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

Natsumi Hinata | Sgt. Frog | OTA

[devilsummer]

October 1st

When I catch those stupid frogs they are dead!

[So says the teenage girl storming out of her new bedroom in fury. It was bad enough to be dropped in this crazy place but the pictures and the clothes are just icing on the most annoying cake ever. And who gave permission to mess with her hair?! Her formally dark pink hair has lightened into a strawberry blonde. What kind of stupid scheme could possibly involve dying her hair? She's going through the house, opening doors one after another.]

You guys better come out right now or- Oh...

[Hello there fellow housemate.]


Don't be a Square

[Okay, look... there's not a whole lot to do in this creepy town so the block party is better than nothing. Besides maybe someone here knows something about this place. After a few hours with no smarmy space frogs in sight Natsumi has had to consider the possibility that maybe, just maaaybe, this time it isn't Keroro's fault. Except this party seems full of smiling weirdos who won't talk about anything except how 'swell' it is to have new neighbors. A smiling woman has just helpfully shoved a plate into Natsumi's hands. She offers a weak smile in return.]

More gross jello.... great... thanks.

[As soon as that woman turns around, that plate goes right in a trash can.]

Ugh... what a waste of time.


Wrist Radio! (Voice)

[It looks like a dumb toy, something Fuyuki would've played with when they were kids, but Natsumi is curious. She flips open the radio and pokes it a few times, until it crackles to life.]

Um... testing? Hello? Can anybody hear me?

Wrist radio also I am flipping out over a natsumi player

[miaoudel]

Reading you loud and clear.

[What? They say it in the movies Nino shows him.]

That means you must be new here too, right? I don't see any locals wearing these.

Quentin Coldwater | The Magicians | OTA - CW-mouth injury, gore

[moderatelymaladjusted]

OCTOBER 1st

There's nothing like waking up not even remembering when or how you went to sleep but. Sometimes that's just how the world works and Quentin blinks up at the white ceiling, trying to roll with it. Sure, he has no idea what happened, but that's not really a new thing and so far, waking up to a white ceiling hasn't been menacing or an omen of doom. But maybe there's a first time for everything.

Once the blinking is done, he gets up and holy shit. Everything kind of matches everything else, from his pajamas (what?) to the fuzzy slippers to the bedspread currently on the floor. Even the wallpaper is in on it and Quentin just-- stares, like an idiot, until the pictures on the wall (and on the dresser, on the window sill and there's even one framed and placed lovingly on the table in the bathroom) catches his attention and then it's a whole new kind of horror.

It's him, but a not-him. He can't remember any of this, not the snow fight or the kiss. Not the wedding and there's no way he'd want to spend that much time on a beach. But they are still there, flash-frozen memories of a life Quentin doesn't remember living.

The house yields nothing, even if he snoops in the drawers and pokes through the refrigerator.

Everything is violently normal, except for how nothing about Quentin or what he's used to could ever be called that. It's like something out of a tv show, the one his dad used to love watching late at night when he thought Quentin was asleep.

Only, Quentin is standing in the middle of it.

Which... tracks?

He sits back down on the bed, head in his hands and his eyes screwed shut, the few mental wards he's been able to learn pulled all the way down and he's thinking - Penny! P E N N Y! as loud as he can, even running through a few of TSwifts more ear-catching songs just to be extra annoying about it.

"Come on, Penny. This is not nothing and I know you can hear me."

Halloween - always check your candy.

He didn't want to go out for Trick or Treating. Hadn't done it in years, not since High School and that whole horrible thing that happened.

This is now. This is his house and his front porch that he's sitting on.

Or, it's a place in time that seems to be now unless Quentin is losing his mind (again), and he's picking up an apple, biting in to it as he flips through the magazine in his lap. Not a fantasy book, because fuck this place, but it's something to read. Something familiar, flipping pages and reading like a normal person.

The pain doesn't come before the blood. There's a bright, fresh taste of an ripe apple and then there's blood dripping down on the papers, smearing under his fingertips and there's something hard in his mouth and under his tongue, slicing even as Quentin tries to open his mouth back up - to get the apple away. The too-familiar taste of his own blood comes way later, it comes with the pain, stinging and tearing at his lips and tongue and teeth.

There's a wet gurgle as he pulls the razor-blade out and a fresh spray of blood down his chin and the magazine is ruined.

"What the fuc-?"

oct 1- drama up in here

[dramaquinn]

When it sets in that this is disturbingly realistic, Alice feels sick to her stomach— and then there's a picture in the bathroom, and that actually does make her sick. Fuck. No. She hasn't been in a place to even consider if she wants a family, and now this entire house is telling her she has one. She got married and had kids and oh god, her stomach churns again. The story the house tells is one where she, as she is right now, did things (or had things done to her) that she doesn't remember.

Deep breaths. Her stomach calms down enough that she can walk. Maybe some tea will help settle her stomach more, and then she can think.

It feels safest to be in the bedroom she woke up in, where at most one other person will ever be. Downstairs is communal space, and she's not in the mood to meet any of her supposed children. Cradling the mug in her hands, she walks back upstairs and into the master bedroom and almost drops her mug of tea because—

"Quentin."

She watched him die. She watched his minor mending spell rip him into pieces, beautiful dots of light, as the mirror realm distorted his intent. She watched the lights get sucked into the Seam as Penny carried her to safety and she screamed herself hoarse.

She made a golem of him, and his twelve-year-old self emerged, and he told her beautiful things and ate tacos and disappeared. She took his essence to Fillory, climbed the Mountain of Ghosts, and sent the little bottle containing a sliver of his soul all the way down to the underworld. She got closure. She kept living. She's still chasing the world seed, the quest he never got to begin. She's paid a heavy price to keep the page safe, and then failed anyway. The fingers of her right hand shift against the mug, like she needs to check they're still there.

And she just stands there, staring. All she's lost, all he gave his life for, all these things she told Kady that maybe they should walk away from. They weigh her down, rooting her to the spot. What do you say to the man you loved, watched die, grieved, and started to move on from? To the person without whom you'd never have met the woman you think you're into, who you certainly trust with your whole, fucked up self, and who you endured torture for?

She doesn't know. So all she does is stare as the heat from the mug keeps her fingers from freezing from the shock.

Nie Huaisang | The Untamed

[fanoperator]

October 1st
It’s the fabric that he first notices is wrong. Some kind of slick, sticky fabric coats his limbs, like the most awful approximation of his own silks, and the bedsheets are coarse. Scrambling up, Nie Huaisang struggles with the strange underclothes—shirt and trousers, with bizarre round hooks snagged through tears in the fabric--for a moment before he sees the stranger in the bed across from him. He pulls up the covers to his chest, as if to cover the indecency of his white polyester pajamas. “What is this? Who are you?”

Don’t be a Square
A party, at the very least, is something that Huaisang can understand. The strange, goopy casseroles and the gelatins are a horrifying mystery, but a party, that he can deal with. He knows how to party.

Adjusting the unfashionable party hat with a little grimace, Huaisang ventures forth bravely into the celebratory melee. He pokes disapprovingly at the dips and gelatins, looking around in search of the characteristics of parties he knows: one in particular. “Excuse me.” A polite and nervous Chinese man steps up beside you, looking apologetic. “Where is the alcohol?”

Respect the Dead
Hospitable by nature, Huaisang goes to the door as soon as it’s rung, and it’s only a lingering sense of paranoia that makes him check the window before opening it. He shrieks at the sight of the horrors outside the window. Though he might not know anything about trick or treaters, he knows what the walking dead look like, and he’s ill-prepared to face it.

Perhaps it’s the first shriek that draws you, before the undead children have started smashing windows and crawling inside. Huaisang shrieks at the sight of them and continues shrieking as they invade his house. If you don’t come at the first shriek, then perhaps by the eighteenth you’ll find Huaisang standing on the dining table, trying to fend off an undead child with a dining chair while he wails. “Why am I this unlucky? Get back! Get back!”

Thomasin | The VVitch | OTA (major movie spoilers and i haven't reviewed yet...)

[thatverywitch]

October 1st

She was lifting from the ground. She was laughing. All her grief coalescing into a strange sense of relief.

