TDM NO. 2

[silentspringmods]

TDM № 2 : February 2024
Part I; Chapter 3. Out of the Mist Your Voice Is Calling

premise & faq rules application invite requests NPCs calendar story so far taken

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—or, if they're under 18, they awaken as the legally recognized child of the aforementioned couple. 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.

OOC TDM plotting/who's who

Openings

As of this TDM, a total of 18 player slots are open. Players may app up to two characters; one of the two will not count toward a player slot.

There are 8 openings for players who app at least one Wife;
There are 4 openings for players who only app a Husband;
and there are 6 openings for players apping at least one character under 18.

Game Tone and Blanket Warnings

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.

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 February 2, 1961.

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. Smoke gets in your eyes

A few days after characters arrive, a large tower of black smoke begins to rise against the February sky, a dark column at the treeline just beyond the cooling towers that mark the location of the distant Sweetwater Atomic Energy Plant. The radios, if characters turn them on, advise of a two-day controlled burn going on in the forest during the dead season, managed by the Maryland Department of Natural Resources, and suggest that characters keep windows closed to minimize “nuisance smoke” in the home. The whole town takes on the faint smell of smoke as the wind pushes it toward the patchwork of subdivisions: not the pleasant smell of wood burning or food cooking, but something much less organic, a close neighbor to the smell of burning plastic. Characters may, from time to time, notice the faintest passing metallic taste in their mouths.

Otherwise, it’s a slushy, snowy Maryland winter like any other, and the previous month’s snow—which had mostly melted by the time of the controlled burn—returns before too long, dusting the town in a few shallow inches of brilliant white. It’s enough for school to close for a few consecutive snow days—perhaps a good time for newly assigned children to explore the town or earn a few dollars shovelling driveways?

The salt trucks and plows do a pretty good job of keeping the streets cleared, but something odd begins to surface on the surface of the pavement as they continue to salt and scrape: numbers spraypainted on the pavement, varying by location: 1, 2, 3, or 4. Characters have about a week to realize that the numbers correlate to sectors in a quadrant covering what seems to be the entire town before roadblocks appear at the major street junctions connecting adjacent quadrants, manned by civil defense and the Sweetwater police force.

A disaster preparedness drill, the radio informs them, will be taking place for the next week. Characters who do not have critical business in a sector other than Sector 4, where Haven Street and the neighborhood bunker is located, will not be allowed to pass through, and those that are allowed to pass through for critical work (such as at the hospital in Sector 3 or the fire department in Sector 1) are subjected to trunk and body searches.

Unfortunately, most of the shops in town, including the grocery store, are clustered around the town park in Sector 1, unavailable to Haven Street’s residents. As the week goes on, neighbors may have to swap and borrow to make sure that they have everything they want—not need, of course, because the government of the town of Sweetwater would never let this go on long enough to create a serious need without providing for the citizens trapped contained within the cordoned sectors. Might as well get to know each other!

III. Everybody's somebody's fool

You didn’t think Valentine’s Day would come to pass without a quintessential 1960s cocktail party, did you? On the 14th of the month, Marjorie again plays hostess in the large, well-groomed neocolonial at the end of the cul-de-sac, offering a spread complete with cheese balls, deviled eggs, and fondue. Or maybe shrimp are more your character’s style? Either way, there is no shortage of rather… quirky hors d’oeuvres and assorted canapes to blunt the effect of the cocktails her husband mixes up, or her signature punch, if characters would rather have that.

While characters’ closets contain an item or two of cocktail attire from the 1960s lives they’ve stepped into, there are also a lot of other things in their closets, things that would catch some glances or invite gossip by the NPC partygoers. It’s best to avoid a faux pas in an environment like this - maybe some second opinions on outfits are warranted? And of course, it wouldn’t reflect well on one spouse for their partner to show up underdressed… or to not show up at all without a pretty good alibi.

Characters may notice, at various points in the night, that Marjorie’s gaze wanders from person to person, that at times she seems to be watching different partygoers. This probably isn’t the best place for subversive speech, but it’s a good chance to meet one’s neighbors, and perhaps an even better chance to try and get some information out of Marjorie.

IV. Don't tell me why, kiss me goodbye

cw: non-graphic depiction of woman in labor

When characters go to sleep on the night of the 15th, the edges of the town again begin to merge with their unconscious minds as they did on New Year's Eve, a sequence of fragmented images: a beautiful young woman’s face contorts in agony, the bindi above the bridge of her nose crumpling between tight brows as she pants through bared teeth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Two older women, both with salt-and-pepper hair, stand on either side of her in an urban hospital room, rubbing her back as it jerks with her weeping. The roots of her hair are drenched with sweat; tears stream around the hand of her mother-in-law as it rests on her flushed cheek. A young woman with hair tucked under a scrub cap leans over one of her elders and says something to the soon-to-be mother.

Two occupied pairs of loafers face each other on a glossy tiled floor. A woman’s voice echoes over a speaker: Now boarding, Flight 17501, DCA to LaGuardia. First-Class passengers on Flight 17501 from DCA to LaGuardia may now board. The same hand that wound into the telephone cord reaches out and shakes a broader one several shades darker, decorated with a proportionally heavy chain-link watch.

“Professor.
My congratulations to your daughter.”


A few days later, the televisions downstairs crackle to life, playing in black and white a short video. The young woman from the dream stands in front of the camera in what appears to be a walled garden, wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a plain but brightly colored sari flaring out across it sidha pallu style and holding an infant; her thick black hair is now in a long braid tucked to the right, capped off with trendy Sadhana cut bangs. She waves at the camera, then holds up the baby’s wrist as to wave too. The child is small, and young—maybe one month old.

She says something, her brown eyes warming, although of course the soundless film doesn't capture her words. The camera comes closer to the baby, showing her face, giving different angles, then pans out, sweeping across the garden: well-kept, clearly maintained by someone who cares about it quite a bit. Guava and Chinese hibiscus border the brick wall with a well-pruned mango tree standing sentry, and the compound leaves of a young neem tree sway gently in the breeze in the foreground. One of the women from the delivery room, somewhere in her fifties or sixties, steps into the screen to stand beside the new mother, looking into the camera with the same eyes, her own creased at the edges with decades lived.

Be careful. I love you, she mouths in Hindi, although the video has no sound—and characters, even without any prior knowledge, will find that somehow they know the exact content of what was just expressed—and more than that echoes in their minds.

Be careful.
I love you.
Ishani needs her grandfather.

The young woman smiles a little thinly at the the camera as the video comes to an end, her eyes glistening, and says something in parting, again waving and holding up the baby’s hand as though to wave too; the older woman presses a hand to her lips and blows a kiss with a wistful smile that holds a trace of pain—and briefly, characters look at the screen and realize that her face has metamorphosed into that of someone they care very deeply for, holding direct eye contact with them, visible to any other parties in the room. The video ends, leaving them—and, if they’re unlucky, another member of the household—standing in the living room, staring at a blank screen.

V. Becoming what we are, collapsing stars

Characters attending the community college’s Spring/Summer semester to begin training for their new careers may notice a sign-up sheet posted outside of some of the classrooms in the science and engineering wing: a series of talks on astrophysics, open to the public, is being held by visiting lecturer Vikram Ravichandran, a tenured professor in the Physics Department of the Indian Institute of Science holding degrees in astrophysics and theoretical physics from the IIS and Oxford University, respectively. It’s quite an honor to have someone so qualified teaching in a little town like this, isn’t it?

If any characters puzzle about what might bring a man across the world to give talks in a town like this, their curiosity is dismissed, and they’re simply told that the professor is teaching while he looks for a quieter suburban life outside of the frenetic pace of Bengaluru. Who wouldn’t want to live and teach in America? His choice seems self-explanatory enough to the Americans of Sweetwater.

On the 19thth, the first talk is held, a thoroughly normal lecture on recent academic thought on the origins of the universe, followed by light refreshments, offering attendees a chance to meet their new classmates or perhaps to introduce themselves or pose questions to Dr. Ravichandran—although how much can be safely shared with him, as always, remains a looming question mark.

