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

harley quinn | dcu | ota

[mahem]

october 1st

[ harley jerks awake in bed and sits up with a visibly confused expression on her face, her blonde hair arranged in rollers all over her head. a quick look next to her reveals the bed beside her own is empty, covers thrown back to indicate that someone's been sleeping there at least, but as she slowly slips out from between the bed linens, the sheer fall of her pink peignoir across her body is more than enough proof that she's not in arkham.

in fact, a part of her's convinced she might still be dreaming as she makes her way through the strange and unfamiliar house, hugging her arms around herself — but the first sign she gets of any photographs, whether on the walls or on a hallway table, she'll rush to pluck the frame up in her hands, squinting in confusion at the sight of herself in a freaking wedding dress standing next to someone else, a stranger whose face she doesn't recognize. and another one, with kids in it!

her ears finally pick up on the sound of voices from downstairs, and she nearly takes the stairs two at a time in her haste to barrel into the room they're coming from — but she skids to a stop in her fuzzy slippers when she spots someone standing in front of the TV, the source of that noise, the song playing over and over, and in an act of frustration (or maybe desperation) she strides across the space, feet sinking into the carpet, to fumble with the various buttons on the side until she can shut the old-timey television off before rounding on the other person with hands docking at her hips. ]

What is this? Is this some kinda sick joke?!

don't be a square

[ okay, so this isn't a dream — or, if it is, it's one helluva collective hallucination.

but that doesn't mean she isn't already ready to get the fuck out of here. it just means that she might need to figure out who she can best align herself with in order to achieve her goals! so, step one: getting to know her neighbors, or whatever. and that means styling her hair in careful curls, slapping on a fresh coat of bright red lipstick with a dress to match, and caking on enough makeup to hide her tattoos that the dress doesn't cover, because she keeps getting strange looks otherwise and she might get more answers if she doesn't look completely like... well, herself.

there are times harley doesn't mind being the center of attention, and there's right the hell now as someone tries to thrust a plate into her hands, muttering under her breath. ]

Another fuckin' Jell-ohhhh, hi!

[ that's her pretending to recognize you from across the party, slapping a too-bright smile on her face and hurrying over with a corresponding tap of heels against the pavement as she links her arm through yours, leaning in as if to utter something in confidence. ] Pretend we already know each other and you wanted to show me somethin' at your place.

always respect the dead

[ okay, maybe she's not supposed to be hurting kids, but in her defense, they started it.

she's pissed now, striding down the street with an old louisville slugger in her hands, hair limply sagging out of its curls and missing one shoe. apparently, it doesn't matter how many times she's decided to smash and bash; those things aren't living, they're not even human, and now she has to track down a replacement pumpkin because they've smashed the one that was on her front porch. ]

Ugh!

[ movement in her periphery has her automatically attempting to swing outward, so hopefully the person she's aiming at has quick enough reflexes to either jump out of the way or dodge her. on the other hand, she's lacking in some of her normal strength these days and her balance is disrupted by missing one pump, so she ends up arcing out wildly and then almost losing her footing before recovering, blowing stray hairs out of her face. ]

What the hell are you still doin' out here?

wildcard

[ hmu via pm or on plurk at favoritings to discuss another prompt option! harley is post-birds of prey. ]

don't be a square.

[shooter]

[ The only dress in the cupboard had been chopped off at the knees the moment she'd held it up. Helena has a dark brown shirt and a pair of bell bottoms, the most decent pair of boots but they bite at her heels. Arms folded, she's taken only the candy the children offer her, but quickly passed it back on amongst them or pocketed it for 'later'. ]

[ Who could call Harley Quinn's voice a relief? But that's what it is: Helena watches the little debacle with the Jell-O (you know what would solve that problem? Stabbing.) but slipping away for more recon isn't an option as the whirlwind recognises her first. ]

[ Helena inhales, annoyed, but allows her near. ]

There's nothing at my place. [ That wouldn't be the same as Harley's — yeah, so what, she already looked through all the windows in the neighbourhood before arriving. ] Leave the Jell-O. We're going around for recon.

[mahem]

[ truth be told, harley’s learned to expect varying levels of annoyance from people when they see her — but as far as she can tell, helena bertinelli’s feelings about her fall more on the level of begrudging tolerance, which she can obviously work with.

case in point: she doesn’t immediately throw off harley’s arm. ]

Oooh, yeah. [ she’s willing to roll with whatever the other woman’s plan is, nodding excitedly, because recon just sounds so official and everything. ] Wait, this one has pineapple in it, I think?

