TDM NO. 1

[silentspringmods]

TDM № 1 : December 2023
Part I; Chapter 1. Fires We Don't Put Out

premise & faq rules application invite requests activity NPCs calendar

Hey, neighbor, welcome to the very first 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. 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. Right now there are at least 20 slots available to the general public.

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, and uncanny valley. IC consequences can involve anything from social shunning to sleep deprivation torture, brainwashing, 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. Although this TDM has been opened for everyone to enjoy, I ask that you be respectful of the work I've put into cultivating a very specific environment. You have full permission to borrow this setting/premise for PSLs focusing on those things.

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

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

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 December 1, 1960.

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 1960 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 1960 are allowed, and no weapons more powerful than a hunting rifle or handgun can be brought with them. One weapon per character.

II. Death of a Salesman

You haven’t had much time to acclimate to your new life—maybe a day or two at the most—before there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, a man in a hat and a brown two-piece suit smiles at you, holding a briefcase in one hand and a brand new vacuum cleaner in the other.

“Hey there! My name’s Charlie and I’m here to tell you all about the latest in vacuum technology. Is the man of the house home?”

Regardless of what you say, Charlie the vacuum salesman finds a way to barge into your home and set up his briefcase and vacuum in the center of the living room. He insists that everyone in the family join him to watch, and then the demo begins as he tells the family how inadequate their current vacuum is and how the dirt it leaves behind will make you sick and make your wife look like she can’t keep up with running the house—but if she just buys this vacuum, she’ll be the envy of all of her friends, and isn’t it great timing that there’s a Christmas special on this very unit right now?

He tells the family he’ll give them ‘a moment to think on it’ while he fills up the water canister for the steamer function in the kitchen sink. Characters can hear the faucet running and then shutting off, but the salesman doesn’t emerge with a water tank—he emerges with a butcher’s knife.

“You took too long!” He announces. “I better get to the next house!”

With that, he charges, and begins to attempt to slice or stab whoever’s closest. You’re in luck, or at least it initially seems—it’s two or maybe even three against one. But once you attack him, you’ll notice something odd—the salesman doesn’t seem to react to being sliced at or stabbed, and if your character has a gun, gunshots don’t stop or even slow him. Shooting him in the head, cutting his jugular vein, or beating him on the back of the head are the only ways to kill him - good luck!

Should your household manage to kill him before he kills you, something even stranger happens. The moment he takes his last breath, lying in a pool of his own blood, there’s a knock on the door. If characters ignore it or say “one moment please!”, the knocks get more and more vehement until the hand is practically banging on the door. If they still ignore it, the neighbor strolls around to the window and looks in to see if they’re home, cupping her hands to the glass— but doesn’t react to the dead body. Instead she just smiles brightly, gives an enthusiastic little wave, and points to the door.

When characters finally open the door to let her in, they’ll notice that she’s holding a mop and bucket, smiling brightly.

“I thought you could use a little help cleaning up the mess!”, she says, barging past just like the salesman did before her. At no point does she stop smiling, or seem to register that it’s a dead body—she just starts mopping up the pool of blood, occasionally dunking her mop into the soapy pink water of the bucket, never referring to it as anything other than the vague “the spill”.

If characters ask her for help disposing of the body, she’ll bring in her husband, a similarly cardboard figure who assists the ‘man of the house’ with digging a grave-sized hole in the back yard and dropping the body in. The next day, the ground is undisturbed.

III. We'll become silhouettes

Whoa there, Neighbor! I hope you and your picturesque new family didn't get so comfortable you lost sight of the looming Red Menace. No, it's not just confined to the silver screen: the Communist threat is everywhere, maybe even in your own home—and the skies above. Around 1:15 PM on December 20th, they hear the sound: the air raid sirens clustered like bananas atop the tall poles dotting the city come to life like singing frogs on a bank, sending out long, drawn out calls in a chorus of overlapping pitches. The radios in every room crackle on as if by magic, and a man's transatlantic voice reads the announcement:

"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 . . ."

If characters are at the high school, teachers will usher them out of the classroom and down a single packed cement staircase in the direction of the basement, past a yellow and black sign on the wall over the hand railing that reads FALLOUT SHELTER. They don't visibly panic—but it's clear to almost everyone that the teachers are just as afraid as they are, if not moreso. They've simply been deliberately trained not to show it, though there is a quality to the eyes that training can never reach.

The portable emergency radios echo off of the cement floor and stacked barrels of drinking water lining the walls opposite unopened boxes of survival rations. Teachers call roll in strained voices, accounting for every student left in their care—and then, once everyone is in, the heavy metal door to the shelter is closed, shutting out the aboveground world as Principal Jones tells everyone to stay quiet so they can hear the portable radios.

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 community fallout shelter beneath the Sweetwater Fire Department. It is up to each "couple" 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 under the fire department, 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. A woman breaks free of her husband's arms, screaming that she has to get her son, but a firefighter keeps her from climbing back up the staircase more and more people stream down.

Regardless of where characters choose to shelter, they are trapped there for the next five hours, 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. There's no place like (your new) home for the holidays

What a stressful week–even if the townspeople don’t seem too phased by it. In fact, they’re acting as if nothing’s happened at all, and will laugh off any suggestion that anything different might be the case. The neighborhood Christmas party at the grand neocolonial home of HOA president Marjorie Taylor proceeds as planned on the 22nd of the month–Characters’ wardrobes, of course, already contain some cocktail attire, but if it doesn’t suit their tastes, they can find all of the latest fashions on display in the completely normal department store.

Punch made by Marjorie herself is served in a tremendous green Tupperware bowl, though those who would prefer a simple cocktail will have no trouble finding one on any of the bar carts around the house. Mistletoe dangles from the arch leading to the secluded hallway lined with doors to the guest room and downstairs bathroom, out of the sight of those who might judge a character for stealing a kiss from someone other than their new spouse. Married couples dance in the living room while their friends perch on the couch like an overloaded liferaft to watch. The air of the room is bright, jovial, loud - the red threat looms in the dark unknown beyond the windows, but for the moment, all is well. Enjoy yourself, neighbor!

V. Slip a sable under the tree

Three days after Marjorie's successful neighborhood Christmas party comes Christmas morning. When characters head down the stairs (or step into the living room on the same floor, if they're the 'child' of one of the newly introduced couples), they'll find the fully decorated Christmas tree that greeted them upon their arrival now has a few presents wrapped in metallic reds and silvers resting at its base, one for each party in the household, addressed simply with From: Santa.

The catch? The wrapping paper is impossible to open, the ribbons are impossible to tie and uncut, until everyone sits down as a family and opens them together in a true representation of an old-fashioned American Christmas morning.

Characters will receive 1 extra item from their homeworld abiding by the starting inventory guidelines—but the item has to be deeply personal, and something that they're uncomfortable with others seeing... which, judging by the similar reaction their new housemates have to their own presents, almost seems to be by design. It could be a compromising photo, a piece of subversive literature, a relic of who they were and things they'd rather remain hidden... but whatever it is, they've now been seen with it.

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!

Comments

TDM QUESTIONS

[silentspringmods]

Please read the premise and FAQ before asking, and please direct setting and mechanics questions here.

[rootlessly]

Is there any way to talk down or restrain the salesman, or is the situation always that either your character or the salesman has to die?

Questions for Dick

[silentspringmods]

Here your character can ask brief questions of Dick Clark, the town police chief and Civil Defense officer, if they take shelter in the municipal bunker he's directing. Characters will need to keep it short and speak up - he's not in a position to have long conversations while he's overseeing things, and the din of the bunker makes it more difficult than usual for him to hear things. He stands tensely, no more thrilled about it than anyone else, but seems to be keeping a handle on the situation. If he's not making eye contact with a character and they're not in his immediate range of vision, they will need to raise their voice to get his attention.

[ These will be in a Q&A, not thread, format. ]

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus wants to know if there aren't any puzzles around the bunker. Maybe not activated yet?

Illya Kuryakin | Man From UNCLE (film) | OTA

[redperilled]

I. Arrival (outside Illya's home):
The house had undergone a thorough inspection once Illya had woken up. Or, more precisely, he had upended everything from the bedroom down to the foyer, trying to look for answers as to why he is here, how he is here, and who might be responsible for it. Some sort of tranquillizer, he suspects, though to what purpose? Why bring him to this house?

The handbook is another curiosity, dated 1960 when it ought to be 1963. Not too far off, but enough to be concerning. Unfortunately, Illya's hunting turns up no bugs or listening devices, and no more answers than he had to start.

There are clothes, at least, in his closet (or whoever's closet this may be), and so he dresses and steps outside his door. Wary. Assessing the situation.


III. The Firehouse Fallout Shelter:
This, at least, is a familiar situation. Though he is used to the voice on the radio being in Russian, or German, not the smoothly accented American voice he hears now. And, he suspects, his own accent might be less than calming while everyone is huddled together. So the Russian stands off to the side, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of the shelter. Ready to wait out the alarm.


IV. The Christmas Party:
Illya is not really a party person, as it were. But he's had enough suspicious glances from his neighbours over the past few days that he feels he at least make some effort to blend in. As much as a six-foot-five blonde Russian can fit in, in a place like this. He hangs off to the side, sipping his punch and watching the people mill about, hoping to hear something that will give him a clue as to what this place is all about.


WILDCARD:
[find Illya in and around the neighbourhood and say hello! feel free to DM with any questions]

III (also im super canonblind, sorry in advance)

[inaxorable]

Raskolnikov does not consider himself to be a man prone to hysteria. He is logical, intelligent, rational; certainly not the sort of person who loses their wits when faced with an unknown situation. But the stress of the alarm and subsequent rush to this basement had put him him on edge, and he’d found himself pacing back in forth with his hands jammed in his pockets.

The minutes drag by, and he grows increasingly impatient, until he storms over to the nearest person. This happens to be a tall, blond man leaning against the wall who at least looks like he knows what’s going on. Well, that makes one of them.

In quick, sharp Russian — he doesn’t know how it is these Americans understand him or how he understands them, but inquiring about it had quickly proven to be quite useless — he asks, “how long does this last?”

Arthur Lester | Malevolent | OTA

[lestercraft]

I-A. Arrival (Good morning!)

Arthur wakes up slowly, with a groan and a shift that's more of a scrunch as he curls in on himself in lieu of stretching - and then things begin seeping through to his unconscious mind, something wrong.

He can feel his left hand; his foot too. He's definitely not wearing the tattered, ancient clothes from the underground city; and why the hell is he under a blanket, where-?

He sits bolt upright, sudden and fast and scrambles back immediately and feels his shoulders practically slam into the metal bedframe, making him wince sharply. "John?" He can feel his eyes moving, flickering wildly in his sockets as he tries to look around, but - nothing. He's still blind. "John, what the fuck-?!"


I-B. Howdy Neighbour!

Well, this was going to be utterly horrible.

When Arthur does leave the house, eventually, because he needs to breathe; and while it might be hard to tell the source of the cold, calculated look of someone not to fuck with on his face, it's almost certainly not helped by the white cane he's using, that he's very clearly not used to yet, because he's hip-checked another mailbox and only found it with his left hand when it flails out for something to grab onto as he stumbles.

And when he tries to overcompensate and avoid them, he's dangerously close to curb - enough that he also stumbles on that and onto the road.


III. Who Needs Shelter? (CW claustrophobia reaction)

He certainly didn't mean to get swept up in the crowd heading for the fire department's fallout shelter, but someone had grabbed his arm and swept him along into the crowd, and he's been too jostled and disoriented to right himself and get loose, someone trips on his cane and wrenches it out of his hand, he can feel his breath quickening as he's shoved and nearly falls down the fucking stairs, and then-

Well, it's not quiet, but at least in the shelter everyone's stopped fucking moving. And as humiliating as it is, he has to keep both hands out to try and work through the masses without crashing into anyone, cautiously trying to find his way to a corner where there's no fucking people so he can breathe.

I-A

[greenzone]

Well, John doesn't answer him. But from through the wall he can probably hear a piping voice yelp as someone wakes up. And then, pitchy and indignant, "What am I wearing?"

Sans | Undertale | OTA

[ribticklers]

[OOC Note: Sans's human form looks like this!]