For the most part, though, Vikram has an approachable air—he's tall and speaks with a deep voice, and is certainly very intelligent in an eccentric sort of way, but he smiles and laughs in conversation throughout the night, diving deep into explanations with evident relish when asked. He gives the impression of someone who has been in academia for quite some time; with tenure has come the ability to relax. As odd as his presence in the town of Sweetwater is, he does seem to sincerely enjoy teaching—those particularly attentive to their surroundings might notice his name on the cover of one of the communal textbooks left out on one of the tables in the science department’s study area on their way back to the parking lot.

Notes:
— The Community College is now open! It features a cafeteria, campus center, library, gymnasium, athletics field, pool, and assorted classrooms. Characters who are registered as students have free access to all parts of the campus; characters who aren't students can access most of it, although they can't check out library books or access the gym or pool.

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!

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Comments

QUESTIONS.

[silentspringmods]

Please read the FAQ before asking!

now in the right place!

[ribticklers]

Regarding Dr. Ravichandran's lecture, looking at this from the perspective of a character who is extremely familiar with this stuff, is it all as would be expected for this era? Nothing obviously too new for the time period? Sans isn't likely to be able to pull "this is a discovery from the late 1960s, not 1961" from his memory, but he'd notice if the guy started talking about the WMAP cosmic background radiation images from the 2000s or something.

[poleaxed]

What kind of classes would a woman be allowed to attend at the community college? Which would she be encouraged to attend, which would she be barred from, or frowned upon for entering? Would signing herself up for a 'masculine' class merit disciplinary action, or be impossible in the first place? Etc.

[aluminumandash]

Does the town have a cemetery? What about a church? If there is a church, are characters judged for not attending?

What's access to the neighborhood bunker like when there's not some kind of drill happening?

Re: QUESTIONS.

[tedandroses]

Just for reference, what kiiiiinda attention drawing clothes? Or is that at our discretion? Since two people have gone with pants, I'm going to assume 50's era pants are in, but Anything else we should know about?

And: this is, um, niche but before I get a chance to properly tag around -- is the Apollo Program/Space Race timeline the same in this jamjar as otherwise expected?

[ribticklers]

Somehow this only occurred to me just now: for "don't tell me why, kiss me goodbye", the faces of the people Sans cares deeply for are nonhuman. Would they appear as nonhuman in the video when the face changes?

[spaghettimonster]

I'd like to doublecheck about the timing of the 2nd and 3rd prompts. Is Valentine's day during or slightly after the end of the lockdown?

(I assume after, but it adds something hilarious to Marjorie's whole aura of menace if she pressures everyone to go to the party when no one can even go grocery shopping - like, where did she get the shrimp??)

SPEAK TO MARJORIE.

[silentspringmods]

Limited to 3 threads at a max of 6 comments total. Structure the subject line as "[Character Name] | [Character Canon] | [In Game/Not In Game]".

2 slots are available to both TDMers and current players, 1 slot is reserved for a character already in the game.

Jupe Park | Nope | In Game

[yupe]

He has to pick his moment; Jupe's used to that. Late enough that the party's in full swing, their hostess (he hopes) pleasantly tipsy, but not so late that people have started to make their excuses and head home—increasing the potential of their stumbling across, say, a disheveled Russian reading Marjorie's diary, or looking through her trash, or whatever it is Raskolnikov's planning on doing.

Jupe banishes that thought, and every other thought of Raskolnikov, before approaching Marjorie. He has a pair of drinks—a Tom Collins for himself and Marjorie's drink of choice (according to her husband) for her. “Our bartender wanted me to bring this over,” he says, offering her the glass. Not exactly how it had gone down. With a teasing smile, he adds: “Between you and me, I think he likes you.”

Jupe sips his drink, allowing for a (he hopes) comfortable pause and dipping his voice into a more confidential register. “Thank you for this. I think we were all going a little crazy, cooped up like that.”

SPEAK TO DR. RAVICHANDRAN.

[silentspringmods]

Limited to 3 threads at a max of 6 comments total. Structure the subject line as "[Character Name] | [Character Canon] | [In Game/Not In Game]".

2 slots are available to both TDMers and current players, 1 slot is reserved for a character already in the game.

Sans | Undertale | In Game

[ribticklers]

[What Sans wants to but will not do, at least not right now, is ask if Dr. Ravichandran has copies of his quantum physics studies on hand. He will not, because he is just a normal guy attending these physics lectures, and around here normal guys definitely don't know quantum physics. But oh, he wants to. He'll settle for keeping an eye on Dr. Ravichandran, because it seems like a good idea for someone who knows what he's talking about to do that.

He talks about the physics covered in the lecture instead, with obvious enthusiasm but care not to run away with himself. No jumping ahead, especially not to things that haven't even been discovered yet. It's exciting regardless, so he means it more than a little when he says:] We're pretty lucky you decided to lecture here. Lots of places in America, y'know? Really makes a guy feel like he picked a special town to live in.

[Okay, so Sans doesn't really mean that last sentence, not that you could tell looking at him. He brought up the "special" thing on purpose; he wants to see if Dr. Ravichandran echoes that the same way it's been brought up by some of the others.]

SETTING EXPLORATION/ENGAGEMENT.

[silentspringmods]

For any event-related exploration of the setting or character interactions with the setting, post them here! The Community College is now available to be explored.

[poleaxed]

How would trying to sneak past the roadblocks go, exactly?

Chell | Portal/Portal 2 | OTA

[aperturesubject0001]

i. Arrival | (you went to all the trouble of waking me up)

The elevator hitches to a stop, the strains of the singing turrets still echoing faintly in Chell's ears. The hatch in front of her unlocks with a scrape and thunk of metal. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, preparing to step out of Aperture Laboratories.

Opens them, and finds herself staring at a ceiling. Waking up. Not for the first time. A generic ceiling, a comfortable bed, a cotton pillowcase.

A -- person in bed with her? A human?

The next half hour is extremely confusing. And it ends with one young woman -- dark straight hair and olive skin, still in a pastel blue nightgown that skims her knees -- out on the driveway in front of her house, looking around at everything. Everything. The sky, the pristine lawn, the sky, the neighbors making their way out in the early morning, the sky.

If approached, she startles and looks at the newcomer with wide eyes before lifting her hands to sign, Where am I?

iii. Cocktail party | (that jumpsuit you're wearing looks stupid)

Here's the thing. Chell has no idea how to dress.

There are pants in her closet, and she's used to wearing a jumpsuit, so ... she's wearing pants, and a tucked-in blouse.
A small spiral-bound notebook and pen are stuffed in the pocket of her pants, ruining the line of the garment. But needs must around here, evidently. As much as she might stubbornly prefer to stay uncommunicative around people she doesn't like, it's rapidly becoming clear to her that not communicating is a one-way ticket to suspicion.

It's not the most scandalous thing she could be wearing, but as soon as she arrives at the party it's obvious that she's under-dressed for the occasion, and she has no idea how to handle it. People keep looking at her, and if she signs at them some of them nod politely and sign back Nice to meet you, but most people are just glancing at her and then away, and the room is hot, and what is she supposed to be doing? She's had GLaDOS and Wheatley telling her what to do for -- for however long it was, and now she has no idea what's going on and not to put too fine a point on it but this party sucks. She's been to some parties where all that happened was she was threatened with being dumped into an incinerator and frankly she'd rather be back there.

However. There is food. And that's something. When Chell is not hovering around the edges of conversations, giving people a faintly distressed smile and clutching a glass of punch, she can be found going back to the hors d'ouevres for thirds, fourths, and fifths. Especially if there's cake.

[ooc: Chell is hearing and mute, and uses ASL or written English to communicate! She's also mixed race, which may be noticeable in this town. If you have questions or ideas please hit me up at AdivaCalandia or via DM, I'm all about it. ]

i

[wwrench]

It was only a little more than a month ago that Wrench found himself in a precarious position. Standing barefoot in the middle of a driveway — his driveway, by all accounts — looking up at a sky that seemed entirely too normal, given the circumstances. So when he steps outside and looks down the row of houses along the street he's come to know, he recognizes the woman.

Not by her face, of course, but by her actions. The befuddled expression, the way her first instinct was to leave the house before she'd even changed, the way she just... stares. Wrench stares too. If there were a self-appointed welcoming committee of those who have been brought here, he'd be the last to appoint himself to it. Firstly, he doesn't have any good answers. And secondly (a close second), he assumes that any attempt at conversation is just going to confuse her. But she's just standing there, drinking it all in, and with no one else around he feels compelled to try.

