TDM - OCTOBER 2020

[robbies]

TEST DRIVE MEME - OCTOBER 2020

Everyone's entitled to one good scare.
CW: Violence, death, mouth trauma, vomiting, needles, razors

---

“Help me. Please, help me…”

A child’s voice, calling out for aid. There’s no rhyme or reason for when it comes to you. It’s so quiet, a whisper in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind. Were it not for the sharp, stabbing pain it pulls out of you, you could ignore it. You could even pretend it’s just your imagination.

It all happens so quickly and powerfully. Left in the dust, your brain struggles to process it all. Blacking out is the least it can do, but it’s also all it can do, and it does so before you even have a chance to fully register just how young the voice is, and how deeply, heartbreakingly lost it sounds.

When you finally awaken with your bare feet tangled in soft sheets, a layer of fuzzy fleece or slinky silk clinging to your body like another layer of skin, the sunlight pouring in from the window next to your bed momentarily blinding you, and the cries of happy children playing baseball outside of it carrying faintly, it all becomes very clear—

Something is horribly wrong.

---

OCTOBER 1st.

It becomes very clear very quickly that this isn’t a simple kidnapping. If you’re twenty years old or older, the bedroom you wake up in is very clearly a couple’s bedroom — with separate beds like a modest, modern couple of course! A similarly lost and confused stranger is in the other. They are your counterpart, for everything in this room has a matching counterpart — the nightstand and lamp each of you have beside your beds, the framed pictures on the wall, even your pajamas. If you’re under twenty years old, your room is smaller but more personalized, filled with comic books, model kits, stray baseball cards littered around the floor. Dolls, fashion magazines of people dressed from a bygone era, stacks of vinyl records neatly arranged next to a record player. And then there are the pictures. They’re everywhere in the house — in a frame on your nightstand, hung on the walls, stuck in the photo albums and scrapbooks lying on your desk or tucked away in drawers. Here you are on your wedding day, exchanging vows with your partner. Here’s you sitting in a fishing boat with one of the younger members of your house. Here’s a picture of you at ten years old getting ready for the first day of school. All of the photographs are aged, sepia, even yellowed and dusty in frames hung for a long, long time. By the time you make it down to the living room, you’ll notice that the television is on; someone must have forgotten to turn it off before they went to bed. On it, a cartoon pack of cigarettes and accompanying cigarette dancers prance around a black and white pumpkin patch, joined by dancing skeletons, ghosts and witches as a cheerful little earworm blares: ”Thirty days til Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, thirty days til Halloween—“

---

GETTING TO KNOW THE NEIGHBORS.

As you get acclimated, you gradually begin to learn more about this strange new world you’ve found yourself in. You’re in a neighborhood on the east side of a town called Santa Rosita located… somewhere in California (wherever or whatever that might be). The year is 1961. If it wasn’t clear enough, your neighbors are more than willing to humor you if you ask. Even if you accost them with questions and demands. Sure, you and your family are a little kooky, and you have a very overactive imagination, but the key to any good joke is playing along! And how could something like “I’m from the future, from another world” be anything but a joke? A. AUNT MYRNA'S PARTY CHEESE SALAD. Over the course of the week, your neighbors will come by unannounced, each with a new homecooked meal to welcome you to their cozy little side of town. Meatloaf, potato salad, lamb chops. Gelatin molds — lots of gelatin molds. Someone even comes by to drop off a gelatinous yellow lump of pineapple, green peppers, celery and yellow cheese swimming in a soupy mixture of sour and whipped cream. “It’s my aunt Myrna’s recipe!” they gush once they drop the casserole tin into your hands, proceeding to rattle off every ingredient. Well, at least you won’t be starving anytime soon. When you bring it back in to your kitchen - and its cheery wallpaper and its floral patterned Pyrex dishware, you and your new...family(?) all stare at the cheese salad, the gelatin, the curiously frosted meatloaf spread. A smorgasbord courtesy of the insistent generosity! Who will take the first bite?

B. DON'T BE A SQUARE!

You can only avoid the cheer and the neighbors for so long, even as you sit inside enjoying all the amenities of your new home. The television can only turn its volume up to five, after all! One bright and sunny Saturday, the weather crisp and clear, news broadcasts and reruns of The Ed Sullivan Show are drowned out by the music in the neighborhood. Eventually it’s too much to bear — you simply must put on your shoes and go discover the source of that infernal racket.

Why, it’s the block party! Haven’t you seen the invitation — with instructions — sitting in your mailbox, silly? Wear a badge so everyone on the block can know you’re new and welcome you to their extended family!

Well! Each neighbor was supposed to set up a table with snacks and drinks and entertainment on their front lawn. Carter Mayhew, one of your Robbie neighbors, has a whole ring toss obstacle course set up for boys to play with, and his wife is cheerfully and blandly instructing a group of girls on jump rope rhymes. Colorful streamers hang from every lamppost and mailbox, balloons and party favors galore. Like you, there are even a few newcomers to Santa Rosita that are caught just as unaware of this event — though others are being welcomed in by husbands and wives and children, caught in conversations about building decks and the upcoming Halloween festivities.

Before you can decide if returning home or joining the party is your choice, a plate with chips and dips and yes, more gelatin is shoved into your hands and a party hat snapped on to your head.

“The guest of honor has arrived! Come and meet your neighbors, neighbor!”

---

THROUGHOUT OCTOBER.

Life falls into a peaceful haze for the next several days. Dull, unassuming, tranquil. As the month drags on, the spirit of Halloween begins to manifest in Santa Rosita, from the pumpkins people start putting out on their doorsteps to the smiling faces of paper skeletons pressed against their windows. And then, towards the end of the month, something terrible happens. You hear it first through word of mouth, rippling through Santa Rosita like a wave, dark murmurs accompanied by sad sighs and downturned eyes. Soon, you start to read about it. Grim business, they say. A tragedy. How could something like this happen. People stop talking about it by the end of the week. Best just to forget about it. Every day, that cigarette commercial comes on. It’s impossible to escape it. And every day, the number of days in the song changes, counting down. ”Thirteen days till Halloween—” “Eight more days til Halloween—” “Three more days til Halloween, Halloween, Halloween…”

---

HALLOWEEN.

CW: Violence, death, mouth trauma, vomiting, needles, razors

October 31st. It sneaks up on you whether you like it or not. When dawn breaks on Halloween day, things are as serene as they’ve ever been as men do yard work, raking leaves as their wives bake fresh pie and cookies in the house, the spicy scent of cinnamon, apple and pumpkin wafting through the neighborhood on chilly October wind. There’s a smile on every child’s face as they skip off the school bus in the afternoon, running into their houses to get their costumes ready. As it begins to get dark, the residents of Santa Rosita start lighting their jack-o-lanterns. One by one, little balls of light flicker to life on every porch and doorstep, jagged smiles grinning in the dark. For the entire night, nobody blows the candle inside their pumpkins out. It’s a tradition, a very old one, and traditions are just another way of saying rules. And Halloween in Santa Rosita, as it turns out, lives and dies by the rules.

A. ALWAYS CHECK YOUR CANDY.

Halloween isn’t just for the kids, although they certainly make up the bulk of who you’ll see out and about on the streets. Walking through Santa Rosita, your neighbors are as generous with handing out treats as they are with handing out gelatin molds and pot roasts, and they don’t discriminate. Adults are received just as warmly as children; the worst one can expect is a quirked eyebrow if they show up to a house without a costume.

Apples, packs of gum, homemade cookies. Chocolate bars, nickels, popcorn balls. Your neighbors hand out all sorts of treats, most of them homemade. The Robbies are no exception, and it’s their treats that seem a bit more high quality than most, some of the candy they hand out being obviously expensive, brand names. The good stuff. They drop each treat into your bag with those same pleasant, mild expressions and too-tight smiles you’ve grown used to in your short time here.

Eventually, as everyone winds up doing at some point in the night, you decide to start digging into your treat bag to sample some of your well-earned goods — maybe in the comfort of your home, maybe outside on the streets. And that’s when the fun begins.

Maybe you bite into metal, the razor sharp end of a blade embedded into the apple or candy bar you’ve picked out burying itself in your gums, or splitting your tongue. Maybe it’s a needle, impaling itself straight through the roof of your mouth or a cheek. Or maybe it’s nothing that obvious. Maybe the realization that something is wrong comes moments after you’ve devoured that chocolate bar or cookie, the bitter aftertaste of rat poison hitting the back of your throat along with bile and the rest of the contents of your stomach as they rise up and out of your mouth.

Or maybe you’ll bite into plain, sweet chocolate or fresh fruit. That’s also part of the surprise. You really don’t know what you’ll get until you start eating.

B. ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD.

At ten o’clock, all the television sets in the neighborhood turn on, blaring to life right in the middle of that omnipresent cigarette commercial. The volume begins to rise of its own accord as your television starts to pick up interference, bursts of static squealing amidst the rising, screaming chorus of ”HAPPY HAPPY HALLOWEEN, HALLOWEEN, HALLOWEEN!”

Breaking through the static, garbled and tinny, a child’s voice cries out.

“Can’t— I can’t hold them— back— Pumpkin— don’t blow the— out—”

And just as quickly as it cut in, the voice cuts back out. Commercial jingle notwithstanding, you’re alone once more. But not for long.

The doorbell rings. You can see them outside from your window: costumed children. Their masks and clothes are grimy and ragged from the muddy, slimy water they’ve been decomposing in for over a week. When they come to your door, squelching wetly as they shamble up the porch steps, they ring the bell or knock, as all polite children do. If you don’t let them in, they’ll find their own way, always by force. And once they find you, all they can gurgle in their reedy, waterlogged voices is, ”Trick or treat.”

From there, they attack.

With superhuman strength and speed, they tear and rip at anything they can get their hands on — clothing, skin, muscle, face, eyes. Being short and small, despite their strength, they're at a distinct disadvantage. They can even be thrown off, with some effort. But they don’t stay down for long, and attempting to hurt or mortally wound them only stalls them for a few moments, if that. How can you kill something that’s already dead?

Some in the neighborhood are willing to try and find out.

The only houses they seem to ignore completely are the ones with lit jack-o-lanterns still outside. They’ll loiter outside these houses, staring straight ahead at your door or window like they can see exactly where you are. But sooner or later, they’ll pass by and move onto the next house.

As long as the candles in carved pumpkins stay lit.

---

OOC INFO

Hello, and welcome to We're Still Here's first TDM! Here's a few things we'd like you to keep in mind:

The TDM is canon. You can treat this as the game's first real event and pick and choose what threads you would like your character to remember when they enter the game. For characters who app into the game, the events of the TDM will be treated like a dream. Upon awakening from it, characters will find that time has jumped ahead to December 1st. You may also feel free to use similar reality and/or time distortions to explain why the family members your characters have in the TDM aren't the same as the ones they may be assigned to in the game proper.

If you would like to have Halloween content in your relaxed housing prompts, please feel free! You are not beholden to follow our prompts exactly so long as the spirit is maintained.

There is no Network prompt listed, but feel free to wildcard one for your characters anyway.

Although the TDM is canon in the sense that characters are free to remember its events when they app into the game, it does not count as an official plot heavy event, meaning that characters will not receive regains from participating in it.

With regards to the dead trick-or-treaters: you may NPC them however you'd like, but keep the details we've listed in their prompt in mind. They are supernaturally fast and strong, will ignore houses as long as they have a lit pumpkin on the porch outside, and will try to enter each house the moment the candle in the pumpkin goes out. Additionally, they can't be killed, but they can be momentarily stalled by injuring them. By November 1st, 6AM, they will disappear the moment the sun comes out.

---

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Comments

Kipo | Kipo | OTA

[purplejaguareye]

[Oct 1st]

[Kipo wakes up in a comfortable bed, in a very intact house. The sun shining outside tell her that she's not underground, and after a quick look she sees humans outdoors - playing, walking, going about their day.

What... what happened? She knows humans used to live on the surface, but they don't now! At least not yet. She doesn't recognize any of the humans outside being from her burrow. Was this some kind of Dr. Emilia trick? She bolts upright, making her way through the house.

And then she sees the family pictures. Except one problem - that's not her family. Her dad... her mom... none of them are in any of these pictures. But for some reason, she is.]

Okay, Kipo. This looks bad. But I'm sure we're going to find out what happened! Just gotta find dad... or Wolf, Benson, or Dave...

[She twitches at the sound of footsteps.]

Who's there?!

[Halloween Candy]

[Chocolate in her world is a rarity, and yet the neighbors had plenty of it to give Kipo as she passed each neighbor's house. She sits on the floor of the living room, candy bars spread out. She happily bites into one, and it's as good as she imagines it'd be.

This almost makes up for the kidnapping and stripping her powers. Almost.

She bites into another one, and yelps loudly before spitting something out. It's... a needle?]

What was this doing in here?

[Halloween Children]

[Kipo doesn't notice that the children at the door are actually dead. She just thinks they're really, really good costumes. She smiles, opening the door.]

Awww, you guys look like little zombies! I'd give you some candy, but there's something wrong with it...

Siblings!!

[miaoudel]

[The sound of footsteps is immediately followed by a door opening, and a tan young man - a particularly handsome one, in fact - is stumbling out of his bedroom with his eyes on the floor like he's looking for something. It takes him a moment to notice Kipo, and them he does a sharp double-take and yelps, quickly ducking back into his bedroom.

