Neal Caffrey

DAY 2
7:47 AM
THE DOWN - SUB HOUSING

As he stares into his reflection, it's hard to miss the downturn of his mouth and pinched eyebrows. He practices smoothing everything out, moving his jaw this way and that. After rubbing fruitlessly at the space between his eyes, he realizes with a sigh that he'll have to wait a few minutes for the red spot he'd created to go away before he shoves himself back out into the public.

It doesn't serve him to wallow, he knows that, but Neal Caffrey is used to a certain way of life, and loathe as he is to admit it, the Down is every bit as reminiscent of his past as the Up would be had he been fortunate enough to find himself there instead.

He'd known early what it was like to live thinly, to start from the bottom and work his way up. At eighteen he'd left home with nothing. Despite being bright, there was a steep learning curve, more a mountain to ascend. St. Louis, where he'd spent his youth in witness protection, had been no cakewalk, and yet, comparatively, he couldn't have imagined then the dangers of the world laid out in front of him. He was too savvy to let it happen often, but some nights he'd slept in places where he closed his eyes tight and kept them closed because he wasn't all that sure what might be seen if he opened them. Places where he couldn't hold his ears tight enough, and so the echoes of things that couldn't be unheard never left him. Prison had very much been like that; in supermax, even in separate cells and only one hour in the yard a day, he'd kept his head down, made friends of everyone he could, and shut his mouth. It hadn't been the time to buck against the system. Now doesn't feel so different, but he tries not to dwell.

Caffrey runs his finger along the black line that starts below his chin and follows it to where it disappears precisely into his collar. It's not a pair of handcuffs or a tracking anklet, but it has the same effect: Neal feels suitably subdued, although for all the wrong reasons. It isn't the irony that bothers him (submissive; ready to conform to the authority or will of others; meekly obedient or passive) so much as the sense that this was unfortunate luck. Neal hasn't felt a sense of freedom or agency in years. Why should this place be any different?

His hair's less than suitable. No product. He doesn't have shampoo or soap or access. Not an ounce of paint or red wine or shoe polish, no dime to drop, and not a friend to use it on either. Effectively, he's starting again.

At least he isn't the only one. Misery does love company.

DAY 3
9:10 AM
THE DOWN - BETWEEN THE COVERS

In an effort to inject some sense of normality in his life, Caffrey leaves his godawful dwellings for a day of exploration. With the carnival in full swing, he figures he might as well. He slips out into the world in his suit — the finely made holdout his only personal possession of any real worth here. The dark gray fabric is striped subtly, while the contrasting threads in bright red provide accent to the handmade piece. It doesn't entirely cover the tattoo proving his lowly status, but it helps to polish him in such a way that he'll either attract attention, or be mistaken for a contracted individual. That's the hope, at least. He's hardly been here long enough to get a hang of the place, so it's all guesses to start.

He finds Between the Covers, a local curiosity. In the packed bookstore, he feels a bit ridiculous. Probably looks it, too. Still, he smiles politely and peruses with no intention of buying. And no ability to buy, beyond beads, even if the intention was there. Thankfully, some things, like information, can often still be found for free.

Tucked inconspicuously between two novels, he notes a piece of paper. It's a receipt for several items Neal doesn't recognize, folded in half and dated from earlier in the morning. There's an impression from writing and black ink peeking through from the message inside. Without looking over his shoulder, but nonetheless worried over the implications of being caught snooping, Caffrey unfolds the note and reads the careful handwriting.

I HAVE WHAT YOU NEED
12:45 PM - RIDDLER'S SQUARE
■

He doubts the sincerity of the note — what he needs is a ticket home, not a mask and a dildo — but Caffrey isn't beyond crashing a party even if it only nets him information on others who don't trust the system (as they shouldn't, it seems).

Neal returns the note to where he found it and mingles a few minutes longer before heading off to survey the next spot.

[ someone to take interest - SPECTATOR ]
[ someone to stand in the way - DISTRACTOR ]

DAY 3
12:42 PM
THE DOWN - RIDDLER'S SQUARE


By now, he's loosened his tie a bit, as well as the top button of his shirt to let in some air. He's stopped running his hand through his hair, too, and while it still keeps its shape, it's started to dip into unkempt territory. What Neal gains in roguishness, he loses in luster. There's less shine on this harrowed individual, but the taste of success keeps Neal moving.

The instructions hadn't been entirely explicit as to what he should be looking for, but he's a quick study and fairly certain he's got the right place. As he lifts the baby-pink raffle ticket from the appointed location, dangling enticingly from the puckered mouth of a shockingly lewd porcelain rendition of the goddess Artemis, Caffrey doesn't know if he should be curious or disturbed. He's both, of course.

It has a red number printed on each end 003589 and drawn over the center of the ticket in ink that matches the original note is an image of a cartoonish penis and what looks to be a shop number. Wonderful.

"I'm here to pick up a package" he says once he's found the appropriate place. He has no money, so if this is going to require payment, Caffrey will have to find another way, or use his beads.

