silentspringmemes | TDM NO. 2

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TDM NO. 2

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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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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! ]

Edited 2024-03-19 00:05 (UTC)

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.

You know what else that boxy suit does? It makes Arthur look like another person. Even with the hair, even with the lanky frame... he's just another one of the sea of adults in the room talking about weird shit he has no fucking context for.

Until he speaks and John's heard that single word so many times, it's not even a choice; it's just a reaction. His hand snaps out immediately and grabs Arthur's arm, holding on tight and unwilling to let go.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's just what he wants, just what he's hoping to hear. Maybe Kayne-

No. No, that way leads madness.

Instead, he's tugging on his arm, and he realizes only after he does it that he shouldn't, that Arthur has a cane and might lash out, attack him and he almost lets go.

Almost.

"Arthur!" and it's not John's voice as Arthur knows it... but how many times has John said that name? How many ways?

Certainly never as desperate as he sounds right now.

The hand on his wrist, he feels immediately, and the only thing stopping him from yanking his arm free in a fit of panic-fury-outrage is that the hand is so small, despite the tight grip on his arm holding him in place, swaying lightly with the tug.

...and then he frowns, deeply, because. The voice is unfamiliar, completely, but Christ, the intonation is sparking on his nerves.

"...can I help you, young man?" His tone is clipped, cold. This is not an Arthur who is in the mood to talk, let alone after being manhandled, but as always his curiosity is unstoppable.

Oh, he's heard that tone before. He's never been so glad to have heard that tone before. He is definitely not letting go.

Arthur. It's Arthur. It's his Arthur.

He swallows a few times, and Arthur may hear it, how his breath goes shaky and overwhelmed, an entity unused to a body and all of the biological things that happen when emotions hit biology head on like a truck into a very small car. Finally, he chokes out-

"Arthur Lester. A-are you Arthur Lester? F-from Arkham?" Then, quickly, swallowing as much as he can in a gulp- "Do you remember a John- John Doe?"

And all at once Arthur's face goes blank, wiped clean of emotion like a slate. It's only subtle that he's feeling anything - the way his jaw trembles as he opens and shuts his mouth, how his chest has gone still from how suddenly shallow his breathing is.

This isn't neutral, John might just recognise, just because it's Arthur, because he's felt it from the inside. This is shock.

"No." It's quiet, a single trembling syllable - not denial, but uncertain, disbelieving. "It... it can't..."

It can't be, it can't be, John doesn't have a body, he's not a child, he's... it can't be. Surely.

But Jesus Christ, a part of him wants it to be.

And his voice is a whisper. "John?"

That little hand has a death grip on him now. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Arthur. Arthur!! It feels like his blood is screaming and he wants nothing more than to wrap around him and find a way under his skin where he belongs. That's why, he's assuming, he sounds choked and it hurts to get the words out.

"...they call me JD here." Quieter. Quiet enough no one will wash his mouth out with soap again. "I fucking hate it."

Edited 2024-03-19 00:38 (UTC)

"Oh my god..."

Emotions are warring in his chest, delight that John is here, terror and fury that after everything, after the fucking ritual, an aggressive undercurrent of bewilderment to it all--

Fuck. They're in public.

"John, we need to talk. Now." And suddenly it's a hiss, all business, and if no one listened to the words it might even sound like telling him off for swearing. "Help me find somewhere private, now."

And like a joint snapping into place, the grip on Arthur's arm shifts to be easier for walking and John starts speaking, keeping his voice pitched low and just for Arthur.

"The room is relatively full of people, most clustered in groupings of three to six, largely separated between men and women though a few groupings seem to be made of couples talking together. There's one large snack table to our left, another on the far side of the party, and ahead of us appears to be a set of french doors leading out into a backyard area. The crowd thins in that direction, so if we can get one of the doors open, we should be able to slip outside and into the evening dark. It's cold enough that should be private, at least for a few minutes."

John Doe | Malevolent Podcast

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