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silentspringmemes2023-12-01 05:18 pm
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TDM NO. 1
TDM № 1 : December 2023
Part I; Chapter 1. Fires We Don't Put Out
Part I; Chapter 1. Fires We Don't Put Out
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.
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.
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.
“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.
"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!
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.
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!
holy SHIT your voice for her is incredible!!!!
I don’t know any of these people. [ Vasiliy then repeats, his stare hard, the previous question, the piece of this that feels the most critical at the moment. ] Who are you?
[ Not that he intends upon being particularly honest as to who he is, not here, at least. Of course she's going to immediately recognize that he's Russian—it's the tradeoff for speaking in a language he is not fluent in, although he realizes that he would be understood, sans accent but avec a particularly dated pattern of inflection, were he to speak his own language and subsequently disclose his approximate date of birth—but Interrogator Ardankin of the USSR’s People's Commissariat of Internal Affairs would be summarily executed before he could even finish expanding upon what the letters NKVD stood for. Probably—definitely, in the 1950s—in his mother country, as well.
And, while he certainly earned every moment of his own end, and would deserve it, if someone finally caught up with him and put him down like a dog— he cannot, will not allow his second executioner to be an American. ]
thank you!!! i love major houlihan with my whole heart
Who am I? I'm Major Margaret Houlihan, US Army, and when my superiors find out that I'm missing, there'll be hell to pay on your part! Don't think that your sneaky, back-handed communist tactics will work on me!
[She retreats a little further from Vasiliy--which isn't very far, as she immediately bumps up against the dresser behind her. As she stares daggers at him, a thought occurs to her. What the hell would the USSR be doing down in Korea? They'd have to get through China, first--and though she doesn't doubt the Reds would be working together, it seems like an awfully convoluted plan to pull off. And given this man's state of dress, it's unlikely he was planning on harming her.
Still--the army had it drilled into her never to trust The Enemy, and so, she scowls, hardly daring to blink or take her eyes off him.]
Who are you? Who sent you?
me laughing gleefully at them both living out their WORST case scenario at once
There are so many things he could say, so many ways he could point out that communism doesn't need to be underhanded, that simply educating the workers is enough—but he doesn't. He does, however, allow his anger—and alarm—to seep into his tone, at least partly. He still exercises some control over his facial expression, his voice, his posture—she's a major, so she may have a sidearm somewhere here, and she's frantic. It's not a good combination, and he had his gun, after all.
Has it, weighing down the pocket of his bathrobe, an uneven pull on one shoulder reminding him that he has recourse should the situation turn dire. ]
If I were communist, why would I speak American English? Nobody sent me. I do not know why I am here either.
[ He swallows hard, tenses his jaw, untenses. In a more even, but still terse tone: ]
My name is Vasiliy Ardankin. You will call me Vasiliy Yegorovich. Major.
no subject
[Besides the fact that she's a strict non-combatant, Margaret has never found the need to keep firearms on her. However, currently, she's regretting that decision. Not that she would have the conviction to shoot this man, but just having the gun would hopefully be enough of a deterrent from him attacking her. Call it mutually assured destruction.
As she looks around the room for a way out without having to bypass Vasiliy, she catches a glimpse of something glinting against the light. Lying on the nightstand nearby are a pair of dogtags--her dogtags. They're closer to Vasiliy than they are to her. Shit.]
Vasiliy, then. I don't suppose that you have any rational explanation for this situation, hm? And don't you dare try to lie to me!
[Not that she has anything to actually check if he's telling the truth, but she's scrabbling for any sort of control over the situation.]
no subject
Vasiliy Yegorovich [ , he corrects—forcing her backwards, a measure of intangible distance even if it's only a reassertion of his dignity for his own sake. It's pushing it more than he would with most Americans, truth be told—he was not in the cultural majority in Chicago and he most certainly is not here—but the ones in Chicago had resented him more because he was an immigrant without doctoral-level English and more generally European in the undesirable way, not because of something intertwined with his very being. She's right. He is a communist. He was willing to die for communism.
And he has to swallow that back, bitterly, and pretend to be one of them. ]
I don't. If you will calm down with this communism yelling we can maybe find why we are here.
no subject
Fine. [She plants her hands on her hips, still glowering at Vasiliy. At least she's not yelling anymore.] If you insist on taking stock, let's.