A; Good Morning Sunshine December 1, home, for unfortunate potential wives
[Sans doesn't recognize the ceiling above him. He should probably do something about that, but the fog of sleep and general malaise leaves him staring at it for longer than he probably should, waiting for it to warp back into something familiar. It's only when he processes the heat of another body next to him that he whips himself out of bed.

Or he tries to, anyway. He's used to sleeping on a mattress, and so he misjudges the distance and takes three or four ungraceful steps forward as his legs hit the ground all wrong. Spinning around means dealing with a heavier, more solid body than he even knows to expect, and so he stumbles on the turn and hits the ground in a way squishier manner than he was expecting. This is all too much to deal with; his eyes are wide and he's all bristled up like he expects an attack. (He'll have to learn to keep this human body under control, but he's hardly started processing that he's in a human body.)

There's someone else here. That's the important part.] You climb into occupied beds all the time, buddy?

[Not that it's his bed. But he knows he wouldn't climb into a bed with a human.]

B; We'll Become Silhouettes December 20, fire department shelter
[Sans, dressed in his blue hoodie and the still unfamiliar clothes he found in his closet (with shoes, because it turns out human bodies don't like going around in slippers all the time in winter, it's cold), is leaning up against the wall of the shelter, watching everyone else. Watching the ones he's pretty sure are from here, most of all. A woman screams for her child. A firefighter holds her back. An old lady sits by herself with a stare a thousand miles away.

That's not an unfamiliar look. The fear isn't unfamiliar, either. But he doesn't know, exactly, what's going to happen here. Some of him doesn't really understand why he bothered to shelter at all.

(Because that's what he always does. Because he's good at running away.)

Sans looks bleakly amused by the whole situation, then, when he looks at someone nearby who seems like they're probably not from here. (He's starting to be able to tell. The natives have a look, like they're not all real. It's weird.)]

This your first time? [You know, cowering in fear in a shelter from vaguely defined horrifying threats.]

C; Slip a Sable Under the Tree December 25, home
[As soon as Sans found out the mysterious present couldn't be opened--which was as soon as it showed up, naturally--Sans had been at once curious and deeply suspicious. It isn't until everyone happens to be in the room and someone starts opening their gift without a problem that Sans realizes it's supposed to be a typical family Gyftmas (no, Christmas, it's Christmas here) morning. Maybe if he leaves it alone, then after everyone is gone, it'll be unopenable again. But he can't just leave it unknown. He wants to be subtle about it, and he is. He opens it like it's no big deal.

But inside is a knife. He looks at it in the box. And he doesn't move.]

D; Wildcard
[You can find Sans around the neighborhood if you want. Talk to me at maiiau if you want to plan something out!]

A

[queenofkur]

[ The goddess couldn't remember having ever slept that well. There aren't any beds in the Underworld, it's so comfy! What surprises her is hearing a man's voice talking to her. Could it be her emotional support golden sheep trying to wake her up? Maybe she's late for work...

She stirs and sighs, before opening her eyes. That ceiling... T-That's not the Underworld at all! It most certainly does not look like Chaldea either. Did Dumuzid do that? She turns to the source of the voice, and: ]

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...?!?

[ Blinks. Blinks. Eyes widen. Face grows red. Panic increases exponentially. She remains silent for a couple seconds, stunned. And then... ]

Interloper! [The pillow upon which she was sleeping so far is getting thrown his way.] Villain! [Now that's the book on the nightstand that's flying straight towards him.] Pervert!

[ She's grabbing the lamp now. It's really a blessing this room has plenty of furniture, she's not about to run out of stuff to throw at this absolutely shameless individual. At least Sans got experience avoiding stuff, right? ]

vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original — historical/(secret) revenant | husband

[m1895]

[ vasiliy was born in 1910 and served as a 'good cop' interrogator in yezhov's NKVD from '36 to '40, tasked with emotionally manipulating prisoners into signing falsified confessions under the belief that he had their best interest at heart. when the commissar fell out of stalin's favor and was executed, so too was vasiliy - he was arrested in the middle of the night, interrogated, and shot dead in the basement of the lubyanka in which he had worked the previous day.

but for reasons unclear to him, his story didn't end there. he reawoke lying on his back in the snow in 2015, unscathed, as though he'd never been shot at all. over the past three years he's been coming to terms with the way he was disposed of, slowly destalinizing, and trying to cope with the overwhelming and omnipresent guilt that follows him constantly. to avoid being detected and executed again, he trained as an EMT in Russia and then applied for an American work visa; as of this canonpoint he's been working in Chicago as a municipal EMT, perhaps with a vague sense that he's at least doing something to balance out the unfixable cosmic wrong of his actions.

specific prompts below, shoot me a pp bluehellgazette or dm #redmaresociety on discord (or just shoot a pm!) to plot! ]

I.

[m1895]

I. All of my folks hate all of your folks, it's American as apple pie!
arrival.

A.
[ Vasiliy awakes to barking.

It's never been an unusual thing to hear on the streets below any of the flats he's occupied over the years, but he knows before his eyes even open that this time the source of the noise is in the room with him. And the mattress feels too soft. It feels more expensive than the one he sleeps on. He stares up at a ceiling significantly less smoke-stained than the one in his apartment—and then a split second later, he becomes aware of the rest of the room, and the motionless figure beside him.

His heart catches in his throat as he all but lunges out of bed, immediately fumbling under his pillow in search of the gun that would be there if he were at home in 2019 —his hand finds cool metal and a massive wave of tension leaves his body as he wraps his hand around the grip. Thank god. His gun, at least, is where it should be; he quickly shoves it down the front of his pajama pants and steps around the still-barking dog to snatch the larger of the two bathrobes off its hook and throw it on while the other party wakes, relocating the firearm to one of the deep terrycloth pockets just in time to lock eyes with the person these photos—and their matching rings—would suggest he's married to in this world.

I'm dead. I must have died. I died in my sleep and came back again. ...In suburban nuclear-age America with a wife and a dog he has to assume knows him even if he doesn't know it, based on its lack of aggression. It seems to be his, based on which side of the bed the dog bed was on. ]

Who are you?

B.
[ Vasiliy has always felt neutrally toward dogs, regarded the ones he worked alongside with respect. They're intelligent, loyal, unwavering workers, brave—everything man should hope to be.

But this beagle is none of those things. His 1960s counterpart had clearly been keeping it for no other reason than companionship—a hound! A hunting dog! In the middle of American suburbia! No wonder it constantly barks and digs and chews, the thing is probably bored.

Sometime after the first strained introduction, Vasiliy sits on his knees on the kitchen floor with the little dog in front of him, holding the tag on his collar up to the light to examine the engraving.

REX
VASILIY ARDANKIN
AR-4-6743
13 Pleasant Valley Dr.

'Rex'? Seriously? It's American enough to make his skin crawl, and the thought that others will think he named the dog that is simply unbearable. He decides he'll come up with something better, even if these people do extend their red panic to the poor dog too. In the meantime, he'll just be referring to him as the less offensive the dog, such as when he notices the dog trotting over to one of the two eating at the table. ]

Do not feed him. The dog has no manners. [ Just a bourgeois housepet that does nothing but eat food he doesn't earn and play... A decoration. ] He needs to be trained.

Sokka | Avatar: The Last Airbender | OTA

[carniravenous]

I. Arrival

[Sokka allows himself approximately one minute of disorientation before he grabs his boomerang and propels himself out of his room. Everything here is wrong and eerie and entirely unfamiliar. That wouldn't be so bad, if he weren't alone. But his sister is nowhere to be found; she isn't here with him, and neither are their friends. Which means they're somewhere else, and Sokka isn't with them, and that means after his failed plan and the loss of troops — and his father — to the Fire Nation, Sokka is also failing them.

By some stroke of luck, his boomerang is here, and he picks it up and holds it as though his life depends on it, sneaking out of his room and tiptoeing his way down the hall. It would make sense, if everything were clad in an ugly shade of red — if this were a prison and not some weird living area — but this isn't Fire Nation. This is nothing that Sokka knows, and it makes him feel unsteady.

If you happen to be his not-so-lucky assigned parents, then you may hear him creeping around the house. If you try to see who he is, or what he's doing, he will round on you in a fighting stance, boomerang poised to be thrown. Sokka is fifteen-years-old, but the expression he wears is determined. He doesn't know what an atomic attack is, and he's never seen a Sears catalog before, but he knows war.]

Don't come any closer.

II. Fight with a Salesman

[Sokka has a lot of qualms with this new life that he's supposed to be living, but as he throws his boomerang and misses his target, his biggest complaint is the clothes. Back home, his Water Tribe clothing allows freedom of movement; it allows him to fight. It's clear that no one in this crazy place has put any care into designing clothes to be functional. His shirt is too tight in the armpits and the thick fabric of his jeans keep him from being able to sprint around the room the way he wants.

Are you a parent, checking on your assigned child? Or a neighbor, who happened to hear the commotion? Either way, if you happen to take a look at what's causing the racket, you'll find Sokka, boomerang in hand, attempting to rip off his jeans while he dodges a very serious knife attack from a salesman.]

Almost — got it —

[He doesn't ask for help, even as he nearly trips while he tries to shake his legs free, but feel free to jump in. Or you can watch and observe as he swings his boomerang like a club, trying to keep the salesman at bay.]

III. Holiday Party

[Sokka is uncomfortable in his party attire, but that's nothing new. At this point, he's decided that he needs to learn more about this place before he comes up with any grand plans for getting out, and that means trying to fit in. The party itself feels like insult to injury; not only does it make him miss his sister and their friends, but the weirdly polite and stilted way that people talk to each other — like they don't know anything meaningful about each other, like they don't even really care — makes him homesick for his tribe. Water Tribe celebrations are village-wide, and meaningful; they aren't — uncomfortable and stilted, like this feels.

Even the way people shake hands seems to be so...empty. There's no clasping of arms or meaningful squeezes. Just shake, and move on. For the first time, Sokka is glad he's considered a child, instead of a man who has passed his coming of age ceremony and fought in many battles, because at least no one is trying to shake his hand.

He's walking around, listening to conversations, occasionally telling a lame joke of his own, and after a while, he makes his way to the food. One dish in particular catches his eye, a tuna casserole that doesn't look appetizing at all. He sticks his finger into it, then makes a face as he pulls it back to look at the substance.]

Is this supposed to be...fish?

[He's very suspicious, and he's torn between trying it out of morbid curiosity and wiping it in a napkin...]

IV. Wildcard

[Throw something at me and I'll roll with it! Or feel free to PM me if you want to plot!]

I

[ribticklers]

[Sans does hear someone creeping around--and while this isn't his house, shouldn't be his problem, he's here now and he doesn't want to be caught by surprise. Turning the corner to find a kid with a huge boomerang, though, that's still pretty surprising even if you're expecting something.

Sans doesn't have any weapons on him. He's still in the pajamas he woke up in, plus the blue hoodie he found sitting in his closet. The look in this kid's eyes--that's determination. Sans doesn't think he's bluffing about knowing how to use that boomerang. But it's a living expression. Determination, but not some creeping thing meant only for killing. So maybe talking will work. He holds up his hands, palms out flat, a placating gesture.]

I'll stay over here, and you stay over there, and we're fine, yeah? Well, you stay over there and put that thing down and we're fine.

Yuri | Doki Doki Literature Club | OTA

[iflickerback]

I. Disoriented Universe

[Yuri stares blankly at the ceiling. She had just seen the newest club member rush out of the room moments ago. She was at school. This was supposed to be the day of the festival. And now she's in someone else's house. Before she can even try and think about how she got there, Yuri gets up from her bed and embarrassedly strides to and out of the front door, not even caring about passing by others that may see her. This presents the second problem...]

[Yuri recognized NONE of these houses. She immediately freezes, eyes wide in bewilderment, hands clutching her arms, nails digging into them slightly. She has no words for this. Help a poor girl out?]

II. Crimson Massacre

[There were no pleas, no insistences, no denial. When up against a withdrawn and socially awkward person, a vacuum cleaner salesman will win every single time. So... Yuri just awkwardly lets him in to show off the vacuum. She's... ambivalent to its cleaning power and says nothing as the salesman disappears into the kitchen. However, Yuri's eyes are locked on the knife he's holding the moment he returns into view.]