He's assuming the worst, so he's more than a little taken aback when the woman raises her hand to sign almost like a reflex. Is this place fucking with him? Wrench narrows his eyes, but fingerspells back with comfortable fluency, S-W-E-E-T-W-A-T-E-R, M-D. Who are you?

joan dority | oc | ota.

[poleaxed]

a. LEAVE IT TO BEAVER.

Joan wakes up with a whole body gasp, her mind on high alert. Waking up in an unfamiliar setting is bad, bad, terrible, bad, and panic sets in immediately. Terrible things are about to happen. Men on horseback. Fire. Cardinals speaking words she doesn't understand. Yet the world she sees isn't some muddy Medieval Times, it's Nick at Nite. Confusion subsumes the nitrogen panic in her lungs, leaving her groggy and-- most importantly-- annoyed. It's better to be angry than afraid.

There's a man in her bed, or someone who looks enough like a man to count. Are they awake? Are they staring at her? Have they said something? Doesn't matter. Joan makes a balled fist and punches her companion in the shoulder-- forceful, but not a fighting punch, a hello-wake-the-fuck-up punch.

"Earth to Ward Cleaver, we've been abducted by the fucking Eisenhower administration. Let's find a table to hide under." Without waiting for a response, she rolls out of bed.

b. GREEN ACRES.

The fire comes eventually. Joan is trying to look busy in a flower-print dress that makes her feel like a prime candidate for introduction into the Manson family, though she's become distracted by the growing haze on the horizon, and is now standing in her lawn, watering her car. Is this when it starts? She crosses herself with a wet hand, leaving a watery T over her chest.

"We need to go inside." Is there a child, an adult, anyone nearby? She gives her advice unprompted, an echo in the middle of an unbusy street. "Just trust me. Don't be a stupid bastard."

c. HOGAN'S HEROES.

Of course, waiting for disaster wears thin on Joan's patience, something not particularly storied to begin with. On day three of plan huddle-in-place, she pulls a pistol from her sock drawer. It doesn't fit in the dresses she's been provided, so she steals slacks and a belt from her husband's (ha ha ha) wardrobe, and grabs a shirt to pull the look off. "Jesus. I look like a log cabin lesbian."

She sticks the gun against her skin, the belt holding it in place against her spine. "You wanna go, or sit around with your thumb up your ass until they starve us out?"

d. THAT GIRL.

During the period of time spent wondering if dying in Maryland meant also dying in real life, Joan has decided she hates dresses. She's never had a strong opinion on them beforehand, but having no other option has really worn thin. After searching and searching and searching, she's discovered mod fashion, though she has no idea what that's called and simply refers to it as 'my John Water's wardrobe'.

Showing up at the cocktail party like this is probably bad? Maybe bad? She doesn't really care. She just wants nice food, and eats with unladylike hunger, tearing open the bodies of shrimp and popping cheese balls like they're medicinal.

She sees Marjorie. She notices the people in her orbit. She keeps a careful distance, but is undeniably curious. A hand greasy with food residue grabs your arm and pulls you closer. "So tell me about this bitch."

e. BEWITCHED.

She is standing in the (her?) living room, watching a television that's clearly been turned off. It's huge, the kind of thing you can slam over someone's head and kill them with, so heavy, and why is she thinking of violence? Because violence is always coming. Why are tears running down her face? Because there's always something worth crying over, but usually she's not enough of a pussy to show it. She rubs at her face until it's red.

To anyone else in the room, she says, voice gruff with sadness and anger both, "you know what to do when they come?"

f. WILDCARD.

[I'm up for anything, let's go. PM me if you wanna talk it out first, but feel free to combine prompts, add your own, whatever works!]

a.

[pharadyne]

Norton had been sleeping soundly and yelps in shrill alarm at the sudden minor violence to his person. He's lived in Sweetwater for about a month now, so he's not entirely surprised to wake up with a strange woman in his bed--he knows the town does that sort of thing--but also it's the first time in his life he's woken up with a woman in his bed. So it's all a bit peculiar in that respect.

"Who's Ward Cleaver? For that matter, who are you?" He sits up in bed but doesn't move to hide.

sam carpenter | scream | ota

[requel]

( oh hi, i'm a ~test subject~! if anyone would like to plot anything specific with sam feel free to hmu or add me shookspeare to discuss. if you're not familiar with her sam, she's in her mid twenties and is the daughter of a serial killer. she is struggling with her own violent tendencies and the fact she also kind of likes killing people but she desperately wants to be good. the items she'll have with her are - her father's ghostface mask and knife and maybe something of her sister's. sam is also mixed and is visibly latina which might draw some attention. sam also has mental illness, possibly bipolar disorder so... that's fun.

i'm happy to play in either brackets or prose so feel free to change the tense if you like.

SOMEONE WIFE HER UP! 🖤🔪)

I. ARRIVAL/DON'T TELL ME TO SMILE

!! CW: MENTIONS OF MURDER/VIOLENCE !!

[ bailey was dead. that was the last thing sam really remembered. the look on his face when she stabbed him the last time in the throat after he begged her for mercy had been priceless. it was what he deserved and it felt good killing him after everything he had put her and her friends through. after all the people who died because of him. maybe she was the killer that bailey thought she was but she was still better than him.

her sister had been right next to her. sam remembers that, she remembers turning to look at tara and then... sam's eyes fly open. a ceiling, a popcorn ceiling was above her. her brow furrows, this wasn't the old theatre... the ceilings were higher there. it takes her a few moments to realize she's in a bed. it's her bed, it feels familiar but at the same time it's not her bed. her body goes tense when she realizes she's next to someone, she turns her head slightly to see it's a man - a man she doesn't know. sam practically jumps out of the bed.

her first instinct is to look for a weapon. because when it comes to fight or flight, sam will always choose fight. that's when she notices the picture on the wall, it's her and the same man that was in bed with her and they're... together?! and they look happy, like a couple... like a happy couple?! ]

What the fuck?!

[ then she realizes she's not covered in blood anymore from her fight with bailey, ethan and quinn. had she finally snapped and gone crazy? she looks back at the man on the bed and then moves so she's on top of him, straddling him and pinning him to the bed. ]

Hey! Wake up!

III. EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY'S FOOL

[ sam hates her cocktail dress. she hates the shoes. she hates how impractical it all is. she likes clothes that are easy to fight in, easy to run in. the lack of pockets also make it near impossible for her to have a weapon on her. she had found her dad's ghostface knife in the house she had woken up in and she tried to keep it concealed on her for the most part but outfits like this made that difficult. she had managed though. the knife was pressed against her spine. not the easiest to get too but it was the best she could do and forced her to have perfect posture.

right now she's just trying to get a feel for everyone else who's here. she had hoped that maybe her sister was here but at the same time... she wouldn't wish this (whatever it was) on tara.

sam isn't the type to trust people, not anymore. but she's still looking for someone who could be a potential ally even if it was just temporary.

she's hasn't touched the food and the cocktail in her hand hasn't been sipped from either. she wanted to keep a clear head right now. ]

WILDCARD

( something else you'd like to do with sam? maybe you see her wandering around town? or spending too much time in the shops looking at knives? idk. THINGS. )

I lmao

[aluminumandash]

[ Like that he's awake. Funneled into the narrow confines of consciousness: her weight bearing down on him, her breathing harsh to his ears. The man's eyes meet hers for less than a heartbeat—wide, not panicked—then he draws his legs up under the covers. Plants his feet and bucks his hips, the movement sudden and forceful. If she falls forward, he'll try and lock down the arm closest to the side of the bed, use that leverage to roll her to the floor.

He's not big, but he's bigger than she is and used to moving fast. ]

nile freeman | the old guard | wife

[babyguard]

➥ ARRIVAL

[ Three months ago an insurgent hiding in a bedroom in Afghanistan slit Nile’s neck and she woke up the next day without so much as a scar. At this point, she should be used to waking up in strange situations, right? Still, nothing quite prepares her for getting shot between the eyes and waking up here, in a nightgown she usually wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

Pink silk? Really?

She can feel the panic that’s clawing up the back of her throat and trying to take over her senses—so she does the only thing she knows how: she tries to gather information. The robe helps, and she wraps it tight around her as she explores the house, poking at various things that are familiar but look like they belong in the Museum of American History—

--until she steps outside and finds that newspaper.

