I have been told that I have been... too reclusive for my own good. Seeing as that is not inaccurate and I seem to be finding myself hoping for the phone to ring – a rarity as of late – or talking to my Alexa for company, perhaps this strange blog will help. With a bit of finagling (as I am still not used to all this internet in and outs or workings yet, due apologies), I have got it!
Also Alexa helped when I asked.
Anyway, I’m here now. Looking for connection without actually leaving my house! Egads, it... is... genius!
Please, message me. Ask me things. (At worst I can ask Alexa...). It’s that or I may go crazy.
Though Hatchetfield is rather insane. The things I’ve seen. What I know. If you understand me when I speak of five figures in black, do contact me. There is much to discuss.
Otherwise, begone! I am done with this post.
[OOC Context and More Below the Cut]
[OOC happens in the brackets.]
[Hidgens got struck by lightning during that freak lightning storm that took the other workin’ boys away from him (whom he misses desperately) (yes, it was a polycule to me if you’re wondering). He’s hella gay and proud of it. He’s also a social recluse and is bad at talking to people. He’s gonna say weird stuff. Try and sell you on his musical. Talk mad. If Alexa chimes in, I’ll use blue text like this for funsies lmao. Otherwise, it’s Hidgens. Italics are actions and any non-dialogue.]
[Appearance wise, Hidgens has short steel grey hair, a scraggly beard at times if he forgets to trim or stubble, and deep hazel eyes that seem blue or grey like a storm. There’s a scar along his chest, back, and shoulders where the lightning hit him. He’s 6’ 2” and 190 lbs.]
[The lightning strike happened in college and killed his entire team/polycule of Greg, Stu, Mark, Steve, Leighton, and Chad. He loved all of them and lost them in a freak accident. (Maybe the lightning was the LiB who knows yet???). The lightning gave him visions of things he shouldn’t know though and now Hidgens rambles on about five strange figures. (The LiB). He once went to school for theater but lost the spark when he lost his boys. Now he teaches biology and rarely leaves the house in fear of both those lords and just people in general. Agoraphobia has seized him. He used to be social and good with convincing people of his new ideas too…
Playwriting is his secret passion and he still does it, just rarely. Maybe inspiration will strike him yet, who knows?]
[I’m not a minor, but I’d still like to keep this blog away from anything overtly suggestive such as smut. Gore is fine. Flirt with Hidgens. Bonus if you’re a workin’ boy or Ted, somehow. Tedgens is good with me lmao.]
[I will ignore asks if need be, and answer what I can.]
Tags I’ll Use:
Professor Henry Hidgens RP – every post has this
Ask Henry and Alexa – ask box responses
Show Stoppin’ Number – OOC posts
Hear Henry’s Pitch – in character posting
Henry Says Open the Gates Alexa – RP response
Five O’Clock Can’t Come Soon Enough – Interacting with a Workin’ Boy
Why, what a thought provoking question. My favorite song would be 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen! Such a theatrical song and yet it was not designed for the theater! A classic to rival and upset all others for the rest of time, I should think!
As for one I relate to most, well take a listen to 'Being Alive' from the musicale 'Company'.
He's just walking by. He isn't meant to stop or stare or even think about going in.
Hidgens is just out grabbing necessities that he can't get Alexa to order to his door. And he hates being outside. Hates interacting. But this thing...
It calls to him.
And so, he walks in and carefully sits down.
He's always wanted to be in theatre. Always. Forever. And for once, Henry can feel like he's on stage without fear. Or at least, without fear for now, anyways.
Once he clears his throat, he begins.
So, how does this work, exactly? Is it a... gimmick? Some seance style nonsense where another knocks below the table to fool me into thinking there are ghosts?
>His reflection fades into view, a whispy mist before its full face is revealed.
>Or... faces.
>His reflection stares back at him, a panoramic puzzle of misplaced features.
>His reflection the strangest of all those that it had reflected thus far.
>Each peers into the muse's soul,
>Greg's was tame, a normal man.
>Eleanor's split into three, just like their mind.
>But Hidgens' perpetual delirium leaves his reflection as much of a mess as he is.
>A reflection reminiscent of The Scream.
No gimmicks, no third person my dear.
I'm little more than your own beautiful reflection!
>It's voice was like his echo, although slightly warped like his face.
>It smiled warmly at him with both of its mouths. As though it was an old friend greeting him after a long drawn parting.
He balks at his own reflection momentarily, peering side to side to take it in. He mutters to himself. It's like the lightning...
Then he shakes his head and focuses on his lap rather than look whatever that is in the face. Apparently his own reflection counts as someone he'll avoid too.
I'm not stupid, you... facade.
I don't know what you are, but you have called to me anyway. How. Why. For what purpose. Not a question because I think I know but I want to hear you say it.
>The reflection sighed in Hidgens' own voice, it's face contorted into a pout.
You know, near everyone who's entered my little abode here has been so unabashedly rude... And all because my reflections are a little off-kilter! I was under the impression you might've been a little nicer to me, but alas...
...There's truly no need to be so hostile off-rip. We aren't all that different from eachother! I too enjoy musical theatre quite a lot, you know...
>It's distorted face looked away from him, covering its face theatrically as crocodile tears welled up in it's mismatched eyes.
I'm only here for those who wish to peer deeper into their soul. Past the window of the eyes... I reflect what you cannot see yourself.
You can ask me about the uncertain past... The m-mysterious future...
Or s-somebody else entirely...
>It reiterated the words it had said prior to that old workin' boy, Greg, as the echo of Hidgens' voice began to shake and blubber.
Or you can just be d-downright discourteous...!
>The reflection sobbed quietly, completely disingenuous, of course, but it had decided to take an alternate approach to the disrespect. See where this might get it.
[ooc: GIGGLES im just imagining that stan twitter cinderella meme but its ACT reflecting hidgens]
For whatever reason, the crocodile tears seem to work. Enough to have Hidgens frown and glance back up. Seeing his own distorted face blubber about is odd, yes, but standable in small doses.
I apologize, strange object. Possessed pewter. Or whatever you are.
...
...
...
Can you truly reflect that which I which to see?
Could you -
Could you tell me about my... boys? Are they alright? Happier in whatever glorious afterlife they surely deserved?
>The reflection hiccupped, sniffling and steadying itself back to composure. And by that I mean quitting the shit but that's rather informal.
...Thank you. You're the first to make an apology...
>It cleared its throat, wiping the faux tears.
Eh-Hem... Your boys. Of course, no wonder you're curious.
I assure you they're doing quite well. As well as they can be, at least.
Although you both have quite similar woes.
I actually had one of them come through here earlier today if you could believe it.
Greg, I think his name was?
Looked something like this...?
>The reflection warped and changed into that of Greg's face. Looking back at Hidgens.
>It's voice changed to suit.
He seems to miss you to death. I think they all do.
He asked me a similar question to yours, actually.
He asked me how YOU were doing.
It seems even the veil cannot separate a bond like yours.
>The reflections face flitted for less than a blink, turning sour. It seemed... Jealous.
>But just as fast as the expression came, it went. The reflection smiling sweetly at Hidgens, tilting its head.
Well,>The reflection paused for a moment, an imitation of a man lost in thought.Have you ever considered that what happened to you may not have been the work of the forces Within this world?
That maybe something far beyond this world has a plan for you?
That maybe they were getting in the way...
Heed these words, some sights are better left obscured,
But I am not here to stray you from your path.
You certainly got to the point far quicker than he did.So,
Henry Hidgens,
>It's voice began to warp, it's face now halfway between Henry's reflection and Greg's. A macabre blend of faces and features that did not belong to it.
