silentspringmemes | TDM NO. 1

TDM NO. 1

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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ What he says makes sense. It sticks between the openings in her ribs, but it makes sense - but if he's delusional enough to do this, why wouldn't he be crazy enough to leave the knife by me? Her free hand makes a fist, and she feels the hard metal of a ring between her fingers.

The fear in her gaze turns disbelieving when her eyes flash down at it. She tastes acid at the back of her mouth. ]

I don't know what you have. [ Faintly, followed by an angry ] But I'm not gonna let someone lie about putting me in lingerie and a wedding ring.

Why would I do that!? [ He replies, through gritted teeth. But when he raises his hands (for emphasis, but also to make it abundantly clear he's got no weapon to counter with) he spots his own. A plain silver band glinting in the sunlight, utterly foreign to him. No theory is fleshing itself out fully, but he's beginning to budge from assassination to...torture? Some nightmarish forced bond for sake of his rehabilitation? Mutual rehabilitation? She was quick with the knife, maybe she's a fellow inmate... ]

I don't remember falling asleep. [ He realizes aloud, with dim alarm. ] Do you remember falling asleep? [ Hands still raised, he shuffles along the wall until he can peer through the curtains. Muses, more to himself: ] We're outside.

[ Why is immaterial, even if his confusion has a weight to it that makes it feel real. It's her bare limbs and the pair of rings on her left hand - one with a fetching little diamond and the other merely shiny silver - that keep her from considering the alternatives. Of course someone would do this. She's surprised (relieved) they never encountered anyone who did.

His question catches her up short. ]

No. I was -

[ God, shut up. You can't just say you were trying to kill someone. She stays there, frozen, as he squints through a crack in the windows that doesn't say more than daylight to her. ]

Where are we?

Certainly not Kansas, anymore. [ He stares for a beat, scanning an idyllic suburban street as if waiting for it to reveal itself as a mirage. He'd like to stare longer, but it seems unwise to agitate the tense young lady with the knife any more than he has to. Though doubtful she'll take him up on it, he retreats to his corner and gestures limply to look for herself. ]

Maryland plates on the car out front, but that can't be possible... I'm from New Jersey, they wouldn't have just— [ Shipped him like an overnight parcel. Moving prisoners out of a potential hot seat to ensure they make it to trial isn't something Gotham bothers itself with, or so his research has led him to believe. To say nothing of her, the house, their matching rings. ]

Where were you last?

Grady Memorial Hospital. [ There's an edge of disgust, maybe, or anger, hiding in the name of the place. ] In Atlanta.

[ She stays back from him, and back from the window, but the curtains are open enough to get a look. It's brilliant out there, the morning sunlight bright and brighter yet where it reflects off the - ]

Snow. [ It's an amazed little breath of a word. Her gaze cuts over to the man she woke up next to. ] I've never seen that much snow before.

[ Snow has represented little more than a nuisance or danger to him, hardly worth coveting, but the wonder on display gives him pause. Uncertain whether he's pitying or envious, he tables that surprise in favor of further clarification. ]

Hospital. For your head? [ He gestures to his own face, mirroring her injuries. As if she'd need a reminder. ] Did they put you under for anything? Were you alone?

No.

[ Her face shutters, expression darkening. However incredible the world looks right now - it's so glittery, it's so bright, God, it's probably freezing out there, but it looks so pretty - she can't let herself get distracted from the problem at hand. ]

They gave me that one. [ She rolls her eyes up, brows lifting, as if to say, on my forehead. ] I was about to leave. Where were you?

Sheltering in place, over at Arkham. Something with the sea wall, I overheard. Makes sense, with how fast the roads were washing out... [ A lie, but his tone doesn't waver and he makes a point to hold her gaze. What good would it do her to hear he'd been plucked straight from a cell, after all? It's cleaner this way, one problem to tackle at a time. One less informed witness to a potential escape. ]

Provided you aren't secretly concussed or something— [ A pause and nod toward her, a lighthearted space for her to speak up if there were any pressing medical emergency, ] I think the best course of action right now would be to look through the rest of the house. Yeah?

[ She doesn't want to say yes. She wants to try to figure out where she is and how she gets home - alone. But he's here, and if she plays nice for now, maybe he'll explain what the hell is going on.

(If he knows. He's probably pretending he doesn't, but there's the outside chance that he really is as confused as she is, and it's hard not to wonder...) ]

Let me get dressed.

[ She looks pointedly over at the door, moving back towards the chest of drawers on her side. If he goes, there'll be plenty of room, no threat of getting stabbed. ]

[ He's not one to turn down an escape route, quickly and silently crossing the room. He matches her caution, as far from her as the room allows at every step. He takes the liberty of pulling the door nearly shut behind him.

