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

[demonicmiracle]

[He doesn't say it with words because it would be a considerable waste of breath, but he shoots Archer a look that he hopes conveys does it really matter?]

Didn't give them anything, they're the damn kids from the bus, the ones that drowned. Seems they're not fond of us.

[As if "zombie/ghost children" is a perfectly normal concept to talk about.]

[undiagnosed]

[it does to him, apparently, though the news of what the kids actually are gets him to shoot crowley a sidelong glance, clearly disturbed at that concept, all pretense of his immaturity evaporating in a moment.]

Don't even joke about that, asshole. For all the weird shit in this stupid town - in California, America's armpit, I might add - some kids hopped up on sugar and getting stabby isn't even top five!

[demonicmiracle]

[California has clearly changed since he last visited. But also:]

If you think I'm full of it, why don't you go say hi to 'em, prove they're just normal kids.

[Yes, Archer let him inside and that was very helpful. No, that doesn't mean Crowley is about to be concerned for the man's welfare.]

[undiagnosed]

Refer back to said aforementioned stabbyness, [he shoots back at crowley, waving a hand to saunter off to the kitchen to get himself a drink of the hard liquour variety.] and call me old fashioned, but I don't think a grown-ass man getting swarmed by a load of idiot kids is the best look.

[he shakes his head as he takes a gulp of the drink.]

Friggin' undead... [muttered to himself, but just loud enough for crowley to hear the targeted incredulity in his voice.] Did you get some LSD-laden gummy bears, or something?

[now is probably not the best time to mention archer's residence is void of any protection pumpkins, seeing as he wasn't privvy to their protective ability.

it's probably fine.]

[demonicmiracle]

[What he wouldn't give to be able to snap his fingers and make Archer shut up. He has to make do with scowling at him as he follows him into the kitchen, mostly because he isn't just going to loiter alone in a stranger's house. But also for the scowling.]

I wasn't about to hurt them. Didn't leave me with a lot of options.

[Even demons have to draw a line somewhere, and hurting kids is Crowley's, it doesn't matter that they're potentially evil, undead kids. They're still kids.]

Haven't taken LSD since the seventies, how is ghosts the weird part of this for you? You've been kidnapped by Stepford Wife rejects who've got fake photos of your fake life, but the ghosts are hard to buy?

[Also there's a demon standing in his kitchen, but he can't prove that.

Unfortunately, he also missed the memo re: pumpkins, so he hasn't had any thoughts about the fact Archer was lacking on on the porch. It's definitely fine.]

[undiagnosed]

Then I guess we're both shit out of luck. [like crowley, archer has his lines. he has a concerning disregard for human life in general, but kids? no, nothing could get him to hurt them. at worst, if he has to, he'll only look to disable them in a non-lethal way.] Oh, please. This isn't even my top five kidnappings.

[...okay, it probably actually is just for the strangeness, but it's not archer if he doesn't act like he's somehow above all this madness.]

Not to mention Photoshop exists. Everything that's happened here is within the realm of reality! Maybe if Spacebot or Gambit show up then I'll reassess...

[he tempts fate, as he always does. the moment "realm of reality" leaves his mouth, a very, very loud thudding sounds outside the house.]

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley has a lot he could say about the ability of "photoshop" to create fake images from thin air, since he's pretty confident no photos of Aziraphale exist to be manipulated in the first place, but he's distracted by the thudding sounds.]

Shit.

[Straight to the point as always.]

I'm guessing you don't have a horseshoe above your door or anything like that, do you?

[He'd feel a little better if he did.]

[undiagnosed]

[incredible, even archer is willing to drop this argument for the sake of... you know. the door being thumped on ominously.]

I don't respect jockeys. [a beat:] No. I have...

[he thinks for a moment.]

Wine in the fridge. We could distract them with that. 'Cause, you know, I'm not gonna have it.

[demonicmiracle]

[Jockeys are a relatively modern concept, so it's definitely not the first thought that comes to mind with regards to horses; he nearly asks what they have to do with anything, before deciding it isn't especially important in the grand scheme of things.]

Unless it's sacramental, I don't think wine is gonna help.

[There's the sound of glass shattering, and Crowley's gaze whips towards it.]

Does this place have a room without windows?

[Big scary demon that he is, he can't believe he's about to hide from a bunch of ghost children. But he's powerless here, can't scare them off or dispel with with a quick miracle, and he knows Aziraphale will be upset with him if he dies.]

[undiagnosed]

[that just makes him snort an unhelpful laugh.]

Well, the Pope does owe me one... [anyway:] Uh, yeah, go hide upstairs or whatever. I'll just stay down here and do all the hard work.

[demonicmiracle]

You're gonna beat up a bunch of zombie kids, are you?

[He doesn't want to beat up a bunch a zombie kids!! He just wants to go home, but also like, he can't just leave Archer to deal with it while hiding somewhere, that'd be embarrassing.]

[undiagnosed]

No. I'll work something out. I usually do.

[that's what the (probably not the zombie ones, specifically) kids call a fat mood. archer just wants this evening to go back to how it was and to return to his plans of getting blackout drunk and hoping things resolve themself without him needing to do anything.]

cw blood/injury

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley groans, as if this is more of a minor inconvenience than like, murder children breaking into the house, and stalks over to the knife block.]

If you tell anyone I did this, I'll kill you myself.

