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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!
Rose the Hat | Doctor Sleep
I. ARRIVAL
The last thing Rose remembered was falling. There is a pain in her neck... but not from landing, she is surprised to find out. It's more mundane than that. Almost as if she'd been sleeping on a pillow not shaped by more-years-than-she-looks worth of nights traveling the road. As Rose begins to awaken for real, it's not only the pillow that's wrong. The mattress is far to soft. Too large. Too... beige? What the fuck--?
A cry resounds through the house that sounds more like a caged, wounded animal than anything a human throat should be capable of. There is a series of crashes and thumps, followed by a long period of silence. (The spot on the bed next to Rose had still been warm, but it is lucky for that person that she woke up alone.)
Finally, the bedroom doorknob turns slowly, and Rose emerges, wrapped in a dark robe with an expression on her face like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. In reality, she's freaking out. She is no longer True, so it seems, so it stands to reason that this must be what hell monsters go to when they die. She affixes a well-worn black top hat on her head, heedless of its oddity with her current attire.
Suddenly famished, Rose makes her way to the kitchen, Civil Defense booklet in hand. For some light reading, she thinks as a cruel, humorless smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "And maybe some answers," she grumbles aloud, glancing out the window.
II. WHAT A BIG KNIFE YOU HAVE
The salesman entering her home had been a whirlwind of uncomfortable and unfamiliar social interaction, and had Rose possessed her former faculties, this would have been a different scenario all together. However, when the salesman emerges from the kitchen wielding a butcher's knife, Rose grimaces gleefully that she may still have that opportunity akin to her former life.
She won't try to reason with the salesman. Won't try to retreat. She stalks, one slow step at a time, in an arc toward him. Her body language is that of a predator.
.....if her "husband" or "child" is there, Rose will attempt to draw the salesman's attention to herself to protect this little found family.
.....if she is alone and a neighbor happens by to witness the scene, Rose will lunge to disarm her assailant first and will scuffle for control of the knife.
III. SHELTER
When the air raid sirens sound, it sends a shiver up Rose's spine. Not of fear or surprise, but of anticipation. Maybe even excitement. She's not going to listen to the instructions that tell her to shelter in her own basement. Even if there is no longer a physical need, Rose feels the compulsion to surround herself with as many rubes--ahem, "people" as possible. So to the nearest fallout shelter she goes.
Once there, Rose puts on a concerned face and prepares to "comfort" those in need. She looks for the scared ones, the concerned ones, and the angry ones. Tell Auntie Rose all about it.
V. SANTA BABY
Christmas isn't exactly the type of holiday that Rose is used to, and certainly not one like this. A rube Christmas around a sparkling tree with boxes adored in brightly colored paper.... Disgusting.
But there's something under the tree with Rose's name on it. Much to her horror, it bears Rose's family name (O'Hara) hyphenated with that of her "husband." She tries to snatch it away before anyone else can see it, but the paper refuses to tear. The perfect red bow stubbornly remains tight.
Rose is frowning, but she glances to her "family" to gauge their reactions. Are they having as much trouble as she is?
WILDCARD
[ooc; Any other scenario you want to try? Go for it! We're game.]
[NOTE: Rose the Hat is a Stephen King villain so, even though she's human now, proceed with caution. I'll warn (and/or discuss ooc) before anything potentially triggering.]
I
The moment he hears someone approach he reels back. “Morning!” he cries, voice as bright and spotless as the rest of the house. He offers a little wave, then lets his hand drop. His smile stays in place; the slight dip in his voice is only audible, he hopes, to someone listening for it. “Honey.”
no subject
When the man stands, Rose makes a small "ah-ha" sound. The man from the photographs in the bedroom. A stranger, but someone tied up in whatever the fuck is going on here. She gives him an obvious once-over with appraising eyes.
At the term of endearment, Rose's eye twitches, and she lifts an eyebrow in reproachful curiosity. "Good morning," she responds sweetly, straightening to her full 6-foot height. "And who are you?"
ii
Neither of them are suited for this, he assumes she struggles as much as he does trying to... figure out what it is he's supposed to be doing in all of this. Hell, in a way, Nigredo would say he's almost fond of Rose, even for the short time they've had to put up with each other. There's an air about her...
And if said salesman had been just that, Nigredo would have been content to eventually roll his eyes at the whole ordeal (there's nothing actually wrong with their vacuum). If said salesman had remained a salesman and not an absolute idiot, Nigredo would have chalked it up to whatever they put in the water around here or something. Charlie didn't remain a salesman. And the way Rose moved--
He's quick. Uses Rose's attempt to get Charlie's attention to his advantage in order to dip behind, make as if he's trying to get away.
That's the thing about combat training when you're young. Charlie is a threat. Nigredo doesn't tolerate threats. Unfortunately for Charlie, it's easy to get him behind the knees, disarm him (but keep the knife), and a clean, deep cut right to the inner thigh bleeds him out fast, with Nigredo kicking the once-salesman over to the side. If either Rose or Charlie seem surprised, he doesn't seem to notice.
"Femoral arterial bleed. Shock starts in seconds," is all Nigredo says about it, calm, even, watching the salesman bleed out, green eyes unwavering at the mess getting all over his shoes. He's right, of course-- the salesman starts to shake uncontrollably, to sweat, breathe in a panicked gulps. "It'll take a few minutes, though I suppose we could claim self-defense."
tw: a bit of light torture
Despite the daily struggle of the charade, Nigredo makes it easy. Quiet, amenable, gentle--but there's something about his manner that piques Rose's interest. She's used to looking past surface behaviours to what lies underneath, and she sees that hardness. That sharpness. Something left over from wherever he came from. Something that doesn't fit in with their false little suburban life.