Do you wish for me to show you the truth, just as I showed him?
>Staring into his eyes, unblinking, the reflection leaned forward. Almost as if it was making an attempt to lean out of the mirror itself.
No, if whatever it is that exists beyond my perceptions has a plan, knowing it would make it no better. To know the hour and method of my demise would more change it than I could have changed the weather on that faithful night.
He stood, chair scraping across the floor with the force of his motion.
If you can answer questions, and tell me true...
...
...
...
Then I must know with all that I have seen, all that I know...
>The reflection froze.
>It's smile faltered, dropping as it stared at Henry.
>Even with everything it knows. Everything it has heard. It had never predicted somebody to ask about...
>ACT itself.
>Not so personally.
>Sure there was "What do you do here?" "What is this place?" "What are you?">But...
A plan for me?
I...Yes.
It does.
And that plan is all I was made for.
...
He is all I was made for.
>The reflection flickered and warped, this time a face that Henry would not recognise.
>But unlike the prior reflections, and all of their mismatched features...
>This one seemed perfect.
>As if this man was a mask made for ACT's face.
...
......
>It glanced away from Henry. It's demeanor suddenly no longer welcoming and sweet, but cold and tired.
Henry.
Could I ask you a question?
>The reflection's voice was just as identical as its visage. It did not sound warped, or staticky, it was almost as if the man in the frame was standing right in front of him.
Henry tried to study the face, to ascertain whom it might be, but he could not. Instead he sat back in the chair and waved one hand in the air for permission.
Ask it, mischievous mirror. We shall see if I can answer it.
>The reflection brought both hands up, rubbing it's face and sighing.
>As it returned both of its hands beneath the frame, it looked back at Henry, misery wearing on eyes that weren't its own.
…A man without a soul is a husk, yet with a face people will still remember.
…A man without a face is a ghost, and yet the soul is unique to each, a second face.
>It spoke slowly, as if it was trying to keep it's composure.
But what would become of someone...
...
Something, with neither?
Something such as myself?No face, no soul?
I'm nothing but what I have been told.
I'm nothing but a collection of memories that have never belonged to me.
I'm nothing more than a reflection.
It's all I was ever made to be.
But…
Please...
Do you think I ever could be?
>The tears welling in it's eyes seemed genuine this time. Whether it liked that or not, it was faltering. Showing genuine emotion. It tried it's best to blink away the tears.
>The reflection flickered, losing it's poise slightly, fading and morphing between previous faces, previous people it had reflected, before it returned to that same damn face. That face it had been made to bear like a harlequin.
Psychology was not his degree. But Hidgens still understood the feelings well enough.
We all have a mask we wear, mirror. Some are more put together than others, but we are but the actions we take. The things we do.
A book is nothing without its contents, after all.
So, perhaps you could.
If things exist beyond us, beyond our perception, then could you not gain a soul? Or do we even need one? Perhaps the soul is just a concept to quell our minds from panic when thinking of the beyond, I don't know. None of us do, truly.
...
>The reflection leaned back in it's own chair, curling up pathetically like a scared millipede.
He has the power to give me one, I'm sure.
But He would never.
That would disrupt His whole plan.
I am the way I am, malleable and reflective, without form so that I can slip into the visage of whoever He pleases without flaw.
...Though you can see how that worked out.
>It's tone soured as it spoke, glumly referring to the inaccurate reflections it had given prior.
You'd think being MADE for something like this would make me PERFECT at it! But NO--
A-And what if this isn't what I want to do? What If I-- Why do I even ask, honestly. Who'd listen to something that doesn't even have a fuckin' face.
I try again. And again. And again to perfect His stup-- His show. The show He wants me to perform like some fuckin' SHOWPONY b-but no matter what I do... every. time. I've. failed.
Like sure the plan was made for me but was I made for the damn plan?! O-Or did that idea come in afterwards, just EXPECTING ME TO--
>The reflection paused abruptly in its outburst, looking back over at Henry.
...I'm...
...
......
...I'm sorry, Henry.
...I shouldn't...I shouldn't yell.
...I shouldn't have even told you...
...Any of this.
>The reflection actually... Apologised?
>It seemed to be treating Henry with a lot more kindness and dignity than anyone who had previously entered.
>Hell, it was treating him with more kindness than it could ever remember treating anybody with.
>His empathy was a nice change of pace.
>For the first time in it's life it almost felt like it was talking to a friend.
>It's mouth twitched as if it was going to say something else, but decided against it. Curling up further and hiding it's head in it's arms.
Perhaps you need practice, before you can perfect your pantomine, mirror. No one is good at anything on the first try. Why, my first play was atrocious. You should have seen how even Leighton laughed at it!
He chuckles warmly at the memory.
I... I could let you practice. Perhaps tell others, or visit more often myself. That is, if you promise not to replace me. Though perhaps you'd do a better job and no one would be the wiser.
Clapping his hands together with decision, he nods. Yes. That will work.
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
Steve can't help but well up himself. Possessing the phone is probably the closest feeling they'll both get to a hug.
Steve's voice sounds as though it's choking up too, God, you've become a mess, Henry...
And Steve's whole being wants so badly to do something to fix this.
...Well there is something. It may not be much, but perhaps it'll be better than spectating.
The power in the room flickers, then goes out entirely, like a candle blowing out. The chill in the room and the static feeling in the air seem to grow stronger.
There's a slight glow in Hidgens' periphery, as translucent blue hands cup his face. Or at least they attempt to - can't seem to make physical contact at the moment.
Steve rests his head on the backrest of the chair, his dark wispy hair floating yet draping at the same time. He sighs. Wordless, not wanting to scare Hidgens too badly.
Henry holds the phone close, though the line is dead. Not even the steady dulcet tones of a busy signal greet him. He shivers and glances around, fearing a storm.
Like the lightning might yet return for him.
Instead he turns his head achingly slowly to see the translucent blue figure of Steve.
By all that there is...
He reaches out slowly, hand shaking in the air, trembling with hope and fear and knowing. First audio hallucinations. Now I seem to have upgraded to this. To seeing you as if you are but a ghost to haunt me. I suppose I deserve that, for surviving when you all did not.
His hand tried and fails to touch Steve's hair and he chokes out another sob.
Sorry for the scare, I... I can't call you a mess when I look worse.
Steve wipes at the blood that stains his mouth, but it has crusted over by now. He sighs, and looks back to Hidgens' face.
Revealing that this isn't a hallucination, and is actually very real, stays on the tip of his tongue, but never slips. Maybe it's safer this way, safer for Hidgens, to be teetering the border between realities.
But Steve frowns when Hidgens says that he deserves this. He puts his hands on Hidgens' shoulders, Don't say that... No one deserves that, especially not you.
Steve tilts his head and brushes through Hidgens' silver hair to the best of his ability - it's like running a hand along the top of a plasma ball, as smaller loose hairs lift to meet Steve's strangely lightning-charged fingers.
But it is unfair. I'd be lying if I said it was all sunshine here.
You look as beautiful as the day I lost you, Steve, my darling. Far better than I ever did or do even now.
He can feel the static, that phantom touch that zings across his skin in a familiar way - not just because he knows who gives it but because it feels like the caress of lightning oh so long ago.
Hidgens does his best to catch Steve's hand in his. It's like trying to hold a current, something like pins and needles in his hands. Still, he keeps his limb just where it is.
Unfair? Why, it's unjust and uncertain and unequivocally wrong as well. If do anything to have you all back here, safe and sound. Going out for a game of football at five, just after work like nothing's ever changed.
