TDM - JANUARY 2021

[robbies]

TEST DRIVE MEME - JANUARY 2021

Good to the last gasp.
CW: gaslighting, potential mentions and depictions of trauma and other problematic material, body horror, dolls, violence

---

“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 outside of it carrying faintly, it all becomes very clear—

Something is horribly wrong.

---

JANUARY 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, the morning news is playing. The newscaster, a man in a gray suit and horn-rimmed glasses, keeps shuffling his paperwork on his desk as black and white footage of people in the midst of celebration — throwing streamers, wearing paper hats, toasting flutes of bubbly liquid — is interspersed between his droning report: ”New Year's Eve was in full swing last night as citizens from all over Santa Rosita came together to ring in 1961. A surge in ginger ale and sparkling cider beverage sales was reported by Honeybees as early as eight o'clock in the evening, a boon for the store…“

---

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. CLOWN AROUND. If December was a time for sweet treats and good food, January is the month where everyone is trying to unload their leftovers. Who better to enjoy them than you, the newest family on the block? Your neighbors have quite a bit of food to share: Throughout the month, they'll stop by to say hello, bringing a new sugary dish with them each time. As always, jello molds are a staple. One plate turns into three turns into five, and by the end of the first week of January, you're likely to end up with a collection of jiggling pink, green, and orange lumps taking up space in your fridge. From mountains of Whip 'n Chill to Broken Window Glass cake, you'd be forgiven in thinking that there's no end to it. And yet, there's the occasional exception. Someone comes by with a Bundt cake lathered in vanilla icing and topped with rainbow sprinkles. Were it not for the giant candy clown head topping it, it would almost look good enough to eat. "There's a rumor going around that you've been a bit under the weather, so I thought this would cheer you up!" they say, right before thrusting the technicolor nightmare into your hands, the clown's dead pink frosted eyes staring up at you. Your neighbor is quick to tell you to eat it while the icing is still fresh (you never know who might lick it off when you're not looking, eh kids?), but not that the clown itself is made out of styrofoam. That's something you'll just have to find out for yourself when you take it back inside and start chowing down!

B. SNOW DAY

What awakens you one cold Friday morning isn't the blare of your alarm clock or your family getting ready to start their day or even the chilly air that tickles your toes as they poke out from the bottom of your covers, but the sound of hooting and hollering outside your window. The sight that awaits you when you go to investigate is something out of a Norman Rockwell painting: The entire neighborhood is outside, playing and carrying on in the snow. While everyone was sleeping, Santa Rosita got four inches of snow, more than enough for the schools to close but not enough to stop everyone from enjoying it.

And enjoy it they are! Children build snowmen in their front yards while their fathers work on shoveling their driveways. Most, however, are busy erecting snow forts in their yards and the middle of the street, running back and forth as they collect ammunition for an ongoing snowball fight that takes up half of the neighborhood. Nobody is spared from their assault, not even the adults, and especially not the newly arrived ones who leave the house. Good luck getting the mail, mom and dad!

"Come on! There's plenty of snow!" one young boy yells at you over a snowdrift. "You can join my team!"

"Nuh-uh!" another boy shoots back. "You can join my team!"

And on and on it goes. Well, for the pacifists among you, making snow angels is always an option!

---

THROUGHOUT JANUARY.

CW: gaslighting, potential mentions and depictions of trauma, and other problematic material

There’s no business like show business! And business is hopping at the Starlight Drive-In, which has been boasting about its all-new film premiering on January 2nd and playing all month long. The critics are raving, the townspeople are flocking, and plans to go to the drive-in seems to be all anyone can talk about. “Make sure you get there early to see the serials,” many of them suggest, eyes wide with excitement. “I couldn’t look away!” Whether you come with your family, your friends, or simply come on your own, the lot is packed, Robbies and normal townsfolk alike beaming as they hook the individual speakers onto their cars. Apropos of the cold weather, the concession stand has added seasonal items to their menu, serving up hot chocolate and kettle corn in addition to its usual soda and popcorn. Watching a movie against a backdrop of gently falling snow while you're sipping on steaming chocolate and melted marshmallows has a certain je nais se quoi to it that even you have to admit is appealing. At last, when it's finally dark enough to start, the projector clicks on from the booth in the back of the lot and the movie begins. A. COMING ATTRACTIONS. The movie, Curse of the Doll People, is a horror flick. A real chill-o-rama, starring actors you've never heard of playing a group of archeologists who unknowingly trigger a deadly curse that sets a group of murderous living dolls upon them. The poster pasted on the ticket booth promises it'll be the most fun you'll have screaming. Unfortunately, you have to sit through several minutes of previews first. The coming attractions aren't anything special — a bunch of westerns, a romance, even a beach musical. Far from being bored to tears like you might be, the people in the cars around you are glued to the screen, popping snacks into their mouths and whispering their commentary among themselves. The movie is the reason why everyone's here, sure, but you don't just get one flick out of going to the pictures! There's also the serials, little 5—10 minute long chapter plays that tell a story in pieces. Nothing can beat those, and when the first one starts, everyone sits in rapt attention as if it were the feature presentation itself. But as the scene opens up on a sight that is instantly familiar to you, and your own face stares back at you from the projection screen, it becomes clear that this is no ordinary film. You watch your memories play out in grainy black and white footage, aired for all the world to see. Or perhaps not — though you may not realize it, the movie playing out on the screen differs from person to person. No one sees the same thing. The person next to you might see one of their worst fears come to life, whether imagined or real, practical or fantastic. You might see one of the worst moments of your life — the death of a friend, your hated enemy bringing you to the brink of death, your absolute lowest point — exactly the way you remember it... save for the way your double on the screen occasionally turns to face the audience, staring directly at you with a knowing smirk and a wink. Or the way your loved ones will sometimes go off-script, gazing at you with pleading eyes as they beg you to help them. The people of Santa Rosita will see an exciting battle between two pirate ships, swashbuckling and cannon fire in place of the traumas you're witnessing. When the serial ends on a cliffhanger, much to the disappointment of everyone around you, it's almost a mercy. "Tune in next week for the thrilling second part!" Well, you will, won't you?