[...What an amateur. He's not holding the knife correctly. And while it isn't dull, the knife surely isn't as sharp as it can be. All these criticisms and more run through her mind as the salesman attacks a "family member". Yuri is awfully calm during this situation and after the salesman is killed, Yuri just gently takes the knife, staring at it intently.]

[And then, she can't help but lick the tiniest of drops off of it, hoping no one would see. After all, there is no body. There is no body there is no body there is no body she doesn't smell any blood whatsoever-]

IV. Infinite Despise

[Yuri hates being here. She's been so distracted lately that she hasn't had time for any poems. She misses the boy she'd been interested in for a couple days. She misses Sayori. She misses Monika. She misses Natsuki. She hates the fact that things have been way too eventful and stressful. Just because she likes horror stories doesn't mean she should be IN one. So when she gets invited to a big holiday party, Yuri is absolutely gonna wallflower. Luckily, she had bought a few pieces of paper and a pencil so that she may at least attempt a single poem.]

Wildcard

[Feel free to come up with your own prompts!

II (poem panic variant dot mp3)

[brideordie]

[Grateful beyond belief she had taken a calm inventory of everything in the home before this happened so she knew where to run, Katherine McBride is nevertheless feeling a bit dizzy after she pulls the convenient camping axe from the salesman's body, absolutely splattered in gore. It feels like most of her strength left her now, but she really turned the tables on him in the end. After he chased her all the way there with her initial stab injury. She huffs and puffs, a bundle of nerves, pain and berserk rage. Then, like night and day, her new "daughter" comes over serenely to lick the knife. What. The. Fuck. Katherine's hands begin to shake against the handle. Her voice comes out in a whisper.]

Are you... kidding me?

[Her behavior is clearly suspicious. When they first met, Katherine believed they would both get along well since they both seemed to have calm, polite personalities. But now, she has to seriously question the behavior of the girl who sat idly by until she got the chance to get the weapon, who let the stranger inside to begin with. Her grip tightens.]

Put that away now, please. [Somehow the please is the coldest sounding part. Katherine glares, actively struggling against the urge to scream at her.]

Ereshkigal || Fate/Grand Order || Wife

[queenofkur]

I/ Arrival (Awakening)

[ The Goddess of Death has woken up, but no way she's opening her eyes. This is the most comfortable she's ever been! This bed is wonderful, she's never tried any that were so good before. In all fairness, she hasn't ever slept in any bed, period. The Underworld is kind of lacking in furnishing...

No matter. Sighing, she rolls to the side and grabs whoever is the poor soul who was sorted to be her "husband", believing them to be her emotional comfort golden sheep. She hugs and them close in a semi-asleep state. ]

Mrr... Five... Five more minutes...

[ Those may be the last peaceful minutes in that poor soul's existence before the goddess realizes just what is happening, they better enjoy them. ]

II/ A Murderous Salesman

[ Ereshkigal had been trying to chase away that annoying salesman the entire time, but nothing had worked. This situation is weird enough, she doesn't need someone trying to sell her vaccuum! She doesn't even know how this kind of technology works...

She sighs with relief as the man departs for the kitchen, gosh... T-That's a lot of social interactions today! She needs to go back to her room and refill her energy reserves. Every introverts know you can only interact with people so much before you need your personal time.

But alas, the man returns with... A knife? And he's trying to stab her, in front of her "husband" and "children?" ]

Huh...? [What the heck? Why does he want to kill her?] ... That's enough!

[ That's it, now's the time to make use of her powers and put an end to this farce! She extends her hand to summon her divine spear, this salesman is going to get a taste of divine retribution!

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ]

...?!?

[ Why is nothing happening? She'd felt something was different upon waking up, but... She has no powers? No authority? Her features shift from anger to panic and disbelief. What? How is this even possible? And the salesman is swinging the knife at her! ]

G-Gwah...!! [She's so taken aback, she doesn't even think about taking up a makeshift weapon! Instead she runs in circles to try and avoid him stabbing her while screaming for help.] Help...

III/ Christmas Gifts

[ It's so weird... Why do they have to be sitting all together to open their gifts? She wonders what's in the box.

She is very delicate and slow as she opens it- Too much so. It's as if she's never opened any gift before. And, that's because she hasn't! It's a bit of an emotional moment, she's never received any gifts before! And lo, it is...

A book? One of her books. She doesn't remember the title being written that big on the cover though. Why, it's sparkly. There's no way the others won't see it. ]

The Goddess Bride
~~ A Tale of Love and Passion ~~
[ She immediately puts the book away. S-She's a terrifying and mighty goddess! She doesn't read cheesy romances in her spare time! Nope. Never. Perish the thought. She looks away, hoping nobody will comment on it. ]

I

[freakymagoo]

[He's never slept so deeply before that he couldn't feel himself being grabbed. Just decades of trenches, hard floors, ice coffins, small cots, neglect and paranoia with very little memory or comfort to be found in beds and he startles awake when he's touched, shoving himself upright as the soft mattress threatens to swallow his limbs whole.

His missing left arm that he was fully expecting to be there throws him off balance and he flops clumsily back down partially on top of her. Sadly she doesn't get her five minutes before he clocks her in her jaw and shoulder.

He's a little more elegant pushing himself upright the second time. But not really elegant putting so much distance between them that he falls off the side of the bed and nearly takes the blanket and the table lamp with him.]

nile freeman | the old guard | wife | ota

[babyguard]

❂ arrival ❂

[ Nile is used to dying. Nile is used to dying in a variety of ways in a number of unexpected places, but she is not used to waking up after taking a bullet to the head staring at a popcorn ceiling she doesn't recognize.

Her first thought is that she must be in a safe house. Must have been carried here by Nicky or Andy or Joe after a complicated death--that makes sense, would excuse the new location, the fact that she feels out of place--

Until, of course, she hears the soft sound of breathing next to her.

She twists away on instinct, pushing up against the suddenly cloying blankets until she manages to untangle herself and get free; all but stumbling out of the bed to take in her full surroundings: a room she doesn't recognize, clothes that don't belong to her (a yellow nightgown with lace edges and a silk bow, are you kidding her), and someone sharing the bed. Right, so this is fucked. Her voice, when it comes, is loud enough to wake up just about anyone: ]

What the hell is going on here?

❂ death of a salesman ❂

[ The water turns off in the kitchen and Nile looks up, fully expecting the ridiculous salesman to continue on his hard sell of a vacuum she desperately doesn't want to own, and can't help a moment of stunned surprise when he returns with an honest-to-god knife.

The shock doesn't last long. Not when he charges at them and years of military training and Andy's tutelage kick in. It's harder in the dress she's wearing--not a single pair of pants in her wardrobe, she's checked half a dozen times--but she will throw herself in front of her 'husband' (gender roles are for when they're not about to be stabbed, okay?) and try to draw the salesman's ire. ]

We need something to fight back! [ she scrambles to the left as he slashes, letting out a noise of surprise as the knife glances along her shoulder and draws blood--which then proceeds to continue to spill. Oh. That's--not what's supposed to happen.

She grabs the salesman's arm, trying to interrupt his knife-wielding, while also trying not to panic about the apparent fact that here she doesn't seem to be healing] The kitchen! We have more knives!

❂ party down ❂

These people are crazy [ It's muttered under her breath as Nile takes a drink of the punch from the glass clutched in her hand. This place is wrong, she's already established that, but the fact that people don't seem to--

--they were all there, in the bomb shelters! The neighbors helped clean up a dead body. But every time she tries to ask someone about it or bring it up, they find some reason to change the subject, or brush her off or just--robotically insist that 'isn't it nice the weather we're having'. She feels like she's about to smash this glass into Marjorie's head.

It's only after she's said it that she realizes she has company ] Not you. Sorry.

party down!

[m1895]

You shouldn't say that.

[ Vasiliy keeps his voice low, as not to be overheard, but very deliberately speaks each quiet word under his breath in English: their language, not his, even though it's been established that they would understand him if he did address her in Russian. He'd rather sound like a contemporary English language learner with a heavy Russian accent than a Russian man from the Soviet 1930s speaking his native tongue without difficulty: one has been getting him stares since he first came here, the other would get him arrested and no doubt killed.

This environment is reminiscent enough of Yezhov's Soviet Union for him to have a bone-deep sense of how things work here without having to see how they would punish dissidents or perceived wreckers, all of the habits shaped by his environment useful again for the first time since he woke up in 2015. This woman, on the other hand, making such comments without even seeing who's around her first... It is an unbelievable amount of carelessness with her own life, and she doesn't even seem to realize it. ]

Will you walk with me? I want to show you something.

[ There's nothing to show her, of course, but he can't say what he needs to say where any of these people might hear him, and he'll damn her too if she's seen receiving his words. ]

rodion raskolnikov / crime and punishment / ota

[inaxorable]

i. arrival
[ Raskolnikov doesn’t wake up all at once. He’s warm and comfortable and drifts into alertness with the slow grogginess of a man who has slept poorly and wants nothing more than to steal a few more moments of rest. His tiny couch is oddly soft beneath him, and that pesky spring that usually digs directly into the small of his back is nowhere to be found. There’s even a blanket over him, keeping him covered from shoulders to toes, instead of his tattered coat. He mumbles something incoherent and flops about, and the person next to him stirs as well.

Wait.

There’s someone next to him, and Raskolnikov shoots upright, suddenly fully awake. This is not his uncomfortable couch, this is not his tiny closet of an apartment, and there is a stranger in the bed! Even his clothes are wrong, long pants and a matching shirt with buttons up the front. He pushes the comforter that moments ago had seemed so soft and inviting away, flings himself out of the bed, and presses his back against the wall. What is happening? ]

Who are you? Where am I?


iii. i will survive
[ It’s the middle of the day and Raskolnikov is in a diner, halfway through scarfing down a bologna sandwich. He still hasn’t gotten fully used to having food every day, three meals a day, as though bread and meat was in limitless supply.

He’s just reaching for a glass of water to wash down a bite of sandwich when alarms go off, piercingly loud, and he startles so much that he knocks the water everywhere. Chest sopping wet, he stands up and looks around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. Someone says something, but is shushed as the radios crackle on and a strange man’s voice fills the room.

As soon as the voice stops, everyone in the diner rushes for the doors, and Raskolnikov is swept along with them. It’s only when he’s tucked within the bowels of the earth inside the bomb shelter that he’s able to catch his breath and put together what had happened.

He turns to the person beside him. ] Does this happen often?


v. there’s no present like your presence
[ The Americans celebrate Christmas strangely. There is no Christmastide, nor are there costumes. They throw parties before Christmas Eve, and even the Christians eat meat throughout the month of December. Perhaps most jarring is the weather. For Raskolnikov, it’s positively warm, even though the Americans gripe about the cold and snow. As if the handspan of snow they have can even be called real snowfall! From the increasingly unbearable cheeriness of the Americans as Christmas draws closer to that Taylor woman’s party (which Raskolnikov had avoided like the plague), the holidays have left him in a foul mood. He snaps at the person who has become his spouse, he snaps at his assigned child, and he retreats for hours on end to write out increasingly irate social theories.

On Christmas Day, his false family would need to drag him to the tree in order to open their presents. Inside his is a bundle of papers, written in Russian: his writings on his Ubermench philosophy. ]


wildcard
[ ooc ; Throw something my way or contact me at chaoticgood! I’m cool with prose or brackets, and am fairly OTA. Since as of right now I don’t have any information for Raskolnikov on my journal, you can find an amusing Shmoop overview of his character here, and his Wikipedia page here! ]

v.

[littlemissfutility]

[ It hasn't been an easy week. Coming from the height of a Georgia summer - and not the one her "husband" might think of - it is cold to Beth, and frankly, it's terrifying. They're both alone, as far as she can tell, and he's unwilling to play the game here. Instead, she goes to the stupid Christmas party alone and does all the stupid housework and sleeps with her knife, and he goes through an entire legal pad, maybe two, and walks around pissed off whenever he bothers to get up from his desk.

(The one thing they can agree on is avoiding the meat in the refrigerator. Beth doesn't trust any of this, least of all the food. If that means baked potatoes every night until they die, who cares?)

But Christmas still kind of matters, even if it doesn't matter much, under the circumstances. And that's how she finds herself wrapped up in a flannel bathrobe, slippers on her feet, standing pointedly beside him. ]

Just five minutes. C'mon.

