He Doesn't Talk Much - Jacksepticeye Egos Fanfic

Chapter 3 - A New Plan

Jameson watched the clock tick down the hours before he'd have to get up for rehearsal- there was always more to practice, to perfect. By then, it was nearly three in the morning, but he felt jittery, not fatigued. No matter how he tried to throw off his nerves, he kept thinking about Anti, and his plan to kill that innocent man. 

Jameson couldn't justify it. He knew he'd promised Anti that he wouldn't tell anyone, but perhaps there was some way to save Jacksepticeye without leaving Anti feeling slighted. 

The performer stood up with a sigh and walked out of his bedroom, dressed in a pale blue nightshirt and a floppy cap to match. The lights of the city seemed to ooze through his sheer living room curtain, making faint shapes like clouds on the carpet below. 

"Golly!" Jameson whispered under his breath- he only ever used that word when alone or onstage; otherwise, people always made fun of him. But it suited the situation now. Jameson knew he'd have to find some way to fix this mess, even if he hadn't been the one to start it. But what to do?

Jameson opened up his fridge and squinted against the cold light. He groped around for the milk, tapping his hand against the shelves blindly. He felt something slide beneath his touch, and gasped as a pitcher full of punch tumbled from the top shelf all the way down to the kitchen floor below- but not before spilling squarely into the center of Jameson's chest. 

He squealed; the punch was freezing compared to his warm bed, and terribly unpleasant. The empty pitcher hit the ground with a clatter, and Jameson sighed through chattering teeth. His heart rate relaxed slowly as he set about cleaning up the mess, mopping up the spilled drink with a paper towel and gingerly peeling the sopping wet nightgown off his chest. With a huff, he strode into the bathroom. 

"Oh!" Jameson cried, catching a glimpse of a terrifying figure in the corner of the mirror. He spun around, but saw nobody else in the room. At last he reexamined the mirror- it was himself! The punch down his front looked like a horrible bloodstain in the low light. "Oh, horsefeathers!" he gasped, before he smiled with relief. "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say I was a dead man walking!"

Jameson paused. Hearing his words in the air struck a cord somehow. "Dead man... gosh! If only there were a way to make Jack seem dead, at least to satisfy Anti, without actually bumping the poor man off."

At last, Jameson removed his dirty nightshirt and donned a new one. But the night was far from over. Having made up his mind, Jameson fished a tiny slip of paper from the depths of his writing desk, signed by a man he'd always been told was dangerous. He carried the paper back to the kitchen, where waited the old rotary telephone. Jameson took a deep breath, gathering his courage. It was time to break his word. 

He dialed the number written, and, to his astonishment, was answered immediately.  

"Hello!"

"Would... would this be the office of, ah, Henrik Schneeplestein?"