TDM NO. 3

[silentspringmods]

TDM № 3 : April 2024
Part I; Chapter 4. And I'm Screaming At The Top of My Lungs

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

Hey, neighbor, welcome to the third 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.

This TDM is open to both prospective players and current players - please specify whether you are a current player or a prospective player in your toplevel!

OOC TDM plotting/who's who

Openings

As of this TDM, a total of 24 player slots are open. Players may app 2 characters in the same app round so long as they are in different roles.

Game Tone and Blanket Warnings

APRIL 2024: THE SECOND AND THIRD PROMPTS IN THIS TDM FEATURE A SEMI-GRAPHIC, PUBLIC NPC SUICIDE.

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, nuclear horror, and uncanny valley. At different points in the setting backstory there are suicides, domestic violence, murder, slow death/suffering, trauma of minors, NPC parental death, flashbacks to combat zones, gaslighting, and other, similarly heavy subjects. IC consequences can involve anything from social shunning to sleep deprivation torture, brainwashing, physical torture (for severe crimes) 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. This is a horrorgame, and it has upsetting themes. Minors are not allowed in this game - as adults, it's the players' responsibility to self-regulate what they consume based on content warnings and avoid things they find too distressing to engage with.

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 April 1, 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 early 1961 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 1961 are allowed, and no weapons more powerful than a hunting rifle or handgun can be brought with them. One weapon per character.

II. It's time to leave the capsule if you dare

CW: SEMI-GRAPHIC SUICIDE.

On the morning of the second, the usual controlled burn warning for the forest beyond the Sweetwater Atomic Energy Plant is issued; citizens are informed that it will go on for the next 3 to 5 days. The usual rules apply: keep your windows closed, limit how much you go outside. The wind gradually carries the diffuse, unnatural smoke into the air of the neighborhood, smelling a bit like burning plastic—certainly not the rich, smoky smell of burning wood.

Around 7:30 in the morning the next day, a man staggers down the middle of Haven Street, dragging his feet in their knee high wellington boots like they’re made of lead—one shuffling step, then another. His shoulders hang.

He’s dressed as though he’s descended from space, a lone astronaut taking first steps on the surface of a hostile planet. A gas mask with soulless circular eye holes covers his face and wraps around his head down to his neck; a white rubberized NBC suit engulfs the rest of his body—except for a two-inch tear ripped through the fabric on one thigh, exposing it to the chill April air outside of the suit, bits of frayed material hanging over the edge of the ravine torn through his pants leg like the spikes on a venus flytrap as it grows longer with his movements. A thicker pantomime of the kitchen gloves on the side of every Haven Street sink covers his hands up to mid forearm. Charcoal streaks his boots and the legs of his suit as he shuffles forward.

The front door of one of the houses swings open. A teenage girl runs down the steps, the ends of her black bob still in its rollers. Characters may recognize her from the memory shared on New Year’s Eve.

Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they’ve just arrived in the neighborhood, and she’s just a teenager half-ready for school, in her school uniform and bobby socks shoved into fuzzy pink house slippers.

“Mister! Excuse me, Mister—”

The man doesn’t turn his head. Slowly and mechanically, he removes the mask and hood, then unzips the long front zipper of the suit and sheds it like a rubberized chrysalis. The mask falls from his limp hand; he steps out of his boots, standing in the pool of protective equipment at his feet dressed in nothing but sweat-drenched underclothes. Trancelike, he peels off each wet cotton layer until he stands naked in the middle of the street, sweat glistening on his skin in the morning light, revealing cracked, chapped knuckles and dry pink flesh. A rash blossoms across his naked back, a darker red at its edges, like a drop of ink spreading out on a paper towel. He bends down, reaches into the top of one discarded wellington boot, and pulls out a gun.

Candace’s eyes widen in immediate recognition. “No!” she screams, breaking into a run, the flat soles of her house slippers slapping against the pavement. “No!”

He presses the cold barrel of the gun into the soft flesh under his chin.

“No, no, no! No! Stop!”

Tears run down her cheeks as she pushes herself harder, runs faster, and reaches out to grasp his naked arm— The single gunshot echoes through the neighborhood. Blood splatters across her school uniform as the body collapses atop the heap of PPE, jaw hideously mangled, skull open. The girl screams, and screams, and screams, arms rigid, fingers spread, body shaking as she collapses onto the asphalt.

“Oh my God,” she whispers as characters approach, her bottom lip quivering under half-applied Covergirl lipstick, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

Neighbors open their doors and run out into the street–including a woman with skin a few shades darker than the girl’s in a floral apron and yellow playtex kitchen gloves, shoving stunned neighbors out of the way with a single scream:

“Candace! Candace, baby, Candy,” she sobs, immediately crouching behind her daughter and wrapping her arms around her shaking body as she continues to wail, brown eyes blown wide, face flecked with someone else’s blood. Her mother’s hands shake in their rubber gloves as she fumbles across her body, checking her rigid arms and legs and face as though making sure her child is intact, and then she pulls her up; Candace’s legs buckle underneath her and almost send her back onto the pavement, but her mother catches her by the arms in a hard uncomfortable grab in the split second before she falls. “Mama’s here. Your mama’s here. You’re going to be okay, alright, baby? You’re going to be okay, it’s all going to be alright—Stop looking at her!” she screams through her own tears, even though all but a few eyes are on the body, “Stop looking at her! We’re going to get you washed off, baby, come on, you’re okay—”

She fumbles with the ties of her apron and strips it off, draping it over her daughter’s head as though to hide her face as a Cambodian woman several inches shorter and a decade or two older than her breaks from the crowd and takes the girl’s other arm, rubbing her bare skin, trying to make eye contact, issuing urgent reassurances - characters who have explored the shopping Sweetwater has to offer may recognize her as Mrs. Hăk, from the Hăk Asian Market on the other side of town. A family friend? Her husband places a hand on her back, saying something in hushed, equally urgent Khmer. She rebukes him insistently and immediately returns her attention to the task of shepherding the shellshocked girl away from the scene; her husband takes a step back, arms hanging by his sides, helpless.

Addendum.
Characters may or may not experience this vision in addition to the above prompt.

For a fleeting moment, before police arrive, characters who have come out in the first few minutes hear a voice: the same man older arrivals heard over the phone on New Year's Eve, hysterical with emotion. "No. No. Fuck! Fuck! Motherfucker! Son of a fucking bitch! Motherfucking son of a fucking bitch! Cowardly fucking son of a bitch! Worthless shiteating Commie bastard!" He lets out a single shout after that, echoing through witnesses' brains, the only sound other than hushed words in the background, inaudible but serious, delivered like order—"Fuck!"—and then the memory takes on sight as he slams a recognizable hand down on the shiny black hood of a car. The skin on the outside of some characters' hands even sears and burns, like they themselves have held the outside of their fist on metal heated by Maryland's late summer sun, leaving something a little more minor than a large oven burn.

