Gift, it's still magic of a kind, and it'll do. His companions are all curled up on the ground, choking on their own sobs, and he tries not to look at them. He just reaches into the future lawyer's backpack and takes a mostly-full bottle of tequila.

He wanders back in the direction of Gloucester, seemingly aimless as he drifts towards his destination, bottle in hand. It's early in the morning by the time he makes it back to Bonnie's, singing softly to himself.

"Ziggy played guitar, jamming good with Weird and Gilly, and The Spiders from Mars..."

Others can encounter him on the way, on the trail from Dogtown or in the sketchy parts of Gloucester-- or maybe they're likely to find him curled up and cozy on a comfy chair in Bonnie's flophouse, drinking his ill-gotten tequila as he tries not to think about what he did to those tourists. They could have been his friends.

IV. WILDCARD
[ Throw whatever your heart desires my way! If you want to plot something, hit me up at weeyotch or weeyotch#8200 on discord and we can hash something out. ]

Comments

time travel blues

[emptyvessel]

Marcus recognizes the fellow storming out of the liquor store, though the last time he saw him at ADI headquarters -- getting his supplies like the rest of the new arrivals -- he didn't have such a scowl on his face. He detours slightly on his stroll to intercept the young man, hands casually in his pockets.

"Something the matter?"

[cacophonish]

Jeff eyes him for a moment, with the sort of appraising look of a kid who's trying to suss out if the older man's a narc or a potential creep, before he huffs and rubs the side of his neck, casting a quick glance back at the liquor store.

"Nah, it's no big deal." Except his sulking shows that it's clearly a big deal. "They were just giving me shit back there." Jeff looks over his shoulder again, raising his voice like the liquor store itself should be able to hear him, "WHICH IS A TOTALLY LOUSY WAY TO RUN A BUSINESS."

Shockingly, the liquor store remains indifferent to his outrage.

[emptyvessel]

Marcus is neither a narc nor a creep, it's alright. He simply tilts his head curiously.

"Giving you shit about what?"

It's obviously the young man didn't buy anything.

[cacophonish]

He clicks his tongue, wondering if he should bother trying to explain this consequence of time travel (which neither Back to the Future nor The Terminator prepared him for), or if he should just make up a lie that's a whole lot easier to believe than the truth.

But if there's anyone who might understand his dilemma, it's this guy. A fellow... off-worlder, he figures, having seen him in passing at the ADI HQ.

"About this." Jeff holds up a finger, then pulls out his wallet so he can hold up his ID. His totally legit California drivers license, which is totally expired by at least 20 years. There's a wry smile on his face as he explains, "They think it's a fake ID. Time travel fucking sucks, dude."

ii

[11calls]

Alex definitely works better in public than she does at ADI. It doesn't feel quite like home yet, none of it does and the feeling of Eyes on her isn't something that settles particularly comfortable on her skin. So, it's why she's taken her new laptop and settled into one of the diner's back booths. A coffee shop reminds her too much of how she would work in Seattle, and how all of that was five years ago. At least she doesn't have as big of an issue as he does, something that Alex will be thankful for eventually.

With her computer off to one side, and a plate of nachos sitting in front of her, the pile still large and the cheese still melty, Alex just blinks at the new person in front of her. She's vaguely familiar with the sight of him, she thinks, because there's just been so many new people and new stuff happening, but she does give him a quick grin of welcome anyway. "I'm okay, thanks. I don't think we've officially met. I'm Alex. Alex Reagan." With one hand extending in front of her towards him to go with the introduction, Alex closes her laptop with the wrist of her other hand. It wouldn't do to be rude, after all. "Do you want some nachos? I don't know what I was thinking with ordering them considering how huge they are. Diners are good for that, at least here anyway." There's a Seattle hipster mindset going there, but it's fine. She doesn't mind at all.

[cacophonish]

"Jeff," he says, shaking her offered hand. He tilts his head a little and peers down at the... jesus, is that what laptops look like in the future? It's so sleek and skinny. Which... makes sense, considering even cell phones are basically mini computers now.

Everything's about computers and the internet now. Here he was hoping the world would at least have some kind of crazy Blade Runner aesthetic in the year 2021.

He moves past that moment with a smile, happily reaching for a chip. "Oh yeah? Thanks, I'm fucking starving."

It's probably not a surprise, looking at him. He's a little too skinny, plus he's got the whole street kid look going for him now, his outfit a mix and match of whatever secondhand stuff he's been able to get his hands on. There's something of a stray animal quality to him.

"I didn't think they'd have good nachos all the way up in Massachusetts."

[11calls]

There's something in the too skinniness about him that reminds Alex of Simon in a way, and she just nods a little bit, before she waved to the waitress in a gentle manner. While Alex doesn't cook (something everyone in Gloucester should be grateful for honestly) she still has the mom friend instinct to feed people who need it, and Jeff definitely looks like he does. So, feed him is exactly what she's going to do.

