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silentspringmemes2024-07-05 11:54 am
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TDM NO. 4
TDM № 4 : July 2024
Part I; Chapter 7. Duck and Cover
Part I; Chapter 7. Duck and Cover
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.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.
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.”
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!
Homelander | The Boys | Prospective Player
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
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?!
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Homelander has been so caught up in his own internal anguish that he hasn't even noticed another person in the room. When she hits him, she catches him completely off-guard, and he goes toppling onto the bed like a wet paper bag.
And that's wrong too! No one should be able to hit him and move him that easily, no one! He makes a furious, choked sound, and starts trying to fend off the wildcat on top of him.
"Get off me!" Acting on instinct, he tries to summon his lasers, but all it does is make his eyes bug out.
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Kimiko rolls off the bed with him, holding him down on the ground as she glares down at him. She may not have her usual strength, for the moment she has the upper hand at least. She wants to punch in him the face, to rip his face off to do something. But for a moment she pauses, something about this was so off. Not just him but the entire situation.
Where the hell was she? And why was she with him of all people?!
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This is embarrassing. No lasers, no flight, no super strength, and he's been taken out by a woman half his size. Homelander doesn't believe in God, but if he did, he'd be thanking him for having this happen somewhere out of the public eye.
Now that the woman on top of him has stopped thrashing around--although weirdly not punching him, huh--Homelander recognises her.
"It's you!" He reaches up to try and shove her off of him so he can sit up. "What did do do!"
This is Butcher's fault, then. It has to be! The little cretin finally managed to actually be more than a mere annoyance and did something that is, all due respect, pretty impressive.
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'I didn't do anything. What did you do?!' she signs, even though in the back of her mind she knows he won't understand her.
What type of fucked up Vought plan would put her in a bed with Homelander of all people? ...in a room that looked like something out of one of the old movies she loved so much.
'What the fuck?!?' her eyes narrow as she signs again, tilting her head a little to look around the room more, without fully taking her gaze off of him.
arrival
When she starts sighing at him, Homelander huffs a breath out through his nose and rolls his eyes. "Speak English."
Foreigners, ugh.
He does manage to catch what she signs next, or at least the gist if not the exact words. Turns out 'what the fuck' is fairly universal, regardless of language. "I don't know. This is something one of your kind would do, not mine."
Now that they're both standing, he feels more confident. He's taller and heavier than she is, and if his powers are gone, hers seem to be as well. Otherwise, Homelander is pretty confident she'd have killed him when she tackled him. He points at the closet across the room.
"I'm going to find something else to wear. I will punch you if you try and attack me again."
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When he says he's going to look for something to wear she rolls her eyes over exageratedly before turning away. If he doesn't have his powers she isn't too concerned about whether or not he could actually land a punch. She looks around the room, it really does look like something out of an old movie. It's a little bit creepy, there is something so unsettling about all of this.
Her attention then goes to the framed photo that the sun is glinting on. She squints as she moves closer to get a better look and then... if Kimiko could speak she would have sworn loudly. Was that a picture of her and Homelander? Together? Smiling?!
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While she rustles around behind him, Homelander digs through the closet. It's full of clothing, all of which is sized to fit either him or her, but it's all wildly out of date. He pulls out a suit and frowns at it before tossing it on the bed. "This looks like something an old man would wear."
And Homelander is categorically not an old man! Nope, he's young and vibrant and in the prime of life!
He keeps looking, refusing to acknowledge that he's looking for his Supe suit, and that not finding it is sending worms of unease crawling up his spine, when something changes behind him. Kimiko doesn't make any noise, but something catches his attention--the vibes in the room, perhaps?--and he turns around.
"What'd you find?" He approaches to get a better look at the picture, and has to squint to see it because he keeps his distance from her.
"Ugh. That's some terrible Photoshop."
Maybe it wasn't Butcher? That picture is more like something The Deep would try and pull.
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She shoves the photo at him before going to one of the night tables, looking through the drawers, looking for paper and something to write with. When she does find one she quickly scribbles and then holds up the paper for him to see.
𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠
Then she writes again.
𝑊𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐹𝑈𝐶𝐾 𝐼𝑆 𝐺𝑂𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑂𝑁?!?!?
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Whoever did this did an amazing job. He looks... happy.
He scoffs at Kimiko's first note once she gets his attention.
"More for me than you. Something like this," he smacks the photo with the back of his hand, "could really hurt my numbers."
As for the second note, he shrugs. "I don't know any more than you do." He pulls a dress out of the closet and throws it at her. "Put this on. I'm going to recon the rest of the house."
And he leaves the room, taking the photo with him. He'll do recon, but really, he wants to look for more of these photos.
He wants to see what else someone believes would make him happy.
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Pink Carnation
"Sure thing, handsome," he replies easily. Sips his punch and saunters his tall, skinny ass over. Offers up a friendly smile while his eyes pick curiously over Homelander's face.
"Not sure I can answer any of them. I'm here for the free food."
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Okay. Some ground rules clearly need to be established.
"First off..." He holds up one finger, and damn, it feels strange to not be wearing gloves. "I'm not sexually attracted to you. Second, where's the nearest Vought office?"
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"First off: that's cool. Second: no idea what that is. I haven't heard the name before - is it like, a health thing? Are you a nurse or something?" It's a genuine question - there isn't an ounce of artifice about Iggy.
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"No, I'm not a nurse. I'm... I'm Homelander?"
He hates how his voice pitches up at the end, how weak it makes him sound. But why hasn't anyone recognised him?
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"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't recognise the name. Uhm. I'm from Canada? Maybe we just don't have your... music? Up there."
Because who else would have a name like that besides a musician?
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Homelander closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. The alcohol is coursing through him, and he should probably be far more careful about what he says, but he's never been a man known for his restraint.
"I'm not in a band. I'm a Supe." He opens his eyes then and looks pointedly at Iggy. "You know, a Superhero? You have those in Canada, right?"
They probably do. The Maple Syrup Bandit or something? Mooseman? The Notorious Dam-building Beaver Brigade? That sounds about right.
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"Ohhhhh, like cosplay? Or do you work at an actual park, like, oh! Like Disneyland? That's so cool!" He's very enthusiastic, genuinely delighted by these possibilities.
"The amount of work you guys put into the costumes and stuff? So impressive."
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Homelander closes his eyes again, and sighs. Of all the possible times to not be able to fly away and escape, or use his laser eyes to end the conversation.
"Sure. Yes, I work in a park."
The comment about the costume mollifies him a little. "Yes, my costume is excellent. I wish I had it here."
Because he sure as shit wouldn't be wearing normie clothes if he had his Supe outfit around!
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Another glance around, this one considerably more calculating.
"This looks like the past to me," he says softly.
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1. CW: offensive language because awareness ain't a thing where she's from
Conner is leaning against the bedroom doorframe having had the benefit of arriving hours before...blondie...if the time on alarm clock is accurate. Her eyes remain locked on the grown-up version of Vault Boy as she takes a bite out of the apple she had found in the kitchen before SOMEONE made their presence known.
Homelander: oh FINALLY, someone I can be gross around and she won't care
"Who the fuck are you?" Not someone he recognises, certainly!
in my heart of hearts i had hope that was EXACTLY HOW THIS WOULD GO
"Conner. Who the fuck are you?" No sense in playing coy with names. Being under the same roof meant they had to share that much at least.
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"I'm the fucking Homelander." Obviously.
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"What is a Homelander and why are you the version that fucks?" Maybe he was like one of those sex bots they had over at the Atomic Wrangler. In any case this place's version of an apple was infinitely more interesting at the moment, is this what food was supposed to taste like?