log: here they come again, whispers in my head [OPEN]

[cacophonish]

Who: Jeff and OPEN
When: All throughout February
Where: Bonnie's, ADI offices, around town, anywhere
Summary: Just a catch-all for Jeff's return to the game! Featuring dumpster diving, white collar incompetence, bumming free food and drinks, busking, generally being a nuisance... The 'zero' prompt is pretty much just a bunch of exposition, but it's there for TDM prompts/continuing TDM threads!
Warnings: Reference to past drug and alcohol use/intoxication, emotional manipulation, violence, death, hallucinations in the 'zero' prompt.

0. Same old sad refrain
cw: reference to past drug and alcohol use/intoxication, emotional manipulation, violence, death, hallucinations

Once upon a time, there was a boy who didn't belong in this story. He wasn't very smart, and he wasn't very heroic, and this story-- the story he didn't belong in, the story he couldn't escape from-- scared him.

He was always so scared. Aided by drugs and every intoxicant he could consume, he hid himself away in lies and fantasies, dreaming of worlds beyond flesh and blood and mundane drudgery. Worlds where magic was endless, and reality fractured into a beautiful kaleidoscope of limitless, nonsensical possibility. These were the worlds that existed in the reflection of a storefront window, or in a picture that didn't develop quite right, or beyond the corner of his eye, always close, but never accessible. He thought, maybe if he kept on singing, kept on playing, kept on plucking at people's hearts with his tainted magic (he could make them laugh, make them scream, make them cry, at all the wrong times, whether they wanted to or not, could just wrest that control away and fill them with wrongness, and god it felt good, it felt so good to wring and twist their emotions--), he could find a way into one of those worlds, and leave this one behind.

The boy kept trying, and trying, until one day, a monster ate him.

Okay, she didn't eat him. But she did kill him. She stabbed him, and left him bleeding out on an empty stage, in an empty club. The boy died, alone, with nothing but a lie to save him. See, he realized that he didn't have to accept his death. He didn't have to believe in it at all. All the blood he'd lost, that didn't need to stop him. He reached out and held onto that delusion, and pulled himself off that stage.

He would be fine.

And so he was fine, and he wasn't scared anymore. For the first time in a long time, he'd felt whole and complete and-- hungry. The boy was so hungry. And though he tried to show some restraint, it became difficult as those few people who unknowingly held pieces of his humanity vanished out of the story. One, after another, after another, after...

That's when he realized he could leave this story, too. So one day, that's exactly what he did. He packed his things, and he walked right off the page.

(Well. Metaphorically.)

That could've been it. It could've been the end of his part in this story. But instead, once upon a later time, six months down the road, the boy came back. Maybe the he got bored. Maybe he got lonely. Maybe something's nipping at his heels, or curiosity got the better of him, who knows, it's weird, sometimes his story changes, but he doesn't seem to be lying about it.

He just makes himself fit right back in, without missing a beat, as if he'd never left.

i. wished i'd never said what i said

It's probably some ungodly hour of the morning when Jeff stumbles back into Bonnie's, singing and humming to music in his head as he brings his contributions to the communal kitchen: food scavenged from Gloucester's bakeries, coffee shops, and grocery stores. Well, okay, not from the stores proper, more like... the dumpsters behind them. But it's fine, it's all good! He only goes for the stuff that's boxed, bagged or wrapped in plastic, so, like, no garbage has touched any of it (directly). And if it's expired, so what? Expiration dates are just a suggestion, anyway.

Come enjoy a day-old croissant with him! Or maybe you find him a little later in the morning, lurking by the Memorial Wall while he eats some expired yogurt. It's hard to say if he's actually reading the names on the wall, or if he's just staring into space. But he's there for an awfully long time, his expression vaguely dreamy and disconnected, as he just... seems to soak in the names of the lost.

At various times, you can also find him in his room, where he'll either be decorating, listening to music, or practicing his guitar. Loudly.

ii. take me to the top

Once he's back in the ADI's (er) good (uhhhh) graces, Jeff becomes a semi-regular presence at the ADI offices. Like before, he kind of sort of works in the Admin department, which is to say he's mostly a glorified errand boy. Need some paperwork to not get filed? Need a hundred copies of the wrong report made? Need your coffee order screwed up? Then Jeff's your guy!

Of course, if you tell him he screwed this up or got that wrong, or this isn't the thing you asked for, he'll tilt his head and look at you with wide, truly innocent, sincerely dumb and ditzy eyes, and say, "Huh? No, I'm pretty sure this is what you asked me for."

He seems to really believe it.

Intermittently, over the course of the month, he may also leave a vintage Lisa Frank Valentine at your desk, whether he knows you or not. Looks like he got his hands on some fun kitsch somewhere along the way, during his travels.

iii. and don't ever tell me when to stop

Of course, you can always find Jeff loitering around Gloucester. Like, even if you're not looking for him, really. Sometimes he's hanging out on a busy, bustling street, performing with his guitar. It seems like he's spent some time learning music from, like, after 1995. Wanna hear his guitar cover of Shake It Off? He'll take requests!

