TDM NO. 4

[silentspringmods]

TDM № 4 : July 2024
Part I; Chapter 7. Duck and Cover

premise & faq rules application invite requests NPCs calendar story so far taken

Hey, neighbor, welcome to the fourth TDM for Silent Spring, a semiprivate suburban 60s horrorgame based loosely on the likes of We're Still Here, Holly Heights, and similar. Characters wake up in the uncannily idyllic early 1960s suburbia of Sweetwater, Maryland, an integrated bedroom community of Washington, DC - in the same household as a complete stranger to whom they have apparently always been married, at least according to the eerily and unwaveringly chipper neighbors who seem to know a little more than they should—or, if they're under 18, they awaken as the legally recognized child of the aforementioned couple. This TDM will give you a place to test out the setting and get some sample threads if you're going to apply for an invite.

This TDM is open to both prospective players and current players - please specify whether you are a current player or a prospective player in your toplevel!

OOC TDM plotting/who's who plurk

Openings

As of this TDM, a total of 26 player slots are open. Players may app 2 characters in the same app round so long as they are in different roles.

Game Tone and Blanket Warnings

This game and its world, including this TDM, heavily feature nuclear panic, the Red Scare, conformism, sexism and restrictive gender roles, heteronormativity/gender binarism as it relates to being forced into a 'nuclear family', surveillance, gaslighting, brainwashing/propaganda, disinformation, pollution/contamination, poisoning, loss of control, nuclear horror, and uncanny valley. At different points in the setting backstory there are suicides, domestic violence, murder, slow death/suffering, trauma of minors, NPC parental death, flashbacks to combat zones, gaslighting, and other, similarly heavy subjects. IC consequences can involve anything from social shunning to sleep deprivation torture, brainwashing, physical torture (for severe crimes) and nonconsensual administration of large doses of haloperidol. These are the crux of the game and cannot be opted out of — this game offers a very specific flavor of horror and it is up to players whether or not they want to engage. The atmosphere is a dystopia, and while people can certainly bond with each other in extreme circumstances, the point of this game is not an ingame domestic AU, found family, 'adopting' other characters, etc. This is a horrorgame, and it has upsetting themes. Minors are not allowed in this game - as adults, it's the players' responsibility to self-regulate what they consume based on content warnings and avoid things they find too distressing to engage with.

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

I. National Everyone-Smile-at-One-Anotherhood Week

No CWs apply.

Maybe you were on your deathbed, taking your last gasping breaths. Maybe you had just drifted off into sleep. Or maybe you were just in the middle of another ordinary day—but whatever the case may be, you now wake staring at an unfamiliar popcorn ceiling, dressed in a coordinating pajama set or nightgown straight out of the Sears catalog. A complete stranger lies asleep beside you. Perhaps a dog or a cat you don't recognize lies sleeping on a red tartan bed on the floor behind the mahogany footboard.

This is your house, but it’s not your house: on one of the twin dressers in the room, the morning light reflects off the cover glass on a framed photograph of the two of you standing side-by-side and smiling like figures in a Norman Rockwell painting, maybe with a third, also unrecognizable younger party in the foreground between you. A Civil Defense booklet titled ”Survival Under Atomic Attack” hangs halfway off the corner of the dresser, its pages and cover curling upwards with wear atop a dogeared Macy’s Christmas catalog. The other dresser hosts a watch box and a compact radio: yours, if you’re the one wearing the coordinating flannel shirt and pants, or your new husband’s, if you’re in a babydoll-style nightie.

It’s not immediately clear if you’ve found yourself in the fifties or the sixties, at least until you throw on the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door and head out into the driveway at some point. There you find a rolled newspaper tossed onto the concrete beside a shiny new car, dated July 1, 1961.

Prompt Details:

— All characters wake in a normal human body with any disability aids (including glasses or contact lenses) converted to the most common form of them in the 60s unless a modern development like a sip/blow powerchair is needed for them to be playable. Although cutting edge technologies like myoelectric limbs were just starting to come around at the time, they were not common and readily accessible, and therefore are not allowed.
— Characters have no powers, and regains will not happen in this game. If they biologically need something to function that is fantasy in nature (ex: have to drink blood), that need is gone and replaced with only a normal human’s needs.
— Characters will find their belongings, up to 3 items from home, around the house in normal places for each item to be: a book on the shelf, a framed photo on a flat surface, etc. Items that don’t exist in the regular universe in early 1961 may not be brought (ex: gameboy, pokeball, wizard’s staff).
— Characters may bring one normal, non-livestock pet, or may meet said pet for the first time when they wake up in Sweetwater. They can also be petless.
— No items or weapons from after 1961 are allowed, and no weapons more powerful than a hunting rifle or handgun can be brought with them. One weapon per character.

II. A pink carnation and a pickup truck

No CWs apply.

On the morning of the second, the usual controlled burn warning for the forest beyond the Sweetwater Atomic Energy Plant is issued; citizens are informed that it will go on through tomorrow, but that skies will be nice and clear for the Fourth of July fireworks display in the park. The usual rules apply: keep your windows closed, limit how much you go outside. The wind gradually carries the diffuse, unnatural smoke into the air of the neighborhood, smelling a bit like burning plastic—certainly not the rich, smoky smell of burning wood.

The Fourth of July is a big occasion in any patriotic all-American community, and the town of Sweetwater is no exception! The smell of smoked meats wafts through the neighborhood all morning in the leadup to the neighborhood Fourth of July party, which starts at 12 P.M. in the back yard of Majorie, the head of the Homeowners’ Association.

We hope your character brought their appetite! Marjorie's husband, Harold, and a few other men from the neighborhood serve up burgers and franks fresh off the grill, and Marjorie has lined up two card tables end-to-end and covered them with a white tablecloth, atop it assorted fruit-and-gelatin desserts, punch (both alcoholic and nonalcoholic). Different beers—all American brands, of course—stick out of a big galvanized tub full of ice at one end of the table and cups are stacked beside the enormous crystal bowl of crayon red punch on the other, with a pitcher of Tang in the middle for the kids.

Children run across the yard with sparklers in hand, and some of the men of the neighborhood play cornhole under the giant oak in the back yard. Housewives chat by the poolside while their kids splash in their water wings and older kids jump off the diving board. It’s the perfect chance to take a dip, get some good food, and meet the new neighbors—all of whom the town’s residents seem to believe have always lived here, or at least certainly didn’t arrive just three days ago.

III. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie

CW: minor earthquake.

The party at Marjorie's a great time, some real, good old fashioned American fun—at least until the scene changes around 2 in the afternoon. Conversations are suddenly interrupted by the loud, drawn-out wail of air raid sirens on telephone poles around town, and the radio by the poolside abruptly cuts off and joins every other radio in town as they turn on in unison in every house, repeating the same message that scrolls across living room television screens in blocky white font with a diffuse glow:

"Your attention please. This is Ron Chapman, one of your official civil defense broadcasters with a special message. Military authorities have advised us that an enemy attack by air is imminent. This is a red alert. You are advised to go to your nearest shelter area immediately. Find shelter. There is not time to leave the city.

Your state civil defense director has just issued the following instructions: Please remain calm. Every precaution will be taken for your protection. Keep your radio tuned to this place on the dial throughout the alert period for information. Telephone service to your home may be cut off to permit military and civil defense authorities to carry out vital operations. Do not attempt to join your family or children if they are now separated. They will be cared for where they are. Obey your civil defense warden and find shelter NOW. Take shelter in your basement or in your nearest shelter area. If you can plug in your radio in the basement, take it with you. Use a portable radio set if you have one. Otherwise turn up the volume of your radio so that you can hear it in the basement. Keep calm, don't lose your head. If you are at work, obey your civil defense authorities. Go quickly and calmly to their designated shelter. If your children are at school, they are being directed to shelter by their teachers. If you are in an automobile, pull over to the curb and then go immediately to the nearest shelter area. Do not leave your car where it will block traffic.

This station will continue to stay on the air throughout the alert period to bring you authentic information and official instructions. Stay tuned to 640 or 1240 kilocycles on your radio for official information. Refuse to listen to unauthorized rumors or broadcasts. This is your official civil defense broadcast . . . Your attention please. This is Ron Chapman, one of your official civil defense broadcasters with a special message . . ."

“Alright, everybody—nobody panic,” Harold says, immediately taking control of the situation. “You heard the man, let’s all just get down to the bunker and wait for further instructions. I’m sure it'll all be fine.”

Mothers briskly towel off their children as they get out of the pool, shepherding them toward the gate at the back of the white picket fence that encloses Marjorie's back yard. Fortunately, her house is at the end of the cul-de-sac—walking distance from the bunker, although some opt to run. The police cruiser driven by the town police chief and Civil Defense director, Dick Clark, rolls up and parks at the end of the street; he throws open the door and hops out, trotting up to the fence to guide traffic with one waving arm.

"Hurry up, everyone, nothing worth grabbing that's more valuable than your lives. Don't panic. Single file, please."

Once the flow of sheltering citizens entering the bunker slows to a trickle, Officer Clark pulls the heavy door shut and turns the bank-style wheel that locks it, only opening the door when stragglers knock.

Characters at home have the option of going into the basements of the homes they awoke in, which have some survival rations but hardly qualify as fully outfitted bunkers, or disregarding the civil defense office's commands and risking it to seek safety in the Haven Street fallout shelter at the end of the cul-de-sac. It is up to each "family" whether they split up or seek safety in numbers, whether they prioritize immediacy or amount of protection.

If characters decide to hunker down in the fallout shelter at the end of the street, they will be joined by dozens of their terrified neighbors. Responses vary dramatically: some seem almost catatonic, as though unable to believe that the events before them are really unfolding; others weep with fear. Portable emergency radios echo off of the cement floor and stacked barrels of drinking water line the walls opposite unopened boxes of survival rations and plenty of tin cans. There are helmets on another shelf; the ceiling is low, the air cooler than it is aboveground, damp and slightly musty. There is no sound from above, only the radio echoing on and on in an endless loop and the frightened whispers of the townspeople.

About an hour in, something changes—a low rumble fills the shelter as the ground begins to shake, growing stronger and stonger. Cans fall off of shelves and roll around the floor. Bits of dust fall from the ceiling.

"Everyone stay calm! You're safe down here!" Dick says. "Cover your heads with your hands!"

It goes on like that for about fifteen minutes... and then stops.

Regardless of where characters choose to shelter, they are trapped there for the next four hours after that, listening to the Maryland civil defense director's warning circulate over and over in the claustrophobic space. Now might be a good time to field any questions to Dick Clark, your town Civil Defense Officer and Police Chief.

—until at last, the message changes.

"Your attention please. This is Ron Chapman, one of your official civil defense broadcasters with a special message. Military authorities have advised us that the anticipated enemy attack has been diverted. You may now leave shelter and rejoin your families. This concludes the red alert. Your attention please . . ."

Uh oh. Hope you didn't say anything in the heat of the moment you might now regret.

