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

Suits, shoes, sweaters. [ They're muffling his voice. He's stepped inside and between then, feeling along the back wall in rapidly-dying hopes of some secret door. He steps out empty handed and resigns himself to setting aside a pair of shoes and a sweater. He'll find shirts and pants in his own dresser, he assumes, and change before they eat. ] Nothing interesting. Guessing by your expression it's not much better in the dresser? No...false bottoms, or anything?

[ He steps back to the closet, digging through pockets. It turns up nothing but change and a few cough drops. He moves on, carefully peeling the blankets off of the bed and shaking them out. Pillowcases follow. Nothing. ]

Just clothes. [ Somewhere in the house, there's a photo album she hasn't noticed yet, but it's for the best that she hasn't found it. Neither of them want her to start crying, probably. ] You can look in yours, if you want, but I bet it's the same.

[ She drops to the floor to check under the bed, but there's nothing interesting there, either. ]

What do you want to find?

Not sure. Cameras, microphones, maybe... Personal effects, something taunting? [ This isn't something you do to someone you like, after all. ] Or instructions, maybe there's something expected of us here. I'd be shocked to find a bomb or anything, but I can't say much is impossible.

[ Her prediction is entirely correct, nothing awaiting him but staple pieces in neutral colors. He completes his outfit, dropping it into a messy pile atop the shoes he has on standby. Then he's climbing up onto the bed, craning his neck to peer into the light fixture. No tell-tale glint of a lens or isolated battery to be seen. He sighs. ]

I'm thinking short of breaking things open we can consider this one done. [ He'd like to break things open, but as the bigger picture goes it's probably not the wisest use of their time. He steps back down and snags the survival booklet, skimming its table of contents. ]

Bathroom next, or food?

I got two things. Maybe there's something else for you in here, too.

[ Probably not taunting, though. What a weird thought.

He declares the room clear, and she's inclined to agree. There's nothing here except the little luxuries of ordinary life - which, if they're trapped in this place, isn't a bad thing. At least they have heat and light and water, and clean clothes and a bed that doesn't smell like mildew. ]

I'll check the bathroom. [ Beth glances at him, still in his pajamas. ] You can get dressed, if you want.

[ Fair enough arrangement. He can trust that their immediate interests align enough that she wouldn't hide anything of note, and given the already low probability all of this effort was just to plant a camera in their bathroom he's nearly confident no such thing will turn up. That's the plan, he says, and makes quick work of it once the door is shut. It's nicer fabric than he's used to, not that he feels any less like he's trick-or-treating when he exits the room, gently rapping a knuckle on the doorframe to give Beth a warning. ]

Anything interesting, or as weirdly normal as the rest? I can try the other bedroom—

[ There's just the slightest tinge of fear that any waiting items of his may align with his upbringing, something incriminating they'd missed during their initial once-over. Unlikely, but the thought won't leave until he knows. ]

It's only exciting if you like Ipana toothpaste.

[ Is that old, or did somebody make it up just for this weird-ass house? In all honesty, she is pretty excited for a clean bathroom with running water and as much toothpaste as she could ask for - but that has nothing to do with the house being weird and everything to do with Georgia sucking.

When she looks up from under the bathroom sink, just a little startled by the knocking, the first thing she thinks is, oh, his glasses make sense with an outfit like that. Maybe that's mean, but those are some accountant-y clothes. ]

We should probably eat. [ Mostly because she's hungry. God, there was so much food down there. ] We can check the bedroom after.

[ Suits him just fine. He waits for her to rise to her feet before moving, taking the stairs two at a time. ] Eggs and toast? Fewer things is probably less risk, and, uh, I'm not exactly a chef. Bananas are easy to check, anything in the pantry that isn't open yet - there's options.

[ For her, anyway. He'll stick to eggs and bread, maybe brave some peanut butter if it's still sealed, but his sights are set low. He assigns himself the task of pulling food from the fridge, on the off chance a heavy pan will register to her as a weapon. ]

Were you born in Atlanta? [ He asks, veering abruptly back toward their biographies. ]

I can cook, kind of. If it turns out the food's safe.

[ Nothing fancy, but it won't be snake, and that's kind of heartening. Being here is strange, something she's going to have to sit with when she's alone - but the fact that it's a house is easy to love.

There's a catch somewhere, there has to be. But there's everything you need to stay alive. If everyone else was here - hell, even if it was just one other person she loved - she might say screw it, let's stay. We could be okay here. ]

No. [ On the way down the stairs, every step quiet behind Edward. ] Were you born in Gotham?

I think so.

[ They never let him read his mother's note, after they told him. He'd asked how they could be sure, once, and was promptly dismissed with the date and gender matched exactly. Enough for him to trust it wasn't a mix up, but otherwise so little. He'd been abandoned in Gotham, and he doubts she'd travel somewhere new just to drop him off, get herself locked up, and die.

He's comfortable with this assumption, he tells himself, fixing the head of lettuce in the fridge with an unintentionally sullen stare. He locates the butter he was looking for and straightens up, turning to the oven. ]

Where were you born? Or where did you grow up, I guess either.