Papyrus | Undertale | husband&father | OTA

[spaghettimonster]

Ia/Ib - I DON'T HAVE ANY FACTS ABOUT THIS ROOM - Dec 1st (Home)

His sleeping cap feels heavier on his skull than usual, Papyrus notes, as he shifts into wakefulness and blinks at the ceiling. All of him feels heavier than usual. And he must have slept heavily, because... he doesn't recognize that ceiling.

Looking to one side, he takes in some truly dated decor, and in a profoundly unfamiliar room. Someone must have moved him in his sleep, without waking him? Sans, presumably. But is it a prank... or surprise? Had he or someone else overheard that phonecall, his comments about the 'vacations', and set something up...? He's too busy for that! Strange heavy lethargy or not!

But then...

Maybe Papyrus glances to his other side, and finds another person on the bed - one who appears to be human. If so, his eyes widen at the sight, and a plainly forced smile overtakes his face as he asks, "h-how did you bypass all of the puzzles?"

Or maybe the other occupant's already bolted, leaving a visibly empty and warm space to puzzle the still half-asleep skeleton. That gives him time to push out of bed, and really take in how his body isn't moving how he's used to. Time to look down and notice all the extra features his bones have gained, like muscles and skin and hair, and shriek. Loudly.

II - A WORLD WHERE THEY DON'T KNOW HOW TO VACUUM - Dec 3rd (Home)

It is, unfortunately, not the first time Papyrus has met a human so quick to violence. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, how quickly the living room situation has escalated.

But it is a surprise, one he's still reeling from. All the other humans he's met now (supposed 'family' members and neighbors alike) have hardly reminded him of that first human, underground. This salesman was impeccably dressed, offering a great tool for cleaning! A far cry from the shambling child, increasingly spattered in dust, their gloves downright coated in it.

And yet... That aggressive salespitch, pushing into the house like a child once trampled all over his puzzles. The impatience and inclination to proceed to other targets, regardless of the manners of a situation...

"Hey, you don't need to cut the prices or the customers," he protests, raising his hands in a placating way. "If you put down the knife, I can pull out my wallet?"

III - I'VE ACTUALLY NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE - Dec 20th (Street, Fire Department Shelter)

A couple weeks, a couple breakdowns. Some in his emotions, and done privately - or as privately as he could manage, since suddenly finding himself human was too alarming to fully hide from his new housemates. Some breakdowns were mechanical, and offered opportunities to be surprised by the new-yet-old-timey electrical wiring of the house, or his favorite thing yet - excuses to 'pop the hood' of the very real car found parked in the driveway!

Right now, the car is fine, and not in the driveway. It's on a different curb, parked a little closer to one of those dog urination posts than it should be. The current breakdown is to the social order, as the radio continues blaring all kinds of very concerning words about evacuating to safe locations.

He leaves the car behind, keys in hand, to make his way to where he thinks the fire department is - the sight of other people walking in the same direction, shooting fearful glances at the sky or openly weeping, are good indications he's on the right path! It's strange to actually go along with an evacuation, but, well... It's not like he knows where 'the enemy' is, to go offer them a chastising speech about murder. Not yet. Maybe he can ask one of the others walking towards the shelter, or ask one of the authorities inside. Just as soon as he finds someone who isn't obviously distressed about things.

IV - DO YOU WANT TO PRACTICE MONOLOGUES TOGETHER? - Dec 22nd (XMas Party)

In the aftermath of the evacuation, the words on everyone's lips were neighborhood Christmas party. Papyrus gets it - that's how the world works, after all. Live in continuous background fear that death will come, helpless to really prevent it, and do one's best to smile and keep going anyway! Why dwell on alarming surprises like that? He hadn't needed the encouragements to go to the party, when it's something to look forward to, and a mannerly thing to do besides.

He's glad he came, but, well... It's a surprise, just how far he has to go in the arts of looking on the bright side. It's almost awe-inspiring, just how convincingly the partygoers are completely disregarding the stress of things! Almost no whispers of the scare this week at all. A skeleton-man-of-the-house could take notes!

So that's exactly what he's doing. Going around with a punch glass or small plate of barely touched food in hand, mingling with a purpose. Sometimes, he stares at various partygoers with occasionally too-long stretches of forgetting to blink, until his eyelids flutter unconsciously and he rubs at them. Sometimes, he's actively in the conversations, doing his best to smile the same way they do, match their cheerful conversation with similar banter in turn.

WILDCARD
(Feel free to tag as action tags or prose as you prefer, I'll match what you use! I'm also open to other prompts, using locations like the yet-generic diner for milkshakes and reminiscing, or variations on the log's prompts. PM me here or swirlingflight to touch base!)

IV - DO YOU WANT TO PRACTICE MONOLOGUES TOGETHER? - Dec 22nd (XMas Party)

[iflickerback]

Here Yuri is, practically huddled up in an out-of-the-way section of the wall, sitting on the ground with pen and paper in hand. Her own little world away from the current party... Delicate strokes formed by her form sophisticated words, which, in turn, become metaphorical sentences.

It's what she does best, as a poet.

But she does notice that a metaphoric alien spaceship landed on her world offering her a plate of food and an enthusiastic smile. The alien in question brings out a metaphorical gun and shoots her, forcing a small smile onto her own face in return.

"Oh no thanks. I'm fine. I'm not hungry..."

maureen robinson | lost in space | ota

[coefficiently]

→ ARRIVAL

(a.)
[Something is wrong. It's in the quality of the air—unrecycled—, or the packing of the mattress under her—springs—, or to do with the sudden absence of the fine noises—the faint murmuring of the Jupiter's electrical systems, the filtration network, the engine itself. She knows it before she is even fully conscious.

And then she is conscious, and everything is wrong.

The suddenness with which Maureen jerks upright into a sitting position is so abrupt as to rattle the bed's headboard against the wall, producing a dull thunk and threatening to wake her partner in bed. And if that doesn't do the trick, she's already grasping at the shoulder of the person beside her, saying,]

John— [before turning her head far enough to recognize that the person beside her is definitively not her husband. Her hand recoils back from the unfamiliar.]

(b.)
[Okay.

So there's no whiteboard, but there is a pad of paper and a pen (ballpoint, and everything) to be scrounged from a drawer in the kitchen. Later, she will regret beginning writing directly instead of examining the top sheet for ghost marks of previous notes. But in the moment:]

Let's work through it.

[She is talking to her companions. They've all at least made it as far as the kitchen with all its bright formica and check curtains across the window over the sink. Mental and physical well being? Debatable. But no one's catatonic with panic or running screaming through the neighborhood, so they could be doing worse. Maureen herself, leaning over the writing pad and already beginning to make a series of rapid notes, seems to be—

Not calm. There is a barely contained quality of momentum to her, a sort of humming beneath the skin quality very like the rapid oscillation of a well tuned, but stressed machine. But she is upright, and moving, and thinking, and has rid herself of the menagerie of pins and rollers she woke up in. So, yeah. She could be doing a lot worse too.]

We'll start by listing where we all came from, and the last things we remember before we woke up here. Let's go broad. But if there's a detail that jumps out at you as being strange or particular, then we can make a note of it.

→ SHELTER

[Go quickly and calmly, the radio had said.

The reality on the stairwell down to the shelter under the fire station doesn't line up very well with Chapman's advice. It's turned into a river of hurrying bodies, a series of faces gone chalk white with fear; men and women dressed in their work suits and uniforms, or in their day dresses, some clutching parcels and some without coats despite the weather.

And suddenly: the awkward pile-up of foot traffic from which struggles to emerge a woman in her late forties, wearing a heavy corduroy coat likely snatched from her husband's side of the closet, who seems to have made it as far as half way down the stairs and is now trying to move back in the wrong direction.]

→ WILDCARD

[ooc; Feel free to throw something my way, or reach out to this journal via PM to plot something. More than happy to write prose or brackets; I'll match your prefs. If you're not familiar with Maureen, you kind find a comically extensive wiki entry here.]

Arrival (a)

[spaghettimonster]

[If the thunk didn't rattle Papyrus awake, the sudden hand on his shoulder certainly would have. He's used to waking from nightmares, or the intrusion of small cold feet as a dog makes its way on the bed, or - preferably - uneventful naps.

His eyes open with the bed's motion, and widen at the unfamiliar voice and face - staying wide even as she immediately pulls away.]

Uhhh... No?

[John isn't a name he's ever answered to, and between the sleep and how strange he feels, the confusion is palpable. This person looks human to him, astonishingly enough, and the room is unfamiliar. Is he where this John is supposed to be?]

I, uhh... seem to have fallen asleep, on the wrong bed. Or somebody dropped me here... as a prank?

Aki Hayakawa | Chainsaw Man | husband

[damngun]

Character/timeline note: I'll be RPing Aki from after chapter 70. If you have not read the manga up to that point, please heed this spoiler warning!

I. nothing to smile about

[He's not sure when he falls asleep, nor when he wakes up, just that there's this strange sensation that he's uncomfortable. Fell asleep on the couch, maybe, or on the floor. Upright against the table. Did he drink last night and he was dragged into another bedroom? Did he fall asleep while working? But no. He opens his eyes to the sun-speckled white ceiling and takes in the realization that this is not Tokyo, this is not his home.]

[Sitting up, his only hand moves to grasp at his chest, where the unfamiliar fabric hits next. Thicker and heavier than he's used to. His hair is down - which is normal, sure, but parts of it are sticking up. From the unfamiliar sleeping situation? He's not sure. But remaining calm is essential. At least until he turns his head and sees another figure in the bed. His eyes widen, finally allowing the shock in, the discomfort, the distrust.]

Who - Hey. [A grabbing hand goes to the bedmate's shoulder. Time to get some answers.]

III. never heard of those

[Honestly, define yourself as an authority figure or wear a sharp-looking uniform and there's a ninety percent chance Aki will do whatever you say.]

[This order is a little hard to believe, however. An air raid - here? He exists in a world full of supernatural, deadly beasts who have nothing but the desire to end humanity etched into their skulls so any kind of warning to take cover is understood and creates the desire within him to move, hide - take that cover. But here? Where the only monsters have been the neighbors? Not something from the sky. He picks up the radio - he's been fidgety with it, trusting its information as a way to garner said resource rather than the people they're supposed to believe are "natives" to this area much more - and looks to you. Brow etched tight. Before making his own decision to descend into the basement (and before the order can be called off), he needs to test the waters. See if there's something he's missed.]

Should we?

V. holiday pranks

[He's ripping at the paper like he has a grudge with it. Fed up and frustrated. He gets Christmas, he seriously does. It's a holiday. Whatever. You give gifts to loved ones. But this one feels like a prank, and he's not keen on pranks. Wants to tear this stupid box to pieces and find out what kind of cruel joke this is going to be on top of every other cruel joke this place plays on you.]

[Sending his elbow through the top of the box, he curses in pain as it doesn't budge. Then looks up in shock when you come into view. Has the wherewithal to look a little ashamed that he can't open a fucking box.]

...There's one addressed to you, too.

[He hasn't tried to destroy that one yet, though. Not that the one between his legs that he rips at with his single hand looks like it's been through anything more than a shuffle on a post office conveyor belt.]

III

[brideordie]

[Katherine is much less used to emergency situations than her new husband apparently is, so she looks a bit dumbfounded. Honestly, she has been strained to keep rational after the salesman incident that happened while Aki was at work. The theory of the townspeople being monsters doesn't comfort her at all, but it doesn't feel right in this house either. It takes her a brief moment to breathe and compose her thoughts.]

...I'm not sure. Somehow I think I would get frustrated just hiding in the basement, and who knows how effective it would be. But I don't know if we can trust any of the answers we would get at the main shelter, either. Everything here just feels like a big lie.

[Her polished nails tap against her arm as she thinks.]

Maybe it's stupid to risk it....

[Sounds like she'll go to the basement, reluctantly, unless they can think of a question worth asking.]

Monika | Doki Doki Literature Club | wife (oh god)

[holeinwall]

i. boot up

[ Her chest rises and falls with each soft, slow breath, her lashes fluttering at the light filtering in through the window. The blur of her surroundings initially doesn't seem like much as she watches it through the grogginess. It's just an ordinary room. She's simply in an ordinary bed.

Suddenly, she's completely awake. She's in an ordinary room. She's in an ordinary bed.

