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silentspringmemes2024-07-05 11:54 am
silentspringmods) wrote in silentspringmemes2024-07-05 11:54 am
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!
Kalmiya Longwillow | Original Character (D&D) | Prospective Player
1) JULY 1 ✨ ARRIVAL (closed to prospective "husband"s)
2) JULY 4 ✨ PINK CARNATION (OTA)
3) JULY 4 ✨ MISS AMERICAN PIE (OTA)
4) JULY 5 ✨ LOST IN SPACE (OTA)
4; cw: mentions of blood, death, general freaking out
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?
no subject
For now she puts that aside, though. That's something very colored by her own perspective and it's not helpful at the moment. The details that are more immediately relevant are his very tense face and body, the resultant tremble in some of his muscles, and the telltale clamminess of someone in such a panic that they might as well be somewhere else.
Much as she wants to directly call him on his bullshit, she's not stupid enough to risk drawing more attention to the situation by doing so. There are plenty of people around who aren't panicked, which means they don't know anything strange happened, and Kalmiya has seen how strangeness is received here. Her tone remains soothing as she kneels down on the grass right where she is, feeling it wisest not to get too much closer yet.] Yeah, they are.
I know you're fine, but I think you should take a few deep breaths anyway. Smell all this nice summer grass, yeah?
sans, who is very normal: man it's so embarrassing to need breathing exercises in this situation
Yeah, sure, okay. [He takes the deep breaths, because she's right that he needs them. He feels silly that he needs them--he should have himself under better control than this--but he remembers now that he's out in public, not just in front of this one stranger but many of them, so that takes priority.] It's a nice night, huh?
[He's pretty sure it had been, at least.]
such a normal thing to think!
A soft, deceptively pleasant laugh leaves her at his comment. Not reading his thoughts but apparently of a similar mind, she answers,] Well, it was.
no subject
Hey, could be worse. We've got stars to look at and not concrete walls. [Better than yesterday, right? If he reminds himself he's outside, it really does help.]
no subject
Interesting. Very interesting.
He's right about the stars, at least. Kalmiya snorts a breath through her nose that might be a laugh, though it's a little sour with derision as she thinks about their time in the bunker.] Yes, that's a good point. It wasn't terribly scenic down there.
[Then she turns her head back in the direction of the fireworks display. With the amount of smoke now hovering in the air from the festive explosives, it is actually getting a bit hard to see the stars, at least for the moment. Her expression is neutral as she ventures in a guileless tone, without looking away from the hazy night sky,] So, what did you think of the show?
july 1, because it's so dang funny
This means he gets a solid look at those hand movements, hear that unfamiliar language, watch the way she just... freezes up, gaze murderous.
He has no idea what any of that was supposed to be, but his fight or flight reflexes are telling him he's lucky that she stopped. The tension in the air, in her form, suggests that was almost an attack, even if he didn't recognize it as one in the moment. His own muscles are locked, ready to leap out of bed and away, but -- She stopped. She isn't attacking, so he isn't going to run. And he finds himself unwilling to make the first move, so he waits, watching her with narrowed eyes and surging adrenaline.
The demeanor shift does not make him feel better, and neither does her question.]
I wish I could tell you, [he says, but then frowns deeply. He didn't expect his voice to sound like that. Slowly, he sits up, stares at the unfamiliar pajamas he sees on himself as the blankets fall back. The stare intensifies as he sees his hands. He lifts one, palm up, and when he turns it over, there is a noticeable tremble.] I... really wish I could.
ngl i was cracking up writing it so i'm glad u think so too
She particularly tracks the motion as he lifts his hand. The unsettling pleasantness in her voice remains when she deigns to speak again, an uncomfortably long moment after his inability to answer her question.] If you're lying to me, it will be the last thing you do.
[Her gaze returns pointedly to his shaking hand.] But I don't think you are.
[Perhaps in a show of good will, she finally lowers the hand with which she'd failed to instigate her attack.] Is something wrong with your hand?
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Wrong... [he echoes in a mutter. He's not sure how to answer that. "Wrong" as in, it shouldn't look like this? Or "wrong" as in... something not functioning right? Or...