---

END OF THE MONTH.

CW: body horror, dolls, violence

Aside from the horror of the drive-in, January might seem to be passing calmly... until one night, something changes. In the middle of the night, once you fall asleep in your comfortable bed (or on your couch, or with your head lolling against the kitchen table), a nightmare comes to you. The shift from whatever dreams you were having to the cold, dark void you find yourself standing in happens gradually and quietly. So too does the image that plays out in your mind's eye: From out of the darkness, a featureless mannequin stands ramrod straight, facing you with its arms pressed rigidly to its sides. It has no face, no identifying marks, no features at all. It's a blank slate in every sense of the word... until it isn't. Slowly, the material of the lower half of its face begins to split as a searing pain tears through your own, as if invisible fingers are ripping your lips off inch by inch. The slit on the doll's face widens and deepens until, finally, mercifully, its new mouth opens as yours disappears, replaced by a flat, smooth barrier of skin. Like it was never there to begin with. The pain returns, this time in your arms and neck — right as the doll's own begin to jerk. Your joints are hardening, seizing up as the doll's arms go from minutely twitching to slowly flexing. While every nerve and bone from your fingertips all the way up to your shoulders grows heavy, the doll tilts its head and looks down at its hands, as if seeing them for the first time. By the time it takes its first step, you've taken your last: the pain has spread to your feet, ankles and toes hardening and locking into place. Every part of you is claimed this way; what isn't taken by force simply fades from your body and shifts into being onto the doll's, your skin replacing its cloth body, your clothing dressing it, your hair filling out its head. Your tongue goes numb as the licks its newfound lips, coarse cloth and batting surging up from your lungs and all the way to the back of your throat. By the time it's over, you can't move. You can no longer breathe. All you can do is stare at the perfect, eyeless double of yourself standing before you. As your eyes begin to burn, the last thing you see before everything goes black is the sly curve of a smile — your smile — before the face wearing it turns away and walks back into the darkness. Luckily, you wake up to a room full of sunshine and the distant sound of traffic as the neighborhood gets ready for another beautiful day. The morning air feels cold and dry on your skin. You're you. As much as you've always been. Right?

A. DOPPELGANGER.

It's the kind of morning that makes you want to sing. Where the sky was once dull and grey, it's now a deep blue. Barring the usual hustle and bustle on the streets of Shadyside, the first sound that greets you when you wake up is the steady beat of water trickling outside your window as the snow begins to gently melt under the rays of the sun. You may even hear the chirp of a bird! January, in all its dreariness, is nearly at an end.

When you leave the room to go downstairs — or upstairs, if you slept in the living room — the house is quiet and flooded with sunlight. With how perfectly silent everything is, it's easy to mistake the calm for solitude and think you're alone.

This is not the case.

Waiting to greet you is a familiar figure. If you go downstairs, you'll see it sitting in your kitchen with its head bowed and its arms hanging limply at its sides; if upstairs, lying in your bed on its back. There's no mistaking who it is. Even at a distance, their hair, face, clothes and features all instantly recognizable, and you know who it is before you even fully register their presence:

You.

Motionless, your doppelganger looks more puppet than person. Its chest is still, not a single breath leaving its mouth. Its eyes are closed. They snap open when you get closer to it, wide enough to see the whites, as its head jerks up to look straight at you. In a staccato imitation of your voice, it chirps at you:

"Hi!"

"Good morning!"

"Hello!"

"Rise and shine!"

Your clone is a good imitation, but not a perfect one. Its movements are stiff and uncoordinated, like a marionette being commanded by unseen strings. Though its cheeks are rosy, its skin is pale and almost glossy with the texture of newly polished porcelain. None of these setbacks bother it in the very least. If left alone, it goes about the house mimicking your morning routine, though given how awkward just walking is for it, it's almost certain to do a very bad job. Still, it tries its hardest, following you all day around the neighborhood, trying to imitate your movements — all with a smile!

That is, until you become aggressive with it.

It doesn't take much to set your doppelganger off — a simple shove will do it. When that happens, its eyes will do the impossible and open even wider, its mouth yawning into a wail that pitches louder and louder. That's the point when it will lunge at you. Its hands will try to go for your throat, but not always. It's resourceful enough to improvise with whatever it has around it, whether that be a kitchen knife, a paperweight, or even a letter opener. Luckily for you, they're fragile. Just hitting them is enough to crack and chip away at their skin. With enough strength, their limbs can even come off. Unluckily, they don't stay down for long; even a severed appendage can be popped back into its proper ball-jointed place.

All the while, they never stop childishly whining and shrieking at you.

"Not nice!"

"Why are you so mean?!"

"Not nice, not nice, NOT NICE!"