Then a child's voice, pain, and she was waking in a bed unlike she had ever known. There are things she doesn't recognize. There are images on the wall like paintings but impossibly real, so much so she expects her fingers to slip through when she touches them. There's noise down the hall and a frightening image (which also can't be slipped through) dances and chants. The witches in the moving picture look nothing like what she knows.

She runs, but then stops at the door, stunned by the sight of stained glass in geometric patterns, sunlight casting its colors on her and the floor. There's a painful moment of nostalgia and then she pushes past that door too.

The alienness of the street bears down worse than that first night by the woods or on the New England shores.

Who to call? Who to ask for help? Her family? God? No.

"Black Phillip. I bade thee show thyself. I... I know not where I am."

GTKTN A - Bread With Butter

The neighbours bring food. She is no longer the daughter in a banished family, but the daughter in a welcomed one. They don't know her father as too pious to stay amongst the people. They don't know her for her place in a coven. They smile unnervingly wide, welcome her, and bring food.

The gelatin molds sit upon the table. Her new "family" looks on them with disgust. She scans each and every face to be sure.

Then, she grabs the dish and hauls it close cuts off pieces almost frantically to devour, as though this is decadence.

GTKTN B - A Pretty Dress

It is a curious thing, to know one is damned already. To know this and find a closet full of colorful clothing and shoes, to hear music and see celebration. To be invited to it. She half expects the chanting of the coven, women rising up into the air.

She does not expect a pointed paper hat to be plunked down upon her head. She blinks and searches for an explanation.

"What say you? Guest of honor?"

Respect The Dead

"Back! Back! Get thee back!" She screams but the rotted children do not heed.

She swings the knife she grabbed from the kitchen, sticking in the children who slow but do not stop, tears spilling as she thinks again and again of her mother with a sickly twisting in her gut to go with the fear. She has no power here as should have been granted to her. She has nothing.

There's no choice. She has to run.

Around the table, scrambling past and out the door, the wretched creatures race behind her. She runs across the street to the first house with a still-lit candle in a carved grinning pumpkin. She beats her bloodied fists on the door, still holding the knife.

"Let me in! Let me in! I beg of thee grant me entry!"

bread with butter (hellooo thomasin this is so cool)

[lachenille]

At least her supposed daughter is a quiet one, nothing like those other children who can never sit still and leave her alone. In her narcissism, Villanelle can even see herself in the girl's features, the wide eyes and the delicate features, meaning she's as beautiful too. She smiles, pleased at the sight of the girl devouring the pile of gelatin and miscellany, leaning closer. Grateful, too.

"Just wait. I'm going to cook you a really, really good shepherd's pie."

Respect the Dead

[fanoperator]

Huaisang is glad that he found this particular local tradition charming. A carved face with a candle inside to make it glow. The face he's chosen isn't the traditional grin, but it seems to serve well enough for its purpose.

Watching from the window, Huaisang's heart pounds with terror. Will his 'husband' make it home safely? And their 'child' as well. Huaisang has very few parental urges, but now he feels the start of one, worrying over the youth he's assigned to protect.

The child who pounds on the door isn't his own assigned child, but at least she isn't one of the undead creatures, who stay back away from the porch with his lit lantern. He's a coward but not a selfish one--though there's risk to himself, he swiftly opens the door to let in the bloodied girl.

Dressed in dark gray capris and a white blouse, he quickly shuts and locks the door again, pressing against it with a terrified wince. There are no poundings upon the outer door. The children will not step upon the porch, it seems, as long as the candle stays lit.

October Daye | October Daye

[errantdetective]

October('s) 1st Morning

Something is deeply, deeply wrong.

That much is obvious, of course, because Toby is in not in bed with her extremely handsome fiance or any of her cats or her extremely handsome fiance turned into a cat. She's just in a twin bed. And while she's used to having a lot of people wandering through her house, it's never strangers. Never mortals.

But that's the other thing. She's only assuming this person's mortal because from what she can see, they look human. Rounded ears, human coloring, no obvious wings or horns or anything. But she can't taste the balance of their blood on the air. She can't smell magic--any magic, including her own. All of her senses are dulled, actually.

She has a suspicion of what might be going on. She hopes she's wrong.

She stands up quietly and heads out into the hall. There's a mirror on the wall. She goes up to take a good look at herself and....

Her ears are round. And they don't itch the way they usually do when she's using magic to disguise herself. She touches them with a frown.

There's no getting around it. She's human. The only question is how and why.

October Day(e)s

It's hard to settle into a routine when you're suddenly not the same species you're used to being. Toby spends a lot of time that first week touching her ears awkwardly and covered in bandages from forgetting she isn't basically invincible here. She's always claimed that she's careful despite evidence to the contrary. It's a little hard to make that argument when you've sliced open your hand for the second time in three days and the first cut hasn't healed yet.

There is one upside, though, and as soon as she realizes, she heads straight to the Blue Moon Diner and orders the biggest cup of coffee they have.

Her first sip is almost euphoric. She shuts her eyes and leans back against the booth as the caffeine swirls through her. "Oak and ash, that's good."

Is this the end of October?

It doesn't take Toby long to realize that the Jack-o-Lanterns are what keeps out the dead. And she could, oh she could, stay inside, shut the curtains, and keep herself and her little forced family unit safe. She's human now, she'd even have an excuse. No one expects a normal human with no powers and only moderate fighting skills to go out and fight the undead. No one would blame her.

Except herself.

She considers taking a Jack-o-Lantern with her, but the flickering flame and the light smell of wax makes her feel slightly ill. That's fine, it'll only slow her down. She can get people to safety better than she can bring safety to them. So instead she grabs a knife from the kitchen and stalks out.

As soon as she sees someone surrounded and accosted by undead children, she readies her knife. "Hey!" she shouts as she starts towards them. "No one ever actually chooses trick!"

Look, she's been having a weird month, cut her banter some slack.

October days

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Waking up in a strange land isn't new. There was Fillory and the flip-side of that, castles and Kings and magical animals. There were quests and lost timelines and, fuck, there were even time when he just got black-out drunk and walked away from the party.

But there had never been this - normal people, bringing him jello'ed things, smiling all wide and friendly. There had never been small-talk over the fence in the backyard and there had never, ever been no smartphones and no information.

Quentin gets his first cup of coffee of the day and just kind of melts in to the nearest seat, missing Starbucks and fancy syrups to a ridiculous degree because he doesn't even like Starbucks all that much. And that's when he decides to open his eyes and realize that the table wasn't as empty as he thought.

"Jesus, I am so sorry! I didn't even- it's good, yeah, I just didn't really see you there."

Ickis | Aaahh!!! Real Monsters | OTA

[loomingterror]

-October 1st-

[It had been a while since he'd woken up and had his initial freak out. Enough time to at least calm down some and move on from panicking to investigating his new "home". Which mostly involved searching the drawers and cupboards to pocket anything that looked useful, avoiding the mirrors, messing with the few electronics, and leaving on the TV and blender for background noise while he examined the pictures in the hallways.

That Halloween jingle started playing on the TV in the other room again, just adding to the surreal moment of looking at photos of the human he'd apparently become and the family that came with him. He couldn't deal with mirrors right now, but this was a little easier to process.

They were mostly various family photos, with the occasional kid's photos of him and "his sibling" as they'd aged. He'd even found one of his human self on a baseball team. Apparently, even this version of himself was still good with a bat, nice to know. But outside of that the two of them seemed as different as night and day. The photos scattered around the walls and drawers depicted a well-groomed, clean-cut kid, who played out in the woods, helped out in his community, joined various clubs, had lots a friends, and was seemingly doing excellent in school according to the report card taped to the fridge. His black hair was a little longer than the norm but it was well kept and otherwise, he was the very picture of a perfect kid. Or at least a perfect human kid.

Whoever this human had been before he'd replaced him they were almost nothing alike.

The most disturbing thing he'd found by far though was still the homework that had been laid out on the desk in his room, half-finished and filled out in his own handwriting. He wasn't exactly sure why that was the thing that really got to him, maybe because it was the closest thing to solid proof that he and this human were really somehow the same. But it was disturbing enough for him to take it with him, clutching the crumpled paper as he wandered around the house, unsure of what exactly to do with it.

Maybe he would stick it in the blender...]