Monika flies upright, head whipping left and right, even with her long hair tangled up under her and fighting against the strain. Her breaths are coming faster as she feels the sheets, her clothes--wait, is that a nightgown?--the person next to her--

There's a person next to her.

Nothing else matters. With a warm smile, she lightly shakes the shoulder of the person beside her, fighting her tears of happiness. ]

I can't believe you did it.

[ She wasn't deleted from her game. How could she have ever thought otherwise? Of course the player, that sweet, darling person they were, had simply done the impossible.

They'd freed her. ]

Wake up, Player. [ She breathes out with the deepest of satisfaction this time, knowing all her hard work had finally paid off. ] I'm here with you, at last.


iv. home for the ho-lidays

[ Monika's been enjoying the thrill of being at a party, because gosh! A real human party for a real human like her! She mingles, dressed to the nines...though she seems to be struggling with walking in heels. No matter! She's intent on being the life of the party, no matter how darn weird this whole situation is. It's her duty.

And so, she is going to definitely enjoy herself, sampling all the real foods and drinks she's never been able to have--really, how much food can one lady put away? Why is her plate constantly so overloaded? Also, how many times can one person be told they do not need to sing Christmas carols for everyone? (She will try this multiple times, regardless.)

But it's probably no shock, the true romantic that she is, that she somehow ends up right in the perfect spot for some real romance to happen. If it's a bit forbidden, that just makes it a little more interesting! ]

O-Oh! Sorry! Ahaha!

[ She's such a silly goose! She totally didn't mean to bump into someone here! Funny how these things work out. ]

Look. [ Her finger points upward at the mistletoe, oh-so-innocently. ] 'Tis the season, hmm~?

[ Which is to say, you can't pass up the opportunity to do something romantic, even if it might make you look like the neighborhood hussy! ]


v. slip a trauma sable under the tree (cw: blood, allusion to suicide)

Why! Won't this thing! Open!

[ Monika is tugging at one of the gifts, teeth gritted in frustration. It's her first Christmas! She shouldn't be forced to deal with such rudeness! Eventually, though, after her long, fruitless battle, she waits around for everyone else. That wait pays off, too, because once everyone's together, the presents seem to finally relent.

Eagerly, Monika tears into a box, eyes alight with anticipation for what awaits inside...

The light dies when she sees what she's been "gifted." In retrospect, it would explain why the box was somewhat light, but what she finds inside is heavier than ever. She hates what she sees with all of her being. It's evidence, evidence she does not want following her into her new life.

Not that she had anything at all to do with the blood-covered noose she'd just pulled out.

She places the rope back, hoping no one else has seen, then shuts the box. With a strained smile, she stands, clutching said box close to her chest. Ignore those red fingerprints. ]

Hey! Why don't we get a nice festive fire going, huh?

[ So this box can go straight into it. ]


wildcard

[ Wanna plot or do something else? I'm up for other prompts! Feel free to message me at venicebeach or PM me! And I'll match any format! ]

iv. home for the ho-lidays

[iflickerback]

[Ever since Yuri arrived at this place, she tried to seclude herself as much as possible. The town felt off. The people felt off. She's fine with watching horror, not experiencing it herself. But she somehow got dragged to this party against her will anyway.

Oh well. The best she can do is sit down hunched against a wall, paper and notebook in reach, and begin to write down poetry.]

[That is... she had gotten a decent amount of a good poem written out when she hears a voice. A familiar voice. She pauses her poem writing to look up, only to see someone VERY familiar giving a smooch to someone. She blinks a couple times.]

...M- Monika!?

Kizuna Chieda | AI: The Somnium Files nirvanA Initiative | Wife

[sleepingthorny]

((Hello! I'm Lenga and you're welcome to wildcard me or otherwise plot with me in this plurk! This is especially relevant to anyone who would like to avoid playing with the themes of ableism that are brought to the fore by the loss of control in many of these prompts!))

Prompt II

[Kizuna has a fair amount of experience using a manual wheelchair indoors, but she certainly wonders in this moment if the salesman would have had a harder time barging past the bulkier powerchair to which she was more accustomed. And the carpet. Oh, he has so much to say about the carpet. The carpet that is hard to roll across and can only soften the blow if she falls in the struggle against this stranger. But never fear, with this vacuum, even Kizuna can easily reach the corners of the carpet! In Prompt II-A, Kizuna's assigned family member(s) will see that she has no intention of defying this vacuum cleaner salesman on her own.

In Prompt II-B, the doorbell rings again! Kizuna hurries to open it. [YOUR CHARACTER] is here! What a relief!]

What a pleasure it is to have a visit from a new friend! [She glances nervously back at Charlie the vacuum cleaner salesman - right, he is someone who thinks that Kizuna has always lived here.] That is, a neighbor I have cherished for quite a while now, who has finally made the time to grace my humble abode.

[Kizuna draws away the hands that she raised to the door as if receiving manna from heaven. Her palms are red from the cold of the metal doorknob and the strain of suddenly switching to the manual wheelchair.]

I am sure you have put in your best efforts today. It is a lovely occasion to indulge you in some refreshments.

Prompt III

Of course... There is not any reason... I should have been spared...

[Silly little Kizuna thinking she could lessen the burden for the others by embarking on an errand on her own without so much as a car. She's got nice gloves that meet form and function now, she's so prepared for winter! She just wanted to visit the high school like a good involved parent, though goodness gracious she's a lot more comfortable with taking care of children who are, oh, let's say less than half her age. Is she almost there, or only halfway and the fire department shelter would be the closer one?]

It simply will not do to have them looking for me...

[So if it's necessary she'll just... have to let herself be carried down the stairs... Kizuna is hunched over hugging herself at this point, wracked with fear and drained in the low-backed manual wheelchair.]

Prompt V

[Kizuna is cozy on the floor kneeling by the tree! Despite everything... she likes this. She has to like this, right? These are the people living with her, in the same situation, and they'd never betray her. As necessity eventually dictated, it's alright to be vulnerable and get out of the chair around them. Everything is smiles... these gifts actually look rather nice...]

Now what might this be, a book? [Kizuna loves books! —except this one is, uh, literally labelled diary.] ...ah...

II-B or not II-B

[brideordie]

Um. [Katherine just wanted to borrow a cup of sugar - cliche, but she's already determined there's no decent place to get cake in this town and yet she's got to have it. Now she's been thrown into the hot seat. It definitely looks like this solicitor has forced his way past the poor woman though. She guesses she feels bad enough for her to play along. Waving at the salesman, she crosses the threshold with businesslike purpose.]

Yes, it's been too long. We really do have so much to catch up on! I hope it's not a bad time?

[Katherine sits tall on the edge of the couch like she's a visiting member of the royalty, staring Charlie down. The glass jar she brought rolls slightly behind her.]

beth greene | the walking dead

[littlemissfutility]

a. be grateful that it doesn't last all year
[ CW: reference to, potential discussion of sexual assault ]

It's not the hospital.

Beth would be grateful not to smell antiseptic or hear the crinkle of a crappy rail-bed mattress under her, if she could only remember how she got here. And if only - her breath dies in her lungs - no one was in the room with her.

(There's the distant buzz of electricity, too, unbelievably noticeable after a few years without. Is that a refrigerator somewhere, making chunky little noises?)

It's not Gorman (Gorman's dead, you killed him, it's not him), but someone's sleeping next to her and she's not wearing her hospital scrubs and that means someone put her in a froth of pink chiffon that barely feels like clothes and her knife's not with her and -

Breathe.

Moving slow, moving silent, she slides out from under the quilted coverlet and starts backing toward the door of the bedroom. It's simple, just not easy: Don't make a sound, don't turn away from whoever's in the other bed. The carpet under her bare toes is strangely plush. Has someone been cleaning it regularly for two years, despite the walkers?

And then the floor creaks under her, and a cocker spaniel puppy lifts its head from a basket set between the two beds. It starts barking excitedly, its curly ears flopping around as it leaps up. Beth freezes, reaching again for a knife she doesn't have.

ii. why am i trying to become what i don't want to be?

They've worked it out, the bedroom thing, and she found her knife. Sleeping with it makes it possible for her to sleep. And if she's completely honest with herself, the day part is pretty normal to her: Wake up, survive, figure out if you can trust the person next to you.

She's eaten only tiny portions of the bounty of food in their staticky-sounding fridge, aware that it must come with a price tag attached. Whatever's happening, they weren't brought here to play house just because, and Beth's not looking forward to finding out what it is they owe.

It means she's already annoyed when a fast-talking salesman elbows his way into the house, and the fact that he's more interested in talking with her not-actually-husband is galling.

"I don't want a vacuum cleaner," Beth hisses between her teeth as the guy goes into the kitchen, raising her brows significantly. "And he won't let me tell him to leave."

iii. pining for the sunshine of a friendly face

It's not like there's a choice about going to the party - that much has been made clear. Nothing in this neighborhood is actually voluntary, and until she knows why, she's playing along. No one'll tell you anything if you make it obvious you don't want to be here.

So she puts on the nicest dress in her closet, a sleeveless green number that fits like it was sewn for her, and she tells herself she's not bothered by that fact. She puts on the makeup sitting on the top of her bureau, going heavy on the concealer where two ugly scars still bracket her eyes, and tries not to look in the mirror after. (It feels like so much now; she can't forget about the tacky sensation of the lipstick whenever she opens her mouth.) Her hair, she just puts in a high ponytail; it probably looks juvenile, but leaving it down won't blend in, and she doesn't know how to do a beehive.

But her knife has to stay in the inner pocket of her peacoat, because she can't get it into her little handbag (matching green, with a slender gold chain for her shoulder), and she can't help but feel stared-at as soon as she gets into the house. You'll find her looking a little wallflowerish, hesitant to drink anything being served, but playing the game when she has to: if you ask her to dance, she'll dance with you.

She keeps edging towards the exits of the room, occasionally slipping off to "the bathroom" and trying instead to rifle through the Taylors' things, what few she can find. If she could just find a way to get upstairs...

Wouldn't recommend catching her under the mistletoe, though, unless you want trouble for both of you.

iv. wildcard.

[ Beth's perceived as a classic late Silent Generation / early Baby Boomer by the people of Sweetwater: born around the end of the war, married right out of high school, probably a big fan of Connie Francis and Frankie Avalon. That her kid isn't a newborn is, apparently, immaterial. You'll frequently find her outside, whether in her yard or walking around the neighborhood.

For more information on her, here's an info page. I'm pulling her directly from the end of her arc in canon, so she's pretty jumpy and distrustful at the moment. Bring me all your paranoia and suburban gothic horror, please and thank you. For any questions, feel free to shoot me a PM. ]

Re: beth greene | the walking dead

[tedandroses]

The cute blonde girl is pretty good at being quiet, Teddy's got to give her that. She's not sure if she's trying to steal something or find out more about this place -- couldn't blame her -- or she's just bored, but by her count she's snuck in and out 3 times now, and Teddy's pretty sure she didn't start counting at one. (Nor has she been trying to catch every time: she's not staring like a creeper.)

It amuses her more than anything else has at this weird party, and Teddy works her way over to that side of the room, leaning on the wall so she's right there when she slips back in, nursing an old-fashioned and wishing she was wearing something that she felt cooler in.

"Findin' anything interesting?" she asks, sotto voce, and grins.

Wrench | Fargo TV

[wwrench]

i. arrival

It's not the waking up somewhere unfamiliar that disturbs Wrench; the first signs that something is amiss don't come from the angle of the light pouring through the unfiltered window or the stippled texture of the pure white ceiling above his head. From time to time he wagers his luck and sacrifices a few dollars to hotels that let him pay in cash so he can stand under a scalding hot shower for as long as he likes and spend too many minutes staring at his reflection in the mirror.