[ she tilts the plate up towards the sun, trying to get a glimpse of what’s been molded inside. ]

[shooter]

[ Harley's fun. Which is not a word Helena would ever use; perhaps say out loud and then expire, immediately, after that, but there's an expectation Harley sets and she fulfills, and Helena can understand that. She can work with it. She can, occasionally, enjoy it. None of these things are an overwhelming problem. ]

[ So no, she does not shrug off Harley's arm, just uses the connection to tug her forward. Away from the hideous Jell-O. ]

Don't, [ she says, quietly, fiercely, ] we don't know what's in the pineapple.

don't be a 🔲

[chromiums]

[ she's not the only one struggling to fit in. lorna's never been great at it in general and she suspects the only reason she hasn't been hauled off somewhere for reindoctrination is because she's learned very quickly what is and isn't considered acceptable behavior in the twisted version of pleasantville they've all somehow wound up in. maybe that's not necessarily what would happen, but it would hardly be the first institution she's been hauled off to, and anyone capable of bringing them all here and muting her powers is certainly capable of brainwashing.

so she's been doing her best to adapt. (fortunately, she's so far better at it here than she has been at home.) she dresses the part, sweeping her newly black hair into a socially acceptable style and donning a dress she doesn't totally hate before going out to mingle and see what she can find out.

the woman stands out like a sore thumb, plastering a smile over her irritated features, and it's not a surprise when she comes up to lorna, muttering to play along under her breath. she mirrors her smile back and hooks her arm with the other woman's, steering her towards the house she's been assigned. ]

You've just got to see the new wallpaper, it's to die for, I swear.

[mahem]

[ look, harley's done the whole forced imprisonment, strapped-into-a-straitjacket deal before — and something about this place screams that they've probably got some weird twisted asylum lurking just out of sight to correct women who are too brash, or too loud, or too... much. maybe she doesn't need to pretend to be sane, but for now, when she's still trying to get a sense of what the fuck is going on, she can try her hardest at boring.

at least the person she sidles up to is a woman who looks just as happy to have a diversion rather than one of those creepy neighbors with their too-fake smiles. ]

Seriously, ya gotta tell me what I owe ya after this, 'cause I don't think I could've handled more Jell-O. What, did they just buy up every box in suburbia?

[ she glances back over her own shoulder to note they're still being observed, offering a friendly parting wave and only waiting until backs are turned before turning it into a middle finger. ]

[chromiums]

[ so has lorna, and she's not really looking to do it again if that's not already what this is. she's been careful to avoid wearing necklaces just to reassure herself she's not wearing a collar, but it's not as if whatever's brought them here hasn't already inhibited her abilities. she's just worried about the possibility that they'll do something even worse. ]

Did your house not come stocked with boxes of it lining the pantries?

[ lorna notices the finger being flipped and her eyes widen a bit, worrying it may have been spotted - but no, they're free to head into her own assigned house, and once they're inside she locks her door and makes sure the blinds are shut. ]

I'll take whatever you might have learned about this place if you've got it, but I don't know if you know any more than I do.

October 1st

[gardienne]

[By the time that Harley found Eponine, the living room was a bit of a wreck. Eponine had no idea where she was or what was going on, or who any of the people in the photos were, and honestly, she didn’t care. She’d made straight for the kitchen, following her instincts for food. By the time Harley found her, her pockets bulged with fruit and there was more on the living room floor where she’d dropped it in fright when the TV started up. She stares at the screen, fascinated.]

Have you seen it? Look! The dolls move. And such tiny ones that they are inside! But how? Is it magic? My Ma says my brain is mad to think of such things but honestly, I don’t think I could dream such a thing!

[mahem]

[ ... is it actually possible that harley's managed to stumble into someone that's even crazier than she is? stranger things have happened, including the surprise trip to pleasantville they're finding themselves in. ]

Okay, whoa, cool it with the line of questioning, Energizer Bunny.

[ those bulging pockets don't escape her notice, but clearly she needs to be the one to be the voice of calm reason here, which is... new for her, but whatever, she can make an effort.

after fumbling with the switches on the television, she finds the on-off knob and turns it, the screen blinking out. ] Forget the TV. Where the hell are we?

[gardienne]

What?

[Eponine’s protest is cut short by the name calling, but the reference goes straight over her head. She stares at the now blank TV screen, as if it’s going to start up again of its own accord. When it doesn’t, she looks at Harley reproachfully.]

What did you do that for? Were you not enchanted? It was like a puppet theatre without strings - and such cunning ones I have never seen. Besides -

[She crosses behind Harley to the sofa and sits on it gingerly, as if she’s afraid it will disappear beneath her. When it doesn’t, she sits back with a grin.]