-Don't Be a Square- CW: mild emetophobia

[A week in and he'd already managed to make one very unfortunate decision, which considering his track record for bad decisions was actually doing pretty good for him.

He'd taken "his dad's" clippers and cut a sizable chunk of his hair off, bleached it, and attempted to color it with Kool-Aid packs found in the pantry. It was rough even by the standers of the 90's punks he'd admired back home, but it had felt like a good idea at the time. Some means of making this body a little bit more his own while separating himself from the boy in the photos.

But there was certainly an uptick in tight forced smiles, disapproving looks, women touching his hair and tutting, and men forcing a chuckle before good-naturedly but very pointedly asking "Did you get in a fight with the lawnmower, son?". It's enough that within that first few minutes of getting pulled into the Block Party he was ready to sneak his way back out again, until someone pushes a plate into his hands with that wiggly food with stuff in it, and his eyes light up.

Like a feral animal, he quickly makings off with it, ducking through the crowd, probably bumping into at least a few people along the way, before sliding into an empty seat at one of the tables. Giving it a few exploratory pokes, just to watch the catfood-esk meat chunks, olives, and egg jiggle for a bit, then digs into it with a chip. Shoveling it in his mouth he immediately looks disgusted, opening his mouth again and letting it plop back onto the plate.]

It's sweet. [Sounding utterly betrayed, he dramatically pushing it away enough to put his head down on the table. Just giving up.] Why is everything here terrible?

-All Tricks, No Treats-

[If you're out alone on Halloween night you might suddenly hear a growl coming from behind some of those pristinely cut hedges or up in a tree overhanging the pathway, or maybe what you thought was a slumped over Halloween prop at the edge of someone's drive suddenly stands after you pass and begins following you.

Halloween night has Ickis out stalking the streets in a cloak and ratty rabbit mask, and he's not into the treat part of the holiday. As far as he was concerned, Halloween existed for one reason; scares.]

-Always Respect the Dead-

[It was when he started hearing screams not caused by him that he started to worry.

The streets had suddenly seemed a lot more empty at this hour, as if the local kids had known something the rest of them hadn't and took shelter in their homes early, but he was refusing to give up on the night. Even if he was running low on people to scare he was still enjoying the dark, the bite of the chilly fall night air, and the lingering thrill of getting to revel in a few good scares. And he dreaded giving that up to slink back to the house, shuck off his costume and go back to pretending he was human.

But then the screaming started. At first, it was far enough down the block that he couldn't see where it was coming from exactly, only that after a few minutes a small group of fellow stranglers came picking their way through the dark from down that direction.

And there was something wrong with them. They didn't go up to any of the houses, instead, standing on the sidewalks or lawns, just staring for a few minutes before moving on to the next home.

As they drew closer he ducked behind a tree, cautiously watching as they finally found a house they did want to go up to. Taking off his mask to see better, he fumbles it when he hears gurgling voices behind him, dropping it with a yelp. Looking over his shoulder as they slosh out another burbling "Trick or Treat", he stumbles back just as they lurch forward, teeth bared, a blackened mix of water and mud dripping from their mouths.

Scrambling away with a shriek, he dashes across the street as the sound of glass shattering and more screams ring out through the neighborhood behind him. Bounding up on to closest doorstep available to him starts frantically banging on the door.

Hope you've got your jack-o-lanterns lite, because they're stalking across the street after him.]

All Tricks

[spaghettimonster]

[After the month-long bombardment of the repeating commercial, Papyrus has high expectations for Halloween, and only some concrete ideas what it actually entails. Decor, of course, he knows - he's been competing with the neighbors in carving jack-o-lanterns for days now. Costumes as well, to look cool or scary - and most of all to be hard to identify, as the children journey from house to house and pose ultimatums to the residents: trick, or treat? A great fun time for all.

Probably he should be escorting "his" children as they go around for their own pranking and/or candy-gathering... but did that for a while, and they're old enough to take care of themselves - not even in stripes anymore - so he's veered off to head back home. After all, somebody should be back at the house, offering candy to bribe other children away from trashing the yard, right?

He notices the presence partway through the walk, some hint of movement just far enough in the shadows he can't manage to track it. Growing up with his brother, he's used to spooky figures who show up and lurk behind you without warning. But he's distracted by the prickle of goosebumps and cold sweat on his skin, new sensations that add to his general unsettled state, and - even knowing better - he picks up the pace to get back home.]

Georgia Mason | Newsflesh

[choosetruth]

October 1

Georgia knows something is wrong when she reaches for the side table to check her gun and it isn't there. She's instantly on edge. Things are different, and that's never good.

She sits up. The oversized t-shirt she was wearing has been replaced by a silky nightgown she would absolutely never wear on purpose, and there's a second bed on the other side of the room with a person in it.

She slips out of the bed silently, careful not to wake the person up. There's a robe she can shrug on, at least, but she doesn't really feel less naked. As long as she's unarmed and not wearing her sunglasses, that's going to stay the situation.

The hallway just raises more questions. The pictures in it have her as a wife and mother. It's so pre-Rising precious it makes her want to vomit. How are there so many pictures of her in a dress?

She hears the creak of footsteps behind her and stiffens. "Whatever you think I am to you, I'm telling you right now, I'm not."

Don't Be a Square

It's surprisingly easy to get Georgia out once she's situated herself. When she makes an appearance at the block party, she's hacked her hair down to its usual short length and pilfered her "husband's" clothes rather than wearing one of the dresses provided for her. She's also wearing dark sunglasses, but in the autumn sunshine, that doesn't even seem too out of place.

Some of the locals make casually snide remarks about it. If it bothers Georgia, she doesn't show it. Instead, she approaches locals and newcomers alike with pen and paper. "Where are you from? How long have you lived here? Have you ever been anywhere else? What do you think of this apparent sudden-influx of new residents? Why is everyone so obsessed with jello?"

None of the answers she gets are especially satisfactory, but she writes them down anyway. The story is in the connections between their words, not any specific answers. She's sure she can find it. She just wishes she had all her usual equipment.

Respect the Dead

It's almost a relief to see the undead again. Almost. It might be a taste of home, but it still sucks. Even more so because these ones aren't fucking dying the way they're supposed to. She's obtained a gun from a sports store, one not as familiar as her favorite .40 back home, but she's practiced with it until she can be fairly confident in her aim. That's not the problem.

Headshots are only slowing them down a little.

She doesn't know what else to do. But when she's down to one bullet, she turns and runs. Always save the last one for yourself, that's what her dad taught her. Better to die quick and clean and by your own hand then live through being torn apart or turn and start to try and eat your friends. Still, she'd rather live.

She just has to figure out how.

Don't Be a Square

[minuteofangle]

This is so far from Gabe's scene it's almost comical. He likes parties, sure. He likes parties with loud music and dark corners where everybody's a stranger until they get to flirting. He does not like block parties where everyone wants to act like this is fucking normal and someone, not so long ago, tried real hard to put a party hat on him.

Also the food is shitty. Which is saying something, considering the stuff he had to choke down in prison.

He plants himself in a corner, his back to a fence (white picket, he assumes) so no one can sneak up on him, and does the bare minimum to avoid getting tagged as the grump who must be forcibly dragged into the festivities. Gotta get the lay of the land, figure out who everyone is. Otherwise he'll be doing this thing alone and that's not going to end well for him. He's smart enough to know that, though he doesn't like it much.

He tips his head back. Someone's asking a lot of questions, huh?

"You're not one of the locals, are you?"

He keeps his tone even, calm. Gabe's been banking a lot on the fact people around here put a lot of stock in being polite and thus far nobody's asked about the cane he's got collapsed and tucked under his arm, or the fact he doesn't make direct eye contact with everyone. But eventually someone's gonna notice and use that against him. He better have friends by then.

Loki | MCU | OTA CW: Needles (last prompt)

[cuttingremark]

A. CHEESE SALAD
[The most recent addition to their feast is gently placed on the dining room table. Loki pokes at one of the gelatinous masses claiming to be food, his brow furrowed. He's heard of food like this on planets outside of the Nine, but he'd never encountered it himself.

Dubious doesn't even begin to cover it, but his stomach lets out a growl. He sighs.]