1960.

1960.

Are you fucking kidding her? She doesn’t realize her hands are shaking until the rest of the paper is suddenly too blurry to read—that is, until she crumples it and shoves it under her arm, hiding evidence of her nerves. Movement to her side catches her attention and she twists, raising a hand to the neighbor she suddenly has.

Crossing the yard is easy, and she’s more than a little proud when her voice sounds mostly normal as she speaks: ]

Hey, you new here too?

➥ BORROWING FROM THE NEIGHBORS

[ Not everything is as good as it seems in “paradise”. Of course it’s not, because this is Nile’s life—and it can’t just be crazy in one way, it’s gotta go all in. But she’s military (was military?) and she’s not buying the whole ‘don’t worry folks, nothing to see here, this is a planned burn’ thing.

Besides, wood smoke (even wild wood) doesn’t smell like this—this smoke is wrong, somehow; bitter and plasticy and cloying, clinging to the inside of her mouth and making her wary, like she needs to keep looking over her shoulder.

And they won’t let them close enough to see anything of use—she’s tried on car and on the bike, turned around by the police (ever polite, nearly robotic, bright fixed smiles and instance on the previously provided reasoning)—and now they’re keeping them close to the house, hemmed in, away from information.

But she’s not one to take being told what to do laying down, and she’s seen neighbors visit each other to swap sugar and flour and drinks the past day or two. It’s a good enough cover to compare notes as anything.

Which is why she’s standing at your doorstep with an empty pyrex measuring cup, offering a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. ]

Spare some sugar? I won’t be able to manage this jello otherwise—

[ do you add sugar to jello? Nile’s pretty sure you add sugar to jello ]


➥ COCKTAIL PARTY

[ A cocktail party. Because of course the way to deal with the veritable weirdness of this place is to get together, eat weird appetizers (never in her life did she think she’d miss an MRE, but she guesses there’s a first time for everything), and get drunk on the strongest martinis she’s ever had the dubious pleasure of putting in her mouth.

Nile’s nursing one now, looking over the rim at the party goers and trying very hard not to meet Marjorie’s eyes. She’s at least dressed for the occasion—a pink cocktail dress and heels. Completely out of her normal wheelhouse but you know what they say about blending--

She heads back toward the appetizers because small talk with Marjorie’s husband over the cocktails isn’t her idea of a good time. It’s a testament to how distracted she is that she doesn’t notice her company until she’s actually run into them, coming up short as her hands automatically come out to try and steady their shoulders ] Shit, shit.

[ so much for blending, it’s not exactly “lady-like” language for the 60’s is it? ]

Sorry. Are you okay?

( hi it’s me, Nile’s player giving a this a second go when my life isn’t exploding! If you’d like a personal starter, or want to discuss something, feel free to hit me up at justplainchy on Plurk)

arrival!

[perceptual]

[ Helly's getting pretty good at doing normal things. Going outside on walks, making cups of tea, choosing her own clothes – you know, regular things that average people do. She even sometimes comes outside in the morning to stand on her front stoop as she's sipping coffee, like she's watching her lovely idyllic life pass by. It sure is great here, she hopes people think she's thinking. And I sure am a normal woman.

The thing is that the better she gets at doing this sort of thing, the more she comes to realise how boring it is. At least she has secret dissent to occupy her time indoors, but even maintaining the veneer is a snooze. So this morning, when someone completely unfamiliar to her emerges onto her front lawn, Helly can't quite believe her luck.

She's confident that she knows the faces of enough people on the street to be able to tell when someone new is about, especially since it was only a little while ago that they'd hosted all the new arrivals in their home. But she's still suspicious. She hasn't seen a new face since she got here; maybe this is a ruse of some sort, to weed out the dissidents. Helly scrunches her toes in her slippers. ]

Not quite. When'd you get here?

Alec McDowell | Dark Angel | OTA

[jampony]

ARRIVAL

[When Alec wakes up warm and without the aches and pains of squatting in an old house on even older furniture that's the first indication that something is wrong and he wakes with a start. The proximity of the person beside him keeps him from moving too quickly, even though he wants to jolt forward and escape as soon as possible. When given a fight or flight scenario, it's in his nature to choose the former but now, in foreign territory and behind the eight-ball he doesn't have enough intel about his current situation to do anything rash.

One thing he doesn't have to do is blink the sleep out of his eyes, and so when he eases off the bed quiet as a mouse he does it without bothering to wake the person in the bed with him. He doesn't let girls stay the night, not his style, not with all the baggage he's got, and not when the government might still be looking for him. As he paces from the bed to the door frame and takes stock of the crown molding and dated wallpaper his stomach drops.

None of this made any kind of sense. The newspaper and the stupid robe only make it worse. With the photo from the mantle in one hand and the paper in the other Alec slides down onto his front walkway and leans his back against the door to the house.]

Bullshit it is.

[He's not talking to anyone specifically, but the paper gets thrown back onto the lawn and the picture frame right on top of it. Where he's from, it's 2021 and the 1900s are a distant memory and so is the whole "American Dream," hot-take on life. He's got no clue where he is, or why, but what he knows sure as shit is that there's no possible way he's really in the 1960s or any era close to it. They can dress him up and build a convincing neighborhood but something wasn't adding up and every fiber in his being is telling him to rummage through the house, take anything worthwhile and meaningful, and try to get to the bottom of it.]

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES

[So from one snow job to another Alec's starting to realize that lying just fits right into this place and its repertoire. He's done enough undercover work to know when to play along and play nice and since he's found next to nothing on intel about his current situation playing a helpful neighbor is just about the only thing he can do.

Alec takes it upon himself to shovel his driveway and he's dressed in some warmer clothes to do it too. He's not stupid, he and just about everyone else noticed the smoke, but he put together the bit about the quadrants faster than he should have and so he's keeping himself busy by scraping the snow off the sidewalk and keeping his side of things as trim as possible.

He's not a big fan of winter or snow, but he's not enthused about getting shot back in time or married off so focusing on what he is capable of is more important to him than playing into the fictitious diorama life he's been dropped into. People talk, that doesn't change no matter where or when a person is from, and so he lets them and listens when he can and pays attention when he can't. He's taking a break for some hot soup out of an ancient-looking thermos when he realizes that he's not alone.]

I can do your front yard next if you want. Not like I have anything better to do.

EVERBODY'S SOMEBODY'S FOOL

[Despite the arrogant smirk on Alec's face he cleans up nicely for someone lightyears ahead of this joint and way out of his fashion wheelhouse. The clean-cut suit fits just right and his hair has been brushed and gelled into place in a neat and sharp complimentary style. He knows how to assume the persona but that doesn't mean that he'll talk to just anyone. He prefers to listen, and with a plate filled with snacks of all shapes and sizes, it's clear he has no objections when it comes to gluttony either. He's got a drink in hand, but he just sips at it and meanders, studying the room almost as carefully as Marjorie seems to be doing herself. When she gets a look at him he typically files into whatever conversation he can insert himself into, or make himself a part of. Sometimes, that's a more difficult dance and it meant striking up with whoever happened to be nearby, especially when isolated from the few cliques that are scattered around the place.]

Valentine's Day, huh? Are parties like this the usual for that holiday ... or?

WILDCARD

[Any of the above prompts are open to character interpretation or your hot-take on them as a player! I was vaguely interested in Collapsing Stars and Kiss Me Goodbye but chose these prompts instead so please feel free to put those down if that's the kind of narrative you prefer. I don't mind at all!

I am more than willing to match format and can be found on plurk at doggos for any questions and concerns.]

arrival

[aperturesubject0001]

[ The woman sleeping beside him shifts when he jolts awake. A deep breath, a sigh -- then she turns her head away and doesn't wake herself, not even when he leaves the bed.

But when he opens the front door and re-enters the house, she's standing at the bottom of the stairs in her pastel blue nightgown, staring at him with wide, startled eyes. She lifts a hand to her chin, signs, and points at him. ]

Who are you?

hunter aloysius "hap" percy | the OA

[angelhunter]

[ ooc / New blood, here to try out this real piece of work in the setting. There's a little info on him here along with content warnings; his canon point is Part I. He'll be under the initial impression that he came here voluntarily (after a fashion: he just chose to leave his universe, not knowing where he'd end up) and essentially bodysnatched this version of himself.

