He Talks Too Much ~ Septiplier

14

Mark's in trouble.

Was the text message Jack received 2 days after he watched Mark leave with his head hanging low and his words hanging heavy in the air.

He had taken yet another sick day off, unwilling to return to work when his blood ran hotter than the inside of his oven and his skin stayed covered in gooseflesh like he lived in the Antarctic.

At first Jack thought the message was simply a mistake, the phone number was unfamiliar and the message itself was vague enough it could be to anyone. Mark was a common name, he decided, there was nothing to worry about.

Therefore for the first half hour or so after he read it, he ignored it, forgot about it. Thankfully he managed to find a little bottle of slightly dodgy looking antibiotics gathering dust in the back of his kitchen cupboard that surprisingly did as promised on the bottle and cleaned his debilitating fever up rather nicely. Honestly he was feeling quite good about the day. Until, that is, he got another message.

Jack, you need to help him.

Jack's intake of breath was sharp as he read the message. No mistake then, it was Mark Fischbach once again muscling his way into Jack's life through SMS messenger. Fantastic. Nothing at all ominous or shady about these anonymous and purposefully uninformative messages; obviously he should trust the sender wholeheartedly and do whatever they asked without question.

Or, you know, not.

His phone buzzed again a second later. It was an address, a place about a 15-20 minute walk away from Jack's apartment in a part of the city Jack was far from familiar with. Jack let out a low breath as he studied the message before typing a reply. Honestly, one anonymous text messenger in his life had been more than enough without adding another into the mix.

I don't know you. I'm not going anywhere, sorry to disappoint.

Not two seconds later Jack's phone buzzed with an answer.

And he said you liked the mysterious types. It's Olivia Crawford, McLoughlin. Mark's friend. Now get over here right now or so help me I'm throwing him out a window.

Jack felt his stomach drop a little at the name, his stomach starting to fill to the brim with dread. Olivia Crawford. She was close to Mark, he knew that, but Mark had never specified how close exactly.

He didn't have a girlfriend and she said they were friends but were they perhaps friends-with-benefits? An occasional fling? Fuck buddies? Jack wasn't sure if it was an intrusion of privacy to ask and he also wasn't sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

Still, that didn't matter now.

Right now he was too busy tugging on his jacket and barrelling out his front door with more vigour than necessary, quickly walking down the street as fast as he could, wondering if the Upper West Side was renowned for daylight muggings or not.

There was no evidence of the snow that had once covered the dirty sidewalks and brooding grey buildings in a carpet of white. There wasn't even a hint of wind, only a cloudy sky that held the promise of a downpour later, though of snow or hail or rain Jack didn't know. That was another reason Jack hated winter. It made everything so unpredictable.

The Irishman kept an eye on the signs he passed, still not familiar with the twists and turns of the city streets. He made sure to double check the address on his phone, worried he might walk straight past his destination.

The walk was a long one though, and it gave him time enough to work himself into quite the state, the debate over whether or not he should turn around instead of walking directly into what could be a serial killer's trap ready to be sprung waging war through his head. The only reason he hadn't convinced himself to turn around completely was the knowledge that Mark needed help. Needed Jack right now. And despite any fears he had about the circumstances, Jack always found himself coming back to that.