And then sticks his arm out, grabbing the door handle in one hand so he can yank it shut if he needs to but staring at her for now.] Who are you?!

Alex Claremont-Diaz | Red, White, and Royal Blue

[bisexualdisaster]

October 1

...this isn't the White House.

That's so blindingly obvious that Alex has to stare at the ceiling for a moment and try and figure out what's actually wrong. It's not his bedroom, that much is obvious. Not June's either. There might be bedrooms in that house he hasn't seen. It's possible. But he'd explored very, very thoroughly during those first few months before June moved in. So he hasn't wandered into some weird side room and fallen asleep without remembering it.

Also, like, he hasn't gotten blackout drunk in ages and he doesn't even have a hangover. So waking up in a strange room makes even less sense. Plus, where the fuck is Henry?

Finally, he sits up. He's wearing some admittedly cozy but also admittedly not even slightly his style pajamas that he's never seen in his life. And there's someone else in his room.

"Soooo." He stands up, walking over to the other bed. If the other person is still asleep, he prods them in the shoulder, hard. "You should know the secret service get, like, super pissy when people kidnap me." Or at least, he assumes they do. It's not like it's happened before. "So if you're the one responsible, maybe consider taking me home right now?"

It's not going to be that simple. He knows that already. But a guy can dream.

Don't Be a Square

Alex has been sulking in his house, mostly because the clothing here are all just so white people that he doesn't want to be seen in them. He is a fashion icon! He's been in magazines! He doesn't want to wear a fucking sweater vest and khakis. And who exactly decided that men's fashion should be as colorless and dull as possible? Henry's worst ties are better than this garbage.

He misses his wardrobe and his hair products and his family and friends and boyfriend and even his sister's dumb tabloid obsession. But there's one thing he hasn't even thought to miss yet because he was busy sulking over all the other things. And that's his music collection. Sure, he enjoys his dad's music. Oldies are great. But only when you can mix them up with songs that actually have a beat.

So he drags himself up, spends way too long in the mirror mussing his hair and trying to get his button down shirt to look rumpled enough to resemble cool, shoves on his boring loafers, and stomps out to the party, only to find himself with a plate of jello and a party hat and the stepford people coming up around him to greet him. Ugh.

"Look, if you want a party, I can plan a party. This is just sad."

Network

I MISS THE INTERNET WHY DO WE HAVE THE FLINTSTONES EQUIVALENT TO AN APPLE WATCH BUT NOT INSTAGRAM THIS IS TERRIBLE

Network

[moderndayassassin]

I'm surprised we even have these old af spy wristband walkie talkie whatevers.

Cassandra | Tangled: The Series | OTA

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[A; October 1st]
[OOC: feel free to be Cassandra's spouse.]

[There's no way Cassandra could ever deny a cry for help, but her attempt is cut short immediately by the swirl of darkness enveloping her mind. Suddenly, she's nothing.

And then she wakes up.

The sensation of soft, clean linens against her immediately conflicts with the thick weather-worn blanket she'd wrapped in under the starts a moment earlier. Or had it been a moment earlier? Where was she? She had no memory of checking into an inn, or changing into a silky nightgown - she didn't even own one! She rises in a fog, wracking her brain for solutions... until she spots something and double takes.

It's not a painting, but a photo; a brand new invention that hadn't even come to Corona yet. Innocuously sitting on a nightstand that didn't belong to her. Yet it was her. With someone she didn't recognize, at a wedding? HER wedding.

That gets her to venture on, out of the bedroom and into more pictures. Frozen images of her smiling face, surrounded by people she couldn't recognize. It twists something in Cassandra's chest more and more, her attempts to get away from it failing until she's barely at the front door and finds yet another frame of her wedding day.

A cry of frustration. A shattering of glass. These will draw anyone's attention to the main living room of the house, where the source is obvious. Cassandra, the remains of the frame on the floor, which she had just smashed against the wall.

Attempts to step towards her will yield a defensive stance... and a long shard of glass held out in her hand.]

Stay back! Who are you?

[B-1; Don't be a square]
[A few days later and things have... settled. As much as they can in this upside-down nightmare. Cass, at the very least, doesn't feel as though she's on the verge of a breakdown anymore. Her stay here, for the moment, seems indefinite, but she now knows that she isn't the only one stuck in it.

But then the neighbors decide to put on a party. Hardly a problem in itself - parties and festivals were mainstays of Coronan culture; fun and harmless, even if Cass thought the kingdom occasionally went overboard with how often it hosted celebrations. What's bad is the insistence that Cassandra simply must come out and introduce herself to everyone in the neighborhood.

Could be a trap. Probably is. But maybe she'd learn a few things about the locals.

Cass arrives at the block party with a fresh button down shirt, a pilfered pair of slacks, and a fake smile. Not that anyone will know better; who cares when she's so nice! She smiles and shakes hands, even tries out the jump ropes, which she can do on one foot. All while dancing around matters of how she's doing, and plates of gelatin, with all the energy the former handmaiden could muster.

But that just means the more keen-eyed will spot her sneaking away from the party to find a place to sit and breathe. Behind a tree, a bush, it doesn't matter. Just somewhere she can tear off this badge and the stupid party hat.

Maybe you follow her, or maybe she's happened across your hiding place. Either way, Cass only has one thing to say.]

If you're part of everything going on out there, I'm really not in the mood for more gelatin.

[B-2; Green stuff and chunks of carrots]
[It had to happen eventually. Someone's caught Cass and... handed her a plate of gelatin. A whole plate.

The mass wriggles maddeningly before her eyes, green and full of.... things. She could only imagine what the shapes floating in the middle of the gelatin were, and those thoughts churned her stomach.]

Seriously, who is eating this junk?

[A whisper probably meant for herself, but loud enough that anyone nearby will know just what she means.]

[C; Always check your candy; CW: mouth trauma, razors]
[Cassandra had no intention of being outside for the trick or treating, not that she might admit it. As far as anyone was aware, she was taking a nice evening stroll... which just so happened to include scouting the area for potential things of interest.

But on the way back she's flagged down by one of the locals in front of their house. No costume? No problem! She's handed a candy apple and told to enjoy the rest of her evening, all in that same, tight-lipped smile. She thought nothing of it and walked on, apple in hand. Maybe a... little delighted to be given something non-gelatinous. And she was hungry...

Doesn't make up for the kidnapping, but at least she can bite into this candy apple... and nearly doubles over on the sidewalk from the immediate burst of pain in her mouth. The apple drops to the pavement, forgotten as Cass coughs into her hand. She couldn't taste anything but pain and bitterness, and when she looks down, a cold shock ripples through her.

By all accounts, she should be angry. Furious, even. But the most Cass could muster from the sight of a razor blade resting in her bloodied palm was numb bewilderment. Even as more blood dribbled from a corner of her lip.]

B2

[miaoudel]

[Behind Cassandra, a young man with blonde hair stands up on his toes so he can glance over her shoulder at the gelatinous mess.]

You... probably don't want to eat that.

Dallas Winston | The Outsiders

[greaser]

1. October 1st
cw: some mentions of suicide/suicide ideation

[ That voice, so sad and small and lost, tugs at him more than he would care to admit, and before he can even steel himself, there comes a vague and foggy thought: Johnny?. Then, no, Johnny is dead, and so are you, remember?

But he isn’t. He tries to hold onto the fantasy for a little longer, pretends he doesn’t see sunlight through his eyelids or feel the weight of the blankets on top of him, pretends he can’t feel the heavy weight of disappointment and grief in his gut as he takes in a breath of air.

He lays there for a few moments, still and silent, until he eventually has to face the facts: death didn’t take. He slams an angry fist into the mattress, pushes himself up, and looks around with a sneer of contempt. At seventeen, Dallas Winston has already been sleeping in empty lots and on his buddies’ couches for so long, he can scarcely recall having a room of his own. If he could recall it, he’s sure it never looked like this. He hasn’t seen this place in his life.

He creeps around the corner, past the yellowing photographs, not even turning his gaze toward them, and calls out to the first person he sees. ]

I don’t know who the hell you are, but why don’t you tell me what a guy’s gotta do to get a cancer stick around here?

2. Aunt Myrna

[ It’s been a steady stream of jello molds and casseroles—nothing edible, really. After sneering at the neighbor and nearly slamming the door in their face, Dallas brings Aunt Myrna’s something-or-other inside and damn near slams it onto the table. ]

People call this food? Fucking California, man…West coast folks are more out of it than I thought.

3. Respect the dead

[ Dallas is always ready for a fight, even if it is against little kids in Halloween costumes. Hey, if someone’s got it coming, they've got it coming. He feels absolutely no remorse as he flips a child in a grimy skeleton costume onto the ground, and he feels even less when he slams his fist into the masked face. ]

I can’t stand kids.

[ He grits his teeth, whirling to take on another masked child who has begun to rip at his jacket. ]

Little shits.

4. Wildcard

[ Whatever's good with me. I'm easy. Surprise me or catch me on plurk at muttonchops or DM me. ]

October 1st

[13thcommander]

A what?

[For what it's worth, Erwin doesn't view the guy in the hallway as a kid. For him, seventeen is more than old enough to be on your own and making your own way, so while he's a little surprised at finding another man in the house, he doesn't let it throw him.]

I don't know what that is.

Sessyoin Kiara | Fate/Grand Order

[thotsandprayers]

Aunt Myrna's Party Cheese Salad

[Kiara's definitely seen her share of questionable cuisine before, but this is...well, she's sure it will be an experience her and her new...family will talk about for quite a while. She's still getting used to this strange situation, but she imagines everyone else is as well. The kidnapping and power loss, that's not really an issue, but getting used to living with others and this community, now that's a bit of an adjustment.

So she'll set this down with the other dishes and look over at whoever else is around.]

Another gift from our the neighbors. And if I had to guess, it's most likely as edible as the others.

[She says this with a smile, though she is slightly...let's go with concerned about it. Midcentury American food certainly is...something. Though what exactly that something is, she's not really sure yet.]

No doubt they'll be asking us how it was.

[In other words, somebody's probably going to have to eat this. At some point. It's not like they're receiving anything else more palatable and it would be impolite to waste it. Right?]

{OOC: Feel free to assume family roles for this one!}

Throughout October

A bit strange, isn't it?

[She'll speak up when she thinks none of the locals are around. They don't seem to want to talk about the newspaper article anymore, so she'd rather not press them on that. She's more curious as to what the others think about this whole thing, primarily the distancing the community is doing from it, but also just that something so tragic happened so soon after their arrival. It could be a coincidence, but she really isn't sure.]

You would think that would at least put a damper on things, but everything seems to be going ahead full steam. Including that commercial.

[She's rather tired of it, truth be told. But there's nothing to really be done about it other than endure it or stop watching the television. It shouldn't be too much longer before it's over. There's only so many more days left, anyways.]

Always Respect the Dead

[And here we are, a ways in to the month and she's...well, certainly surprised that this happened, if not entirely surprised that something happened. Between the town's general weirdness and everything that happens back home, it would've been incredibly out of place if nothing had happened. But marauding zombie children, that's something new. She can't think of any Servants that have ever mentioned something like that.

When the first one smashes through the window, grabbing at her arm, she's shocked once more. It's been a while since she's felt herself to be in any real danger or terror, so this brings somewhat of a smile to her face. It's been years since she's been in mortal peril like this! But even if she thinks she can just be resummoned back home (boy is she in for a surprise someday), part of trying to behave and not be...her probably involves not being mauled to death by zombie children. So she'll pull herself away from the window and begin calling for help as more of them start hitting the glass, the walls, the door. Either someone at home or maybe a neighbor will hear and come to her aid. Or get attacked too? That probably wouldn't help with trying to not be awful, but hey, sometimes these things happen.]

( throughout october. )

[sunborne]

[ daylight makes his distaste for the commercial known the second she mentions it. his face scrunches up in an immediate grimace, not a big fan of the obnoxious jingle himself. he wishes he still had his audials if only to dial down the sensitivity to a deafened state or something.

his expression gradually shifts into sympathy when he begins to think of the children. he had read the article once and it's stuck to him ever since. ]

... It's weird no one is willing to at least talk about helping the families out. [ for either the kids or the driver. it could be a case of wanting to spare the families' attention as they mourned but- ] Why are there are no other follow-ups to this? No charities? No plans for vigils?

It's what my family did back home if an accident happened in the mines.

john constantine | vertigo/dc comics

[scouserer]

i. this is not my beautiful house! this is not my beautiful wife!

[This isn't the first time that Constantine has woken up in an unfamiliar place, and it certainly won't be his last. His first thought is that this is a dream invoked by yet another one of his acquaintances in an attempt to communicate with him. After a few of the standard tests, however, he concludes that this must be reality--though, perhaps not as he used to know it, since his magic seems completely unusable here. His second thought is that this must be a demonic trick--warping his perception and senses to exact some sort of revenge upon him.

(That would explain the pictures, at least.)

If you're an adult, you wake up without anyone occupying the bed across from you. As you creep downstairs, searching for anyone else in the house, an arm suddenly grabs you from the hallway and pulls you in. The culprit? A scowling man wearing a trench coat brandishing a kitchen knife in his other hand. Adult or child, Constantine will give both the same...warm welcome.]