"It's nice to meet you Jeff," she says quickly, and she gives him a little nod. "I mean, I guess it has to do with time and stuff being able to spread out, but most of the food here is better than I'd expected. They even have craft beers that are decent." It's not that Alex is a snob, it's just that she's very Pacific North West, and definitely a dyed in the wood Seattle person, even if she's not been able to lose the last traces of her Canadian accent. At this point, it's never going to go away, but it somehow feels even more noticeable to her in comparison to the Massachusetts/New England accent.

When the waitress does come over, Alex gives her a bright smile. "Hey, do me a favor?" the question is asked in a cool and soft and very Canadian tone: "give him whatever he wants, and add it onto my bill please." There, more than just nachos.

[cacophonish]

"Craft beers," he repeats, a note of amusement in his voice. "Do they really taste any different from regular beers?" He can't say he could tell, if given one. But then, Jeff and his whole circle back home don't really drink to appreciate the subtle notes of anything. He's always been about whatever's strongest and cheapest.

But she kind of reminds him of his brother, who's his go-to example for older, and more worldly. Mike's got that fundamental decency, too; that drive to nurture and protect others.

And Jeff totally lights up when Alex has the waitress take his order, surprised, but definitely not going to turn down the generosity. He looks up at the waitress with a sunny smile, totally bright eyed and innocent. He's a nice, polite boy! Definitely not an unemployed punk kid coasting around on the kindness of strangers. "Can I get the eggs? Sunnyside up. With toast. Oh! And bacon."

It's never too late for breakfast, right? Jeff reaches for a nacho as the waitress heads off to bring his order to the kitchen.

"So where are you from? Somewhere with no space, good beer, and bad nachos... New York?" The accent doesn't fit New York, but then, half the people from that city aren't from that city, right?

time travel blues ??

[ployboy]

The thing about fake IDs is, they're practically a necessity. An identity is important and Tim isn't even gonna try to turn that philosophical. And then ADI happened and there's so many nobodies in this world it makes his head hurt some mornings.

Can't even get a library card without some kind of paper. Can't entertain the fantasy of a passport.

And ADI can't be allowed to have a monopoly on identity.

So Tim's made it his business to save up that cash after the odd jobs and now... now he's saying a pleasant goodbye to some chick his age (thanks for the run down by the docks, ADI), nothing suspect at all, and he's pocketing a neat, new... something. Just a kid tidying up some contents of his wallet by the bar district, but by all accounts it's not... weird.

Until Tim catches wind of That Guy chatting up a Gloucester local right outside the building he's loitering by and look, hey, he can't help himself. "Dude, you can't honestly believe that's going to work." You're going to get in trouble.

[cacophonish]

Wow, way to be a buzzkill, dude! Jeff was definitely making headway with this guy (middle aged closet cases are always easy to butter up) and he was so close to getting something out of it, when Tim had to go and ruin the mood. Now the local's looking all cagey, like he's about to bolt back home to the wife and kids.

Jeff gives Tim a sidelong glance, eyes wide and innocent, a confused look on his face. "What's going to work?"

It's hard to say if he's totally faking confusion, or if he thinks Tim could be alluding to a number of different things that may or may not work, and Jeff's having trouble landing on which thing it could be. In any case, the local he was chatting up might as well be invisible now, since Jeff's turned away from him and seems to have already forgotten about his existence.

[ployboy]

"No one's covering your cover fee when you look my age," he pipes up easily. And well, yeah, goodbye middle-aged closet case, but Tim's not here for any case himself and honestly, this seems to be a no-harm-no-foul sort of situation he's inserted himself into. Tim glances obviously to the BAR sign above the door, and maybe he's not being fair because he doesn't know the guy's age.

But c'mon.

Besides, this feels like revenge, kinda, and Tim's cool with that.

He makes sure his wallet's in order, again, and into his jeans pocket it goes. "I'm sure there's some other joint that has wings and burgers, and doesn't mandate ID to get in the doors."

[cacophonish]

"Aw, but this one's got the best wings in town," Jeff deadpans. He huffs and pushes himself off the wall, walking off a little ways so they're not having this conversation where too many locals can overhear.

"Fucking time travel. Everyone thinks I've either got the world's worst fake, or I stole my ID from my dad." He points a finger at Tim. "For the record, I am 21, dude."

2

[onfire]

Peter's about to take a big bite of his reuben when the kid slides into the booth opposite him. He recognizes him from some of the survival training he helped with.

"Yeah, don't worry," he says between bites, clearly considering just what Jeff can owe him. "I'll come up with an adequate payback for it, so get what you want, son." If a chill runs up your spine, Jeff, that's to be expected. He's already planning his revenge.

[cacophonish]

Revenge? Why would Peter want to get revenge on him? He's just a nice young man, displaced 25 years into the future and in need of charity! He drums his fingers on the table and when the waitress stops by again, looks up at her with the sweetest smile.

