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

[spaghettimonster]

[That screeching sound sure makes it obvious when Sans pulls up. And it's now twice as obvious which house is Papyrus's, as he's very visibly leaning and looking out a window at an exaggerated angle.]

Biting weirdos?? Sans, are you being chased by dogs???

[Absolutely nobody mentioned hungry dogs as a part of this whole festivity. It sounds like prank material, but of all skel- of all people Papyrus knows, his brother is one of the last to refuse to give people food, so it's not like he'd be getting tricked.

He can't see any dogs from the window, but - oh, wait, there's a whole group of trick-or-treaters chasing his brother, aren't there?]

just keeps using this one skeleton icon because it is The Mood

[ribticklers]

No, worse. [Biting humans. Sans looks generally kind of scratched up, actually. He's also bleeding from the side of the head and there's a pretty big dark spot on the sleeve of his left arm. Also, as fast as Sans can be when he really puts his mind to it, those kids are gaining at superhuman speeds.] 'S your door unlocked?

[Sans does not think he is going to be able to jump in through the window. Also even if he could he would smash right into Papyrus.]

add on extra layers to build a turtle shell and hide from zombies

[spaghettimonster]

Yes?? People have been visiting all night. [Of course his door's unlocked, imagine leaving it locked when expecting repeat guests. If he had to unlock it each time more kids came by, some would surely get bored and take the locked door as a refusal, and make good on their candy ultimatums before even issuing them to him. Papyrus is briefly indignant about this, as Sans should know about the trick-or-treaters, given he seems to be running from some...? Wait, that's strange.

The dim light of the jack-o-lanterns and street lamps isn't enough for Papyrus to recognize his brother's injuries for what they are, but between wanting to be sure he didn't lock the door, and wanting answers, he moves to open the door before Sans even reaches it.]

[ribticklers]

[One of the trick-or-treaters catches Sans by the foot just as the door opens. Sans pitches forward even as he kicks back to try and get the thing off him--momentum sends him skidding forward and falling face first into Papyrus's entryway, while that undead human thing--

Stops, finally.

Still on the floor, Sans laughs.] Hey. Thought I'd drop in.

[spaghettimonster]

[Still holding the door, Papyrus snorts back a laugh - more obviously than he would've as a skeleton, thanks to all the complications of breathing.] You've done just that!

[Before he can quip back further, details start standing out to him. The red on Sans's head, reflective in the entranceway's light, definitely not from scraping his head on the carpeted floor. The trick-or-treaters responsible for tripping his brother, loitering outside the door, remarkably soggy, staring in without speaking the traditional words.]

Oh. Right, I need to close the door, for you to knock on it. I'll just! Do that! [Click. And a notable lack of knocking to follow.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans just stays where he is on the floor. He can hear his heart beating in his ears and he hopes that's a normal human body thing that stops eventually and nothing's going to explode or anything.]

Yeah, they're not really into the "treat" part of trick or treat. But they don't bug houses with lit pumpkins.

[Sans didn't realize that at first, but rather after he had spent some time suffering their wrath. Sans's head wound is bleeding enough that it's going to start dripping onto Papyrus's carpet soon (though the wound isn't as bad as the blood suggests; head wounds just bleed a lot).]

[spaghettimonster]

Wow, I noticed the HHA cares a lot about decoration, but that's...[Apparently, the request for jack-o-lanterns was not a non sequitur from the topic of screaming. Good to know.

Papyrus loses another couple seconds staring out the front door's window, watching the soggy trick-or-treater turn and walk away, then crouches next to Sans to look at the injuries more closely. It's an alarming sight, twice the surprise now - not only is Sans injured yet casually chatting, but humans attacked him. Humans don't fling magic around, and he's found in Santa Rosita that there's far fewer casual fights for showing off moves than monsters have. Kids do it, and sometimes posturing men, but not chasing people around like this.]

How are... you feeling. That looks like, a lot of blood? [He's seen comics, remember, and that much blood is usually bad, Sans.]

[ribticklers]

Does it? [Sans can't really see his head wound, for obvious reasons.] I, uh, kinda banged my head turning the car. Should probably leave the driving to you. [So his head is definitely pounding, but he isn't sure if that's blood-related. Still, assuming Papyrus means his arm, he moves enough to roll back his sleeve. It looks like someone tried to eat his arm, because that is exactly what happened. Aside from the bite, there's long furrows where little fingernails clawed through skin.

If Sans had been in his normal body, he'd be dust right now. He's trying not to think about that.]

Maybe I should run it under water or somethin'. [Water cleans things, so it probably also cleans something like this?]

[spaghettimonster]

[Oh good, it's on his arm too. That certainly is a bite mark - not the same as, say, a dog's in a bone, but similar enough. And there's other scratches and marks welling up with even more liquid hp just spilling out everywhere.

They're both trying not to think about how differently this would be going if he was still a skeleton. Papyrus's eyes flicker back and forth between arm and head, with a grimace instead of any forced smile attempt.]

Maybe, with a shower. It's all on your head, too. [Hopefully that's just from Sans wiping his arm on his head after bumping it, or something.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans, having at least gone from lying in the hall to just sitting in it, reaches up reflexively to where he hit his head, staring at his hand as it comes back red and wet.]

Huh. Guess that's kinda a red flag. [Sans laughs, because this whole thing is starting to seem even more ridiculous to him.] Should probably wrap it with somethin' after I clean up, or I'm gonna drip all over everything.

[spaghettimonster]

[Even if it doesn't mean the same thing for humans, seeing Sans sitting up - unfalling down - is still something of a relief for Papyrus's inner jangling bones.]

Okay, no, up you go. [Did Sans want or need help getting to his feet? Because he's getting it.] You're going to shower before you drip everywhere. Then we're going to wrap you up, and it's going to heal. I have bandages! Bandages are good for cuts.

