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[burntvideocassette]

"This is, uh. It's Jay. Leave a message, and I'll try to get back to you."

[voice/text/video/action/anything]

Comments

mirror writing

[pseudological]

Aren't you a smart cookie today.
Not smart enough to realize you don't need to write to me, but we have to measure Jay's progress in careful amounts.
Can't get too ambitious, us.

We're always watching you, silly. :)

action

[burntvideocassette]

[Don't need to write...? Oh. Oh.

Just when he thought the Mirror situation couldn't get any worse. The condescension is bad enough, but the thought that he's been able to hear everything? Not good. Not good at all.

Pulling back from the mirror, Jay mutters a response.]

Watching doesn't always mean listening. [Asshole.] Which one of...us are you? Got any more hints?

[pseudological]

[He's already dissatisfied. That much is obvious. Put there's answers available here; a Mirror that's more talkative and receptive to pleas for information than the Real Tim ever could be. As long as Jay limits his definition of "information."]

We Mirrors are just special that way.
If you've got a Mr. Wright already, does that make me Mr. Wrong?

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay perks up. An actual response, albeit a teasing one. Clearer than totheark any day.]

Makes sense.

[Jay sets the camera down on a tripod, focusing it on the mirror. If "Mr. Wrong" here has been around since Tim arrived, he might know something Tim hasn't chosen to mention. Scratch that, he definitely does.

But first...]

Why've you suddenly...made contact now?

[pseudological]

I'm not allowed to be friendly?
We're not all like our Reals, you know.

[It's an answer, and that brokers some tenuous form of trust in him as a fountain of information. Jay settles the camera on the tripod. Recording this for posterity, no doubt. Some things really do never change.]

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay snorts.]

Yeah, you're allowed.

[Tim and Georgia made the mirrors sound...maybe not strictly evil, but something to be wary of. Tim might not be the greatest source for accurate information, but Georgia at least claimed she always told the truth. It's enough to put Jay on high alert.

But you can't get valuable information without taking a few risks.]

How're you different from the Tim I know?

[pseudological]

I've got the sense of humor.

[That, too, isn't exactly a lie. He certainly knows how to smile, and derive genuine enjoyment from situations, a lot more compared to the Real Tim. That's a winning enough personality trait, isn't it?]

[burntvideocassette]

Lucky you.

[Anhedonia, right? Jay looked it up the night he went through Tim's files. Inability to feel pleasure.

If he's honest with himself, Jay doesn't have much of a sense of humor either, not after everything. He's not sure if he even had one before.

Jay fidgets without the camera in his hand. He's never been any good at reading people, but having nothing but marks on a mirror and the knowledge that the other person can see every move you make--no edits, no chance to look over it again before posting--makes this even more difficult. He mentally rehearses his next question before he speaks.]

What can you tell me about this place? I mean, I'm guessing you've got a different perspective from the people on this side.

[pseudological]

What do you want to know?
Of the two of us, I guess you could say I'm native to this place.

[See? Look at him. He's helpful. More helpful than the Real Tim ever was. Difficult to read without body language to settle upon, sure, but why should that be a barrier, when they're engaged in this monumental occasion of communicating amiably across the glass?

A pity there's no way of knowing what Tim might have said about him, thus far. No reflective surfaces out in the woods.]

[burntvideocassette]

[And god, if that isn't the most beautiful sentence Jay's ever read.

Jay leans in, closer to the glass.]

Georgia told me you were, were built by somebody called the, uh--[Red Queen? Queen of...? Was there only one queen in Alice in Wonderland?]--Queen of Hearts? How does that work? If you're, you're based on us, then do you have a copy of our brain, or is it just like a blank slate?

[pseudological]

Little hard to explain.
Our memories aren't Real. Not the way yours are.

[Bit of a sore spot, memories. But they're important as far as how Wonderland runs, and if he's going to earn Jay's trust with some information, spoonfed as it is, uncomfortable truths will have to be dealt.

Hilarious. Right?]

For most of us, it's simple.
Somewhere along the line, our roads diverged in a yellow wood.
Something went ever so slightly different, yet still the same.

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay is tired of people speaking in riddles. He thinks he gets the gist, though.]

So you've got similar memories as us, but not exactly.

[What does Tim know what does he know

Jay resists the urge to just ask outright. If he understands correctly, the information this guy gives him might not translate to what Tim remembers. (Assuming he's even telling the truth.) For now, until he knows where their memories differ, he has to limit the questions about Tim's past.