Right. You're gonna tell me everything you know and how you brought me here. And don't try any funny business--you so much as twitch the wrong way, I'll have you exorcised six ways to Sunday.

[Better talk fast--this guy doesn't seem to be joking. Though, there does seems to be a case of mistaken identity....]

ii. tupperware party (cw: alcoholism mention)

[Look, Constantine enjoys a good party as much as anyone else, but this is just ridiculous. At least he hasn't had to change his wardrobe very much to fit in. He's been trying to observe the neighbors as they go about their day, but the only thing he can really glean about them is that all of them are the perfect picture of a suburban American family.

Which means, more than anything, that something is very, very wrong. The only question is what the source is.

As the minutes stretch on, his patience is tested more and more. Eventually, surrounded by a group of housewives who insist on pushing more horrific aspic dishes in his face, he clasps a hand on one of their shoulders and speaks. A taut grin stretches across his face.]

Looks fantastic, M--Gertrude? Yeah, you're Gertrude. [The woman nods, looking absolutely unfazed by Constantine mixing up her name.] Listen, can one of you lovely ladies point me in the nearest direction of a bottle of whiskey? I'm going to go drink myself to death.

[There's a pause, and a raucous laugh erupts from the crowd surrounding Constantine. Apparently, they've taken his comment as a joke. Constantine's smile tightens as his eyes dart to find someone who will tell him where to get blackout drunk.]

Figured as much.

iii. season of the witch (cw: violence)

[Ah. Now this is a little more his speed, even if it's horrific and morbid. Constantine had almost immediately taken to the streets, armed with whatever he could find around the house. One of the kids had managed to catch him by surprise, their water-logged fingers grasping at his trench coat and trying to tear it from his body. He kicks at them, but to no avail.]

Bloody hell--

[He smashes one of them in the face with the baseball bat. The undead child lets go and staggers backwards, apparently undaunted despite having their facial features rearranged. Constantine grimaces. Even if they are occult beings intent on causing his demise, it doesn't feel particularly nice to bash a child in the face.

He staggers towards one of the nearby houses, where an unlit pumpkin sits on the porch railing. A gaggle of children encroach on someone trying desperately to light the damn thing. Really, this would be so much easier if he had a smidge of magic--just enough to light the rest of the pumpkins. But Constantine is nothing but resourceful, even in the worst of situations. Fumbling through his pockets, he pulls out a lighter and whistles to get the person's attention.

And people say that smoking is bad for you.]

You, there! Catch!

[He flings the lighter as hard has he can with the speed and precision of a baseball pitcher. Try not to lose it, alright?]

iv. wildcard

[yes i know constantine's icons are from dc animated, you try finding good icons for a 30 year comic run

Got another idea for a prompt? Hit me up @ wolfnoir.]

i

[bigredcheese]

[Magic's the obvious explanation. Whether he has the Wisdom of Solomon or not, he can tell that much. Maybe it's some sort of test from the wizard, or maybe it's like that vague memory he has of a world where his parents lived.

Billy proceeds cautiously, wanting to explore a little more, and then okay, great, he's being grabbed by some guy with a knife. Instinctively, he yells out,]

Shazam!

[... only to still be a fifteen year old boy being held at knifepoint. Definitely some weird magic test.]

I mean... I'm sorry, mister, but I think you've got the wrong idea?

Rapunzel | Tangled: The Series

[prodigalhairess]

[A; October 1st (Spouses and Children all welcome!]

[As Rapunzel wakes up, groaning and pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes to rub the sleep from them, she doesn't immediately notice something off. The bed and her sheets feel odd, but the castle is still under reconstruction; the furniture was hastily repaired and laundry was the last thing on most peoples' minds as they worked diligently to clear the rubble and wreckage out of the halls. It's only when she opens her eyes, taking in the surroundings that are very much not her room in the castle, that she begins to panic.]

What the--

[She scrambles out of bed in a flurry, moving first to the window - yep, definitely not Corona - before pacing around the room, looking at all the knickknacks and the pictures and....

and...

Oh. Those are... small paintings? Of her? Her and a man that is most certainly not Eugene embracing in a most certainly romantic way.]

What is this...?


[B; Don't Be a Square!]

[Right, something really weird is going on here. It reminds Rapunzel of when she was trapped in her own dream world in The House of Yesterday's Tomorrow. Everything seemed nice, but there was something slightly off about the way the people here acted. Nothing creepy just yet, just... weird. And there's no hint as to how they can get out of here, even after a few days trapped...

Well. They'll find something eventually. They have to. Until then, Rapunzel will play along - and that means attending the block party! She doesn't have to fake her curiosity as the neighbors come up to her and offer the different snacks they brought, especially when it comes to the gelatin. So here's an ex-princess, holding a plate with a red-colored gelatin dome that is probably some kind of cherry or strawberry flavor, shaking the plate to make the treat wiggle.]

This is amazing! [Oh. Oh wow, she sounds genuinely impressed by jello???] How does it stay like that???

[C; Respect the Dead]

[Needless to say, Rapunzel had gotten fully into the spirit of Halloween. They hadn't had any holidays like this in Corona - none that she knew of, at least - and it had all seemed so charming. The costumes! The excitement of the children! Giving out treats to eager little monsters and watching them dart up and down the street all night... it was sweet, really. Even as the night wore on, Rapunzel kept her decorations out - and that included the lit jack-o-lantern.

She'd been making a cup of tea in the kitchen, ready to head upstairs for the night, when she heard a commotion from the next house over. Looking out the window, she spies the group of small figures surging into her neighbor's house, and she can hear yelling and things being broken and thrown about. In a surge of panic, the princess runs out to her front porch, just as she spies her neighbors being chased out by a few of the... the children???]

H-Hey, over here! [She waves her arms, hoping to catch their attention.] Quick, run over here, we can bar the door-!

C

[choosetruth]

[Georgia is not enjoying herself. Trick or treating has lost a lot of its popularity in her world, since going out at night means risking being eaten by zombies and dressing up in a zombie costume means risking someone shooting you. She hadn't bothered with a jack-o-lantern. And then the zombies had come anyway, and they clearly aren't the same as the zombies from her world.

She charges towards the woman waving at her, holding her skirts up with her hands.]

I need a fucking gun and some real fucking pants!

[And don't get her started on the shoes.]

Ibis | OC | OTA

[frozenbird]

-October 1st-

[Ibis doesn't often get up early, but there's a lot of weird things about this morning. The tech levels are bizarre - too advanced for her adulthood, but still FAR too primitive for her youth. Did she spend a few thousand years unconscious again? Bullshit.

Well, in situations like this, you need to take the initiative. Ibis quietly makes her way downstairs to the kitchen, finds a serviceable knife, then returns to the bedroom to deal with the man in the other bed.]

Good morning. [She's not brandishing the knife, but she isn't making any particular effort to hide it, either.] I have a few questions for you.


-Gelatin Molds-

[The culinary world of the 1950s might as well be a foreign planet. But hey, these people are... theoretically humans, right? So the food should be human palatable, even if Ibis personally has never seen anything like it.

Welp. Nothing for it but to be open-minded, right? While the rest of the family is still being repulsed, she carves off a corner of the nearest gelatin mold, puts how it looks out of her mind, and takes a bite.]

...You know, it's actually not bad. Unique texture, but I could see myself getting used to this.

[She's a monster.]


-Trick or Treat-

[This place seemed sort of passively nefarious, but not actively hostile until now. She's been lucky until now, but someone mentioned the only weakness these monster children have - the jack-o-lanterns. And her house doesn't have any. So, it's time for an expedition.

Fully aware of how much danger this puts her in, Ibis emerges from her home, beginning a slow, limping trek towards the nearest safe home. Deprived of her cane, she borrowed a fire poker as a cheap substitute, but it's not helping that much. As she makes her way closer to safety, a group of dead children take notice, gleefully advancing on her.

It's a matter of simple math. At her speed, and at their speed, the kids will reach Ibis before she reaches the safety of the home she's headed towards. Rapidly running out of options, she yells, as loud as she can, to try and alert someone from the house that could be her salvation. Hopefully someone hears her before it's too late.]

-October 1st-

[spaghettimonster]

[Ordinarily, Papyrus is an early waker. He has the kind of energy that lets him get by with only erratic catnaps, as being a skeleton makes him especially light on his feet. Today, though, isn't shaping up to be his day. He's strangely heavy and lethargic, only vaguely noting the presence and departure of the other person in his room as maybe being the dog.

No, mostly he's a little bit busy having skin. It's a new and overwhelming experience. By the time Ibis returns with that knife, he's sitting up with wide eyes and rolled up sleeves, squeezing different spots on his arm to test the feelings of it. That's bones inside there, but there's so much else, and it feels so real...? He startles at her voice, and his eyes flicker to the knife.]

Uhhh. Questions?

Bowser | Super Mario Bros | OTA

[dennishopper]

a. World 10-1

[Bowser wakes up uncomfortable — this place isn’t nearly scorching enough for the most cold-blooded cool guy around to get some shut eye! It’s bad enough when the king of koopas gets past his grogginess, rubbing the sand from his eyes and becoming all the more aware that he isn’t in a monarch-sized bed perched over a river of lethal lava. Where the shroom is he, and who’s the chump in the pictures?!

Now imagine that rage and confusion multiplied by tenfold when a look in the mirror confirms that Bowser is that chump.

Though he might not be a towering Koopa anymore, he’s still a huge guy in comparison to most. That means you might be a little disoriented when you first see Bowser punching at the nearest door...whether you’re part of his assigned family or he’s trying to break down your front door.]

ALRIGHT, OPEN UP! THE KING’S HERE AND I DEMAND A MEETING WITH THE CHUMP-IN-CHARGE OF THIS TRASH HEAP!

b. ? Block Party

[The once great king of Dark Land has been formally reduced by this stupid town into the mediocre king of suburbia, only nagged on and on by his neighbors’ annoying niceness and weirdo "family" breathing down his neck.

It comes to a head when some dude shows up at Bowser’s door with another gelatin mold, only for it to promptly be thrown into the distance. If he was still in his scaley skin, there’d be dark smoke billowing from his nostrils.]

Clean out your ears, bozo, because I’m only gonna say this one more time before I knock you into next week! Give me one more of these slimy whatevers, and it’s getting mailed back to your FACE!

[...this attempt at hospitality doesn’t go well. After some scolding from his wife, Bowser heads out to the lawn to set up some sort of game for the block party.

It ultimately ends up consisting of a carton of eggs placed a few feet away from a crudely-made wooden cutout of a crudely-drawn red mustachioed plumber, nailed(?) into the front lawn like a post. Bowser’s toothy smirk (and splinter covered fists) is visible to whoever approaches him. This is clearly the highlight of his day.]

Here for a game? You’ve come to right place, chump! I call this one "EGG THE PLUMBER", bwahaha!

c. World 10-31 (cw: emeto)

[Halloween does not go well for Bowser, as is the case with just about every other day in the former lizard’s life.

Mostly because he spends the first part of the day keeled over the toilet - a new sensation for him. It comes after one of his neighbors gives Bowser an entire pot roast in his truck or treat bag and he quite literally eats the entire thing. Not because of the pot roast itself (though that could be a factor), but because it’s obviously laced with some kind of poison mushroom.

Bowser hasn’t felt this weak since he got here, and he certainly makes no mention of having been vomiting up blood for a couple of hours when he takes to the streets once more. Despite obviously being in no condition to be out, his own boisterous attitude and pride means he can’t show any signs of weakness.

Which leads to what makes the rest of his night sucky. When Bowser spots these hungry children of the candy corn roaming the streets, he punches his fist into his palm. Already preparing to leap headfirst into the fray.]

Finally, some action around here! Thought I’d never get a shot at some new punching bags!

[He doesn’t have his flame breath otherwise he’d burn these suckers down, which leads to him preparing to run into the crowd...only to once again stop. Coughing and hacking until it becomes too painful to bear, more blood and other fluids fall from the koopa king’s mouth, in pain and obviously close to the grasp of the horde at this point.

No fair! This place gives Bowser something he’d have fun doing then it punishes him for it! Better save the big lug before he becomes chow.]

d. Super Wildcard Galaxy

[drop me a line for other threads! feel free to be bowser’s spouse or assumed family in any of these prompts.]

A!

[worklikeadog]

[Isabelle awakes in a panic, not because she hears yelling, but because she hears yelling instead of her alarm clock. Oh, no!! Did she miss her alarm? She's going to be late to work!

She stumbles out of bed, and only after she leaves the bedroom does she realize that this is not her beautiful house, and there is a strange man here who's screaming at the mirror in the bathroom. What on earth is going on!?]

Uh, pardon me, sir, but could you please lower your voice a l-

[Her voices dies in her throat when she catches a look at herself in the mirror. Where are her ears!? Why is she hairless!? Everything is wrong!]

EEEK!

RJ MacCready | Fallout 3

[mayormacfuckyou]

1

[If you were hoping for a quiet morning to sort out what exactly is going on, well, too bad. Once MacCready gets a semblance of his bearings and realizes his uniform and gun are nowhere to be found in this room he woke up in (not even his own comics, what the fuck?) there's a rumbling of furious little footsteps coming from the second floor, then down the stairs, before a small child with a baseball bat comes into view looking completely pissed off. He couldn't even find a metal bat. Or a bat with nails in it. A wooden bat.