His sight eclipses the gore in the middle of the street entirely, until it blots out everything around the characters who see the vision: a middle aged man behind the steering wheel of a car, his head tilted back against his stationwagon's bloody headrest, mouth hanging open, eyes half-lidded and glassy like a supermarket fish, not having even had time for their finite well of tears to evaporate.

"You've killed us," they feel themselves tell the corpse in the same man's voice, now laden with a new, hollow calm, and let out a disbelieving laugh. "You've fucking killed all of us."

And then they're staring at the body of the man in the suit again, their mouths never having opened.

III. Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets

CW: DEAD BODY FROM SUICIDE, POLICE AGGRESSION/INTIMIDATION, POSSIBLE MANHANDLING/NONLETHAL FORCE, FORCED CONFINEMENT.

Police are on the scene seven minutes later, patrol cars with lights on and sirens wailing proceeding down Haven Street single-file like a funeral procession, tailed by an ambulance.

“Everyone back!” Dick Clark shouts as he throws open the door of his patrol car and runs toward the crumpled body and pile of bloody PPE. “Go back to your homes and wait for further instruction!”

But there’s something tense in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his breaths—not hyperventilating by any means, but a very harsh, defined in and out, the faintest tremor on the exhalation. He steps closer to the body, putting himself between it and the onlookers—but there passes a moment before that in which he just stares deeply, as though looking right through it, mouth frozen in a hard line. Then he lifts his head, continues shouting orders. There’s something in his eyes, though. There’s something tired, and haunted, and stricken.

Shakily, the townspeople disperse, walking back to their homes with glances over their shoulders at the carnage. If characters falter, policemen will usher them into the nearest homes—even if it’s not their household, and is in fact a neighbor’s, although they only ever end up with other player characters—by force if necessary, and sometimes in groups as large as five people. All that seems to matter is getting everyone off of the street.

Watching through the windows, characters will see the area being taped off, a blanket draped over the naked body. The EMTs bring out a stretcher and load the still-covered body, bringing it back to the hearselike ambulance. Police officers with nightsticks patrol up and down the street, ready to force any escapees back inside.

An hour later, the first Civil Defense broadcast is issued over the radio and in close captioning on an otherwise blank black television screen, both of which turn on automatically in every home:

This is Dick Clark, your town police chief and Civil Defense director. Mandatory curfew has been enacted until 2 P.M. tomorrow. Draw all curtains and turn off all lights visible from outside of the home. Lock all doors, and do not exit the home until advised to do so. If any suspicious activity is noted outside of the home, do not exit to investigate. Call 911 immediately. . . This is Dick Clark, your town police chief…

Might as well get to know your new family members better—or whatever neighbor you’re trapped with for the next 30-someodd hours.

IV. Don't drink the water and don't breathe the air

No CWs apply.

In spite of the horrifying turn of events, the Junior Hunter Over Fences 2’ Division show in the ring down the road from the riding stable proceeds as planned on the sixth—although a line has been drawn through Candace’s name on the posted ring order and she’s nowhere to be seen on the day of the show. It’s a good chance for characters to familiarize themselves with their new neighbors, especially new high school classmates who are competing.

It’s a sunny day, a great time to grab a hot dog and lemonade from the concessions stand and mingle around—but despite the good time their human counterparts are having, the horses are nervous, eyes darting this way and that, acting up with little hiccups of resistance in the ring, pawing deep tracks into the sandy ground and sparse grass outside of the ring as they’re groomed outside of their trailers.

Both Walter Harvey Glickman, the stablemaster, and Jack Alvarez, an occasional fixture at the barn, can be seen on the showgrounds—the prior, coaching his riders, the latter, simply watching the competition. Jack sits in a manual wheelchair outfitted with knobbier tires than characters might be used to seeing; even without standing, his small stature is readily apparent, lean and certainly no taller than 5’4. His legs, in particular, are thin with prolonged disuse; his upper body is wiry, the flex of his muscles beneath his long-sleeved shirt implying good condition and frequent exercise. One of the riders, on a particularly rangy dark bay, stops to talk to him on her way out from the gate as Jack strokes the animal’s leg with apparent familiarity.

He also pays particular attention to the performance of a tall, lean grey mare—and is watching when she refuses the first roll-top, backing up and continuing to back up, nostrils flaring, eyes wide. She dances in place, hooves landing this way and that as her rider struggles to get her back under control; they manage a disorganized canter in a circle, coming back to the obstacle, and again there is a refusal—the mare, by this point, near hysterics. The disqualification is announced; the rider dismounts on the spot, holding the reins tight together under the horse’s chin, walking her back toward the gate as she trots in place, unable to dash forward as she clearly wants, snorting loudly through flared nostrils.

“She doesn’t like the smoke,” Jack says, sourly, with no apparent concern over who hears him. “Of course they’re all upset. They can’t breathe. Plant couldn’t even stop burning for one day.”

To make matters worse, the sunshine and crisp air that began the event are no longer by mid-afternoon. Clouds gather, and before too long it begins to sprinkle, then rain, despite mention of neither in the day’s forecast; the competition goes on, although event volunteers can be seen emptying water buckets and turning them upside down, with the exception of the large galvanized trough at the entrance of the ring, which they only manage to turn onto its side, unleashing a small flood on the patchy grass. Characters have the option of taking shelter under the covered pavilion where guests sit at picnic tables to enjoy their concessions, or perhaps they’d rather just go home after such a strange day; if they do take shelter, they’ll find themselves sharing tables with people they may or may not know: while there are several picnic tables, townie spectators seem to have had the same idea (though it’s worth noting that they don’t sit with player characters), and there just isn’t enough seating for anyone to sit alone.

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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TDM QUESTIONS

[silentspringmods]

SETTING EXPLORATION/ENGAGEMENT.

[silentspringmods]

If your characters want to investigate and it's related to this event, post it here!

[aperturesubject0001]

In the time between the suicide and the arrival of the police, can Chell go look at the discarded rubber suit? She's looking for any logos, insignia, or badges that would identify where the man came from.

She'll try and be discreet and use the general chaos to cover her approach, but her skill set is more about being fast and ignoring people trying to stop her than it is in being stealthy.

TALK TO JACK.

[silentspringmods]

Limited to 2 short threads - 1 for an existing player and 1 for a prospective player!