Something about Wonderland, then. Something someone who is always watching would know.

An idea strikes him. Jay lowers his voice, eyes twitching to the door--still locked.]

Has it been here?

[pseudological]

[There it is.

Record time, too.

The Mirror smiles into the glass, briefly. If he were face to face with him now, he'd have to work a little harder at making himself impenetrable, impossible to read. But the glass always did serve his purposes well.]

It always has.
It always will be.

You of all people should know.

[burntvideocassette]

[No no no no no

As each word appears, the trembling in Jay's hands becomes a little more pronounced. He leans against the wall to the right of the mirror, to keep his balance, to keep his knees from buckling underneath him.

He should know, shouldn't he? This kind of thing doesn't just end. Not when you drop the investigation and your headaches start to clear up, not when your apartment's burned down and you're miles from home, not when you're gut-shot by an old friend. It may leave you alone for a second, just enough to catch your breath and wonder if it might have forgotten about you, but it always comes back.

The next question is unbidden, irrational, but it's out of his mouth before the filter can set in.]

What does it want?

[pseudological]

[He falls apart, pretty much immediately. Good. He should. There's no escaping what It's capable of. It will find and claim every one of them, in the end. He escaped It, for now, by ducking away here, but he's only staving off what's already staked Its claim.

The words disappear slowly, wiped clean.]

You escaped It before.
No more.
Our sins will always come home to roost.
They will be baptized in water.

[Wash them away, cleanse the stench from your skin. Cough like the victim you are, lungs filling with invisible water, thick and bubbling and inescapable.

Are you drowning, Jay?]

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay doubles over, wheezing. What he's writing doesn't make sense, it doesn't, but something in it rings true, like it's bypassing his conscious mind and plugging directly into something else.

Just breathe. There's nothing in your lungs, just--

Jay fights to stay upright. When he speaks, it burns, like there's a hand around his throat.]

What the hell are you doing?

[pseudological]

[Too far, maybe?

Too bad.]

I thought you wanted the truth, Jay.

[Or is too hard to stomach? He's never shied away from difficult illuminations before. The world is dark place shot through with blank white, and Jay knows that. If he didn't before, he sure as hell needs to now.]

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay looks back, behind him, at the corners the mirror's reflection doesn't show. It's not here, so why--?

He can't suppress it this time, and the cough tears across his throat. (Psychosomatic? Or much, much worse?)

When he speaks again, his voice is low, strained.]

How do you know--[He pauses, gulping in air.]--Why do you think you know anything about what that thing wants?

[pseudological]

Somewhere along the line, our roads diverged in a yellow wood.

[What did he think the answer would be? If his Tim fought It for every step of the way, this one stopped fighting a long, long time ago.]

[burntvideocassette]

[His memories are different from Tim's. He made a different choice, and something changed, and now he knows something the Real Tim doesn't.]

[Gripping the frame of the mirror, he lets out a hoarse, painful cough.] What did you do? What's different? How do I...[His voice drops softer, to a raspy whisper.] I want to know what you know.

[pseudological]

[Success. Now he's got him all but begging for it, desperate for the answers the Mirror has set himself up all for knowing. He's pathetic. It's perfect.]

Hey, Jay.
You aren't looking so good there.

[burntvideocassette]

[Jay hisses through his teeth.]

And whose fault is that?

[He'll play along for a second--just a second--but Tim can't change the subject. He can't.]

[pseudological]

You were asking for answers.
I thought I was doing the right thing.

Or maybe the Real me was right after all, to keep everything from you.
If this is what it does to you...

[burntvideocassette]

[He thinks the truth did this to him? The truth is the only thing that saved him, the only thing that kept him alive this long. Alex could have killed him in his sleep if he'd never gone looking. Alex could have broken into his cheap little cinder-block apartment, shot him in his bed while he was sleeping, and he would have never known why.

(He still would have never known why, except that Tim told him. It's always Tim who knows, always Jay that's lagging behind.)]

You know what did this to me. Tell me what you know! Tell me what he knows!

[pseudological]

[Oh, but now he has him begging. He's really fraying at the edges now, isn't he? He looks awful, sounds as desperate as he did the day things began to fall apart between him and Tim, well and utterly.

Death doesn't fix things like that, it turns out.

Buy me dinner first, he wants to say, but that would eradicate whatever progress has been made here. No. Start with something easy.]

It's a lot.
It's a lot to sort through.
And I don't think you're feeling well.

Can you breathe for me, Jay?
Start there, and maybe I can help.