The only way to shut them up for good is to keep pummeling them until they're nothing but a pile of doll parts. But be thorough — even a mouth that's nothing but a shard of porcelain can still talk.

---

OOC INFO

Hello, and welcome to We're Still Here's second 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 February 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. Additionally, starting today comments made to the TDM will now count towards Activity Check. Current players are permitted to use up to five comments from it for this month's Activity Check — half of the required amount to pass. The other five must be made within the game's communities.

If you would like to have January or other winter-themed 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.

A note about the drive-in theater: Players are in full control over what memories, phobias, or fears the serials before the movie will depict. You can also specify whether or not other characters will be able to see your character's serial. Be sure to label your threads with relevant content warnings if needed!

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Comments

[wittingly]

( That hey is so abrupt and commanding it actually startles Ian from his breathless place on the ground, head reeling back on the pavement to get his first blurry look at his apparent knight in shining armor. It's not much of a look, it's funny how you have a hard time focusing when your diaphragm's skipping like a record.

It lurches back into action about the time he starts tugging Ian back, and he sucks down air like a fucking free-diver after a close call. He manages to get his heels up under him at some point, and it's with some graceless flailing that he winds up back on his feet.

And then the dude goes and fucking tackles it. )

Oh, shit--

( Bitten out in alarm, indecisively frozen because his instinct had been to make a fucking break for it — except it would have been for both of them to make a break for it. He can't just bolt now that somebody's intervened on his behalf, can't leave him there grappling with something that probably wants to eat his soul or wear his fucking face or something. )

Okay— okay, okay, okay okay—

( Breathed out like he's gearing up, accompanied by one incredulous shake to his head — can't believe he's fucking doing this — and yeah, okay, there he goes. Back into the house after them.

Around the corner is his "son's" bedroom; he darts in and then back out again quickly. )

Look out-

( An urgent warning, and as soon as he's clear he's bringing a baseball bat down on the thing's fucking head.

Sort of, like, his own head. It's stomach churning, actually. If he stops for even a second to think about it he's gonna lock up more stiffly than whatever this thing is. )

[hydraulics]

[ They hit the ground, hard; and then things get a little ... hard to follow. What Mace had mistaken for flesh and bone turns out to be something far more porcelain and hollow. It’s hollow enough that it gives Mace the briefest of pauses, because he’d been expecting the resistance that comes from tackling a tall, broad-shouldered adult male, not ... this. There’s a sickening crunch as the full brunt of Mace’s weight lands on the doppelgänger beneath him.

Then the thing takes a deep breath, letting out a truly horrific sound that nearly splits Mace’s ear-drums as they grapple together on the wooden floor, its gangly limbs writhing like a wooden spider as Mace kicks at them viciously. The scream, though; it catches Mace off-guard, and he grunts in wordless shock and bewilderment, one hand instinctively going up to cover the wide, black circle of its open mouth. In hindsight, incredibly bad idea. ]

Son of a bitch—

[ The next thing Mace knows, his palm is being ruthlessly mauled by sharp, deceptively fragile teeth. He yanks his hand back with a pained yell, ramming his other forearm against the chin of the doppelgänger, squeezing that toothy mouth shut with his entire weight against it. Contrary to expectations, it struggles underneath him even harder; his bleeding hand forms an angry fist, and he reels it back, and —

Fuck, he means to give it a solid knockout punch, he really does. Lights out, good night, the end. But the face looking up at him, it. Those eyes. Christ, he can’t shake the memory of this same guy crying silently on the hood of a car. What he must’ve been seeing; what this place must’ve been making him see. It’s not really him, Mace knows that, but it’s wearing his goddamn face, and ...

Look out— ]

Holy shit.

[ Mace jerks back right on cue, just as the real McCoy swings a baseball bat down on his mirror image’s head, full force. Wood meets porcelain meets wood, and it’s not pretty. There’s an awful splintering noise, and the next shriek out of the thing is oddly discordant, like a piano being unceremoniously unwired; the bat lifts, and the mess underneath is enough to have Mace quickly scrambling to his feet.

The dude’s bashing in the skull of his own clone. That’s gonna do some serious psychological damage if Mace doesn’t put a stop to it right now — and psychological damage is exactly what this goddamn place wants to do to them all. ]

I need you to listen, man. [ Words gone low and urgent as Mace grabs the baseball bat, not trying to yank it out of the guy’s hands but stilling it. Uses it to maneuver him back until he’s got him against a wall, face-to-face, gazes locked. Behind them, the thing gives another ugly wail, limbs cracking into place joint by joint. Won’t be long before it’s upright again. ]

My hand. First-aid kit. Should be one in your kitchen. Go there. Find it. Wait. For. Me.

[wittingly]

( Ian isn't stupid, he knows busywork when he sees it. Hell, he's given it before, he's a fucking teacher. He knows he's being sent off so that this guy can do-- something, whatever it is he thinks Ian shouldn't see. He doesn't know if it's because he's liability in what could be another fight, or if it's because he feels guilty about doing it in front of Ian, or if he's just trying to keep him from watching himself get absolutely smashed into pieces.

But.

Either way, he's grateful. More than that, he's finding it really, really difficult to say no when the guy's face is right in front of his, eyes steely and confident, orders clear and direct. There's a comfort in the certainty he has where Ian feels less than none.

He nods once, shaky and stuttered though it may be, too affixed to this to glance over at the porcelain version of himself reassembling.

