APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX

[cacophonish]

"...is this thing on?" un: freakscene voice | video | text | action | everything

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un: strange

[sorser]

[His recent considerations of magic, and those who use it, have drawn a somewhat delayed realization for Stephen: that perhaps the person he spoke with on the network, regarding music and magic, could have been the same guy he had a flyer tussle with on the street. It’s worth a shot, at any rate, to reach out.]

Jeff, right? This is Stephen Strange. I have a feeling the last time you saw me, I sent a flock of handbills your way.

Sorry about that.

[cacophonish]

oh yeah

[ 'Oh yeah,' like he totally forgot about The Flyer Incident until just now. ]

dont worry about it man. i was being a total dick

[ Understatement. When he wasn't using magic to sabotage people, he was using it to make them alarmingly giddy over the idea of the circus. AND BESIDES: ]

your magic kicks ass

[sorser]

[Oh. Well. That was easy enough. Stephen likes it when social expectancies like apologies are made easy.]

Let’s consider it this way: we’re even now. Water under the bridge.

And thanks for the sentiment, but no. My magic is frustratingly underpowered and underutilized right now. I regret wasting it just for the sake of annoying someone.

A Saturday (leading to potential NSFW oh no)

[ployboy]

Irony is: finding himself walking to Bonnie's on a Saturday evening without having called ahead.

He's dressed the part of a guy eager for a night out, as much as his scheme relies on staying in for-- well, he's too... bashful? to want to presume he's staying in for the night. There's too many emotions running with his blood and making him feel too warm for the borrowed-slash-stolen jacket that's over his button-down. His hair's tamed and gelled, his jeans are pressed and just the right amount of, uhh, restrictive? and a part of Tim that he's struggled to bury alongside all the parts of himself that have died and decayed

is disappointed.

Knows this is the wrong way to get what he's chasing. Knows he's muddling waters that may be better left unchurned.

But time is never on his side, and besides--

he's grown the fuck up.

He can do this. And maybe not sacrifice some scraps of fun, or thrill, or whatever may be kin to those emotions he wishes he could be feeling instead. He can survive the utter whirlwind that is Jeff Calhoun, and better yet, learn his part. Lean into his role. He can thrive on the total disconnect between loose reins and absolute control. He hikes the  backpack up his shoulder and breathes out and wonders what the hell is happening. And that's about all the pause he'll allow himself. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne lies like he breathes-- lies to himself, most of all. Maybe. He knocks on the door he's sure is Jeff's. It'll be alright.

He knocks again, for good measure, and leans into the doorframe just ever so slightly out of consideration for neighbors as he announces, "It's Saturday!"

(Frankly he's never one-hundred percent on whether or not Jeff knows what day he lives in.)

"Put a shirt on and open up. We have plans, and I have discount bin flicks."

(God, he misses his friends.)

[cacophonish]

It's a smart bet to assume that Jeff might not know what day it is. Under normal circumstances, he's generally not operating with full awareness of his surroundings. It's not helped by the fact that he tends to keep weird hours, and frequently forgets the date when there aren't any gigs to keep track of. And it's only gotten worse in the past few weeks, what with the strange music and all the random bouts of narcolepsy.

So yeah: Jeff thinks it's Friday.

He's only been up for a few hours-- long enough to shower, shake off a probable hangover, and eat a poptart-- and he's just hanging out on his bed, noodling around on his guitar, trying to decide what he wants to do with his Friday night, if he's going to go out, or keep working on this new song, or try to practice some magic, or or or--

Someone's knocking. Wait. That's Tim. Wait. It's Saturday? And how does he know Jeff's not wearing a shirt??

"Shit!" he hisses, jumping up off the bed, scrambling to put his guitar away and grab something clean to wear.

"One sec!" he calls out, partially muffled by the shirt he's pulling over his head. It's black, it's clean, and it doesn't have any holes. Just for a little flair, he pulls on a button-down over it, some bright and colorful floral nightmare. Finishing touches: he runs his fingers through his hair to try to make something presentable of it (it decides that it's going to keep on doing its own thing, as usual), then grabs a bottle of body spray and gives himself a spritz.

Jeff wrinkles his nose. Strawberries and cream? Where the fuck did that come from? Oh well, too late now. He'll just have to own it, make like he totally meant to smell like dessert.

Okay.

He's ready.

Jeff opens the door, looking all casual and laid back, like he wasn't just rushing around his room trying to make himself look presentable.

"Hey, man. What's up. Wanna come in?"

It just occurs to him: are they watching movies here, or somewhere else? Fuck. He doesn't have a TV, or, like, a VCR or anything... Maybe they can get a private room at the Midnight Cinema on short notice. Lucky seems cool...

Jeff's room, for the record, is pretty messy, though somehow not as messy as Tim's. His own clutter-- clothes, liquor bottles, music gear, weird knickknacks, multiple mirrors, handwritten notes-- seems to have some vague semblance of organization. There's also potted plants placed here and there, in various stages on the life-death spectrum. He's trying out a new hobby, okay.

The bed's clean, though!

text, un: timjdrake, Dec 18

[ployboy]

[He hasn't even seen Jeff in... too long.

Tim doesn't give himself the moment to have his thumb hover over the screen of his phone. It's not even in his hand. The phone just barely touches his hip, anyway, where he's laid on the fucking floor of this room. Handsfree texting. It's all the rage.