B. BLOCK PARTY
[What ever this place is makes Loki's skin crawl. The smiles, the saccharine laughs, the hollow hospitality. It all wreaks of something sinister lurking just below the surface. It must be something sinister, because what other purpose would there be to bringing him here?

Anyone looking at him at the block party would be hard-pressed to see the storm brewing in his mind. He seems like a friendly, outgoing new neighbor making conversation with new arrivals and old residents alike. Lies are his specialty, after all, and he often finds it best to blend in a little to gather information.

If you do not approach him, he will approach you with a small plate of the strange gelatin dishes.]

Care to sample?

A. ALWAYS CHECK YOUR CANDY *CW: NEEDLES*
[A night of mischief and free candy? Sure, he's down for that. Loki volunteers to keep watch over the household children as they go out 'trick-or-treating.' It's a good way to get a better layout of the neighborhood anyways.

A few of the adults at the houses they visited gave him wrapped candy as well as the children, always accompanied by a knowing nod. He wants to scream Do not suppose to know me, mortal!, but he bites his tongue.

At least there are free sweets. As they make their way home, Loki unwraps and examines what appears to be a chocolate confection of some sort. Seeing nothing amiss, he pops it in his mouth and bites down, only to feet a sharp pain as something long and thin pierces his cheek. He lets out a cry, the chocolate falling from his mouth onto the ground along with several drop of blood. Eyes wide, he reaches up and feels the needle now poking through his cheek.]

Block party

[lookprofessor]

[Luke looks up (up, up) at the stranger, who is currently offering him a piece of those weird gel-food-things. It probably wouldn't be so bad, if it didn't have hot dogs and cheese and vegetables and all sorts of weird things in it.

But Luke knows better than to be rude. The professor taught him better than that! So while he doesn't take the plate, he smiles weakly at Loki with a shake of his head.]

Oh, um, no thank you, sir. I'm not really hungry.

Susan Ashworth | The Cat Lady

[ninehundredlives]

i. october 1st

[Susan wakes up, blinks at the ceiling, and quickly and silently rolls out of the bed. It's been quite some time since she woke up in an unfamiliar place, but there's some things you simply don't forget. She ducks down between the bed and the wall for a second, peering at the other - but it's empty. Somebody else might be around, but they're not in here right now. She's in pajamas she's never seen before - probably best not to think too hard about that yet. A quick look around doesn't turn up anything she could defend herself with. She ought to figure that out first.

At first blush, the place doesn't seem quite so serial-killer-chic as what she's been accustomed to. Then Susan happens across the first photograph - herself, at a wedding she has most certainly never had - and she immediately revises that assessment. It's just a different flavor of creepy.

First things first, then. She slips into the kitchen and easily finds a knife to hide in her cardigan. Almost too easy, really. 

Her next stop would have been to try the front door - which would have been first for most people, but Susan's learned the value of arming oneself first - and it's on her way there that she inevitably runs into someone. She stops short. Susan is a smaller woman, not at all intimidating, but her gaze is sharp.]

Who are you?

[She isn't reaching for her knife yet; she's not going to stab without cause. But she's fairly sure she hasn't been immortal for months - she'll have to go for it the second things start looking bad.]

ii. neighbors b

[Ah, so this is Hell.

It's not, really. Susan feels she can say that much. But it may as well be. Not only America, but exactly this brand of it - this is everything Susan loathes. She would vastly prefer not to be at this party.

But some habits - video game protagonist habits - don't just die. As long as all of this is happening, Susan figures she may as well sneak around and see if there's anything of use. The tables seem pointless, but...well, she's using the whole thing as a distraction, apparently, while she starts up towards a house that is decidedly not her own. She's assumed, from the Robbie manning a table in front of it, that it belongs to a local, but maybe it's actually yours? Either way, she looks up when she realizes she's been spotted.]

Oh, hello. I was just admiring these...shrubs. Everyone here's got such lovely lawns.

[She does not manage to sound exactly enthusiastic about the lawns.]

iii. wildcard

(( hmu @ lluosogrwydd ))

neighbors

[preaker]

[ Hell would be Camille's word for it, as well. Or maybe a very close runner-up; her hometown of Wind Gap, Missouri kind of takes that title for her.

Regardless, she's had about as much of the block party as she can take, and has since escaped back to the house she's been living in until she can get out of this nightmare. Some of the town drones have set up shop out on the front lawn, but she's a quiet enough ghost tucked into a corner of the porch that they don't even notice her presence. Dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and dark grey pants, and nursing a bottle of bourbon, she's hardly the picture of an ideal housewife.

When she notices the woman poking around close by, Camille lifts her head towards her, and she can't help giving a humourless little laugh of her own at the unenthused tone. ]

Like something out of a magazine. [ Sarcasm leaks through her fairly prominent Southern accent. ]

Or an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Michael | The Good Place

[eudaimonikos]

i. good morning, good morning

[Of course Michael notices, upon waking up, that he's in an unfamiliar location. Also, he's waking up, which is unusual when one does not typically sleep.

But right away, his surroundings come second to the absolutely strange physical sensations he's experiencing. He feels weird! His body is...heavy? Dense? Parts of him ache, even though he's quite sure he hasn't hurt himself lately, and his eyesight before he locates his glasses on the nightstand seems worse than usual.

Stumbling a little, he goes to the bathroom and peers at himself in the mirror, pulling at the skin beneath his eyes. All looks human-y as ever. But something's wrong...he opens the medicine cabinet, finds a razor, and matter-of-factly nicks himself on the finger. 

Blood wells up. Red, normal human blood. Michael lets out a short, high-pitched shriek, fumbles and drops the razor, and clasps his other hand over the cut.]

ii. meet the neighbors  

[Well, at least someone is enjoying the block party.

Yeah, Michael recognizes that this whole thing is creepy as hell. It's something he might have put together back in the day, if he wasn't feeling terribly subtle. Maybe he actually did once, during a particularly low series of reboots? Doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

But! He's human! That's weird and interesting! And, really, it's usually best to just keep on keeping on. So here he is, quite happily chowing down on one of the horrible gelatin creations as he walks around. It's a very large portion, probably meant for him to bring back for his household, but he's just digging into it with a fork.]

Have you had one of these? [He laughs, and takes another bite.] It's terrible! Why did people ever think to put all this stuff together?

Good morning I'm losing it

[miaoudel]

...Father?

[The words come unbidden from a teenager standing in the doorway of the bathroom behind Michael. He'd heard the shriek and come running, with a baseball bat in hand, but froze at the sight of white hair and glasses towering over him, and the baseball bat slips from his loose grip onto the tiles.]

beverly marsh | it

[retraverse]

i. SUBURBAN RELAPSE

[ If there’s anything Beverly Marsh knows how to do, it’s how to make a good impression — even if, and especially if, keeping up appearances is the last thing she feels capable of doing but the only defense she has. And in this time capsule town, making an effort to mingle and make nice seems vital. Having a faux family full of people who feel as trapped and confused as she does makes all this easier; it’s rare that she feels safe enough in any home to let her mask slip and it’s a relief to be allowed that here. If it wasn’t so weird, she might almost see all this as a fresh start. Almost.

She misses her friends. The Losers. They were caught up in their own kind of nightmare before she woke up in this dreamworld, but at least they were together. She can’t help but wonder if they’re out there somewhere and she just missed their names in the phonebook; they wouldn’t know to look for her, after all, not with her new married name. And if the clown is behind this (who else could it be?), then she needs to reunite with them fast. So when the block party kicks off, Beverly puts on the best dress she can find in her closet and heads out into the crisp autumn air, determined to find familiar faces in the crowd.

Her overeager neighbours make her mission harder than she thought. She’s coaxed into pinning her name to her dress, offered finger foods ranging from edible to alarming (shrimp cocktail, a pineapple cheese ball with crackers, things wrapped in ham, bacon, studded with too many olives, lurid-looking aspics, Hallo-weenies), roped into mindless small talk like what does her husband do, the names of her children, what a lovely dress, “Yes, thank you, I made it myself,” (she thinks,) until a kind soul extricates her from the interrogation. Or maybe it’s the other way around! Tag team. Either way, once they’re both clear — ]

Thanks, [ she says breathlessly, immediately offloading her plate of half-eaten hors d’oeuvres on a nearby table. ] I thought I was used to doing this kind of thing, [ networking, she means; vital back in New York, ] but I guess I’m a little rusty. Or maybe it’s easier with cocktails. [ She laughs, a soft, almost self-conscious sound, but her voice is warm when she extends a hand to shake. ] Hi, I’m Beverly.

