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!

full navigation

Comments

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.

[requel]

[ when he says he new that pings her, so far it seems anyone who's new is displaced or trapped or whatever the fuck she is. she's probably been too careful in how she talks about that with people as she adjusted to being here.

she keeps the smile in place. extending her own hand to shake his. ]

Nice to meet you, I'm Samantha.

[ it feels weird calling herself samantha instead of just saying sam, but she's still doing the whole trying to blend in thing until she's figured out if she can trust people yet. ]

[rollcharisma]

[Blending in until you know who you can trust; yes, Armin's been doing the same. He has a bit of a questionnaire he's taken to running through. It starts with this:]

Have you been in the neighborhood a while?

[requel]

Yeah, a couple of months.

[ she's careful with her answer, just in case. though her gut is telling her that he's probably like her. she hasn't seen any new people that are actual... residents? townies? she doesn't know what they should be called. ]

[rollcharisma]

[Armin usually goes for "locals" or "neighbors" in his mind. He doesn't love having to categorize people, and he feeling as though he sees someone as less human than he is, but...he's been forced to do both for a long, long time now; he's used to it. The neighbors certainly seem...less real, somehow, than those from other worlds.

[And he still can't be sure whether Samantha (common name, as far as he can tell) is one of those "neighbors" or if she's a transplant like him...]

Really! That's pretty recent. [At this point, he tries to catch her gaze, lower his voice a fraction - not enough that someone who wasn't paying attention might notice, but maybe she is paying attention. He sounds just a little more serious.] Where did you come from?

[requel]

[ she picks up on the tone of voice changing, how it gets lower. but she's still wary of anyone and everyone here. ]

New York, California before that.

[ she tilts her head, taking him in. he seems normal enough... but that doesn't really mean anything here. ]

What about you?

ii b

[justanotherjohn]

[As it turns out, alcohol introduced to a currently non-Super system reacts with said system a whole lot faster than you'd expect! Homelander used to be able to put away enough liquor to give an even dozen normies alcohol poisoning before he even felt tipsy, but now? He's two beers in and damn near reeling.]

[Besides the more obvious symptoms of being drunk, like the hitch in his step and the way he sways back and forth when trying to stand still, Homelander's guard is also down. He'd never let himself get this intoxicated around other people or other Supes, never, because of what could come bubbling up when he does. Case in point: when he sees the young woman staring into the punch bowl, her eyes going wide and glassy, he recognises something. That's what he looks like, when the Other Homelander comes to talk to him in the mirror.]

[Homelander shuffles over next to her and looks into the punch bowl too, but all he sees are their reflections. His, fortunately, isn't grinning and saying cruel things to him, which is more of a relief than he thought it would be. When the woman starts, he turns towards her, a deeply uncharacteristic expression of... almost sympathy on his face.]

What did you see?

[requel]

[ sam turns to face him, she's still trying to ground herself. wishing she had brought her pills with her so she could down a few more. it's been so long since she's felt that edge, that pull to the darker side of herself. the side that wanted to just cave in and listen to everything billy said to her. that wanted to just lash out and hurt people, to be the monster so many had written her off to be. to cut up as many bitches as possible until she could get home.

she digs her nails into her palm and forces a smile. ]

I... don't know what you mean.

[ her mind whirls a little, she doesn't know him. she's guessing he's a new arrival. was she really that obvious about seeing something? she hasn't told anyone here that she's medicated, norton knows but so far hadn't asked her about it. she also hadn't told anyone she was prone to hallucinations and violence - the former part especially was something she wanted to avoid. she hadn't even told anyone back home.

she can't help but flick her eyes towards the bowl again. but this time, thankfully she doesn't see billy in it. ]

[justanotherjohn]

You looked like you were hearing voices.

[Homelander smiles, cheerful and reassuring, too drunk to realise that this is NOT something most people want to talk about. Hell, he wouldn't be talking about this at all if he wasn't intoxicated himself!]

It's okay, that happens to me sometimes too. Sometimes I need to give myself a talking to, but it's usually in a mirror instead of a punch bowl.

[He looks at the bowl too, and nope, still just reflections.]

Nobody there for me. [He laughs, the sound jagged and not really funny at all.] Guess I'm doing fine!

[requel]

[ she stares at him for a moment, unsure how to respond to what he's said or his weird energy. the fact that a stranger has caught her out like this, is strange. she's used to people back home thinking she was crazy but that's because they saw all the online bullshit about her and saw her as some sort of psycho killer. sam runs her fingers through her hair and sighs.

maybe it's the buzz from the alcohol or maybe the fact that she actually doesn't mind that weird energy of his on some level. ]

My dead dad... that's who I saw.

[ she says 'dad' like the word leaves a bad taste in her mouth, because it does. she hates it, hates that part of her. hates that he's a part of her. she thought she had moved on from that... but apparently not.

she grabs another beer. ]

[justanotherjohn]

Ah.