Once he's let up, he leaves the bat with Mace, skirts around... himself and the shattered bits of his face with a lurch in his chest, and deliberately drops to his knees behind the counters so he can't see it anymore. Focuses his shaking hands on tearing haphazardly through the contents beneath his sink.

Passes over it three fucking times before his eyes snap back into focus and he actually sees it. After that comes the adrenaline-fueled hyper-fixation on laying out the contents, repeating to himself in circular thought loops what exactly he'll need and the process by which he'll use each thing. They're lined up perfect and orderly on the counter, and when he runs out of that, a sharp- )

Fuck--

( -slips out of his mouth of its own accord. It's accompanied by a sudden spasm and jerk to his hands, upending the kit and its remaining contents so they spill out the side a little.

That's okay. Gives him something new to focus on, putting it all away correctly until Mace comes back. )

[hydraulics]

[ The eye contact is deliberate, and Mace is glad it’s working exactly as intended — as long as those eyes stay locked on his own, the guy won’t have to see the bits and pieces of his own face, mangled and scattered across the hardwood. Won't get taken into the trap this place is setting for him. In terms of liability, he's more of an asset — he's actually done more work than Mace, whose biggest accomplishment thus far has been to get his knuckles turned into a literal sandwich for the doppelgänger.

But it'd be safer for him away from here, both physically and mentally. Mace doesn't even need to know his name to be able to pinpoint immediately that he's a civilian; it was in the haphazard way he'd fallen back onto the pavement, and it's in the way he's holding himself now. The set of his shoulders, rigid and broad but hunched in. The uncertainty he can see in those dark, stricken eyes.

A shaky nod follows, and Mace takes the bat into one hand to give him a firm shoulder-clap with his other palm, both to acknowledge and to encourage. Belatedly, he realizes it’s the palm that’s injured, that he’s got blood all over the guy’s shirt — but it’s all they've got time for. ]

Wwwhyyyy. Aaare yOUUuu?

[ A very good question, but it's one that Mace has absolutely no intention of answering. Porcelain limbs go snap, crackle, and pop, and the thing's already upright — on both hands and feet, like some kind of terrifying human insect, Jesus — but this time, Mace is ready, and it's a one-sided fight.

( First things first. Get rid of that distracting face. )

It doesn't take too long before the doppelgänger has a makeshift hood over its head — courtesy of Mace's shirt — arms and legs tied together with its own clothing. Strung up a bit like a Thanksgiving dinner, which is frankly the last mental image Mace needs, considering who's in the kitchen right now, but immobilizing it does one fantastic thing. The thing stops its ear-shattering wails, clearly confused by the sudden onset of darkness and muffled silence around its head. Like an enormous, featherless bird tricked into thinking that it's nighttime.

Instead, it's resorted to making strange clicking noises as Mace drags it downstairs to the basement, interspersed with an inquisitive refrain of Rise and. Shine? Rise and shine. Rise! And shine? Rise. And? Shine! that he can't help but find oddly pathetic, even as he sets about dismantling it limb from limb. With that simulacrum of a face out of sight, it's ... easier. Just another machine, that's all. He's used to machines, he's used to hammering and melding and burning. Nothing to it.

By the time he heads back into the kitchen, there's a distinct scent of smoke hanging around him. His approach is loud and slow, not because he's tired or hurt, but because — well, trying to give the other guy ample warning. In case he's still. Spooked. He's by the counter, back turned and muscles still tensed, putting a few scattered items back into the first aid kit. Mace pauses a few feet away, leaning against the fridge, watching him. ]

So. If you ever have to fight me in the future, at least you know a good way to slow me down.

[ And Mace's lips twitch a little at his own joke, as he holds out the hand with the jagged bite. It stretches from the inner knuckle of his ring finger to base of his palm. ]

[wittingly]

( So far gone is he in his preoccupation, he doesn't even notice the blood on his shirt. He won't for a while yet, probably until he gets a look in the mirror the next time he feels safe on his own for five fucking minutes. That'll take a little bit — at least until the adrenaline dies out.

He thinks — he's pretty sure the footsteps heading for him are the guy and not that, but something about the notion of turning around has him locking up. God, he'd be such a fucking goner in a horror movie situation.

Except.

This is one, isn't it? And he's still alive. Jesus fucking Christ, go figure. The drive-in was one thing, this is... not just purely psychological horror, but a very real threat to go along with it.

He tries his best to push out a breath of a laugh at the joke. It's more a gesture than anything; he reaches out to turn the tap on. Does his best to return a line, pretend for the both of them he has some measure of composure right now. )

Yeah, I think I'll... hold off on that. Kind of saw the beta test of it just now and it didn't end so great for me.

( Granted, the me Mace disassembled was somehow kind of hollow and fragile. Still, there's a dichotomy between Ian winding up on his ass and Mace tackling the thing to the ground. )

Um, do you wanna- put your hand in here, please.

( Under the running water; beside him, so that he can follow through with that plan he mapped out in his head this whole time. )

[hydraulics]

[ His lips twitch further at that breath of amusement, the friendly retort that follows. ]

What, you don't like getting hammered?

[ Both a pun and ironic, because Mace himself has zero taste for alcohol. But — too soon, maybe; and he's barely finished quipping before he pulls his lips into a straight, contemplative line. Takes that last step forward until he's standing next to Ian, and obediently holds out his hand underneath the steady stream of tap water. ]

Sorry.