IV. A generation lost in space

CWs: flashbacks to combat situations, graphic character death, blood, (censored) use of g slur during Korean War, WWII-typical use of derogatory term for Germans.

Understandably, the fireworks display that was scheduled for the 4th is put off a day, but what characters get in the grassy town square on the night of the 5th is no less grand than what was planned for the previous day. Firefighters pass out sparklers for the kids and families bring picnic baskets and blankets to sit on while they watch the show—it's best to get to the park a little early if you want to be sure to get a good spot!

The fire department sets off fireworks on the little dock at the pond, the first one whistling as it shoots up into the sky and explodes in a blossom of brilliant green shimmer that cascades down like snowflakes and fades out—and then characters lose consciousness, their bodies going limp, minds and bodies overtaken with memories that aren't theirs.

It happens in a second.

Jackson's talking to you, laughing, telling a story about the time he tried to steal some girl's frilly pink brassiere off of the clothesline back home and failed miserably, complete with the family dog tearing his pants. And then he has half a face, and your ears are ringing, and you stand frozen, staring in open-mouthed horror as his body collapses into the mud, his blood running down your neck, your arms, soaking the front of your fatigues, dripping off of your brows into your eyes.

Jacks, you want to scream at the top of your lungs, but you can't make sound. You can't move, even though you know you should be grabbing your gun and guys are hauling ass all around you and returning fire, loading the stovepipes, and you're trying to run through the process you learned in basic, but now it's real, and your first friend here's blood is all over you, and he didn't even get to finish his sentence.

Grab your gun.

You have to grab your gun.

You're going to die if you stand here.

Grab your gun.

"Clark! Get your ass behind that bank before the Krauts blow your head off! Get your ass behind that bank! Medic! MEDIC!"

*

The black expanse of empty air around you is thick and humid as your legs and his hang over the Willys’ back tailgate. At least the smoke trailing up from the cherry of your cigarette keeps the mosquitoes away from your bare arms, you think as you study it, though you’ve obviously still been taking your chloroquine anyways.
Another rocket streaks across the sky beyond the foothills behind camp. The night sky above them, its stars mostly obscured by diffuse smoke, flashes orange.

“That one was close,” he says.

“No closer than the last few.”

“Think the g—s will try something?”

You shrug. “They might. What are you going to do about it?”

“Not finish this beer.”

“Jesus, Walter, finish it, will you? What is it, three ounces left? Like it or not, we have to live here when we’re not on duty, too.” You take a drag off your cigarette and exhale smoke, not as smooth as your Old Golds, before you continue your monologue. “‘Will the g—s do this, will the g—s do that.”

There’s a long silence. Finally the brown hand that isn’t resting on the lip of the tailgate beside yours wraps around the neck of the bottle and the corporal finishes it. There’s a silence after he sets the empty bottle back down, golden light from the lamppost outside of the mess glinting in big dark eyes as he regards you.

At last: “Why’d you enlist, Norm? That’s the one thing I just can’t figure. Most of the doctors here were drafted. Most of the guys, too. And the ones who Uncle Sam didn’t tell to come down here… they’re not like you. You could’ve stayed in Connecticut. Had a real comfortable life. Had daddy buy you out if they did draft you, shit.”

Another barrage of artillery shakes the hills, this time closer and brighter. “Don’t know,” you muse, breaking eye contact to stare back up at the mess of the sky. “What about you? You telling me your life’s dream is to fix jeeps?”

“Yessir. Or some kind of car. I’ve liked taking things apart and puttin’ em back together since I can remember. Used to do surgery on the T.V. remote.”

“Jesus.” An easy silence follows the words, filled by the quiet hum of generators and the pops of distant ordinance. “We’re some pair, Walter from Alabama.”

“Finish your drink, Captain. Shit’s getting brighter. They’re comin’.”

*

“Jesus, Marjorie.” You utter, staring in disbelief at the scene before you, even though it doesn’t materialize in concrete detail. You keep forgetting to blink. “I don’t even know what I can…” She lets out another pitiful, choked sob into the backs of the fingers pressed to her mouth and you reformulate your answer, pivoting. “I can try to…” You raise a hand to your forehead, pressing it into your hairline and pushing a dent into pomaded black hair, and sigh. “Christ, Marge, This is a real mess you’ve created. You have no idea.”

“Yes,” she croaks, staring straight into you with red-rimmed eyes. She doesn’t speak up as much as she needs to in her tearful state, but you can make out the outlines of her words, your mind retroactively filling in the ones you miss based on the context of what follows. “Yes I do. That’s why I’m asking for your help, Dick. Not Norm’s. Not anyone else’s in this town. I came to you. Do you understand? I came to you, Dick. I need you. to help me.”

When characters wake, they feel slightly different—maybe just off in a very generic way, like they’ve awoken from a deep nap. Or maybe they can taste beer and cigarette smoke, or their shoulders feel ten times heavier, their chests tighter.

Maybe they go to wipe the dampness off of their face and their hand comes back with a few brilliant red droplets of someone else's blood smeared across unbroken skin.

Either way, it’s probably best not to mention this to the locals… although it might be worth seeing if anyone else saw that, too, provided characters aren’t busy pulling themselves together after reliving events that might be too uncomfortably similar to their own pasts.

Players may keep TDM threads canon if both players are admitted, and TDMers are encouraged to play around with multiple possible family member matches. Have fun!

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now with extra flavor*~

[wwrench]

Wrench has no need for the texts of Kübler-Ross; he's formed his own theories on loss. Namely — or at least most relavantly right now — that there's no single moment of its occurrence. Death may be (until very recently) a finality, but loss happens over and over and over again. Every time he closes his eyes and opens them again to the same reality he left, Wrench loses Numbers anew.

Except his partner was here. That wasn't a delusion. He was real and tangible and just like Wrench had always known him, down to the acerbic wit and the spicy aroma of too much beard oil. He was here and now he's not and it's hard for Wrench to give a shit about anything any more.

He already knows what Dick is going to say. He's not familiar with the term 'DARVO' either, but Wrench gets the concept. At least they're both stuck down here for the time being. At least he might be able to see the flicker of recognition in the man's eyes. Some proof of something or the other.

Wrench approaches with his little steno notebook already at the ready, scribbling as he walks so he can shove page and pencil toward the man immediately and stare directly at his face as he reads.

I want to report a missing person. Mr. Numbers. You know him.

Philippa Finch | Bridgerton | Prospective Player

[thebugs]

pink carnations

Well, it's kind of funny, isn't it? Me, celebrating the Fourth of July?

[ There's no need to guess at her reasoning, her accent says it all for her. She's undeniably not just British, but clearly upper class. She giggles, in on her own joke, as she continues to pile food--far more than is probably polite for a lady of her status--onto her plate. Well she has to try all of it, doesn't she? Otherwise that would be very rude of her! This is a compliment to the host!

Watch her try and balance all of this food. Oh, and now she's trying to grab a beer (equally scandalous but it seems more exciting than the punch). Watch her then think about how she's supposed to curtsey (she has just remembered) while holding all of this and pray she doesn't get anything on this cute, period-appropriate purple dress she found in her closet. (It's so small, all of her clothes are so small here. She found some tights, but her legs feel very on display! She doesn't hate it, though!) ]

Oh, I'm Philippa by the way. I mean, Mrs. Finch, wait, I mean--

[ Oh shit what's the name of her fake husband again? She can't remember. ]

Oh, sorry, I'll have to ask him.

bye bye miss america (cw: earthquake; panic)

[ Philippa finds herself in the bunker. She is honestly, legitimately, terrified. This is rare for her, she doesn't normally get scared about things. But everyone is so serious around her. They're all talking about some attack. The bunker is cold, uncomfortable. The earthquake is like nothing she's ever felt before.

So ends up cowering in a corner all by herself. She keeps trying to smooth over her dress, keep her appearance more together. It's not working. Nothing is working. She doesn't know if she's ever felt like this before. ]

Is it--is it quite normal to not be able to breathe? I think I might be--oh dear.

lost in space

[ Philippa has just had the most unusual dream. She is still standing, watching the fireworks, but tears are streaming down her face. Even though she is also smiling about the fireworks, which are indeed beautiful. ]

They're beautiful, aren't they?

[ Her words sound choked, her tone a little pitiful. Why? Why does she sound like that? She shakes her head, trying to clear it. No, this isn't right at all. Something is very off.

She bites her lip, staring at the fireworks, trying to think, why does she feel like this, what is happening to her, and so she turns to the person standing next to her as another one goes off, flinching only a little at the sound, and asks: ]

Do you think it hurts them, when they explode like that?

bye, bye

[wwrench]

Wrench has already spent enough time in the basement of the Taylor household to know it's nowhere he'd like to get stuck. While the backyard looks skyward and begins to organize around their own safety, the tall man lays down his untouched plate and makes in the opposite direction. He's no further than the end of the driveway when he spots Dick stepping out of a parked car at the end of the street. The officer doesn't need to do anything more than set his eyes on Wrench to have him revisiting his plan.

Well, maybe this will grant him the opportunity to give a second look around.

He allows himself to be ushered downwards, thinking about the new faces he spotted and his own less-than-hospitable welcome to this city. Somehow this space feels even smaller and less crammed, far more sparse than the bunker across town designed to attend to the needs of a whole community. Wrench still looks for somewhere out of the way that he can put himself, and winds up alongside one of those unfamiliar faces after all. He gives little more than a cursory glance to the woman, intent to move along once everyone's settled and more pockets of privacy show themselves. Unfortunately he never gets that far.

When the stranger next to him begins to shuffle around he casts his eyes on her again, and it's not hard to tell she's on the verge of a panic attack. He could mind his own business, but Wrench knows that terror will spread and the last thing they need is to be locked down here and out of their minds.

He turns on the woman and sets his hands on her shoulders. At 6'4" it wouldn't be that difficult to drag her whichever way he wants, but his grip is only firm until she meets his eyes. When she does, Wrench draws an exaggerated breath, lengthening the time it takes to get the air into his lungs and urging her silently to copy him.

lost

[foolishimpulses]

[ Colin, too, had seen the strange dream, felt another's memories as if his own. What was that, and why had it happened? It all feels quite fantastical, all so real that he is somewhat shaken as well. Try as he might to put on a brave face, he's simply not very good at it. He flinches at each explosion, gritting his teeth.

So he is troubled. But it helps to see a lady in trouble, for it gives him a proper reason to pull himself together, at least somewhat. And Phillippa is Pen's sister, he recognizes her immediately, even if the two have not spoken very much at all. ]

Miss Finch...? Are you alright?

bye bye (CWs in journal)

[rollcharisma]

[Armin spots the panic right away - he's been searching the room for it ever since people began to crowd by the radio. He can't hear over them all chattering, anyway. It hurts him to see someone in distress.

[He stoops by the unfamiliar woman, holding a hand above her shoulder, but not touching yet.

