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

ii.

[keritate]

[Keri Tate Laurie Strode has had a miserable fucking week. Getting reset to the beginning of October immediately after finally- finally- putting Michael down for good is just the tip of the iceberg. Her boyfriend's dead, her son isn't here, she's in a whole other world with a random husband and kids assigned to her, and she hasn't had a drop of alcohol since waking up in this place. It's hard to be a functioning alcoholic when you have no alcohol to function with. Particularly when you're already not coping well and want nothing more than to drown your sorrows.

She overhears Constantine asking about alcohol and perks up a little, glad to not be the only one desperate for a drink.]

Good luck. I've already asked around. None of them're willing to cough up the goods.

[She's gotten quite a few odd looks and laughs for asking, too. She can't really bring herself to care.]

You mind sharing if you find that whiskey?

[scouserer]

[Oh, thank God. Someone who's actually normal. Constantine's posture visibly relaxes as an expression of exhausted relief appears on his face.]

Not at all. At least, when I find it. Then I won't have to deal with Marge's incessant nagging.

[He shoots a look towards a nearby housewife, presumably Marge. She holds a tupperware container filled with some sort of sausage and aspic monstrosity and doesn't blink at the verbal jab. He gingerly pushes his way out of the group ("'Scuse me, ladies--") towards Laurie and pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. In a lowered tone of voice, he says--]

Stuck in the same boat, then?

[He places a cigarette in his mouth and lights it with a plastic lighter filched from one of the neighbors pockets. He peers out towards the neighbors tables, as if hoping to spot a wayward bottle to snatch up.]

[keritate]

[Laurie accepts his company without complaint, similarly glad to have some semblance of normality around. She grimaces at the aspic meals- lucky her, her mother never made those when she was a child. Pamela Strode had some semblance of taste. Maybe her birth mother, though. Who knows- maybe Michael Myers was driven to kill after being forced to eat too much savory gelatin. She'd probably go the same route.]

The "I woke up in a place I've never been in with a family I don't remember having" boat? Oh, yeah. I'm drifting off to sea in it.

[She sits down at one of the few unoccupied tables, and gestures for Constantine to join her. There's more food piled high on the table- more aspic, more casseroles, more salads and "salads". Grimly, Laurie pokes at one of the green jell-o molds with a fork, watching it jiggle in place.]

... Is there egg in this?

[There are, indeed, hardboiled eggs in this.]

[scouserer]

[Constantine grimaces towards the hard-boiled eggs suspended in green Jell-o and gingerly looks the other direction.]

Certainly looks like it. You want my advice, stay away from the 'normal' food, as well. Last time I sampled a brownie platter, there were shards of glass in it.

[The only thing he's been able to trust has been food made by himself and himself alone. Which means that Constantine has been eating pretty poorly, lately. The only thing he can make without horrendously burning everything is pasta, toast, and maybe eggs--and you can forget about having fresh vegetables in that diet. It's only a matter of time before the man gets scurvy.

Hidden behind all the tupperware platters and glass bowls are a few bottles of beer. Constantine's expression brightens.]

Ah--a drop of fresh water in a sea of horrible dishes!

[He reaches forward and snatches one up, rapping the lip against the table edge in an effort to knock the cap off. Eventually, it pops open, and Constantine slips the cap into his pocket.]

My first theory was demons, but I've hardly seen any trace of 'em here. Second theory is maybe a god's been twitchy lately and decided to go batshit, but I've got no evidence to back it up.

[He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and takes a long swig, practically gulping it down like a glass of soda.]

Name's Constantine. Obviously, I'm not from around here.

[If she couldn't tell from the accent and demeanor already.]

[keritate]

Jesus, are you alright? [She looks genuinely alarmed by that.] I've just been throwing out all the food these people try to give me. Guess that was the right move.

[She's a good enough cook that she doesn't have to worry about scurvy by abstaining; just running out of ingredients. She doesn't have a job yet, after all.

Behind her, one of the housewives looks scandalized for a brief moment- offended at the notion that Laurie hasn't been enjoying her gifted meatloaves or aspic shrimp salads- but her expression swiftly smooths back to a placid smile. The smile wavers slightly when Laurie grabs a bottle of her own, and the housewife turns away, apparently deciding that ignorance is bliss.]