But alas...
I cannot have that and neither can any of you.
A sigh escapes his lips in duet with a tear that slips down his cheek.
I've been looking for so long, trying to find what happened that night. To no avail. I've gotten more questions than answers and yet you still suffer.
Can I help, my sweet Steve? Anything at all, simply say a word and I will do everything I can for you.
Steve smiles, just a tad, at Hidgens' attempt at contact. They're trying, with what they have, whatever can be done.
Yet his smile falters as he thinks on Hidgens' words.
I... It's just... we're all falling apart, and it's like I'm just standing back and watching it all happen.
Steve floats upright and wanders about the room as he explains.
Usually it's, ah, Steve coughs into his hand, Chad... that keeps our spirits up. But he's so busy with, God, I don't even know what.
So Greg's been trying to fill in the space. But he's got so much on his plate, and almost never talks to us. He won't tell me what's going on, I'm worried about him.
The others are... Steve feels at the back of his neck, Doing fine, I suppose. That's what they tell me, at least. But it all feels so empty. Lost that spark that kept us going. Maybe that spark has been gone for a while, hah...
He grits his teeth, Everything's just so different, i-it's as if I barely know this town anymore, and that damn CCRP building-!
Steve realizes how fired up he's getting - from the brighter glow to his skin, to the more apparent echo in his voice - and hugs himself.
Sorry, sorry.
...
It feels as though I can't do anything about it. Or they won't let me.
Hidgens doesn't look afraid at the outburst like he should, like his preservation instincts are long since gone. He stands and crosses to Steve and offers out his arms as if he can embrace this spectre before him.
It's the only comfort he can offer.
I can't fix your problems, sweet Steve. Not from here. But I can listen to your woes. Tell you that even now, separated as we are, that I will stand by my boys' side.
Always and forever more.
Each word comes with a burst of mist from his lips, the cold bringing frost to the edges of the windows, permeating the room. Hidgens' hair stands up at odd angles from the static and still he does not waver.
Steve steps forward and lets Hidgens embrace him. He holds Hidgens' neck in one hand and his back in the other. If he doesn't think too hard, letting the sensations blur, Steve can imagine what the warmth feels like. Closer inspection makes Steve's scars from that night very visible.
Do you know why I came to you...?
Steve mimes trying to bury his face in the crook of Hidgens' neck. When it doesn't work, he heaves a sob. He breathes heavily, trying to get his bearings just so he can talk.
...I feel like you would know what it's like... to feel like a bystander to all of this. Helpless, out here. I'm just glad I'm not alone.
Thanks for listening to me.
After a moment, Steve snickers, which then evolves into laughter, and although it's a moment of joy, he still has a slight croak in his throat from crying,
Ah, it's usually the other way around! I haven't done Confession in who knows how long.
He holds Henry's arms and smiles, Remember when we'd all joke about wedding plans? That I'd officiate the whole thing? Oh, did we ever decide on a location? I know I suggested a beach wedding, but the idea of sand up our socks...
It feels almost real. A burst of electric feeling in his arms, across his chest, so vivid that he could be hugging a Tesla coil for all the buzz.
I understand so much what it means, Steve, I truly do.
Hidgens joins Steve in his laughter, mild and just as rough with his tears.
I'll act the confessional this time, sweet Steve. If it helps. Oh goodness, the wedding... I do remember so very well. We were figuring out how to finagle those legal loopholes so we could all be together, just as we wished.
I insisted on some grand spectacle on a stage or something, all flowers and fancy free. Leighton loved the flowers but Greg wanted a stadium.
Steve looks ahead, blankly, not wanting to say the rest of what he's thinking. It's obvious that his mind has wandered from what-ifs to what-never-shall-be's.
He pulls away and looks to the windows, glass frosting from his mere presence being here, then bites his lip.
I- I think I've overstayed my welcome. Besides, I wouldn't want you getting frostbitten. It would look shitty in the history books, and even worse on an epitaph.
Steve steps towards the phone, and, just about to leave, he turns back to look Hidgens in the eyes - or make whatever eye contact that he could with no pupils.
...Maybe you should talk to Greg. He won't talk to me, anyways, or any of the others, but there's a chance...
You'll... You know where to find him.
Steve seems to slip into the phone like a mist dissapating. The lights in the room flicker back to life, and the room is left as if nothing ever happened.
The handset of the old phone clatters as it dangles off its usual spot.
Hidgens watches Steve disappear and collapses back into his chaise, overwrought with remaining sorrow and surprise. Why, if he didn't know better he'd almost swear that was real.
But that's impossible and even he knows that.
Or does he?
The frost on the windows is real. The phone handset that swings back and forth slowly is real. The static cling in the air is real too.
Why not spectres and ghosts and another plane of existence?
And that means it wouldn't hurt to gather his strength to go out for one sole purpose: to go to the old football field around five o'clock and see if he can meet up with more of his boys...
He's just walking by. He isn't meant to stop or stare or even think about going in.
Hidgens is just out grabbing necessities that he can't get Alexa to order to his door. And he hates being outside. Hates interacting. But this thing...
It calls to him.
And so, he walks in and carefully sits down.
He's always wanted to be in theatre. Always. Forever. And for once, Henry can feel like he's on stage without fear. Or at least, without fear for now, anyways.
Once he clears his throat, he begins.
So, how does this work, exactly? Is it a... gimmick? Some seance style nonsense where another knocks below the table to fool me into thinking there are ghosts?
>His reflection fades into view, a whispy mist before its full face is revealed.
>Or... faces.
>His reflection stares back at him, a panoramic puzzle of misplaced features.
>His reflection the strangest of all those that it had reflected thus far.
>Each peers into the muse's soul,
>Greg's was tame, a normal man.
>Eleanor's split into three, just like their mind.
>But Hidgens' perpetual delirium leaves his reflection as much of a mess as he is.
>A reflection reminiscent of The Scream.
No gimmicks, no third person my dear.
I'm little more than your own beautiful reflection!
>It's voice was like his echo, although slightly warped like his face.
>It smiled warmly at him with both of its mouths. As though it was an old friend greeting him after a long drawn parting.
He balks at his own reflection momentarily, peering side to side to take it in. He mutters to himself. It's like the lightning...
Then he shakes his head and focuses on his lap rather than look whatever that is in the face. Apparently his own reflection counts as someone he'll avoid too.
I'm not stupid, you... facade.
I don't know what you are, but you have called to me anyway. How. Why. For what purpose. Not a question because I think I know but I want to hear you say it.
>The reflection sighed in Hidgens' own voice, it's face contorted into a pout.
You know, near everyone who's entered my little abode here has been so unabashedly rude... And all because my reflections are a little off-kilter! I was under the impression you might've been a little nicer to me, but alas...
...There's truly no need to be so hostile off-rip. We aren't all that different from eachother! I too enjoy musical theatre quite a lot, you know...
>It's distorted face looked away from him, covering its face theatrically as crocodile tears welled up in it's mismatched eyes.
I'm only here for those who wish to peer deeper into their soul. Past the window of the eyes... I reflect what you cannot see yourself.
You can ask me about the uncertain past... The m-mysterious future...
Or s-somebody else entirely...
>It reiterated the words it had said prior to that old workin' boy, Greg, as the echo of Hidgens' voice began to shake and blubber.
Or you can just be d-downright discourteous...!
>The reflection sobbed quietly, completely disingenuous, of course, but it had decided to take an alternate approach to the disrespect. See where this might get it.
