A Head's Up

Jack was not superstitous. And she had always thought that Divination was a hack subject, and Seers were hacks, and the whole thing was hack...-y. But with the onslaught of the approaching new year, she felt a chill in her bones. So much unknown was on its way. And she felt, somewhere deep inside of herself, that no good was afoot, as it usually was. Honestly, she was getting pretty sick of that No Good.

She had heard about The Source, but had never gone inside. She heard about the guy, Nemo something, and apparently he was a character. She supposed that there was not anything technically at stake by her going in. Somehow, she felt it looked weak if she went in for a reading, or desperate. She was not either, and she did not need help.

But she would like a heads up.

She slowed as she walked closer to the place after she had left the Three Broomsticks for a walk and some air. She had some money in her pocket and was expected nowhere. She glanced around and found that the street was empty. No risk involved, either. She reached up and brushed her hair out of her face and worked her way inside.

The place was intersting, at least. Somewhere worth a visit. She glanced around and moved inside. No one seemed to be here. Her mouth twisted and she walked over to examine some hanging scarves, turning her head. At least she had something to look at.

He’d lost himself in a bottle – a bottle which fascinated him with its richly-tinted glass as it gleamed in what was perhaps the only sunlight that had succeeded in crossing the tent’s makeshift threshold. Dust flittered about his hand as he held the bottle aloft, turning it slowly in that luminous beam of light, examining it in all its magnificence. It would have excited him all the more, had it continued something more to drink. As would have the assortment of several other, variously colored bottles that lay scattered about him across the floor in his privet portion of The Source.

He parted his upturned lips, and shook the empty bottle in his grip in an attempt to free anything that may have been left behind. But his efforts were to no avail – though he was not particularly disappointed, due to his present state. Nemo was utterly intoxicated: his head lolled upon a lethargic neck as he hummed to himself, and he further reclined, leaning his exposed back against whatever solidity it first encountered. He was undeniably happy.

“Savior?” Nemo called out with an unprecedented giggle, “Why is The Savior here?” he proceeded to ask himself aloud. Immediately, he outstretched his arms and groped aimlessly at the air in an attempt to pull himself upward, so to properly greet the familiar redhead - whose presence Nemo had recognized with ease, even in his poor state. She was hidden from his view by the long sections of cloth that hung to-and-fro from the tent’s ceiling; a truth which seemed to frustrate him remarkably, due to his inability to confirm that he’d been correct in his identification of the lass. He lifted his head, only to collapse against the throw pillows once more. “Ooff,” he laughed giddily, “W-here’d you g-o?”

A familiar voice reached Jack's ears and she immediately let forth a burst of laughter- oh, how her life loved to throw these coincidences in her face. "How is it that I am destined to keep running into you? I would like a break. Geez!" She turned slowly on the spot, having only heard her drunken acquaintance's voice, but not his actual physical person.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Where are you?" She suddenly saw him prop up his head a few feet awy and she walked forward until she stood at his sprawled out feet. "Oh, there you are." An empty bottle informed Jack exactly why she had not recieved a proper, business like welcome. She turned her head and looked at him upside down. "Charmed as usual."

His head fell back and she took a step back, a cloth obstructing him from view. She pushed it aside and stood over him. "You know- I came here on business. Mind gettin' up and pretedning to be sober enough to prove to me you are not a quack, huh?" She put out her hands to him so as to help him up. She gave him a grin.

As his wild eyes met with the those of his companion, drinking partner, fellow Ministry slave, prankster extraordinary, socially inept ginger - Nemo exploded in a fit of giggles. He rolled slowly as he was overcome by laughter, until he’d unintentionally repositioned himself with his face pressed firmly into a peculiarly-patterned pillow, stomach flattened against the floor. “You – you,” he heaved air into his lungs with great difficulty,“You look like that clown – that one,” he smiled widely into the rug as he wheezed.

Only at the mention of a reading did he make an effort to calm himself, no matter how futile the action. “Up,” Nemo called, his voice muffled by the fabric in which his face had been lost. “Help,” he extended an arm with an awkward, backward swing of the limb and reached expectantly for Jack.

Mortimer stared at her for a few moments before suddenly bursting into a terribly violent fit of giggles, seemingly without prompting. Jack raised her eyebrows, never one to laugh for the sake of joining the other person in laughter- though Nemo had a laugh that she did find infectious and tempting to alter or amend that rule. At his burst of words, she barked a laugh and rolled her eyes. She had definitely underevaluated the extent to which the man had been drinking.

"Yes, Ronald McDonald, we covered that. Ba da ba ba ba and all that jazz." He flopped himself over so he had face-planted into a particularily overfilled plush pillow. He struggled for a moment before calling for her assistance. "Fallen and you can't get up?" Jack asked rhetorically, a smirk spreading on her face. She stepped forward and gripped his hand, backing up and trying to pull up the drunken fool to his feet.