[She gestures over to the window, its curtains drawn. Her gazes darts between Vasiliy and her dogtags. They don't have any revealing information--just her name, serial number, last tetanus shot and blood type--but those are hers, dammit, and hell if she's going to let this guy get the opportunity to spot them.]
Go ahead. Why don't we take a look outside?
no subject
He takes a step backwards, grabs them in a handful of cool metal off the dresser. Takes a moment to read them—she is who she says she is, though rank remains unconfirmed. Judging by the frantic clip to the movements of her eyes, though, they're important to her. Maybe she considers giving her serial number to the enemy a breach of information (and, in fairness, she has no business knowing his party number).
He tosses them onto the bed between them without any particular ado. ]
Yours. Let's. Do you have gun, Major?
[ It's a dual-purpose question: one, does she have a firearm she could shoot him with if she were to panic, and two, do they have a way to protect themselves when they go downstairs without him having to reveal that he's carrying a weapon and solidifying the idea in her mind that he's a communist combatant. He wasn't even in the military, but nonexistent God knows Americans don't bother themselves with understanding the inner workings of any government other than their own, even the enemy's, so even if he were to disclose that crucial distinction to her, it would mean absolutely nothing.
He's torn, tension rising until he feels like the inner strings holding him upright will just snap under the strain. The idea of opening a door and going down an unfamiliar flight of stairs to greet who knows what after waking up in the middle of a country that very recently killed the Rosenbergs under the mere suspicion that they were like him is unthinkable to Vasiliy—but so is letting an already hysterically upset, frantic enemy combatant see that he has a gun, which she might recognize as a Soviet officer's pistol, if she served in the Great Patriotic War. And if she realizes that, she's probably going to scream to the entire neighborhood that he's a communist. And they'll have evidence enough to torture and kill him.
It's not an ideal situation, and he doesn't doubt for a moment that someone who cared enough to join an anticommunist military would throw him to the frothing masses. ]
no subject
[Margaret snatches up the dog tags when Vasiliy tosses them onto the bed, tucking them around her neck--where they belong. She still doesn't take her eyes off him, but seems startled when he asks her the question. She's of two minds about her answer. She could lie. But if they somehow ended up in a situation where they needed to defend themselves, he might expect her to try and whip out her gun and start shooting. But telling the truth means admitting vulnerability, that at any point, this filthy commie could decide that he's done playing games and dispose of her.
Annoyingly, a little voice that sounds suspiciously like a Mr. Hawkeye Pierce nags at her. Tells her that she should establish a line of trust if she wants to get anything done besides screaming her head off.
For a few moments, she doesn't respond, trying to untangle her thoughts. Then, she sighs, looking away from Vasiliy and crossing her arms.]
I don't. [Admitted in a slightly reluctant tone.] They don't issue guns to nurses--as useful as they might be in situations of self-defense.
[She doesn't elaborate further on her position than that. She's certain that the more information she gives, the more this man can use against her. Even though at no point has he admitted to being a communist spy, nor has he really done anything to stop or hurt her.]
Do you?
no subject
It's his turn to pause, weighing his options, truly and visibly torn. Finally: ]
Don't scream. It was my father's. I found it on this table with your... [ A pause as he grasps at thin air for the word he wants. Zhetony, in Russian, and he's sure if he were to just say as much she would hear the English analog, given that he hears her in his own language... but it just isn't worth it. He sounds like he's from her time, and she of all people is the most dangerous possible audience to that fact. ] ...thing.
[ And, slowly, he withdraws the gun, without making any sudden movements—making it clear where he intends to move it next, as though facing off with a snarling dog. He points it toward the floor, hammer uncocked, and keeps it there—albeit thumb still resting on the hammer. ]
no subject
She still doesn’t trust Vasiliy—it’s possible she’ll never fully trustworthy. But at least he showed her the gun, and that counts for something. She narrows her eyes then slowly nods.]
Do you know how to use it? [She asks, a nervous edge to her voice.] We don’t know what we’ll find when we go downstairs. It could be anything. We—We should be prepared for anything.
no subject
You are right. It could be. I know how to use a gun.
[ He presses his lips together, thinking, clearly displeased with their situation and the relative lack of resources: as with a closed door in a burning building, there's no way to tell if they may open it up to find it was better left shut. ]
You should get... something. To hit with. Maybe a lamp.