[ Not for the joke — which was hilarious — but. For what he had to do, just now. Even if it was out of sight, Mace can't imagine it was any less rattling for the guy to know what was happening to ... to something that was almost identical to him. It was human nature, to be protective of your own self-image; once, during downtime on the Icarus, he'd doodled a ponytail onto a hangman. It'd been Cassie's turn, and she'd given him a very pointed glance. ]

It had to be done. [ And Mace thinks he might be preaching to the choir, because this guy hadn't had any qualms taking a baseball bat to his own head. But that had been under a lot of stress, adrenaline. Fear, maybe. Survival instincts kicking in, where self-preservation becomes paramount.

Things look a little different once the danger wears off, he knows. ]

[wittingly]

( Another puff of a laugh, a little more real this time. Best to leave the double entendre alone in front of a fucking stranger, but regardless the absurdity of it so hot on the heels of chaos is just... it's hard not to find it at least a little hysterical. )

No, no--

( He's quick to put that to rest. )

Dude, you-- like, probably saved my life. Don't apologize.

( Just a touch of incredulous amusement tinting the last bit.

His fingers wrap around Mace's wrist gently, angling it to check for -- Jesus. To check for shards of broken porcelain teeth or... something. When it seems clear and the blood's largely rinsed away, he shuts off the tap. Steps around behind Mace and them takes point at his other side, where his tools are laid out in order of use. )

I'm just...

( A slow shake of his head, which up to this point had been mainly tipped toward the floor. He breaks that trend with a sudden sharp look at Mace, brow wrinkling up. )

What the fuck was that? Did you see that thing? I mean-- yeah, obviously you saw it, you... like... deep sixed it into oblivion and everything, but like... What the fuck, man?

( He does at least manage to multitask and rip the little plastic-y foil tab off the top of the fresh bottle of peroxide he's pulled out. Who the hell knows what kind of gross shit was floating around in that creepy mouth? )

[hydraulics]

[ No pointed glances. No moment of distrust where, after the adrenaline begins to taper down, the stranger looks at him with narrowed eyes like maybe Mace is the real danger here, considering how easily he’d just ... murdered something. Instead, his apology is rebuffed with good humour, and the fingers around his wrist are gentle as they probe for bits of porcelain. They angle his hand so carefully underneath the water that, for all that it stings like a bitch and a half, not a single hiss leaves Mace’s lips.

You probably saved my life — and honestly speaking, Mace isn’t so sure that he deserves that credit. It’d taken the baseball bat to wake him the fuck up, otherwise he’d probably have a matching gash on his other hand, and he opens his mouth to say so. Except. The water finally runs clear, and Ian turns the tap off before he moves to Mace’s other side for the rest of the kit, and ...

Well, Mace can’t remember the last time someone gave him triage. Not this attentively, anyway. Even the space frostbite had been something he’d treated for himself, after Corazon helped him to the medbay. So. He gets a little distracted, watching; and when those sharp eyes glance up at him abruptly, they meet his own — intent, curious. ]

What the fuck, indeed. [ Amused, stretching out the “the” until it sounds like thee, because that oughta be the slogan for this goddamn whitewashed hellhole. Then he gives a short, quick exhale, puffing out his cheeks. The peroxide burns, but Mace has had worse, and the touches to his hand are still gentle. He keeps it still as Ian works. ]

This place, man, I can’t explain it. It’s like. Whatever pulled us here knows ... exactly what to do, to mess with our heads. Or worse. [ That drive-in, for instance — but Mace doesn’t bring that up just yet. ]

Around Christmas, Santa’s reindeer tried to murk everybody. The snowmen had corpses inside ‘em. Possible voo doo dolls. Monster in the lake. And fuckin’ mistletoe over my doorstep, if you can believe it.

[ Hurr hurr hurr. A pause, and then Mace adds, ]

Y’know, I didn’t expect you to actually first-aid me, so. Thank you.

[wittingly]

( His fingers are gentle, but not soft. He touches and manipulates with care, but there are callouses on nearly every inch of his hands, save for directly in the center of his palms. He has to look down to do the work, but he periodically glances up at Mace as often as he can, concern and wariness etched deeply into his features — not of Mace, but of what he's talking about.

Bacitracin comes after the peroxide to soothe the burn; antibacterial but also a numbing agent. It's a goopy gel, but he doesn't bother with cotton pads or any other buffer — it's his fingertips directly into the stuff, and the stuff directly onto Mace's wounds. )

You're welcome— murk?

( The first half automatic and absent, the second half not quite judgmental. Maybe a little too subdued to be teasing, but definitely some shade between the two.

Hasn't heard that word in a minute.

Not really what he should be taking away from this. )

I don't fucking... What is this town, man? I'm not sure I didn't, like, crack my head on something and this is one of those crazy fucking coma dreams where the television is playing in the hospital room, you know, and it bleeds into whatever you're dreaming? Like somebody left on Stepford Wives back to back with a horror movie. And you've been here since Christmas?

[hydraulics]

[ The pain in his hand is slowly melting from a sharp burning to a persistent, but dulled ache. Soothed by the antibacterial — and Mace’s hand moves underneath the application of it, just a small, involuntary movement. Fingers flexing a bit, palm twitching inward before it opens up again. The wound is clean and ready for being bandaged up, at least until Mace can get his hand — well, hand — on some old-school sutures. ]

Murk.