[Homelander nods like that explains everything, and when Sam grabs another beer, he helps himself as well.]

My dad isn't dead, but he's frozen, so he might as well be. He's also a piece of shit.

[Shrug! So there's that!]

Sometimes I see a different version of myself in mirrors. He's a better, smarter version of me. He's the me I should be.

[Note: not 'the me I WANT to be.' Important distinction, even while drunk.]

What happened to your dad?

[requel]

[ she has no idea what he means by frozen but she's too buzzed to question at it right now. but at him saying his dad was a piece of shit she can't help but smile a little and holds out her bottle to clink with his. ]

Cheers to shitty dads.

[ sam picks up on the distinction. probably because she gets it in a way. billy's voice wasn't what she should be but it was what people expected her to be, what she sometimes expected herself to be. that ever-present urge to commit violence, the thrill from causing it. the rush from killing someone. ]

He was a serial killer.

[ it's the first time she's actually said that here. if she had been sober she probably wouldn't have but a part of her thinks this guy would understand... maybe.

or maybe the alcohol has her just not giving a shit anymore. ]

He got what he deserved.

[ her eyes flick back down to the bowl as if expecting billy's image to pop back up and glare at her. but there's nothing. ]

pink carnation | a

[dead_tongue]

[Standing prettily near the makeshift cooler, sipping a cup of punch, is someone who looks both perfectly at home and utterly out of place. Six-one, ginger hair neatly coiffed, Iggy is dressed impeccably for a summer barbecue. (Maybe a little too impeccably.)

He watches as Sam goes for the beer.]

I asked what was in the punch. Dark rum and light rum. And the secret ingredient is apparently champagne. You know. In case you don't like wasting time.

Although if I die of sudden liver damage, tell my wife I don't know why we're married.

[requel]

[ it's hard not to notice how impeccable dressed he is. even compared to the people who she's figured out are locals. if she wasn't so buzzed she might think it a bit suspicious.

but he's honestly got her attention with the punch ingredients.

she tilts her head. ]

Only if you tell my husband the same thing.

[dead_tongue]

[He grins, disclosing teeth that make him look a little bit like some small bitey animal.]

Deal.

You know, it seems unfair to suddenly be living the American Dream and I never even got to wear the dress and throw the bouquet and all that. Total ripoff.

[A dramatic sigh. Life is so unfair.]

You look like you know what a smartphone is. Would that be an accurate assumption?

[requel]

[ sam wasn't much of a romantic person, the thought of missing out on a wedding hadn't even occurred to her. she had been a bit more wrapped up in the whole finding herself here thing. especially when the world she came from had seemed so... normal. but she laughs a little anyways.

at his question though her eyebrow raises. ]

It would be.

[dead_tongue]

Oh thank god. [He's not feigning his relief.]

Do you have any idea what the hell is going on? This place is... old. Weird.

[requel]

[ she gets herself a glass of punch and then makes her way over to him. she's been very careful with who she's talked to about this before, she had no idea who she could trust. and honestly... she wa still struggling wrapping her head around all of it. ]

I have no idea. I've been here a few months and I have no fucking clue.

2b

[pharadyne]

[Norton flits around the party, smiling and chatting, but he's tuned into the whispers and social undercurrents enough to notice when there's a disturbance in the background buzz of conversation nearby and looks around to see the cause. Most of the time it's been nothing that concerns him but this time, this time it's his wife.

He makes a polite excuse to the person he's talking to and weaves his way through the crowd to the drinks table.]

Hello, dearest, you're looking a bit peaky, heat getting to you? Maybe you should come have a sit down.

[requel]

[ hearing norton's voice, sam turns to face him. she's still breathing a little bit heavy and her nails are digging into her palms. ]

Huh? Oh uh... yeah. Yeah.

[ she runs a hand through her hair. ]

Too much heat and beer.

[pharadyne]

How about some shade and a nice iced punch--of the non-alcoholic kind--to cool things down?

[He lightly touches her elbow to try to steer her away from the crowd before any more attention is called to them.]

[requel]

Sure.

[ she forces a weak smile and let's him guide her away from the crowd. she's grateful this will be easy enough to pass off as heat-related but she wishes she had her bottle of pills with her right now. she wants to just down a handful of them. ]

[pharadyne]

What the hell was that about? [He murmurs, still smiling for the benefit of anyone watching. Nothing to see here, just a solicitous husband making sure his wife is taken care of.] Something happen? There's always something terrible happening around here, and not just the iced beer.

[Maybe not every day, not all the time, but often enough that Norton's braced for something terrible all the time now. Strange events, poisons, deaths.]

[requel]

[ sam groans slighty and runs a hand through her hair. how does she explain this? honestly, it was probably something she should have told him earlier, she knows that. but it's not like she talked about this much at home either. not even tara knew about this.

and for once it was nice to have people look at her and not see a troubled woman or the person they had decided was a psycho killer. ]

I... saw something in the punch. It probably was from the heat but...