[ Now that things have died down to a more simmering tension, he tries to deliberately focus on his own grammar—in this, a life or death situation, which lends the whole thing a degree of absurdity—given that the semantically insignificant exclusion of single-letter articles is undoubtedly enough to further cement him as the Other. It's not a good thing to be when one's life is already at stake, even if the mental calculus is a distraction. ]
no subject
To throw. [She explains, somewhat stilted.] Let's go. I don't know if I can stand this room any longer.
[Her voice seems to be a bit more commanding, now. Without waiting for Vasiliy, she creeps towards the bedroom door. With her free hand, she turns the handle slowly as to not make any noise. After a pause, she flings open the door and jumps to the side, trying to take cover from any potential threats.
The hallway is empty. The house is quiet. She looks back towards Vasiliy, a severe expression on her face. She tilts her head towards the now open door, gesturing for him to lead the way.]
Make any funny moves, Vasiliy Ardankin, and I'll kick your Russki ass to next Sunday, [she hisses under her breath. She's well aware that the threat no longer has any teeth, now that he's in possession of a gun and she isn't, but it helps her feel like she still has control of the situation.]
cw russian chauvinism, censored polish/eastern european slurs
But that thought is immediately eclipsed by the comment that follows: a threat—what kind of person threatens to kick the ass of the person holding the gun?—and a word he very quickly learned, upon his entry into the United States, is decidedly different in tone coming from someone who doesn't speak the language from which it was derived.
A slur. This woman just called him an ethnic slur. He was called all manner of things by subjects in the 1930s, but he'd been in the majority then. He was a Russian man living in a country that belonged to Russians. What did it matter if a prisoner called him a k____ or m_____? Russkiy—milder than the prior two outside of this era—had mostly fallen out of style in the 2010s (outside of some of his geriatric calls), but from her time? In this time? It's inflammatory, deliberately inflammatory, and it brings an immediate halt to whatever effort he had been making to restrain himself earlier.
He keeps his voice to a low, urgent hiss, gun cocked and pointed down the staircase. They still don't know they're alone here, after all. ]
With what? Your book? And then you will learn how to fire gun and go downstairs? [ It's not usually like him, to lose control over the fact he presents to the external world, and perhaps he doesn't, not fully. Still, he no longer curbs the thought that comes to mind, pointedly looking down at the diamond on her left ring finger. He swings a pointed finger toward the window. ] You are Russkiy to them too, Margaret Ardankina. My communist wife.
no subject
You--! I'm nobody's wife, especially not yours! [She continues in an incensed half-whisper. As she continues to speak, her voice gets louder and louder. If there was anyone else around the corner or down the stairs, she would have surely been heard by now.] I don't care about what circumstances this crazy situation has put us in, but I will not stand here and be slandered over where my allegiances lie, both in love and in war!
[At this point, she's practically shouting. There goes the spirit of sneakery and cooperation. She points towards the stairwell, fuming.]
Now march on over there and make sure the coast is clear!
cw vague misogyny
[ Is there even any point in heading down carefully now? Surely even all of the birds in the trees outside have flown away with her... screeching. His loud, shrill, belligerent, anticommunist American Wife. ]
If it was not clear you would know with your shouting. Your screaming will let neighbors know we are here too. If anyone is downstairs they are already coming.
[ And the order, like she has any right to tell him what to do. It's what he was going to do anyway, but now there's a stubborn, indignant streak that no longer wants to, knowing it'll give her the satisfaction of feeling as though she can order him around. ]
I will look downstairs when it is time to look downstairs. If you are not married you can give me the diamond. We'll need money.
[ He switches the gun to his left hand and holds out his empty right.
They should get a decent amount. It's a pretty good sized stone, though he of course doesn't actually expect her to be able to resist the urge to keep such a meaningless bauble. Too materialistic, too capitalist to not be taken in by engineered scarcity and greed. ]
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Hm. No, I think I'll keep this for now, thank you very much. [The bottom of her lip curls slightly as she looks away from Vasiliy, knowing such frivolity would likely piss him off even more.] And let them come. It's not like the situation could get much worse. Either I die and be free of this stupid suburban nightmare, or they see you as a potential intruder with a gun.
[Well. She was doing kind of good at cooperating at first, but now it seems that any hope of that has dissolved again. Though, perhaps fortunately for the both of them, nobody comes.
She stands there for a moment, hand on her hip, waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen, to prove that she's right. Then, after a few more moments have passed, she sighs, putting a hand on her face.]