Demons, huh. You know what, I'll believe anything at this point.

[She'd always sort of wondered about the supernatural, and whether or not that had anything to do with Michael's... everything. No normal man should've survived what he did. No normal man should've been able to continue a murder spree with six bullets in his chest. She'd shot him in the eyes twenty years ago and watched him burn, and look at all the good that did her.

Of course, she'd never had proof. Just like she never had proof that Michael was still alive. Lurking. Biding his time once more, waiting to find her and strike.

Regardless. This place is obviously something different- its 1961, for God's sake, her birth year, and she absolutely shouldn't be in her thirties in a 1960s suburb with a family she doesn't know. Demonic influence is as good an explanation as any.

... Right, names.]

You can call me Laurie. Or Keri. Don't really care which one you use.

[There's no point in clinging to that false identity in this place, and "Laurie" is the name that's written on the back of her fake family photos in her bedroom, and in the phone directory in her house. But she's also been "Keri" to everyone except her own son for nearly two decades. She chose it out of necessity, to survive, but it's still a name she chose for herself.

Hell, maybe she ought to throw "Cynthia Myers" in the mix, too, even though she doesn't even remember going by it.]

[scouserer]

Oh, I spit it out almost right away and dumped it in the bin. Honestly, no idea if it was out of malice or just because they've been tranquilized to the point of not caring.

[Constantine shrugs, flicking a bit of ash from his cigarette onto the grass. He tilts the plastic lawn chair back and places his feet up on the table with little regard for the aspic horrors that lie there.

For some reason, the name stirs some sort of memory in his mind, but he can't quite place it. Maybe a familiarity to some actor of some sort from some far-flung, obscure movie. She sounds rather dismissive towards her own name, which does make him question the reasoning, but he's not going to pry any further. He knows plenty of others who go by multiple names--the world of magic is full of fickle people.]

Alright. Laurie, then. [He takes another sip from the beer bottle.] From what I've figured out, the people who were brought here come from a wide range of universes. Some weren't even human before arrival. All of the ones with access to magic or otherworldly powers were stripped of them, which means whatever's responsible is incredibly pow--

[He stops talking when he sees a few neighbors approach the table. A wide-smiling couple, arm in arm, pass by, peering at the conversation with some curiosity. The woman is dressed in a yellow cardigan and a blue skirt, and her lipstick is perfectly red. The man is chewing on a pipe and dressed in a sharp grey suit, and his face seems to have a permanent smirk.]

Well, don't mind us! Continue with your conversation!

[It's difficult to tell from their cheerful tones whether or not this is a threat. Constantine isn't willing to chance it, and he grimaces.]

Oh, bugger off. Don't you know it's rude to eavesdrop?

[The couple laugh in unison--a high, tittering giggle that grates on his ears.]

I told you he was still acting hoity-toity, hon!

You--this is my normal accent!

[keritate]

I guess them being drugged would explain a lot- but by who, though? Unless there's something in the tapwater or- something. Some chemical that makes you act like... [She gestures, vaguely, towards a few of the robbies behind her. They wave back cheerfully.] That.

[She pops the top off her beer and takes a long swig, downing half the bottle in a matter of seconds. She'd prefer wine or vodka, really, but alcohol is alcohol, especially right now.

Laurie listens to Constantine's theories with genuine interest- clearly, he's from a universe where magic and the supernatural are normal enough that he can safely theorize about them without it being total guesswork. Which is fascinating, really, and way over her head, and while there's a small part of her that wants to call bullshit, that's obviously not an option anymore.

Before he can really get into his deductions, though, they're interrupted, and Laurie bristles slightly. She's... not a fan of people eavesdropping on her. Gossiping. She still remembers trying to finish up high school after- after everything, when she was still Laurie Strode, only now she was more than that- Laurie Strode, sole survivor of the Halloween night massacre; Laurie Strode, little sister of Michael Myers, serial killer. She remembers being stared at as she sat at her desk, empty seats around her- seats that used to be occupied by her friends.