And when the salesman comes to call, Rose finally gets to see Nigredo in action; thus confirming her suspicions.
Watching the child out of the corner of her eye, she keeps Charlie's attention on herself until the blow is struck. Nigredo's actions are practiced, clean, and efficient. When he kicks the soon-to-be-corpse over, Rose smiles broadly in approval. "Perfectly done," she says warmly.
She crouches beside the former salesman, also unconcerned about the mess on her shoes. Reaching out a hand to clutch the man's throat, Rose locates his pulse with her thumb so she can feel the life draining out of him. Her eyes are fixed on the dying man, but she speaks to Nigredo. "Oh, I don't think it will be necessary to claim anything. I'm feeling like a bit of moonlight gardening tonight. Maybe tomorrow I can pick up some azaleas for the freshly turned plot." As opposed to just digging a grave and dropping the corpse into it. Gotta play the role, after all.
Rose's expression falters a moment, then she frowns. Nigredo landed a lethal blow, but if she's not mistaken, the salesman is... starting to rally? Not on her watch. Rose removes one long (and viciously sharp) hatpin from her top hat and expertly slides it into the salesman's neck, piercing his jugular vein. She then digs her thumb into the wound, opening his vein even further with her bare hand. Finally, with a splurt of dark blood, she can feel him dying. Rose keeps eye contact with the dying man until life finally leaves him. Only then does she look up to gauge Nigredo's reaction.
A loud bang of a knock sounds at their front door.
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Nigredo could point out that some midnight gardening wouldn't always cover up a serious crime, but, truly? What about this place is anywhere near okay? Half the time it feels like a fever dream, and Rose probably has the right of it. Until they know more about how they got here, how this place came to be, what's wanted-- play the role.
"There's a Bob Hill hybrid you'd like, I think," is his only reply to that, until the door.
It makes him jump, reach for a rifle that isn't there, breath caught for a second. Wide-eyed, as if expecting something worse. Nigredo looks between Rose, the door, the dead man, and back again. And to further confirm Rose's suspicions about her 'child', when the banging get's louder, Nigredo slips right into a practiced and all-too-convincing smile, dropping the knife and pealing his sweater off. Trying to appear as if he'd gotten home and was relaxing, as if nothing was amiss.
The sweater is dropped to the floor and his shoes kicked off. "I'll get it," he says. It should scare him, he thinks, the way Rose just... did what she did. Instead, there's an odd comfort in the way she smiled and handled the salesman, as if maybe she understood, in spite of the creeping horror that sat around the edges of this plastic existence they're stuck in. Louder, to the door: "Coming!"
The woman that's there is... weird. "Had a bit of an accident did you? I figured you could have some help with the spill!"
"N--" Nigredo doesn't get a chance to finish before the woman is barging in, prim and proper with her bucket and mop. He gives Rose a slight look of confusion. "Ma'am, I'm sorry there--"
"No need to be so formal, we're neighbors, and neighbors help with spills!"
There's no stopping the new, strange, near-animatronic woman, Nigredo shrugging at Rose.
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Rose is about to comment on the flower suggestion when the bang of a knock comes again. She freezes, eyes drifting from the boy to the door beyond. She still has her thumb in the salesman's throat, long fingernail grinding into the meat in frustration. Slowly, she withdraws, and the final splash of blood rolls down her arm to stain her dress.
This is not an ideal situation.
As soon as Nigredo turns for the door, Rose is in motion. She pulls the corpse to its feet with a mumbled Irish curse, and quickly glances around the room. There's a nearby armchair conveniently covered in plastic and an afghan folded on one end of the sofa. She drops the body into the chair in a hurry when she can hear the neighbor's voice and Nigredo's attempt to keep her out. The afghan barely has time to settle over the lump before the second interloper strides into the room.
Although the body itself is more-or-less hidden, the floor and Rose herself are covered in darkening blood, so the scene looks exactly like a brutal murder. It really could be nothing else. However--
"--we're neighbors, and neighbors help with spills!"
Rose glances to Nigredo with raised eyebrows and sees his shrug. Are they... just playing along with this too? Will there need to be another murder today? Rose stays wary, just in case this helpful neighbor is violently in need of a new vacuum or a cup of sugar or whatever suburban neighbors barge into another person's house in search of.
"Help with spills," Rose repeats skeptically. "Right." She shivers, then smiles, friendly as far as anyone knows. "Nigredo, darling, could you grab the bucket from under the kitchen sink? We'll clean up this little accident together. Many hands make light work, after all." If the neighbor woman isn't going to mention what the stain is, Rose sees no reason to mention it.
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But neither of them are their full selves, are they?
Nigredo doesn't question her hiding the body, confident as if she'd done it a thousand times. It's... respectable in a way. 'Soothing' perhaps wasn't the right word, but there's something to be said about not having to hide behind a façade what violence they're both capable of. She did have her thumb holding open a wound, after all. It makes him genuinely wonder what she's had to do to survive, who she really is. Would she judge him if he said anything? If he asked? Nigredo certainly wasn't judging her.
Everyone has a story. Not every chapter of it is pleasant to read.
"--sure, mom," the word is still awkward. It's for appearance's sake. Nigredo doesn't trust this stranger as she make idle chit-chat about the best kind of products and techniques for stains, and he's used that 'M' word just enough to hold those appearances. He does as asked, dodging into the kitchen to snag the bucket, some gloves, sponges, and various cleaning products. Hot water in the bucket, he brings it back, holding gloves out to Rose.
All the while that friendly neighbor still just going on-- if nothing else that's what actually scares Nigredo. The life-but-not, animatronic, going through the motions...
Said woman beams. "What a helpful young man you have, neighbor! We'll be done in no time!"
It sends a shiver down Nigredo's spine.