Instead of answering properly, Edward goes ahead and gets out of bed, makes his way towards a vanity on the other side of the room. He's tall enough that, in order to get a proper look at himself, he has to plant both hands on the desk and lean over.
He hasn't seen the face staring back at him in two hundred some-odd years. The surprise of it actually makes him recoil a little. He straightens and turns his back to the mirror. He... can't deal with that right now. Not when there's someone else in the room -- someone he doesn't know at all.]
There's more wrong than I can begin to count. [Yeah. Sure. Let's put it like that.] Don't you think?
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Finally he answers her, and she opts to stop sitting around as well, sliding out from under the covers with poise so practiced that it's rote.] Yes, obviously. We've been kidnapped or something. There's plenty wrong with—
[And then she gets close enough to catch a glimpse of herself in the vanity's mirror, concealed mostly by the man's very tall form. A quiet and unthinking,] What the fuck? [leaves her as her eyes go wide and she abandons both her previous sentence and practiced grace to rush to the vanity (and her unknown companion as a consequence.) She shows no hesitation in trying to nudge him aside a bit with her hip to get a better look at her reflection. Again, with more emphasis,] What the fuck? This is—
[Wrong. Yes, there is quite a lot wrong.]
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She hurries to the mirror and he's already stepping out of her way, though he isn't fast enough to avoid that hip nudge. It's a detail that gets filed away but in the face of everything else, it barely registers in the moment.
Given her reaction to her reflection...]
Sounds like we have more in common than expected.
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She keeps poking and prodding at herself in a way both disbelieving and frantic, at first not even seeming to notice that he spoke again. What she eventually says doesn't sound like a response to him at first as she's running her hands through her strangely heavy hair.] This isn't what I look like. This isn't—
[Stomach twisting and eyes wide, she quickly turns back to him and points in accusation, though all she seems to be accusing him of is what she's realized between his reaction and his words:] This isn't what you look like. Right?
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He sure as hell doesn't feel calm. There's still a tension running through his entire body, ready to move, to do something. But he isn't the type to run off into the unknown -- especially into the unknown -- and this is important. The fact that this woman has been changed somehow, too...
Plus. It's kind of ingrained at this point. Someone near him being energetic and agitated in his general direction just makes him level out. He's lived with the Cabots too long.
Speaking of, he should probably try to redirect that accusing energy away from himself. He hopes she realizes they're in the same boat and therefore should probably row together, not against each other, but just in case.]
Where are you from?
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Her gaze falls to her own pointing hand. It's the exact color that she sees in the mirror. If this is an illusion, it would have to be an incredibly thorough one. There's part of her that wants to cling to that possibility. But her chest is too empty, her head too quiet; it's only now that she realizes how quiet. There's nothing else for her thoughts to reverberate off of, no tether to the Celestial Plane nor ever-watching observer of the Feywild. There's nothing. Just her.
Once again her expression changes, and with it her body language, her shoulders wilting as sadness and fear come clear as day into her eyes. Her hand goes limp but doesn't fall back to her side just yet.] I...
[Another brow furrow. Her face becomes a bit more guarded, but her answer is quite candid.] I'd prefer not to say too much about myself yet. Sorry. Nothing personal.
[However, she recognizes the general shape of this gesture as one of at least temporary allyship. So, mouth pulled halfway into a frown, she adds,] But I can tell you that I've never seen anything like... [This time when she points, it's over to the compact radio.] That, where I'm from.
w-w-w-wife guy~
Any comfort that could have given would've been temporary at best, but the unfamiliar woman is not even fortunate enough for that. After days of evading sleep, Wrench has finally collapsed. He's only been there a couple of hours, passing out without dinner after another long night of searching for anything that might explain his partner's disappearance. As far as this town is concerned, though, it's as if Grady never existed at all.