She hasn't dealt with that in a while. No one knew that Keri Tate has the weight of a dozen deaths on her back. But the memory still burns.

She chugs the rest of the bottle and places it on the table with enough force to make the plates of aspic dishes rattle, glaring up at the couple.]

Hey, we're trying to have a private talk over here- d'you think you can move on over to another table?

[It's phrased less like a request and more like a demand.]

[scouserer]

[Their unflinching smiles seem to only grow wider.]

Oh, of course! Our apologies. But don't be a stranger, you hear?

[As the couple glide off to eavesdrop on another table, the husband glances over his shoulder to give Constantine one last peer. He looks vaguely disapprovingly towards his feet up on the table, but otherwise doesn't comment. As he turns away, Constantine scoffs and rolls his eyes.]

Bloody neighbors. [He mutters under his breath. Constantine pulls his feet back onto the ground and stands up, only slightly more disheveled than before.] Might want to relocate somewhere else if we're gonna have this talk. Too many eyes and ears.

[He takes a moment to down the rest of the beer, nervously watching a nearby police officer greet a young couple at their arts and crafts table. The policeman kneels down to pat their perfectly groomed golden retriever.]

...And cops.

[Constantine places the empty bottle for someone else to clean up. He shoves his hands into his pockets.]

So, your place or mine?

[It's almost uncanny how casual his tone becomes within the span of a few seconds. If not for the prior comments, Laurie might have been led to believe that Constantine was coming onto her. Sometimes, it helps to be a born liar and conman, especially in situations like these.]

[keritate]

Creeps.

[She stands, grabbing the remaining bottle off the table and hiding it under her jacket.

At his last comment, she snorts, a wry smile on her face.]

Aren't we both married, technically? Probably shouldn't say things like that. Then these people'll really talk.

[Jokes aside, she doesn't take the comment as flirtatious. And if it was meant that way, she'd shut him down in an instant. Laurie just watched her brother murder her boyfriend- she's gonna stay clear of the dating scene for a long time.]

My place, I guess. My, uh, "husband" and "kids" aren't home.

[scouserer]

Ah, let 'em talk. They'll make up whatever rumors they want.

[Hah. You want to talk about loved ones and innocent bystanders getting murdered or worse because they made the mistake of associating with John Constantine? The man practically leaves a trail of destruction and bad luck in his wake. If he or anyone else starts getting too emotionally attached, he lets go. Better to nurse a temporary heartache than to be sucked into and torn apart by the black hole that is Constantine.

He follows Laurie back to her house, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody's watching or tailing them. Luckily, the majority of people seem to be preoccupied with the block party festivities and pay them little attention other than a glance and a wave.

When they get inside, Constantine quickly draws the blinds and faces back towards Laurie, frowning.]

Anyways--you were saying. Chemicals. That's also a possibility, though I can't see how that would be possible on a town-wide scale without the government being involved. Unless the United States government is dabbling in the dark arts...?

[He pauses.]

Honestly, completely plausible. You have any more drinks? I'm still parched.

[keritate]

[Laurie's familiar with that mindset. She pushed away everyone who knew her as Laurie Strode, after all- even her own adoptive parents. She's tried, though- tried for nearly twenty years to rebuild and maintain connections with others, despite the fear of them being targeted by association with her, and the pain of trying to trust another person. Her son's the only one who's stuck around for most of that time, and she came far too close to pushing him away, too.

Laurie locks the front door while Constantine closes the windows, and sets the beer bottle down on the table. She stalks over to the back of the house to make sure the back door is locked as well, speaking over her shoulder as she does so.]

I mean, it's just a theory. I dunno, maybe there's a chemical plant near here that's leaking shit, and everyone here's irradiated and it's making them act crazy. [She shrugs, exasperated.] This is a little above my pay-grade.

That bottle's all I got. Unless you mean water.

[Laurie starts checking the windows, even the ones Constantine already closed the blinds on, making absolutely sure they're closed and locked. She's never opened them before, but it can't hurt to be careful, right?]

So- what do you know about the- dark arts, and demons, and stuff? Because that's also way above my pay-grade.