Sometimes, he's hanging out at a crowded bar or club, mingling, being a social butterfly. If he spots you, he'll sidle up with a bright, cheery smile, and a playful, "Buy me a drink?" (No. Really. Buy him a drink. He's always broke.)

Are you enjoying a meal at a diner or restaurant? Having a drink and pastry at a coffee shop? Well, hope you don't mind Jeff plopping himself down at your table, menu in hand. Was he supposed to meet you here? Well, he seems to be under that impression, whether or not you are. "So! What's good here?" He may even help himself to your food if you don't, like, swat him away. (Maybe people should start carrying spray bottles around to spritz him with.)

iv. wildcard

hit me with anything! you can shoot me a message at weeyotch or weeyotch#8200 to plot anything in particular, or just wing it, throw something at me, I'll roll with it.

Comments

gilear (cont)

[cacophonish]

[ continued from here ]

His reaction? Well, the amused smirk fades, and his brows furrow in naked confusion, and a cocktail of dread and concern starts to creep into his expression.

"I-- what? I don't-- what're you talking about, man? I don't remember seeing you like... You think I killed someone? and-- and dumped the body somewhere?"

How's he doing, does he seem convincing? Jeff lies as naturally as breathing these days, but there's one tell: his voice isn't as small, or fragile, or broken as it was in those moments when Gil used to find him before, confused and terrified over his own inability to trust his own head.

A beat, then Jeff drops the lost, scared puppy act and smiles. It's meant to be reassuring, even if he's a bit chagrined, but whether or not it is, is up to Gil.

"No, um, I know... I remember being all fucked up that morning. I was always..." He waves a hand dismissively, then reaches down to pet the cat. "Um. I kicked the drugs, Gil, so..."

It's fine now. He's fine. There won't be any more troubling episodes like that again.

He exhales. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, though. I mean, about the... crime scene?"

[inlieuofadad]

And that's the problem, right there: Jeff lies as naturally as breathing. It's too easy for him. He's too confident in his uncertainty. Gil's shoulders sag a little, his eyes taking on a mix of tiredness and sadness.

"I think you killed somebody, Jeff, and I think you know you did. Maybe you didn't back then, but you know now." A pause, and he risks going too far. Too farther. "The crime scene was a stage with more blood on it than a person can survive losing. One person's blood, no other DNA mixed in. No body. But someone saw a young man about six feet tall, long blonde hair, your sense of style going into the theater earlier that evening. He went in alone. Nobody spotted someone coming out."

Killed or killer, Gil thinks, queasy at the thought. He can't tell which. That's the worst part.

[cacophonish]

Blink blink blink blink.

"Whoa. You just came right out and said it." Jeff tilts his head, then lets out a laugh that seems to force its way out of his mouth, startled and startling. "Sorry. Not-- I shouldn't laugh-- it's not funny, it's-- just, I've never been accused of murder before? I've got no idea how to process this, dude."

But then, a little more seriously, now... He leans in, looks at Gil with raised, terribly concerned brows, and asks in a parody of sincerity, "So What do you think happened on that stage? Who did I murder?"

[inlieuofadad]

"I tend to come out and say things," Gil says dryly. "Not sure if Malcolm gets it from me or I get it from him."

He sighs heavily. "Did you kill someone that time or did someone try to kill you?"

The that time is intentional.

[cacophonish]

Most people who meet Jeff, they tend to take him for a dim bulb, and maybe they wouldn't be totally wrong. It's not like dying made him smarter. But there's something sharp in him now, some animal cunning that pays attention to the little things, changes in his surroundings, people's demeanors, the words they choose...

Where before, he was on a slow descent towards self destruction, now he's been destroyed and reborn. Now, he's all about survival.

Which is to say: he catches Gil's meaning with the that time, and he knows the game they're playing. Gil knows. He wants Jeff to know that he knows, and Jeff could insult the man's intelligence by denying it, or he could confess and give the whole villain monologue, or he could...

Smile in unspoken acknowledgement. Gil's on to something, they both know it, but Jeff's not going to give him any straightforward answers.

"I think you need to gather some more clues about that night. Set the scene for me, man. Spin a story." He looks down at the cat in his arms, lowers his head as if to speak in her ear. "It's no fun if I lay it all out, right?"

[inlieuofadad]

Gil's shoulders droop for a moment, just a fraction of a second, before he squares off again. His expression--neutrally curious--shifts to something... tired. Sadder. Disappointed, but it's disappointment directed at himself, not Jeff.

"It's not supposed to be fun, kid." Gil rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Anybody else know? Bonnie? You safe as you can be, this close to... the office?"