Vox | Hazbin Hotel | prospective player

[obeynpray]

I. Arrival

You go to sleep in Hell, you wake up in Maryland. That tracks.

It's still a jolt when Vox manages to snore himself awake. Who even does that, flat screen tvs that serve as heads can't snore! He's hasn't snored since he was still alive, since he was a human! He comes to ready to fight, ready to shout at whoever just woke him, but it only takes a split second for him to realise: this isn't Hell.

That dampens his anger immediately, and he looks around the room with interest. He knows this type of decoration, this style. This is... this is like Earth, from right around when he died. The Cold War propaganda, the cross hanging on the wall, the shitty pastels everywhere; yeah, he knows this. He's done this before.

A slow grin starts to spread across his face, and even that feels different. He reaches up with hands that no longer have claws and starts prodding his face, feeling its multiple dimensions, its skin, its bone structure and muscles hidden under flesh. It's his old face, the one he had before Hell, and that makes him start to quietly laugh.

"So here we go again."

III. Load up

The commotion outside isn't terribly impressive. Maybe Vox has just been jaded by spending so much time in Hell, but a suicide? With a gun? Meh.

"That's not going to bring in the ratings."

But still, it's an opportunity. People are gathering and milling around outside, and so after making sure he's properly dressed and looking his absolute snazziest, Vox ventures out. People are too distraught to pay him much attention, all their focus on the scene with the police, but that's okay. Vox mingles at the edges of the crowd, making soft comments under his breath, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, and then disappearing into the crush of people.

"What a tragedy! Why would anyone do something like that?"

"He must have had something to hide, to do something like this to himself and his family."

"Do you think he might have been a Soviet spy?"

Then the police round them all up and Vox finds himself shooed into a house with several strangers. Once inside and settled into another perfectly sixties living room, Vox looks at everyone and pitches his voice low, adding in feeling that is definitely not really there.

"Would anyone like to join me in a prayer for that poor man's soul?"

People from this time period eat that shit up, and Vox is only too eager to lead a prayer group. People tell you things when they think you're a preacher.

III.

[killohertz]

Oh yes, it's good to be back.

While others might be fretting, Alastor couldn't be happier. He looks exactly how he did when he was alive, which dates him in style nearly three decades later but, if anything, that traditional style marks him as someone with Traditional Values. They seem to love those here, and Alastor is more than happy to charm his audience. The game's always been so easy, especially when you play it with a smile.

With all the new developments—a murder already? that bodes well for his hobbies—it takes a moment to realize Vox is here; Vox looks different than he did in Hell. Amidst the crowd, he's just another man until Alastor hears the voice. That voice. Unmistakable, in all its grating glory.

Well well well, isn't this interesting?

Alastor doesn't announce himself. Why give away the upper hand? Instead, he watches as Vox is shepherded into a nearby home and follows at a careful distance. While Vox sits on one of the tacky couches in the living room, Alastor moves into the kitchen where he's fully out of sight but can still hear the conversation. He doesn't need to watch Vox's face, after all; he's always been more interested in audio.

III

[mandrakeflower]

John had done his best to adopt a look of concern instead of disdain once people started being shooed into the house. The police clearing the street is a good sign for law and order, but they could've be a bit more selective.

He doesn't have any interest in anyone's soul, but he flicks his eyes around the room, doing his best to copy what he sees. What plebeian nonsense.

"Would you like some tea?" He asks, having settled on innocent helpfulness. He's sure he can figure out how to make tea if it proves necessary. However humiliating it is to play servant.

iii

[requel]

Sam really isn't all that phased by the man dying on the street. She's been here a month and she's learned that things here - are kind of fucked up. She had spent most of the first month spending her time in the house she had been put in with the man who was supposed to be her husband. Which was still weird for Sam to wrap her head around. Marriage wasn't something that interested her period, so to be forced into one was something else. At least Norton didn't seem to have any expectations of her.

Now that Sam had access to her medication she was slowly starting to realize that this wasn't an extremely intense hallucination. She isn't sure if that makes her feel any better, what she'd prefer - having gone insane or being trapped in this strange world.

Still, she follows the crowd. If she wants to get home she's going to have to be a lot more active here, has to get a better idea of who's who and that means at least appearing to be integrated. She's dressed in cigarette pants (with a new carton of cigarettes in her back pocket) and a blouse - the most practical things she could find. Clothes that would be easy to run or fight in. She debated keeping a knife on her but for now thought against it. Knives would be easy enough to get if they're in someone's home.

She's not surprised that there is someone wanting to lead a prayer, people from this time loved that sort of thing. Even though she's wearing her gold St. Christopher's necklace from home, it's not something she really believes in. The necklace had been a gift from her sister. It was supposed to be for luck, which was really why Sam wore it. She needed all the luck she could get.

But she listens to the preacher anyways, hanging around the back. She's trying to scope out everyone there, seeing if anyone stands out or seems suspicious. She fingers the necklace, feigning some concern.

iii (also hi trystan!)

[inaxorable]

[ By now, Raskolnikov likes to think that he’s pretty good at telling who is and isn’t one of the brainwashed locals. This man has him completely blindsided, though, and it’s an itchy, uncomfortable feeling. On the one hand, he’s entirely unfamiliar, and most of the newcomers Raskolnikov has met have been like himself. On the other hand, he doesn’t quite have that weird flat fakeness that the Americans (as Raskolnikov has begun to think of the locals as, never mind the fact that plenty of the normal, not-brainwashed people are Americans) have. He thinks he’s a good judge of character, even if most of the people that know him would vehemently disagree, and this man is just rubbing him the wrong way.

Which, okay. He’s smart. He can use his wits and judgement to figure out what this guy’s deal is— ]

You aren’t from around here, are you?

[ Ah, nevermind. There goes his mouth again, running off without his permission. ]

III

[arsegoetia]

He didn't get much say in being ushered into the house with this man and the other little humans beneath them - seriously he is so fucking tall compared to everyone, he can't help but stand out when he very much would like to curl up back in bed and pretend this never happened.

Pretend that maybe this is all just a particularly gregarious nightmare and that maybe Blitzy will come and save him--

But. No. No, he's not thinking about Blitzy. Blitz. He can't.

Instead, all he has to listen to is the incessant chatter of this demon pretending he's a religious persona.