[ooc: GIGGLES im just imagining that stan twitter cinderella meme but its ACT reflecting hidgens]
For whatever reason, the crocodile tears seem to work. Enough to have Hidgens frown and glance back up. Seeing his own distorted face blubber about is odd, yes, but standable in small doses.
I apologize, strange object. Possessed pewter. Or whatever you are.
...
...
...
Can you truly reflect that which I which to see?
Could you -
Could you tell me about my... boys? Are they alright? Happier in whatever glorious afterlife they surely deserved?
>The reflection hiccupped, sniffling and steadying itself back to composure. And by that I mean quitting the shit but that's rather informal.
...Thank you. You're the first to make an apology...
>It cleared its throat, wiping the faux tears.
Eh-Hem... Your boys. Of course, no wonder you're curious.
I assure you they're doing quite well. As well as they can be, at least.
Although you both have quite similar woes.
I actually had one of them come through here earlier today if you could believe it.
Greg, I think his name was?
Looked something like this...?
>The reflection warped and changed into that of Greg's face. Looking back at Hidgens.
>It's voice changed to suit.
He seems to miss you to death. I think they all do.
He asked me a similar question to yours, actually.
He asked me how YOU were doing.
It seems even the veil cannot separate a bond like yours.
>The reflections face flitted for less than a blink, turning sour. It seemed... Jealous.
>But just as fast as the expression came, it went. The reflection smiling sweetly at Hidgens, tilting its head.
Well,>The reflection paused for a moment, an imitation of a man lost in thought.Have you ever considered that what happened to you may not have been the work of the forces Within this world?
That maybe something far beyond this world has a plan for you?
That maybe they were getting in the way...
Heed these words, some sights are better left obscured,
But I am not here to stray you from your path.
You certainly got to the point far quicker than he did.So,
Henry Hidgens,
>It's voice began to warp, it's face now halfway between Henry's reflection and Greg's. A macabre blend of faces and features that did not belong to it.
Do you wish for me to show you the truth, just as I showed him?
>Staring into his eyes, unblinking, the reflection leaned forward. Almost as if it was making an attempt to lean out of the mirror itself.
No, if whatever it is that exists beyond my perceptions has a plan, knowing it would make it no better. To know the hour and method of my demise would more change it than I could have changed the weather on that faithful night.
He stood, chair scraping across the floor with the force of his motion.
If you can answer questions, and tell me true...
...
...
...
Then I must know with all that I have seen, all that I know...
>The reflection froze.
>It's smile faltered, dropping as it stared at Henry.
>Even with everything it knows. Everything it has heard. It had never predicted somebody to ask about...
>ACT itself.
>Not so personally.
>Sure there was "What do you do here?" "What is this place?" "What are you?">But...
A plan for me?
I...Yes.
It does.
And that plan is all I was made for.
...
He is all I was made for.
>The reflection flickered and warped, this time a face that Henry would not recognise.
>But unlike the prior reflections, and all of their mismatched features...
>This one seemed perfect.
>As if this man was a mask made for ACT's face.
...
......
>It glanced away from Henry. It's demeanor suddenly no longer welcoming and sweet, but cold and tired.
Henry.
Could I ask you a question?
>The reflection's voice was just as identical as its visage. It did not sound warped, or staticky, it was almost as if the man in the frame was standing right in front of him.
Henry tried to study the face, to ascertain whom it might be, but he could not. Instead he sat back in the chair and waved one hand in the air for permission.
Ask it, mischievous mirror. We shall see if I can answer it.
>The reflection brought both hands up, rubbing it's face and sighing.
>As it returned both of its hands beneath the frame, it looked back at Henry, misery wearing on eyes that weren't its own.
…A man without a soul is a husk, yet with a face people will still remember.
…A man without a face is a ghost, and yet the soul is unique to each, a second face.
>It spoke slowly, as if it was trying to keep it's composure.
But what would become of someone...
...
Something, with neither?
Something such as myself?No face, no soul?
I'm nothing but what I have been told.
I'm nothing but a collection of memories that have never belonged to me.
I'm nothing more than a reflection.
It's all I was ever made to be.
But…
Please...
Do you think I ever could be?
>The tears welling in it's eyes seemed genuine this time. Whether it liked that or not, it was faltering. Showing genuine emotion. It tried it's best to blink away the tears.
>The reflection flickered, losing it's poise slightly, fading and morphing between previous faces, previous people it had reflected, before it returned to that same damn face. That face it had been made to bear like a harlequin.
Psychology was not his degree. But Hidgens still understood the feelings well enough.
We all have a mask we wear, mirror. Some are more put together than others, but we are but the actions we take. The things we do.
A book is nothing without its contents, after all.
So, perhaps you could.
If things exist beyond us, beyond our perception, then could you not gain a soul? Or do we even need one? Perhaps the soul is just a concept to quell our minds from panic when thinking of the beyond, I don't know. None of us do, truly.
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
Steve can't help but well up himself. Possessing the phone is probably the closest feeling they'll both get to a hug.
Steve's voice sounds as though it's choking up too, God, you've become a mess, Henry...
And Steve's whole being wants so badly to do something to fix this.
...Well there is something. It may not be much, but perhaps it'll be better than spectating.
The power in the room flickers, then goes out entirely, like a candle blowing out. The chill in the room and the static feeling in the air seem to grow stronger.
There's a slight glow in Hidgens' periphery, as translucent blue hands cup his face. Or at least they attempt to - can't seem to make physical contact at the moment.
Steve rests his head on the backrest of the chair, his dark wispy hair floating yet draping at the same time. He sighs. Wordless, not wanting to scare Hidgens too badly.
Henry holds the phone close, though the line is dead. Not even the steady dulcet tones of a busy signal greet him. He shivers and glances around, fearing a storm.
Like the lightning might yet return for him.
Instead he turns his head achingly slowly to see the translucent blue figure of Steve.
By all that there is...
He reaches out slowly, hand shaking in the air, trembling with hope and fear and knowing. First audio hallucinations. Now I seem to have upgraded to this. To seeing you as if you are but a ghost to haunt me. I suppose I deserve that, for surviving when you all did not.
His hand tried and fails to touch Steve's hair and he chokes out another sob.
Sorry for the scare, I... I can't call you a mess when I look worse.
Steve wipes at the blood that stains his mouth, but it has crusted over by now. He sighs, and looks back to Hidgens' face.
Revealing that this isn't a hallucination, and is actually very real, stays on the tip of his tongue, but never slips. Maybe it's safer this way, safer for Hidgens, to be teetering the border between realities.
But Steve frowns when Hidgens says that he deserves this. He puts his hands on Hidgens' shoulders, Don't say that... No one deserves that, especially not you.
Steve tilts his head and brushes through Hidgens' silver hair to the best of his ability - it's like running a hand along the top of a plasma ball, as smaller loose hairs lift to meet Steve's strangely lightning-charged fingers.
But it is unfair. I'd be lying if I said it was all sunshine here.
You look as beautiful as the day I lost you, Steve, my darling. Far better than I ever did or do even now.
He can feel the static, that phantom touch that zings across his skin in a familiar way - not just because he knows who gives it but because it feels like the caress of lightning oh so long ago.
Hidgens does his best to catch Steve's hand in his. It's like trying to hold a current, something like pins and needles in his hands. Still, he keeps his limb just where it is.
Unfair? Why, it's unjust and uncertain and unequivocally wrong as well. If do anything to have you all back here, safe and sound. Going out for a game of football at five, just after work like nothing's ever changed.
But alas...
I cannot have that and neither can any of you.
A sigh escapes his lips in duet with a tear that slips down his cheek.
