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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.
Jack Rackham | Black Sails
[ The confusion doesn't set in right away. Jack wakes slowly, luxuriating in the sunlight and the softness of the bed, blinking a few times before consciousness catches up to him. When it does, he freezes, staring at the bright ceiling, eyes flicking around the room, down to the bedspread and what little is visible of his clothing, before he turns to look at the person in the next bed over. It's the wrong person, but then everything else is also wrong, so he does his best to take it in stride. ]
Good morning, my dear, I do hope you slept well.
...I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to reacquaint me with the circumstances of our arrival here. I'm afraid last night is a bit...fuzzy.
Aunt Myrna's Party Cheese Salad
[ Unlike the majority of his fellow newcomers, Jack appears not only completely unruffled, but actually impressed by the prospect of a largely gelatin-based diet. After years of hardtack, portable soup, and worse, food with actual flavor is a refreshing change, no matter how questionable the way those flavors are combined may be. And the gelatin itself, as everyone knows, is normally the province only of the rich and those with far too much leisure time for cooking. He's always incredibly polite and genuinely grateful to anyone offering him one of the gelatin molds - think how much time they must have put into it!
So when his new "family" seems disinclined to try the newest concoction, Jack is genuinely baffled, glancing up from where he's already served himself a generous slice. ]
What? What's wrong?
Don't Be A Square
[ The party is an odd mix of the familiar and the completely bizarre. Jack accepts the hat, unwilling to waste energy protesting something so apparently innocuous, and immediately wanders off to explore the festivities. He can't stop looking at the balloons in particular, even going up and poking them on occasion, and he's amassed a small collection of party favors, fascinated by the bright colors, though he's equally invested in trying to determine as best he can whether they might have any sort of value. Probably not, given the way they're being liberally offered for free, but you never know. Naturally, he's also quick to accept the slice of gelatin monstrosity shoved his way, eating it with apparent relish.
Should he catch sight of anyone giving him the sort of looks of bemusement or horror he's earned by this sort of behavior, he simply nods in greeting. ]
A fellow neighbor I'm meant to meet, I presume.
Wildcard
[ Open to other ideas! PM or ask at
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So did you make me cum or were we just cuddling cause I was feeling lonely?
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Neither, it would appear, based on our relative positions and state of dress.
[ That is to say, dressed, and in separate beds. Which is a new one for him. He pauses, trying to remember. There'd been a crying child, at some point, and... it's hard to say what else. He screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself. ]
God, I hope it wasn't the latter.
[ Things have been...complicated, with Anne, lately, and while she'd be less than pleased at the former, it might just be understandable, given the circumstances. If he'd sought out another woman for actual companionship, though, and not just sex...He sighs. ]
I take it this means you don't remember either.
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Nice photoshop job.
[ She follows it by also hopping onto his bed, bouncing once before settling down. ]
So what do you want, hm? A nice little family with a sweet little wife?
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And, of course, it's of him. And her - he glances up again to look at her, to check. The two of them and two children that he knows cannot exist, but whose resemblance to the both of them is uncanny.
She plants herself uninvited onto his bed and Jack gives her a look, moving his legs out of the way just in time to keep her from landing on them. ]
Rather a personal question, isn't it?
[ He tosses the picture back. ]
If this is meant to be some sort of elaborate joke, it's lost its humor.
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So you're telling me this isn't your plan?
[ She shifts just so, so she can take a better look at the picture, trying to find any mistakes in the editing. Any telltale signs to confirm her belief. ]
Don't worry. I'm not even angry.
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[ He lets his head fall back with a muted thump against the headboard, closing his eyes. ]
Listen, I appreciate your commitment to - whatever this is. I can't imagine where you got the idea that this is what I want, but - I suppose that's neither here nor there.
[ He opens his eyes again, leaning forward enough to meet hers. ]
My point is, you can stop now. If it's about the money - you'll be paid, I assure you. I don't care if we didn't -
[ He gestures vaguely to the other bed. Whether or not he'd gotten his money's worth the previous night is the farthest thing from a priority right now. ]
I just need to know where we are. And -
[ God, he needs to know. Jack reaches out for the unnerving portrait, still lying on the bed. ]
Who the hell you paid to do that.
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I didn't do it. This— [ Here she flaps her hands in the air toward the ceiling, the room, him. ] —isn't my style. Too much effort, too little inspiration.
[ With a huff, she finally rises from the bed and marches toward the bedroom door, but not before stopping to catch her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Perfection, as always. ]
Come on then. Let's find out where we are.