If he keeps talking, she'll have no cause to believe he's running off, making to bolt her in, or otherwise setting some manner of trap. Saying as much out loud would likely be of very little comfort. Very fortunate, then, that he stops himself before announcing as much. ]

I've never left Gotham. Is Atlanta, um...nice? Aside from whatever trouble you were in?

[ When the door shuts, she hurries over on tiptoe - but if there's a lock on this side, she can't find it. His presence on the other side of the door remains a little menacing, as long as he can come back in at any time.

But it'll be worse if he does, and she's still dressed like a Barbie doll. Beth goes to the dresser and starts opening drawers, looking for something normal to wear. ]

Not anymore.

[ Is anywhere nice these days? There's a sarcasm there that might be impenetrable without any knowledge of walkers - but they're everywhere. Beth doesn't think to catch the man up on them, any more than she does to mention that the sky was blue, where she comes from. ]

Where's Gotham? That's...is that New York?

[ It sounds familiar, like something she should actually know - but Beth can't quite place it. ]

[ Anymore. Interesting. Her tone isn't lost on him, but she's carried on before he can inquire further. ]

Mm, they're not dissimilar. Think New York with more texture, and give or take some...historical quirks, and the way those ripple outward. You aren't missing out on anything, it's not a very nice place.

[ If she's some hired hand from the mob, she'll know. And if she isn't, he wouldn't wish it on many. He rocks back on his heels, turning to survey the hallway. A photo hangs near enough he doesn't need to abandon his post, so he paces the three steps to it and freezes. It's them, not a care in the world, seated on a blanket on the lawn. Of this house, he assumes; the colors match. He can't speak to her experiences, potentially grim as they may be, but he is certain he's never smiled once in his life the way he is in this photograph. His reflection emphasizes this, a deep frown displayed back to him as his mouth goes dry. ]

Are you on social media? Or are there any pictures of you that someone would be able to find online? [ Realizing these questions necessitate further questions, he adds, ] When you're finished I think you should come look at this.

Nobody has social media. [ She had a Facebook account at some point, but how anyone would get it is beyond her. ] Did you get the internet working again in Gotham?

[ The way he asks it makes her hurry, though. The nightgown gets balled up and shoved into a hamper. In its place, she finds a mustard yellow circle skirt, a white blouse, and a navy blue sweater to pull over it. (Under other circumstances, she'd prefer pants, but at a quick glance, she can't find a pair. A skirt with room to run is going to have to be good enough, same with the knee socks she's put on with it - they're better than pantyhose, of which she seems to have a lot.) She pulls her knife again as she comes up to the door, right after she ties her hair into a ponytail. ]

I'm going to come out now. [ She cracks the door open, peering through it in hopes of seeing where he's gone and what he's doing before she actually ventures out. But as soon as it's clear that he's not about to attack, she opens the door wide enough to slip out. ] What is that?

[ Her bizarre answer and Gotham's internet access are tabled for the moment. He reaches for the frame silently, deciding without really thinking that this is preferable to making her step to his side to see it herself. It comes easily off of the nail supporting it, and he's almost disappointed that no suspicious keypad or hole is hidden behind it.

He extends it toward her slowly, careful to not risk adding broken glass to the list of hazards they're sorting through. ]

Us. Allegedly, anyway. It must be Photoshopped, AI maybe, but I can't imagine what the goal would be... [ He trails off, beelines for the next frame. The next set of smiles are serene, Autumn in some park he doesn't recognize. Still them. Edward shakes his head, content to leave this one where it hangs. ] There might be more. Really committed to... whatever angle they're working, whoever's doing this. The family thing. We should probably sweep the house.

[ Beth reaches for the picture with her empty hand, taking a step back as she looks at it. The two of them, posed and smiling, on what looks like a warm day. It's eerie, an experience without a memory attached to it. There's no way it's real, but if it was someone else, if they were going look at my engagement pictures, didn't they turn out great?, Beth would believe the picture was real.

The idea makes her skin crawl, even if someone used a computer to do it. (Who even has a working computer? Who prints photos that don't come out of a Polaroid camera? It's as unbelievable as the warm air coming out of a vent near her ankles.) ]

AI?

[ Isn't that, like, robots? (The world ended in 2010, she's trying her best here.) More importantly, though, he sounds as baffled as she feels, and some part of her wants to trust that. He sounds like he means it, and so did Dr. Edwards, sure, but that feels different somehow. Maybe just wishful thinking, but - he'd known everything to say to get her to trust him, and this guy seems like he's stumbling along without any more information than her.

Looking up from the picture she's holding, just out of arm's reach, her gaze steady but uncertain - ]

You really didn't do this?

[ If he didn't, then who did?

(If he did, if he's lying to her - she'll find out. It's not like she's going to go anywhere unarmed.) ]

I swear to you, on my life, I have no clue what the hell is happening right now.

