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memesville2020-10-25 11:03 pm
robbies) wrote in memesville2020-10-25 11:03 pm
Entry tags:
TDM - OCTOBER 2020
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.
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.
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? |
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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.
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.
no subject
Anyway, don't worry about it. Dean's too much of a nesting nanny type to let crap like that sit out for long. Matter of fact, that's his next order of business -- dragging the trash can over, picking up a broom by the handle near the bristles, and literally just sweeping entire chunks of gelatin and porcelain directly into the can.
He pauses to shoot an interested glance at Five over the time travel shtick, but shakes his head without all that much to-do about it. ]
Closest I got was 1973, but it ain't that far off. No way this crap goes from Stepford to Woodstock so fast.
[ And he moves onto entire full, untouched molds -- sweeping a whole plate into the garbage. ]
It's gotta be something hokey... gimmicky... annoying, like -- I don't know, pocket dimension? Shared hallucination? Mind-hive connected dreamscape? Localized, contained town-altering curse?
[ He shrugs with the broom handle still in hand. The top knocks the ceiling fan. He scowls at it accusingly. ]
no subject
The fact that he mentions 1973 confirms as much, but he shoot Dean a look between amused and bemused when he starts listing off possible scenarios for what is happening. ]
Got a lot of experience with this sort of shit then?
[ Five's done a lot of time traveling but it was always within the timeline, so shit like this is new to him. Even if he does take it in stride. ]
no subject
Unfortunately, this is kind of the new normal.
To put it into perspective: ]
I literally just got out of Purgatory. Don't even get me started on meta bullshit TV show universe. Gun. Mouth. Never again.
[ He gestures vaguely with the trash can he's holding.
So, in other words. Yeah, you could say that.
Five gets an up-nod. ]
You?
no subject
Heh. Well I was literally stuck in a post apocalyptic wasteland by myself for over forty years, before I got recruited to become a time traveling assassin. Then I fucked up my equations when I decided to time travel back to my family's point in the timeline and landed myself in this body.
[ That's pretty much the condensed version of his story, there isn't much point in expanding on anything else. It's irrelevant really. They really need to figure out how to get out of this situation in one piece in Five's opinion. ]
no subject
Then again, he was in Hell for 40 years and he's still looking solidly early thirties. So. ]
Tough break about the puberty.
[ Just a hair skeptically. It's genuinely not even the craziest thing he's ever heard, it's just... you know. A lot to take at face value from someone who looks fourteen. ]
Out of curiosity, what percentage of that is true?
[ Don't blame him for double-checking. ]
no subject
[ Five almost suppresses an eye twitch at Dean's question though, but nope it happens anyway. He knows his story sounds unbelievable at times, but Dean's story didn't sound any less crazy.]
All of it, and yours? [ He queries back because fair is fair after all. ]
no subject
Hundred percent.
[ Sure, why not. True until proven false. So, now that they've got that outta the way, seems like they might have themselves an understanding.
The final gelatin mold gets unceremoniously trashed, and Dean imagines in a hundred years somebody will find this trash bag and they'll still be perfectly preserved because they're ungodly, like McDonalds burger patties. ]
So how old are you really?
no subject
Fifty-eight.
[ When he says it out loud, it just reminds him of all that he's lost. His old body wasn't the healthiest, but it was a reminder of everything that he had survived. His de-aged body continues to mock him, even more so now that they are stuck in Stepford or wherever the hell they are.]
no subject
It is what it is.
He plunks the bottle down on the table along with two glasses, and twists the top to break the seal. Whether he's telling the truth and he's fifty-eight or he's lying and he's fourteen, he's old enough. Getting interdimensionally kidnapped makes the rules a little loosey goosey as far as he's concerned. Pours himself a couple fingers, then shoves the bottle Five's direction. Knock yourself out, if that's your style.
He takes a nice, pleasant mouthful before his next bit of trivia: ]
Spent forty years in hell once. Fun times.
[ Not that he's sharing his life story or anything; he doesn't even sound particularly emotive about it one way or another. Them's just the facts, and he raises his glass a little in a tiny kind of salute. ]
When do we name the club?
no subject
He doesn't even hesitate to take the offered bottle, because seriously coffee isn't strong enough for the shit they are dealing with right now. Without his powers, he thought it was going to be a task to get his hands on some liquor. He manages to mutter a 'thanks' before he pours himself a drink. As tempting as it is to fill his glass up, he decides to pace himself. He doesn't need a headache later not while they are surrounded by a bunch of weirdos obsessed with Jell-O molds. However before he can drink from his glass, Dean mentions he was in hell for forty years.]