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Yes, let's do. A grand mystery for the both of us.
[ But it does prove to be even more of a mystery than he could have imagined. Opening the door doesn't reveal the busy hallways of a brothel, with its attendant giggling, barechested girls dragging men into private rooms. The building is eerily silent, decorated as carefully as the finest homes in London, if much more sparsely. He stops in what he can only assume is the kitchen, staring helplessly at the stove and the quietly humming refrigerator. Some kind of free-standing pantry? He opens it up, only to start in surprise, eyes widening as he leans closer. ]
It's cold!
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PARTY CHEESE
there is not a single image of a horse anywhere. not even a regular horse. the lack of it cuts at him like a cold wind: these photographs of him are like some horrible alternate reality he could've lived, without ever knowing corr's muscles bunching and shifting under him, corr's strength held along taut reins. corr's bloody gaping grin, his brilliant red coat turned dark and slick with seawater.
instead, this is a place where people have television sets and cameras and music players and easy access to electricity. disposable income, the kind even the richest person on thisby didn't spend so carelessly. america, in the suburbs. it might as well be another planet to him, and it makes him uneasy. he keeps his mouth shut so as not to betray his accent, or anything at all. he doesn't belong here.
things like this don't come without a price, and he doesn't know how or when they-- he-- is going to pay it.
it's also extremely awkward to gather with the people, the strangers, who have been apparently dropped into the role of his 'family.' none of them know him. he doesn't know them.
he still feels compelled, however, to raid the pantry for salt. he picks up things like iron nails from a toolbox. he wards the house and the windows and even the yard as best he can, although he's quite sure the earth here will not listen to him. he's too far from the ocean. he sinks himself in a bathtub filled with ice and saltwater, but it's not enough. even his ancient battered jacket, the old bloodstains nearly black on the dark blue fabric, seems every day to look a little cleaner, smell a little less like it should.
maybe some of the others have seen him performing these little rituals, although he hasn't bothered to explain himself. iron above the doorways. salt lines and circles.
he sits at the table, watching the man who has been placed as his 'father' eat one of the horrible gelatin concoctions. rich people food, he supposes dubiously, where they could afford to cook and serve things that were more about looks than taste. ]
It's very... wobbly.
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Well. It's been challenging. For his part, he'd chosen the path of least resistance, which is to ignore the whole thing altogether and proceed exactly as he'd been proceeding his entire life. He is not a husband. He is not a father. He will not act like one and he will not feel any sort of responsibility for these perfect strangers who happen to share a house with him.
He'd noted the unorthodox behavior of his "son," the way he lines the doorways with iron and soaks himself in salt and draws incomprehensible wardings all over the house. Clearly incredibly concerned about spirits, or fairies, or some such thing, and honestly, under the circumstances Jack can hardly blame him. He might have considered doing the same himself, except that by this point Sean has warded the house to such an extent that Jack's fairly certain the Devil himself couldn't get in if he tried.
Now he looks back down at his slice of cheese salad, giving it an experimental poke with his fork. It does, indeed, wobble. ]
Yes, I suppose it is.
[ He waits, expectantly. And? ]
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maybe it's better than doing nothing. maybe.
he appreciates that jack especially hasn't tried to play the role of a father or a patriarch. sean's father is almost a decade gone now, and he's become too accustomed to his own company. malvern had always conducted himself as an employer, only interested in what sean could do for him. he would be resentful, he thinks, of someone trying to take responsibility for him, even a well-meaning stranger.
but he gives jack a patient look. an adult to adult look. ]
You don't have to eat it.
[ his accent is distinctly not american. irish, maybe, but with the local flavor of thisby where the dialect has grown in isolation for centuries. ]
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Why...would I not eat it?
[ His would-be son's accent is, improbably enough, one of the less strange things about him. Not any form of Irish he'd heard before, but close enough to at least be recognizable. Whereas most of the others here - well, they say they're American. Which is nonsense. And they sound like nothing he's ever heard at all, and certainly not in the colonies. ]
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[ clearly the possibility that jack is enjoying the flavor has not occurred to him. there are old wives' tales and stories enough that warn against eating fairy food, or the banquets laid out for the dead, but he'd always assumed the temptation was that the food would be supernaturally appetizing. ]
Perhaps you know the story about pomegranate seeds.
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[ There are worse things than hearing a story during dinner, even if it is delivered in the same judgemental, vaguely condescending tone that Sean's been employing. A little light entertainment, he can't argue with that.