[He speaks in a soft, calm voice.] Hey, there. It's alright. Try to focus on me, would you? My name is Armin. I'm here to help.

pink carnations

[longwillows]

[Kalmiya has no idea why it's funny for this particular woman to be celebrating this particular holiday, coming from a world without any of the countries she's heard of in Sweetwater. But she's vibing with the excessive food consumption, so she giggles anyway as she too piles an unladylike portion onto her own plate.

Interesting how the other woman stumbles over her words. I'll have to ask him. Ask who? For her own name? Does she mean her husband?

Too many assumptions. Assuming that much is not conducive to conversation. Then again, neither is the stifling environment of Sweetwater.

But Kalmiya only has control over one of those things right now, so the assumptions are what she sets aside. Intrigued by the strangeness Philippa exhibits, Kalmiya gives a winning smile in response and laughs again good-naturedly. Her voice is playful but gentle, teasing in a way as to not draw too much attention to their conversation.] Just "Philippa" is quite fine with me!

My name is Kalmiya. No "missus" necessary.

Armin Arlert | Attack on Titan | new player, new character (canon CWs in journal)

[rollcharisma]

1. welcome to the family

[Don't panic.

[He wakes up in an unfamiliar place. It isn't the first time - not by a long shot - but this is different. The scenery here might seem old fashioned to some, but even just the radio on the nightstand seems futuristic and foreign to Armin; the furniture pressed up against the walls, the robe hanging on the closet door, the style of the windows - none of it is unbelievable, but all of it lends to the deep and dreadful sensation that he isn't in the right place.

[He's alone, but there's an empty space in the bed next to him, where someone has clearly woken up first. There's nothing else to do but start moving. Armin wanders cautiously down the stairs and into the living room, still in pajamas in a style that he doesn't recognize.

[He encounters someone in the dimly lit space. He feels sharp, alert, but his voice comes out mild, unassuming, polite:]

Hello. Sorry, I'm...I'm terribly confused. Maybe you could help me. [Assuming, of course (and he isn't), that this isn't the person who's brought him here in the first place. Of course, he assumes he's a prisoner before anything; after all, he should be - he's a war criminal.]

2. food and fun? sounds fake

[Armin doesn't trust it. He's all too familiar with the concept of bread and circuses; what's more, it isn't difficult to pick out who in this town is like him, and who in this town is...

[Brainwashed? That's the only conclusion Armin is able to come to. They're clearly real people, though it doesn't always seem that way...

[That being said, there's nothing to do right now other than play nice and try to figure out who else has been brought here from other worlds. He lounges by the pool with his pants rolls up to his knees, his ankles in the cool water. He doesn't mind the splashes or shouts of the children playing, nor bolder attendees diving off of the diving board. His expression is calm and pleasant, a small smile on his face.

[Observing someone passing by, that smile widens; he greets you easily.]

Hello there. Have you...been in the neighborhood a while?

3. air raid? feels like home

[This is more familiar. The sirens go off, and it seems for a moment that a small panic may break out. The party's host proves relatively effective at getting everyone corralled into the shelter, Armin helping usher people along where he can with calm but firm direction.

[Once in the shelter, children whimper and worry while adults scramble to get close to any radio they can reach. Armin is no different, but he doubts he'll be able to hear anything clearly with everyone chattering all at once. So, he takes up a position against one of the cool gray walls, watching a crowd by the radio, trying to listen.

[Option a: As the radio broadcast ends and things begin to calm, Armin speaks to the person nearest him, keeping his voice low.] Pardon me. If you can tell me - they do have a reserve of water and non-perishable food here, don't they? I'd like to get an idea of the inventory.

[Option b: As the radio broadcast ends and things begin to calm, Armin notices one person, apparently still in distress. With genuine concern, he stoops beside them. He doesn't touch them, but tries to meet their eyes, speaking in a soft voice.]

There's no need to panic. [His smile is kind, reassuring.] All we have to do for now is wait for further instruction. There's no emergency yet.

4. those aren't his memories

[It's like a dream, though that shouldn't be possible. Armin had tried to enjoy the fireworks, though couldn't; they made him think of brighter flashes, greater devastation - not just his memories, but Bertholdt's, maybe before...

[But the memories change, become unfamiliar. Armin loses himself and comes to with sweat on his brow, eyes wide on the sky. His hands tremble. He's lost...something. Someone. He's done something terrible, or...maybe someone else has. Someone else will. It's too late...

[Armin swallows, throat dry. He's been staring like that, mouth agape, for far too long. He takes a look around - notices someone else with the same stunned expression.

[He reaches for them--

[Stops. Pulls his hand back. Clears his throat.]

Sorry, I-- Are...you alright?

2. food and fun... two "nice" little guys

[pressuremakespearls]

[Something about this neighbourhood feels... Wrong, and it isn't just how old-fashioned and foreign everything is to Peeta.

Despite how strange the culture is, the energy at this party is extremely familiar: it's fake. Cheery smiles, idle small-talk, getting excited about new products and fashions and other things that don't really matter. Asking how the kids are as if you actually care. It's just like the Capitol.

It's an environment Peeta loathes; it's also one he thrives in. The smile plastered on his face looks so boyish and genuine that no one would even guess at its insincerity.

And that's the smile that meets Armin's.]

We just moved here recently. Thought this party would be the perfect occasion to get to know the neighbours.

Peeta Mellark | The Hunger Games | Prospective Player

[pressuremakespearls]

I. Smile!

[He wakes up in an unfamiliar room. There is a woman next to him, but it isn't Katniss. He startles, scrambling away from her slightly. He stands up from the bed as quietly as he can, breathing fast as he looks around. This isn't right. There are pictures of him with this woman, sort of grainy and bad quality. There's a dog sleeping in here, too, a Golden Retriever. As he walks to explore the room, he almost trips; his high-tech artificial leg has been replaced with something much more basic, a fake plastic foot on the end of it in what's supposed to be "flesh" colour but looks almost orange. It gives him a limp as he walks around, unused to the difference.

A booklet about an atomic attack... As in, nuclear? Flipping through it, it has instructions on what to do in the event of an attack...

He puts on the robe and slippers and wanders out the front door. All the furniture, the vehicles, the houses, are in a strange style he's never seen before. The colours are odd, like the strange colours of Capitol fashions. It's too sunny. The grass is too green. It all looks so unnatural.

He picks up the newspaper. The date is July 1, 1961. 1961...? That's a very old date... Is he in the past?

He looks around to a stranger walking by, or in the next driveway over.]

'Scuse me... Sorry, I'm a little confused. Might have lost my memory or something... Where are we?

III. Bye bye

[The neighborhood reminds Peeta a lot of the Capitol. Everyone cares about appearances, everyone’s eager to make nice and please. Peeta feels he has to keep up an act, a facade, to fit in here, and worries what might happen to him were his facade to drop.

Everything’s perfect- far too perfect. It’s unnerving. Until the sirens go off. The laughter of Marjorie’s party gives way to much more fearful sounds, and everyone makes for the bomb shelter.

Peeta had been skeptical at first about the risk of a nuclear attack in what seems to be such a peaceful place, but the propaganda about it has begun to seep into his psyche, and now it feels all too real, as everyone around him is in some kind of hysterics. He’s not completely panicked, but he is very concerned.]

Option a.

[He looks to someone nearby who seems upset.]

Hey- are you alright? Are you worried for someone?

[Peeta could care less where his fake wife is, but he imagines other people here care for their families.]

Option b.

[Once they’re trapped in the shelter for a while with no news and no bombs yet, people begin to calm. He eventually gets bored, and sits down against a wall next to someone.]

Does this kind of thing happen often?

IV. Lost in Space

[Does every event in this town go from "fun" to traumatizing in a matter of seconds? Well, with where he comes from, he really shouldn’t be surprised by that sort of thing. Still, when he’s overwhelmed with a series of visions- memories that feel like his- he’s completely shaken. Particularly the one where his fellow soldier gets his face blown off feels far too real, and triggers his own memories of killing tributes in the arena or watching them die horrible, painful deaths.

Coming out of it, he tries to tell himself it wasn’t real, but there are people around crying and distressed, and as he wipes his face of sweat, he discovers it’s not sweat but blood.

He looks at his fingers in horror, hands shaking, heart pounding. So it was real? His breathing becomes laboured. No. No no no no…]

i

[wwrench]

Truthfully, Wrench doesn't mind his community service assignment very much. It's a hell of a lot better than being waterboarded into unconsciousness or injected with nameless drugs. But even more than that, it gives the man a reason to get out of bed when he really doesn't see one any more, and puts him in the center of whatever action happens around the local grocery store. Which isn't very much, but he's been biding his time and keeping his eyes up, and he's found no one thinks twice about speaking their piece in front of a Deaf man.

That's where he's headed — on foot, no less — when he happens to spot an unfamiliar face in a nearby driveway, looking just as confused as Wrench remembers feeling. He could keep walking. Maybe he should keep walking. It's rude, but that doesn't bother him much, and the man isn't likely to find anything he needs in a conversation with Wrench. But he's going to have to cross to the other side of the street, and the man's already speaking and coming towards him. Damn it. Wrench holds up a hand and withdraws the small IBM device from his pocket. He's barely given it a second glance since he's been here, but Dick's insistence on the functionality of the object a while back has at least recently brought it to mind.

A couple of button pushes, and the stranger will see his words appearing on the screen in a slow, halting sort of ticker tape. Wrench taps down a couple of lines and types.

Maryland. Town called Sweetwater. You just got here?

He shows the man the text with a raised eyebrow.

Cinnabar Black | original | prospective player

[flambeed]

1) arrival

[Cinnabar isn't waiting for the person next to him to wake up. rather, he's awake, himself, and rushing outside in his pajamas, his orange bathrobe covering him modestly. at least he thought to throw it on before he flew down the hallway of this house. his house? there are photographs on the walls showing a happy family life and he's in all of them. he shouldn't be married yet, but he is? it's strange. familiarity, without being familiar.

once he's outside, he's looking at everything around him, the freshly cut lawn, the beautiful flower bed, the shiny new car. panic is written on his face. he almost trips over the newspaper in his hurry. stooping to grab it, he pauses and takes note of the date at the top. that's correct, but it isn't. right? augh, his head hurts!]

Excuse me!

[he moves from his own yard, seeking out the first person he sees on the sidewalk. he is still clutching the newspaper]

Wait, please!

2) shelter

[he'd really wanted to try all the food at this party. Cinnabar is, well, more than disappointed when his meal is cut short. of course, there are priorities, here, so he follows the rest of the group to the shelter at the end of the street, since he wasn't at his own home. he doesn't know where his "family" is, but he hopes they are safe and that they will reconnect later.

once the shelter doors are shut, and the ringing in his ears has stopped, Cinnabar takes a deep breath and looks around. everyone's scared, and he is, too, but probably for different reasons than others might think.

he doesn't want to die here, in this strange place he's found himself in. he knows his powers can no longer protect him. he's just a regular human, now, and that is what worries him. he needs to find a way to get home. because here is not home. though, he's realized that he shouldn't talk about where he's from all the time. the people here... don't like that.

nevertheless, he turns to someone close by. maybe you and he were both conversing at the neighborhood party, or maybe you are strangers. either way, he'll speak]

Wish I knew more about what was going on around here.