[ She doesn’t know if you’re like her or like them, so it’s pleasantries for now. And more deviled eggs, probably. Aren’t you lucky? ]

ii. NICOTINE STAIN

[ The days pass uneventfully, at once too slow and too fast as they’re expected to lay low and play along with this charade. And she does. Gets to know her new “family,” shares her load of the chores, explores the town, chats with the neighbours. She even tries to get a part-time job at a dressmaker’s boutique even though a “housewife at her age” shouldn’t need the work. (Doesn’t your husband provide for you, Mrs So-and-So?) She feels restless, uneasy, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop in this illusion. Whatever it is, it’s pervasive, no detail too small to be overlooked, no discernable flaw in the picture-perfect frame. But there’s gotta be something, some kind of tell because there always is, isn’t there? If she didn’t have experience with this kind of magic before — albeit a singular experience, which is more than enough — she’d think she was losing her mind. Can’t totally rule that out, either, since the last thing she remembers before waking up here was fighting an ancient shapeshifting cosmic evil, but nothing happens that’s as horrifying as that. (Yet.) So maybe this is different from the clown. Different from Derry. Even if her neighbours’ blank, blissful ignorance reminds her of the ones she grew up with.

Yeah. No. This is different from Derry. It’s gotta be. And for a couple weeks with no sign of anything weird or clown-like, she really lets herself believe that — until the morning she wakes up to the news about a body found in the river and a busload of missing kids. And suddenly she isn’t in 1961; she’s back in 1989, a year after Georgie Denbrough’s disappearance with months marked by more and more disappearances. A body found in the Barrens, body parts in the Kenduskeag. Bill insisting that that’s where his brother had to be. Betty Ripsom. Eddie Corcroan. Veronica Grogan. Jimmy Cullum. All of them.

The mingled deja vu and dread makes her go cold, her fingers numb as she lifts the paper to reread it more closely. Suddenly she craves a cigarette, nerves alight. It’s too similar to be a coincidence, yet just different enough to actually be one. Her memory’s been fucked with before. There’s evidence in her new, fake home that supports that it’s happened again. So what else could this be? She has to talk about it. Has to figure out if there’s something more to it here, just like there was in Derry.

Maybe she brings it up right there over breakfast in the kitchen, with whichever family member is present. Maybe it’s with one of her newfound acquaintances, another person who doesn’t belong to Santa Rosita just like her, while they’re on a walk or at the grocery store. Whoever it is, she’s always careful about how she mentions it, given that the locals don’t seem keen to discuss the tragedy after a few days. ]

Hey, [ she says, voice soft and casual, in a natural break in the conversation. Or perhaps it’s in greeting. ] Did you read that story in the paper? I can’t stop thinking about it.

iii. PLAYGROUND TWIST

[ Beverly had been tidying up in the kitchen when the television switches on with an explosion of sound, cutting through the late night stillness. It draws her into the living room in a heartbeat, as it surely must with the other occupants of the house; but before anyone can reach for the knob to change the channel or turn it off, the voice cuts through the noise. Eerie. Familiar, almost. And unsettling as hell. ]

What… [ She cuts herself off, wondering if she imagined it. Beverly glances back to the kitchen sink like a reflex before looking to you. ] Did you — ?

[ The doorbell cuts her off. Too late in the evening for trick-or-treaters, she thinks, especially in a cookie-cutter town like this. Beverly frowns and crosses the room to peer through the curtains and — that deja vu from last week’s morbid headline? Well, it’s back and live in living technicolour with the arrival of drowned zombie children on her front porch. ]

Jesus Christ. [ Faint, horrified, as she backs away from the window. They look… exactly like she’d expected them to look, just like the kids they’d found in the cistern, just like her nightmares from before. They sound like them too, with the same gurgling whispers that used to haunt her through drains and pipes.

Beverly’s probably gone as white as a sheet by now, eyes scanning the room for a weapon, something. The iron fire poker will have to do, the closest thing to the fence post she wielded in another house, in another town. (This kills monsters if you believe it does.) If those fuckers tell her to come float with them, she’s stabbing them in the face. ]

Don’t open the door. [ What did the TV say about the pumpkin? Shit, she can’t remember if the candle was lit. Why is that important? It feels fucking important. ] Maybe if we ignore them, they’ll go away.

[ Maybe the candle is lit and they do leave (but you have to wonder: What the fuck just happened?). Maybe one of their neighbours comes banging on the back door for help. Or maybe the candle went dark and it’s only a matter of time until those kids force their way in. Either way, Beverly’s bracing for the worst and being afraid won’t stop her from facing it head on. ]

iv. JIGSAW FEELING

[ wildcard! play around and in-between the above prompts or tag me with something new! fake family shenanigans on the first morning or another time are always welcome. also bev’s permissions / info post is HERE (future fake husbands may wanna take a peek). feel free to pm this journal with any questions, etc! ]

( nicotine stain. )

[sunborne]

... Yeah.

[ daylight looks up from the list he's double-checking for the trip to the grocery store. though originally buoyant at the start, more than happy to keep the conversation going even if he was doing most of the chatting, something was beginning to distract him.

he never said aloud what it was but it seems like she might have hit the target, unintended or not. ]

It's weird how everyone is... [ he makes a gesture in the air, his expression one of frustration while he tries to find his words. ] It's weird how everyone is trying to breeze by this, you know?

Where I'm from, there would be a vigil. [ nothing fancy but it is a sign of how the lost are remembered and missed. ] At the very least an article in the newsfeed to ask for a moment of silence if the logistics of hosting a vigil can't push through. We never brushed it off.

aziraphale 😇 good omens 😇 ota

[bibliophilicbells]

HALLOWEEN

ᐅ network

[On Halloween night, well into the bloodied chaos of the evening, a voice comes crackling over the radio:] Hello, yes — ! Anyone out there, if you can hear me and are in need of refuge, please come to — !

[An address is given. Aziraphale's house, his living room turned temporary field hospital.]

Anyone with first aid experience would be most welcome. Anyone with weapons is encouraged to come by as well to help keep the, er —

[A scream from outside, some muffled commotion, then quiet again.]

— to help keep the injured safe. Please.

ᐅ action

[It's a bit of a mess, to say the least.

"It" being any one of a number of things: the situation as a whole, Aziraphale's living room, his mental state, the front lawn... there's blood, there's tattered cloth strewn about, there's a hastily-arranged pile of what appear to be proper first aid supplies and makeshift ones including a sewing kit and a set of knives from the kitchen. There are people outside, people inside; there's a clearly departed demon-child across the street, a forgotten bag of sweets on the hood of a nearby car, a few smashed lanterns and a few intact and guarded.

Aziraphale takes a breath and tries to steady himself.

He's seen worse. He's lived through and helped with worse. This is... new, certainly, but not as bad as —

Well. He has a list, let's leave it at that.

As soon as the next person comes in, he's flitting over to them with nervous-but-gentle gloved hands and a clean cloth.]

Here, come, sit down — careful, now...

network

[eudaimonikos]

Uh, is something going on...? I haven't been out trick or treating, since I'm old and all.

[He absolutely would have done it, if he had a child shape, but overall he's quite happy he doesn't.]

Piers | Pokemon

[obstagoodboy]

October 1

[Well, this is sure happening. Not as crazy as those weirdos with the giant hair or the world ending dragon or all that, but still, pretty off! Must be a dream- if there's anyone in the room with him they might just see him grunt... and roll back over and go right back to sleep.

Welp.

If there ISN'T anyone in his room with him, his 'wife' or 'kid(s)' might find him eyeing some of the pictures in the halls.]

Haven't seen my hair that short in years. Think they're tryin' to tell me somethin'?

[His hair is very very not 60's approved length, after all]

Getting to know the Neighbors

[If you're a member of his 'household' you might have spotted Piers sullenly eating the jello molds or the weird dips straight out of the containers they came in at some point- but that's not important! What IS is the party he's been dragged to.