[ someone to perform the hand-off - PACKAGE HANDLER ]
[ someone who can't keep their hands off - "PACKAGE" HANDLER ]

DAY 3
7:50 PM
THE DOWN - MARKET

Neal typically loves local markets. They're absolute bargains in that they have plenty to say by way of secrets for free. This becomes particularly suitable to teach him a bit more about the world around him; like putting two fingers to the neck, it answers back with a pulse that can easily define the Down, a place he needs to very quickly learn to make his own (or get the Hell out).

The market is unsurprisingly abuzz with activity. It's teeming, in fact, and never has that word felt so apt as it does during the carnival. Like an insect's nest, it's a nightmare to navigate, and when the press of bodies in a too-cramped space removes nearly every sense of privacy a man could want or expect, Neal questions the wisdom of continuing this game, perhaps not for the first time. It sets his already-strained nerves on edge. Twice now he's patted around expectantly, every glancing contact reading like some snatch-and-grab maneuver. It wouldn't much matter if he lost his wallet, but even in New York people valued some personal space. Even as an expert pickpocket, Neal appreciates his privacy.

Weaving through the stalls, he feels more disheveled by the moment. His jacket's over his arm, it obscures the package he'd received while he seeks the next point on this strange and uncomfortable scavenger hunt. If he hadn't already come this far in disturbing the order of things, he might consider abandoning this altogether.

At stop three, he has an argument with a man behind a curtain.

"—I understand that you don't want to do me the favor, but this isn't for me," he says, no need to be convincing as what he's saying is true. While he might not be the intended recipient of this particular package, he's eager now to find out the end game, to see who was laying out the breadcrumbs in the first place.

"Can you—?" Neal says it into the air, clearly annoyed. "Honestly, what's it going to take?"

[ someone who is kind - CHARITABLE SOUL ]
[ someone who is wicked - EXTORTIONIST ]

DAY 4
1:12 AM
THE DOWN - SOUTH PARK

Neal catches a glimpse of himself on the way in. As he tugs at his shirt, he realizes the uncomfortable warmth of the Down is almost as annoying to him as the stagnant air. But to start, none of it makes him quite so miserable as the dampness. It coaxes out the curl in his hair, takes the crispness from the lines of his clothes, and otherwise makes him look tragically unkempt.

Perhaps worse than that, though, is that the revelry of the Carnival has finally caught up to him. Around midnight a mask is forced on him. Where he'd discarded the option before, now it's compulsory. The mask is ornate and disturbing, two-thirds of a skull wrapped in beautiful scroll work. It leaves those light eyes to see the world, but his mouth is covered. It's these kind of details Caffrey would normally appreciate, except for the uncanny nature of the subject matter and how, despite being quite a wide-jawed individual, the mask itself fits as snugly and carefully as his tailored attire. Like it was meant for him.

He doesn't realize it until he's made his way into the park, but the unintended consequence of donning the mask leaves him mute. As he goes to confront who he imagines is responsible for all of these puzzles — a shadowy figure with their back turned — what reports from his mouth is nothing at all.

Panic grips him. Perhaps for the first time, Neal Caffrey feels utterly and completely out of his element. It's an impressive feat, and as he scrabbles at the mask he, he's calling out his frustrations in a voice that's just not there. He loses sight of the the task at hand. Everything drops, sliding unceremoniously from his arms. His fine jacket crumples to the ground. The first package follows. It's sealed and so nothing spills out, but the second package isn't so lucky. The flimsy brown bag rips and out comes the strangest, most haunting collection of items: An hourglass with black sand, a blindfold, a pair of handcuffs, several wine corks...

Seeing it all laid out before him, he feels like screaming, like he's willing to give in to the absurdity of all of this if it just means he can accept it's a setup. He throws off the mask and it joins the pile, although it does nothing to return Neal to his prior state.

His investment is shed in a moment of panic and before he can even think, he's waving off everything, wide-eyed and seeking retreat, looking unkempt and worn and tired, but also wild, like a caged and cornered animal. There's no telling what he might do, but one thing remains certain: He doesn't want a favor anymore. He doesn't want payment, whatever it's supposed to be. He doesn't want held up or held down, either. He just wants to go home, and he's suddenly desperate and wild for that.

[ someone who knows they've been had - INTENDED RECIPIENT ]
[ someone to pull the strings - MASTERMIND ]

It's difficult to find as much joy in the festivities as everyone's suggesting should be had. For Neal, the last thing on his mind is sex, which is both patently absurd, all things considered, but also tragically apt for him. He tends to get his thrills in other ways.

He hopes to make the most of his beads, although he doesn't necessarily think of making more, nor does he imagine he'll be spending much on cock rings or magical lipsticks or anything of the sort. No, he's more interested in trading for information or favors or deodorant that won't do anything strange like give him a hardon for days. It's a different world, but not that different.

The moment he gets anyone to engage, it's in such a way that he's also asking them to take off the mask for him. By now he's realized the only way he'll get a chance to talk is at the behest of someone else. It's sobering and familiar, and as much as Neal would like to say he hates it, at least if he's not fully responsible for himself, someone else could be blamed.