[ Confirmed gravely, but amusement lingers in his eyes as Ian keeps talking, joined swiftly by a little confusion at Stepford wives. He doesn’t ask — not yet, his attention still flickering between the other guy’s face and his hands. As Ian finishes up, Mace can feel the graze of callous after callous; he registers it subconsciously more than anything else — a touch that’s comfortably familiar because it reminds him of his own.

The hands of a guy who earns a living with them — working hands — and Mace finds himself growing more curious as to what kind of civilian he is. Construction? No, he doesn’t look the type. Artist, maybe. Sculptor. Woodworker. Hm. ]

Coma dreams is what I’d been thinking too, at first. Or a pre-mortem hallucination. But it just kept getting more and more ... intricate. To the point where you’d start wondering, like — how the fuck would I be capable of creating a dream like this. You know?

[ He’d read somewhere, once, that your brain couldn’t invent new faces — that anyone you’d see in your own mind had to be someone you’d laid eyes on, outside of it. And Mace knows for certain that he’s never seen the guy in front of him before; he thinks he’d remember it, if he did. ]

Far as I can guess, this place is either a simulation, or some alternate dimension. [ Or — and the humour in his voice, in his eyes, goes a touch dry as he adds, ] Maybe it’s Hell. Never believed in that before, but it would explain a lot. That fuckin’ film reel the other night, for instance.

[wittingly]

( A gauze pad is next, settled corner to corner over the wound as best as he can. Ace bandage follows to secure it all, bind firm but not so tight as to cut off circulation. He fastens it into place with a small metal butterfly bracket, and gives Mace permission to move with one absent nod.

After that comes dutifully washing the bacitracin and blood off of his own hands.

He stills momentarily underneath the water at the mention of that film reel, then resumes a little more slowly, head dipping. Squeaks the faucet off, starts drying his hands with his eyes firmly on the dish towel. )

Yeah... no, yeah, that would track with hell, I guess.

( A carefully neutral murmur, and the new preoccupation with packing away the first aid kit. )

But, I don't know about it being a pre-mortem DMT trip. I mean, I've done DMT, it doesn't exactly put you in suburbia. It's more like some... sacred geometry alien beings heaven is the fifth dimension style bullshit. And... I mean I guess it would take some, like, real fucking meta self-awareness to have a conversation with somebody in my own imagination about how I'm in a coma dream, so... I guess we can rule that out.

[hydraulics]

[ Well, stick him in a blue dress and call him Alice, because this is just getting curiouser and curiouser. Mace’s head cocks to the side at the mention of DMT, at the steady, slightly puzzling stream of words that follow — either the guy’s a hell of a nerd, or Mace is completely off about his line of work. Might be both.

But what intrigues him more is what Ian says before that. The way he says it; the way he goes still. Yeah, that would track with hell. Ducked head, averted gaze, voice pitching low and toneless.

And Mace thinks to himself, I saw you, I saw you that night, eyes following Ian closely for a moment. It’s like a secret, almost. Like a perpetual pebble in his boot, prodding at him stubbornly, wanting to be told. He’s not used to keeping things under wraps, and subtlety has never been his strongest suit. Neither has tact, for that matter. But self-awareness is something Mace has in spades — and it’s telling him right now that saying what’s on his mind would only come across the wrong way. So he just says the part that’s actually bothering him: that he’d seen, and hadn’t helped. ]

I’m sorry.

[ A little abruptly, and without any explanation following after it, his own gaze dropping to the bandage around his hand. Having been given permission to move his hand, he draws it back finally, flexing absently to test the strength of the binding. It’s done well. Firm and secure, but not enough to be an impediment, which is good. He might need it in case any more of those things decide to pop in for a visit.

Which, speaking of. ]

I wish I could say that this is as worse as it gets here, but I have a feeling this place is just getting started. Pretty much the only thing we can’t rule out is imminent danger, so. You any good at fighting, Babe Ruth?

[wittingly]

( Ian's anxiety manifests in the form of energy, a semi-constant compulsion to be doing something with his hands. He channels it into work, into fixing things, but without that option it instead takes shape in the form of pacing over to the fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer. He doesn't even ask, doesn't check, just automatically starts opening them by turning one upside down and leveraging their caps against each other.

He hasn't bought a bottle opener yet. Considering the fifty other ways he knows how to do it, it didn't exactly strike as an urgent need.

His preoccupation with this keeps him from honing in too hard on that apology. )

The last fight I got into was in P.E. in eighth grade. Jenny Kim shoved me into a chain link fence and I was pretty much down for the count.

( There's humor in honesty. He offers over one of the bottles. )

So no, not really my area. Which is great, you probably just wasted your time. If another one of those shows up and I don't have pants on, it's game over.

[hydraulics]

[ It’s not that Mace is a teetotaler or anything like that, but he’s never really seen much need for alcohol, beer or otherwise. Last time he had a taste was about a week before the ship launch, a small glass of celebratory wine. But he takes the proffered bottle without a word, holding it one hand while listening to the brief yet intense tale of Jenny Kim and the Chain Link Fence.

The cap’s already been popped off. Someone’ll have to drink it eventually, and just refusing it off the bat seems unnecessarily rude after a life-threatening encounter. ]

Sounds traumatic.

[ Musingly, swilling the bottle in his hand without taking a sip, before adding with a small grin, ]

The fence thing, I mean. Although I suppose it could go the other way, too. Heard an old folklore like that once, about this demon who’d run away if its victim dropped trou. Alternatively, I could stick around for a while, just in case.