He knows it's Vox. He can't exactly miss it - the man's on literally every television in the Pride ring, and he's got an ear for voices besides. But that doesn't mean he has to enjoy this, and the distaste is obvious on his own human face as he leans against the doorway to the kitchen, watching dispassionately.

barbie | barbie the movie

[barbiecore]

( hey, it's astrea, sam's player! i have no idea what i'm doing with barbie but here we are! if you'd like to plot or discuss anything feel free to hmu at shookspeare or if you just want to tldr about random stuff, horror movies or get dog pictures! also feel free to switch to prose if you prefer! )

𝑰. 𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆-𝒂𝒕-𝑶𝒏𝒆-𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑾𝒆𝒆𝒌

[ one moment she's journeying through the ocean, the woods, space, the frozen tundra - on her way to the 'real world' and the next barbie finds herself waking up in a bed. she hadn't expected to wake up in a bed, she thought it would be something with a bit more... omph?! she hadn't even got the chance to war her roller blades. why had weird barbie told her to bring her rollerblades when she didn't even need them.

barbie sits up and glances around the room. ]

So, this is the real world.

[ then she notices someone is next to her. someone who isn't ken thankfully. her brow furrows a little. she doesn't recognize them, they're not a ken she knows that much. weird barbie hadn't told her she'd end up in bed with someone. not that barbie is too bothered, because she's barbie. why would she be?

she's about to poke the sleeping person when she notices the ring on her finger. barbie pauses. she loves accessorizing but she's never seen this ring before. her brow furrows. ]

That's weird. And not really my style.

[ she glances around, taking stock of her surroundings. she then notices the... wedding photo?! ]

Okay this is...

[ she looks back at the sleeping person next to her and pokes him. then pokes him harder. for some reason she's feeling...

what is this emotion? she's not used to it and she doesn't like it.

panic. it's panic. ]

Hey. Hey, you! You need to wake up.

𝑰𝑰. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒔𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆

[ barbie understands what the concept of death is, sort of. but it's just not a thing in barbieland. sure, sometimes the other barbies or kens go weird or missing but it was never something to actually worry about. because every day in barbieland was a perfect day. so it wasn't ever something anyone worried about.

except of course until she started to malfunction and was suddenly cursed with irrepressible thoughts of death.

this was supposed to be the real world, even if barbie was having doubts about that. she's not having visions of the sad little girl she was supposed to find, instead she was having visions of actual death.

so when she hears the commotion she goes outside. even though she's had to dress herself, instead of having her magic closet, barbie looks immaculate. perfectly pressed gown, soft blonde hair curled perfectly.

and once she gets outside... she just stares. is this what death really was. her expression is a combination of horror and... curiosity. her head tilts slightly as she just continues to stare like that, because what else can she do? ]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅

( i am totally here for anything and everything else, so feel free to toss a starter at her or do something with one of the other prompts. )

I

[latersgators]

Mmmff...no... [He doesn't want to wake up. The bed is too comfortable. The pillow smells nice every time he squishes it, like there's some lavender eucalyptus thingie in it. Steven is still exhausted and could sleep for days - maybe he already has? - and he's insistent on burrowing his face into the scented pillow, bedhead of dark curls obscuring what sliver of his face is exposed.]

Marc... don't want to... [At least, that's all she can make out of his muffled voice, throat dry from sleep, shoulders tense as he resists her prodding.

Which. Come to think of it. Is a little strange. Marc wouldn't, you know. Prod him. Because Marc can't.

But. If that hand doesn't belong to Marc. Then. Where is Marc. And whose hand is that?]

WhoooooOOOOOOOOOAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[He's not panicking, she's panicking. Shoving his palms into the mattress to push himself up and shove himself towards the edge of the bed so they put some distance between them, Steven's scream wavers as he grabs the blanket and covers his chest, then clutches the pillow over his chest.]

II.

[obeynpray]

[Vox spots her almost immediately when she emerges from her house. Beautiful, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place. This is a woman who Gets It, and she could be a powerful ally in this new place. People who know how to present themselves to the public usually are.]

[He moves through the crowd until he's standing next to her, just a moderately good-looking guy coming over to comfort the beautiful woman in her distress.]

Terrible, isn't it? What a way to start the day.

[It's low-grade terrible at best, hardly worth mentioning in Hell, but sensibilities on Earth tend to be more fragile.]

Renee Minkowski | Wolf 359 | Current Player, NEW Character!

[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. Poor spaceman (CW: As above, alluded to)

She's still on high alert when the next day rolls past, and on the third she's no better - but real coffee makes it bearable. Sorry, Hilbert, but seaweed is just not an adequate substitute. But it gives her something to do with her morning that's not spiral into a panic, so coffee and overplanning every minute of her day it is.

Until she sees the clunky suit out of the front windows, and nearly drops her mug.

"Eiffel?" She doesn't realise she's whispered the name out loud, and her coffee is abandoned as she runs out the front door in her panicked haste - it takes her until she's halfway across the lawn to realise that's not a standard issue Goddard space suit; she only stops completely when she realises that's not her communications officer at all. And she's still stunned, too paralysed by the aborted relief when she sees the gun being raised, and she goes ice cold.

"No-!"

III. Hello, I'm your neighbour! (CW: Gun violence, suicide, manslaughter PTSD)

There's something in the way the officer reacts to the body that's so... familiar. Like looking at her own reaction from ten feet back.

Which rapidly becomes fifteen, then twenty, when she realises she's being herded back. "Hey- get off me-!"

But she's already being shoved into someone's house - someone else's, she realises immediately - and before she can protest further, the front door gets slammed shut.

And she turns, still a little bit in shock but shoving that down real fucking hard so she can focus on the here-and-now.

"What the hell was that?!" To whoever is here to listen.

II

[freakymagoo]

Instinct takes over more so than self-destructive tendencies, whatever half-developed hero complex he's been occasionally accused of having, or anything else he can attribute the impulse to. He sees the spaceman start to pull a gun the way he has seen hundreds of shooters start to pull their guns, and he sees her crossing her front lawn chasing after the man, and like every other impossible choice that's come before, he acts on what little information he has to go by and packages up the doubts and guilts to be dealt with later.

He's aware now that he isn't fast anymore, not like he used to be. His movements are more sluggish than he's used to, which he might be overcompensating a little by underestimating how much strength and weight he still has. Tackling her backwards towards her patch of grass with less grace than he would have liked, surely giving her at least a bruise or two if not a few green-smeared scrapes, he covers her with his body, back turned to the shooter.

It's all over in less than seconds, really, but he doesn't move until the ringing echo of the gunshot fades into complete silence. Panting lightly, he pushes his weight off her body with his only arm planted firmly next to her torso and checks half over his shoulder before looking back down at her. Normally he would level her with a piercing stare, but there's something subdued about the look in his eyes.

"...are you okay?"