[ She takes a seat at the kitchen table, figuring that anything else is probably hanging around too close to him while he works. ]

My family had a farm out in the country. That's where I grew up.

[ And because she can't quite bring herself to keep going, I had a family, we had horses, it was really nice once, she adds: ]

Probably pretty different from a big city.

Probably nicer. [ She's lost the place, clearly, so he doesn't make any guesses of his own about family or animals, at least verbally. Butter is dropped into the warming pan, pushed across its surface as it melts.

It takes him a moment, but he has just enough sense to decide this is a poor time to go on about what a work in progress Gotham is. He continues: ]

Small perks, though. There are a couple of nice libraries, old in the good way. Estate sales. Museums, when I found the time. [ He imagines the city empty, packed with shuffling dead. They'd have no regard for art, or naval history, or dinosaur bones. Worthless under those circumstances even to the living, he reasons, and wonders where they've ended up in her world. Four eggs are cracked into the pan, one after another. ] Sometimes the noise is good. Not always, but I'm sure quiet and crickets would be jarring.

What did you want to be, before things changed?

Sounds nice. [ Going places, finding interesting little hideouts and taking your friends. They might not make up for all the corruption he was talking about before, but everything he's mentioned sounds great to her.

The question he poses her is one she hasn't thought about in a long time. She's quiet a moment, thinking about it. ]

I dunno. A musician - but everyone wants to do stuff like that. [ And not everyone actually makes it. Almost nobody does - or did. These days, there aren't any superstars. ] I thought I was gonna figure it out in college.

[ He smiles, a private thing between just him and the eggs. Unattainable dreams, through no fault of her own. A terrible thing, but he feels more comfortable knowing she'd had them to begin with. ]

I wanted to work at Wayne Industries. Tech department.

[ If he closes his eyes he can see Thomas Wayne looking kindly upon him, as if he'd been preserved in amber all this time. Can hear him crystal clear: Tell me Edward, what's never behind you and always in front of you? The future. That's right, Edward. Because remember, you matter.

With his whole heart, Edward hopes Thomas Wayne is in hell. His first attempt at a flip is more forceful than necessary, not helped by his overcrowding the pan. A yolk breaks, and he closes his eyes. Exhales, slowly. ]

Turned into a scramble, here. Sorry. College, though— how old are you, if you don't mind my asking?

[ She's about to say that's okay, I like scrambled eggs when he asks the obvious follow-up question. Somehow, it feels so much more exposed to answer how old are you? than any of his other questions, though she can't quite put into words why. Maybe because talking about the farm doesn't matter; it's gone, and even if it weren't, it's hundreds of miles away. But she's eighteen here and now, and Gorman -

Isn't here. You killed him. ]

Eighteen.

[ If she trusted him, maybe she'd add how eleventh grade had just started when the world ended. Instead, she does the only thing that gives her back a little power. ]

How old are you?

[ It's more or less what he expected, but he'll always be happy to have an exact over an approximate. Now, at least, he knows how much additional discomfort comes with their matching wedding bands. ]

Thirty-eight. [ Matter of fact, no airs of presumed wisdom or embarrassment. Eggs scrambled and left to finish cooking through, he drops bread into the toaster and eyes her tiny, warped reflection in its finish. Unable to think of a comment that wouldn't sound pitying regarding her own age, he declines to comment at all. ]

If we drove off, where would you be headed? Back toward home, parts unknown...?

Oh.

[ She had guessed forty-something, but it's kind of hard to tell with his haircut; younger doesn't seem that surprising. Still - twenty years older than her. At this point, she's almost certain he didn't do this, but knowing how old he is makes her reconsider the possibility for a second. ]

I don't know. [ "Home" doesn't seem possible when the only one remaining is a group of people. They're probably still in Georgia, but where? ] I'd wanna see if there are other normal towns. Then I'd wanna find someone who could tell me what's going on.

[ It's obvious enough that she doesn't think it's that dangerous to tell him. He seems to want out, too, which is the strongest argument against he kidnapped me right when I was about to die, under the noses of almost everybody I know. How could anyone have done that? She'd heard a gunshot, and -

Before she can stop herself, she asks. ]

Do you think we're dead?

[ The oh almost makes him laugh. Something about the sound of it. He gathers plates, dividing the eggs between them. Then comes Beth's question, and he pauses. Leaning one hip into the counter, he crosses his arms. Grips them, as if testing he has sensation. He hadn't been alone, but impressive amounts of metal and concrete separated him from anyone inclined to do him harm. The building had withstood the flood, as expected. Two sleepy guards on rotation are a bit of a wildcard, but if they took it upon themselves to play at vigilantism there'd be no Arkham left. The toast pops up, jolting back into motion. ]

I'd hope Purgatory would look a little more modern, hm? [ Toast plated, he seats himself opposite her. ] I don't think so, though. I don't know how I would've died, excluding... I don't know, an aneurysm. I'm sure this will feel more real whenever we see someone else. Maybe the neighbors.