And also his really big dog???. How did Pier get a regain this early? Don't ask! The pokemon dog is tugging at his leash that Piers was made to put him on, but Piers really isn't stopping him from eating all the snacks or chewing on the lawn games. The neighbors are too polite to kick him out but they sure do look... unhappy about it]

Right bumpin' party, eh?

[His tone says it's anything but]

Halloween!

[Okay look, he knows ghosts when he sees ghosts- this kind of possession usually means pokemon are involved but this is less hijinks and more mass murder attempts and he's not playing with that. He already has the cute Pumpkaboo lantern lit and it waving it over his head to scare any zombies off his yard, and Obstagoon is snapping at any that get too close- dark is strong against ghost, after all]

Hey, get in here-! We're keepin' em back!

[His house might be full of random people that are hiding out, but he miiight need a little help]

Halloween

[frozenbird]

[Oh thank goodness. Sanctuary.

Ibis limps at what feels like an agonizingly slow pace towards the safety of the jack-o-lantern, the things shaped like children closing on her all too quickly. At the worst possible moment, just before crossing the threshold, her bad leg gives out and she drips, falling badly onto the cold asphalt.

If it weren't for that huge dog, this might have been the end for her. As it is, its snapping makes her pursuers hesitate, just long enough for her to scramble into the lantern's range.

Ibis's breath comes in shallow, exhausted pants as she lets go of the adrenaline rush that was keeping her moving. There's blood on her knees where she fell, but she can barely even feel it right now.]

Isabel Magnolia | Attack on Titan

[freedomgrasped]

OCTOBER 1ST.

[ Isabel’s not stupid. She died – she knows that for sure. She can still remember the absolute terror she’d felt, and the way that her limbs had frozen uselessly in mid-air as the Titan stared at her with hungry eyes. It was nothing like she’d ever felt before.

And then there was the pain.

It can’t have been more than a few minutes ago. Isabel’s eyes are still red with tears – and if she allows herself to sit still for even a moment, that ice-cold terror comes back, creeping up on her, making her feel sick.

So she doesn’t allow that to happen.

Is this the afterlife? It’s the only thing that she can assume. But if that’s the case, why is she stuck here with these- weird-as-hell clothes? And there are portraits – which look far too detailed to be paintings, by the way – of her with some man she doesn’t even know. Everything makes no sense, and it’s pissing her off.

She’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a mixture of fear and confusion and anger slowly bubbling up inside her until it’s ready to explode. So when she hears the door open and sees someone walk through, it’s no surprise that she yells out at the top of her lungs- ]

Oi! What the hell is all this!?

AUNT MYRNA’S PARTY CHEESE SALAD.

[ See, here’s the problem. Isabel’s starving. Which is weird, because in her brief time in the Survey Corps, she’d been fed better than she had been in years. She doesn’t remember feeling hungry at all when she died – though she’s trying very hard not to think about that moment – so why the feeling is hitting her now of all times is a mystery to her.

The food that’s been presented to her looks… disgusting. Of course, Isabel’s not one to turn down a free meal, but to be honest, she doesn’t quite trust those neighbors, with their plastered on smiles and cheery attitudes – so she doesn’t quite trust the food, either. She simply sits there, glaring at the gelatin molds as if they’re going to reach out and bite her.

Eventually, though… she decides it’s worth the risk. And once she starts eating, she’s shovelling them down, despite the fact that they taste… pretty awful, objectively. Noticing a stare from beside her, she turns and speaks with a mouth half-full of food. ]

…What?

DON’T BE A SQUARE!

[ If this is an afterlife, it’s the weirdest afterlife Isabel’s ever been a part of. Not that she’s ever… died… before, but that’s not the point!

Standing there with a party hat on her head, and a plate of gelatin in her hands, Isabel simply… stares. …The crisps are tasty, at the very least. And being outside… being able to see the sun… it’s something that she can appreciate. At least she’s no longer trapped down there anymore…

She misses them. Farlan.. Big bro.. she misses them so much that it hurts.

As she’s approached, she turns around. ]

Here to greet your new neighbor?

ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD.

[ Now this is more like it.

Not that Isabel enjoys being attacked by a bunch of freaky children in masks, but… at the very least, the fighting is something she’s used to. Something she can comprehend. But as Isabel’s busy beating the shit out of some kids… she finds that they just keep getting back up. And by now, she’s taken quite a few nasty blows herself. ]

Damnit! Don’t you ever give up!? [ She yells, pummeling one right in the gut as it leaps up at her to grab at her face.

Just as she says that, though, she notices someone who looks like they’re in trouble. And without hesitation, she charges over, swiftly kicking the child to the ground that was harassing them. ]

Need a hand?

WILDCARD

[ feel free to hit me up with whatever you’d like! If you want to plot, you can PM me here or contact me on plurk at Rivenix! ]

Lily Frankenstein | Penny Dreadful | OTA

[revoltution]

DON'T BE A SQUARE!

The world may have changed dramatically in the 70 odd years Lily had somehow missed, yet somethings remained the same. Such as the oddly match-making obsessed drive behind All Hallows Eve gatherings. The whispers and nudges of the teenagers flitting about the party impossible to miss even as she was relegated over with the 'married women,' and she couldn't help but shake her head at it. Men, men, and more men. Would it ever be different?

But there was some fun to be have. Spiritualism was still doing fine as well, it seemed, and she'd been able to acquire a Talking Board- or, apparently in America, known only as it's maker's name Ouija- at her local toy shop. She'd brought it to the party as distraction and was grateful for it now, as it gave a new focus of attention over the 'guest of honor' and her wonderful 'costume' of the autopsy scars standing very visible along her shoulders and chest, dipping down into the neckline of her dress.

Lily placed the talking board on the table and held out her hand to the crowd.

"Who will join me?"

ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD.

"Sweet, innocent things."

Lily stood at the window, one hand pressed to the glass as she watched the children shamble by. Corpses, it was clear, made part alive yet far less sane that she had been after Victor's forced resurrection of her corpse. Little monsters of Bedlam, closer to her brother in some ways, but still a world apart in mind. She had her wall of pumpkins and candles placed out front, sensible enough to take a warning when it was offered in her current, tragically human, state. She would keep them vigilantly lit all night, not sleeping a wink.

The front door was unlocked, though. Letting anyone or thing in to her house, if anyone spotting her watching the street needs an escape.

Respect the dead

[small_potatoes]

This part of town doesn't have nearly enough pumpkins lit for the space, so maybe it's not surprising that someone comes running out of the darkness to rest in the circle of light the lantern provides. He doesn't come inside, but he does lean against the door, panting. A few breaths and he raises what is clearly a handgun, checking his ammunition.

"...damn it. Almost out. Pathetic."

He laughs a little brokenly, bracing himself for the incoming horde- if he's noticed that someone is watching he's made no sign. It seems he hasn't even considered hiding in the safety of a house.

Sir Bedivere | Fate/Grand Order

[hiraezh]

i. home sweet home

[open to characters in the wife role!]

[It is...extremely alarming to go to bed preparing for battle in the morning, only to wake up in an entirely different place, in entirely different clothes. At first, he thinks this must be Merlin's doing, some intervention staged in their quest to take down the Holy City for unknown reasons, but then--he notices his arm. The silver arm Merlin had given him so he could fight at the level of a Servant is missing, and he is nothing short of alarmed.

He doesn't, however, get very much time to panic, because all of a sudden he finds a woman entering the room, also dressed in sleepwear, and Bedivere flusters a moment before averting his eyes to the ground and kneeling respectfully.]

Ah...apologies for intruding in your home, milady. I am afraid I do not know how I came to be here, or indeed, where I am.

ii. aunt myrna's party cheese salad

[Bedivere has seen and experienced a lot of horrors over the past 1,500 years. A lot of them. However, this...this is something new. Nothing over the course of the life he's so doggedly lived up to this point, seeking to set right his sin of the past, has quite prepared him for this moment. Which is to say, the neighbors dump their gelatinous monstrosities off on him at his doorstep, and he is far too polite to reject their offerings, even though the mere sight of them is enough to turn his stomach. Chivalry is not, in fact, dead, and Bedivere has many regrets about that fact right now.]