I

[mandrakeflower]

The photograph on the dresser only offers so much information. For example, it might not be enough for someone to expect to find a teenager sitting at the kitchen table. 1960s youth culture doesn't appear to have claimed a victim. It doesn't look like 1950s youth culture has made a dent. Instead, he's dressed properly in slacks and a buttoned down shirt, ready to put on a suit coat when it's time to go out and face the day.

He's just taken a bite of toast.

John would rather not eat anything without his many handy ways of detecting poison, but facing whatever ...this is on an empty stomach didn't appeal, either. Toast and margarine had been a compromise.

III best space friends......2!

[fermi_concurrence]

Morgan heard the girl's screams. She watched through the window as a naked and sick-looking man pressed a gun to his own chin. The moment before he pulled the trigger, she covered her eyes -- and her mind filled in the blank anyway, relentlessly, with memories of other bullets and other heads.

It's not hard to notice the police shoving people into houses willy-nilly, nor to spot one of them manhandling a woman towards Morgan's own front door, so she isn't caught completely by surprise. She'll be much more annoyed when she finds out the imposition is for more than a few minutes.

"A suicide," she answers, monotonal. She's pulled herself together by now, though she's still pale. She stares at the stranger, wondering whether it's safe to be openly unneighbourly.

John Mandrake | | Bartimaeus Sequence | prospective player | child role

[mandrakeflower]

I. Arrival

John Mandrake wakes up. Without even opening his eyes, he knows immediately that he's not in his own bed. It feels wrong. Not at all the bed he'd carefully picked out for his well appointed townhouse. And is he wearing... cotton? Something is clearly wrong. He keeps his eyes closed, in case anyone's watching. He artistically pretends to roll over on his side, so he can whisper a summoning into the highly uncomfortable pillow.

Nothing happens. No spirit arrives to obey his commands, but he doesn't even feel the drag of a failed summoning. There's just - nothing.

He sits up, fear making him drop the pretense. The bed is wrong. The room is wrong. It's not like any room he's been in. There's a cat sleeping on the floor. He is wearing cotton pajamas. He goes over the room, but eventually he has to venture out into an alien world.

A world where he's not alone. Unfortunately.

III. Complete Aggravation

John has learned what he can about Atomic Energy. It hasn't made him less angry about this entire situation, though he does his best to control the seething under a neutral mask. He certainly wasn't about to go out with that warning.

He'd watched the man staggering down the street through a window, thank you very much. He had assumed he was drunk - it might have explained the clothes. The whole thing had struck him as pointless melodrama. He supposes this is what can be expected from commoners. If someone wants to shoot himself, it's not Mandrake's problem.

The arrival of the police is a different matter. A proper police force is vital for keeping the peace in a community. The means of keeping peace can seem a bit extreme to some, who don't understand the importance of a well run society. John just has the dark suspicion that he might not be in the part of society he'd prefer to be in, when it comes to dealing with the police.

The police escorting even more strangers into... his house, doesn't change that suspicion. He restrains his impulse to complain to any of the officers. Even if it's surely within his rights.

IV. Horse Based Nightmares

John doesn't like to boast, but it's extremely impressive that he manages to keep something like a smile on his face in the face of extreme provocation.

High school classmates? He doesn't object to a decent hot dog, but the combination of hot dog, lemonade and what passes for fashion in these parts combines to make him feel foolish. Day dreams of how he could rectify that if he could summon a few demons helps him avoid obvious sneering but it's difficult.

He keeps his distance from the horses. He's not afraid of the beasts, but they are clearly not in their proper place. Far away from him. Instead, he pretends to drink more lemonade with a grimace. With a smile.

1ish

[ribticklers]

Sans lived with Papyrus for years--even though it's been a few months now, Papyrus being in his own separate house, that Sans has to walk to, is still weird. Exchanging keys has been an obvious, if not solution, way to make things a little easier. And so Sans is here with the intent of hassling Papyrus this morning, though it's pretty late in the morning to be waking up. (If they're going to provide him with income for doing nothing, Sans doesn't really see a need to go out and do anything else right now.)

So, there's the sound of keys in the front door, and then the front door opening.

"Hey bro, you around?" Papyrus might not be, after all. In which case he'll just steal from the fridge, as all brothers do. Maybe leave a sock somewhere unexpected. He isn't expecting anyone else to be around to hear him.

katherine pierce | the vampire diaries | wife role | prospective player

[abetment]

a. an arrival (no, it's a dream OR magic)

[ the baby-doll nightie is a bit much, isn't it? katherine's lived through centuries, and whatever spell has befallen her? well, it's stronger than anything she's experienced before. her vampire abilities feeling gone, fatigue hitting her like a ton of bricks in the process (it's just a dream, or a mind trap, it's fine), it's...unsettling, but she's been through worse. she sets off into the house, hair in curlers to investigate. finds the markings of what appear to be a wacky surreal dollhouse pulled up from a former decade. inevitably she does go outside (in only that nightie), rounding back inside after a quick investigation, goosebumps over her skin as she shivers.

wherever her town-issued husband may be roaming around, she rounds up to the stranger with that newspaper in hand. slaps him in the arm with it. her voice is thick, tone naturally so, dripping in cynicism and judgment. able to switch to whatever angle she has in the moment, but now? she's angry, those brown eyes filled with fury. ]

I've lived through the 60's. Don't really feel like repeating any of it, even in a messed up prison, so if you'd let me get back to what I was doing -- [ following stefan and klaus' trail ] I'd sure appreciate it.

[ a long steady beat before she goes to push him with both palms. ] Now.

[ no heightened strength behind it. merely a woman with a mission. figment of the spell at play, speak to your creator and let her out. ]

b. well...that's some violence, huh? ; cw: mentions of the suicide and dead body

[ katherine purposefully becomes one of those wayward residents, lingering outside, shifting from yard to yard in the shadows, using whatever she can for coverage so she can continue to gain more information about what the fuck is going on. she's been through her fair share of oddities in life, and she's had to accept that she's tumbled headfirst into a soft pillow that roused her very human self into a dystopia. the suicide on the street, the blood and carnage, the mother trying to comfort her traumatized daughter.

whole lot of ptsd rocking around on these streets. katherine can't even assume that this is the worst thing that many of the people in town have seen ; it sure isn't the worst she's ever witnessed, and maybe there are others who have once been supernaturally inclined (or, have always been humans experiencing some dark times.) she can't be the only one yanked away from her world, after all.

it's wild though, that so violent an act occurs in broad daylight (and those warnings) as she's trying to suss out more information. sure would be easier if she could use vampire compulsion to get answers out of people, but alas.

she's found on one of the latter patrols of the officers, rounded up and sent into a house that isn't the one she woke up in. well. light blue dress (thank god it isn't a floral print) on, long hair in an up-do to abide by the times (she knows she's in a fucked up situation, might as well play the game), she gives the home's resident an apologetic quick of her lips, brows lifting. the expression isn't wholly sincere, mostly reflexive, as though she knows she should be sorry for her presence. she sure isn't. ]

Guess I...wandered off too far for their liking.