But this isn't one of those places. There's no smell of old mildew, no sense that the wrong move will send the bedframe collapsing to the floor. In fact, the bed itself seems far too large for anything offered at a cheap roadside motel. And when he sits up, his heart drops into his guts. He's in a bedroom, in the kind of home he's only seen depicted on the screen of movies he and Grady used to sneak into as kids. And what the hell is he wearing?

husband

What catches his eye first is the photograph on the dresser. Wrench soon finds himself staring into his own green eyes, smiling comfortably. His arm is positioned congenially around the waist of a woman he's never seen before in his life, and (perhaps) his other hand rests on the shoulder of a child a pace into the foreground. Who the hell is this man who looks so at ease among these strangers? Who the hell are they?

neighborhood

As the morning sun crests higher in the sky, Wrench opts for a glimpse outside the walls of this Stepford-esque home. It's beyond his comprehension that there could be clothes in a closet suited to fit him, so he's still in his pajamas when the 6'4" man throws open the door of the quaint little house and pads down the front drive. A whole neighborhood of similarly-styled homes await him. Not that he knows what he might have been expecting, but somehow this manages to strike as the most baffling outcome.

Others are exiting their homes to pick up that rolled newspaper and Wrench watches suspiciously, trying to gauge if they're stumbling over their own uncertainty about this whole situation, or greeting the morning as a familiar and welcome friend.

ii. death becomes him

How to explain to his new family this isn't the first time someone's squared up to him with a blade? Fortunately, there isn't much time for that. Wrench may not know these people, but he holds no moral quandries regarding what should be done with aggressors. Later he might need to explain to his new wife and possible child just why he entered this strange new world with a ↪ M1911 .45 pistol or how he's so good at using it, but for now he draws it from his hip and takes aim.

The first two shots explode with consecutive loud pops and embed themselves in the chest of the salesman, but Wrench watches in horror as the kife-wielding specter keeps right on coming. He shoots again, aiming for the thigh to stop the attacker in his wake, but it barely seems to slow him. The final shot hits just between the eyes and finally the salesman falls to the ground in a ring of steadily-pooling blood. Wrench shoves the gun back at his hip and moves forward to kick at the dead man's shoulder with his toe, just as the doorbell starts to buzz.

iii. never lose your head

Maybe it's a mixed blessing that Wrench finds himself in the bowels of the strange little town he's inttent on escaping when the news comes. He'd been trying to figure out the boundaries of this place. Maybe take to the woods and formulate a plan to get the hell out of here. But the sudden sirens alighting the town in a cacophony of tones springs people into action.

He doesn't hear them, of course. Doesn't know what the mild voice is trying to warn them of. One minute Wrench is walking with purpose past the fire departtment, and the next minute he's being grabbed by the shoulders and steered inside. At first he almost fights the insistent hands that tug him further and further underground, into the dark space beneath the station. The panic and confusion is written all over the faces of those around him, but when he goes for the door to make his way back up he finds his way blocked again by a small group of men with their arms crossed and their stances widened.

v. for me?

The sight of the living room decorated for Christmas is like nothing Wrench has ever known, outside of television shows. Do people actually do this kind of thing? Trim a tree with lights and crystal and spend all day and night cooking a holiday feast? Give each other gifts wrapped in perfectly-folded paper and crisp bows? He could walk past the whole thing without a second's thought that any of it might be for him, but there's a present under there bearing his name, too. A small rectangular-shaped box with tidy handwriting.

He looks suspiciously at his new "wife." Did she do this? If so, he has to admit that he didn't return the favor. But there's something there for her, too, and Wrench is overcome with the sinking feeling these might not be gifts at all.

wildcard

All of these prompts are wonderful, but I didn't want my starter to go on and on forever. If nothing I've written here gives a clean entrance for your character, please feel free to hit me up with whatever you'd like and I will respond accordingly!

---

The elevator pitch is as follows: Wrench is a former hitman and only surviving member of the Fargo crime syndicate. He and his former partner (who was also killed) were raised up in the syndicate and taught to kill at the behest of its leader, but Wrench has been living off the grid for many years now after escaping capture by the US Marshals. He is also Deaf. I have a communication FAQ page that further addresses that, if you'd like.

i arrival - neighborhood

[spaghettimonster]

At least one of the others exiting the suburban homes is indeed stumbling out the door, wobbling both on the unfamiliar legs and surprise at the sights.

He turns to survey the area, pausing at each of the human men going for a newsletter... but what he really stops and stares at is the sky, blue with sunlight and filling the view above, like he's never seen it before.

Will Solace | Percy Jackson and the Olympians | child

[sonofacesius]

1. Good Morning Sunshine

Well, this wasn't the ceiling of the Apollo cabin. Will looked around with just his eyes before deeming it safe to move his head and get a good look at the surroundings. A bedroom. Not at Camp and definitely not his in Texas. Okay....His first thought was that this was probably Bad. His second thought was that he didn't think that the creepy mid century overlay was an Olympian thing. it didn't really seem their style. That didn't make it any less bad though. There were a number of other forces out there and any number of them could have been bored. So far he seemed alone in the bedroom.

And whose PJ's where these? His apparently, they fit perfectly, even if they were super not his style. Will Solace took a breath, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Time to look around because. This, this was fine. This was absolutely fine. People get kidnapped all the time. All he had to do was stay calm, and take a look around. First things first. So, he opened the door to his downstairs room and called out.

"Hello? .....Good morning?" Politeness never hurt. Was there a 16 year old blond kid snooping around your house? He looked pretty damn calm honestly, for someone who had just been kidnapped and transported from New York 2013 to circa 1960. But one thing he had learned a long time ago, if you freak out, everyone else freaks out. So, Will was doing his best to freak out on the inside.

If he makes it outside to check out the newspaper, you might notice the kid staring at it for a good five minutes, as if he's having trouble reading it. He'll ends up grabbing it and trying to bring inside.

2. Death of a Salesman

Now that everything had completely not been settled and he was still exactly where he wasn't supposed to be, Will figured he might as well get the door. Arching an eyebrow at the man who positively pushed himself inside the door -- Will hadn't gotten a chance to recover his wits or even try to slam the door in his face. He just stood there stupidly for a moment or two as the guy barged in trying to find the 'man of the house'.

In the end, Will figured it was probably best to just play along and called out "Dad?" and really hoping Apollo was going to show up and start laughing at the hysterical joke he played.

Sadly, it wasn't Apollo that showed up. At this point, he wouldnt have taken the god of wine himself showing up drinking Diet Coke going 'gotcha, sucker!' No, instead he just sat there with complete strangers, while this random ass guy tried to talk them into buying a vacuum cleaner, which, honestly, seemed kind of redundant. He remembered seeing one in the closet when he had poked around.

Everything got even worse when salesman starts wielding a knife. Now, honestly, Will had expected something like this. You learn to expect weirdness as a demigod. What he wasn't prepared for was his ultrasonic whistle not to work. Raising his fingers to his lips while dodging the guy attacking him with a butcher knife, the only sound that came out was a regular whistle.

"HELP!" Okay, he got it now. Maybe having some self defense skills was a good idea! He looked around frantically for something he could use to defend himself, and grabbed a vase full of flowers, hurling the contents at the guy.

4. Holiday Party

The wardrobe was most definitely not to Will's tastes, being something other than cargo shorts and flip flops, but he found something to put on because at the moment he really didn't have much of a choice. And there weren't any cargo shorts. Sighing, Will helped himself to the punch, trying not to think about the health hazards that came from plastic leaching into the drink or how much artificial flavor was in there. Will sat, trying to edge off to the side somewhere he might not be as noticed, and people watched, trying to figure out what the point of this quest was. Anyone who might come up to him would be greeted by an ever so sunny smile.

Underneath all that calm, happy facade? Will was an anxious mess. And he was really starting to understand now what other campers had gone through without a good support system, something he always had. Was his facade starting to crack a little? He took a breath, everything was fine. He wasn't freaked out that he had no idea what was going on, where he was. Will remembered how hard it was for some of his siblings to adjust to realizing that they were safe at Camp. That everything that had set them apart from everyone else; the ADHD, the dyslexia, any abilities that might have manifest, was a strength there. But here? Where ever here was? There was no outlet, there was no support system. Hades, his mother wasn't even his actual mother.

Will's leg jerked up and down like he had way too much caffeine, as his eyes darted around the place. His fingers played with the rim of the punch cup he had grabbed. He was used to being the one who everyone relied on, who propped everyone else back up. Told them it was going to be okay. Made it okay.

So who was going to tell that to him now?

[hit me up at caletara or PM for plotting and funtimez! Brackets, quotes, go with your heart.]

001

[coefficiently]

So here's the situation: finding herself in a Reader's Digest illustration next to a stranger to which she's ostensibly married? Yeah, that part's pretty weird. Hearing a voice made tinny by distance call out in confusion? That feels like it's been an everyday occurrence for a while. That it legitimately takes her a second to swing her attention toward the latter anyway says something about how thrillingly bizarre the situation is in the upstairs bedroom. But then she's moving, out of the room and to the top of the stairs, lashing the tie of the robe firmly about her waist as she goes.

"Penny?" She's already on her way down to the ground floor, rapidly taking in the series of framed photographs on the wall leading down to the landing. "Will, are you there?"

(Maybe the universe has a sense of humor after all.)

Appearing on the lower landing: a woman in her forties, medium brown hair tousled from having been abruptly liberated from the confines of rollers and then shoved back from her face. She's in a plush housecoat, and has even managed to shove her feet into the right pair of slippers on the way out of the bedroom.

jeff | original | ota

[bardish]

I. ARRIVAL (open to... family??)
This isn't the first time Jeff's blacked out and woken up in a bed that isn't his, in a home that isn't his, with a total stranger that he has absolutely no recollection of. But it is the first time in well over two decades, and as far as he knows, he isn't possessed (again) and his last bender was so long ago it'd be old enough to buy alcohol by now, which begs the question (whispered, respectfully, so as to not wake anyone up):

"Whaaaaaat the fuck..."

The questions only stack up as he slips out of bed (in flannel pajamas that are, admittedly, totally cozy, and totally not something he'd wear to bed), throws a robe on, and pads downstairs, as quietly as he can. (What the fuck, where the fuck, and... when the fuck???) There's a mounting dread as he takes in his surroundings, and he doesn't know if he wants to stare at the cheerful photos of him with a woman who's definitely not his ex-wife, and a kid who's definitely not his daughter, or throw them out the nearest window while screaming like a lunatic.

Okay, Jeff. Stay calm, stay calm. You're cool, chill, totally copacetic, and this is fine. That's a mantra that's been serving him well enough so far, right? So he'll just stick to it.

This is fine. This is fine. This Is Fine.

Dad instincts kick in, and he moves to the kitchen on autopilot. It's time to just start panic cooking breakfast because, like, what the fuck else is he going to do right now?

Good morning, new family. Hope you like your eggs with a side of barely-contained hysteria.

II. DEATH OF A SALESMAN
"Shit--fuck--!"

So, as the Man of the House in this dystopian Stepford hellscape, there's probably certain expectations for Jeff to leap to the defense of his family and take out this homicidal salesman with a manly punch or something, but, like.

Jeff's a pacifist. Both out of a principled commitment to nonviolence, and also the totally practical understanding that he has no idea how to fight and will immediately lose after his first flailing attempt at a punch.

Now, this doesn't mean he's going to leave his new, uh, 'wife' and 'kid' to get butchered. It just means that Jeff's approach to the crisis isn't the most strategic or, you know, useful.

With a yelping, panicky shout, he grabs a couch cushion and wields it like a shield, trying to use it to push the knife-wielding maniac back away from the rest of his fake family.

(Who, statistically, are probably going to be way better in a fight than Jeff himself, let's be real.)

"No-- hey, no-- c'mon, what is your fucking deal, man!"

Okay, somebody jump in and kill this salesman for him, please. Whether his 'wife' can do it, or the kid (wait-- no, not the kid, he doesn't want blood on their hands!), or maybe a neighbor who happens to hear the commotion... Jeff could really use the assist right now.

III. PARTY TIME
A Christmas party at the HOA president's house. This is Jeff's hell. This is his suburban hell. He's got a pained, polite rictus smile on his face as he clutches a cup of punch in one hand and finds himself held hostage in a boring conversation with one of the neighbors.

"Ohhhh, so... so that's how, uh... That's how you keep your lawn so... so green, huh, Steve. That's... Yeah, I've got to try that sometime." Smile. Nod. "Uh huh. Cool. You've really got the swellest lawn on the block, dude." Wait, that's too hippie. "Man." Nope, that's not appropriate. "Sport." Fuck, no, that's for kids. "Pal."

Yeah. Pal. That's friendly and appropriately Leave it to Beaver.