[it's a carefully thought out sentence, because he doesn't want to get in trouble or upset anyone. he is trying to find out who's in the same boat as he is. surely, he cannot be the only person who was kidnapped and brought to this world. but what he says could also be taken as him not understanding the very real threat that is outside, and wanting to know more about it]

3) wildcard

[hello! Cinnabar is a demigod in his own world, not that it matters. he's about eighteen here, so happily married(?). feel free to reach out to radiodust to plot or ask questions. both brackets or prose are okay, and i will match what you reply with!]

2

[ribticklers]

[Sans has been leaning up against a wall, watching everyone's reactions. He remembers going through this song and dance not long after he got here--and anyway, it's always been a bit familiar in its own way--so he finds it hard to really get worked up about waiting out whatever's going on.

Sans is good at spotting new arrivals. Good at spotting people who aren't supposed to be here, generally. Most of the actual townspeople just don't look all there, in Sans's opinion. So when Sans is addressed, he knows right away this guy isn't from here either. Not the best circumstances for a proper conversation, but that's fine.]

Well, first of all, we're gonna stand around in here until they let us out again. [Not very helpful, probably, except in that Sans sounds very confident this whole bunker situation isn't going to be permanent.]

Ignatius "Iggy" Melville | OC | Prospective Player

[dead_tongue]

smile!
cw: drug mention

Iggy's woken up in a lot of strange places before, but never like this. (The full length pajamas are weirder than waking up next to someone.) He looks around with mounting confusion, spotting the photo on the dresser.

Feeling a disorientation unlike anything he's known before, he gently shakes the figure sleeping next to him.

"Hey. Hey, hi, uh. Did we like... do a bunch of ketamine or acid or something? Am I hallucinating right now?" He sounds downright hopeful, because the alternative explanation is that he's somehow pulled a Back To The Future, and he is not smart enough to be trusted not to screw himself out of existence.


pink carnation

Iggy isn't American. No, but he hails from America's Hat and therefore knows all about the fourth of July - fireworks, bald eagles, Bruce Springsteen - and he's been to backyard barbecues before. He looks dapper as hell as he tries the Tang and then discreetly spits it back into his cup and dumps it in a bush. He tries the punch instead.

"Holy shit," he sputters. "Old-timey recipes are strong. Hey, is that seriously tuna in that gelatin thing shaped like a fish? With olive eye? Because that's some nightmare fuel right there."


miss american pie

Iggy screams when the air raid sirens go off. He claps his hands over his mouth when the other husbands give him a look, but his eyes stay huge and terrified. He is easily directed, first by Harold and then by Dick, hurrying to the shelter without a murmur of protest. By the time he's sequestered in the bunker with all his new neighbours he's crying, and will latch on with panicky tightness to anyone who happens to sit beside him. He's never experienced anything approaching a state of emergency before and he has no idea how to handle it.

"What's going on?" he asks miserably.


lost in space

Funnily enough, blacking out and witnessing fragments of a life that isn't his is the most familiar thing to happen to Iggy since he's arrived. He watches things play out with a mild sense of unreality, too used to finding the thin line between himself and other consciousnesses in his body. He feels the horror, the fear, the confusion... but when he comes back to himself he knows that none of those lives were his own.

He sits up slowly, tasting beer and cigarettes and smelling smoke and hot blood. Iggy blinks and looks around, pushing his hair back with one hand and messing up the perfect formation of curls.

"Hey," he says softly to whoever is nearby. "Are you okay?"


((OOC: happy to match format - prose or brackets are both fine! open to pretty much anything.))

lost in space

[wwrench]

On the rare occasion Wrench actually allows himself to sleep, he only dreams of things that've truly happened. Things he's done, things he's witnessed, things he wishes he could undo or relive... There's no fantasy in his unconscious, only an unyielding sense of regret. That's how he knows he isn't dreaming.

He comes to just as another firework streaks through the sky and explodes in a burst of crackling red. Wrench can taste blood in his mouth and he knows viscerally that it isn't his. He wipes at his lips with the back of his hand and turns a half-circle until his eyes land on someone he's sure he's never seen before. He'd recognize that firey shock of red hair if he had. But everything around him is crimson, even the sky. Is this a newcomer or is this stranger somehow responsible?

Who the fuck are you? he signs, not intending to be understood as much as to intimidate, to draw a hard line in the sand between them.

Michael | The Good Place | Prospective Player

[eudaimonikos]

i. arrival

[Waking up in a strange place is one thing. Waking up at all, when you don't sleep in the first place, is actually somehow even scarier!

At first, he doesn't quite realize what's happening. It feels a little like teleporting somewhere, and also a bit like he has a hangover. All the same, he's quick to realize that he isn't alone here. Michael swears and immediately tries to shove the bed's other occupant away at the same time as he scrambles out of bed himself.]

No! Ugh, so gross - you just stay over there.

[He's not okay with the implications of this! Do not touch him! We will not be cuddling or anything else!

If you've been slotted into another family role, Michael can also be found creeping around to investigate the rest of the house. By that point, he's gone quiet, and he's also armed himself with a golf club he found in "his" closet.]

ii. a pink carnation and a pickup truck

[Michael, whatever the rest of his fake family ends up doing, goes to the cookout. He wants to find out more about what's going on, and he's not going to do that sitting at home!

Fortunately, he's actually pretty well-suited to this. His favored aesthetics fit in fine here anyway, and he can easily lean on a few of his older personas to skate by in the acting department. Sure, the All-Americanness of it is a new angle, but he can adapt! He wanders around chatting, doing his best Leave It To Beaver act.

Unfortunately, schmoozing it up with the locals hasn't gotten Michael much new information. He's heard a lot about his own supposed presence in the town, but the other "dads" aren't very interested in chatting about local history right now.]

Ha ha ha! Oh, man...he really did hit that ball, huh?

[He maintains his voice and smile, while locating someone else who doesn't seem to actually belong here and expressing absolute bafflement and disdain with his eyes. Are you normal, and/or do you care about baseball?]

iii. bye bye miss american pie

[The air raid sirens are honestly a delightful distraction!

At least for a minute. Michael starts to feel a little bad once he's actually down there, surrounded by humans who are genuinely crying and screaming in fear.]

Alright, let's all stay calm. Why don't we take some deep breaths?

[He doesn't know for sure that nothing's going to happen, but it sure all feels like bullshit to him. Anyway - either the bunker will help or it'll collapse and crush them all! Panicking won't change the outcome!]

pink carnations;

[thebugs]

I still don't get it, though.

[ Is Philippa supposed to be with the dads? Oh, no, not at all. Strictly speaking she was hovering just outside of the Dadzone (tm) but Michael caught her eye, and she's aware they're talking about the ball game.

The....ball game....that is played with a ball. Yeah. ]

After they hit the ball, their reward is that they have to run. That doesn't seem fair at all. It seems like a punishment.

"Erik" | Fantome-Stein | Prospective Player

[promisepartlykept]

Arrival

Being woken by sunlight hasn't happened to him in- oh, it must surely be decades. Since before La Garnier was erected. He doesn't recognize it at first, eyes moving behind his eyelids trying to tell what is wrong. When they open in mismatched slits, he immediately claps his hands over his face with a sharp grunt, sitting upright in a single jerk of motion.

The bed is too small. His feet are jammed against the footboard and his sudden movement straightens his legs, pushing his back against the headboard, entirely out of scale with this room. This-

What he sees through the cracks between his fingers is so strange he doesn't lower his hands at first, sure it's only a dream, strange and foreign. And then, as he looks around, he spots the other shape in the bed, and lunges to the other side, dragging the blankets with him as he scrambles to his feet, where his wild black hair nearly brushes the ceiling. Over seven feet tall, he is an oddly-shaped giant, scarred all over, missing most of his nose.

"Excusez-moi, madame!" he starts, his French accented with something farther East, spilling out of him as he backs towards the door. "Pardonnez-moi, je ne sais pas ce qui s'est passé! Où sommes-nous?"

- - - - - -

Haven Street Fallout Shelter

Erik isn't the only man who has to duck coming into the low-ceilinged space, but he is the only one who goes to his knees to navigate it. He even keeps one hand overhead to protect his head as he makes his way to a spot near the shelves, where he can sit and keep his long legs out of anyone else's way.

Until the shaking begins, he's sunk deep in reflection - after all, this is the closest he's felt to home since he arrived here. But as soon as the cans begin to rattle, he reaches out his arms over the people closest, sheltering them as they begin to fall, bracing the shelf with his back to keep it steady.

"Arms over your heads!" he warns them. His English is good, but the Bavarian accent he's learning to shed still creeps in.

Haven Street Fallout Shelter

[fpdg]

Being only 5'1", Kimiko has no issue with the ceilings in the shelter. The only thing she's really trying to navigate for now is avoiding Homelander. The less time spent with him the better right now, because even though her powers were gone the urge to rip his face off were still there.

At least she's managed to find a notebook and pen to bring around with her. It was difficult enough being mute but without Frenchie being here there was no one that understood her unique sign language.

She's standing near the much taller man when the cans rattle and start to fall, covering herself isn't even a thought. When she still had her powers her pain tolerance was significantly higher - she would have barely felt the cans hit her.

Kimiko glances up at him and gives him a smile in thanks.

The Lone Wanderer (AKA Angel) || Fallout 3 || Perspective Player

[wasteland_101]

Wakey Wakey

[Angel wasn't used to waking up on a rather soft bed. She was used to the ground or a mattress that was over 200 years old. Lumpy and uncomfortable. She quickly looked around as she slipped out of bed. This wasn't right. This wasn't her house in Megaton. She didn't understand what was going on.

She did her best to stay calm as she climbed out of the bed. She let out a sharp whistle, not caring about waking up whomever else was in the room with her. She heard the familiar panting of her dog. She knelt down and scratched it behind the ears.]

Good boy. At least you're here with me. Now lets go find my Pip-Boy.

[She went to the closet first and pulled on something that was different from the pajamas that she had woken up in. She made an annoyed sound as she could only find dresses that might fit her. She pulled one on, not really caring about the pattern or fabric choice. She didn't like wearing it. The scars on her arms stood out too much. Her right arm was covered in them, along with the upper part of her left arm. Her left forearm was strangely free from scars.

The scars were varied. Jagged claw marks, smooth lines from blades, strange circular burn marks, and a bullet wound or two. The biggest one visible was near her right wrist. She had nearly lost a hand to a mutated bear. There were other scars on her legs, similar things to what was on her arms. She was also a bit more muscular than the women that the dress was designed for. Years of fighting in the wasteland had given her some decent muscles.

She stepped out of the closet and began to look around the house. She found her Pip-Boy on a stand on a shelf. She quickly put it on, the familiar weight a comfort for her.]

Now what in the fuck is going on here?


All Of the Food Ever

[There was one thing that could attract the wastelander like a magnet. Food. Lots of food. The woman hadn't eaten a proper meal since she got kicked out of the vault nearly 4 years ago. Had it really been that long? She never really paid much attention to the dates anymore.