[Somebody's been looking into Boy Scouts materials, out of some idea that one of the kids needed to join it, and stocked the bathroom with a first aid kit. There's bandages, he remembers that much.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans is aware of the concept of bandages, at least, even if he has never really had cause to use them himself. He lets Papyrus help him up, testing his footing as subtly as possible. Okay, the headache is still there, but walking still seems to be working fine.]

Good thing all these weird human houses are built the same. [Sans only has to remember the one basic layout. But assuming Papyrus does not stop him, he will go off to try to wash off some of this blood! It is admittedly kind of hard when it is still coming out of his gross drippy human body, and also when soap makes all the open wounds sting in the worst way, but he will return with just the pajama pants he was wearing before on. He's sans-shirt (heh) because it's got blood on it.]

So there's a cut on my head too, but it's not actually that big. [He is not sure why it's bleeding so much, though it's settled down in the interim.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Far from stopping him, Papyrus outright accompanies his brother there, grabbing that first aid kit before letting Sans do his thing. The better to look through its contents and discern which will make the injury heal faster. If only the internet were a thing he could consult for help, here.

In fact, with a few more months of surface human life without internet, interspersed with more horror incidents, there's no saying what it will do to Papyrus' impulsive needs for house renovation. It's the same layout... for now.]

Smaller than the bite and scratches?? [Welcome back to outside the bathroom, have an open first aid kit.] You must have wiped your head. Multiple times.

[Papyrus is, none too subtly, frowning and looking his brother over for signs of anything amiss. The standing, talking, and updating about his status all seem like good signs.]

[ribticklers]

It's around here. [Sans has to move his hair around, but there's a thin line of red at his left temple. The injuries to his left arm are unquestionably worse.] Guess I should've slowed down more before I turned.

[It's easier to shrug off the cut on his head than the bite wound, so he's not commenting on that one for the moment.]

[spaghettimonster]

You have to lean into the turn! Or tie some pillows to the frame. [This doesn't help now, but if Sans feels the need to drive away from violent decor enforcers again, hopefully he'll remember this great tip.

But he's also standing to better inspect that thin line of red. Is it getting a little redder, while he watches? If it's not, then he'll just offer the bandages again. Wrap it up for the cloth to work its uncertain magic. If it is... he's going to express more concerns.]

[ribticklers]

I'll keep some pillows in the back if I've ever gotta run away from weirdos again. [Someone needs to tell them about seatbelts, probably.

The head injury is still bleeding, but not as much. Kind of a lazy trickle at this point. His arm is definitely still bleeding, though.]

[spaghettimonster]

It can only help! [He's a little distracted, on a positivity autopilot, while he squints at the injuries. At least the head is only a little trickle. With a bandage and some pressure, the rest of the blood will stay right in there, right??]

I think your head is okay. It's cut... but it's small. Nothing like your arm. [Which is still worrying. Bandages time.] Let's wrap them both up!

[ribticklers]

Yeah, sure. Whaddya do, just tie 'em on? [Sans is starting to think he should look up human first aid at some point.]

[spaghettimonster]

I was reading the manual, it says.... [He re-consults the small first aid manual included in the kit, and starts reading from the Bleeding section.] 'Apply pressure to the bleeding points... with finger covered by gauze... or by a compress of gauze, kept in place by a roller bandage...'

[There's no explanation of what a "roller bandage" is, and he frowns at the book before lingering nerves get the best of him.]

Okay!! I think, you are supposed to hold it in place. But... tying it might be better. [Not to say Sans would forget or give up on holding it, but maybe the less effective tying would be best.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans is contemplating "roller bandage", too, but in a much less serious way that involves trying to figure out how putting a bandage on a roller skate would help things.] Great, sounds easy. You tie the stuff on, and I can stand here and do nothing. [He's great at doing nothing.]

[spaghettimonster]

I will do that, because I know it's tricky, to tie something to your own arm. [He unrolls the long bandage, a verb that would really be a hint if he were less frazzled by the night's events, and wraps it around Sans's arm, then contemplates.]

I think... Yes, I'm going to wrap it a couple times. There's a lot of excess! And more wrappings can only make more pressure.

[ribticklers]

[Sans does at least hold his arm out for this wrapping process. The blood soaks into the bandage instead of dripping all over, so this is definitely improvement. It can't be a good thing to have that stuff just coming out all over the place.]

Yeah, can't hurt, 's long as you don't wrap it too tight. [Then it would probably hurt.] How long d'you think human bodies take to heal, anyway? [Not having healing magic available sure is inconvenient.]

[spaghettimonster]

I don't know... Human movies have all those hospital scenes. With doctors, and casts, and things. [Wrap, wrap, wrap as he bites his lip with concentration and worry. Not to say monsters don't have longterm care for illnesses or poisons, or injuries that heal slowly and scar, but healing magic can cover a lot of the lesser injuries. Not having it... It makes him wonder just how much more durable humans need to be.]

Let me know if it's too tight! [Or if he thinks it is. It's hard to tell, with how squishy everything outside the bones can be. Too much pressure, and things start turning white...]

[ribticklers]

[Sans wiggles his arm a little when he thinks it won't disturb Papyrus's wrapping too much.] Feels okay, I think. [He's not sure what a properly-wrapped arm should feel like, but it doesn't hurt or anything.] Hey, maybe I'll get a scar. I could make up a cool story about it.

[It would be a very dumb story that would change every time.]

[spaghettimonster]

Bit by pumpkin enforcers isn't cool enough?

[Still that edge of nerves to his laughter, because he doesn't want to discourage the absurd stories Sans would spin about it. But there's still that slower wound on his head to worry about, isn't there?