Do you think we're dead?

[ She takes her plate from him with a quiet thanks. Eggs and toast - not even butter - might be plain, but once she's taken a tiny nibble, she can't stop herself from real bites. There was food in the hospital, but every bite was another link chaining her there. This might be, too, but at the moment, it's a bounty she's not going to turn her nose up at.

God, she's been so hungry. She probably looks it, too. When she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, her scars healed but her face still thin and tired, it felt like looking at a stranger. ]

I don't know. But if we're from completely different years, that'd explain it. [ A pause. Somehow, it feels like a bad idea to explain why it makes sense for her to be dead. He doesn't need to know that. ] Even if it doesn't explain why you don't know they bombed Atlanta.

Might be tied up in the different years, somehow. Or maybe the Northeast got out that much better.

[ As likely as anything else, really. He doubts Gotham would handle those pressures, but smaller communities probably stand alright odds. Maybe zombies freeze over. He doubts she'd know one way or the other, shocked as she seemed at the snow.

He completes his bite, and so far so good. No off taste, no peculiar sensations. ]

...What's the farthest you've heard of anyone having traveled, after everything started? Or that you've traveled, that you trust someone's seen with their own eyes.

Just Georgia.

[ She hasn't gotten across what it was like, evidently. Just how fractured the world has become, just how dangerous contact with others can become. ]

I mean...people were from other places, Glenn - my sister's husband - was from Michigan, but he came down to Georgia before the turn. [ Another bite of eggs. She's still going to be hungry when she's finished, and she's gonna have to pretend she isn't. ] If people want to go that far away, they aren't gonna come back. And if you're out in the woods and you see another group... [ A little shrug. ] You probably don't want them to see you.

[ He watches her say this and feels the shift. Vital context, a conclusion all but confirmed before he's even worked his own way to it. Again he takes stock of her injuries, thinks back to how quick she'd been with the knife. He has no reason to believe he's died, and the realization she does settles like a stone in his stomach. Eighteen years old. Aspiring musician. He has to force the next bite down. ]

Maybe parts of the world exist, then. Normally. Well, closer to normal — 'the turn', you said. Something sudden and serious, might be possible they're just fencing things in. Can't send anyone in to repair infrastructure, but somewhere there's some barrier and people living like you used to, on the other side.

[ It feels perfectly in line with grand systems, as he understands them. Quarantine an area, however large, in hopes the danger exhausts its potential. Send people in after the fact, call them heroes. It isn't a happy theory, but it's one that could be survived. ]

People were talking about it on the news. It happened all over the world.

[ She's never considered that it might just be local. Did they firebomb other cities? Did everyone die in New York City? In Los Angeles? They must have. If they didn't -

If they didn't, everything they told us was a lie.

But that doesn't make any sense. How would it get on national news if it was just Georgia? Why wouldn't anybody try to rescue them? She's stopped eating, staring at her plate, brows drawing together. ]

That's really fucked up.

[ He has an edge here, years mired in forums packed with impassioned tales of cover-ups, forgeries, and hoaxes. Primarily fake of course, he's not that far gone, but answers supply themselves automatically all the same: a covert bioterrorist organization, legitimate but smaller scale cases that were similarly blocked off, illegitimate cases faked for some kind of political leverage, some unseen bioweapon-based cold war that somehow backfired on multiple countries at once, mistaken reporting spurred by mass panic, some impossibly cruel experiment with the media drip-fed fabrications... Ridiculous, but he could believe them as readily as he could the pair of them time traveling sixty years back.

But it sounds like she's seeing the sour reality of the thought more than the potential for hope, not that he blames her. So he keeps all of this to himself, offering a meek shrug as he chews through a cheekful of dry toast. ]

The world's fucked up. Seems like any time a big group has the power to make an important decision, they stop being people. But it's just theorizing, anyway. Not like I'd have a good picture of the puzzle anyway.

You'd need supplies if we got out, right?

Everyone would.

[ Turns out she won't be hungry after these eggs. She makes herself start eating again, but it's not with the same rapacity. Is this really what's happening? Some barrier between them and the rest of the world just letting them die?

I can't believe that. If I believe that, I might as well just die right here and now. ]

But only if we can get there from here.

[ He nods, thoughtfully eyeing the chunk of egg speared on the end of his fork. ]

I might suggest we add a couple of ideas to the list, then. Who or whatever left us here, I assume if they had any immediate plan for us they would've shown up by now, or set the house on fire, or... [ Another shrug. The possibilities are numerous, his point being they've yet to face any mortal threat. ] Maybe we take a day, maybe two. We keep an eye on the houses around us, see if they've all got electricity, if they seem confused like us or if they're just going about their business. We load the car up, slowly. Strip the blankets, tools, first aid, food. Maybe pick out another car to steal. Then we try and take off, dead of night. Split wherever, I'll take the stolen one home. You go wherever you're headed, supplies in tow.

[ Sorely needed, he must imagine. Senseless to waste resources, if her life is as described. ]

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