In the meantime, Jack has yet to hear a solid reason not to tuck in. He makes himself comfortable, slices his fork into the wobbly mass, and takes a healthy bite, all without batting an eye. ]
Mmm. [ Mouth full, he gestures at Sean with his fork, swallows, prepares to take another bite. ] Go on, I'm listening.
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softer, ]
There are old stories that warn against eating the food you find in places that you know are not normal.
[ a glade in the forest decorated for a feast. an abandoned home with the fire roaring and the table laden. the underworld itself. he shakes his head slightly. ]
But... we will get hungry enough and eat it anyway, even knowing. Maybe that's the point.
Does it taste like fairy food?
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Jack dosn't drop his fork or push the plate away in alarm. Instead, he deliberately takes another bite, cocking his head and adopting a thoughtful expression as he - well, chews might be generous, given the way the gelatin slides down his throat. ]
Now that you mention it -
[ He looks back at Sean, pointing with his fork in triumph. ]
Yes! I hadn't noticed, but there's a distinct hint of fairy dust. With - wait...an unmistakeable aftertaste of a tiny bluebell worn as a hat.
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Jack Rackham, at your service.
[ He stifles a pang of disappointment at his apparent lack of recognizability. Really, in Nassau, you'd think... ]
As to what's going on, well. [ He pauses, looking around the room. ] I can only a hazard a guess, but I would assume something along the lines of - we drank. We found each other. We...ended up here.
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[Getting blackout drunk and ending up in bed with a stranger, typical day.] But why are we dressed? And in separate beds? And what is this awful fabric? [Momentarily calmed by the prospect of having gotten laid, Huaisang quickly starts to get fussy and frightened again as his questions stack one on top of the next. He flaps one of his sleeves with prissy distaste.] The feather bits are all right, I suppose. Even if they are goose feathers.
[Suddenly remembering himself, Huaisang flushes and performs a little bow with hands laid flat one over the other.]
Nie Huaisang of Qinghe greets you.
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[ The explanation he himself had offered is less reassuring to Jack. He's not in the habit of getting drunk and ending up in bed - or in the same room, at least - with anyone but Anne. Waking up alone, with a man in the next bed, both of them fully dressed, in a room he'd never seen the like of before? He's at a loss.
He casts a critical eye on Huaisang's clothing, then glances down at his own, frowning and plucking distastefully at the green-striped fabric. ]
I'm not sure which is worse, frankly, yours or mine.
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[Getting to his feet, Huaisang starts to look around the room. He's curious about the window in order to try and get a sense of where he is, but his eye is first drawn to the detailed painting in a frame on the nightstand. He picks it up, holding it close to his eyes to try and see the brushstrokes, but there don't seem to be brushstrokes at all. It looks almost as if ... as if someone had captured light upon the surface of a page.
He holds the frame out to Jack to show it, brow furrowed in confusion and concern. The image shows the two of them pressed close, with Jack's arm around Huaisang's waist, and Huaisang looking up at him, looking happy and besotted. They're wearing clothes like Huaisang's never seen before, with Huaisang showing shockingly indecent bare shoulders and arms.]
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How evocative.
[ But a moment later the question of fashion is forgotten, as his inexplicable bunkmate silently hods out a tiny frame. Jack takes it with a confused frown that changes a moment letter to an expression of absolute bewilderment. Putting aside the question of how anyone would paint such a thing - detailed in a way he's never seen, in a sort of smooth gloss with nary a brushstroke - the real question, he thinks, is why.
It's them, the two of them, pressed close like lovers, and Jack drops the painting as though he's been scalded, raising his head to stare sharply at Huaisang. ]
What is this?
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[Titled nobility as he is, Huaisang has always had the finest clothing. In his culture, that means many, many full-coverage layers.
Heading to the window, Huaisang draws the curtains back to look outside. The street outside is filled with many lavish manors, each of them with tidily manicured front gardens. They all look so similar, one to the next, and they're set in straight lines.]
What kind of place... where are we?
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[ He has to pick up the picture again just to check, and while yes, there's some skin visible, it's certainly nothing approaching scandalous. He's much more concerned about...well, about absolutely everything else, at this point, honestly. Jack drops the picture and goes over to join Huaisang at the window, frowning as he squints against the sun. ]
I...have no idea.
[ It's certainly not Nassau, and for the first time, something like dread settles in the pit of his stomach. He glances at his companion, brow pinched with worry. ]
You really don't remember anything?
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