His dreams grant him another glimpse at the man, as strong and alive as he'd been just a few short weeks ago. Maybe it's some relief to Wrench when the tremble of the mattress pulls him up from them. Though the consolation of cold abandonment doesn't last much more than a second. Wrench senses he's not alone even before he turns completely on the woman occupying the other half of the bed. It's not as much of a shock this time around, which probably makes the man more culpable than he deserves to appear. Wrench is already rolling his eyes as he slips out of bed and raises his hands in a placating gesture of innocence.
It's bad enough when he's expected to cobble together an explanation for the newcomers; it can only be that much worse when this particular stranger has woken up to the two of them sharing a bed. His little IBM messaging device is on the nightstand, and he grabs it and starts punching out lines of text.
Don't freak out. I'm not a part of any of this. I won't hurt you.
👰🤵
The eyeroll, for one. As if this isn't an unexpected reaction somehow. That's not weighed terribly in his favor, but the peaceful hand gesture offsets it enough to give her pause, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he reaches for something on the nightstand. She's beginning to analyze what's in her periphery for what she might be able to use as a weapon when he starts...typing?
The confusion in her expression deepens into a narrowing of the eyes and a twist of the mouth. Though she's reluctant to take her eyes off of the man himself, curiosity gets the better of her and she lets her attention flick down to the device and the message it delivers to her. Why would he type instead of speaking? There's really only one answer: because there's something preventing him from speaking. Precisely what that is has Kalmiya stymied, though, and she doesn't have enough information yet to guess any further.
That's not her priority right now anyway, even if it is a point of interest (it could be owed to some sort of surveillance, after all.) She looks back up from the device to take in the appearance of the man a little more intently. Exhausted. Haggard. But uninjured, as far as she can tell.
"You could be lying," she points out, though she still appears more baffled than offended, "but I appreciate the sentiment."
The hand that had been poised for violence unclenches as she instead sweeps her arm out to the side to indicate the rest of the room without ever looking away from her surprise companion. "What is 'this?' What are you not a part of?"
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Wrench slides to the edge of the bed, aiming to show the woman the text on the phone while simultaneously blocking her view of too much else. As she speaks, her words transform into a steady ticker-tape onscreen, a living transcript of every word. He studies it before spacing down a couple of lines to continue.
Could be. If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it before you opened your eyes.
Not very reassuring. Also perhaps not the most believable, since he woke second. But Wrench continues on.
Far as we know? This is Maine, in the 1960s. We were brought here somehow, but this town thinks we've always lived right here.
How much of that makes sense? You know Maine? The United States?
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She accordingly reads his responses as he types them out for her, but the information from those is being juggled with other things. Implications. Foremost being that she thinks she has the answer to why he isn't speaking to her; secondly being just how far away she is from home now. One of these things is way more existentially disturbing than the other.
Apparently loathe to admit her ignorance, but seeing no way to believably fake familiarity, she makes a face very much like she's just sucked on a lemon before answering. "I'm not familiar with either of those names," she answers, her even tone much less palpably bitter than her expression. Then, drawn to the topic that's easier to swallow than being ripped from her world, she turns her attention back to the man's face as she points to the device, seemingly more understanding of this than of anything that's going on with the town. "Does that device show you words because you can't hear me?"
Blunt, but she thinks it better to ask than just assume. It will be easier to communicate if she knows for sure, and it seems like they're going to need to do a lot of communicating in this situation.
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Right. I'm Deaf. This is like an instant messenger device.
She probably doesn't know what that is, does she? Wrench glances up, then keeps typing.
You can write messages and send them to other people. It also takes speech and puts it into text.
For the rest, Wrench realizes he's going to have to back up. He's strangely glad that this isn't his first experience with someone who's not familiar with the current geography of Earth. It's still nearly impossible to believe that there could be people brought here from other places. But then again, he supposes it's no less impossible than the fact they're here at all, and that his former deceased partner was once here as well, alive and with no knowledge of his own death.
The United States is on the planet Earth. The 1960s are old for me. I was brought from the 2010s, but there are people here from even earlier who think this is like the future.
I don't know how we got here or why. Not everyone here was brought here like us, and if you talk to the wrong person about what's happening they'll say you're crazy and try to punish you.