She did her best to be polite as she nodded to her 'neighbors' and began to grab as much food as she could. She found a place to sit and began to eat. To her, the food was amazing. She had never really had food that wasn't 200 years old or from some mutated animal from the wasteland.]

Oh man...

[She slipped a bit of food to Dogmeat as she continued to try different things and get plate after plate. She didn't care that she was getting odd looks for the amount of food she was eating. Feel free to chat with her. She'll only bite if you try to take her food.]



Hunker in the Bunker

[Angel was used to being underground. She whistled for Dogmeat and began to move with the others. Dogmeat, being a shepherd breed, made sure that any kids were kept with the group. She was thankful that he knew what to do. In the shelter, he found a corner to sit in, allowing some of the smaller kids to cling to him so that they wouldn't be so afraid. She wanted to say something, but didn't.

This shelter wasn't like the Vault she grew up in. It was a lot smaller and no where near as equipped. This wasn't the kind of place to be stuck in for an extended period of time. A couple of days maybe, but not the years that she had spent. She didn't flinch as the ground began to shake. It was strange, but as long as the bunker didn't collapse on their heads they would be fine.]

Bombs? Again?

[Yes, she said again.]

hunker in the bunker

[ribticklers]

[Yeah, that "again" is worth noting to Sans. He looks her over--this is the woman with the dog, right? He remembers the dog at the party, and sure enough, the dog is in here, too, accompanied now by a gaggle of kids.]

Don't remember seeing you in the bunker last time this happened. [There's no accusation there, just curiosity. He keeps his tone lower, so as to avoid too much notice. A question like that is easily explained away, but Sans doesn't know where the rest of the conversation might go.]

Homelander | The Boys | Prospective Player

[justanotherjohn]

I. National Smile-at-Everyone-Week

Homelander doesn't lose time. If anything, he is painstakingly aware of every moment passing, of every tiny, minute bit of information flowing towards him. It's one of the things that makes him a Supe, one of the things that makes him better than all the regular humans; he's operating on with a terrabyte of processing power while they have to muddle along using megabytes.

So when things jag, when the world around him shudders and then reforms itself, it takes him by surprise. And Homelander very, very much does not enjoy surprises.

He sits up with a gasp, his eyes still burning from recently-fired lasers, his ears still ringing with a crowd gone suddenly still, suddenly watchful, a breath away from passing judgment on him. He's no longer in the square, no longer watching a man fall in slow motion, head split apart by lasers. He's in a room somewhere, dressed in hideous pajamas--his suit! where is his suit?!--and this is wrong, this is all wrong, where's Ryan, what did they do to Ryan, where is his son?

He clenches, the instinct to take flight and take to the skies immediate, and... nothing happens. Homelander remains solidly on the bed, the ceiling above him remains intact. He tries again, and... nothing.

For the first time in a long time, panic bubbles at the back of his throat.

"What did you do to me?!"


II. Pink carnation and a pick-up truck

This is terrible.

After an eventful morning of running through all his powers and discovering that they're all gone, Homelander takes to the street. It had to have been Soldier Boy, he's the only one who could have done this to him, and Homelander is going to find that Russian-defecting piece of shit and... well. He's going to make sure Soldier Boy knows exactly where he stands with the new world order.

The block party catches his interest, and he drifts towards it. He's gotten dressed, finding a dark blue shirt in his closet and tucking a small American flag he found in its pocket. His gait is awkward, hitching up with each step, like he's used to a weight behind him that's now gone, and there's this weird ache in his gut that he's not used to. If this is what being de-powered is like, he can't say he recommends the experience.

He takes a burger and a beer offered to him, more to blend in than because he wants them, but the smell--blunted and faint as it is--catches his attention. He devours the burger in a few big bites, and then swigs at the beer as he surveys the crowd. Unbeknownst to him, the beer hits his empty stomach and no-longer-super system like a ton of bricks.

When someone passes him, Homelander reaches out to get their attention.

"Hey. Hey, you. Come here. I have some questions."


III. American Pie

When the sirens blare, Homelander allows himself to be herded into a shelter. He's partially intoxicated for the first time in his life, and the alcohol has made him docile. Once in the shelter, he looks around, taking in everyone else down there with him.

They're so scared, and a memory drifts to the surface.

When people are afraid, it's up to you, Homelander, to reassure them. Your job is to make sure they aren't scared anymore, because you're there, and you'll protect them. Make sure they know that Vought is looking out for them, and as long as you're around, they'll be okay.

That all turned out to be lies, full cloth bullshit, but the instinct is still there. Homelander tries to crack a smile.

"Hey, it's okay! Don't be afraid, I'm sure Vou--the authorities are taking care of things. We'll all be fine." More grinning, until his cheeks start to ache. "I'm sure it's nothing. It'll be over soon."

National Smile-at-Everyone-Week

[fpdg]

( hi! i'm already in the game with sam carpenter but as soon as i saw homelander i HAD to lmfao. sorry not sorry. )

Something is off, Kimiko can tell the moment she starts to wake up. She feels like she did in the hospital after Soldier Boy had... but no that wasn't possible. Was it? She had taken the V, she had gotten her powers back. How could she lose them again after everything that had happened? She had been with Frenchie, they had talked about dancing. So why was she in a bed? Wearing pyjamas that definitely weren't her's. She lays there, trying to remember - something, anything. But her mind is blank, which causes worry to build in her stomach. Where was Frenchie?

Then she hears the voice and her stomach drops, she's suddenly fully awake and alert. Kimiko doesn't even take a moment to consider that off-feeling from earlier she's just reacting, even if it was stupid.

And then she's on top of him, pinning him to the bed, her face scrunched up into an almost feral snarl. Why was she in a bed with him of all people?! What the fuck did he do to her?!

sam carpenter | scream | current player

[requel]

( hey friendos! if you'd like to plot or chat feel free to hit me up via pm or at shookspeare. i'm also down to wildcard absolutely anything. i'm coming off hiatus so rolling with sam having continued being somewhat solitary. feel free to change to prose! )

𝒊. 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌
cw: mentions of mental illness

[ she hates the fact she's getting used to this. use to the insanity of it all, used to the idea that she herself isn't insane. sometimes she still wishes she was, it would make things so much easier. but no, she could get her medication at the pharmacy and so far she hadn't had any hallucinations of her dead father. she can already imagine what he'd say - yelling at her in any reflection to just start stabbing people and fucking up anyone who couldn't give her answers as to what is going on.

but she doesn't want to be like that. she's better than that. at least, she hopes she is, she's had moments of doubt. especially here and now without tara, mindy and chad. she's been careful about revealing anything of her life back home. it was bad enough having people hate her simply because she was the daughter of a serial killer so obviously she was one too. and sure... she had effectively ended an entire bloodline but it was kill or be killed.

sam steps outside the house she shares with norton. she hates how idyllic it looks here, like something out of a shitty movie. she spots someone walking down the sidewalk and waves. she'd never be friendly back home like this, but playing the part of a good neighbour or whatever the fuck meant going against herself sometimes. ]

Morning.

𝒊𝒊. 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌
𝒂.

[ sam has never really been patriotic, never found a reason or need to be. the last party she had gone to she had ended up tasering a douchebag frat boy in the balls for trying to take advantage of her sister. this time she doesn't have a taser but tara isn't here either. she goes to the party, dressed somewhat patriotically. she hates clothes of this time period, they're not practical for her. she wants clothes that are easier to move in, combat boots she can hide a pocket knife in. some of the housewives already give her looks, she can only imagine the reaction if she showed up dressed like that.

when she gets to the party she immediately goes for the beer. she knows she's going to need a buzz to get through this. all the smiling, the small talk like any of this was fucking normal. ]

𝒃.
cw: hallucination, mentions of murder

[ after what feels like an eternity sam manages to excuse herself from whoever she was talking to. she hates this, small talk, smiling. she's never really been good around people, always been a loner. tara had always been the one who had been better with people. better at talking to them, connecting with them. thinking about tara hurts. where was she? was she okay? was she safe? were mindy and chad safe?

sam takes a moment to go back over to where the beer is. she's already got quite the buzz having been drinking on an empty stomach. she's about to reach for another bottle when she notices something in the punch bowl and her entire body goes cold.

the reflection of her dead father stares back at her. ]

No, no... no.

[ sam mutters under her breath. the last thing she needed right now was this.

'hey, sam,' the reflection says. as always, he's in the white shirt and covered in blood. the lopsided smirk there. 'having fun playing house?'

sam's jaw sets. her fingers curl tightly around a bottle of beer, so hard she's afraid she might break it.

'what the fuck are you doing sam?' the hallucination continues, then scoffs. 'come on sammy, you know how fucked up this is. if you ever want to see your sister again it's time to start cutting up bitches! the only way we're getting home is if we kill everyone in this place.'

sam shakes her head, closing her eyes and raising the bottle of beer to her lips. this wasn't real, he wasn't fucking real. this was just her head trying to mess with her. even if a tiny part of her thinks he has a point.

'are you forgetting who we are? billy and sam. team fucking loomis. we could rule this place if...'

sam chugs the bottle of beer in one go before she slams it down on table, causing a few people nearby to look at her. she takes a breath, forcing an awkward smile. before cursing under her breath. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, before turning away. ]

𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒃𝒚𝒆, 𝒃𝒚𝒆, 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒊𝒆

[ she follows everyone else into the bunker, keeping a bit of distance - still shaken up from her hallucination. she crosses her arms over her chest, trying not to think about it. trying not to think about how deep down there is an itch to cause that sort of violence. would it make it easier for her to get home? or would it just make things worse?

she leans against the wall, glancing around the bunker. making note of who was there. she doesn't trust anyone here, doesn't trust anyone enough to tell them about what just happened. or even talk about whether or not just... fighting back would be a good idea (deep down she knows it's not).

she sighs, still feeling slightly drunk from before - wishing she had actually eaten something. ]

𝒊𝒗. 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆
cw: all prompt cws

[ she saw that, of course she did. she's still shaken from the day before and now this? she takes a few moments, trying to collect herself - running a hand over her face in an attempt to keep her cool. but when she pulls her hand back she sees... blood. sam blinks, puts her hand to her fac again even though she knows she's not actually injured. she quickly wipes her hand on her pants in an effort to wipe away the blood. normally a little blood wouldn't have bothered her but here of all places - she knows it means something else.

she looks around, looking for anyone else who might be a little shaken up. ]

Hey, you okay?

[ she forces a smile. pretending nothing was wrong, seeing if they'd bring it up first. ]

𝒗. 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅

( literally anything, let's do it! )

i

[rollcharisma]

[Armin stops.] Hi! Oh, yes. Good morning. [Because it's worth stopping to learn if this might be someone like him, or just another Neighbor.]

I don't believe we've met, I'm...I'm new. [He holds his hand out for a shake.] My name is Armin.

Arthur Lester | Malevolent (Podcast) | Current Player!