He's brandishing the thing like he's ready to start knocking heads. Surely these people got pictures of him doing things he's never done in places he's never been so they must know what's happening. And he intends to find out!]

What the fuck is going on here?!

2

[Fuck all of these adults with their creepy smiles and friendly...friendliness. He may not have strayed far from Little Lamplight but he sure as shit knows this isn't normal, and that nice lawns and people walking around unarmed was so far from standard.

Worst of all is the way the adults talk to the kids. He keeps his bat, because it's the only thing he has to defend himself should he get attacked, patrolling the neighborhood with the most suspicious glare.

At some point one of the grown ups says something to him, but he's not paying attention, calling him kiddo and mussing up his hair with his gross hand. MacCready immediately feels his fight or flight instinct take over as he winds the bat back and lets him have it right on the knee.]

Get your mungo hands off me!

[MacCready may be small, but a bat is a bat. And the way the man flinches and still holds his wide small, shaking his head and exclaiming, "oh, you kids! Be careful with that!" before he wanders off is...

...He's seen some shit, but this is creepy.]

What the hell is wrong with all of these people?

3

Well, what's anyone gonna do about it?

[The creepy neighbor laughs, which he should fucking expect by now, and tells him that he's much too young to be worrying about something as ghastly as the missing children. Best to forget about it. But that only fills MacCready with a fiery anger as he throws the newspaper at their retreating form. It his them...and predictably...they keep walking.]

Typical mungos — what do they care about a buncha kids, huh?

[Fucking grownups.]

4. (cw; gore, dead children, and violence ig)

[The first time the doorbell rang MacCready ignored it. Then it rang again, and again. Eventually he angrily stomps over to one of the windows, climbs on a chair, and peers through the curtains. Now, he read about this holiday, but most of the text was burned up and he only got bits and pieces, so as far as he's concerned it just seemed weird. Though he got the impression it was a holiday mostly for kids — imagine his fucking surprise finding out there was anything not shitty specifically for children. Point is, he knows enough (and just from all the shit he keeps hearing around the block) to know what this is.

But some of the kids here are weird too. And just because they're kids doesn't mean he's going to go giving them his trust or nothin'. But...there's something about them and those creepy costumes they're wearing...something familiar.

Oh shit.

Of course, in his mind, if you're dead you're fuckin' dead. The kids must have survived, right? And children in costumes and funky clothes isn't new or strange to him. That being said, he's extremely cautious when he opens the front door and peeks out.

And they don't say anything.]

You guys hurt or somethin'?

[They gurgle in response, rasping voices delivering a "trick or treat" that — he won't fuckin lie (well he will) — is freaking him the fuck out.

Everything in MacCready's gut tells him to shut the door and so he does, then locks it. He immediately hears the windows being banged on in the back so he runs for dear life—]

Why doesn't anyone board up these fuckin' windows around here?!

[But by the time he gets there the glass is broken and bloated, scarred, arms are reaching in. MacCready turns tail and heads for the front door again, still cursing under his breath, and when he unlocks the door and swings it wide open, he feels himself being grabbed on his way out and yanked to the ground. He has one child descending on him — and boy do they fuckin smell — but he manages to wiggle enough around to elbow it in the face, knocking it off of him.

He tries to get up again to dart out the front door but both his ankles are grabbed and squeezed, forcing him to fall flat on his face. He grabs on to the doorframe as it pulls, and after a moment he can feel more hands grabbing at him.]

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

[Little help?]

wildcard!

[feel free to hmu with anything!]

1! just remember: you asked for this.

[heeroism]

﹙ their 'parents' are nowhere to be seen. instead, the person that maccready sees when he thunders downstairs with his makeshift weapon is another teenager seated at the table with a cup of coffee and not much else to be seen. he's reading the newspaper, and sets it down at the question.

he doesn't seem bothered by the bat. or the angry child brandishing it. ﹚

Calm down. We're the only ones here right now, and I don't know any more than you do.

﹙ and he, by his body language, has no intention of fighting. historically, that hasn't meant much of him — but he isn't going to harm a child even if he swings first. ﹚

tuesday simmons. carole & tuesday.

[maunder]

HOMELIFE

「 Tuesday wakes from darkness to find sunlight beaming directly into her face. Her eyes squint defensively and she quickly rolls over away from the painful glow, hands shielding her eyes, right onto the carpeted floor with a solid thud! And for a moment, she lies there, furiously blinking away the sleep from her vision. That was a really… scary dream. She doesn’t remember everything; however, the echo of that sad voice calling for help still lingers. It saddles her with a heavy feeling in her chest; causeless sadness she’s unable to shake. She then sits up and pans her gaze around the room, awake and now distressingly aware.

It’s a rapid transition from idle to panic in nothing flat when she realizes she isn’t where she should be and why isn’t she where she should be?! Where’s Carole? She rushes to a stand and peers at the door, then back around the room to get some kind of idea but nothing sticks. No familiarity or recollection anywhere. There’s nothing threatening about the space, at least. She doesn’t immediately feel in danger. The sun’s warmth pours through the window, illuminating the cozy space, and it’s kind of funny. It’s almost as though it were decorated for her especially. She could see herself in this space. And the thing is, she does.

Inside a white picture frame sitting on the dresser to her left is a photo of a blonde-haired girl, smiling and posing happily with flowers in her hand. That must be who this room belongs to, she thinks. Except that blonde-haired girl is her and suddenly she feels very dizzy…

Tuesday stumbles out the door and down the hall, calling out: 」

Carole? Carole!

「 She probably makes it down the stairs before colliding right into someone. 」

Oof! O-Oh! I’m sorry! Excuse me! 「 Cue frantic arm waving. 」 I-I’m looking for my friend. Carole. I’m... not quite sure where I am… or how I got here…

BLOCK PARTY

「 The music is what ultimately lures her; a familiar place to touch down on amid the upheaval. The kind of melodies she’s heard spilling from her mother’s room as a child. It was a joyful feeling that connects her to it and it makes the scene come alive the closer she approaches, dressed in the typical poodle skirt, pinned with a name tag that reads 𝒯𝓊𝑒𝓈𝒹𝒶𝓎, and looking the exact definition of brimming with nervousness.

But eventually the smiling faces and overwhelming cordial behavior wears on her a little. She gets caught up in the incessant shoving of things in her face, trying desperately to decline (politely), and when they slap on that party hat and declare her guest of honor, she flinches with a squeak: 」

Me?!

「 From there, she’s helplessly moved through the crowd, prodded at to get better acquainted with the others. It feels so rushed and she probably looks flustered from it but eventually she’ll meet eyes with someone by chance and give them a sheepish smile, trying her best to iron her nerves and maybe even theirs. 」

This is quite the party, isn’t it? 「 Small, uneasy laugh. 」 My name’s Tuesday.

HALLOWEEN

A. ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD
「 That heaviness she woke up with all those days ago never quite left her. The news about the bus crash and missing people clung to the back of her mind, and now with Halloween on the horizon she doesn’t feel much in the spirit of things. If anything, she would rather just sleep the day away…

There’s a loud pounding on the door that jolts her awake. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, it seems. The cigarette commercial fills the silence before another round of aggressive knocking ensues. She leaps up, startled. It’s way too late for trick or treaters, isn’t it?

The pounding persists. Louder now.

Tuesday gradually makes her way towards the door, unsure about answering but knowing it was too dang late for this nonsense, and slowly opens it. 」

Hello…?

[ The kids voices gargle out the words trick or treat and she forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. ]

Those are some neat costumes… but, um… it’s really late and we don’t have anymore candy. Sorry. Get home safe!

[ And that would be the end of it -- except it’s not. One of the kids advance forward and push past the door, knocking Tuesday down. She yelps and skids across the floor some, watching as the others follow in tow. Now in the light, she can see that these weren’t just regular kids. They looked… dead. She continues to try and back away, to widen as much distance between her and them, until two of them lunge at her, grabbing her arms and legs, and pinning her down.

Anyone within close radius will hear the blood-curdling scream that leaves her at that moment. Help. ]

WILDCARD

(( OPEN to anyone that wants to fill in family roles! Feel free to dm me or find me on yourfavewaifu if you wanna hash something out! ))

Block Party

[koroshite]

[Tuesday's sheepish smile is met with Rachel's even and unmoving expression. There's some light in her eyes at least, the persistent dullness chased away by some sort of feeling she can't put her finger on. She's perpetually bad with naming emotions really.

The blonde gives her head a gentle bob. The hold of her own party hat is dubious at best and it rocks with the move before she reaches upward and presses a few fingers against it, sliding it back into place.]

Rachel.

[As for the party question the girl turns her gaze out over the party itself. There's laughing and animated chatter, kids younger than her chasing one another and younger teens her age gathered in gossiping circles. She tilts her head and looks like she's considering something.]

It's very loud.

Lavinia Whateley | Fate/Grand Order

[dunwichdaughter]

[A; Arrival]

[The strangest thing about waking up, to Lavinia, is the waking up part. She can remember the pain in her chest as she bled out in Abby's arms, she can remember her best friend's tears falling onto her face, and the overwhelming sense of peace she felt when she realized that the Outer God had been successfully chased out of Abby. She was dying, dead, and it was just as she felt herself fading that she heard that voice pulling at that last fraying thread of her consciousness...

... And then she woke up. In a room so bright, so unlike her room back in Salem, wrapped in soft sheets and such an utter feeling of wrongness that warning bells immediately begin chiming in her head. In a flurry of movement, she rolls out of bed, red eyes darting this way and that, noticing the dolls and the books and the colors that absolutely aren't anything of hers.

It's so... mmm. It's not familiar, but there's the same uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck as she cautiously steps out into the hallway of the house, seeing pictures of her and people she never met before. Evidence of her living a life she never lived, acting familiar with strangers... it's almost how it was in Salem. Was she brought here to play a role, just like then?]

W-What role, though...

[She mumbles to herself, unaware that there might be other people around. In fact, she seems to be doing her best to avoid other people; eventually, she'll make her way outside, away from this fake family she's found herself a part of, just... poking around the neighborhood. Looking in garages, garden sheds, even testing some of the cellar doors of the other houses.

If this is the work of some powerful magecraft, or a demon like Raum, then there has to be a workshop somewhere. She can find more clues from there...]


[B; Aunt Myrna's Party Cheese Salad]

[Supposedly growing up in a Puritan village in the 1600's, Lavinia is used to a rather bland, simple diet. Bread, porridge, eggs... the most extravagant things she's ever eaten were the pancakes Abby's family was able to afford to eat whenever she stayed the night. So all of this food, and the excess of it, was a little overwhelming for the girl. Some of it looks downright alien, and that's what she avoids.

... Except for the "cheese salad". It looks revolting, no doubt about that, but she can't help but stare at this congealed mess of what looks like spoiled milk and vegetables. From the safety of her front porch, out of the sun, Lavinia stares at a plate of the stuff, cautiously poking at it and quickly pulling her hand back when it wiggles.]

Th-This is..... cursed, isn't it?

[... Yeah, even the creepy albino kid is unnerved by it.]

That... that c-can't be what she says it is... right...?


[C; Always Check your Candy (cw: needles, mouth/tongue trauma)]

[This is where the most jarring difference between Salem and this new town presents itself; in Salem, All Hallow's Eve was talked about in hushed whispers. The townsfolk always had dark stories of the heathens and their communion with spirits around the fires during Samhain, and it was around this time of year that they gave Lavinia and her family a larger berth than they usually did. The fear of witchcraft made this night a dark day... so when the town comes alive the closer it gets to the end of the month, the more confused Lavinia gets.

She's even more confused when some of the neighbor kids invite her out trick or treating. She's not shunned, not given glares or harsh words. No, they're... encouraging her to celebrate with them? It's strange, and Lavinia wants to say no, but the fake "sibling" of hers almost literally drags her off to visit a few houses. She doesn't last long, only managing to collect a few handfuls of treats, but this is fine. Lavinia's not really one to get too involved in celebrations like this.

Maybe it's not so bad, though... the treats she managed to collect look nice. As she walks down the street, back towards her temporary home, she unwraps one of the candy bars - such a strange delicacy that Lavinia has grown fond of - and pops it in her mouth, biting down-]

-!!!

[And lets out a pained yelp, spitting it out and dropping her bag so she can raise her hands to her mouth. There's a sharp, jabbing pain in the roof of her mouth and her tongue, and she can feel blood dripping down onto her chin.]

A... wha...

[Anyone rushing over to help her will see the source of the problem right away; digging into the roof of the girl's mouth and spearing straight through her tongue is a sewing needle, glinting in the glow of the nearby streetlight.]

A

[thotsandprayers]

[Kiara's new to this whole thing too, but she hasn't gone around poking around other people's garages and the like, that's rather impolite, isn't it? So when she sees someone doing that, the natural response is to stop and ask...]

Hello there, I assume you've just arrived as well.

[Not getting to go on fun adventures to singularities and whatnot (though how fun is debatable), she has absolutely no clue who Lavinia is, other than she's assuming not local since none of the people who seem to call this world home have been doing this sort of thing. As far as she knows anyways. Though maybe they're just better at not being seen?]