"Heeey. I'll have a burger and fries?" Then he directs that smile to Peter. "Thanks, Dad."

[onfire]

Peter gives a little snort when he picks up a few shoestring fries to munch through.

"You're very welcome," he tells him, carrying on this silly farce. "Where'd all your money go already?"

[cacophonish]

Jeff blinks. "What money?"

Some of us don't get ADI stipends, old man. And sure, he's started to make some cash from doing odd jobs here and there, but he's saving that for something way more important than food.

III (cw for....... implications of underaged drinking and smoking by american legal standards)

[aelwyn_aberration]

[Aelwyn sits at a street corner very early in the morning, a cigarette in her mouth and a vacant dead inside look to her eyes. She's wearing a short miniskirt and a pink dress shirt that's been turned into a crop-top against it's will, clearly on some kind of self destructive bender.

She's cold. And empty. None of this is working for her the way that it used to, if it used to. Nothing compares to the thrill of killing, or the thrill of hurting something like she hurt that Kelpie. It's like a whole new addiction, something that she doesn't want to indulge in because when she's hungry she's guilty. Too guilty to feed.

She looks up at the sound of the newcomer singing and narrows her eyes.

She recognizes a similar vacant emptiness in the eyes of the person passing and realizes... hey, that's the guy from Bonnies. She lazily holds up a hand in greeting, tossing the stolen cigarette aside. It wasn't doing much for her anyway.]

You look like you've seen a ghost. Or become one, really.

[Maybe you can make tonight feel less empty.]

[cacophonish]

The song trails off in his throat as he eyes the girl, first, checking her out-- idly, dreamily, rather than leering-- before he seems to focus and point a bobbing finger at her, as if to say: I know you!

Jeff doesn't know her, really. But he knows she's like him: displaced from her world, and stuck in this shitty New England town. It stirs a sense of something vaguely kindred in his chest. They may be strangers, but at least they're connected by circumstance.

"Oh..." He looks down at himself, like he's wondering, too, if he's become a ghost. Jeff pats himself down-- still solid-- then moves in a lazy, experimental spin. "Am I still floating?"

[aelwyn_aberration]

...No? Just have that classic deeply haunted face. Or maybe you're just high as a kite.

[She'll stand up, smoothing down her skirt, feeling too sober to be here.]

Were you floating before?

Wildcard

[henchgal]

[Jeff's seen Meredith around doing ADI things on and off. What he hasn't seen is her taking a break, but she's at least stopping to eat at a small local pizzeria when he runs into her this time.

...or at least trying to stop to eat. Her head is propped up onto her hand, she's barely moving, and it looks like she's about to faceplant into her salad. Someone's been avoiding sleep since the whole selkie thing. Someone's bad habits are about to catch up with her.

What's a bard to do?]

[cacophonish]

If there's anyone who gets what it's like to pass out in a public space, it's Jeff. And he was just about ready to take his slice and go, when he spots Meredith in a slow-mo struggle between getting fuel and getting rest. The lady's clearly running on empty; she looks looks like she's about to faceplant right into her fucking salad.

Which, hey. Jeff's been there. And he may not know her, really, but that doesn't stop him from sliding into the booth, studying Meredith for a moment, before he slowly reaches out and very gently pokes her in the shoulder.

"Hey."

[henchgal]

She startles hard, jerking away from the poke with an immediate "I'm fine!" that's complete and total bullshit. Blinking a couple times, scrubbing a hand down her face, it's a solid several seconds before she actually looks up to see who poked her.

"Uh. Sorry. Can I help you?"

That last sentence is complete 'customer service voice', as if the default programming of this unit is to fall back on that polite tone and assume someone needs something of her.

DRIVE INS, DINERS, AND DIVES

[inlieuofadad]

Gil raises his eyebrows as Jeff throws himself into the other side of the diner booth he's decided to occupy. He was mostly here to watch the flow of people in and out, pick out any gossips or town celebrities.

Didn't hurt that they had decent pancakes.

He recognizes this kid from Bonnie's, the few times he's been there, and somehow it doesn't surprise him that someone from Bonnie's will cheerfully and shamelessly cast themselves on the mercy of whoever looks vaguely familiar. Not to insult her clientele.

"Be honest. How many meals have you bummed this way so far?"

[cacophonish]

Wow, dad, way to call him out.

Jeff pauses for a moment, like he has to recalibrate his brain for blunt honesty before he can really answer that question. How many free meals has he gotten this way?

"I mean..." He tries to count, then realizes he hasn't been keeping a tally anyway, so it's pointless. "People say yes more than they say no."

[inlieuofadad]

It's his job to call kids out.

Well, not actually, but sometimes it feels like his job.

Gil huffs an amused little noise, gesturing to the other side of the booth and its sprawled Jeff. "I'm not feeding you if you treat the table like a bed."