Shit. Actual hell? Like you were dead?
[ He knows Dean mentioned purgatory earlier, but that could be more ambiguous since technically a person in a coma could experience purgatory. Considering his own brother, it is not exactly the weirdest thing he has heard. So he lets out a small huff, before taking a swallow of his own drink. ]
Depends, are we naming it for spending 40 or more years in isolation or being older than we actually look?
[ They could also probably add suffering years of trauma to the list too, but Five doesn't like to speak about that sort of shit. His experiences were pretty fucked up, no need to dwell on it if he can help it. ]
no subject
[ Forty plus years in isolation, older than they look, gotta meet both requirements. ]
It's an exclusive club.
[ In deadpan, as he shifts to prop the heel of his boot on the far end of the table. The other glides over top, crossing them at the ankles. ]
And yeah. Dead as a doornail. I'm thinking that doesn't have to be a stipulation for entry.
no subject
Yeah, I suppose it would be.
[ Five drops down in a chair and takes another swallow of his drink. A little floored that Dean's come back from the dead, because that is more up his brother's alley. ]
Thanks, my brother Klaus is the one who can resurrect himself. I never learned that trick.
[ Five throws out flatly, partly joking but also seriously. Klaus isn't immortal but the man has come back from the dead more times then should have been possible. Too bad his nine lives ran out at the end of the world. Five would have appreciated the company.]
no subject
He shakes his head. ]
Yeah, no, that's not exactly a talent of mine either. It's usually some other dickbag's doing.
[ Aside from Cas, who is firmly not a dickbag. All those other times? Total dickbags. ]
no subject
Honestly that sounds like the sort of shit the Temps Commission gets up too. They got a hard and fast rule that 'what is meant to is meant to be'. Which is total bullshit. [ Picks up the whiskey bottle to refresh his glass before gesturing to Dean if he wants more. ]
Generally they expect agents to kill people who are affecting the timeline adversely, but they do have moments where they protect individuals that are meant to stay alive. But they only do so in the name of preserving their precious timeline. Basically they would protect someone like John Wilkes Booth over Abraham Lincoln. Since history says one kills the other.
[ This isn't really anything he has discussed with his family, mainly because they have the hardest time grasping anything he says. So it is easier to just tell them the bare minimum. ]
no subject
He holds his glass out, more for the companionable gesture than anything. Top him off, Five. Look at that. Bonding. ]
Yeah, it ain't exactly a... Time Lord magic phone booth bureaucracy where I'm from, it's a little more... Catholic. But it doesn't sound all that far off, to tell you the truth.
[ Vague, stupid gesture with his glass at absolutely nothing with some pretty clear scorn written in his features. ]
There's that whole... oh, destiny's destiny, follow the script bullcrap they tried peddling at me for years. Sure, yeah Dean, we'll send you back — but time can't be changed except for conveniently how we want it to. Or the classic, oh here's the apocalypse world version of your future if you don't play ball.
[ Asshole angels and their annual vacations to the '70s. ]
Pff. Screw that noise. Don't let 'em fool you, man, they're more full of crap than Elvis at Thanksgiving.
[ Does he seem bitter enough? Because he's super bitter. ]
no subject
He places the bottle back on the table as he leans back in his chair.]
Destiny eh? Yeah that definitely sounds like the same old bullshit song but a different fucking tune. I've always wondered what gave these assholes the right to tell me that I couldn't save my family, but they find all the loopholes in the world to save their own asses.
[ Dean isn't the only one sounding bitter. ]
As sick as I have been of all the killing, I definitely don't regret slaughtering the board of directors of the Commission. Those fuckers had it coming.
[ He actually has to laugh about that, even though the laugh is humorless. He got fucked over in the deal, but those assholes deserved everything he did to them. ]
no subject
Preaching to the choir.
[ Nothing felt quite as satisfying as that time he rammed an angel blade through Zacharia's skull. ]
Like ripping out a freakin' splinter.
no subject
Heh. It's actually refreshing to talk to someone who has as strong a will to survive even in the most fucked up circumstances as I do. The Handler could never understand how I could continue to fight against overwhelming odds. [ He scoffs as he takes another drink.]
She never could get that I don't have it in me to give up. I didn't survive a fucking wasteland by myself for forty-two years, just to give up because someone said it was 'too hard'. Bitch please, my entire life has been nothing but hard.