OOC: As this thread no longer serves its original, intended purpose, what do you have in mind for it? PM me, if you will.

His laughter never ceased. It was an eternal force, one which enveloped all those in his presence and overwhelmed his own being, often existing in the form of poorly withheld snorts and his struggling lungs; never truly silent so long as Nemo remained conscious.

Until he was conscious no longer.

With one last chime from Nemo's smiling lips, he slumped heavily atop Jack where they stood, and he crumbled. As his liquor laden breath teased the flesh of Jack's shoulder - upon which Nemo's head lay, his face obstructed from her view by the long tuffs of brown hair that clung to his stubble peppered cheeks - his chuckles mingled with a sleeping man's growls.

Evidently, Nemo's attempt to find rest and embrace it with open arms had been quite satisfactory, and had come in the form of one Jack Dyllan. Several bottles of hard liquor and three spliffs had been more than worthy opponents of Nemo's insomnia.

Poe burst into laughter and Jack smirked, watching him struggle to his feet. He seemed almost hysterical now, still laughing and she finally burst into laughter. This was that weird, but not uncommon nor unheard of phenomenon where two people begin laughing, and then they keep laughing, and then they continue laughing at the fact that they are still laughing. Well, that was Jack's rationale for laughing, anyway. One could only guess what her drunken companion was laughing about.

So distracted was she with laughing, that she did not see the sure signs that Nemo was about to collapse, such as the diminshing angle between them and the rapidity of which his body was beginning to lean towards her. And with a sudden jolt, her knees knocked into each other as he collapsed onto her. "Ope!" she exlaimed, gripping him and steadying herself.

"Poe?" she asked, leaning back. His head lolled and she could see he was fully unconscious. She shook her head, smirking. She looked around and spotted a chair. She carefully began shuffling towards it; but these damned bean bags were troublesome. His foot caught on one and she stumbled over, both of them crashing onto the enemy bean bag.

"Why do I try?" Jack grumbled. She pushed herself up and walked around Nemo,grabbing his arms and backing up towards the chair. "Hey. POE! Wake up. I didn't plan on heavy lifting!"

Five sleepless days had taken a significant toll on both Nemo's physical and psychological health alike, thus rendering him 'dead to the world' as he was thrown and dragged across the small space that he had grown quite accustomed to, but evidently had no desire nor feeling of obligation to tidy on an acceptable basis.

Bottles, books and tarot cards adorned the floor amongst an abundance of throw pillows, spent matches, scattered marijuana and pill dust, and potion vials. Nemo could not have presented Jack with a more suitable obstacle course.

Another gargled snore bubbled free from Nemo’s lax lips, and was shortly followed by a long and contented exhale of incoherent mumbling; a sure sign that he had no intention of cooperating with Jack's demands.

"Lazy bum," Jack commented, stepping over another cushion, her arms straining a little as she had to pull him over every little thing in the room. She circled around the chair she had spotted and dragged him so he was sitting (well, lolling, or was it lounging?) in the chair. She let go, and stared at him. She leaned over and grabbed an open bottle of vodka (when you took a closer look you could see a few of them around) and held it under his nose.

Nope. She sighed and leaned down. "Yoo-hoo! You're a rotten host you know." She even licked her finger and stuck it in his ear. He was out. She sighed and then glanced around. "Fine, I'm going to rummage through your things." She walked out from the chair and stepped over a beanbag. She spotted a shelf full of books and managed to see a small bottle of whiskey, only one swallow left. She glanced at him. "I'll drink it!" she sang. And then she did. She sighed and turned back to the books, looking over the titles and reading them out loud at the top of her voice.

From Nemo's library of haphazardly arranged books teetered a particularly distressed title; one which fell from the poorly constructed - and more than likely hand crafted by the Seer himself - shelf upon which it had previously balanced and landed with a muted thud before Jack's feet. It's well worn and beaten spine read: The Pharmacist's Field Guide: An Advanced Index of Hallucinogenic Herbs. It was an entertaining find, at best.

What lay beside it was of notable more importance; a slender vial that mimicked the shape of a standard vase, to which attention had been drawn as a result of said guide's tumble. The small vial tinkled enchantingly against the novel's edges as it rolled, thus revealing the fat, violent script that existed on its backside, consisting of a single word: Nemo.

Nemo had long since forbid the use of his birth name, and therefore, those who had been informed or had otherwise learned of the explanation behind Nemo's discomfort towards his true title was a clear indication as to what the vial contained. But to those beings who had yet to peer so closely through Nemo's smokescreen may have come to the same conclusion with the discovery of the numbers that followed: Age 4 - 11.

What was perhaps Nemo's most dreadful and well-kept secret had been upturned, and in the form of an extracted memory, no less. And all the while, Nemo slept steadily on.