"Oh! Sh--" Don't swear, don't swear-- "--uuuuuucks, my punch is empty, gotta go!"

Jeff tries to make a break for the punch bowl, but it looks like Steve's content to follow him there, still going on and on about the secrets to stellar lawn care. Please, dear god, somebody take him away from this conversation before it kills him.

WILDCARD
[ go wild, do whatever! hit me up at weeyotch or weeyotch on discord for any plotting or coordination

oh yeah and character tldr: dorky suburban wizard dad twenty years removed from a Dark Past of sex, drugs, rock 'n roll and demonic possession, it's fine, he's totally well adjusted now ]

Arrival

[sonofacesius]

Will was right there with you Jeff. Everything was fine. This was fine. This was completely unlike any situation he had ever ended up in, and yet, still not the craziest. But still crazy enough to make him question his sanity. But at least he wasn't being outright attacked by monsters, no one was dying. He had time to get his bearings. Besides, you freak out, everyone freaks out. So, it was in everyone's interests to just stay calm.

The teenager shuffled out of bed with his game face on, and puttered to the bathroom. While Jeff was panic cooking, Will was panic looking for supplies. Neosporin, bandages, antiseptic. He'd been in enough situations to know when the shit hit the fan, everyone looked to the medic to make everything okay again. It was what he was used too. So, he entered the kitchen holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand a a roll of bandages in another.

So what do you say to the random dude cooking eggs in the random kitchen in the random house you woke up in?

"I don't suppose you're supposed to be here?"

Will might not have any of his abilities right now but he knew the signs of an anxiety attack. He took a few more steps toward the man, still out of reach in case he decided to weaponize the frying pan. "Just breathe. It's going to be okay."

helly r. — severance

[perceptual]

001.Arrival.

[ None of this makes sense to Helly, but she has an answer for it nonetheless. She barely has time to take in her surroundings – the bedroom, the house, her own clothes – before she's barrelling out onto the street in naught but a flimsy nightdress. It's immediately much too cold, and she wraps her arms tight around herself as she stands barefoot on the sidewalk, looking left and right. This is the only fresh air she's ever had in her life, which is a horrible realisation to have, even if it's the truth.

Helly's looking for particular people, but they're nowhere to be seen. Nowhere close, at least. But there's someone else out here now – maybe the guy who'd been in the room with her when she woke up, maybe someone from further down the street. ]

What the hell is this? [ She calls, loud. It hasn't yet occurred to her that this kind of behaviour is disturbing the peace. ] Are you from Lumon?

002.Salesman.

[ Helly settles incredibly uncomfortably into daily life. There's freedom of a sort, to decide where she can go and what she can wear, and things like that have never been afforded to her so far. That's something, at least. But it's not long before Helly's worked out that this freedom comes with a price. She may be able to choose these things, but her decisions lead to scrutiny, and there's something skin-crawlingly unpleasant about being stared at by the strange, dead-eyed inhabitants of this place.

Being inside the house all day feels like she's just trapping herself again of her own free will, so she tries to spend as much time out of it as possible. But she's at home – weird to think, since it doesn't feel like her house – when the salesman knocks. Her expression during his spiel is best placed as skeptical, arms folded, eyebrows raised with a certain degree of disbelief. She might have only come to awareness relatively recently, but it doesn't mean she was born yesterday. And then, while she's pondering that she would actually quite like to suck up some crumbs with one of these bad boys, everything goes wrong.

The salesman comes hurtling at her and her new fake family, and Helly skitters as far away as possible on instinct. She has no loyalty to these people whatsoever, and her only instinct is to protect herself at all costs. Eyes wide, she scrambles to get behind the couch, crawling behind it to reach the little accent table with the delightfully heavy lamp resting atop it. She knocks the plug out from the wall, winds the cable around her arm a few times, and hefts the lamp up as she scrambles to her feet again, wielding the lamp like a baseball bat while the salesman is otherwise distracted. She just needs to get in one good thwack... ]

003.Silhouettes.

Oh, great.

[ Helly's outside when the sirens start to blare. Does she even know where the nearest shelter is? Maybe. She sets off uncertainly, her footfalls urgent but not particularly confident about their direction. The siren is making her teeth sting, and she's barely listening to the words of the man blasting out his commands. It's word salad to her. ]

Hey! [ She calls to someone else heading in vaguely the same direction as her. It's hard to hear anything over the noise, so she really has to shout to make her voice heard. ] Hey, wait up! Are you going to the shelter?

004.Party.

[ This is exactly the place Helly doesn't want to be. Too many unpleasant memories of the gala she'd woken up at before she ended up here. Smiling faces, polite surface-level chatter, drinks, snacks... It's awful. Helly hates it. She'd picked a relatively simple dress in crushed dark green velvet from the wardrobe, and she feels ridiculous in it, which is about the same as she's felt about every other piece of clothing she found in there, so at least there's that. It's hard to spitefully dress herself exactly the opposite to the way she'd been dressing at work when everything in that wardrobe seems to be an exaggerated form of what she would've worn at work anyway, but it's fine. It's a work in progress.

That doesn't matter, anyway. What matters is that there are a lot of people here, enough that Helly feels confident enough in being able to not only spot the outliers, but also that this might be a good opportunity.

She taps the shoulder of someone else she knows to be a new arrival just like her. With a meaningful look at their surroundings, and a little lift of her glass of punch in greeting, she lifts her eyebrows and says, quietly: ] Seems like everyone's pretty distracted right about now.

005.Christmas.

[ Helly isn't expecting a gift, so it's a clear and obvious surprise to her when she's handed one. It's large and rectangular but very thin, and she looks utterly nonplussed at the mere existence of it before she's even opened it. The truth is, she doesn't really want to open it, and once the surprise has passed, there's an air of wariness that clouds her expression as she looks at the box.

Her leg bounces rapidly up and down, lips pressed together flat and thin. ]

I don't – um, I don't think I want this.

[ It's probably the first time since she got here that anyone she's been living with has seen her looking unsettled. She feels a little sick. ]

006.Wildcard.

[ hmu at crowders if you want to plot! ]

004 ((helly!! great show, great character))

[coefficiently]

[It's amazing how much less secure she feels in a placd like this. Give her the weird museum piece suburban house with the husband, the kid, and the golden retriever. Hell, give her the too shallow bomb shelter in the basement. At least there she knows everyone in the room is on the same page. Here, in Marjorie Taylor's lavishly decorated home, with a new set of Neighbors through every doorway (she's taken to mentally capitalizing the word when it applies to anyone who didn't recently wake up in a cold sweat beside a stranger), Maureen feels a little like she's waded into a a pool filled with wriggling alien eels. Any second now, one of them will show their teeth and try to lamprey on to her.

Not that it's stopped her from engaging in a few surreptitious conversations. Robinsons don't play it safe when the math says they can't afford to. So the tap at her shoulder prompts a half turn, a brisk evalatuating look—

And a faint returning lift of her own punch glass. It does seem that way, doesn't it?]

Find anything interesting?

[If anyone asks, she talking about the hors d'oeuvres.]

teddy roberts | oc | wife (yikes!)

[tedandroses]

[OOC: Teddy -- new people may be given 'Theo', absolutely no one will be invited to call her 'Theodora' -- is a 25 year old musician and student from, except for a brief dash into VA for college, Appalachian eastern-Kentucky and briefly West Virginia. (And she sounds like it; it's consciously neutralized in public but only so much, and increasingly obvious if stressed/drunk/tired, especially if you're not familiar with that accent -- which she will be in these first posts; stressed, that is).

Teddy uses she/they pronouns and in a new-for-me thing, legitimately doesn't care which: mixing or alternating them or other gender signifiers (sir/ma'am, husband/wife, pretty/handsome etc) would delight her but so would your safety. She has epilepsy and does have a service dog who'll be mentioned; you can generally assume Scout's with her unless her absence is mentioned. Any questions about Ted or requests for something a little different can come to me on plurk or DM! Her journal will have more info soon but for right now it's just a playlist :P]

o1. arrival
Teddy doesn't remember falling asleep, but she sure as hell wasn't in this bed when she did, she knows that much. She blinks hazily at the ceiling. It's a popcorn ceiling, the same kind Gram had, that she always wanted to touch, with that same sort of slightly glittery material mixed into the spiky plaster, and for a moment she contemplates it. Just like she's a kid again, lying on her back on the quilt in the guest bed while her parents and Gram laugh in the other room and listen to records and shush each other.

Then she hears the sound of someone moving downstairs, and she sits up fast, clutching the blanket to her chest, listening to a man's timbre downstairs, taking in the two robes on the bedroom door, the dip in the mattress, the still-present scent of -- something familiar and not: tobacco, or wood, or something. She eases out of bed very, very quietly, wincing as the floor squeaks and holding absolutely still.

And oh my god what in fuck is she wearing. (The answer comes to her in such horrifying irony she wants to look around for a hidden camera to glare at: it's a teddy. Of course. The vintage kind, all frothy pink empire-waisted tulle, which is maybe marginally better than it could be but still makes her want to vomit a little.)

The whole room, in fact, is the vintage kind, she realizes, as she looks around at the decor. It's very...Sears catalogue. (She thinks. Maybe.) Each side of the bed has a little dresser-nightstand; on hers, there's a picture frame with -- with herself, beaming, in what would be very cute clothes on someone else, cozied up to ...a strange man.

"This is a nightmare," she says, a little louder than she means to. Not in a "fuck this" way: just in legitimate, desperate hopes she might wake herself up. "It's a nightmare. You're just dreaming." There's a pamphlet about atomic bombs, and her medicine -- no; not her medicine, what the hell is it? Teddy picks it up. It's glass, she realizes, the bottle: actual amber-colored glass with no child-proofing on the lid, the prescription label of some swoopy-lettered pharmacy she doesn't recognize describing a dose of two pills a day with water for Mrs. Theodora -- a surname that isn't hers.

It doesn't list the kind of medication, either; though it has the instructions and for epileptic convulsions typed unevenly on it by hand before being adhered to the glass.

"What the actual. Fuck." This time she doesn't really care about the volume. She feels a little outside herself, the whole room sort of sliding, and abruptly sits down on the floor out of instinct.

There's a sort of galloping noise that drags her out of her head and she looks up to see Scout's big, enthusiastic face, nudging her and wagging about as hard as she can wag. "Oh my god, baby," she says, still feeling as though she's watching herself, just now both ecstatically relieved and horrifically on the verge of tears, wrapping her arms around the big dog. "Oh, I'm glad you're here too." Scout wiggles her whole butt and licks Teddy's face, huff-woofing a little.

"Ugh, Scout...!" she complains, then whispers, pressing her forehead against the dog's in a silly, human way, "Okay, girl. Sit on down, we gotta be quiet." She does, but after a second she's up again, nudging her, and turns back toward the door. Teddy shakes her head, putting a finger to her lips, but Scout all but trembles into a bark, then another insistent one. Teddy can't tell if she's being more worried than she would be normally, if she should be, or if she's just excited to have found her. Or if she's barking at someone else for Teddy's information. "Scout," she says, as authoritatively as she can from sitting on the floor. "Hush."

[OOC: this got kinda long! I'm gonna throw other options into replies to it.]

Re: teddy roberts | oc | wife (TL cont...)

[tedandroses]

o4. ooh, a party! fun...
Teddy has been to her share of parties, and a pretty wide variety of quality thereof, too. She's pretty sure anyone who grew up with not much nightlife, and/or who plays music, has, and of course college is its own thing. More recently though -- and not just because of her mind saying hold up to her lack of self-preservation -- she's found herself not caring as much. Maybe it's getting older. Maybe it's just finding new things fun.

Either way, she doesn't think she would have ever found this sort of party fun. She's had what she thinks anyone would classify as a hell week -- the only consulation being that she doesn't seem to be alone in that, and she's got her dog and her guitar -- and now she's got to dress up and, possibly, impress this Marjorie person.

If anything's prepared her for any of this it's that the whole little town bit isn't new. Unfortunately, that means she knows exactly how these Christmas parties go. You'd have to be half-dead to get away with not going, and everyone knows everyone there's desperate for gossip. And even so it'll feel good for a while, but only a quarter of the time you're supposed to be there. Besides, the people here are...well. Rich, comparatively, and she doesn't know how to do that kind of elbow-rubbing; she's always been shit at it at afterparties and senior art shows and stuff.