I've been looking for so long, trying to find what happened that night. To no avail. I've gotten more questions than answers and yet you still suffer.
Can I help, my sweet Steve? Anything at all, simply say a word and I will do everything I can for you.
Steve smiles, just a tad, at Hidgens' attempt at contact. They're trying, with what they have, whatever can be done.
Yet his smile falters as he thinks on Hidgens' words.
I... It's just... we're all falling apart, and it's like I'm just standing back and watching it all happen.
Steve floats upright and wanders about the room as he explains.
Usually it's, ah, Steve coughs into his hand, Chad... that keeps our spirits up. But he's so busy with, God, I don't even know what.
So Greg's been trying to fill in the space. But he's got so much on his plate, and almost never talks to us. He won't tell me what's going on, I'm worried about him.
The others are... Steve feels at the back of his neck, Doing fine, I suppose. That's what they tell me, at least. But it all feels so empty. Lost that spark that kept us going. Maybe that spark has been gone for a while, hah...
He grits his teeth, Everything's just so different, i-it's as if I barely know this town anymore, and that damn CCRP building-!
Steve realizes how fired up he's getting - from the brighter glow to his skin, to the more apparent echo in his voice - and hugs himself.
Sorry, sorry.
...
It feels as though I can't do anything about it. Or they won't let me.
Hidgens doesn't look afraid at the outburst like he should, like his preservation instincts are long since gone. He stands and crosses to Steve and offers out his arms as if he can embrace this spectre before him.
It's the only comfort he can offer.
I can't fix your problems, sweet Steve. Not from here. But I can listen to your woes. Tell you that even now, separated as we are, that I will stand by my boys' side.
Always and forever more.
Each word comes with a burst of mist from his lips, the cold bringing frost to the edges of the windows, permeating the room. Hidgens' hair stands up at odd angles from the static and still he does not waver.
Steve steps forward and lets Hidgens embrace him. He holds Hidgens' neck in one hand and his back in the other. If he doesn't think too hard, letting the sensations blur, Steve can imagine what the warmth feels like. Closer inspection makes Steve's scars from that night very visible.
Do you know why I came to you...?
Steve mimes trying to bury his face in the crook of Hidgens' neck. When it doesn't work, he heaves a sob. He breathes heavily, trying to get his bearings just so he can talk.
...I feel like you would know what it's like... to feel like a bystander to all of this. Helpless, out here. I'm just glad I'm not alone.
Thanks for listening to me.
After a moment, Steve snickers, which then evolves into laughter, and although it's a moment of joy, he still has a slight croak in his throat from crying,
Ah, it's usually the other way around! I haven't done Confession in who knows how long.
He holds Henry's arms and smiles, Remember when we'd all joke about wedding plans? That I'd officiate the whole thing? Oh, did we ever decide on a location? I know I suggested a beach wedding, but the idea of sand up our socks...
It feels almost real. A burst of electric feeling in his arms, across his chest, so vivid that he could be hugging a Tesla coil for all the buzz.
I understand so much what it means, Steve, I truly do.
Hidgens joins Steve in his laughter, mild and just as rough with his tears.
I'll act the confessional this time, sweet Steve. If it helps. Oh goodness, the wedding... I do remember so very well. We were figuring out how to finagle those legal loopholes so we could all be together, just as we wished.
I insisted on some grand spectacle on a stage or something, all flowers and fancy free. Leighton loved the flowers but Greg wanted a stadium.
He's just walking by. He isn't meant to stop or stare or even think about going in.
Hidgens is just out grabbing necessities that he can't get Alexa to order to his door. And he hates being outside. Hates interacting. But this thing...
It calls to him.
And so, he walks in and carefully sits down.
He's always wanted to be in theatre. Always. Forever. And for once, Henry can feel like he's on stage without fear. Or at least, without fear for now, anyways.
Once he clears his throat, he begins.
So, how does this work, exactly? Is it a... gimmick? Some seance style nonsense where another knocks below the table to fool me into thinking there are ghosts?
>His reflection fades into view, a whispy mist before its full face is revealed.
>Or... faces.
>His reflection stares back at him, a panoramic puzzle of misplaced features.
>His reflection the strangest of all those that it had reflected thus far.
>Each peers into the muse's soul,
>Greg's was tame, a normal man.
>Eleanor's split into three, just like their mind.
>But Hidgens' perpetual delirium leaves his reflection as much of a mess as he is.
>A reflection reminiscent of The Scream.
No gimmicks, no third person my dear.
I'm little more than your own beautiful reflection!
>It's voice was like his echo, although slightly warped like his face.
>It smiled warmly at him with both of its mouths. As though it was an old friend greeting him after a long drawn parting.
He balks at his own reflection momentarily, peering side to side to take it in. He mutters to himself. It's like the lightning...
Then he shakes his head and focuses on his lap rather than look whatever that is in the face. Apparently his own reflection counts as someone he'll avoid too.
I'm not stupid, you... facade.
I don't know what you are, but you have called to me anyway. How. Why. For what purpose. Not a question because I think I know but I want to hear you say it.
>The reflection sighed in Hidgens' own voice, it's face contorted into a pout.
You know, near everyone who's entered my little abode here has been so unabashedly rude... And all because my reflections are a little off-kilter! I was under the impression you might've been a little nicer to me, but alas...
...There's truly no need to be so hostile off-rip. We aren't all that different from eachother! I too enjoy musical theatre quite a lot, you know...
>It's distorted face looked away from him, covering its face theatrically as crocodile tears welled up in it's mismatched eyes.
I'm only here for those who wish to peer deeper into their soul. Past the window of the eyes... I reflect what you cannot see yourself.
You can ask me about the uncertain past... The m-mysterious future...
Or s-somebody else entirely...
>It reiterated the words it had said prior to that old workin' boy, Greg, as the echo of Hidgens' voice began to shake and blubber.
Or you can just be d-downright discourteous...!
>The reflection sobbed quietly, completely disingenuous, of course, but it had decided to take an alternate approach to the disrespect. See where this might get it.
[ooc: GIGGLES im just imagining that stan twitter cinderella meme but its ACT reflecting hidgens]
For whatever reason, the crocodile tears seem to work. Enough to have Hidgens frown and glance back up. Seeing his own distorted face blubber about is odd, yes, but standable in small doses.
I apologize, strange object. Possessed pewter. Or whatever you are.
...
...
...
Can you truly reflect that which I which to see?
Could you -
Could you tell me about my... boys? Are they alright? Happier in whatever glorious afterlife they surely deserved?
>The reflection hiccupped, sniffling and steadying itself back to composure. And by that I mean quitting the shit but that's rather informal.
...Thank you. You're the first to make an apology...
>It cleared its throat, wiping the faux tears.
Eh-Hem... Your boys. Of course, no wonder you're curious.
I assure you they're doing quite well. As well as they can be, at least.
Although you both have quite similar woes.
I actually had one of them come through here earlier today if you could believe it.
Greg, I think his name was?
Looked something like this...?
>The reflection warped and changed into that of Greg's face. Looking back at Hidgens.
>It's voice changed to suit.
He seems to miss you to death. I think they all do.
He asked me a similar question to yours, actually.
He asked me how YOU were doing.
It seems even the veil cannot separate a bond like yours.
>The reflections face flitted for less than a blink, turning sour. It seemed... Jealous.
>But just as fast as the expression came, it went. The reflection smiling sweetly at Hidgens, tilting its head.
Well,>The reflection paused for a moment, an imitation of a man lost in thought.Have you ever considered that what happened to you may not have been the work of the forces Within this world?