[ the television turns itself on, close enough that as it crackles to life, katherine turns her head and starts over to it, brows knitting as she reads. ]

A curfew. [ sigh. ] Lovely. Just what we need. No answers, and a heavy hand. [ her teeth grit, one hand going to her hip, the other waving out at the television. ] And Dick Clark? Really? Is Johnny Carson gonna walk through the door next?

c. picnic tables and ponies

[ paper cup of lemonade in hand, katherine sits at one of the picnic tables, lips pursed in thought. she props her elbows onto wood, leaning slightly toward someone next to or across from her. ]

You know if they let people near the horses on sunnier days? Always have been fond of them.

[ true? maybe? a ploy to try to get someone else's opinion on preceding events, or simply about the weather and smoke patterns? far more likely. she is from the 1400s, though, when society was reliant on horses and livestock ; so perhaps there's a special place for equines in that cold, dead heart of hers. ]

b.

[obeynpray]

[Oh HELL YES, a television! Vox isn't terribly subtle about shoving his way into the living room and plopping himself down on the couch right in front of it. Ugh, terrible production values on this show, and whoever did the lighting had way too much nose candy before the shoot started. They need someone to bound in there and take charge of the whole operation.]

[When the woman standing nearby mentions Johnny Carson, Vox looks up. His eyes narrow as he studies her, but when he speaks, he keeps his cheerful, 'oh look at me I'm no threat you should all listen to what I'm saying' public persona voice.]

It's not time for Carson yet. Too early.

[Carson was after Vox's time on Earth, but he paid attention to what other sinners in Hell told him, and knows when the man started getting popular. He stares at the woman for a moment, not smiling.]

John Doe | Malevolent Podcast | prospective player | child role

[firstgreenisgold]

II. It's Time to Leave the Capsule If You Dare

John's 'parents' have decided that he's not allowed to go out to 'play'. This isn't so bad the first day, because at least he has homework to do and some books that he's only just started (access to books: amazing; the fact that they're definitely limited: less so) but by day three, John is about to lose his fucking mind (which is an achievement for a former god of madness, really, so thank goodness it's just hyperbole and teenage dramatics).

That is why John waits until both of his parents are doing something in the kitchen (nothing interesting, anyway, listening to them talk is simultanteously boring and horrifying given how much nothing they seem to spout) before he makes a break for his bike on the side of the house. He's not going to be out long; he just wants to go to the library, dammit, he'll be right back.

But then he sees the man.

And the gas mask.

"Holy shit!"

And he's starting to flee back into his home when he hears a door open and he's stuck stock still watching the horrific pantomime play out.

The suit. The stripping. The gun. The blood.

The collapse.

When the woman shouts at him to stop looking, he turns away, shocked at the tears that are welling up in his eyes for some reason that he's not sure of. But soon enough, he'll look back to watch the rest of the tableau, even if his hands are already putting the bike back, hoping no one saw him out but especially not his parents.

III. Load Up, Load Up, Load Up with Rubber Bullets

John is in the house now.

He's not bored anymore. Holy fuck is he not bored anymore, but he doesn't have enough pieces and he can't figure out what he does have.

He misses Arthur so hard it feels like his stomach is a gaping hole in him, like his chest is going to cave in.

But now he's going to have to explain to his 'parents'. Ugh.

[feel free to be a parent]

IV. Don't drink the water and don't breathe the air

Candace wasn't at school either, so he's not surprised when she's not at this event thing, but John's eyes wouldn't be on her either. He's watching the horses, watching how nervous and unsettled they seem, waiting to see if they move in any particular direction or if they jump or scatter from something seemingly 'innocuous'.

He knows the humans have to pretend all this bullshit is normal, but he trusts the horses to be honest about when he's in actual fucking danger. So if you want to talk to him, you might have to get his attention first.

[ feel free to hit me with a wildcard, or continue from the previous TDM's continuity! still at yarnzipan @ plurk ]

III

[lestercraft]

John can watch from the front window as all the citizens that tried to gather around the scene get insistently herded away from it again by the police. That one man, who could be in his thirties and seems to be struggling a bit with how he's being frogmarched away from the scene, like he can't quite get his feet under himself with how he's being manhandled.

His voice is audible through the window, but muffled, until abruptly the front door is opened and he's shoved - not roughly, admittedly, but he still trips on the edge of the doorframe and lands in a heap on the floor, and the officer only spares a brief apologetic glance before they close the door again and rush back to keep herding other people away.

Arthur, for his part, pushes himself onto his hands and knees quickly, only to flop back on his ass and run his fingers through his messy hair, expression utterly thunderous.

Norton Folgate | Torchwood | Current Player

[pharadyne]

II. It's time to leave the capsule if you dare

[Norton sees the man in the rubberized suit out of the corner of his eye. His hand tightens on the handle of his tea cup before his conscious mind catches up to what he's seeing. He sets the cup down and scampers to the window to look properly and gives a sharp inhale at the sight. He's reminded of the Good Thinking project from a few years back, of donning a suit rather like that while the project literally went up in flames along with 200 men who were infected with the Good Thinking virus.

Suits like that in a civilian neighbourhood like this meant nothing good.]

Oh my God...

[He watches the girl run out into the street and thinks to himself "bad move" and watches as the man sheds the suit and then underclothes and then draws a gun.

Norton has seen a lot of terrible things in the course of his career, but he's never felt a need to be stoic about anything in his life, so he shrieks as the gun goes off and slaps his hand over his mouth. After a moment, his hand slowly lowers.]

Bloody hell...

[He rushes outside, not to help, the man's clearly beyond that anyway, but to vada the scene and maybe learn something.]

III. Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets

[There isn't much time to look, however, before Hilda Handcuffs arrives in force and shuffles him off into a neighbour's house.

A bit later, as he listens to the radio broadcast saying "if any suspicious activity is noted outside of the home, do not exit to investigate..." he snorts in amusement.]

How soon to you think Mr. Lester is going to be out there getting arrested?

IV. Don't drink the water and don't breathe the air

[A few days later, Norton is at the riding show, grinning as if nothing is wrong, nothing ever happened. If the people in charge would like everyone to pretend to have a lovely time, he can pretend. The unexpected rain doesn't dampen his fake good spirits. He sits under a pavilion, sipping a lemonade.]