Prompts written in action but I'm happy to do prose too. ]

arrival. content warnings: chemical overdose, references to human experimentation and imprisonment, gaslighting

[ He's alive. He's awake. Working backwards: He was asleep.

Hap sits up in bed, touches his face with both hands. Tests his features. He's him. The same. And someone else, somewhere else. The first effects of the sodium pentathol poisoning have vanished like the last weak murmurs of a dream. He laughs, though not as hysterically as he might if he'd shifted into a fully alert body, or the trip had been at all taxing. It didn't feel like he thought it would, crossing universes. Slipping into another consciousness (pushed aside or snuffed out?) is seamless, as it turns out. No more disorientating than a blink.

It worked. The years of research, the sacrifices and isolation, the suffering of his subjects, and every gouge out of his conscience to construct a greater understanding of the universe -- a goal he accepted couldn't be achieved in his lifetime -- came to impossible, unbelievable fruition.

And he could do it again.

His glasses are within reach on the nightstand. He puts them on and takes in the room, starting with the body beside him. Not someone he recognizes, and that tempers the elation rushing through him. He was expecting Renata or Rachel. (Won't think about Prairie and what he did to her.) But why should he? They could be anywhere in this world. Or they could be in his basement.

He opts not to disturb the woman who may or may not be his wife. Best he acquaints himself with their life as much as he can, first. In the framed photo he finds, she's no one he recognizes from his past. He has no right to be disappointed by that so denies that he is. Their home is mundane. It doesn't take him long to work out that the sixties flair isn't just aesthetic. The suggestion of time displacement has him all but forgetting about the woman upstairs (though he does take a peek down the underground stairs. Empty).

Unwilling to suspend his disbelief based on the available, potentially fabricated evidence, Hap returns to the bedroom to dress. ]

i. the missus

[ If his partner wakes while he's changing, he turns to her while buttoning up his shirt. ]

Ah. [ He has no reason to think she's never seen him before, and tries to act normal. Pleasantly generic. ] Good morning.

ii. in town

[ Hap scrounges up his counterpart's, now his, wallet and keys. Birthdate on the driver's licence lines up with his age and the supposed year. It's disconcerting; he's not going to waste energy contemplating all the ways it will be extremely inconvenient, if true. In his car, he follows the roads without aim until he's satisfied no architecture is going to surprise him. It's unfailingly uniform to the time period.

He stops in town and goes on a walkabout, popping into several stores. Making polite conversation with shop clerks, purchasing a thing or two just to blend in. Nobody and nothing seems out of place. Hap is standing on the sidewalk, magazine in hand, paused on an advertisement for asbestos-lined oven mitts, when someone nearby practically knocks him off his feet with a casual anachronism.

A modern tune, hummed. A reference or some slang. Crass behaviour unbefitting a fine citizen of Silent Springs. Whatever it is, he folds the magazine shut and steps urgently up to them. ]

Sorry, what was that? Just now?

iii. don't tell me why

[ Hap watches the broadcast with arms crossed, brow knit. Nonetheless, his posture is at ease compared to the tension that comes over him near the end. One fist tightens against his side, the other grips hard at his forearm. She's not here. She couldn't be. He left her behind.

But if anyone could find a way to follow him...

No, she wouldn't. She would have no reason to except to pursue vengeance, and Prairie doesn't have that in her. She doesn't care about him that much. Hap pulls his glasses off, rubs at the bridge of his nose. Is, for the first time since he woke up in Pleasantville, glad he left her. It's only then that he notices the person beside him is having a reaction of their own.

He stresses a neutral tone. The line of his shoulders remains rigid. ] What did you see?

iv. wildcard

[ Open to all other prompts and scenarios, and happy to plot out smth beforehand, including some light assumed CR/handwaved intros. PM or PP verhoeven ]

ii.

[poleaxed]

Joan has already had a certifiably bad experience from standing out, and one would think this would make her more cautious. In a way, it has; her first instinct is fear. It's just that her infraction-- telling a mailman to fuck himself-- seems so small. Are they really going to punish her for that? She ought to see the limits of what she can get away with. She needs to start forming a plan.

So she does, in her own way. "What are you, a narc?"

Rust Cohle | True Detective | Husband 🙃

[aluminumandash]

I. I now pronounce you...

A man's sitting at the edge of the bed, half out of a pajama top patterned with alternating squares of red and mustard yellow. As his bedmate begins to stir his gaze—patient, intent—comes to rest on her, even as he shrugs the rest of the way out of the shirt. His chest is smooth, a rune-like tattoo over one breast. A cluster of bullet scars on his lower left torso. Down his right forearm another tattoo: a screaming, feathered bird in blue ink.

He doesn't move otherwise.

“How do you feel?” It's the opposite of sharp, the question, spun out in a Texas drawl, but there's a weight to it. Without waiting for a response, he goes on. “Head, limbs. How's your vision?”

II. Somebody's fool

He's dressed right, in a dark grey suit with a skinny dark green tie. Tied the tie himself. Shoes shining, martini glass in hand. But Rust was out of place the moment he stepped into the party. Maybe it's the hollowed-out look of his face, his inability to smile. The tension in his posture, a brittleness that seems to extend to his very fingertips. For the most part the good townsfolk don't circle like vultures, which is supremely fucking novel, but there are plenty of unfriendly stares and a few occasions where a rescue might be in order:

a. A man with country-club good looks and a flush to his cheeks has Rust cornered by the record player. “Try this one,” he says. “What's black and white and red all over? Trotsky in a tuxedo! Or, okay, this maybe isn't appropriate for mixed company, but...”

b. As the party's winding down, a woman sets her pitiless sights on Rust and his supposed spouse. “I've been watching you all night,” she confides, favoring them both with a conspiratorial smile. “You're such a charming couple. Tell me, how did you meet?”

c. Should you decide to explore the house at a particular hour of the night, you may find broken glass crunching beneath your shoes as you cross the threshold of what looks like a dimly lit study. “Ah, shit,” emerges from the depths of the room, followed by Rust—tie loose, gait lazy. “I was just cleaning that up.”

III. Kiss me goodbye

He's looking at the TV like he's never seen one before: standing, arms limp at his sides. Not even squared up to the set. “Get a pen,” he says, eyes locked on the screen. His voice a tangle in his throat, competing with what's in his head: Be careful. I love you.

His gaze snaps away for a second, finds whoever else is in the room. “Pen and a book, c'mon.”

IV. Around town

He takes up jogging the last day of the “controlled burn,” a gunmetal tang to the air and grey slush in the streets. After that, he becomes a regular sight, taking laps through the neighborhood every morning and sometimes just before nightfall. The snow doesn't stop him—in fact he's out before the plows almost without fail. If his jogs regularly take him past the roadblocks, well, that's to be expected—there's only so much pavement in their walled-off quadrant. If he sees someone new or out of place and stops to talk, that's just good manners.

...and if he lights a cigarette immediately after the jog ends, hey, it's the fucking '60s.

You may also find him at one of the town's cemeteries—he's careful to stagger his visits, time them so they won't brush up against a funeral, but he inspects each of them in turn. If he doesn't think anyone's around he walks the rows of graves with a bouquet clenched in one hand. Gaze dipping to the ground on occasion.

He makes a trip to the bunker as well—more hands-on there, pressing a hand to the walls and sizing up the store of supplies. "How long's this been here?" he'll ask anyone he spots.

[ Feel free to wildcard or PM for plotting purposes! Here's a little primer on the Rust Cohle Experience if you want an idea of what you're getting into. ]

get the fuck up it’s me your wifey ♥️

[bedwarm]

The woman in the bed is awake for a long moment, still curled on her side, watching him with sharp eyes and a growing scowl. When she moves to sit up, it’s slow, careful. A black bias-cut silk nightdress clings to her waifish body.

“My fucking vision? That’s what matters to you?”

Her accent is foreign, veering Nordic. Her small, birdlike features dip into transparent anger. Without breaking his gaze she reaches between her legs and cups her sex. What she determines from it doesn’t matter; she’s in his bed either way.

Her chest heaves suddenly.