At least she'd found a dress that splits in a sort of giant-peplum, jackety way that allows her to wear tailored pants with it: first time all week and it feels like a relief, even if they are silk dupioni (according to the enthusiastic salesperson). Scout is at home -- can't make people let you bring a big, protective hound-retriever mix into their pristinely decorated home, no matter how well she takes care of you -- so she's been avoiding drinks. And holding up the wall, for the most part, though

If she was at school she'd have gotten over being awkward by now and asked any one of a number of these women to dance. If she didn't feel about like she's 14 again and at a church lock-in the way people in this town look at each other, she still might've.

Teddy is abruptly restless: she goes to pick up an old-fashioned from a bar cart, ignoring entirely -- or, she has to admit to herself, choosing in such a way -- that she might be one of the only "wives" there to have done so, and turns back away swiftly. And almost right into someone.

"Oh! Jesus," she says and winces. "Didn't see you there, I'm sorry." She huffs a laugh and lifts her glass to punctuate the sorry with a wry smile. "I guess I'm not getting gracefulness for Christmas."

o5. christmas...presents?
"I know, I'm coming!"

There's a little mocking part of her that says to Teddy that this is exactly what they wanted, whoever they are: her dusting flour off of her hands and hurrying back into the living room (Scout excitedly following her back and forth) to open a present or two before she has to check on the cookies. You're letting them win.

Except she's not: she likes baking even if she's hopeless at cooking, and if she can't have her mother dragging the whole family into Christmas Carols while she plays the piano on Christmas Eve, then they're at least going to have warm cookies on Christmas morning. For herself if no one else.

She glances at the others, picking up the gift with her name on it sitting on the chair. "Wait, did you --" But they're all somewhat awkwardly looking at each other over a similarly neatly wrapped gift. One that isn't what she'd sat down her "husband" and made sure they got so the kid had something to open (because if this is awful for her, how much more awful did it have to be for them?): she doesn't even recognize the wrapping paper. "Okay," she says slowly, and despite the delicious smell of cookies baking, her stomach turns over.

"Who wants to go first?"

iv. wildcard
[need a change or want something else? let me know! as above.]

Pyotr Stepanovich | Demons (novel) | OTA.

[mukha]

I. The limits of bourgeois science.

As far as Pyotr Stepanovich is concerned, he may as well have been transplanted to another dimension, if only he believed in such things. Alas, regardless of his commitment to materialism, nothing in the young man's life could have prepared him for this, and, sad to say, his reaction... In hindsight, it was simply shameful.

He'd panicked, barely managing to get it together in front of his 'wife' (his face still red from slapping himself, from desperately trying to wake himself up from what he had convinced himself was some kind of bizarre fever dream-)

Since then, he's worked on toughening up. This is either a dream, some kind of final madness, or... he truly doesn't know, but whatever it is, he's decided to treat it as a test.

He does his best to blend in, to make acquaintances, to acquire information. A revolutionary has no home, no country. His goal is to infiltrate everywhere.

That has always been his mission, so in that sense, what's changed?

III. Socialism: logical, scientific, and destructive.

Having been shuffled along with the sheep, Pyotr Stepanovich spends his time in the bomb shelter contemplating murder. No, really. If this is a 'dream,' what's stopping him from just gutting someone? It's tempting, so tempting, when one is surrounded by a bunch of screaming, crying morons.

Come on comrades! he thinks. He's not even sure what it is he's hoping for, but he's aware enough by now (indeed, how could one not be?) of the ever looming promise threat of the 'Red Menace.'

Never has he been so proud of his countrymen, though one should not even call them that now, if they'd really transcended and become universal specimens of the proletarian revolution. Don't worry--he's careful to hide such feelings behind a periodic show of cursing the 'damned mad fanatics!'

IV. The need for entirely new traditions.

Verkhovensky goes to the Christmas party. He keeps a vapid smile plastered on his face and wanders the room oooh-ing and aahhh-ing at all the Taylors' festive trash. Oh yes, Capitalism, isn't it wonderful! Being from the 1860's, he's still at a loss as to many of the new machines, and the Americans' food is so different from what he's used to... simultaneously too bland and too sweet.

But no one will ever know that. He compliments everything and takes a big plate of hors d'oeuvres to snack on while he people watches, smiling fleetingly, almost compulsively, at anyone and everyone. He's not one for booze, kisses, or dances, but he welcomes conversation; it doesn't even have to be intelligent.

VI. Wildcard!

[I am OTA; just shoot me a message at this journal or add me on onemuon. Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky is a character from Dostoevsky's Demons. Here is a link to a wiki about the book; if you scroll down it has descriptions of major characters, including Pyotr Stepanovich. Be aware that the book contains triggers for suicide as well as abuse and sexual assault of a minor. The latter will not come up in my RP as it is not relevant to my character.]

iii.

[perceptual]

The hubbub is starting to grind Helly's gears a little. Of course all the sirens and warnings are unsettling, but there comes a point where screaming and crying has got to get old. At some point you have to just stop making noise, even just for the sake of sanity. Helly's actively looking for someone who isn't contributing to the generally awful atmosphere in this bunker, and when she spots someone looking remarkably chill about the whole thing, she sidles over to him posthaste.

"Not your first rodeo, or are you just the unflappable type?"

Norton Folgate | Torchwood Soho | OTA

[pharadyne]

I. Arrival

The first thing Norton notices as consciousness slowly creeps up on him is that this bed he's in is much more comfortable than the sagging thing in his two-up-two-down in the slums of Waterloo. The room smells better, too. No mould, mothballs, or musty smell of stale pipe smoke from owners past. Ergo, Norton thinks, in the simple logic of the barely awake, he must be in someone else's bed. The hypothesis is strengthened by the sense that there's another warm body near him, not quite touching. This in itself is not an unusual occurrence, but he doesn't remember going home with anyone last night or drinking nearly enough cocktails that he wouldn't remember if he did.

He cracks open his eyes to learn more, and finds himself face to face with an unknown woman. He starts violently, practically falling off the edge of the bed, eyes wide, and lets out a small, short squeak of surprise.

"Oh my God!" And again, for good measure, even louder: "Oh my God!"

II. Death of a Salesman

When the salesman barges in and starts his pitch, Norton nods along as he tries to think of a way to get rid of the man since merely saying "no thank you, not interested in a new vacuum, maybe try next door" didn't work the first time. Or second. Or third.

As the man leaves the room for a glass of water, Norton has a notion that maybe he can quickly sabotage the vacuum, point out how poorly it performs, start making a scene about how the salesman was clearly trying to scam him, and perhaps embarrass the man into going.

Before he can put that or any other plan into action, though, the man emerges and charges at them with a knife. Norton immediately flashes to his training--the Combato a former SOE operative had taught him when he'd become a Torchwood agent--grabs the man's wrist and uses his own momentum to twist his hand and arm back to disarm him, a swift upward jab to knock underneath the man's chin to force his head up, and then a slash deep and curved across the exposed throat, severing trachea, veins, and arteries alike.

Norton's no good at all in an extended hand-to-hand fight but he is good at killing people if he has the element of surprise on his side and he can get it done quickly.

The body drops and Norton blinks a few times, still holding the knife and covered in blood. Bugger. He'd liked this suit. Pinstripes. He looks over to his "wife," still stunned by what occurred. Adrenaline is rushing in now, making his hand shake slightly.

"I'd ask what the bloody hell just happened, but I think the more immediate question is...do you have any experience disposing of dead bodies, darling?"

IV. Home For The Holidays

Norton's rarely met a party he didn't like, but this comes close. He's too on edge after the bizarre last few weeks to enjoy the music and dancing. The space is a bit too public, even the hidden alcoves, for him to be comfortable finding a handsome man to snog, or more. But at least the cocktails are good. And he'll chat with anyone who approaches, his smile as bright as any of the townspeople. Must keep up appearances, at least until he can work out what's going on.

"Lovely weather we're having, don't you think? December's usually so gloomy, but the last few days have been marvellous. Mind you, I am still hoping for a white Christmas."

ii.

[regulararmybrat]

Margaret can't help but watch in horror as the scene unfolds. She shrieks, taking cover behind the couch as her "husband" slashes at the man's throat. She covers her eyes--yes, she's seen more than enough gore in the field as a M*A*S*H head nurse, but seeing someone actually take another person's life is another thing entirely.

When the commotion settles, she peers over the cushions, staring wide-eyed at the blood, the corpse--her gaze settles on Norton as she stammers out a response.

"You--He's dead, you--!"

The salesman is dead. Nobody could survive their throat being severed in such a way. As if in a trance, Margaret begins to move towards the linen closet. The army trained her for these kinds of emergency scenarios.

"We'll need to wrap the body up," she says, her voice sharp and authoritative. She pulls out a white bedsheet, turning to hand it to Norton. "And something to clean up the blood."

Bucky Barnes | MCU/FatWS

[freakymagoo]

1. Arrival
[It's not-- immediately apparent what is the most disconcerting part about waking up in a bed that's threatened to swallow his body whole in a soft, sinking mattress. Is it the lumberjack chic black and red checkered flannel pajamas? The empty left sleeve where his vibranium arm should be? The photo of the stranger who's smiling next to him? The ceiling and the immediate surroundings that are simultaneously so horrifyingly familiar but completely foreign?

Or maybe it's just the fact that he. Didn't have or can't remember having a nightmare?

He nearly trips over himself stumbling out of bed, grabbing at his empty sleeve and shaking it comically as if 1 (one) detached metal arm will come tumbling out like the last stuck stocking stuffer on Christmas morning. By the time he reaches the front door he's panting, eyes darting around the front lawn frantically trying to make sense of freshly cut grass and the white picket fence home.

Is he dreaming of the what-if he'd come home after the war, having lost his arm but not his life? That would make the most sense, wouldn't it?

He looks down at his empty right hand in more-than-mild disbelief. Somehow he hadn't taken the door right off its hinges when he came barrelling down and out of the house. It occurs to him, belatedly, when he feels how dry his mouth is, that he left the house barefeet. No slippers, no keys, no knife.

And then he's flailing on the lawn slightly unhinged, pulling and tugging on his left sleeve trying to tear it off and check the socket where his arm should have been attached. If it looks like Wakandan tech, he's only going a little bit crazy.

Only, he doesn't seem to have the strength to rip the sleeve off his pajama shirt.]


2. Backyard
[If you've never seen anyone try to dig a hole with a shovel with one hand, now's your chance. Although Bucky doesn't try to do much with the shovel for long. He's on his hand and knees once he's broken up the grass, digging blunt fingernails into the dirt and clawing clumps of soil into an increasingly bigger hole.

The problem wasn't that he just killed a man yesterday. A man who tried to attack him in his own home that's not his own home with his own knife that's not his own knife just because they-- didn't want to buy a fucking vacuum cleaner?

No, actually, the problem is more that he-- wasn't completely repulsed or remorseful or hated every moment of it. But sure, he can dig with his bare hand out here and pretend that the problem is that the ground doesn't look like it'd been dug up yesterday.

He just. Needs to see the body. To be sure. Of what, he. Doesn't know. But he needs to be sure. Even if he ends up hurting himself in the process.]


3. Fire Department Fallout Shelter
[He'd lived through this, but not as a civilian. He never-- in between being put on ice he was probably on the other side wreaking havoc. He's familiar enough with emergency procedures to follow along with everyone else, but he's teetering dangerously close to having a breakdown and just checking out while his fragmented mind plays with reality like a rubix cube and tries to make sense of all this.

He should probably - oh god, he has a wife. He has a wife. He has topiaried hedges. He has-- he has-- wh-- he--

...sits on the cold, hard floor in a dark corner close to the haphazard stack of crates, half of a dull dog tag glinting red from the red light, staring at other peoples' shoes tuning out the panic and the frenzy. His own boot laces are untied, but. He can't do laces up easily with one hand.

Why would he-- even slip into boots with laces? This is all just a strange fever dream.]


Wildcard
[will respond to any starter you want to do with me!]

3

[frauseufzen]

Steady on.

[The voice is harsh but quiet, from a lean figure in sensible shoes who towers over the seated, panicking fellow. She doesn't look at him directly, save for a glance downward, checking his physical state.]

Breathe in, deeply.