Do you imagine the rain's toxic with all that awful smoke that's been in the air lately? [He says with his voice bright and cheerful and his expression carefully empty-headed.]

iv

[inaxorable]

[ Raskolnikov turns to look at Norton, horrified. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility! Is his skin going to melt off? Is he going to die? ]

Is— is that a thing that can happen?

sam carpenter | scream | current player

[requel]

( if you'd like to plot with sam feel free to hit me up on the plotting post or shookspeare. i'm also totally open to wildcards with these prompts or other shenanigans. want to run into sam picking up her meds (which she'll probably lie about what they're for), sam checking out knives at a shop, her just out and about... etc; also feel free to change to prose if you prefer! )

𝒊. (𝒏𝒆𝒘) 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍(𝒔)

[ a month.

she had been here for a fucking month. the thought makes her stomach turn a little. what was happening with her sister back home? was she okay? what about mindy and chad? were they even still alive? she needed to get back to them.

she gets dressed for the day, still not entirely comfortable in the clothes from this era. at least it wasn't just dresses in the closet. sam had never been one for dressing up. she liked her clothes comfortable - clothes you could run or fight in.

being able to get her medication had made some things easier. she at least knew that she wasn't crazy - or hadn't gone as crazy as she thought she had. but she's sure if she mentioned to anyone she had had hallucinations of her dead serial killer father and had intense dark and violent thoughts she'd be locked up in an asylum. because that's what they did with women like that during this time, wasn't it? she also isn't sure if having her medication is a good thing or not, would she rather be crazy or rather this situation be... real?!

she eventually goes outside, she notices a few new faces. for a moment she can't help but hope she'll see someone from home but at the same time. she wouldn't wish this on any of them. ]

𝑰𝑰. 𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒔𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆

[ death isn't new to sam. neither is blood or gore or violence. it's just... normally she's at the center of it. or the one causing it.

while some are rightfully horrified or shocked, sam is neither of those things. she just watches, trying to take in what's actually happening and how people are reacting. looking for anyone who's acting strange. it would be easy enough for her to say she's too properly shocked if anyone asks. and if they really needed convincing she could probably muster a few tears.

really the strangest thing might be the suit the man was wearing. and the fact that right now other than looking at the crowd the only thing she really wanted was a cigarette. ]

𝑰𝑰𝑰. 𝑳𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒖𝒑, 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒖𝒑, 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒓𝒖𝒃𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒔
cw: mentions of stabbing, murder, gore.

[ she ends up ushered into one of the houses with everyone else. she's still trying to get a feel for people's reactions, eavesdropping on conversations.

when the police broadcast starts she listens. sam doesn't have the best history with cops. she had gotten in trouble with the police a lot as a teenager. sherrif hicks had hated her, even as an adult when sam had returned to woodsboro. and then there was the fact the last thing sam remembered before coming here was killing detective bailey. she had lost count of the number of times she had stabbed him, before she had shoved the knife in his eye finally killing him. but he had deserved it. she wasn't sorry for it. it felt good.

so she doesn't trust cops. no reason too.

she rolls her eyes when the broadcast ends. ]

Yeah, dick is one word for him.

[ she mutters under her breath. ]

𝒊𝒗. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒊𝒓
𝒂.
cw: mentions of violence, possible death

[ this was not sam's scene. horse racing seemed more like rich white people nonsense. she mingles or tries too - she's never been particularly good at that. it was why she never really had any friends before everything that happened in woodsboro. now she had her sister and mindy and chad. at least, she did before she arrived here. she still had no idea of mindy and chad were even alive. she doubted chad was. there was no way he could have survived that many stab wounds. it makes her stomach twist to think about home and some of the dark thoughts creep back into her head. if she could just get her hands on whoever was in charge here, then maybe she could do something. or if she couldn't she could at least hurt them.

but she tries to push those thoughts away for now. instead focusing on the race and the food. she steps away from the crowd for a few moments, hot dog in one hand and lemonade in the other. she really wished the lemonade was spiked.

𝒃.

[ once the rain starts sam goes to the pavilion. she brushes the rain from her blouse and looks for a place to sit. there aren't many, which means she's going to have to socialize even more. she sighs and shakes the rest of the rain out of her hair before she moves towards an empty seat. ]

This spot taken?

[ she asks the person next to it. ]

𝒗. 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅

( WHATEVER YOU WANT COME AT ME!!! )

iv b

[inaxorable]

[ Horse races aren’t Raskolnikov’s thing either. He doesn’t particularly like horses, and has no desire to sit in a crowd of wealthy Americans who have nothing better to do with their time than to come here and watch animals sprint in circles. But by now he knows the game he needs to play. He needs to smile and nod and pretend to be having the time of his life sitting in the rain, even if it makes him want to tear his hair out and maybe bite something.

He’s lucky enough to find a spot to sit when it starts pouring hard enough to warrant finding shelter, and guards his personal space with a fierce glare. Smiling and nodding can wait for when he isn’t soaking wet. And yet clearly his glare isn’t enough, because someone has the audacity to approach him anyways. ]

Yes. It’s taken.

[ Clearly it isn’t, but he stares her down as if daring her to respond…and scoots over regardless. She’s welcome to join him, as long as she’s willing to put up with his company. ]

Chell | Portal Games | Current Player

[aperturesubject0001]

ii. it's time to leave the capsule if you dare

She gets out to the street a half-second after it's all over. Well. He's all over.

Though Chell has yet to figure out a job, she tends to be up fairly early in the mornings anyway. Neither she nor her "husband" are particularly good at sleeping through the night, it seems. She's yawning her way through making coffee when she spots someone out on the street through the house's front window. The strange suit -- which he's already in the process of shedding -- catches her attention first, and then his behavior. And then the gun.

She gets out to the street a half-second after it's all over.

Well. He's all over.

Chell freezes in shock at the bottom of her stoop as the air fills with Candace's screams. She takes a step forward, unsure what she'll do but anxious to do something -- then looks around for whoever is yelling and cursing. People around here don't curse--

Then a vision. Then the alien memory of speaking. Using her mouth in a way she never has, feeling vibrations in her throat on the words all of us.

For a second Chell stands there on the driveway, one hand flying up to her throat, eyes wide. Then the vision is gone, and it's just the chaos of people spilling out of their houses, trying to help Candace and her mother, gravitating to the dead man like flies. After another moment, she shakes herself and moves to join the throng.

Anyone who's paying attention to things other than the corpse may see her head over to the discarded suit and examine it. She's not particularly stealthy about it.

iii. load up on rubber bullets

A. Chell's still amongst the crowd when the police arrive. Getting herded into a house makes her visibly annoyed, but she doesn't resist in any way more than walking as slowly as she can get away with.