She lunges for the first solid object she can grab off the side table. Later, she’ll learn it’s a telephone. For now, it has a good weight in the hand.

ralston | oc | ota

[brittlest]

→WRONG SIDE OF THE BED

In the depths of the prison called Aterlacus, there is little telling day from night. So the ear becomes accustomed to the fine granularity of sound within one's chamber: here is the subtle rasping of fabric against the form as the body expands and contracts around its requisite dosage of oxygen: this gentle scrape denotes the quality of hair twisted absently and habitually between fingertips; there is the tinny sound-that-isn't-sound of the changing air that precedes the use of a key in the door's maejelock. The internal pop of tensing muscle—

He opens his eyes. A bad dream, Ralston thinks. One that evidently isn't yet finished with him.

Were he more lithe, he might slip from the bed upon discovering himself not alone in it. As it is, he sits straight up. Takes a moment to familiarize himself with the alien qualities of the room. Then, while his bed partner is still nebulously unconscious, Ralston reaches for the cane propped agains the bedside table. It falls easily into the hand, familiar as nothing else is, and is readily turned.

WHACK! Hopefully the bed's quilted comforter is thick enough to insulate from the stinging force of being smacked across the thighs with the stick.

Rise and shine, darling.

→S.O.S.

Within three days of the blockades going up, a message appears on the public IBM channel. It reads—

Medical attention required.

→BE MY VALENTINE

He's on his fourth cocktail.

And if he's being honest with himself (which he usually is), that's more or less precisely on track with his plans for the evening. He hadn't bloody well spent an hour struggling with the semantics of tying the noose-like tie around his neck not to imbibe heavily upon arrival.

It paints the dark haired, dark eyed man in possession of the dog-headed cane in a slightly different light from most of the bewildered (or paranoid; or faking otherwise) new neighbors in attendance. There's a certain laissez-faire, daresay 'Fuck it', quality to how he drifts in and out of conversation with the locals; a too bright point to his study of the other recent arrivals that might happen to cross his eyeline; an over readiness to tell one of Marjorie's guests presently jawing about his eagerness to get back to the golf course to—

"What was your name again?"

"Howard."

"Well Howard"—a pause for a nip off that fourth cocktail—"I don't think I much care for golf. So maybe you should consider fu—"

Save him.

→WEIRD SCIENCE

Throughout the lecture, a man in his thirties—or is it forties?—with dark hair sits in the back of the room. He listens intently. He takes no notes. He asks no questions. And at the end of Dr. Ravichandran's talk, he gets briskly up. With a smart click of the base of his cane, bemakes directly from the little lecture hall.

But here, on some soggy bench en route between classroom and parking lot, the man has paused to take a seat and indulge in a cigarette. While sat there, his cane hooked across one knee and scarf pulled up against the bite of the winter air, he considers the shape of the building he's just left. The people who come wandering from it. The maddening quiet of the air. The low churning in his belly that has nothing to do with the acidic tang of the cigarette. How very dreadfully still the whole world is.

It seems to be on impulse when his focus shifts from broad to pointed, latching on one of the would-be students passing by:

"You." Yes, you. A come closer gesture is punctuated by a drag from the cigarette so that what he says next comes complete with an exhale of smoke.

"You drove here, yes?"

→WILDCARD

[ooc: slight preference for prose, but I'll match action brackets if that's more your jam. otherwise, I'm down for anything. feel free to PM this journal if you prefer to spitball first.]

weird science

[wwrench]

The man whose attention he's managed to snag is not of an age bracket typical of college students, but that is indeed what he is. Truth be told, Wrench hasn't stopped smirking to himself since his efforts to find a job landed him on campus instead. He wonders to himself what the administration of Sweetwater Community College might think if they knew he never graduated from high school. It's among the most benign of all the secrets Wrench feels like he's keeping from this town, and that allows him the space to take a little bit of joy in it. To revel in the experience of being a student once more. It's not as if his life is going to turn out any differently for the training he receives. Not at this point, at least, but for once he feels less like a wolf hiding among the sheep's pasture and more like a giddy preteen sneaking into an R-rated movie.

Maybe that's why he's quick to stop when he's gestured to. Or maybe no amount of time and distance can ever keep Wrench from responding to an order given by someone who thinks they have the authority to do so. Whatever the reason, he doesn't just stop; Wrench approaches. His nose curls at the plume of smoke but he doesn't cough or otherwise express a dislike for it, but he does shuffle his possessions a little bit until he's come up with a notebook and pen of his own. It's not a full-sized sheet of paper, but more like a stenographer's book. Clearly he's not planning to need very much, despite the handwritten message:

I'm Deaf. Write it?

Wrench offers the pen along with the page.

Sherlock Holmes | Chapter One/The Awakened | OTA

[detectivision]

ARRIVAL.
--cw: past drugging, ptsd, unreality, mental illness, lovecraftean horror, fear of falling/crushing injury

[The nightmares are nothing new.

The slow regression of the mind-numbing, cottony film that acts as an artificial protective layer between him and the horrors he sees when his eyes are closed and his mind is left to wander, the eyes and the vastness and the inversion of the earth that becomes clearer and clearer as the minutes tick by, is like an old injury by now: predictable, but no less painful. The veil thins, lightens, and slowly pulls back, and the great slimy crags and the impossible shapes and the falls, oh, the endless heart-stopping falls through black gulfs which he knows by experience will reach a painful terminus but does not know when, grow sharper and closer and more and more real, and as he falls, he screams.

He always seems to scream.

In the quiet house in Sweetwater, perhaps you are next to him, awakened by the tossing and turning of this unkempt unshaven man in flannels.

Or perhaps you're outside, taking a walk past the little house, and you hear the unseemly, unneighbourly screams.

> Investigate? ]

SMOKE.

[A young man, mid-twenties, disheveled and in pajamas and a bathrobe, is standing out on the lawn, drinking oversteeped black tea out of a mug and staring blearily upward at the sky, visibly unimpressed. Dry as kindling:]

A forest fire, is it?

[He doesn't seem inclined to do much about it besides stare and gripe.]

And I'm the Queen of England.

[He takes another sip out of the mug, and makes a face.]

Not improved by the subtle aroma of industrial waste.

[Come borrow a cup of sugar, or whatever you need. The man seems grumpy, but not hostile.]

SOMEBODY'S FOOL.

[Uh oh.

Somebody hasn't showed his face at Marjorie's party.

It's not that he doesn't know about it. It's that he does not care.

Mr. Holmes is certainly at home -- the caterwauling wails of the violin-strings he's tormenting are proof enough of that, audible clear from the street -- but he'll have to be convinced that going is worth his while. Otherwise, he'll stay here all night, thank you, finding his violin better company than the townsfolk.

Maybe convincing him is worth it anyway. That violin-playing really is awful, and maybe if you put him in party clothes and force him to mingle, he'll stop the tuneless scraping and let the neighbours have some peace.]

WILDCARD.

[A catchall for anything else! Hit me up on plurk at athensbrat if you want something specific!]

Arrival

[makesascene]

[Well, that is sure a lot of screaming. Leo sure isn't thrilled to wake up in a weird suburban house, and very human shaped. The additional fingers throw off his groove, but he has luxurious hair and comfortable pj's, so he's not too bothered by it.

At least he isn't screaming. Gosh, Sherlock.

He follows the sound to the master bedroom, peering in warily. He is very much a Japanese American human fourteen year old with a horrible case of bedhead. Also strange birth marks over his eyes.]

You done with the screaming yet? I'm making waffles. Come get some before I feed them to this cool dog I found.

Cmdr. John Crichton | Farscape | OTA

[ss_buttcrack]

I. Arrival
Everything is wrong. He lurches up in bed, eyes flying open in alarm. "What the--FRELL??" He's just noticed the body in bed beside him.

"Who are you? What is this? Where am I? Where is Moya?" The person beside him probably won't know any better than he does but enjoy having questions shouted at you first thing in the morning?

And it only gets worse from here. He stumbles out of bed, down the hall, down the stairs of his too-perfect house full of pictures he never posed for and out the front door, still in his pajamas, to look at his too-perfect lawn on a street in an eerily familiar suburban neighborhood.

"Is this some kind of trick? What...? Did I wake up in an episode of the Twilight Zone?"

II. Smoke
"What the hell are they really doing?" he asks to no one in particular as he stands out on his driveway, hands on his hips, looking at the billows of smoke in the distance.

"That ain't no controlled burn." Burning brush doesn't taste like metal. He's a little worried he should be wearing a mask right now, actually...