[ As he speaks, an idea occurs to Mace, and he pushes away from where he’d been leaning against the counter to look behind him. Scanning the kitchen entrance, the area outside it, taking stock as much as he is doing a little visual perimeter sweep — ]

Could puppet-proof the place too, make sure they can’t break in when you’re alone.

[wittingly]

( There's a mock-sincere nod at sounds traumatic. He deserved it, frankly. You don't talk shit about someone's favorite book without stirring up some strong emotions. They got along great after they worked it out. Thus began Ian's tendency toward diplomacy.

Mace carries on with the most ridiculous folklore ever, and it startles a laugh at out of him. Normally he'd maintain better, stay cool and lob the joke back, but his nerves are still frazzled. Humor keeps catching him off-guard, and it's a tiny little reprieve every couple of seconds. He appreciates it.

Puppet-proofing. Huh.

His eyebrows hike up, and he looks around the expanse of the kitchen and living-room thoughtfully. Seeing it again for the first time, reimagined with the sudden flood of ideas running through his head. )

I think I can handle the puppet proofing, that's a good idea. I wouldn't mind the company, though.

( The latter statement a little awkwardly earnest, an admission of fear. He's not really the type to get embarrassed, and he's not — not really. It's just...

It's weird. Being afraid like this over something like that. )

Although, to tell you the truth... Man, I sleep with the doors and windows locked. There's no broken glass, no sign of forced entry... Unless the fucking thing had a key, I don't know how it got in.

( Given it's totally supernatural state of existence, it stands to reason it got in through supernatural means. How do you defend against something like that? )

[hydraulics]

[ They’ve eased into natural a back-and-forth thing with the humour, and Mace is glad for it on multiple levels. First and foremost is the simple enjoyment he’s deriving from being on the same page with someone, when it comes to jokes; an enjoyment he’d be surprised at, if he were cognizant of it beyond the quiet lightness inside his stomach.

But below the surface, there’s an intent behind it. Humour keeps fear at bay, disposes of anxiety and uncertainty and pain. All the things the other guy must’ve been feeling; all the things this place fucking feeds off of, if the current state of affairs of Santa Rosita is any indication. Mace has been cottoning onto it for a while, and if this leech of a town thinks it’s gonna get an easy snack out of all of them, it’s got another thing coming.

So — Ian laughs, shaky and a little startled but genuine still, and the small grin at the corners of Mace’s mouth deepens briefly as he turns back around from his little scoping. Good.

I wouldn't mind the company, though — and there’s another thread of fear running through that, Mace thinks, giving Ian another searching look. ]

Doors and windows locked at all times is good op-sec. [ Firm, reassuring. Even if that thing just materialized inside here, there could still be something else on the outside. ] It’s possible it was ... trying to herd you outside, to someplace worse. Like a pincer move. Like — last month, the doors everywhere kept opening up to the village. Or into the goddamn lake. Or ...

[ Mace pauses, realizing his words are getting less reassuring and more worrying, mouthing wordlessly for a second. Hastily: ]

Anyway, safest bet is definitely indoors. We’ll booby trap the house, get you a secure little command center. Maybe master bedroom? And, y’know. If I’m being honest, I wouldn’t mind the company myself.

[ He raises the beer bottle in salute, giving Ian a quick wink. ]

[wittingly]

( He's definitely not doing Ian any favors with those anecdotes about the potential horrors facing him here. Being herded outside is a totally viable possibility, and he can only imagine that it would be to a fucking flock of those things. A dozen of them, porcelain and janky and biting and screeching.

It's the same fear, the same feeling one gets when visualizes a hand shooting out from beneath the bed to drag you by the ankle into darkness.

There's a self-awareness in the knit of his brow - concern, but the knowing kind that suggests he's picked up on Mace's thought process about doing more harm than good. It's okay, buddy. He's the coward here.

His expression slips into something a little more wry at the wink. Just gonna file that away to further examine later. Assess how his gaydar is pinging when the nerves wear off. )

Thanks, man.

( There's undisguised, audible relief there. He settles back against the counter, curling his bottle protectively against his stomach without actually drinking it. )

I guess if you're gonna help me turn my house into a death trap I should probably get your name.

[hydraulics]

[ For a moment, Mace ponders if he’s maybe given too much food for thought there, with the whole pincer move, abduction into the lake bit — stringy, unchewable food that’s brought the little divot of concern between the guy’s eyebrows.

Then it shifts, eases into something vaguely amused and knowing before Ian leans back against the counter behind him. His voice, though, is all relief and wryness, and Mace snorts. ]

Death trap for evil puppets, thank you.

[ Eyebrows raised, voice going mock-stern. Yeah, no, the other guy’s absolutely right. The house itself is gonna be armed to its nonexistent wooden teeth by the time both of them are done with it. Probably might have to do a few test runs to make sure any inhabitants don’t take the wrong step when entering or leaving the premises. ]

Call me Mace. [ Which, now that he’s said it, sounds kind of odd on its own, so he clarifies, ]

It’s James Mace, but the last time I went by my first name was high school, so.