But if I may ask, is there something in particular you're looking for? I don't think there's anything terribly interesting in there.

[She's more curious than anything else. It's not her garage anyways since she's just walking by, and even if it was, it still wouldn't really be hers. So she isn't really too concerned with whatever Lavinia's doing.]

Dora (The Explorer) | Dora and the Lost City of Gold (2019)

[canyousay]

1. October 1st (feel free to assume family connections, naturally)

[ Dora could fill a whole research journal with places this room she has woken up isn't. Her own, for one thing! Or any of her friends. Or where she had just been, and where she had heard whatever that call for help was! Or the jungle, but waking up in the jungle might have been stranger than wherever this is.

It's a very normal bedroom, structurally (and this is something she tests, making sure the walls are solid and that this is not some kind of trick or game show), but she recognizes precious little of what's in it. But that's not unusual for her, so she spends some time figuring out what the things in here are and what they do.

It's that search that, eventually, leads her to the pictures. Pictures of her with a family that is... definitely not her family. Pictures that would be incredibly hard to falsify, you know, on account of the childhood spent exploring the jungle. Pictures that are, fundamentally, impossible.

So she takes one out into the hallway, and the very first person she sees receives a very cheerful: ]

Oh! Hola. You're one of the people in these pictures. Did you make them? It's sort of weird to do that without telling me.

2. Getting to know the neighbors A

[ The gelatin nightmares are definitely enough to give even Dora pause, her usual cheer replaced by confusion and, moreover, concern. She takes a spoonful out of one of them and raises it up to investigate it further. ]

This... I'm sure this is technically safe to eat, but why did that lady make it? She could have stopped like... seven ingredients ago.

3. Always respect the dead (cw: violence, etc)

[ Dora gets the feeling that, as Halloweens go, this one is something of an outlier. For starters, the candy isn't really recognizable! But then a lot of things aren't recognizable here, so she's fine with that. She made a costume! It's a little slapdash, and right now it's not in amazing shape, but she's dressed as a... mountain? It's a little hard to recognize it right now, but that was the idea at the start of the night.

It's different now, of course on account of the, well. The zombie children? She tried peace, she really did! But then they went and made that hard, and totally wrecked her costume, so now she's running down the street back towards her house with... she got a camping knife from someone at some point in all this, it's fine. ]

I'm very sorry, I don't like having to stab people! I'm only doing this because it's an emergency!

[ She says, stabbing a (former) people. It does nothing, and she sort of. Kicks the former child away and keeps running. ]

4. Wildcard!

[ Wanna do something else? Leave it here and/or dm this account to hash out details! ]

1. October 1st

[spaghettimonster]

[It's well-spotted on Dora's part to recognize this man as one of the people in the pictures, with his current attire and expression. He's squinting at one of the hallway pictures, dressed in old-fashioned pajamas, with a sleeping cap in hand and hair far curlier and far less styled than the look in most of the family photos. But the shape of his face is very much the same, past the baffled frown.

At the question he turns the squint in Dora's direction, glancing down at the frame in her hand, and shakes his head helplessly.]

I... no, I didn't make these pictures. I don't know where they came from!

[Papyrus doesn't know where this house came from, or the unfamiliar body he's woken up in, and it's all a little stressful.]

Jack Rackham | Black Sails

[toberemembered]

Arrival

[ The confusion doesn't set in right away. Jack wakes slowly, luxuriating in the sunlight and the softness of the bed, blinking a few times before consciousness catches up to him. When it does, he freezes, staring at the bright ceiling, eyes flicking around the room, down to the bedspread and what little is visible of his clothing, before he turns to look at the person in the next bed over. It's the wrong person, but then everything else is also wrong, so he does his best to take it in stride. ]

Good morning, my dear, I do hope you slept well.

...I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to reacquaint me with the circumstances of our arrival here. I'm afraid last night is a bit...fuzzy.

Aunt Myrna's Party Cheese Salad

[ Unlike the majority of his fellow newcomers, Jack appears not only completely unruffled, but actually impressed by the prospect of a largely gelatin-based diet. After years of hardtack, portable soup, and worse, food with actual flavor is a refreshing change, no matter how questionable the way those flavors are combined may be. And the gelatin itself, as everyone knows, is normally the province only of the rich and those with far too much leisure time for cooking. He's always incredibly polite and genuinely grateful to anyone offering him one of the gelatin molds - think how much time they must have put into it!

So when his new "family" seems disinclined to try the newest concoction, Jack is genuinely baffled, glancing up from where he's already served himself a generous slice. ]

What? What's wrong?

Don't Be A Square

[ The party is an odd mix of the familiar and the completely bizarre. Jack accepts the hat, unwilling to waste energy protesting something so apparently innocuous, and immediately wanders off to explore the festivities. He can't stop looking at the balloons in particular, even going up and poking them on occasion, and he's amassed a small collection of party favors, fascinated by the bright colors, though he's equally invested in trying to determine as best he can whether they might have any sort of value. Probably not, given the way they're being liberally offered for free, but you never know. Naturally, he's also quick to accept the slice of gelatin monstrosity shoved his way, eating it with apparent relish.

Should he catch sight of anyone giving him the sort of looks of bemusement or horror he's earned by this sort of behavior, he simply nods in greeting. ]

A fellow neighbor I'm meant to meet, I presume.

Wildcard

[ Open to other ideas! PM or ask at butteredcups! ]

[lachenille]

[ Contrary to spy novel tropes, Villanelle is a heavy sleeper with a penchant for flamboyant pajamas. She wakes with a jerk at the sound of someone talking, shielding her eyes from the offensive morning sun while squinting at her newfound company. She wears a look that grows less and less pleased as her vision grows clearer. Weirder and weirder. Still, not one to judge a book by its cover, she leans in to take a whiff of his scent only to wrinkle her nose. ]

So did you make me cum or were we just cuddling cause I was feeling lonely?

Tooi Kuji | Sarazanmai | OTA

[rulerblade]

[A - October 1st]

[Is this a dream? Some kind of exhaustion-induced haze after all that had happened, all they fought for? Tooi's not sure it could be real. When he wakes up in a room that's too...full, to be his own, he creeps cautiously into the hall, keeping his back to the wall as he regards the photographs.]

What the hell...?

[These aren't his parents. That shouldn't be a little him in there. His brother's not even in any of these. This has got to be some kind of hallucination. But why would he hallucinate all this? And where the hell is that tinny jingle coming from?

Want to say hello to your new teenage son/brother?]

[B - Don't Be A Square]

[What the hell, no, don't do this to him, don't push him into this weird American happytime bullshit. The first chance he gets, Tooi is slipping away from the native teens who've roped him into "meeting the neighbors" and keeping his head down as he looks for someplace, anyplace, to dump this wretched plate of gelatin thing he's been given. It's not that he's ungrateful, he...he's just. Look. Y'all gave the household fifty different versions of the same bland, weird mush so far, he's so sick of it, why do you all eat this. Eventually he does find a house with a row of bushes flush against its fence, and just. Looks around, ducks, and absolutely is burying this food abomination in there. Gee, hope it's not your house he's doing this next to.]

[C - Always Check Your Candy (cw: potential for mouth trauma, vomiting, needles, razors)]

[Of course, the longer he's stuck here, the more likely it is that Tooi can be coerced by his "family" to participate in things, even if he vehemently does not want to. This includes Trick-Or-Treating! After all, he's fourteen, so he's got to be responsible, right? Surely it's fine to send him as a chaperone with some younger kids to get treats!

Somehow his costume is apt. He feels like a damn clown. But hey, he's got a pillowcase full of candy for his troubles.]

I thought people didn't give out homemade stuff anymore...

[Japan doesn't really have a long history of Halloween celebrations, but he's absorbed enough pop culture to know that in the states, at least, checking even the wrapped storebought stuff is kind of a big deal. And yet there are people here just making and handing out things like actual popcorn balls? Giving out apples? What kid actually wants an apple for Halloween?

If you're a kid like him, taken from home and brought here against your will, he will put a hand on your shoulder as you dig into your spoils.]

Hey, hold on. Let's check it first.

[Who wants to find all the fun stuff in their candy tonight?]

C

[koroshite]

[Rachel tilts her head upward, peering up at the older teenager a moment. Someone's wrangled her hip-length blonde hair back behind a headband with a big blue bow on it and her costume screams generic Alice in Wonderland. She really does suit the look though.

Ah. She nods a little at that before she murmurs, her voice soft and yet somehow monotone.]

Do you want me to help check yours?

Aphra Marsh | Innsmouth Legacy

[wontforbidtherain]

[Note: The Innsmouth Legacy books are one of those canons that play with HP Lovecraft's works. I'm fine with you referencing Lovecraft around Aphra; she'll probably decide that he embellished real stories into sensationalist pulp horror.]

[CW: Mention of the Japanese internment camps, and family death.]

October 1
[No one has a good reaction to waking up in a strange place, even one that is not too far off in place and time for Aphra. On noticing there's a second person in the room with her, she's going to focus on that. So you may be shaken awake or (if you woke up at the same time) accosted by a woman in pajamas.]

Who are you?

Photographs
[The family photos were getting to her. Not that they apparently had photos of her doing things she doesn't remember doing, but that some of them hint of the life of this Aphra before she married and was living in small-town California. And this Aphra's life was apparently happier, because her father wasn't murdered and her mother wasn't taken away. Some of the photos hinted that she had taken the 'children' to visit their grandparents at the seashore, and it was painful because Aphra would never get the chance to do that for real, even if she had children.

[Of course, seeing Silas and Kezia Marsh aging like people of the air, rather than undergoing their metamorphoses was unsettling, and the more recent pictures set in the same uncanny place that the other ones did. But the older pictures she could almost imagine that they were real.]

[Someone might need to shake Aphra out of her reverie, or at least redirect her from the hint for photos and documents.]

Neighbors
[Aphra had been dubious about the Kotos adopting hot dogs into their rice and eggs thanks to the camps. The town's unholy fascination with gelatin was getting to her.]

"Thank you so much. I don't know where we're going to put everything that everyone has given us. "

[If you are nearby, you are getting the mysterious concoction practically shoved at you and a hissed]

"Make a grocery list. I'm finding whatever money we have and heading to the store for proper food."

Halloween
[The whole month, Aphra had been on edge. Waking up in a strange town where people are almost super-humanly nice. And given she had 'gone to sleep' only a dozen years ago after having lived in California for a few years, she knows that the town's lack of racism and other bigotries is not something that just happens in a decade. She was sick of hiding, but it seemed safest since she can't get out of town, and most of the other 'new neighbors' are even more disoriented than she is.]

[So she baked some honeyed saltcakes and carved the damn pumpkin and lit the candles and did the Halloween thing... and the waterlogged monster-children were almost a relief because now she could pin something down.]

[Of course, she'd be more relieved if she wasn't apparently a normal woman of the air, and any of her magic worked.]

"Get more candles. And more squash."

[Things Aphra Marsh never expected to say in a lifetime that might measure millions of years.]

[OOC: note. As a 30-something woman, feel free to tag in as Aphra's assigned husband or kids. Aphra still passes for a normal human, so her features haven't changed on entering the town... but typical Innsmouth facial features are considered hella ugly by most other humans.]

neighbors

[errantdetective]

[Toby takes the jello with a startled look and stares at the other woman.]

What am I supposed to do with this?

Dipper Pines | Gravity Falls

[krmvgivv]

October 1

This isn't Dipper's room. For one thing, he's supposed to have a twin sister sleeping in the bed across from him. It's not unheard of for her not to be in bed when he wakes up, she has boundless energy and often wakes up before him, but there's... not even another bed. This is a room that's just his, and there's not nearly enough mold or odd smells for it to be anywhere in the Mystery Shack. Or even in Gravity Falls, honestly.

"Okay, Dipper," he mutters, sitting up. "Don't freak out. Don't freak out."

The room also clearly isn't his. There are some comics piled on the floor--those could be his--but there are also sports things that definitely aren't. It's not like Dipper's never played a sport, it's that he's never been good at a sport, unless you count competitive scrabble, which as far as he's concerned, you should. He's certainly never been interested enough to keep a baseball bat in his room.

But at the moment, it's useful. He hefts it over his shoulder and creeps out of the room. Having what amounts to a club feels like a good idea right now.

When he hears a noise from another person, he charges, holding the bat over his shoulder, and swings, yelling the whole time.

...it's a whiffle bat. He has the strength of a noodle. This is not exactly a fearsome attack, but he's trying, okay?

Trick or Treat

Dipper is still extremely dubious about this entire thing, but he's here and dressed up appropriately as a ghost harasser. He's going from house to house, knocking on doors, and getting candy, but he frowns a little as he goes between houses and opens the bag to stare into it.

"It's weird how many people make their own stuff here. Isn't that, like, dangerous?"

Sure is, Dipper. Sure is.

Zombies

Zombies. Why does it always have to be zombies. The good news is, Dipper has dealt with zombies before, so he's an experienced hand at this.

The bad news is, these aren't his zombies, but he hasn't figured that out yet.

He rushes over with a wild-eyed look.

"You! Can you sing, like, at all? Ugh, I wish Karaoke had been invented by the 1960s!"