III. Party
He was never good at these big swanky shindigs. His school counselor once accused him of having 'problems with authority' so that never bodes well. He really, really does not like the way that one HOA lady keeps looking at him. He almost wants to go up and ask her if he has something in his teeth.

With a sigh, he opts to just go get a drink from the bar, instead. But, man, the food here isn't even that good. He's back on something resembling Earth for the first time in damn-near three years and the food isn't even good. That's just unfair.

"We got any tequila in the house?"

He has, for the record, at least attempted to dress the part in a baby blue suit set but it's been a while since he had to tie a tie and it shows. A lot.

V. Spaaaace
He heard an astrophysicists would going to be giving a lecture so he obviously had to show up. He's a former astronaut who worked for I.A.S.A. and got his Ph.D. in astrophysics so, duh, of course he's curious to see what this twisted 1960s nightmare world is going to try and pass off as the latest and greatest. So far, he's is not impressed. And he is not making that a secret.

"You taking critiques, professor? I have some notes."

Wildcard me!
Happy to write any individual starter you like.

Party!

[lestercraft]

There's a man at the bar already who very much looks the part for the event; by modern standards he's practically white tie, but the suit fits his narrow frame and his hair, slicked back in a style more thirties than sixties, is perfect.

He'd look the part more if he didn't have a murderous scowl on his face, before the sound of footsteps gets his attention and he schools it to be a bit more approachable. The white cane hanging from his right elbow isn't doing the impression any favours either, but at least by the bar he's out of the way, nursing something bronze in a low glass.

When Crichton asks that, though, Arthur snorts.

"Perhaps something a little more regional?" he suggests quietly, lifting his own drink. "Or should I assume you're not one for whiskey?"

Renee Minkowksi | Wolf 359 | Maniette

[minkowskicommanding]

I. Arrival

This is not her beautiful house. This is certainly not her beautiful husband.

Because both of those are back on Earth, and right now Renee ought to be circling a blue-nee-red dwarf star on the other side of the goddamn solar system. Not in this bed with some random stranger.

But she is not going to panic. Because panicking means losing whatever this sick game is that Cutter and Pryce are subjecting her to, and she has lost too much to not go down swinging.

So when she feels the strange man get out of bed, in whatever manner of panic he sees fit, she follows suit, in a manner that's so cool and controlled it looks positively shark-like from the outside, and belies her frantically, dizzyingly racing heart perfectly.

"You have exactly one minute," she says, cold and sharp as steel as she turns to glare at the man, uncowed (her hands tremble as she curls them into white-knuckled fists), "to explain what is going on here. Start. Talking."


II. Sharing Resources
If there's one thing Renee is actually good at, if she does say so herself, it's managing resources. How else do you think she got to have actual turkey on their Thanksgiving dinners in space three years running?

So she'll be marching up to people's doors on Haven Street, and when they open she'll be there, all five foot five of her, in pants that are fighting a winning battle with the hems she's installed at the legs, straight backed and severe.

"Hi, I'm- I'm Renee." And it rankles to introduce herself like that, like her hard-earned title means nothing, but goddamn it she can too act. "It looks like we're going to be stuck here for a while, so- did you need a hand with your pantry? We should make sure you're properly stocked for however long this blockade lasts."


III. Manners

Renee heard dress up nice. Which means she's turned up in a formal suit, fitted as nicely as she can, her hair in its tight ponytail, and bringing a plate of tiny chicken sandwiches to try and pretend she has something meaningful to contribute.

So why is everyone staring at her?? She can hear people gossiping about the poor, confused girl, making snide comments, women in what she'd consider Their Sunday Best glaring or tittering behind their drinks.

And it's distracting. So when she puts her own drink down so she can make an excuse to leave--

Well. When you put something down in space, it stays there.

And the abrupt shattering of glass suddenly turns all eyes on her, in stunned silence, and she is mortified.

"I-I am- so sorry, oh my God--" At least that's not acting, and she quickly grabs a stack of napkins from the table. "I- I'll get this cleaned up right away--"

III she's not holding a gun but the vibe of this icon is Correct

[fermi_concurrence]

Morgan is dressed on the exact other end of the spectrum, in stiletto heels and a little black cocktail dress that's only morally appropriate because she doesn't know how to re-hem a skirt. She, too, is watching Renee from behind a drink, but she isn't tittering, and she wouldn't personally self-describe as glaring: she's staring as if at a puzzle, scouting out someone else who doesn't seem like they belong.

If she wasn't in a bit of a spiral, she'd want to step in and tell those gossips that they're fucking assholes who should go take a swim in the nuclear cooling tower.

As it is, it's only when Renee drops the glass and gets everyone looking (drops? The action reminds Morgan strongly of something else) that she puts down her own drink, on a table, where it belongs, and strides towards the mess.

"The host more than likely has someone to clean it up." In an aggressive monotone, because she's hoping to be louder than the chatter that's resuming around them, the mocking comments about drunkenness and rudeness.

Morgan Yu | Prey (2017 game) | OTA

[fermi_concurrence]

i. arrival

Morgan accepts that she's going to die, presses the button that will make it happen, and... wakes up in a bed.

So far, so nauseatingly familiar, but for a number of glaring details. Her surroundings are out-of-date and unrecognisable, for one. But on top of that, she feels heavy and slow, and it doesn't shake off the way that the grogginess of sleep might; the sensation of her own stretching muscles as she sits up makes her stomach recoil. And the world is silent in a way that has nothing to do with sound; it's as if her mind has a face and someone's holding a pillow over it.

She reaches instinctively for her powers, or for the whisper of coral, and finds nothing. As if the null wave did what Alex said it would and burnt everything alien out of her. As if she was wrong about him at the end. As if everything is suddenly so, so, so much worse than it already was.

Morgan is struck by a sense of loss so deep and vicious that, with no idea that she's about to be someone's least favourite alarm clock, she opens her mouth and screams.


ii. fucking around

Later that same morning, Morgan is outside smashing windows. The process is simple and efficient: smash, stare through the hole as if expecting to see something she didn't see through the glass, and move on. Non-windows aren't safe: she's also hitting several walls.

It's not difficult to source a simple arsenal from a 60s suburban home. A hammer and a steak knife form the backbone of Morgan's melee options, and she brandishes a lawn dart with intent. She's walked as far as her patience could stand without hitting an invisible wall, and now it's time to call Alex's bluff, and pray that it's still his bluff.

Even if you don't stop her for a nice chat, you may enjoy the sounds of scared and affronted locals in her wake. Or you may witness, in short order, an angry-looking Morgan getting very swiftly arrested. She demands to see Alex as if the cops should know who that is, and, because she's made a grave miscalculation, she doesn't resist arrest until she's long out of sight.


iii. finding out

It's no longer the same day, though the controlled burn has not yet begun, and someone is trying to get through your front door. Yes yours!

Judging by their uncoordinated noises, this would-be home invader's heart isn't really in it. Before long there's a jangle of keys being dropped on the ground (stupid bastard things wouldn't fit in the lock how come it keeps moving about), followed by the thump of something much heavier also being dropped on the ground.

Act fast, because Morgan is fucked up on TV and haloperidol and she's like 30 seconds away from taking a big nap right here on your doorstep.

III

[yupe]

Behind the house's placid exterior—a lot is happening. A bolt's thrown, a curtain stirs at one of the front windows. A scramble of footsteps—belonging to one set of feet—and then quiet.

Jupe doesn't hear the keys hit the ground because by that time he's out the back door, sidling through the gate to the front and sprinting across the lawn. He's loud, or at least it feels that way: his breathing, his shoes pounding through perfectly trimmed grass. He doesn't look back until he's made it to the sidewalk, and even then it's just a glance. Even then he doesn't stop.

Not right away.