That maybe something far beyond this world has a plan for you?
That maybe they were getting in the way...
Heed these words, some sights are better left obscured,
But I am not here to stray you from your path.
You certainly got to the point far quicker than he did.So,
Henry Hidgens,
>It's voice began to warp, it's face now halfway between Henry's reflection and Greg's. A macabre blend of faces and features that did not belong to it.
Do you wish for me to show you the truth, just as I showed him?
>Staring into his eyes, unblinking, the reflection leaned forward. Almost as if it was making an attempt to lean out of the mirror itself.
No, if whatever it is that exists beyond my perceptions has a plan, knowing it would make it no better. To know the hour and method of my demise would more change it than I could have changed the weather on that faithful night.
He stood, chair scraping across the floor with the force of his motion.
If you can answer questions, and tell me true...
...
...
...
Then I must know with all that I have seen, all that I know...
>The reflection froze.
>It's smile faltered, dropping as it stared at Henry.
>Even with everything it knows. Everything it has heard. It had never predicted somebody to ask about...
>ACT itself.
>Not so personally.
>Sure there was "What do you do here?" "What is this place?" "What are you?">But...
A plan for me?
I...Yes.
It does.
And that plan is all I was made for.
...
He is all I was made for.
>The reflection flickered and warped, this time a face that Henry would not recognise.
>But unlike the prior reflections, and all of their mismatched features...
>This one seemed perfect.
>As if this man was a mask made for ACT's face.
...
......
>It glanced away from Henry. It's demeanor suddenly no longer welcoming and sweet, but cold and tired.
Henry.
Could I ask you a question?
>The reflection's voice was just as identical as its visage. It did not sound warped, or staticky, it was almost as if the man in the frame was standing right in front of him.
Henry tried to study the face, to ascertain whom it might be, but he could not. Instead he sat back in the chair and waved one hand in the air for permission.
Ask it, mischievous mirror. We shall see if I can answer it.
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
Steve can't help but well up himself. Possessing the phone is probably the closest feeling they'll both get to a hug.
Steve's voice sounds as though it's choking up too, God, you've become a mess, Henry...
And Steve's whole being wants so badly to do something to fix this.
...Well there is something. It may not be much, but perhaps it'll be better than spectating.
The power in the room flickers, then goes out entirely, like a candle blowing out. The chill in the room and the static feeling in the air seem to grow stronger.
There's a slight glow in Hidgens' periphery, as translucent blue hands cup his face. Or at least they attempt to - can't seem to make physical contact at the moment.
Steve rests his head on the backrest of the chair, his dark wispy hair floating yet draping at the same time. He sighs. Wordless, not wanting to scare Hidgens too badly.
Henry holds the phone close, though the line is dead. Not even the steady dulcet tones of a busy signal greet him. He shivers and glances around, fearing a storm.
Like the lightning might yet return for him.
Instead he turns his head achingly slowly to see the translucent blue figure of Steve.
By all that there is...
He reaches out slowly, hand shaking in the air, trembling with hope and fear and knowing. First audio hallucinations. Now I seem to have upgraded to this. To seeing you as if you are but a ghost to haunt me. I suppose I deserve that, for surviving when you all did not.
His hand tried and fails to touch Steve's hair and he chokes out another sob.
Sorry for the scare, I... I can't call you a mess when I look worse.
Steve wipes at the blood that stains his mouth, but it has crusted over by now. He sighs, and looks back to Hidgens' face.
Revealing that this isn't a hallucination, and is actually very real, stays on the tip of his tongue, but never slips. Maybe it's safer this way, safer for Hidgens, to be teetering the border between realities.
But Steve frowns when Hidgens says that he deserves this. He puts his hands on Hidgens' shoulders, Don't say that... No one deserves that, especially not you.
Steve tilts his head and brushes through Hidgens' silver hair to the best of his ability - it's like running a hand along the top of a plasma ball, as smaller loose hairs lift to meet Steve's strangely lightning-charged fingers.
But it is unfair. I'd be lying if I said it was all sunshine here.
You look as beautiful as the day I lost you, Steve, my darling. Far better than I ever did or do even now.
He can feel the static, that phantom touch that zings across his skin in a familiar way - not just because he knows who gives it but because it feels like the caress of lightning oh so long ago.
Hidgens does his best to catch Steve's hand in his. It's like trying to hold a current, something like pins and needles in his hands. Still, he keeps his limb just where it is.
Unfair? Why, it's unjust and uncertain and unequivocally wrong as well. If do anything to have you all back here, safe and sound. Going out for a game of football at five, just after work like nothing's ever changed.
But alas...
I cannot have that and neither can any of you.
A sigh escapes his lips in duet with a tear that slips down his cheek.
I've been looking for so long, trying to find what happened that night. To no avail. I've gotten more questions than answers and yet you still suffer.
Can I help, my sweet Steve? Anything at all, simply say a word and I will do everything I can for you.
Steve smiles, just a tad, at Hidgens' attempt at contact. They're trying, with what they have, whatever can be done.
Yet his smile falters as he thinks on Hidgens' words.
I... It's just... we're all falling apart, and it's like I'm just standing back and watching it all happen.
Steve floats upright and wanders about the room as he explains.
Usually it's, ah, Steve coughs into his hand, Chad... that keeps our spirits up. But he's so busy with, God, I don't even know what.
So Greg's been trying to fill in the space. But he's got so much on his plate, and almost never talks to us. He won't tell me what's going on, I'm worried about him.
The others are... Steve feels at the back of his neck, Doing fine, I suppose. That's what they tell me, at least. But it all feels so empty. Lost that spark that kept us going. Maybe that spark has been gone for a while, hah...
He grits his teeth, Everything's just so different, i-it's as if I barely know this town anymore, and that damn CCRP building-!
Steve realizes how fired up he's getting - from the brighter glow to his skin, to the more apparent echo in his voice - and hugs himself.
Sorry, sorry.
...
It feels as though I can't do anything about it. Or they won't let me.
Hidgens doesn't look afraid at the outburst like he should, like his preservation instincts are long since gone. He stands and crosses to Steve and offers out his arms as if he can embrace this spectre before him.
It's the only comfort he can offer.
I can't fix your problems, sweet Steve. Not from here. But I can listen to your woes. Tell you that even now, separated as we are, that I will stand by my boys' side.
Always and forever more.
Each word comes with a burst of mist from his lips, the cold bringing frost to the edges of the windows, permeating the room. Hidgens' hair stands up at odd angles from the static and still he does not waver.
He's just walking by. He isn't meant to stop or stare or even think about going in.
Hidgens is just out grabbing necessities that he can't get Alexa to order to his door. And he hates being outside. Hates interacting. But this thing...
It calls to him.
And so, he walks in and carefully sits down.
He's always wanted to be in theatre. Always. Forever. And for once, Henry can feel like he's on stage without fear. Or at least, without fear for now, anyways.
Once he clears his throat, he begins.
So, how does this work, exactly? Is it a... gimmick? Some seance style nonsense where another knocks below the table to fool me into thinking there are ghosts?
>His reflection fades into view, a whispy mist before its full face is revealed.
>Or... faces.
>His reflection stares back at him, a panoramic puzzle of misplaced features.
>His reflection the strangest of all those that it had reflected thus far.
>Each peers into the muse's soul,
>Greg's was tame, a normal man.
>Eleanor's split into three, just like their mind.
>But Hidgens' perpetual delirium leaves his reflection as much of a mess as he is.
>A reflection reminiscent of The Scream.
No gimmicks, no third person my dear.