Zombies

[koroshite]

Meanwhile here's Rachel, one of the knives from her kitchen in hand dealing with the zombies as only she knows how - by stabbing them mostly. It keeps them down for a bit at least?

Her brows perk up a little as Dipper questions her. "Everyone can sing."

Sherlock Holmes | A Game of Shadows | OTA

[apothegm]

Oct 1st

It's certainly Something, isn't it, clawing one's way out from a frozen river, only to hear the heartrending noises of a child, lost in the darkness. Wet, bedraggled, hurting more than he ever has in his whole life, stay awake is the primary objective, and the one that Holmes fails to accomplish.

Waking takes no time at all, immediate and not as alarming as it ought to be- his first thought, with a mouth full of cotton wool as he blinks back the sun, isn't where am I, but I'm alive, with all the weight of surprised relief behind it. Realization settles in after, however, heavy and unpleasant: this isn't his hotel room, and it absolutely isn't home.

The photos disturb him even more than his immediate surroundings. Any clever mind with a competently theatrical artist can render a convincing set piece. Photos, however- or at least the tintypes, the carte de visite and cabinet cards he's accustomed to -those aren't so readily faked. Smoke and mirrors and cheesecloth ectoplasm, maybe a disembodied head, but fully realized snapshots in time such as these?

But there are far too many signs that this is all very lived in, long term. There's a sturdiness to all of it, the dark hair on his pillow that's his, the full complement of clothes all in his size, the wear-patterns on the soles of shoes that are all his.

He's in the midst of chucking shoes out of the closet, searching for any fault in the fantasy, any, when he hears the lady in the other bed begin to stir.

There's a very paranoid detective sitting on the bedroom floor, clutching a pair of ratty Birkenstocks. Have fun with that.

Don't Be A Square

Accustomed as he is to not cooking- part of the rent went toward meals, and he had his favorite places to dine out at, besides -the gifts of various dishes are both unexpected and appreciated. It's all very American, but edible, even the jiggly jellies. Those are honestly the most impressive to him, requiring patience, skill, and time, creations that were only ever seen on an upper class table.

Granted, the flavor combinations at home were different, but Holmes sees no issue in digging in.

Out at the block party, by all appearances perfectly comfortable in dark grey corduroy slacks and a dark blue pullover, he's casually scraping his slice of egg and tomato aspic into globby bits with the tines of his fork. Some of the neighbors are perfectly happy with their situation, as Mr. Mayhew is, and others are just as new as he, he doesn't need badges to figure that out. Someone seems almost too out of sorts, so he sidles on up to address them, low and polite:

"You look ill-at-ease, friend. Have you tried any of the salads?"

Always Check Your Candy

"Don't eat that."

It doesn't matter where they are, perhaps just as the evening is gearing up, or as it's winding down, out on the pavement or inside the house, with family or perhaps a guest or two. In any case, he's near enough to smell something off.

Maybe they were just about to consume that homemade chocolate- Holmes has little qualms about plucking it from their hands, giving it a sniff. He even breaks it open, flakes of tempered chocolate and the stretch of caramel clinging to his fingertips- but there is a definite noxious scent that doesn't belong, under the cloying sweetness.

"Phosphine has a distinct odor of garlic," he explains, and then proceeds impatiently, as if they should know what he means, "There is rat poison in this confection. Where did you get this?"

Always Respect The Dead | cw: depictions of the dead

Magic isn't real. Necromancy isn't real. This setting, this town, his kidnapping and month of residency, all of it are as real as he is, but he will not countenance the idea that the dead can rise from the grave. His greatest case a year prior had been spent proving that the dead could not come back, that Lord Blackwood's efforts to seem supernatural and other-worldly weren't magic, just cunning and trickery of the most normal- if inventive -kind.

Yet, faced with the twilight appearance of Santa Rosita Elementary's fifth grade class, stinking and waterlogged as any corpse dragged from the Thames was, his resolve on that matter is. Tested.

Others are already out in the street, doing battle with the little demons to minimal success, so he sets his eyes on another mission, as he watches a jack-o-lantern on a neighbor's thus far untouched porch begin to sputter.

"That lantern must stay lit. You," he directs one or more companion, "There are candles in the kitchen drawer. We simply must keep ahead of them."

Wait, he's... planning to go out there? Yep.

Don't Be A Square

[minuteofangle]

Someone tried to shove a party hat on Gabe's head earlier, a moment he resents almost as deeply as the retaliation he didn't take. He scowled and tossed it off the first chance he got, but he didn't yell, didn't get loud. Starting a fight in the middle of whatever suburban hell this is supposed to be wouldn't end well for him, and Gabe isn't nearly as hotheaded as he likes everyone to think.

Nah. He'll save the violence and the noise for the moment when he knows it'll get him something worth keeping.

For the moment, he's doing his version of friendly; lingering in the corner with his back to the fence so no one can sneak up on him, his cane tucked under his arm, and refusing all attempts to ply him with food.

There's gelatin in it. What the fuck.

He's talked to a couple people, though. Turns out there are a couple who aren't down with the crazy. He can work with that, as soon as he figures out which ones might make good allies.

This voice is unfamiliar. Gabe turns his head in the man's general direction, eyes narrowed. His prosthetics are good, but anyone who looks close enough is going to notice. Can't do anything about that just yet, though. ]

You know, I've actually had MREs that tasted better than whatever that's supposed to be. Not salad.

connor (detroit: become human)

[probotagonist]

OCTOBER 1ST

[One minute, he's standing in the middle of a garden covered in ice, the crude outline of Kamski's emergency door only a few feet away from him, his breath stuttering as the wind howled around him. It was like the world itself was falling apart. And in a few moments, so would he.

What happens next is unclear, there and gone just like the emergency door. All Connor knows is that one minute, he's reaching out for it, and the next, his knees are buckling and he's falling, and he hears a voice that isn't Amanda, or Markus, or anyone he can remember, and then there's nothing but white. It swallows up everything.

When he opens his eyes again, he's still lying prone, but not on the ground.

Carefully, Connor sits up in bed. Wherever he is, this is the furthest thing from Amanda's zen garden, and the clothes he's wearing are the furthest thing from his uniform. He reaches down to tug at his pajama sleeve, blinking rapidly as he tries to clear— something out of his optics. The sensation of having sleep grit stuck to his eyelashes is so alien that he doesn't know how to process it. The same goes for the way his outer skin is jumping and prickling at breeze drifting in from the bedroom's open window, and how inexplicably dry his mouth feels, and how he's now acutely that he can feel the Thirium pump in his chest hammering. Like a heartbeat.

He slowly reaches down to his wrist and pinches it, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to feel real skin and see the area go white, then red when he pulls back.

... This is strange.

a. Eventually, Connor gets up and goes to the other bed in the room. Existential dread that he's now inexplicably human aside, he's feeling oddly calm. Maybe he's in shock. Maybe he doesn't really know how to completely process that emotion yet. Maybe he doesn't realize that standing over someone's bed and patiently (creepily) staring at them while he waits for them to wake up isn't what normal people do.

But that's exactly what he does anyway.

b. When he goes to the other bedrooms in the house, his bedside manner is better, but not by much. Instead of looming, he instead crouches beside the bed, barely a foot away from the other person's face as he thoughtfully considers them. He's just starting to figure out that the tight, unpleasant feeling in his throat is frustration (who are they?) when his new "child" starts to wake up.

This time, he takes a more tactful approach, raising his hands in a placatory gesture when they turn over in bed to look at him.]

Hello. Don't be afraid. My name's Connor, I'm— [The android sent by Cyberlife he isn't, not anymore. He hesitates for a second before awkwardly finishing,] I'm... just like you.

DON'T BE A SQUARE!

[Going from a city on the brink of civil war to a town where everyone couldn't be happier to see you is one hell of a trip, and for Connor, who's usually pretty accepting and adaptable to most situations (after all, it was how he was programmed), it's a pretty big adjustment. The bright side is that he's not the only one who looks uncomfortable here, right now.

As he reaches up to poke at the party hat that's been forced on his head, one of his new neighbors — a teenage girl with a blonde bob — giggles as she looks up and notices him and the group he's standing with. "What're you standing around for? C'mon, don't be a square!"

Connor frowns.]

What is she talking about? [he asks, looking over at the person next to him for clarification.] We're not square.

ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD

[By the end of the month, Connor thinks he's finally starting to get the hang of this whole human thing. Sure, having to sleep and eat is still uncomfortable and easy to forget until his body loudly reminds him of both, and maybe it's a little terrifying to realize that he's manually breathing, but these are things that can be understood with time and, eventually, mastered. Being aware of his new emotions is also frightening, but then, so was taking the plunge and turning Deviant. Maybe this is just the logical progression.

Being aware of his body's passive state is one thing, but it's an entirely different matter when you introduce combat into the equation. Once the ghostly, rotting children start walking the streets, the only option as Connor sees it is to protect and fight first, run and hide second. Human or android, Deviant or machine, he's still a law enforcement officer. It's his job to help those who need helped before himself. So, when he sees one of the children preparing to leap at one of his neighbors, he takes immediate action and beats them to it by running at the child and barreling into them, knocking the both of them off their feet and onto the street.

They roll around a bit, Connor trying to wrench the child's arms behind their back, the child trying to rip Connor's throat out with its gnarled, claw-like fingers. He must have fallen on his arm when he hit the ground; the pain is intense, and it's just as shocking as the strength the kid has as they thrash in his grip, very close to breaking loose. In the end, he still has a lot to learn about his body's limits.

Doesn't mean he's not going to try to push himself as hard as he can anyway. He screams at his neighbor over his shoulder,] Go!

WILDCARD

[Want to do something else? Hit me here or in a PM.]

Oct 1.B

[miaoudel]

[With all due respect, Connor, this is not the way to wake someone up in the morning. Especially not someone with combat reflexes.

When Adrien opens his eyes and sees a tall, strange man with his face less than a foot away from his own - well, Connor won't be able to talk over the sudden scream that Adrien lets out as he scrambles backwards, and one foot swings up and into Connor's face before Adrien accidentally launches backwards from the force of it, off the bed with a loud thump.]

Leonardo da Vinci | Fate/Grand Order

[monalisasmile]

[A - October 1st, waking up]

[The sensation of waking to unfamiliar surroundings is fascinatingly new. Da Vinci feels oddly different, and it's not just how she's mysteriously awoken dressed in garments she's never worn in any life! Not that she doesn't approve - the partly-sheer negligee clings just enough to her body's curves while still remaining somewhat loose-fitting and comfortable. Quite modern by her own standards, though perhaps a little retro for the modern age she's been in since taking this form.

As the other bed in the room is currently empty, she sees no reason not to speak some of her thoughts out loud as she explores.]

My, this is interesting. American? Certainly Western, mid 20th century if I had to guess.

[And she's certain she's right, at least for the aesthetic of the room. As to where and when she actually is... she has no idea! It could be an accidental Rayshift to a different era, or she could be in some kind of dream state or Reality Marble. The changed clothes and the framed photos of herself in this appearance, with people she'd never met before, seem to indicate the latter.

With a brief pause to try on the poofy-sleeved robe that seems to be meant to match her nightgown, she steps out of the room to explore the house further. She's the only one actually here, that she knows of, so running into any of those strange people in the pictures might be a bit of a surprise...]

[B - October 1st, living room]

[On the other hand, if she's only just encountered one of those people on her way downstairs to the living room, she's more than prepared to play the role she's been dealt.]

Oh! Good morning, darling~♥!

[She offers a saccharine greeting and bright smile to her "husband" or "child", all the while watching carefully for their reaction. Is this an illusion that only her genius has managed to escape being fully grasped by? Or is she part of a group that's been captured under the same circumstances?]

[C - Block Party]

[The stunningly beautiful brunette can be found at the party, all dressed up and with a badge that reads "Leona". In a situation where she gets strange looks for using her "maiden name" or using her true given name, shortening it to a nickname seemed the most appropriate.

She's not exactly socializing at first, instead examining the gelatinous concoction on her plate.]

This isn't some... unusual sort of modern sculpture, is it? It's actually meant to be eaten?

[D - Halloween]

[Now this, of all things in this town, makes more sense. Da Vinci hasn't been able to figure out how magecraft works in this place quite yet, but she understands holidays and rituals. And this seems much more serious than anything a certain pink-haired dragon girl might have ever cooked up or inadvertently caused.

Whether you're part of her fake family, or someone invited to take shelter in the house, you're safe here for now, with more than one lit jack-o-lantern outside. Even as the zombie children gather outside... and stare...]

Don't worry! They won't come any closer.

[Da Vinci's reassurance might have been better left at that. But she continues.]

If I had realized the candles were so important, I could have treated the wax to melt more slowly. But even so, each candle should remain burning for several hours.

[... How long has it been since they were lit and put out, exactly?]

B

[canyousay]

[ That does get a cheery wave, though at least the verbal response that follows shows where this teenage girl is at re: the setting. ]

Buenos días, fake mom from the pictures in my room! Did you make those? They're very realistic.

