Tim Wayne: DreamCast3: Friday
12:10 AM
[Black cats swarm around the Clock. The Clock continues to tick, but it’s barely audible over the sound of rhythmic purring. It’s the only sound the cats make for a long time. Their green eyes flash and click each time they turn towards the camera.
[Eventually, a humming feline growl covers the sound and the shifty bodies, growing louder and louder and louder.]
6:07 AM
[Not-Tim sits against the closed Clock. His chest heaves, eyes burning neon purple like an animal in the darkness. It seems he’s speechless again. The Clock is also silent behind him.]
12:30 PM
[It’s Christmas, and he’s up in the morning, standing in the kitchen, tentatively turning the gas stove on and off, experimenting with the strength of the flame. Over his shoulder, Tim calls quietly:] Alfred? How high should it be for eggs anyway?
Master Bruce prefers his eggs dry, Timothy. A low flame will do. [Is the dry response.]
Lower and longer. [Tim mutters under his breath.]
Quite so, sir. [The butler sidles up next to him, setting down a simple porcelain plate. He mentions, tone as jovial as it will ever by (not very):] You know, Timothy, I am well-paid to perform these duties myself, even during holidays.
[Tim shoots him a skeptical look.] You know that conundrum about the man who has everything? It’s not like I can drop him cash. I just-want to do something for him. [Turns away, sticking up his chin in affected haughtiness.] Anyway, you should consider this my way of doing something for you. A break Christmas morning is way more than enough, I think.
[Alfred snorts, and that’s about as close to a smile as he’ll get. Still, there’s something like fondness in the way he watches Tim take the eggs, murmurs instructions regarding oil and spice, drapes a white towel over Tim’s shoulder and pats it gently.]
6:00 PM
[He just sits at the foot of the bottom bunk, rock solid and dark and alive against the deadly white of the facility walls. There’s a mark painted over his eye, and he lifts one hand to rub at it curiously. When he turns to face the camera, it has disappeared.]
Hey. [His smile is lazy and playful as he leans forward, but the expression shifts minutely to one of gentle concern.] Yo, Rob-you okay?
…Rob, what’s wrong?
[The dream cuts, and a shuddering gasp hisses over the audio. There’s nothing for a few seconds, and the feed cuts.]
[Black cats swarm around the Clock. The Clock continues to tick, but it’s barely audible over the sound of rhythmic purring. It’s the only sound the cats make for a long time. Their green eyes flash and click each time they turn towards the camera.
[Eventually, a humming feline growl covers the sound and the shifty bodies, growing louder and louder and louder.]
6:07 AM
[Not-Tim sits against the closed Clock. His chest heaves, eyes burning neon purple like an animal in the darkness. It seems he’s speechless again. The Clock is also silent behind him.]
12:30 PM
[It’s Christmas, and he’s up in the morning, standing in the kitchen, tentatively turning the gas stove on and off, experimenting with the strength of the flame. Over his shoulder, Tim calls quietly:] Alfred? How high should it be for eggs anyway?
Master Bruce prefers his eggs dry, Timothy. A low flame will do. [Is the dry response.]
Lower and longer. [Tim mutters under his breath.]
Quite so, sir. [The butler sidles up next to him, setting down a simple porcelain plate. He mentions, tone as jovial as it will ever by (not very):] You know, Timothy, I am well-paid to perform these duties myself, even during holidays.
[Tim shoots him a skeptical look.] You know that conundrum about the man who has everything? It’s not like I can drop him cash. I just-want to do something for him. [Turns away, sticking up his chin in affected haughtiness.] Anyway, you should consider this my way of doing something for you. A break Christmas morning is way more than enough, I think.
[Alfred snorts, and that’s about as close to a smile as he’ll get. Still, there’s something like fondness in the way he watches Tim take the eggs, murmurs instructions regarding oil and spice, drapes a white towel over Tim’s shoulder and pats it gently.]
6:00 PM
[He just sits at the foot of the bottom bunk, rock solid and dark and alive against the deadly white of the facility walls. There’s a mark painted over his eye, and he lifts one hand to rub at it curiously. When he turns to face the camera, it has disappeared.]
Hey. [His smile is lazy and playful as he leans forward, but the expression shifts minutely to one of gentle concern.] Yo, Rob-you okay?
…Rob, what’s wrong?
[The dream cuts, and a shuddering gasp hisses over the audio. There’s nothing for a few seconds, and the feed cuts.]