God knows Tim has enough... mana. To fuel magical instances like this. He closes his eyes and sighs and the message sends.]

Are you okay?

[cacophonish]

[ He's not sure how he feels when he receives the text on his... BRAND NEW ADI-ISSUED PHONE. RIP his last one, it was filled with wasps.

Jeff's used to drifting in and out of people's lives. He doesn't expect them to take it personally, just as he doesn't take it personally. Drifting... is passive. It just happens.

Ignoring is totally different. It takes a fucking decision. And for all of Jeff's hippie, drifty, dreamy flakiness, he's still, like, a bard: emotional, needy, and fucking dramatic. They've got a rep back home for a good reason.

What Jeff should do: tell Tim he's okay, and ask if he's okay, and what the fuck happened, with Ren and the bugs and the whole Jim fiasco--

But Tim ignored him, and so Jeff's stupid hurt feelings take over. He looks at the phone, and he decides to leave him on read while he goes to drown himself in other people. There's a house party he wants to hit up, anyway.

A response does come, though, a few hours later, texted from some stranger's couch. ]

you're a dick

text;

[retisense]

hey mr. calhoun
do you have any pot

[cacophonish]

not for anyone who calls me MR CALHOUN 🖕

text; un: awarewolf

[wolfssegen]

Hey, it's Ches, the guy you learned throwing a punch from a while back. You still up for another lesson?

[cacophonish]

hey ches

yeah i could go for another lesson
i haven't had a chance to try punching anyone in like
real life

so i dunno how much the lesson stuck you know?

text: looselystrung

[henchgal]

Thank you for your part in making sure my birthday was something really special. I don't think I've actually had a birthday party since...probably my 21st.

[cacophonish]

yeah of course :)
you deserved something nice
i mean not just past tense. you still deserve nice things

anyway i didn't do much, it was pretty much everyone else

[abrightboy]

Malcolm was a little surprised to be called into the director's office. He had some concerns that they were upset with his job performance. Mainly that he hadn't much been performing his job lately.

That wasn't what they wanted. They had intel that Jeff Calhoun was sliding towards a relationship with the Spiral and they wanted him to talk to him. He'd been vocal in the past about his concerns with this. If he wants to help save someone before it's too late, this is the time. So they sent him to find Jeff and talk to him about it. Frankly. Firmly. Before he's lost for good.

Malcolm texts Jeff as he leaves ADI.

Meet me for coffee? My treat.

[cacophonish]

Jeff's got a lot more free time lately, since winter isn't the best season for busking, and he can't stand the New England chill, anyway. So when he gets the text from Malcolm, he shoots back a quick response:

can't say no to free coffee 😀

And after hashing out the when and the where, Jeff heads out to meet up with Malcolm. He grins when he spots the other man at the cafe.

"Hey, man."

text: looselystrung

[henchgal]

Can we talk? I think...

We should talk.

Please?

[cacophonish]

[ He sees the text, and guilt rises up like bile, and he has to choke it back.

It's hours before Jeff responds. Like, you know, he was busy, or he just didn't see it, not because he was hiding, wallowing in guilt and self pity... ]

hey
what's up :)
feeling better?

Night of March 17 motherfucker, 1/?

[ployboy]

Jeff, call me when you can.

2/?

[ployboy]

Call me. Call any of us.

'sup fool

[ployboy]

Just let me know if you are OK. I can't lose somebody else. Please.

2/2

[ployboy]

Jeff, call me when you can.

Voicemail

[abrightboy]

Jeff, running away won't solve anything. You're not saving us. Just come back. Let's talk.

[cacophonish]

[ NO RESPONSE. But the next morning, he does send Tim confirmation that he's alive and well, so he's definitely not dead and not an avatar! ]

Mid-May

[ployboy]

They're in bed. Nothing indecent! Just in bed, a mildly warm and sunny day passing them by outside. Out a window, Tim can peer at one of the now-looming radio towers overseeing the city. There's a fire that needs to be addressed off to Gloucester's east side. If Tim hadn't felt so utterly useless before, the smoke rising now does the trick, drives the nail on the coffin.

If he couldn't find his way through life after Robin, Tim finds it woefully ironic that Robin is now so explicitly off the table.

He wiggles and sits up, (right) foot going to dig a light kick at Jeff's thigh.

There's no good time to dredge this up, which means there's no bad time for it either. "There's some chick looking for you," he informs. Swallows, because he thinks of Stephanie. Except Steph isn't just some chick. "Do you know about that?"

[cacophonish]

Jeff's not sitting up. He's perfectly content to keep sprawling on the bed, looking up at the underside of the top bunk as if there's a movie playing out above him. He blinks, slow and sedate as Tim gives him a little kick, then turns his head to look up at him.

First: blank confusion.

"Huh?"

Then: the wheels start to turn. Tim can probably see the moment that the lights seem to switch 'on' in Jeff's head, and he gets to thinking....

(What he doesn't betray is the way his pulse picked up, a little spike of adrenaline, as soon as Tim even mentioned some chick. Yeah, he knows who she is. Yeah, he's been on edge ever since she tracked him here. Yeah, maybe he made a mistake in thinking the ADI's presence would act as a deterrent. He should've stayed on the road. He should've chased her. He should've plucked at her mind and twisted and pulled until it was like taffy--)

"Oh! The chick with the hotline?" He hums softly. Sweet, ditzy, spacey, stupid Jeff. "She's looking for you, too, I think. And Aelwyn..."