I'm little more than your own beautiful reflection!
>It's voice was like his echo, although slightly warped like his face.
>It smiled warmly at him with both of its mouths. As though it was an old friend greeting him after a long drawn parting.
He balks at his own reflection momentarily, peering side to side to take it in. He mutters to himself. It's like the lightning...
Then he shakes his head and focuses on his lap rather than look whatever that is in the face. Apparently his own reflection counts as someone he'll avoid too.
I'm not stupid, you... facade.
I don't know what you are, but you have called to me anyway. How. Why. For what purpose. Not a question because I think I know but I want to hear you say it.
>The reflection sighed in Hidgens' own voice, it's face contorted into a pout.
You know, near everyone who's entered my little abode here has been so unabashedly rude... And all because my reflections are a little off-kilter! I was under the impression you might've been a little nicer to me, but alas...
...There's truly no need to be so hostile off-rip. We aren't all that different from eachother! I too enjoy musical theatre quite a lot, you know...
>It's distorted face looked away from him, covering its face theatrically as crocodile tears welled up in it's mismatched eyes.
I'm only here for those who wish to peer deeper into their soul. Past the window of the eyes... I reflect what you cannot see yourself.
You can ask me about the uncertain past... The m-mysterious future...
Or s-somebody else entirely...
>It reiterated the words it had said prior to that old workin' boy, Greg, as the echo of Hidgens' voice began to shake and blubber.
Or you can just be d-downright discourteous...!
>The reflection sobbed quietly, completely disingenuous, of course, but it had decided to take an alternate approach to the disrespect. See where this might get it.
[ooc: GIGGLES im just imagining that stan twitter cinderella meme but its ACT reflecting hidgens]
For whatever reason, the crocodile tears seem to work. Enough to have Hidgens frown and glance back up. Seeing his own distorted face blubber about is odd, yes, but standable in small doses.
I apologize, strange object. Possessed pewter. Or whatever you are.
...
...
...
Can you truly reflect that which I which to see?
Could you -
Could you tell me about my... boys? Are they alright? Happier in whatever glorious afterlife they surely deserved?
>The reflection hiccupped, sniffling and steadying itself back to composure. And by that I mean quitting the shit but that's rather informal.
...Thank you. You're the first to make an apology...
>It cleared its throat, wiping the faux tears.
Eh-Hem... Your boys. Of course, no wonder you're curious.
I assure you they're doing quite well. As well as they can be, at least.
Although you both have quite similar woes.
I actually had one of them come through here earlier today if you could believe it.
Greg, I think his name was?
Looked something like this...?
>The reflection warped and changed into that of Greg's face. Looking back at Hidgens.
>It's voice changed to suit.
He seems to miss you to death. I think they all do.
He asked me a similar question to yours, actually.
He asked me how YOU were doing.
It seems even the veil cannot separate a bond like yours.
>The reflections face flitted for less than a blink, turning sour. It seemed... Jealous.
>But just as fast as the expression came, it went. The reflection smiling sweetly at Hidgens, tilting its head.
Well,>The reflection paused for a moment, an imitation of a man lost in thought.Have you ever considered that what happened to you may not have been the work of the forces Within this world?
That maybe something far beyond this world has a plan for you?
That maybe they were getting in the way...
Heed these words, some sights are better left obscured,
But I am not here to stray you from your path.
You certainly got to the point far quicker than he did.So,
Henry Hidgens,
>It's voice began to warp, it's face now halfway between Henry's reflection and Greg's. A macabre blend of faces and features that did not belong to it.
Do you wish for me to show you the truth, just as I showed him?
>Staring into his eyes, unblinking, the reflection leaned forward. Almost as if it was making an attempt to lean out of the mirror itself.
No, if whatever it is that exists beyond my perceptions has a plan, knowing it would make it no better. To know the hour and method of my demise would more change it than I could have changed the weather on that faithful night.
He stood, chair scraping across the floor with the force of his motion.
If you can answer questions, and tell me true...
...
...
...
Then I must know with all that I have seen, all that I know...
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
Steve can't help but well up himself. Possessing the phone is probably the closest feeling they'll both get to a hug.
Steve's voice sounds as though it's choking up too, God, you've become a mess, Henry...
And Steve's whole being wants so badly to do something to fix this.
...Well there is something. It may not be much, but perhaps it'll be better than spectating.
The power in the room flickers, then goes out entirely, like a candle blowing out. The chill in the room and the static feeling in the air seem to grow stronger.
There's a slight glow in Hidgens' periphery, as translucent blue hands cup his face. Or at least they attempt to - can't seem to make physical contact at the moment.
Steve rests his head on the backrest of the chair, his dark wispy hair floating yet draping at the same time. He sighs. Wordless, not wanting to scare Hidgens too badly.
Henry holds the phone close, though the line is dead. Not even the steady dulcet tones of a busy signal greet him. He shivers and glances around, fearing a storm.
Like the lightning might yet return for him.
Instead he turns his head achingly slowly to see the translucent blue figure of Steve.
By all that there is...
He reaches out slowly, hand shaking in the air, trembling with hope and fear and knowing. First audio hallucinations. Now I seem to have upgraded to this. To seeing you as if you are but a ghost to haunt me. I suppose I deserve that, for surviving when you all did not.
His hand tried and fails to touch Steve's hair and he chokes out another sob.
Sorry for the scare, I... I can't call you a mess when I look worse.
Steve wipes at the blood that stains his mouth, but it has crusted over by now. He sighs, and looks back to Hidgens' face.
Revealing that this isn't a hallucination, and is actually very real, stays on the tip of his tongue, but never slips. Maybe it's safer this way, safer for Hidgens, to be teetering the border between realities.
But Steve frowns when Hidgens says that he deserves this. He puts his hands on Hidgens' shoulders, Don't say that... No one deserves that, especially not you.
Steve tilts his head and brushes through Hidgens' silver hair to the best of his ability - it's like running a hand along the top of a plasma ball, as smaller loose hairs lift to meet Steve's strangely lightning-charged fingers.
But it is unfair. I'd be lying if I said it was all sunshine here.
You look as beautiful as the day I lost you, Steve, my darling. Far better than I ever did or do even now.
He can feel the static, that phantom touch that zings across his skin in a familiar way - not just because he knows who gives it but because it feels like the caress of lightning oh so long ago.
Hidgens does his best to catch Steve's hand in his. It's like trying to hold a current, something like pins and needles in his hands. Still, he keeps his limb just where it is.
Unfair? Why, it's unjust and uncertain and unequivocally wrong as well. I'd do anything to have you all back here, safe and sound. Going out for a game of football at five, just after work like nothing's ever changed.
But alas...
I cannot have that and neither can any of you.
A sigh escapes his lips in duet with a tear that slips down his cheek.
I've been looking for so long, trying to find what happened that night. To no avail. I've gotten more questions than answers and yet you still suffer.
Can I help, my sweet Steve? Anything at all, simply say a word and I will do everything I can for you.
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
Steve can't help but well up himself. Possessing the phone is probably the closest feeling they'll both get to a hug.
Steve's voice sounds as though it's choking up too, God, you've become a mess, Henry...
And Steve's whole being wants so badly to do something to fix this.
...Well there is something. It may not be much, but perhaps it'll be better than spectating.
The power in the room flickers, then goes out entirely, like a candle blowing out. The chill in the room and the static feeling in the air seem to grow stronger.
There's a slight glow in Hidgens' periphery, as translucent blue hands cup his face. Or at least they attempt to - can't seem to make physical contact at the moment.