[lestercraft]

I. National Brotherhood Week (for Wives + Kids)

Waking up in a strange place with a random stranger is bad enough, but doing it twice, after everything else he's fucking been through here is frankly just insulting.

The motion in his bed jostles him awake with a sharp gasp of surprise, before wakefulness fully kicks in, blind eyes blinking sharply against the infinite darkness behind them - and then he pulls up his knees so he can rest his elbows on them and bury his face briefly in his hands with a belaboured groan.

(Or perhaps it's a noise from the once-spare bedroom, that draws him from his own room and into the hallway with a wary call of "Hello?" before he comes out - inadvertently blocking the only path to the staircase.)

"...God fucking damn it," comes the English mutter

Pink Carnation

[Arthur's there, of course, dressed as best as he can given the circumstances - though with John's help, that's a lot better than it's been in a while, practically black tie attire - which ironically makes him somewhat overdressed.

Which is fair, in his personal opinion. He's still fucking English, this holiday means nothing to him. Even Parker didn't really give two shits about it, for more complicated reasons.

What the end result is, regardless, is Arthur removing his suit jacket to carry on one arm and reclined in one of the plastic lawnchairs, a little away from the main crowd, the perfect study of a Norman Rockwell painting. You can certainly approach, but don't anticipate a warm reception.]

Bye Bye Mr English Pie (CW: claustrophobia-related panic attack)

[When the alarm goes off, Arthur freezes - and when he hears the contents, he's jumping to his feet in surprise. As much as he wants to discount the wider threats to this place, the thought of being bombed is still terrifying.

And then suddenly everything goes into motion around him, yelling and panic and splashing as children get hauled out of the water, someone shoulder-checks him and he goes to the floor with a sharp] Fuck-!

[Getting to the bunker itself is a blur of motion - being shoved and grabbed, dragged along with little warning and no clear direction. He almost falls down the stairs when the throng of people herds him and he can't find his step, and then when everyone's inside it's...

Bad.

It's already hot and immediately gets worse, people's voices and radio chatter and wet noises of towels, screaming children and crying adults, he gets knocked into someone and shoved away aggressively and when he slams into a wall--

And panic explodes in his chest, suddenly he can't breathe through the throng of motion and panic around him and he slides down it gracelessly, one hand clutching a fistful of shirt like if he rips it off, if he can just free his lungs from his fucking ribs he'll be able to breathe again, not this reedy, wheezing gasping that leaves him pale and wide-eyed as he curls up on himself.]

Bye Bye

[dead_tongue]

[Iggy is terrified. He's never experienced anything like this before, never lived through a state of emergency. He's trying not to burst into tears.

That's when he sees Arthur, and the sight of someone in more distress than himself flips a switch inside him.

Iggy pushes his way over and kneels. When he speaks, it's in a calm, low, soothing voice.]

Hi. My name is Iggy. I'm here to help you, okay? I want you to focus on my voice. Breathe slow - you're okay. I've got you, I'll help you.

Just exhale real slow.

Conner Cairo | Fallout: New Vegas | Prospective Player

[courier5]

1. National Everyone-Smile-at-One-Anotherhood Week

The relative softness of her surroundings are at odds with the hard jolt that pulls her out of unconsciousness all wide-eyed and chest heaving with breaths that don't quite satisfy the sudden, urgent need for air that her body is convinced it needs. Conner is no stranger to a bad trip, Wasteland chems didn't come with rainbows they offered a varying degree of violence that ran the gamut of strangely pleasant to still-not-as-horrifying as the real world. It's not through the lens of panic that she views her new surroundings rather with the unfamiliar pang of something else, something far more dangerous. She doesn't try make sense of it as she puts the frame with it's happy family face down, continues to brush it aside as she rifles through drawers for suitable set of clothes (cotton dress, feels as soft as the shade of pink it is) and steps outside, barefoot and blinking at the bright blue sky.

Her eyes land on the newspaper and the pang in her chest spreads, makes her hand shake, makes her mouth go dry as she frantically scans the words trying to make sense of them as her heart beats impossibly loud in her ears. It..it can't be true and yet...here she is, a place before the bombs.

"You gotta be shittin' me." It's not exactly a whisper, not quite a yelp but it is loud enough to make the passerby on the sidewalk look in her direction.

2. A generation lost in space

Curiosity had brought her to the lawn, caution had kept her on the fringes, a lone figure on a park bench whose silhouette made her gender plain and the cherry red tip of a lit cigarette made it easy to disapprove and dismiss her presence. The gall of a lose woman to show up to a family function? The nerve! Still, the fireworks had been pretty even it felt strange to sit still and not flee or reach for a gun she no longer had.

When Conner comes to it's with a hiss and a curse as the nearly burnt out cigarette singes the skin between her fingers. The pain chasing away the fleeting images of..of..a dream? She stands, wiping her hands on her skirt willing away the cold sweat under her arms and on her back.

"I'm learnin' to hate it here." She announces to the now empty night sky.

Generation Lost in Space

[wasteland_101]

"I thought my own nightmares were bad enough," came another voice from a short distance away. She sighed as she ran a hand through her short cropped hair. The faint glow of a Pip-Boy screen could be seen as her arm moved.

Angel sat down on the other end of the bench, making sure to put some space between her and Conner.

"At least my dog was able to come with me. A small comfort," she said with a sigh.

Edward Deegan | Fallout 4 | prospective player

[supportingfire]

0. rewind; skip a beat // processing arrival

Okay. So Edward's had some time to come around to the idea this isn't some weird dream. It's real enough.

He's not sure what to do with that.

Waking up somewhere he doesn't know -- He can deal with it. Everything looking like he's stepped back in time, all the way back to two hundred years ago, back before the war -- It seems fake, but he'll adapt. It's not like he's got much other choice. Even having some kind of family -- all those photographs, all the perfect-fit clothes, all of it -- Freakish, unsettling, but a mystery is still a problem to solve. It's still something actionable.

Looking in the mirror and seeing this face staring back at him? His old face? Intact? His body healed, his voice smooth and easy, his full head of dark hair --

Edward survived becoming a ghoul. He survived the bombs dropping. He's survived the centuries afterwards. He'll survive this, too, whatever the fuck this is.

But it's a hell of a thing, to go to sleep scarred and wake up whole, and not know how, let alone why. Or even where.

Maryland. Sure. Whatever. He's having a hard time believing that. Whatever this is, it's real, but that doesn't mean he's looking at the truth.

I. find the familiar; national smile week

Step one is easy. Information.

After having splashed water on his face too many times, Edward moves on to what's immediately in front of him. He takes his time to pick through the newspaper, he watches TV, he listens to the radio.

To be honest? It's goddamn eerie. The date on the newspaper throws him more than he'd like to admit. 1961? His expectations were set more like 2061. Maybe even 2071. He never lived in a suburb like this, even before he started working for the Cabots, but most things have seemed familiar enough. But when he reads about "the Reds," it's all about Russia, not China. The ads on TV are distinctly lacking anything about robots or nuclear powered cars. The names of political figures on the radio are all unknown to him.

"This is weirder than I thought," Edward mutters to himself as he sits on the couch, frowning at the TV, unaware the words are slipping out. "Maybe Jack was on to something with all that alien talk."

Jack never talked about aliens. Was always rather insistent his work had nothing to do with little green men. But it's always been funny to wind him up about it, and he's trying to cheer himself up a little.

He's restless -- Always gets like this whenever he's unsettled. Edward doesn't stay stationary long, and finds himself gravitating towards the first place he can get hands-on about anything: the kitchen.

Welcome, new housemate. Maybe the smell of a freshly cooked breakfast is luring you to the table. This tall, broadly-built man is making bacon, and eggs, and, yeah, pancakes, too. It isn't exactly making him feel better, but it does make him feel like he has something like a grip.

II. devil in the details; cookout time

Edward tries to remember what the last Fourth of July before the War was like. He can't place it. He thinks he might have spent the day discreetly playing bodyguard as Emogene went schmoozing at a party with her beau of the time. Or maybe that was the year he actually took the day off and spent the day at Fenway Park. It's been a long time.

He doesn't recognize any of the brands of beer. He grabs one at random and regrets it. Seriously, where's the Gwinnett? It's irritating this ultimately small detail is bothering him so much. But it's just another reminder of how badly this is all so close to familiarity, and far enough away from it to be disorienting.

But he's here on a mission, kind of, so he does his damnedest to ignore the feeling. Edward wallflowers it for a bit, taking his time to observe the party, get the lay of the social land. He starts to pick out people who don't fit -- But he's also watching those who fit too well. He's lived with the Cabots for too long, knows better to skip over anyone who's playing the game.

And, for sakes of both types, he doesn't bother disguising that he's watching them. It's courtesy, honestly.

Whenever he finds himself in the periphery of anyone he's been watching, he bides his time for an opportune moment, then speaks up. "Nice day, isn't it?" A bland opening on purpose. Despite his calm, friendly demeanor, he pauses. (He isn't used to his voice sounding like this. It's been a long time.) "Can't remember the last time I've been to a neighborhood party. They do these often?"

III. the sirens call again; miss american pie // CW: nuclear war

So... Those fleeting moments where Edward's wished for something more familiar... Yeah, this isn't what he meant.

The last time he heard sirens like these, he was with Jack out at Parson's. They didn't have a real bunker, but Jack had done such extensive expansions to the basement there that it was almost as good as one. There's a lot of details about Pre-War that are foggy to Edward now, but he remembers the day the bombs dropped very clearly.

He enters the bunker with the rest of the party-goers, and he stands there surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar town with no answers as to how he got here or what's actually going on. On the surface, Edward is unflapped, but underneath he's simmering with restless tension.

Four hours is a long time to hold that kind of mood, and eventually, Edward cracks and initiates conversation with someone near him.

If they're clearly shaken and afraid, he'll take advantage of his height to snag a helmet from a top shelf and offer it to them. "Here. A little extra safety never hurts." It also won't help all that much if there's a cave-in, but he keeps that thought on the inside.

But, if the person next to him is largely taking the situation the way he is -- mostly calm, or at least, collected -- Edward takes a different tack: idle, dry commentary. "Wouldn't hurt them to add some music to the broadcast."

IV. maybe it's aliens after all; lost in space // CW: cigarettes/smoking

Edward wants a cigarette so fucking badly now.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have any on him. He finds a lighter in one pocket, and he doesn't remember putting it there, but he can't help but snort loudly when he finds it. The reason for that being something he ends up voicing as he approaches someone standing not very far away.

"D'you happen to have a smoke? I'm out, looks like. I'll share my light if you do. Typically have the opposite problem..." He chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling in his chest, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.

His eyes flick among figures in the crowd. He doesn't know what the hell just happened, but it's hard to shake, harder than the rest of the past few days. His adrenaline is still thrumming, but there's nothing to fight and no reason to run. Between the lingering taste in his mouth and all the damn stress, he's holding out hope that some nicotine will help him calm down.

4.