...Th-thank you. Please send your aunt my regards.

[Would it be awful of him to just dump it in the garbage the moment their back is turned? He's really tempted, but he also feels guilty. Someone went out of their way to cook this disaster for him, after all. Perhaps you run into Bedivere while he's contemplating this dilemma--feel free to give him a hand, here. Or just laugh at him. That works too.]

iii. always respect the dead

[The children remind him, a bit, of the corrupted beings populating the wastelands outside the Holy City--the influence of the Singularity and the deprivation and suffering they endured twisting them into ghouls capable of only violence and destruction.

The Master from Chaldea had refused to kill them. Out of deference to that, he restrains himself as well. Being deprived of a sword in this place means he has to improvise, but a fireplace poker and a kitchen knife have kept the children at bay thus far, so he makes his way out of the house, searching for anyone that may be in trouble. For the it Should he run into someone on their own, especially one who seems to be out of their depth with all this, he will approach them quickly.]

It is dangerous to be alone tonight. I may only be a simple knight, but please allow me to accompany you.

iii

[thotsandprayers]

Thank you.

[She's actually...relieved, huh. Not too often she feels that one these days. But still, Kiara's relieved to have run into someone else out here. She'd managed to flee her house, but not entirely unscathed, her right sleeve's torn and her arm looks like it's been clawed at. Still, things could be a lot worse.]

It was horrible, they came in through the windows and I chose to run rather than....

[She just frowns, thinking about it. Whether he's from Chaldea or not is irrelevant to her, honestly she'd act the same with pretty much anyone at this point.]

Well, proper self defense in this situation is rather difficult when they look like children.

[She doesn't think much more needs to be said there.]

shinjiro aragaki | persona 3 | cw death mention

[petsthedog]

i. october 1st.

[Shinjiro Aragaki died on October 4th, 2009.

He opens his eyes, and the date on the calendar is October 1st. He closes his eyes again. Surely he is hallucinating this, like he hallucinated the little girl's cry for help. He is bleeding out in an alley in Iwatodai, and it is for the best. The fact that he feels no burning pain in his gut or back can only mean that the end is drawing nearer.

He opens his eyes again. It's still October 1st, but that's impossible. (Is it, though? The Dark Hour was a lost stretch of reality, after all--)

...A closer look reveals it's October 1st, 1961. Shinjiro stares at the date for a very long time, trying to decide if he has lost his mind, or if there's truly an afterlife and he has found himself in a very confusing hell--and then he spots the pictures.

Any pretensions toward handling this situation gracefully, or even cautiously, go right out the window. His expression twists into something particularly sour.]

Okay, what the shit? Whoever did this, it ain't funny.

ii. don't be a square

[Shinjiro admits he has made various mistakes over the course of his relatively short life. He does not think he deserves many things, including this apparent second chance in a creepy ass suburbanite wet dream, but even he balks at being forced to witness the onslaught of food crimes being committed by this town. There is so much gelatin and none of it is anywhere remotely near where it belongs. These people have him longing for the days of Akihiko dumping protein powder in everything because those meals were still some form of salvageable. This, however? This is a mess.

One of the neighbors puts a party hat on his head and attempts to hand him their latest gelatinous abomination, and that is simply the final straw.]

Hand me any more of that shit and I swear I'll fucking throw it at you.

iii. always respect the dead

[Shinjiro had noticed, of course. It was hard to go an entire month without realizing a familiar pressure at the back of his mind was gone. He's avoided thinking about the relief he's felt since that realization, or what it means that Castor is no longer with him. But on this particular night, Santa Rosita sees fit to remind him just what he's missing, as children scramble into "his" house and try to kill him (again), and he'd be tempted to let it happen, but--there are other people in this house, and Shinjiro can't pinpoint why he can't just let them die too, but he knows he can't.

He confronts them, then, with anything that can be improvised as a weapon. Frying pans, a meat cleaver, even a vacuum cleaner gets repurposed as a bludgeoning tool to beat back the undead creatures insistent on tearing everything apart, and he patently refuses to acknowledge the crawling guilt of the knowledge that these creatures look about Amada's age. It's not his problem. They might not even be people--and if they are, better that a shitty person like him is doing this than someone else.

The next time he comes across someone either sharing this house or attempting to escape their own child zombies, he simply offers them a nod of acknowledgment.]

You holding up, or need a breather? I can cover the door for a bit.

ii. don't be a square

[spaghettimonster]

[It's been days since Papyrus woke up inexplicably human, in a surface town with strangely outdated technology and fashion. Without most of his friends or life goals, and with the roles the town presses on him, he's been going along with the instructions. Unlike many of the newcomers, he's got badge and hat and grin all in place as he tries to blend with the other party goers. He and Sans hope to find other monsters, similarly displaced and baffled by the situation, in hopes of getting an idea of what's even going on here.]

Nyeh heh heh... Maybe that's the new hot game!

[His voice cuts in before the neighbor can respond to Shinjiro's threat, though Papyrus doesn't exactly go pushing in between them or anything. He gestures to the wobbly mess on his own plate.]

Like throwing snowballs, except, it's gelatin. Food fights are fun, right?

Agatha Van Helsing | BBC Dracula |OTA

[thepsyingnun]

SETTLING IN

They had come to her- her, not the church's not her father's, her- door in droves. Welcoming her little family to this American town. From Budapest, they had said. How exotic! Lucky she had an American husband now. And she had stopped explaining that, as a Nun, she had only one husband and Lord, because while these may be fantastical events to her, she was not mad. There was little point in pressing her truth in the face of all evidence.

But they had brought more than words. Piles of food and...food? A shaky substance, often with identifiable food items suspended in it. Thus Agatha, a woman of science, decided to experiment on it.

The house was too small, so she set herself up on the back lawn, though the event was still visible by connecting yards or anyone that smelled the acrid scent. In chemistry, distinct burn points and reactions were the best ways to identify apparently benign unknown substances. Therefore the former)(?) nun could be found in her backyard, trying to find the combustion point of a wiggling plate of jello through use of her grill.

"Fascinating."

TESTING THE RESPECT FOR THE DEAD

While she was fit enough- one didn't spend a life in service, cleaning, and obedience (or battling the lord of the undead) without some 'work outs'- she was no warrior. She could run well enough and dodge into houses, but she was not adept at battling the hoards of roaming children. Still, she could not simply wait out the night. She had to see if these creatures were yet more vampires and, whether or not that hypothesis was true, what their weakness could be. The Caribbean legend of the walking dead came to mind, but only direct observation could confirm.

But it was rough going. Meaning Agatha was begging entry to guarded houses every hour or so, or quick to team up with anyone else roaming the streets. Despite this, her look was one of exhilaration even as she gained gashes and gore on her simple dress. Knowledge was, after all, a dangerous game. Eve and the Apple had taught humanity that well enough.

Usagi Tsukino | Sailor Moon

[requisitism]

OCTOBER 1st.

Wait. Where was she? Usagi wakes late (typical) to a room that was not her own (not typical). It takes a minute for panic to settle in, her body growing numb as she practically flings herself out of bed. Where was she? Whose room was she in? Was this another trick? She glances out the window to the idyllic scene before her. Something was very, very wrong.

She rushes out the bedroom door, not caring who sees her in her long pink nightgown as she passes by the framed photos of what appears to be a happy family. She stops halfway down when she catches her blond hair in the photo. It was her happy family.

"N-no. No this can't be." She pulls one of the frames off the wall, holding it close. "These aren't my parents...or my brother."

Her hands shake while she carefully replaces the frame, hands moving over her mouth before she finds herself screaming, tears streaming down her cheeks.

THROUGHOUT OCTOBER

When she finally reads the news, she's sitting on a park bench, trying to get away from her "new" family. Usagi is trying hard to be understanding but without her friends? It's difficult. Now she's been hearing rumors, whispers among her peers about the deadly crash that left no bodies. How could it be deadly but--

Reading the article, even the newspaper seems convinced that it's a freak accident that all the bodies are missing.

Despite the saddened look on her expression and the tears in her eyes, she can't seem to stop humming the cigarette commercial jingle. It's really catchy, okay?!