I don't think anyone's down there.
cw (reclaimed) russophobic/(not reclaimed...) misogynistic slurs... weary bugs bunny emote
He doesn't acknowledge the comment about whether or not the coast is clear; he can turn and shoot fast enough if someone tries to come up the stairs. He's addressing this first before he goes anywhere. ]
I knew it. You cannot resist. [ A quiet, contemptuous huff. ] It is not so bad being a M_____ bitch as long as you have your worthless shiny rock to wave in people's faces, is it?
rip vasiliy. rip margaret
I am a major of the U.S. Army. I have worked ten years to climb the ranks and shed blood, sweat, and tears to earn the respect of my peers and superiors, and I will not stand idly and be debased by some--some man who thinks he can command me by simply having a gun!
[Her nostrils flare.]
Doesn't matter what you say, I'm keeping the damn ring! I deserve something nice for myself, after everything!
girl get his ass. wig
And then, before he can even react, she embarks on another tirade. He registers the similarities to his own time in the Party—it had been hard, getting to where he ended up, trying to craft himself in the image of a Stakhanovite—but there's no sympathy. Blood, sweat, and tears to be a foreign aggressor.
And then her little comment about nice things, oblivious to everything she has. It's yet another tipping point. ]
Something nice for yourself! You are surrounded with something nice for yourself! You have television, refrigerator, good clothes, big house, fancy nightgown! Everything in America is something nice for yourself! You are greedy, selfish, materialistic people! You especially!
[ It's a thought he hasn't verbalized before, not in the year of simmering with suppressed rage as an unwelcome immigrant in a Capitalist country—but the dam's broken now and there's no going back. ]
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I knew it! You are a Commie! [She crows, vindicated.] You can't help it, can you? You're jealous of everything that we have, everything that we've been able to accomplish over your backwater practices! Well, better to be a greedy, selfish, and materialistic American than to be a dirty Red!
[And without even giving Vasiliy--or any apparent danger--any second thought, she storms further down the hallway, her knuckles white from gripping the lamp so tightly in her hand.]
cw censored slur, mentions of 50s subjective whiteness re: slavic people
[ He's probably incriminating himself even further, arguing with her, but he's not going to set a precedent in which he just sits there and takes it from this woman, whom he may have to live with for God knows how long, when there's already a nauseating tone of ethnic—racial, in her time—superiority to the way she speaks to him.
He doesn't bother trying to point out that Russia started from a point of disadvantage, that it was under the foot of the tsar and serfdom for hundreds of years—the complexity would be lost on her, he doesn't have the energy to try and explain anything approaching theory in this moment, when he already would have thrown a punch or two if he were arguing with a man. ]
Because in Russia it is only backwater practices, people living in huts with no running water! First man in space was Russian! First animal in space! First satellite! Backwater practices made Sputnik!
[ All Soviet accomplishments he assumes she knows nothing about yet, if she's from the time period he's guessing at—there's a twisted satisfaction that comes with the victory of being the one to drop such news, because he knows she'll feel the shame as much as the Americans did. How could such an inferior system as communism run by an inferior A_____c people like the Russians repeatedly defeat them in science and technology? How could that be? ]
I am not communist to see you are a selfish, materialistic, aggressive woman who cannot exist without war or a rich husband! Go ahead downstairs on your own. [ He holds up the gun, thumb obscuring the date engraved on the frame, and gestures to the lamp with his free hand. ] You do not need inferior Russian technology.
cw american exceptionalism??
When she speaks, her voice is not shrill or particularly loud--it's a low, tense snarl, like a dog growling before it's about to bite.]
You think you can just stand there and lie to me about what the USSR has accomplished? I may be an American, but I'm not ignorant, Mr. Ardankin.
[Though she calls him mister, it's clearly meant in a condescending tone.]
I don't know what your game is, but you can rest assured that you'll never succeed at--at whatever it is you're planning. [Because, as she knows, all communists--Chinese, Russians, North Koreans, whatever the case may be--are secretly waiting to get a leg up on those filthy capitalists. You could never turn your back on them. Ever. They weren't like Americans. They were envious of what they could never have--and Vasiliy's temperament was proof of this.] The faster I find a way out of here, the faster I'll be free of you.
the usual... standard label for their threads...
You prove my point! You cannot imagine that Russians could do anything you cannot. Because you are superior society, yes? Look at Yuri Gagarin in library. Or dog Laika. Or Soyuz satellite!
[ Not that libraries in the 1950s would have any of this, but he's presently too incensed to consider that fact. ]
Please! Get out of here. I want to be free of you. It is "free country" but I am not free now!