[courier5]

"So long as you ain't gonna be fussy about smoking lady cigarettes." Conner drawls, holding out a pack of Slims, slender long sticks of cancer meant for the fairer sex. She's still at a loss when it comes to the details of this place but seeing as she now has all the time in the world to notice things likes gendered tobacco she isn't going to complain...yet.

Kalmiya Longwillow | Original Character (D&D) | Prospective Player

[longwillows]

[ OOC: hello! happy to match format for either brackets or prose, and also absolutely down to wildcard something outside of these prompts! feel free to hit me up at ceesawaseesaw if you'd like to plot something, or PM me if that's your preference! additionally, more info about Kalmiya can be found here and her permissions post can be found here if you'd like. both are WIPs but i'll be plugging at them and i'm happy to answer questions pertaining to Kalmiya if you have them. the gist of her humanized appearance can be found HERE. thank you! 😊 ]


1) JULY 1 ✨ ARRIVAL (closed to prospective "husband"s)

[Summer vacation. It was supposedly summer vacation less than a week ago, and yet Kalmiya has never felt less like she's on vacation. Just an absolute onslaught of nonstop world-shattering occurrences. Even once they've successfully managed their prison break and rescue, Kalmiya finds little respite, neither in sleep nor meditation. It's a conga line of shoes dropping and she's just holding her breath for the next one to fall.

As it turns out, she doesn't have to wait long.

Everything feels wrong when she wakes up. The fabric on her body, the weight distribution on the mattress, the heaviness of her hair, the unrecognizable emptiness beneath her skin and in her chest—something is missing, something is bad, and it takes her only the moment of realizing this to also realize that the body in the bed next to her is not the body of her usual partner.

She sits up bolt straight and spins her hands around one another in a flash of decisive motion, raising her left with hand curled and fingers clenched as if brandishing a stone to throw. The ancient language of the Fey is sharp on her tongue as she moves, unintelligible to most but sounding to her ears like blood and bane, promise and pain.

And then...nothing happens. Just like the life of her unexpected bedmate, the horrible emptiness in her body persists. Heaviness is left in the absence of whatever it is that's gone, though the lack of results from her attempted assault leaves Kalmiya with a few guesses as to what might have been taken from her.

On the outside, she remains stock still, an understated but cold fury in her grey eyes and little else in her countenance. Her left hand remains raised in the air as if bearing an invisible bludgeon. Though her expression shows none of the panic beginning to bubble in her blood, a cold sweat begins to break out around her hairline, hidden mostly by the even cut and frame of her bangs.

A beat of silence. Then, heedless of her own extreme actions just a moment ago, a flirtatious smile curves her lips, her eyes going half-lidded with playful sensuality. Her voice is pleasant, melodic and inviting in its lilting cadence.] Hi there, handsome. Want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?

2) JULY 4 ✨ PINK CARNATION (OTA)

[The smoke stymies Kalmiya's desire to explore her new surroundings in the days between. She pops outside all of one time before the noxious smell and resulting discomfort in her airways tell her all she needs to know about how hospitable the environment is. Likely for the best; she'd covered most of her face with a too-fancy handkerchief in an attempt to conceal her identity, and she wasn't oblivious to the way the neighbors watched her with disapproving scrutiny through their windows as she did so.

So both her adventure and her attempt at a disguise were very short-lived. She didn't even make it off the little road connected to the house.

What isn't short-lived, though, is her curiosity. While it makes her a little sick to her stomach to just walk around with so much skin showing (especially in the facial area,) her new, less gold appearance offers some small shred of comfort. She clings to it desperately as she makes a showing at the party to celebrate a holiday she's never heard of in her life.

And boy, does she celebrate. She can be found partaking of pretty much every party activity:]

A✨ [At the refreshments table, she can be found subtly investigating the beverages in particular, spooning small volumes into her cup and taking long moments to smell them before sipping cautiously. The flavor profiles aren't entirely unfamiliar, though none of the exact tastes are anything she's ever had before.

Once satisfied that none of the liquids are producing unexpected ill effects, she glances around and very pointedly waits for moments of inattention from the locals before beginning to pour some of each beverage into her cup to create an absolutely unholy cocktail of nonsense. Then, noticing the attention of someone who doesn't carry themself like a local, she lifts a finger to her lips in a shush gesture and winks. Don't snitch on her weird behavior!]

B✨ [Playing the lawn game (called "cornhole" here, apparently) with the men. She thinks little of it at first, though she does note their surprise when she asks to join, and the patronizing way they laugh as if allowing her to play with them is a fun joke. When she starts having second thoughts is after her excellent aim earns her enough good shots to put her a little ahead of most of the men, and their laughter slowly transforms from patronizing to bitter—perhaps even threatening, if she listens closely.

And she does. She begins to throw her shots far and wide, laughing pleasantly at her own expense the whole while, voice airy and ditzy but eyes sharp as she watches the men start to relax.] My my, I suppose it was just beginner's luck!

[Seeking an escape, she quickly turns to someone else near the game area and offers one of the beanbags out to them, still entirely too pleasant in tone and smile.] You should take a turn; I think I'm a little out of my league.

C✨ [She is especially enamored with the sparklers, something with which she's only recently become familiar. These contain no arcane artifice to enhance their pyrotechnics, but they're still very pretty. Kalmiya can't resist the opportunity to experience something that feels a little bit magical again when it seems all of her magic has been ripped from her.

She has natural chemistry with the children, which is likely the only thing keeping her from drawing further disapproval for immature behavior; in fact, she's very careful to mind the kids as she plays with them, giving them gentle reminders like be careful, it's hot and don't run by the pool, and fetching more sparklers for them as each stick burns out. She shows them how to dance and spin and draw patterns in the air with the burning lights of the tiny fireworks and laughs in kind approval when they show her their own sparkler tricks. Getting to frolic seems only to be a covert bonus on the outside of the scene.

She's holding a lit sparkler in each hand and breathing a little heavier with exertion when she holds one out in offering, beaming at the prospective recipient.] Here, why don't you try drawing something for them?

D✨ [And then, of course, there's the pool. This is the only spot where Kalmiya shows restraint, though she fills her plate with enough food that some of the local housewives give her skeptical sideways glances while she lounges poolside.

It's just that that's all she's doing: lounging. Legs crossed primly in her colorful sundress and eating from her plentiful plates of nightmarish gelatinous food almost absently as she watches the pool and the rowdy children with clear longing in her eyes.]

3) JULY 4 ✨ MISS AMERICAN PIE (OTA)

[The horrible wailing sound, the electronic communication devices that all flick on in unison, the cacophony of the terrified citizens and the actual description of what's happening—it all flies so far over Kalmiya's head that she doesn't resist being directed by Harold and Dick as they try to contain the chaos, even though her instinct is to stay put and fight against whatever this mysterious threat is. She'd be of no use in combat anyway without her magic.

Still, she's not passive. She does what she can to aid; helps wrangle the children, offers soothing words to the panicked, keeps an eye out for stragglers on the way to the bunker. She presents a remarkable outward calm until they actually reach the bunker and settle in, at which point she is left with too much time to ruminate on how much this place reminds her of the mines beneath her hometown.

When things start rumbling and they're instructed to put their hands over their heads, she obeys without hesitation, but something in her demeanor changes. Her eyes take on an anger that verges on feral in its depths and her jaw sets like it's taking everything in her being not to scream.

She spends the better part of the next few hours seething in restless silence in various manners: pacing along unoccupied spaces like a caged animal; setting right supplies that were toppled by the quake; parking in a corner and simply sitting with her eyes closed and hands squeezed over her ears so she doesn't have to listen to fucking Ron Chapman, one of your official civil defense broadcasters anymore. She doesn't dare risk engaging any of the terrified locals in such a contained and unpredictable space, but her fury exudes from her like gasoline fumes, just waiting for the spark that will provoke an explosion.]

4) JULY 5 ✨ LOST IN SPACE (OTA)

[She's at least looking forward to the fireworks, even though they're a heavy reminder of a very recent and very sad occasion from home. One of many shoes that had dropped before she got here.

Unfortunately, she doesn't get to see much of the show. At least, not the intended one. What assails her senses instead is a series of happenings and perspectives that she doesn't understand, experiences of things that are familiar in the eye of the mind she occupies but which Kalmiya has no frame of reference for. The tastes of the drink and cigarette, the sounds of distant combat with strange bomb-like things, the derisive words for enemy combatants. It feels totally natural despite being totally alien.

She awakes as if from a bad dream, groggy with the smell of copper and smoke in her throat. A faint feeling of nausea turns her stomach to accompany the tension in her chest.

Despite everything that was so unimaginably foreign about what she saw, this is far from the first time Kalmiya has experienced visions of people and places outside of herself. Making sense of it will come later. For now she has to remind her body of where she really is: not in some strange active warzone or surreptitious meeting, but on a very nice picnic blanket spread out over fresh grass, surrounded by the sounds of delighted families and the smells of the goodies in their picnic baskets. She breathes deeply and counts those vivid sensations until she finds herself satisfactorily anchored in the present moment.

Looking around, though, it seems there are others who weren't able to enjoy the fireworks show—or whatever they might have seen instead. She's calm as she approaches someone in apparent distress, careful to move slowly and evenly as she steps towards them and lifts a hand in a mild gesture to get their attention.] Hey. Hello. Deep breaths, it's all right. Here, can you take a deep breath with me?

[She demonstrates! In for three seconds. Hold for three seconds. Out for three seconds.]

4; cw: mentions of blood, death, general freaking out

[ribticklers]

[Sans doesn't swim up from the depths of the vision so much as he bursts through the surface tension desperate and panicking. In his vision, someone's head had been blown off in front of him, left him sticky with blood, and he couldn't move. But now he can, and Sans has never been one to freeze. He sees someone coming toward him and all he registers is human shape, shoulder-length hair and he bolts, twisting backward with surprising athleticism, flinging his left arm out like he's trying to push Kalmiya away from a distance.

Of course nothing happens. His magic is gone. And Kalmiya is too tall to be an anomaly in the body of a human child. And she's talking to him. The anomaly never said anything.

Sans doesn't know what to do with his face. It's oddly blank, for all he remains wire tense. Then he puts his smile back, and hopes it doesn't look too shaky with all these extra human muscles to worry about.] Hey. I'm fine. Fireworks are kind of loud, huh?

Norton Folgate | Torchwood (audio plays) | Current Player

[pharadyne]

II. HOA Party:

Norton goes to every party and always smiles. This one is no different.

"Lovely party, isn't it?" he comments to the person near him with a bright grin on his face. Half the neighbourhood might be involved in a deadly coverup and Marjorie could very possibly literally have dead bodies buried under her perfect lawn, but in public Norton will give them the charming suburban performance they want.

III. End of the World:

Norton lived through the Blitz. He's used to air raid sirens. But this is different. In London, everyone would file into the nearest shelter, wait it out a few hours, and when they'd emerge there'd be a few more houses gone, a few more people killed, but for most people life went on.