[ That compliment sounds? So genuine?? ]

Plastic Man | DC Comics | OTA

[plas]

(A) for Arrival
[ He's in hell. A very personal hell, which could almost be made specifically for him if anybody thought he was big-time enough to warrant that. But it's feeling very targeted right about now. The floral prints. The white picket fence and the birds chirping merrily outside the window. The “Our Wedding” photo between the beds. The ugly striped PJs…

Actually, he'd probably wear those without prompting. As a joke, though. Not with the saccharine sincerity that oozes from underneath the bedskirts and lurks under the plastic slip covers on the sofa. No. No way, José. He did not sign up for this.

(Later, when he finds it, when the panic just begins to ebb— the mail on the table that really cranks the uncanny creepy-crawlies up to 11. Addressed to “Mr. Patrick O’Brian”. How did they know?)

Plas appreciates commitment to the bit. He really does. But it stopped being funny after the first five seconds, when on reflex he'd tried to GASP! in horror, really just full-body like a startled cat in the cartoons, and reached for his face…and the skin didn’t stretch off his skull. Literally. Nothing stretched. His spine stubbornly refused to be anything but rigid. It all just stayed…in place. Frozen. Stubbornly stiff. Small.

(There aren't words, and he's not an eloquent man anyway. But at least if his body's a prison, he's still Plastic Man somewhere in it.)

Ma O'Brian always said “you keep making that face and it'll stay that way.” Except he hasn't stayed any way in about thirty years. And folks— it sucks. Holy shit, the list of things Plas forgot is endless. Like: your knees will betray you at the first opportunity; and, backs are God's idea of a big practical joke; and also, gravity is for suckers and squares.

So is balance. So is remembering your leg won't just lengthen to meet the pavement. Observe: an adult man who appears to be in his 30s, in a somewhat disheveled pinstriped suit, stepping off the curb. Please look away, as the fool goes forward, and keeps going forward, and pratfalls onto the pavement. Please. These scraps of dignity are all he has left. ]

Oh, for God's sake—

[ Bleeding! He also forgot about bleeding. And the way pavement will cut up your hands, when you catch yourself on it. And bruises. Forgot about those. And, once again, the white-rimmed shades go skittering away as they fall off his face. That didn't used to happen either. ]

You know— [ To no one. To himself, as he plops himself over to sit on the street, looking miserably at the dirt on his pants and his scratched up hands. To you, maybe? ] You always think karma's gonna come back around on you one day, maybe, but you never think it's gonna be like this.

[ Except this is definitely karmic. Plas (not Patrick, don’t ever call him Patrick sighs heavily. Looks around for his lost shades. At least, at least— he's still got the shades. In some form, anyway. Even if he had to track them down himself. ]

Do you mind grabbing those? [ And that's definitely to you, whoever you are. ] Just gotta…remember how this goes again…

[ Standing up like a normal human being, and not a Gumby-like hell-man. It's so hard. ]


(B) is for “Block Party of My Nightmares”
[ And see, this is karmic, this shit right here. The part where Plas always failed miserably back home: playing at having a day job and a normal life and a family. And now it's like— Pleasantville normal. Too normal. “Leave it to Beaver” normal. Strong evidence for his I'm in hell theory, either way. He'd have put himself in a Chicago overcoat before he’' voluntarily end up in the suburbs.

Okay, but this, though. This is a kick in the teeth. This moment, right here, where they hand him this wobbly mountain of brightly-colored and mismatched ingredients. Plas stares at it, forlorn. Wishing he could be just as gelatinous and jiggly as this strange Meatloaf Souffle Jello Surprise. ]

Oh, you…shouldn't have…now you're just making fun of me…

[ It makes sense in the context of his life, okay? ]


(C) is for Creeping Zombie Children Everywhere
[ Plas is like 99.9% sure: he's seen this movie. Like, definitely. It was an 80s smash hit, or something? (It wasn't.) But in a way— in a way that suggests that maybe there is something so very wrong with him— it's a relief. Kicking it with Lucy and Ricky and Donna Reed? Surreal. Zombie hordes? God, thank you, something finally familiar.

Or not zombies. Plas doesn't need to know exactly what they are. Those are the sort of details you leave to Bats or Mister Terrific or somebody who's not him. What he does know— what still feels distressingly familiar, even decades removed from being Eel O’Brian— is breaking people, with things. With a chair (sorry, honey, whoever you are, they'll get another chair—) when they break in the door and storm the kitchen. Better, with a bat snatched from the kid's room (sorry, son who's not his actual son, but thank God he's not here.) Shattering water-logged femurs to try and make a break out the back door.

It makes him feel like shit. Plas feels keenly that this is not the sort of thing former members of the Justice League should be doing. Even though they're clearly, MANIFESTLY dead. That's some comfort, at least. Not enough to outweigh swinging a bat at dead children's legs, but. Some, you know? And he would like to keep not being dead, until he can figure out why he's flesh-and-blood and then get the hell outta dodge and all that, which means options are limited.

But he forgot how hard it is, beating people down when you're just an ordinary guy. Even when it's people who stay down. Unlike these tykes. Soon he's covered in scratches, clothes ripped beyond repair. Gotta keep swinging. Gotta get out. ]

Sorry, I'm sorry— [ ‘Cause, well. What else is there to say? In those moments where he can catch his breath, before he's got to start swinging again. ] I'm really sorry, I'll— find the cursed amulet and put you back, or the serial killer, or…or whatever! Just— stay down, for five minutes, could ya—!

[ They cannot. Alas. But help would be appreciated! ]


(OOC: I only have hellish shapeshifting icons please just roll with it.)

>:3 guess whomst (also b)

[demonicmiracle]

[At some point during the weirdest party of his existence (and that's saying something, parties in Hell get weird), Crowley has acquired an entire bottle of wine that he's a good two thirds of the way through, because it's making this whole thing slightly more bearable. He's only half paying attention to proceedings, but there's no missing the dude staring at a plate full of some jello monstrosity as if it's just kicked his puppy.]

I'll give you five quid if you eat it.

[Does he just want to see someone suffer more than he feels like he's suffering?

Perhaps.]

harley quinn | dcu | ota

[mahem]

october 1st

[ harley jerks awake in bed and sits up with a visibly confused expression on her face, her blonde hair arranged in rollers all over her head. a quick look next to her reveals the bed beside her own is empty, covers thrown back to indicate that someone's been sleeping there at least, but as she slowly slips out from between the bed linens, the sheer fall of her pink peignoir across her body is more than enough proof that she's not in arkham.

in fact, a part of her's convinced she might still be dreaming as she makes her way through the strange and unfamiliar house, hugging her arms around herself — but the first sign she gets of any photographs, whether on the walls or on a hallway table, she'll rush to pluck the frame up in her hands, squinting in confusion at the sight of herself in a freaking wedding dress standing next to someone else, a stranger whose face she doesn't recognize. and another one, with kids in it!

her ears finally pick up on the sound of voices from downstairs, and she nearly takes the stairs two at a time in her haste to barrel into the room they're coming from — but she skids to a stop in her fuzzy slippers when she spots someone standing in front of the TV, the source of that noise, the song playing over and over, and in an act of frustration (or maybe desperation) she strides across the space, feet sinking into the carpet, to fumble with the various buttons on the side until she can shut the old-timey television off before rounding on the other person with hands docking at her hips. ]

What is this? Is this some kinda sick joke?!

don't be a square

[ okay, so this isn't a dream — or, if it is, it's one helluva collective hallucination.

but that doesn't mean she isn't already ready to get the fuck out of here. it just means that she might need to figure out who she can best align herself with in order to achieve her goals! so, step one: getting to know her neighbors, or whatever. and that means styling her hair in careful curls, slapping on a fresh coat of bright red lipstick with a dress to match, and caking on enough makeup to hide her tattoos that the dress doesn't cover, because she keeps getting strange looks otherwise and she might get more answers if she doesn't look completely like... well, herself.

there are times harley doesn't mind being the center of attention, and there's right the hell now as someone tries to thrust a plate into her hands, muttering under her breath. ]

Another fuckin' Jell-ohhhh, hi!

[ that's her pretending to recognize you from across the party, slapping a too-bright smile on her face and hurrying over with a corresponding tap of heels against the pavement as she links her arm through yours, leaning in as if to utter something in confidence. ] Pretend we already know each other and you wanted to show me somethin' at your place.

always respect the dead

[ okay, maybe she's not supposed to be hurting kids, but in her defense, they started it.

she's pissed now, striding down the street with an old louisville slugger in her hands, hair limply sagging out of its curls and missing one shoe. apparently, it doesn't matter how many times she's decided to smash and bash; those things aren't living, they're not even human, and now she has to track down a replacement pumpkin because they've smashed the one that was on her front porch. ]

Ugh!

[ movement in her periphery has her automatically attempting to swing outward, so hopefully the person she's aiming at has quick enough reflexes to either jump out of the way or dodge her. on the other hand, she's lacking in some of her normal strength these days and her balance is disrupted by missing one pump, so she ends up arcing out wildly and then almost losing her footing before recovering, blowing stray hairs out of her face. ]

What the hell are you still doin' out here?

wildcard

[ hmu via pm or on plurk at favoritings to discuss another prompt option! harley is post-birds of prey. ]

don't be a square.

[shooter]

[ The only dress in the cupboard had been chopped off at the knees the moment she'd held it up. Helena has a dark brown shirt and a pair of bell bottoms, the most decent pair of boots but they bite at her heels. Arms folded, she's taken only the candy the children offer her, but quickly passed it back on amongst them or pocketed it for 'later'. ]

[ Who could call Harley Quinn's voice a relief? But that's what it is: Helena watches the little debacle with the Jell-O (you know what would solve that problem? Stabbing.) but slipping away for more recon isn't an option as the whirlwind recognises her first. ]

[ Helena inhales, annoyed, but allows her near. ]

There's nothing at my place. [ That wouldn't be the same as Harley's — yeah, so what, she already looked through all the windows in the neighbourhood before arriving. ] Leave the Jell-O. We're going around for recon.

dean winchester ※ supernatural

[cained]

I. STRANGERS WHEN WE MEET

( walking up in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar woman beside him isn't exactly new — what is new is the respectable distance between their separate beds and the fact that he's fully clothed, in perhaps the most hideous pajamas he's ever seen. he's on edge before he even makes it to the edge of the bed, glancing around the room with a keenly suspicious eye — from the photos on the nightstand, the colors of the walls, the fucking carpet, he feels like he's woken up on the set of fucking leave it to beaver. either this is a dream (of the celestial or djinn variety he can't be sure of yet) or he was drugged or — hell, maybe it's another great american values psychic on the loose.

he's careful not to disturb the woman in the bed next to him as he rifles through the drawers in their shared room, looking for anything useful, anything that might give him a clue as to where the fuck he is. he doesn't find much aside from clothes he would never wear, cigarettes he's never smoked in his life, a box of medals from a war he never fought in. for a fake vet, there sure aren't any fucking guns to be found, which is frustrating but probably in the best interest of whoever stuck him here. if they know his reputation, they'll know what he can do with a weapon in his hands.

eventually, he creeps out of their room, passing a mirror on the wall and doing double take at the thick rimmed glasses on his face. under his breath, he mutters oh, come on but makes his way down the stairs after tucking the glasses into the collar of his pajamas.

it's the photos on the walls that unnerve him the most: photos of him, and from the brief glance he'd given the woman upstairs her, too. like they're married, like this house, this family is theirs. he stops dead when he spots a photo of him as a kid, one he recognizes despite the sepia — he tears it off the wall, digging the photo out of its frame to turn it over: dean's first fishing trip, '31 written in his father's unmistakable handwriting. he drops the frame on the stairs, rushing to find the phone book he's sure this house must have.

which is, naturally, when the doorbell rings. he grabs the fireiron from the living room as he heads toward the door, only opening it a fraction of an inch to see who's outside. a friendly neighbor, of course! with meatloaf! and then every time he almost has a second to get back to what he was doing (checking the kitchen for the basics: salt, check, but not much; silver, check; knives to use in a pinch, check — even trying to call the operator in an attempt to contact any of his family members, to no avail), another neighbor comes by — and by the time the sixth friendly neighbor comes by, dean fully swings the door open, waving the poker uncomfortably close to the perky woman's face. )

No. No offense to dear Aunt Myrna, but you need to get the hell off my property cuz I'm about five seconds away from going postal on this entire neighborhood. And take that with you, for fuck's sake.

( whatever it is, it looks disgusting, and he's had just about enough of the hospitality around here. the door slams shut right in the poor woman's dejected, slightly scandalized face. he doesn't particularly care what his fake family thinks about that little outburst; all he does is lift his shoulders in an indignant what? kind of way, dropping the poker by the front door. he heads into the kitchen, eyeing the sink for something important, absently making conversation with any of his fake family members: )

This thing have a disposal? I ain't normally one to discriminate, but I know where those damn Jell-O molds are going.

II. BABY DRIVER

( he shouldn't be surprised that the car in the garage of his fake house is not his baby, but there's still a lump of anguish that settles in his chest when he sees the blue '61 impala instead of his '67. still, it'll have to do. he's got work to do. until he knows what he's dealing with here, he needs to restock his arsenal with as much monster-killing paraphernalia as he can, make nice with the local law enforcement just on the off chance anything weird happens. he gets a job as a mechanic at the only garage in town, keeps his eyes and ears open for the latest gossip, plays house as much as he can stand it, asks around about any strange occurrences, checks the library and town hall for records of any violent deaths or anything else suspicious. a town like this has to have secrets, and he's dead set on finding them. (a job that'd be easier with his brother here, but sam still hasn't shown his sorry ass yet.)

one afternoon he heads to honeybees' sporting goods section, pulling out a wad of cash and walking out with a pistol and hunting rifle and enough ammo to concern a normal person. the clerk simply asked if he was going hunting. (technically, not wrong.) on his way out, he also picks up a can of paint, dropping all of this into the trunk of the fauxpala, shooting an innocent and charming smile over his shoulder at anyone who might be passing by as he locks the trunk. )

Nice day, huh?