[ This is a painful admission for him, sour as it exits his mouth. He doesn't expect her to understand the significance, instead answering her previous question under his breath, casting a glance toward the opposite end of the hall as if their captor will reveal themselves now. ]

Artificial Intelligence, you can do a lot with it. Fake photos, for example. Take a picture of you and tweak your expression, or where you are, or who you're with. But I'm serious, I think... I think we check every room, we lock the doors, maybe...look for a phone book, or cameras, weird smells...

[ A hopelessly wide net, but there's so many unknown variables he hardly knows where to start. ]

If I arm myself, something small and blunt, and I stay in front of you, will you stab me? [ Nearly businesslike, now. They have to investigate, and if someone is waiting downstairs with a knife he'd like to at least pretend he stands a chance. ]

[ Artificial intelligence is definitely robot stuff. She's picturing a robot using a computer program, which is ridiculous, but in a world without DALL-E, it's hard to fathom just what kind of technology this guy's used to. ]

I don't stab living people unless they do something to deserve it.

[ How many people have you killed? How many walkers? Why? They aren't there yet, but saying it feels like giving an answer anyway.

The truth is, she knows, if he doesn't have any way to protect himself, she'll have to go first - and he could grab her from behind, take her by surprise and get her knife. Unarmed, she's not convinced she'd win in a fight. If they find walkers in any of these rooms, they'll both need to be armed anyway. And - with a sigh, like dragging the admission out of her is costing something - ]

So I'm not gonna stab you.

[ He hasn't hurt her. He's been a creep, but only insofar as he woke up in the same bed - and if he really is as confused by that as she is, it's not actually his fault. She wants someone to blame, she'd feel safer with someone to blame, but with some of the adrenaline easing, she's not sure anyone here is at fault. ]

What's your name?

[ Living people? Was he shut in with some kind of grave robber? The gaze he turns back to her is quizzical, shifting quickly to relief at permission to guard himself. Immediately he's shuffling back toward the bedroom, giving her that same wide berth as he passes. ]

Edward. [ Holding the 'Nashton' on the off chance the GCPD has released his name. Someone from Atlanta may have no business with Gotham's news, but he'd rather be safe. The bedroom doesn't yield anything especially useful. Everything too large, too cumbersome to be of any use. Settling eventually on a watch worn over his knuckles and a tall, slim vase (the three tall flowers it held placed carefully atop the dresser), he steps back into the hall feeling only a little foolish. ] What's yours?

[ And because he can feel it lodging itself in his brain: ] And what did you mean, living people?

Beth.

[ She waits for him to go forward before she takes a single step. They can stay away from each other; for now, that's good enough. Until she knows what's going on, really going on, at least.

The question he asks is kind of insane, on the face of it. Asking it means not knowing the difference between the living and the dead - or it means living somewhere so remote that he's never seen a walker. And that's not gonna be a city. ]

Whatever you call them. Walkers, biters, rotters, bloaters? The opposite of them.

[ For one absurd moment he thinks it's her sharing a riddle, but another glance over his shoulder confirms she looks entirely too solemn to be playing games. Brow pinched, he turns his attention forward and advances to the next room: a bathroom, holding little of immediate relevance. He steps inside anyway, letting her follow to get a good glance for herself. ]

...Do you mean the elderly? [ An honest, bewildered question. He hasn't known them to bite, but the rest could be applicable, if incredibly rude. ]

[ Her eyes get wide at the sight of the bathroom. The door has to lock, she's sure of it, and if there's electricity here - there has to be, things are buzzing, there's central heating - there's probably water. Sure, there was water at the hospital, but it wasn't safe. ]

What? [ On second thought, maybe he really is insane. ] I mean the dead. Why would I mean old people?

[ He takes in her shifting expression, her flat rejection of his answer, acutely aware of how much is left to be settled even if she isn't an immediate threat. His mouth opens, shuts. He can't think of a thing to say that isn't painfully obvious. ]

What harm is a dead person going to do, exactly? To warrant their own, uh, stabbing.

[ She stops in her tracks a moment, staring at him. If he's screwing with her, he's incredibly good at it. ]

Are you serious?

[ Eyebrows migrating steadily toward his hairline, Edward raises each hand slowly. Displays the vase, thin and lightweight. The watch, a meager buffer against bony knuckles. Then he looks, slowly and pointedly, toward her knife. States, more than asks: ] Do you think this strikes me as the opportune time for a joke?

[ And in case she does take that for sarcasm, because she does very much have a blade on him, ] I'm completely serious. I'm not following the thought process, here.

You wanna know what makes walkers dangerous. [ As though it explains everything, as though that's more than enough reason to look at him like he's crazy. ] "They'll kill you" isn't enough?

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