This time, however, Norton feels queasy and chilled knowing that once in the shelter no one will be coming out for a long time. And when they do the world won't be the same. Twenty percent of the population gone, that was the government's most optimistic estimate, he knew. And that would be just the initial deaths. Food shortages, critical infrastructure gone, radiation, not to mention the sorts of things desperation and terror can make people do to each other.

Once he's settled in the bunker he seeks out someone. Anyone. Someone he knows or a perfect stranger. Later on he'll be terribly embarrassed by the impulse, but right now he really wants to hold someone's hand.

IV. Visions:

The false alarm has Norton feeling agitated and snippy the next day. Not that he's not glad the world didn't end, but all that adrenaline surging and then no real threat left him twitchy and restless all night. He thinks about skipping out on fireworks. The last thing he wants right now are explosions. But he tells himself he should go. Smile. Put on the performance again.

He can't stop himself from flinching at the first firework, though. It's almost a relief when he feels himself losing consciousness.

That relief doesn't last long, however. And when Norton comes to himself again he's trembling and breathing fast. He glances around to see if anyone else is looking out of sorts or if it's just him while trying to plaster a smile back on his face. It's a feeble and sickly smile, though.

visions

[howtheyshine]

Yellow is not plastering a smile on his face. He is looking incredibly out of sorts. He is also trembling and breathing fast, in fact.

It's luck, really, that Norton spots him, tucked as he is half-way around a tool shed and curled into a ball.

Papyrus | Undertale | Current Player

[spaghettimonster]

Fire Sale (Neighborhood - July 1st, 2nd, 3rd)

[Hopefully it'll never stop being strange, waking up like this. In this body, in this bed, in this world at all. It hasn't stopped yet, at least. Papyrus and his brother have kept their still-new lips sealed on the matter of actually being skeleton monsters from the rest of their implanted neighbors, for all that their collective kidnapper(s) probably know about it. He's gone to some effort with carpentry and painting, making project after project of putting his own touches on the inside of the house to be a little more his.

So it's all the more strange, now, to leave his room and notice things not quite as he left them - the photos on the wall opposite his bedroom changed. Maybe they're only showing him, his 'son' John disappeared from them as tracelessly as Sokka once vanished from Sans's. Maybe they're showing another new face?

Either way, if there's no objection from new housemates or neighbors, Papyrus fires up the grill that afternoon and, between the coals, feeds some of the extra photos to it. No need to have so many of those creepily changeable things hanging around!!

Just in time, too, with the controlled burn the next day. Through the 2nd and 3rd, he makes a point of wrapping a scarf around the bottom half of his face for any needed outdoor ventures, with another in his pocket in case any new arrivals didn't know to cover up.]

As American As The 4th of July (BBQ - July 4th)

[The sun is shining, birds are singing, and on days like these, the entire neighborhood is peer-pressured to attend the HOA leader's party. There are far worse things that a person could be doing on a day like this, than enjoying the mixed smell of grills and pool and sparklers as they try to fit in.]

Ah, it's another great party. So many... incredible, hot, greasy meats. You know they're great when they're grilled and still greasy.

[He says this with a particularly fixed smile, and a probably-obligatory hamburger on his plate, with an equally probably-obligatory bite taken out of it. Of course he's about to eat more, just like any other red-blooded American man. But maybe he's going to drink more of the punch and eat more of the fruit and gelatin snacks, first, and work his way up to that weightier food.]

Back to the Bunker (Bunker - July 4th)

[One upside to the sudden orderly march to that bunker again, is that this time his car isn't being left abandoned on the side of the road as he takes radio-mandated cover. It's safely back at home---away-from-home, in the garage, with all the tools to repair it if nothing too bad happens. Even more fortunately, he has a half-full glass of water in hand and a plate of snacks he's been picking at!

Still. For all that that's a fair bit of upsides, he's accustomed enough to living under dread of lethal human attack (one way or another) to hope for more. The last time they were all ushered into hiding out, he happened to run into his brother. He doesn't exactly hope for Undyne or anyone to find themselves here, not when he knows she might have an even harder time fitting in than him, but...

Well, he's looking around and making note of every face he can, searching for hints of familiar features within human ones.]

Sights To See (Fireworks - July 5th)

[After the interrupted barbecue's harmless sparklers carried around by children running about, Papyrus hadn't thought to expect the fireworks to come with any abrupt hallucinatory side effects! But then, he hadn't expected the ball drop back in January to either, and just look how that went.

Not that he has a chance to think of this immediately, not when he's thrust into the sight of different lights flying overhead. A conversation of human life minutia, punctuated with a voice and name he recognizes from 'movie nights'. A conversation over some hazy sight of blood, and more newly familiar voices. The flashes of Norm and Marjorie in the odd waking dreams is enough to chill him as he shivers back to wakefulness, and he makes sure to fix a smile as he addresses whoever's nearest.]

Nyeh heh... Heh. I... feel like I've never seen anything quite like that before! What a show.

(Wildcard - Anytime)

[Want another prompt for later in the month, now that we're already later in the month? Hit me at this account or swirlingflight to chat!]

sights to see; thread cws: blood, memories of death, gore, violence against (not actually) a child

[ribticklers]

[Sans hears something--doesn't even process that it's a voice he's hearing, let alone that it's Papyrus's voice--and he bolts, pulling back with the kind of blink and you'll miss it speed Sans has always been theoretically capable, of, heavy emphasis on the theoretical. He feels like he's been tied down, stuck staring as a human gets his face blown off. He hasn't seen that one before. He doesn't remember seeing it before, anyway. (Did he put a bone through the anomaly's mouth once?) All his instincts scream to move, to run, because Sans is nothing if not an effective coward, and so the strange human war memory doesn't release so much as it snaps like a rubber band, sending Sans flying back.

At the same time Sans is moving he's flinging his left arm down in a motion violent enough that there's no doubting if Sans had his magic he'd be slamming Papyrus into the ground hard enough to knock off HP if Papyrus didn't react fast. Of course, there's no magic here, so gravity remains as it should be. Sans's heart is hammering in his ears and he can't quite get his mind around the sound. He feels detached, not sure where or when he is. Remembering he's in a human body right now is another hurdle he hasn't even approached yet.]

"Yellow" || Malevolent (Podcast) || Prospective Player

[howtheyshine]

II. A pink carnation and a pickup truck

It's his neighborhood debut, after a very rocky arrival. Biting both his 'parents' in the first twenty minutes after he woke up before running out of their house in a panic yelling threats and obscenities meant... well, it meant he spent some time in front of a TV and then more time in front of a TV with haldol in a human system he barely knows how to use.

It cowed him a little.

Between that and the horrible reeky smell in the air that his 'parents' insisted, insisted was woodsmoke... He's not sure what he's allowed to think or say or do with anything here. Being honest gets him in trouble, asking questions gets him in trouble, arguing gets him in trouble. So he takes as much food as he can fit on a plate and finds himself somewhere to sequester himself to eat. Whether it's a toolshed, a treehouse, behind a bush, or somewhere else entirely, it's not hard to spot him hiding. He can't help people-watching, even if he's trying to avoid being Perceived.

At some point his parents are the ones who catch him, give him a quiet lecture about manners, and point him toward activity with a light push.

III. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie

As soon as the chaos starts, he does exactly as he's told, wide-eyed and frightened and intensely confused. He has no idea what's going on, no way to know how normal or strange this is except the reactions of the people around him, which generally push him closer to panic. As soon as the bunker door closes he gives his family the slip to find somewhere he can crouch out of the way and try to piece some of this together somehow.

At least until the earthquake starts, then he's curled into a ball with his head pulled inside his button-up t-shirt, breath seesawing with fear. Lungs, as it turns out, are fucking annoying to need.

IV. A generation lost in space

He was pointing with genuine awe at the first firework when he passed out. When he wakes up, he runs before he's entirely conscious. His assigned parents yell after him, concern and confusion in their tones, but he ignores them. He's busy trying to spit the taste of cigarettes out as he rubs red away from his cheek and onto his hand.

At some point in the process of running for it, he trips, and lands hard breath blasted out of his chest as he slams onto the sidewalk.

Yellow rolls onto his side with a tiny wheeze.

Lungs are really fucking annoying to need.

II

[promisepartlykept]

It's a large bush, but the Creature never expected to be sharing it when he slips into its shadow, just wanting away. Away from eyes that widen but don't ask questions at the sight of him, his scars and his height, the the way his hands don't match each other any more than his eyes do and the clothes don't really fit. Away from being under the sun with his own bare face.

"... Herregud," he mutters when he spots the still shape among the branches. "Excuse me, I did not see you here."

julie kostenko || dead by daylight || prospective player

[friendzied]

pink carnation;

[ if there's one way to get every judgey janice talking about you, it's aggressively not fitting in. julie's discovering that right now. ]

[ it's not that she's intentionally going against the grain, it's just that she's always hated wearing skirts and dresses and the only pants were in the other dresser. honestly, in her own estimation? she looks pretty hot. a black and white cuban shirt tucked into khaki pants cinched tight at her waist, unbuttoned down just past her chest for a daring reveal of her tank top. julie catches a few words as she passes other wives — something about her being young and a disdainful whisper about her being masculine — but honestly she can't find it in herself to give a fuck. ]

[ it probably isn't helped any when she uses a fence to smack the lid off a beer bottle, because she soon finds herself having to shrug out from a heavy hand on her shoulder — a middle aged man trying to give her some kind of... comforting? talk??? and direct her to where a couple of eerily similar wives are sitting — locking eyes with someone who also looks a little uncomfortable or out of place. ]

Thanks, but I, uh-- [ shit fuck shit um ] Gotta ask about a recipe, bye!

[ and she beelines it to this stranger. please help. please. ]

bye bye;

[ honestly? being surrounded by a palpable sense of panic is familiar enough to be, for a moment, comforting. though instead of the ever-present whisper in the back of her mind she'd gotten so used to, it's air raid sirens and some old guy on the radio talking about how they might get bombed? which is significantly less comforting. ]

[ julie takes the opportunity to snag a burger and ushers a couple of children ahead of her. is she scared? yes, very, but she hides it well. plants herself on the ground with her back to the wall, knees pulled up, wishing she had her walkman here. ]

So we just... Sit here and wait?

lost in space;

[ when she comes to, her hands are shaking. ]

[ it's... new. not to say nothing's every scared the shit out of her before, plenty of things have, but she's never had a bunch of deeply harrowing and confusing memories shoved into her head. it takes her a minute to come down, deep breaths, a hand pushed through her hair. and when she looks up it's like it never even fucking happened. everyone's just... going about as normal. ]

[ no, wait. not everyone. someone just across from her has that same harrowed and confused look on their face that julie can only assume she has on hers. she rushes over, reaches to grab their arm and pull them in so she can speak in a hushed voice. ]

You saw that, right? [ urgent, doing her best not to stare at the people around them. ] What the fuck was it?

wildcard;

[ no i haven't had this post open for like six weeks, i don't know what you're implying. regardless if you wanna hit me with something i haven't put here, go for it, i'm easy! feel free to pm me first if you want to hash something specific out too. aaand i'll match format if you have a preference because i really don't. ]