Who cares where we are, Madame? There is food, clothes, a bed! It is better than Paris anyway!

totally respecting the dead

[lachenille]

[ The entire month had felt like an interminable decade, the hours as gelatinous and flavorless as Aunt Myrna's prized recipe. She felt hardly awake through the whole parade of tupperware parties and endless days of watching the television drone on. It's only now, adrenaline in her veins and the screams of children in her ears, does Villanelle come alive.

She has a pink ruffled lamp stand as her chosen weapon, its metal base already stained with the blood and gunk of the little monsters. She has enough reflex to dodge Harley's swing, and doesn't take offense besides, laughing like a bark and letting out a loud yell punctuated by the violent sound of another small skull being cracked by her beating it with gusto. ]

This is. So! Much fun!

[mahem]

Well, sure, I guess there's somethin' to be said for a little blunt force violence and all, but... what are they?

[ that's the real question, isn't it? she doesn't need much of an excuse to engage in some spontaneous violence, honestly, but there's something fishy going on and maybe if her brain wasn't a scattered swiss cheese of holes most of the time she'd be able to put two and two together between kids in creepy costumes who can't actually stay dead and that irritating as hell commercial that's been playing on TV every night.

but it does feel good to have a bat in her hand. god. being a less terrible person sometimes really sucks. ]

Ooh, nice lamp. [ pink? ruffled? very much her style. ]

[lachenille]

[ There's no method to her fighting, just persistence and the willingness to take a swing at the children-shaped things, even when one is down. Breaking their legs help. ]

Kids who stay past their bedtime.

[ It's only at the compliment does Villanelle look up to really take in her company. A stunner, really, though the playground grunge aesthetic isn't usually her cup of tea. She flashes a brilliant smile when she offers the ruffled lamp to her, clean end first of course, nodding at a nearby shed. ]

Take it. I'll find something else.

october 1st

[undiagnosed]

[archer's sitting on the edge of the bed opposite -- not in the same one, thank god. he can be lecherous creep sometimes, but that would be too much even for him. he looks over when he hears noise, evidently hadn't even realised someone else was in the room with him. it's not like he'd had time to check it all out.]

Uh... morning? [he winces, then holds his hands up.] Look, I don't remember much of last night, so if we got shitty on Green Russians, or something... I'm sure my valet can show you the door.

[a beat.]

Wait, is this your place? God, this is awful.

[mahem]

[ did they get drunk? had they engaged in a little p-in-v action? she aims a glance down at the sheer pink nightgown draped on her frame and wonders if he has some kind of weird 50s housewife fetish, which would explain a lot actually. including the separate beds. ]

Did you put me in this? [ she asks, the same time he voices the question about this being where she lives, and then: ] What? No. This aren't your digs?

[ because honestly, between the butt chin and the otherwise chiseled features, he kinda seems like he'd fit right in. ]

Nice jammies.

[undiagnosed]

Nnnno. To both of those. [of all the things archer is Into, this isn't actually one of them. he grimaces, burying the discomfort down deep and shifts to a wince when he stands up and the joints in his bad leg crack. guess he's been here all night.] Ugh, not my usual choice. Or... time period, apparently.

[he saunters to the wardrobe, apparently none too bothered by the fact this isn't actually his house, and pulls it open. looks through it with an increasing franticness.]

Wh-- SWEATERVESTS?! That's the only choice I have?! Okay, okay. Playtime's over. I'm gonna go downstairs and do some... hang on... [he crouches awkwardly, picking up a pair of loafers that'd been sitting at the bottom of the wardrobe then throws them back with disgust.] ...yeah, literally do some murder.

respect the dead

[redrighthanded]

[ Hellboy isn't exactly in the best shape, being smaller and much less crimson than usual, but there's still muscle in those broad shoulders and he can still pack a punch. Or, in this case, catch a bat being swung around into his face. His right hand isn't quite as effective as it used to be and it stings like nothing else as the wood slaps into his palm, but he doesn't let any of that show in his expression as he looks down at the little miss who just tried to take him out. ]

Hey! [ He plucks the cigar out of his mouth and gestures at her with it, not letting go of the bat yet. ] What's the big idea?

[mahem]

Uh, look around.

[ she hunches her shoulders, looking up at him with a wry curve to her mouth, and tries to give the bat a firm enough tug to slip it free of his grip. he's a strong son of a bitch, though, and she's been off her game too in a lot of ways lately, so she really only succeeds in tugging herself forward with a skid of her heels on the concrete, tilting her chin up in a defensive expression. ]

How was I supposed to know you weren't one of those... freaky things tryin' to sneak up on me, huh?

[redrighthanded]

Do I look like one of those freaky things?