As soon as she's inside, she beelines for the front window to watch what the cops are doing. She catches the eye of one of her companions as she goes, though, and gives them a frustrated shrug. Now what?

Grabbing her notebook, she scribbles: DID YOU SEE THE OTHER DEAD GUY?

B. Night falls. The street has cleared, the coffee has been drunk, and Chell has familiarized any new compatriots with the fact that she can't talk. The curtains are all drawn, but Chell keeps twitching them back from the front window, peering out to see if anyone is actually patrolling to enforce the curfew.

Eventually, when it's starting to get late, she huffs and writes something in her notebook.

I'M GOING TO GO OUT THERE

iv. don't drink the water
(cn: ableism mention)

Horses are nice to look at and all, but the whole competition doesn't hold a lot of interest for Chell in and of itself. It's pretty clear to her at this point that participating in town social events is a minimum requirement, though, no matter how much the socializing wears on her. The fact that people have a tendency to politely ignore her once they realize she can't talk is a mixed blessing; she doesn't have to bother with writing as much, and it's better than being infantilized, but it doesn't feel great.

When the rain starts, she ducks under the pavilion with the rest of the spectators, and ends up perched at the end of a picnic table bench. The sight of the volunteers pouring out the rainwater has caught her eye. She glances at whoever she's sharing the table with and points towards the upturned buckets, raising her eyebrows quizzically. What do you think that's about?

[ooc: Something else? Hit me up here or on plurk! ]

iii b

[inaxorable]

Raskolnikov hadn’t exactly been delighted with the whole being forced into someone’s house because of a suspicious suicide thing, and over the last few hours he’s gone from pacing back and forth to laying on the couch to standing like a particularly irritated bit of decorative art in the corner. When he sees Chell write something down, he’s grateful for the opportunity to do something, even if it’s just walking over to see what it is she’s saying.

Or, as the case may be, sneaking out of the house.

He’s not surprised, not really. Chell had already proven to him that she’s daring and maybe a little foolish, and sneaking out…well. It’s certainly something he can see her doing. But it’s also far too easy for him to imagine the police swooping in and carting her away to be tortured and drugged, and he’s been burning to know more about what’s happening, and though he knows it’s stupid and insane and something he shouldn’t even be considering, he says, “not alone you aren’t.”

Stolas | Helluva Boss | Just voicetesing soz

[arsegoetia]

I. Hot New Thang

He went to bed in his perfectly normal, exceedingly plush bed in his palace in the fucking Pride ring.

Now he's in a bed that is far too small for him, in a house that he truly does not recognise, in--

Oh Satan, there's a human in the bed with him???

With a startled hoot yelp, he scrambles backwards out of the bed - and his lanky limbs find empty air, and so he topples backwards into the ground in a heap.

And when he lifts a hand to rub his head, he finally sees something he very much missed in the moment of panic. One, he's wearing pajamas, instead of naked - but two, he's human.

"Wh...what the heaven?"

IV. Dog and Pony Show

Well, the corpse in the middle of the street the other day was certainly unseemly, but Stolas isn't too stressed by that.

Not when there's plenty of other things to be stressed about.

His human form is remarkably tall, pushing well over six feet, and he stands like he owns it; even if the rest of his body language is more reserved, hands pulled to his chest with a glass of something bubbly and sweet held in both, bodily tucked against one of the pavillion poles when the rain starts, watching the rain with its familiar industrial smell of fog and feeling strangely homesick.

But eventually he moves to find a table to sit at; all of the locals seem quite eager to block whatever seat he might have been aiming for, until he eventually perches on the edge of a seat with some of (not that he truly knows it) the other kidnapped arrivals.

"Is it... normal? For the horses to be acting like this?" he offers awkwardly. This is a man who is very clearly not comfortable with small talk; or at least not in an environment where he is so very, truly out of his depth.

iv

[helluvamess]

The figure Stolas ended up next to was short for a human (and too tall for what he was used to) with a mess of dark hair that was too dishevelled to look presentable (why the fuck did he have hair anyway??). He might have completely passed notice of the taller man, if not for the very distinctive pale scarring across one side of his face.

That and the fact that he took one look at the pale, elegant man and immediately hissed: "Stolas! What the fuck happened, why do I look like this? You piece of shit, you said you couldn't make human disguises for other people! Fucking warn me next time!"

Chip Star| OC |Husband role

[achipofftheoldblock]

Arrival

[Chip Star wakes up and he is staring at a popcorn ceiling roof and not in the flat he went to bed in last night. He rolls over and a beautiful woman, whom he does not recall inviting to bed with him, lays beside him sleeping peacefully. A Doberman is curled on his dog bad at the foot of the bed.]
[While Chip may not remember how all this happened, he knew one thing for sure: This was his home. This was his wife and that was his dog. His old life felt distant. Like a dream he was waking up from and this was the real world.]
[He placed a gentle kiss on his wife’s head simply because it felt right to do so and rude just to slip out of bed without any acknowledgment towards her. He plucked a red robe from the bedroom door hook and slid it over his shoulders.]
[With a yawn, he stepped outside and picked up the paper before going back inside to read it.]

April 1st, 1961

[He read aloud to no one in particular. Yep, that was the date he expected. Yesterday was March 31st.]
[He wandered about the home, taking in the pastel furniture and noting that there were two rooms down the hall upstairs belonging to his son and daughter.]
[Once everyone was up, he would need to meet these people despite clearly having built a life with him. He really wasn’t all too sure how he could do that and not remeber how but regardless, he would get to know them as subtly as possible without appearing as if he didn’t know what was going on.]
[After all, he was the man of the house. He was to have it all under control and be the backbone of this family. The provider. All he had to do now was await his wife to get up and make the family breakfast. He would read the paper while he waited and make himself familiar with all the goings-ons]

II. Time To Leave the Capsule

Chip had been walking back into the house after he got home from work when he heard Candace yelling for a man to stop. He turned just in time to see the man take his own life in front of the poor girl who was now on her knees, sobbing.]
[The father in him wanted to walk over and comfort the poor girl but he saw her mother quickly approaching and stopped himself, staying by the door.]
[He turned when he heard the door open and saw his wife start to step outside but he got in front of her and ushered her back in.]

Go back inside, honey.

[He tells her softly. She went to ask what was going on when the mother of Candace screamed for everyone to stop staring at her and her daughter]

Go on, I’ll be right behind ya.

[He tells his wife and she obeys, retreating with him into their home. She goes back to the kitchen to prepare supper and Chip stands by the window. Watching the scene play outside and make sure his home is still safe. He has a wife and two beautiful children to think of now, after all.]