[Ominious words for someone holding a knife, but for now he just neatly slices the back of his arm (because he's not an idiot, slicing open a hand may look cooler, but it's a quick way to fuck up a bunch of important nerves), tossing the knife aside so he can drag his fingertips through the welling blood and paint a few messy enochian symbols around the doorway into the kitchen.

For all he knows, this might not work; he's never been much for that old sort of magic, and it requires demon blood, which his may not count as anymore, but it's better than doing nothing.]

[undiagnosed]

[archer watches what crowley is doing, intrigued.] ...Goth arts and crafts? Hope you had your tetanus shots.

[he, predictably, does not have any idea what it is crowley is doing, instead opting to take a heavy swig of his drink.

(where did he even get that?)]

For the record, you wouldn't be able to kill me. [he says, with infuriating confidence. the thudding seems to have paused for a moment.] Think we gotta throw some potatoes out?

[demonicmiracle]

Witchcraft, if you want to get specific.

[He decides not to ask what tetanus is, figuring Aziraphale might have an idea if he checks later and not wanting to admit to not knowing something that's probably basic human knowledge.

Instead, he steals a tea towel to wrap around his arm, realizing that the bleeding won't stop instantly, the way it should. That's going to be difficult to explain later.]

If you say so.

[Were he not human, the claim would be laughable, but Crowley's not much of a fighter, and while he's well practiced with killing people, he usually has a distinct advantage over them.

Or like, a sword. Swords help.]

What've potatoes got to do with anything?

[undiagnosed]

Didn't ask. [don't care. he also doesn't seem too bothered about the bleeding -- crowley obviously knew what he was doing, he can take care of himself.] Uh, to stamp those occult symbols everywhere to annoy them? Obviously?

[demonicmiracle]

[The look Crowley gives him is the look of someone who has absolutely no clue what Archer is going on about, but he's decided that potato stamps isn't the hill he wants to die on.

More importantly, there's a sort of squelching sound coming from inside the house, which quickly reveals itself to be five of the drowned children, skulking towards the kitchen.]

Not sure how this is going to go for us, mate.

[Maybe the symbols will hold them, but probably not.]

[undiagnosed]

[at this point, even his closest friends would have no idea what archer is going on about... those connections his brain makes don't always make sense in polite company. or demonic, in this case.

then the kids get in and start shuffling towards the kitchen and for a moment archer actually pales, looking away as his dickish front falls away for a split second to actually be appropriately horrified by seeing a horrifyingly accurate tableau of the kids that didn't make it. he backs up, then immediately grabs a stool from the table and throws it into their path.]

Never liked this place anyway. Back door!

[demonicmiracle]

[Is leaving a bloody tea towel with his blood on it for a bunch of ghouls to find a bad idea? Probably. Is Crowley going to do it anyway? Absolutely.

He drops the towel in his haste to get past the gaggle of children while they're distracted with the stool, though one of them takes a swipe at his legs as he passes, making him hiss in surprise and pain. The only positive is that most of these houses are built the same, so it isn't difficult to navigate out the back door.

He's even briefly considerate enough to hold it for Archer.]

You reckon they can climb?!

[Sometimes the serpent wins out and it thinks that being up high is safer from predators.]

[undiagnosed]

They have legs don't they?! [he scutters after crowley, though he takes the corner around the counter island a little awkwardly, meaning he doesn't open the back door so much as he goes flying into it and breaks the glass with his shoulder.

archer seems okay, as he so often is, though he needs a moment to get himself off the door.] Window! Window distraction!

[demonicmiracle]

They're kids!

[Which is to say that they can't exactly reach all that high, and Crowley and Archer are both over six feet tall. Surely there's —

He's distracted from the thought by Archer coming crashing through the door, wincing at how unpleasant that probably was, although he doesn't seem too worse for wear.

Crowley, noticeably, does not help him up. Instead casting a glance about the yard in the hope of finding something useful there.]

Window — what? What are you talking about?

[Americans!!!! Ugh!!!]

[undiagnosed]

[probably for the best, even when being helped archer finds ways to bitch about things.]

I'm saying, [he snaps, about to suggest they split up via window, then realises the backdoor is open, thanks to his... exit.] --damn it, never mind! This place is compromised!

[demonicmiracle]

Compromised.

[He repeats it back with a hint of mockery, but doesn't have time to properly make fun of Archer, since the stool really didn't slow the kids down for long.]

M'starting to reconsider my stance on hitting kids.

[Just saying.

He's going to try to head down the side of the house and back out into the street, rather than getting trapped in the backyard. He doesn't really care much whether Archer wants to follow.]

[undiagnosed]

That's the professional term, you dick! [he shoots back, threat of whatever fate awaits them if they get swarmed not nearly enough to dampen down his bitchery.] Really? Because that seems pretty-- I don't know! Kind of shitty!

[archer follows crowley, regardless of whether the demon cares about him or not. crowley is faster than him by virtue of not having nerve damage and needing a cane to get around, much to archer's continued and very loud dismay.

he might hear some gunshots from behind him when they get out onto the street, though archer's shooting out streetlamps, not at the kids.]

[demonicmiracle]

[Professional what is a question to be filed away for a time when they're not running from ghoulish children.]

Kind of shitty is in my job description!

[He ducks on instinct at the sound of gunshots, whipping around to face Archer.]

You've had a blasted gun this whole time?!

[This would've been nice to know like ten minutes ago!!!]