But once it's clear the lump on the doorstep isn't really moving, he awkwardly trots back toward it, still leaving about half the lawn between them. “Hey?” he calls, voice thin and uncertain.

eleven / stranger things

[psychokinetics]

i. here i am floating in my tin can

( eleven wakes in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, and thinks papa did this. she doesn’t know why; perhaps he’s trying to unearth another suppressed memory. this room is so foreign to her, though. it isn’t the lab. it isn't anywhere she recalls ever being before.

she crawls out of bed, placing her bare feet tenderly on the carpeted floor, and smooths her hands over the pink-and-white checkered pajamas she’s wearing. they’re not so unlike the hospital gowns she used to wear — maybe papa thought the gown would be too out of place in a room like this. she just doesn't understand the significance, why he would put her here of all places. it reminds her a little of nancy’s bedroom but other than that, it’s meaningless.

as such, she doesn't spend much time investigating. the knick-knacks, toys, pictures all feel like a misguided attempt to ease her into a sense of safety and don't deserve a second look. she'll sneak into the hallway in search of answers instead. as she pads quietly from room to room, she’s reminded of her first time in the wheelers’ house and how odd everything had seemed. back then, being in a normal house had felt as if she’d been transported to another world. that’s sort of how she feels now, but she hadn’t known such a creeping, uneasy terror at the wheelers’. not like here.

in the sitting room, a photo catches her eye and she wanders over for a closer look, curious. three smiling faces stare up at her. two of them are unfamiliar. the third… she reaches out and traces her fingers over the image, frowning. this doesn’t make sense. this —

a sudden noise startles her and she turns, wide-eyed. it’s one of the faces from the photo, she thinks. the realization does nothing to calm her. if anything, she tenses up even more as fight-or-flight truly takes hold. )

Where is Papa? ( she asks, soft and unwavering. )

ii. last glimpse of the world

( a few hours later, anyone going about their day (or similarly freaking out) might notice a teenage girl with shorn hair, still dressed in pajamas and barefoot, wandering down the neighborhood sidewalk.

she wants to get away. she wants to find her friends.

if approached, she will shoot whoever it is an angry look and say, ) I am leaving. Don’t try to stop me, or I will stop you.

( a bold threat, and mostly a bluff. she's powerless — if anyone actually tries to stop her, she'll have no option but to run. )

iii. wildcard

( wanna do something else? just lmk or hit me up at commodore. i’ll also match prose if you prefer. )

i. yes... ha ha ha... yes!

[fermi_concurrence]

[ One of the photographed faces is a brown-haired Chinese woman who has never actually smiled like that in her life. In reality her face is careworn, and her eyes have a flat intensity that doesn't suit their twee surroundings. She wears pyjamas too: lace-trimmed, modest ones that she wouldn't have chosen for herself.

Morgan's trying to be quiet, but her body still feels strange to her -- some kind of drug, she assumes, and she wishes to god she knew what -- and the sound that startled Eleven was her entering the living room with all the poise and grace of a new-born deer.

And, like a deer, she freezes, staring.

They're using children now.

(Who says you weren't before? she asks herself, a question she knows she can't answer. Would you have cared? A question she can answer perfectly well.)

Logically, this isn't any better or worse than their already unconscionable use of adults. Illogically speaking, it strikes a new hole in her chest, leaving her speechless for a moment. This is disgusting--

But she glances quickly about, looking for out-of-place duplicates, checking her corners before she responds: ]

Who's your papa?

[ Though her face is tense with horror, her voice is nearly atonal. ]

John Doe | Malevolent Podcast

[firstgreenisgold]

2. SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES

You know what's the best part of being an ancient eldritch being that can't remember most of his existence that is now trapped in the completely human body of a teenager?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But usually, it at least gives him the freedom to go zooming around on his bike when he wants to after he's done his homework (or before, if his 'mother' doesn't catch him before he can get out of the house) except now there's fucking SMOKE keeping him inside, making even the one joy of this existence (tasting food) worse.

And he's stuck at home!

At least at school, he could learn things, peek into the library, read. But here he keeps getting coaxed into questions about whatever-the-fuck baseball is (he knows at this point but he doesn't get the appeal and never will, fuck you very much) and what girls he likes at school (none, also fuck you very much).

The only good thing is the money, at least when he finds out about it. He can't have a job like everyone else because he's small, apparently, but this strange requirement is lifted when they're snow and money is how you get things, so once he finds out about the idea? You bet John is out there with a shovel working on the sidewalks and walkways... and keeping track of those numbers, even though he can't tell what they mean.

3. EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY'S FOOL

John is wearing whatever his 'parents' told him to wear and he's probably stuffing an hors d'oeuvres in his mouth. This serves a dual purpose: food is interesting looking/tasty and no one expects the curly-headed teenager to be listening to anything and everything people are talking about.

...he doesn't know what the fuck to do with it without Arthur, but he's keeping track all the same.

WILDCARD

[ Whatever you feel like! ]

3!

[lestercraft]

With all the adults in the same cut of boring boxy suits, it's pretty easy to ignore all of them without a second glance.

Except one of them, a gaunt lanky figure, has familiar wavy hair, unable to be tamed by pomade, and an expression that could cut steel that John's only ever seen in a mirror. And he's not looking at John: he's not really looking at anyone, but there's a white cane in his right hand that he's using to carefully trace a path towards the front door.

He just needs some space. Away from the choking perfume and ugly fake laughter and snide passive-aggressive mockery that they think he can't hear because he's blind, and therefore fully ignorant of the world outside his immediate reach.

He certainly doesn't register John, when he almost shoulder checks his tiny new body. Just gives a fleeting, "Sorry-" and keeps moving.

Maddy Perez | Euphoria

[somethingintangible]

ARRIVAL.
[ Maddy forces herself eyelids to part, wedging them open even though they're trying their hardest to slam themselves shut. Irritated, not wanting to get up for school, she rubs her eyelids with a fist.

When she finally gets a blurry first glance at her surroundings, her immediate thought is, What the fuck?

This is not her room. It's not the first time she's woken up in a place she didn't recognize with no idea how she got there, she's sure it's not the room of anyone she knows... or ever would know. The decor looks like something from "I Love Lucy". Super corny, and not at all her taste.

Maddy feels a knot tighten in her stomach as her head runs over various possibilities. Is she still dreaming? It doesn't feel like she is; everything just feels to real for that. Has she been kidnapped? That seems unlikely, but... any other possible explanation seems even more unlikely.

Freaked out but determined to get the bottom of what's happened to her, Maddy looks around. She's wearing a nightgown that isn't definitely hers -- it's totally vintage, and would be super cute in any other circumstances, but fashion shockingly isn't on her mind right now. Panicking, she barely has the presence of mind to grab the robe on her door before she runs out into the hallway.

And comes face to face with another person. Her words mirror her earlier thoughts. ]

What the fuck? [ She stares, trying to make sense of it. ] Who are you?

[ She tries to sound demanding and aggressive, but her voice shakes. She doesn't know if they are the kidnapper, or another victim. She doesn't know anything. ]


SOMEBODY'S FOOL.
[ Children, Maddy has been informed, are to be seen and not heard. She's good at the 'being seen' part; not so much at the 'not being heard'.

Her knowledge of historical fashion, and eagerness to pour over any information on the subject that she can get her hands on, means she is dressed pretty appropriately for the occasion, and if you're not, she might nudge you if she can and whisper when she thinks nobody is looking: ] Hey. You're not supposed to wear that here.

[ Her dress might be appropriate, but her attitude is another matter entirely. It's obvious she's straining not to interrupt the adults who are gathered. She can probably be found hanging out with some of the other kids, trying and failing not to look too sour in terms of her expression. ]


DON'T TELL ME WHY.
[ Maddy stares at the face in the screen. She saw the whole fucked up broadcast, of course, but the ending, she could not have seen coming. The woman's face morphed into a different woman's face - this one younger, Caucasian, with blonde hair and striking blue eyes that meet and hold onto Maddy's own brown ones. For a moment, Maddy calls out, like she's forgotten it's not real. ]

Cassie? Cass!

[ Then she seems to come back to her senses, and she remembers she's not alone. She turns to the other member of the household - her newly appointed fake brother or sister or mom or dad. She looks at them, curious, desperate in her interrogation: ]

Did... did you see that too?

Arrival

[lestercraft]

[The man that she very nearly runs into has just come out of another bedroom, one hand gripping the doorframe and his head swivelled towards the sound of her voice - it's definitely the man from the family photo that she might have glanced in her room, but for all that he holds an air of severity and authority in the photograph, even with the plastic smile, in person he looks small and flighty, ready to bolt as he frowns, deep and confused.

Noticeably, however, the man's eyes don't meet hers, instead flicking with an almost panicky speed around the area of her voice.]

Who the fuck are you? [A question, pure bafflement, not a demand or an interrogation.]