Steve rests his head on the backrest of the chair, his dark wispy hair floating yet draping at the same time. He sighs. Wordless, not wanting to scare Hidgens too badly.
Henry holds the phone close, though the line is dead. Not even the steady dulcet tones of a busy signal greet him. He shivers and glances around, fearing a storm.
Like the lightning might yet return for him.
Instead he turns his head achingly slowly to see the translucent blue figure of Steve.
By all that there is...
He reaches out slowly, hand shaking in the air, trembling with hope and fear and knowing. First audio hallucinations. Now I seem to have upgraded to this. To seeing you as if you are but a ghost to haunt me. I suppose I deserve that, for surviving when you all did not.
His hand tried and fails to touch Steve's hair and he chokes out another sob.
He's just walking by. He isn't meant to stop or stare or even think about going in.
Hidgens is just out grabbing necessities that he can't get Alexa to order to his door. And he hates being outside. Hates interacting. But this thing...
It calls to him.
And so, he walks in and carefully sits down.
He's always wanted to be in theatre. Always. Forever. And for once, Henry can feel like he's on stage without fear. Or at least, without fear for now, anyways.
Once he clears his throat, he begins.
So, how does this work, exactly? Is it a... gimmick? Some seance style nonsense where another knocks below the table to fool me into thinking there are ghosts?
>His reflection fades into view, a whispy mist before its full face is revealed.
>Or... faces.
>His reflection stares back at him, a panoramic puzzle of misplaced features.
>His reflection the strangest of all those that it had reflected thus far.
>Each peers into the muse's soul,
>Greg's was tame, a normal man.
>Eleanor's split into three, just like their mind.
>But Hidgens' perpetual delirium leaves his reflection as much of a mess as he is.
>A reflection reminiscent of The Scream.
No gimmicks, no third person my dear.
I'm little more than your own beautiful reflection!
>It's voice was like his echo, although slightly warped like his face.
>It smiled warmly at him with both of its mouths. As though it was an old friend greeting him after a long drawn parting.
He balks at his own reflection momentarily, peering side to side to take it in. He mutters to himself. It's like the lightning...
Then he shakes his head and focuses on his lap rather than look whatever that is in the face. Apparently his own reflection counts as someone he'll avoid too.
I'm not stupid, you... facade.
I don't know what you are, but you have called to me anyway. How. Why. For what purpose. Not a question because I think I know but I want to hear you say it.
>The reflection sighed in Hidgens' own voice, it's face contorted into a pout.
You know, near everyone who's entered my little abode here has been so unabashedly rude... And all because my reflections are a little off-kilter! I was under the impression you might've been a little nicer to me, but alas...
...There's truly no need to be so hostile off-rip. We aren't all that different from eachother! I too enjoy musical theatre quite a lot, you know...
>It's distorted face looked away from him, covering its face theatrically as crocodile tears welled up in it's mismatched eyes.
I'm only here for those who wish to peer deeper into their soul. Past the window of the eyes... I reflect what you cannot see yourself.
You can ask me about the uncertain past... The m-mysterious future...
Or s-somebody else entirely...
>It reiterated the words it had said prior to that old workin' boy, Greg, as the echo of Hidgens' voice began to shake and blubber.
Or you can just be d-downright discourteous...!
>The reflection sobbed quietly, completely disingenuous, of course, but it had decided to take an alternate approach to the disrespect. See where this might get it.
[ooc: GIGGLES im just imagining that stan twitter cinderella meme but its ACT reflecting hidgens]
For whatever reason, the crocodile tears seem to work. Enough to have Hidgens frown and glance back up. Seeing his own distorted face blubber about is odd, yes, but standable in small doses.
I apologize, strange object. Possessed pewter. Or whatever you are.
...
...
...
Can you truly reflect that which I which to see?
Could you -
Could you tell me about my... boys? Are they alright? Happier in whatever glorious afterlife they surely deserved?
>The reflection hiccupped, sniffling and steadying itself back to composure. And by that I mean quitting the shit but that's rather informal.
...Thank you. You're the first to make an apology...
>It cleared its throat, wiping the faux tears.
Eh-Hem... Your boys. Of course, no wonder you're curious.
I assure you they're doing quite well. As well as they can be, at least.
Although you both have quite similar woes.
I actually had one of them come through here earlier today if you could believe it.
Greg, I think his name was?
Looked something like this...?
>The reflection warped and changed into that of Greg's face. Looking back at Hidgens.
>It's voice changed to suit.
He seems to miss you to death. I think they all do.
He asked me a similar question to yours, actually.
He asked me how YOU were doing.
It seems even the veil cannot separate a bond like yours.
>The reflections face flitted for less than a blink, turning sour. It seemed... Jealous.
>But just as fast as the expression came, it went. The reflection smiling sweetly at Hidgens, tilting its head.
He nearly falls out of his chair. A frantic fumbling of limbs that will leave at least two new bruises on his knee and shin both as he rights himself and stares at the phone in surprise.
It's a chunky, old phone with a tightly curled cord, yellowed with age, dusty with disuse.
No one calls him.
Hi. This is Professor Henry Hidgens here! I'm not able to answer the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep. - (there is a long pause here) - and if you're selling anything I've had enough business!
The answering machine clicks on. Henry tries to push his hair down but the static in the air refuses to subside. His breath catches and comes out misty before him. Like the temperature has suddenly and inexplicably dropped...
Normally, Hidgens would let the machine take it. Question whoever it was and their sanity for not knowing how an answering machine works of all things. But not today.
Not with that voice.
It is one he knows.
Hidgens has never quite moved so fast to answer the phone before. A straight up scramble that further bruises his limbs. It doesn't matter. He MUST answer that phone.
Steve? Steve is that truly you?
He's breathless, panting with exertion and desperation.
There's the sound of something clattering on the other end of the phone, or more like the sound of completely fumbling the phone and then hastily picking it back up.
His lungs catch in surprise and elation. And another, third thing.
Grief.
Strong enough to turn any words into a half choked sob. He knows this isn't real. It's likely another one of his blasted hallucinations, the kind he's gotten ever since that fateful lightning strike that took all his boys from him.
... Yes. Yes, it has Steve.
He will indulge in this. For as long as he can. Even if it hurts.
It's good to hear your voice. Still awkward as ever on the phone, aren't you? he teases. Hidgens sits in his chair and holds the phone close to his ear, the cord wrapped up in his arms like he wishes he could do to the person he speaks to.
Oh you know me, Steve gives a halfhearted chuckle at Hidgens' quips, I... I work better with scripted calls.
Steve simply basks in Hidgens' company, the presence of familiarity. Oh, what he would give to sit in a fond embrace once more. Steve knows such a dream is unattainable, not now, not with these... Circumstances, so to speak.
His voice is soft, and a bit stilted, but an effort to sound warm (despite the chill Steve leaves in the air) is made,
But I... I shouldn't be talking business. Where are my manners... How have you been?
You always did, he agrees with a sad smile. Hidgens knuckles away a stray tear and answers Steve. Oh, you know me. I've... I've been...
Hidgens swallows audibly. I've been awful, to tell the truth. I can't lie to you and tell you I'm fine after everything that happened. The world knows I miss you all so damned much it hurts!
Why, I can't hardly leave my house. I work, I avoid people like a plague, and I hope that I can find out what truly happened on that faithful night. Lightning doesn't just do that. It can't. But no matter what I find, it won't...
His voice breaks.
It won't replace you boys for me.
Curling around the phone, knees to his chest in the chair, Hidgens cries in silent, hitching sobs that rack his frame.