[ They’re slightly too far apart for a handshake, or he’d go for it. Besides that, though, the beer bottles — and it’s when his gaze falls onto the bottle cradled against the other guy’s midsection that Mace realizes, with a small, curious frown, that he hasn’t taken a drink yet either. He gives a little nod at it before glancing back at Ian’s face, asking why without words. ]

[wittingly]

( It's on the tip of his tongue to make some stupid fucking joke -- James Mace of the pepper spray empire Mace? You found the company? That or something equally as lame probably. Mace does them both a favor by shifting his attention to the bottle he's holding. He glances down, and only realizes what the question is once his eyes land on it. )

Um--

( The slightly stalling prefix to a reluctant admission. )

I just wanted something to do with my hands, to be completely honest.

( He'll take a single drink like he's been chastised, then drop the charade by setting it onto the counter beside him. Turns out, coping with stress via beer requires having the stomach for it at the time. )

[hydraulics]

[ The funny thing about common jokes — pun unintended — is that most of the time, everyone figures it’s a joke that someone’s heard before, so they don’t go ahead and make it. As such, Mace hasn’t heard his name as a pun in actual years, so whenever Ian does make that joke, he’ll be suitably charmed.

But for now — ]

Nothing wrong with that.

[ And he understands why the other guy sounds reluctant, he really does — but frankly speaking, it’s folks comfortable with idle hands that Mace finds baffling. He’s never happier than when he’s got something he’s tinkering away at, himself, and he says as much. ]

I like keeping busy, myself. S’why I went into engineering.

[ Moreover, his own beer’s completely untouched, and he puts it aside on the counter too, adding, ]

And I don’t drink, actually, I. Shoulda said that earlier, I know.

[wittingly]

( Oh fuck, look who just said the magic word. Sorry dude, he's going to have to filter that last little bit about your drinking habits in a second. He's too stoked about that first part. )

No shit, man? Me, too. The work, I mean. I mostly teach it now -- introductory mechanical engineering at Berkeley, but --

( He doesn't actually feel the need to finish that sentiment. In his opinion, engineering isn't one of the those who can't do, teach kinds of fields. You never really... stop, even if you're not all hands-on anymore.

didwejustbecomebestfriends.gif )

[hydraulics]

[ Speaking of stoked — ]

Berkeley, get outta here. You’re batting in the Ivy League, huh?

[ It technically isn’t, but honestly, for Mace — might as well be. And frankly, only way somebody gets to be a professor is if they master whatever it is they’re teaching; and there’s a new, appreciative gleam in his eyes when he looks back at Ian. Like there’s a shared understanding between them, now, because there is.

There are some professions that you take home with you at the end of the day, and mechanical engineering’s one of ‘em. ]

And here I was wracking my brain, trying to figure out what you do. Had you pegged for an artist.

[ YUP.GIF ]

[wittingly]

( Technically speaking he's a guest lecturer, he doesn't get the fancy title and the tenure track until he finishes his doctorate. Almost done though, just six or eight months -- provided he ever gets to go the fuck back home. Suddenly seems like such a stupid thing to worry about when he almost died today.

His nose scrunches a little at artist. Can't take much offense, he's gotten decent at sketching out plans and screwing around with metalwork, but he wouldn't call it art. )

What is it, the hair or just my raw mysterious sex appeal?

( A universal trait among artists and bass players alike.

When he said he could handle the puppet-proofing, he meant it -- because he thought he'd have a better grasp on how to do that than the handsome stranger in his house. Turns out apparently he's not just brawn and good looks. They're gonna puppet-proof the fuck out of it. )

[hydraulics]

[ That cute, slightly affronted little nose-scrunch at artist gets an unexpected grin out of Mace, because he realizes belatedly how that might’ve come across as. What that must’ve sounded like. Not artist as in sculptor, which is the job he’d specifically had in mind, but somebody who worked with pencils and paint and paper. Possibly wore a beret. Granted, draughtsmanship is definitely part and parcel of engineering, but he knows that’s not what the guy’s thinking of.

Raw, mysterious sex appeal has his grin going lopsided, and for a couple of seconds Mace doesn’t answer, just cocks his head to the side and regards the other man with a considering look. The quip Ian had made just now had been at his own expense, a self-deprecation — which is a quality Mace instinctively appreciates, given how familiar it is to himself — but the amusement lurking in Mace’s eyes is warm, like they’re both in on the joke.

Then he’s pushing away from the counter with a decisive air and tone. ]

Your hands.

[ Doesn’t elaborate any further. Nothing about the calluses he’d felt against his wound, or the shape of those careful, long-fingered hands. Nope, he just opens first drawer and then another, rummaging around for — aha. Dishcloths. ]

Bring your beer, Berkeley. Neither of us are drinking, might as well make something useful out of ‘em.

[wittingly]

( Ping - ah yes, there it is. The hit on his gaydar. That is not the reaction of a straight guy screwing around. Which is one hundred percent not the priority here, they have way more important stuff to focus on. Just... you know. Casual observation. Can't help it.

He glances down at his hands for a bemused second, but it's not a hard guess to make that he means the callouses. Fair enough, there are more artists in the world than just the ones that wield paintbrushes. )

It's Ian.

( An amused correction, so he doesn't have to go calling him Berkeley for the rest of the afternoon. Not that he really minds it.

Beer in hand, he follows obediently along a step or two behind. )

Is this, like, a Molotov situation? Because honestly, I'm pretty sure the alcohol content isn't high enough for that. You need, like, 96 proof minimum and even then you're kind of gambling it.

( Has he ever made a Molotov? No. He's just a nerd that minored in chemistry. )