ALWAYS RESPECT THE DEAD

Carving pumpkins? Now that was more her speed. She's happy to give it a shot, and while giving Usagi a sharp knife was probably not ideal, she doesn't manage to cut herself. She's satisfied with her work which isn't the best in the world but hey, at least you could put a candle in it! Absentmindedly, she sets it on the porch and leaves the candle burning for the night.

Trick-or-Treating isn't necessarily a thing where she's from, but that doesn't stop her from enjoying the holiday. Think of all the CANDY she can eat! She's excited to see what it's like to go door to door when she finally peeks outside to find--

Children trying to attack people?

She doesn't think, grabbing her locket and flinging open the door to try and stop them. She holds it close to her heart, taking a deep breath.

Moon Eternal -- Make Up!"

...

...!!

Nothing happens, and she's just drawn attention to herself. A little help, please?

October 1st

[toonpatrol]

In the midst of having a little panic of his own, the sudden scream startles him away from the mirror where he was examining his face. His new, very human, face. Even stumbling back away from it there's a moment where he finds it hard to tear his eyes away from the stranger in the mirror, casting a glance toward the entrance to the hall where that scream came from then giving the mirror one more horrified look before bolting for the open door.

Coming to a halt at the sight of the freaked-out teen his heart sinks. She's clearly even more terrified than he is, and if she's an abduction like him, it's not exactly a wonder. Trying to put on his best calm 'I'm here to help' cop voice, he tries to cautiously approach her.

"Mam? Are you oka-...oh..." His sentence fades off as he catches a look at the photo-lined wall she was facing. Several pictures of what would have been a normal looking happy family, if not for the fact that they included this girl, two other strangers, and him, this human version of him, as a father that looked a bit too young to have a teenaged daughter.

peter parker. tasm.

[webdesigned]

GETTING TO KNOW THE NEIGHBORS.

a.
( he's dreaming. he's got to be dreaming.

first off, peter has never worn a proper pair of pajamas in his life. he falls asleep as he is, and if that's still fully clothed or if it's in sweatpants, still in a spidersuit — it is what it is. it's probably a bit sad that the fact he's wearing nice pajamas is the first and instinctive feeling of wrong.

he wanders downstairs, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach as he walks past family pictures that he's in, full of faces he doesn't recognize at all. it seems particularly sad and pathetic to have a dream about having a nuclear family and then not actually recognize any of them. Peter creeps around the house as silently as he can manage, though he doesn't know why. it might be the Stepford Aesthetic, he feels like he doesn't belong and he can't disturb it.

up until he arrives in the kitchen, a spread of food across the counters. he vaguely remembers the doorbell — dream delivery of food? ) Why is all this here? ( he asks, rubbing at an eye, feeling like he just woke up even though surely, surely, he's dreaming.

the jello salad is terrifying. lime green with noodles and fruit inside. the whipped cream on top is an unnatural color. and yet Peter digs through a drawer and finds a spoon anyway, figuring dream food probably can't hurt him. if you intend to stop the intestinal distress he's likely to face from eating that, you'd better intervene fast. )

b.
( peter still feels, distinctly, like he's in a dream he hasn't woken up from. he feels like he's cosplaying Mr. Rogers, and everyone around him hovers on the edge of uncanny valley. why would he dream of 60's suburbia? why would he want to be in the middle of a block party with strangers? people smile and wave, but Peter has no idea what to do with himself. to be fair, he wouldn't know what to do with himself at a normal block party...

he's already hit the buffet table (and yes, he somehow stomached the jello salad), avoided neighbors and their greetings, and he's found himself at the cornhole games. there's nobody playing with him, he's just aimlessly tossing beanbags and uh, never getting them anywhere near the target. )

Wow. I really... suck at this. ( is he talking to himself? honestly, yes. since he's half confident this is some entirely bizarre dream, why would he make conversation with his subconscious? honestly, there's no way it'd have anything good to say. Peter isn't sure why he's surprised by his lack of dream superpowers, but... it's... is it weird? to feel kinda normal? he's not been normal long enough that feeling something close, even in some dream state, is super strange. )

IS ANYONE OUT THERE?

( it takes some fiddling to figure out his watch contraption. it takes longer for him to realize this dream has lasted way too long — or maybe he's not dreaming at all.

his post isn't much, just a simple query: )

okay, so
this all doesn't feel right. right?

WILDCARD.

( i'm waaaayeeeeee late so if these prompts don't float your boat, feel free to wildcard me!!! you can also catch me via pm or meowed to chat about a different thing! )

getting to knoooooow you getting to know all abouuuuuut you (a)

[chromiums]

[ this is absolutely not right.

whoever the guy in these pictures who was, evidently, supposed to be sharing the bedroom she'd woken up in with her is long gone, either not having wanted to wake her or wanting to get the hell out of there, and lorna had started down the halls after a few moments of staring in bewilderment at the photos lining the tables and walls. there's her, and a man, and a couple of kids (their children?), and none of the faces are ones she recognizes, even her own. she gets a glimpse of her hair (jet black now instead of green, and it wouldn't be the first time she's had that color but it's been a long time since she has) and it's another shock, and it's not much longer before she heads downstairs to try to figure out what's going on. she doesn't even bother changing out of her pajamas, although she probably should.

more photos line the walls, and she makes note of the people in them in case she sees them and needs to pretend she knows who they are. one of those faces turns out to be in the kitchen, and she remains quiet until she sees him about to dig into...something, one dish of many that's been set out on the table. ]

You make breakfast for the whole family? [ she can tell he didn't. there's no dishes or scents that suggest anything was cooking, but starting with a neutral question is probably going to get her further than hostility. especially if he can tell her what the hell is going on. ]

Bonkers D. Bobcat | Disney's Bonkers

[toonpatrol]

Don’t be a Square

Who doesn't love a block party?! He'd never actually been a part of one before, but he'd seen them enough in old sitcoms to get the gist, and if you asked him now, he'd always wanted to do one. And sure enough, he's one of the few newcomers to bring some food of his own to share. Though it notably involves a lot more traditional breakfast foods ("sorry gang, it's all I know how to cook"), and sadly a lot less ground meat and gelatin.

It doesn't take him long to start blending in with the neighbors, learning names, joining in on conversations, picking up on gossip, and was eventually offering to help pass out name badges and food to fellow neighbors. He could almost be mistaken for one of the Robbies if not for the genuine warmth in his smile, his stubbornly modern vernacular, and a newbie name badge of his own dubbing him 'Bo'.

Others might end up with the overly chipper fellow trying to wrangle them into joining the festivities, filling out a name tag for them, introducing them to the rest of the party at breakneck speed, and shoving food under their noses.

"This one is apparently Suzanne’s specialty, pretty impressive how she managed to jam all the food groups in there isn’t it?“ There’s some teasing bite to that as he wiggles the gelatinous atrocity at whoever he’s managed to drag over here, but he also sounds kind of genuinely in awe at this feat.

Always Respect The Dead

It wasn't long after that cryptic staticky message broke out on his tv that he noticed the lone trick-or-treater standing outside at the edge of his drive. Keeping just outside of the light of the pumpkins lining the front walk he can't see them well, but there's something familiar about the costume. The pieces didn’t fall into place for him though, and candy bowl in hand, he steps out onto the front stoop.

They seemed a bit young to be out this late all on their own. Maybe they were lost? If they were just trying to get their bearings, that might explain them not making any move to come up to the house. Or maybe they were just shy?

"Are you okay?" The kid gives no response, or at least, he's pretty sure they don't. There's an odd gurgling noise but he's not 100% sure it came from the kid. Probably not, right? Taking a few cautious steps toward them he tries again with a "Hello?"

Still no response. He tries signing a greeting, just for good measure, and nadda, still nothing, they just stare back at him through that frankly unsettling mask. Yeesh. He'd never really thought the whole creepy kids vein of horror was very effective before, but now he was starting to get it. There's a moment where he just stares back with a pensive frown, before decisively just walking up to the kid against his better judgment, kneeling down to their level and holding out the candy bowl, keeping his voice soft and light.

"Hey, it's okay. Are you just lost or-" The kid cuts him off as they raise their hand, not to go for the candy bowl like he at first assumes, but to instead swipe at his face, sharp nails digging across his cheek