( don't mind the guy casually dumping guns into his trunk. he's at least smart enough not to paint a devil's trap on the inside of the trunk in broad daylight, but the amount of salt he packs into the trunk after coming out of the grocer's later might look a little strange to anyone onlooking. )

III. CANDYMAN

( it's a fine evening for eating as much candy as possible, because what else is halloween about if not for eating all the candy? sam would disagree with him, but sam can shove it. (he'll eat sam's candy, too.) which is precisely what he's doing while sitting in his car with the top down outside the doc holliday bar, enjoying the cool and crisp october wind, listening to the greatest rockabilly hits on the radio, candy wrappers already littering the passenger seat of the fauxpala. he's just finishing his last piece of candy, about to head into the bar, when an unpleasant aftertaste rises up in the back of his throat. he barely makes it out of his car before he's hurling on the pavement. eventually, when he thinks he can breathe again without puking his guts out, he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and says to no one in particular in the wake of a self-deprecating laugh: )

Well, that's embarrassing. Ain't even had a drink yet.

( never mind the fact that he's pretty sure someone in his happy little neighborhood tried to poison him. he'll deal with that later. now he needs to ingest different type of poison. voluntarily. whiskey, after all, is the best medicine. )

IV. ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER

( after the report of missing kids and a bus crash, dean had gotten that familiar prickle of a case, but without being able to waltz in like the fbi, he hadn't been able to suss out much on his own. frustrating, but that hasn't stopped him from doing as much digging about this place as he can in his free time. the attic has quickly become his base of operations, one wall already sporting newspaper clippings, profiles on locals of importance, copies of town records — then pictures of the missing kids, the dead principal.

the town seems to forget a week later, but dean doesn't. even if no one wants to answer his questions quite so readily anymore, he keeps asking.

and then at ten o'clock on halloween, the sound of the television drags him down from the attic, racing down the stairs with his pistol at the ready, that damn commercial blaring through the house and then — static cutting through the jingle. )

Finally. ( to any of his family still in the house, he starts shouting orders: ) Salt! Now. Make a line at every window and door, you hear me? Don't look at me like that, just do it.

( pumpkin — don't blow the — out.

the doorbell rings. dean can barely make out the children on the porch in the dark (fuck, when did the jack-o-lantern light go out?), but he recognizes one or two of them — shit. the missing kids. part of him feels guilty he couldn't help them before this happened to them. but he's not about to let them hurt anyone; that he can help.

slowly, he opens the door to the feral and decaying children outside with his hands up in a placating gesture. he's had some pretty dumb ideas, but this might be one of his dumbest. )

Heya, kiddos. Fresh out of Atomic Fireballs. But I gotta say, I'm digging the costumes. Is that you under there, Little Debbie?

( trick or treat, they gurgle, and dean gets the feeling they didn't come here for candy or compliments. then little debbie is jumping at him, knocking him backwards, his gun flying out of his hand. the other kids follow her, advancing on him, clawing at him, and as much as he hates to, he punches and kicks and bashes his way out of a dogpile of kids, throwing them off him, sending them careening into furniture he's glad he didn't pay for. they're fast, but he manages to dive for his gun, shooting rounds into their wet and decaying heads. )

Didn't your parents teach you any manners? This ain't any way to treat your elders! ( still, they keep coming, and coming, and coming. he runs for the poker by the fireplace. ) That's it, we're going on a field trip! ( he swings through the gurgling kids on his way back out the door, drawing them away from the house and out into the street, where hopefully he can enlist some backup. )

V. WILDCARD

( feel free to encounter dean in the inbetween of any of these prompts or hit me with something totally different! i'm definitely down for family shenanigans. as always, you can pm me here or dm me on discord (miyou#1092) if you'd like to discuss other ideas. )

i + v, i do what i want

[retraverse]

[ Beverly Marsh wakes up slowly and gently, which is her first clue that something is deeply amiss. She doesn’t know what roused her but it certainly wasn’t a nightmare; and given that she hasn’t had a pleasant night’s sleep in years — 27 to be exact — it’s a foreign sensation, feeling as well rested as she does. Still, the echoes of her last lucid memory (a child’s anguished voice) hovers like a bad dream; and as grim as it is, it’s also the only shred of familiarity in this unfamiliar space. She sits up in a bed that isn’t her own, wearing a delicate nightgown in powder blue nylon straight off the set of Mad Men, and rubs the sleep from her eyes as she takes stock of her surroundings. The bed next to hers is empty which is a fucking blessing given the unease buzzing under her skin — it’s been slept in, that much is obvious. Wherever she is, she isn’t alone. Somehow that’s far from comforting.

Assuming this is even real. Which is a theory that is somehow, bizarrely, more comforting because the clown is the only thing that makes sense.

It wouldn’t be the first time Pennywise had crafted some elaborate, vivid hallucination to ensnare his favourite prey, although this one is almost too pleasant and mundane to fit into his usual nightmare fare. Or he could be toying with her, lulling her into a false sense of security just like with Mrs Kersh. Something could come jumping out of those closets or grab her ankles from under the bed. Refusing to let the fear take hold of her for too long, Beverly takes a steady breath and gets up, shrugging on the sheer matching peignoir draped over a nearby chair, and investigates: A glance outside the window tells her this is a modest suburb not unlike Derry (so she hasn’t been kidnapped by Tom and dragged back to New York, great) and the copy of Ladies’ Home Journal on her nightstand tells her it’s October 1961 (... okay, not great). ]

What the fuck, [ she whispers at the stately family portrait of Princess Grace fucking Kelly staring up at her from the cover. The date. Beverly looks around the room with sharper awareness, more alarm, zeroing in on the framed wedding photo of herself and a man decidedly not her ex-husband on the vanity, the black and white snapshots of children she’s never had, the yellowed and well-worn love letters tucked with care into a jewellery box. My dear Bev… They span years, the topmost one dated 1944 and signed, Your loving husband. ] What, [ again, ] the fuck.

[ The panic rises like bile in her throat now and she has to brace herself on the dresser, squeezing her eyes shut and taking several deep breaths to calm her rattling nerves. It doesn’t help. Where’s the trick? What’s the joke? When does the picture-perfect facade crumble into decay and ruin, when do the photographs warp and burn in their frames, when does the goddamn clown walk into the room and say —

Morning, Mrs Winchester.

Beverly whirls around to face the door, a heavy glass bottle of perfume clutched in her fist like a grenade, heart hammering so loudly in her ears she almost can’t hear herself think, let alone speak. ]

Don’t. [ Her voice is shakier than she’d like, but there’s steel shot through it, too. She doesn’t know this guy but she knows he’s wearing the same face as the one in the photos. But Pennywise can wear all kind of faces. ] What the hell is this? What did you do, you bastard?

Luigi | Super Mario | OTA

[green_mario]

October 1st
[Luigi doesn’t notice anything off when he wakes up at first, just that this bed was way too cozy to wake up right now. However when he blurrily opens his eyes he comes to the stark realization that this isn’t his house at all, nor any house he’s seen in the Mushroom Kingdom.
Was this King Boo’s doing? No, no that’s impossible. If this was a trap surely he would have been shoved inside a painting by now.

Unless he wanted to see Luigi’s look of horror as he got sucked in.

He decided to shove that thought away as he finally notices the pictures, which seem to be a more pressing issue.]

Huh? That’s-a me.

[A master of deduction. This was certainly worrying but to him this was no more worrying than waking up in a strange new house.
He wanders the halls before he lets out a small yelp at hearing the TV playing. Anxiously, he creeps towards it, as if expecting to get some answers from this weird commercial.

Luigi is still currently unaware that there is actually anyone else in the house]

Gelatin Molds
[The Mushroom Kingdom might not be known for the most normal food in the universe, but even Luigi had to admit that whatever the heck this is couldn’t possibly be something any sane person would willingly eat, right?

He tentatively looks over to the person next to him.]

I-It would be rude not to at least take a bite, wouldn’t it?

[The conflict between really wanting to throw this out and the guilt of doing that is kind of intense right now.]

Always check your candy [cw mouth trauma, needles]
[Sure, he knew he was way too old for trick or treating, and frankly wasn’t the biggest fan of Halloween, but he of all people wasn’t gonna pass up on free candy, especially if no one was going to judge him for it!

… Sure he was just wearing overalls and a shirt, but he can just say he’s dressed up like a plumber!

He doesn’t go to many houses, at least. While the natives here wouldn’t care if he went trick or treating all night, the others certainly would, and within a half hour, he finishes up the trick or treating. While he could head home, it was a nice night, and he wanted to soak in the festivities!

He idly rummages through his treat bag as he sits down on a nearby bench, and pulls out an apple. He frowns slightly, but oh well, having some fruit first will make the candy taste that much sweeter.

Luigi takes a bite, and not a second later, he screams bloody horror and drops the apple, covering his mouth in shock.]

Wha-?

[He’s about to continue talking until he realizes that whatever he bit into is still in his mouth.

And then he sees the blood on the apple and on his gloves. And he was starting to feel a metallic taste in his mouth.

Shakily, he reaches into his mouth and he pulls out several sewing needles, small enough that he could have easily swallowed them on accident had they not stabbed him first.

The idea that he did accidentally swallow some comes to his mind and he feels his fear mounting.]

Wh-why would someone do something like this..?

[He’s shaking like a leaf as he looks at the bloodied needles, trying desperately to figure out what on earth is going on here.]

Wildcard
[If there's anything else you want to do just hit me up! Any of the prompts would be fun for me!]

cursed food

[worklikeadog]

[The person sitting next to him is having an internal crisis staring at this abomination on the table. She also doesn't want to be rude, but... just LOOK at it!]

They must've worked really hard on it! And DID say it was their aunt's old family recipe! It means a lot that they're sharing it with us!

[Isabelle gingerly takes a small bite... and her entire face turns green as she forces herself to swallow.]

wei wuxian | the untamed

[weiward]

october 1st:

[the child's voice is still whispering in his ear, different from the other voices that wei wuxian sometimes hears calling to him and trying to drive him mad. this one sounds younger, in trouble, and wei wuxian wants to help.

and then it's gone, an obnoxious blaring sound taking its place. he sits straight up in bed, hands covering both his ears until he finds it - a small bright yellow box - and kicks it to the floor.

wei wuxian sighs and slowly lowers his hands from his head. this is only the beginning of his confusion.

nothing here is even a little bit familiar to him. but everything is only given a quick glance as he starts sneaking down the stairs. the plan was to make it outside, but then he's drawn to the tv's strange little tune and becomes transfixed staring at the images of dancing ghosts and skeletons moving across the screen.

he's still scratching his head over it when he steps outside, sitting down on the front step next to a few delivered glass bottles. wei wuxian eyes them for a moment before pulling one out and twisting the lid. he certainly needs a drink of something, but sadly milk isn't it.]

party cheese salad:

Uh. Thanks?

[he laughs awkwardly after the casserole is pushed into his hands. and after waiting a moment or two for the widely smiling neighbor lady to leave...he basically just kicks the door closed.

wei wuxian has no idea what he holds, only that it's a lot of yellow and green and supposedly food. never has he missed his shijie's cooking more. even cloud recesses served more appetizing looking things.

if anyone else is in the house, they'll be the first that he tries to get to taste it on a dare. if not, he'll just go to his back door and throw it wide open to call and wave to the nearest person.]

Hey, hey! I've got something for you!

always respect the dead:

[seeing the dead on his doorstep is terribly familiar. wei wuxian used to call them to him, corpses and spirits who died with too much pain and resentment. those who would never find peace. it was rare for them to be children.

they're lined up across the yard, just waiting for the flickering candle in the carved pumpkin to go out. he's already figured out what happens when it does. that's why he picked up a baseball bat from one of the other bedrooms and holds it at the ready.]

I guess they're here for my birthday.

[he still smiles a bit despite everything. this is just another fitting punishment for him, his to handle.]

When they come, go inside and block the door. Don't let them in no matter what you hear.

wildcard:

[for anything else! lead and i'll follow.]

wildcard: block party

[fanoperator]

[Huaisang has had a few days to adjust to this strange dream world that he lives in. He's been assigned to the 'wife' role, which is honestly a relief to him and the easiest part of this adjustment. The other wives all seem to want to gossip and chat food and fashion, which he loves, while all the local husbands are unbearably boring to him with their talk of sports and poker. So he's dressed today in an adorable off-shoulder sweater and fitted slacks.

Spotting his best friend from across this strange forced party, Huaisang waves enthusiastically and runs to him.] Wei-xiong! Wei-xiong, you're here!

[Pouncing him in a hug, Huaisang immediately clings and starts to fuss.] I've been so scared, Wei-xiong, save me, is this a dream? What's going on?