[ He doesn't, for once. He does let go of the baseball bat though, once it's clear she's not going to fall over onto her ass when he does so. He's grouchy, but he's not cruel. ]

What's the plan after you hit them with the slugger?

don't be a square

[preaker]

[ So far, none of the punch she's found is spiked. This truly is Hell.

Camille stands there with a (non-spiked, horrendously normal) punch cup pressed to her mouth, eyes scanning the townsfolk with no real enthusiasm — mainly she's looking for clues, but it's hard to lie low and do that when every few moments, another prim and proper lady bobs up to her with a plate of this or that, or an insistence that she come meet who or other.

It's just like the parties Mama would throw, back when Camille was a girl. And just like then, she's literally forcing herself to stay here and put up with the mingling for as long as she can stomach it. This may not be her old Southern town, but parts of it are familiar in ways Camille is painfully accustomed to. For instance, when someone calls out to her in that cheerfully rising voice — like Camille's the most interesting thing on the planet — she knows the greeting is probably just because the woman wants to make sure that red lipstick she's sporting is noticed. Housewives are expected to be modest, and yet to make sure everyone knows how perfectly modest they're being. It's the paradox she'd grown up with. And gotten the hell out of Dodge from.

Now here she is being swept up by a prime example of how she might've turned out if she'd stayed in Wind Gap and let herself be preened the way Mama always wanted her to be. Camille blinks owlishly and grips her punch cup harder, tensing up as the woman wraps her arm through her own and leads her away. She's not used to closeness, and the sudden proximity makes her nervous.

....But the woman's leaning in, murmuring something, and Camille blinks again, this time pleasantly surprised. Thank god, she's not actually one of these drones. Not at all; in fact, this gal's clearly got an escape plan. ]

Hey, you. [ It comes out sounding like 'hay', Camille's voice glossed in a hazy Southern accent that gets amped up a little. She doesn't like the part, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know how to play it. ] I was wonderin' where you were. You ready to get a peek at those new heels I phoned you about? I haven't even taken 'em out of the box.

[ Contrary to the woman's cherry red, ideal housewife look going on, Camille's donned in a black long-sleeved top, tucked into a pair of dark grey pants. She looks more like the gloomy outcast — which is kind of exactly on point for her. ]

[mahem]

[ maybe harley's got an unconscious knack for being able to spot people who look like they're just as over it as she is — or maybe all those dark colors, black and grey in a sea of cream and varying shades of off-white, just call to her long before she makes the decision to openly stride across the street and hope that she's picked the right chick for this.

she, on the other hand, might look like she's blending in a little too well based on the wide-eyed way she's regarded at first, but a closer look at harley would clue anyone normal in on the fact that she might not be cut from the same cookie-cutter mold; the ends of her hair are still faintly tinted with pink and blue dye, and her skin is just a little too pale to be considered a normal tone.

but thank god this other woman catches on at just the right moment and even manages to meet her energy for some spontaneous improv — which prompts harley's face to split into a bigger, conspiratorial grin that isn't faked in any way. ]

Am I? You know I can't ever say no to shoes.

[ she winks, which probably isn't a necessary thing to do at this point, but there's an inward sigh of relief that actually becomes an outward one too as she positions herself between the other woman and the rest of the party. ]

You wanna let me sneak a look at 'em right now?

don't be a square

[fanoperator]

[Huaisang is all too glad to play along and escape from this party. Though he still uses male pronouns, he's been assigned a wife role in this place, and honestly he's enjoying that part of this nightmare thoroughly. He does look very cute in the fashion available in his closet, all of it nicely tailored to his form.]

We're the best of friends, [Huaisang agrees, happy to link arms with her and head toward his assigned home.] Nie Huaisang of-- [No, no point, and he's supposed to be using his 'husband's' family name.] Huaisang.

[mahem]

Love the dress. [ and she's so grateful for her new bosom buddy's ability to just roll with it that she almost doesn't hear one of the neighbors calling out to her to try and lure them back. ]

Just keep walkin', don't turn around. [ she mutters it under her breath, keeping their heads tipped close together as if they're sharing some confidence (which they sort of are, in a way). ]

Oh! I'm Harley, by the way. Harley Quinn. [ paired with a particularly brilliant grin as she gently pats his hand with her own. ]

always respect the dead

[the_caped_crusader]

Thought I'd go for a late night walk.

[ bruce catches her in his arms as she loses her footing, a romantic hero in the night. ]

Hello, Harley.

[mahem]

[ well, maybe these heels aren't so bad if she's got tall, dark and handsome here to spot her. ]

We know each other or somethin'?

[ because she would've definitely remembered him, although there is something about him that feels vaguely familiar, a resemblance she can't place her finger on, and it's nagging at the back of her brain as she squints up at his face. ]