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

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“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…“

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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

[heraldingangel]

[ In contrast, Castiel spent his time on Earth fighting against Heaven and Hell. The only indulgence he ever partook in was some pain meds when his grace finally sputtered to nothing and he was rendered human after hitting a shrimping boat off of the coast of Maine. He's too much of a military man to even think about indulgences.

It takes him two more bites to polish off the sandwich. With his stomach placated, he wipes off the crumbs from his hands, watching them hit the plate before reaching for his own bitter coffee. ]

Angels don't eat. [ A pointed look. ] And we can't taste food either.

[ Are you really an angel there, Crowley? Because you sure sound like an indulgent demon. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[The way Crowley looks at him is a very human sort of expression, nose all wrinkled up, an eyebrow arched.]

That's bloody ridiculous, who decided on that? Most angels I know aren't big on sullying their celestial bodies with gross matter — [Mocking, there] — but there's no reason not to be able to taste.

[That seems too creative in its cruelty, to have been done by God.]

M'not big on eating, personally, never quite got used to it. But I like coffee. And wine.

[heraldingangel]

I suppose, God.

[ You know, the one who made them. Though, their God was a bit capricious. ]</small

[demonicmiracle]

Bit of a dick move, if you ask me.

[No one is asking him.

He's only eaten half his sandwich, but he nudges the plate away from himself anyway and polishes off his coffee, having decided he's done.]

Ready to go?

[heraldingangel]

[ The humans he hung around with bad-mouthed God enough for the words to slide over him, though it's odd to hear an angel that wasn't trying to kill him do the same. Maybe he was a demon. ]

Yes.

[ Is all he says as he sets his cup down and gets up. He's not one for small talk. Once he refueled for another few hours, he was ready to go. One of the waitresses thanks them and waves them off which he pointedly ignores as he steps outside into the cool air where he waits for Crowley. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[Crowley leaves enough cash on the table to cover their meal, along with a decent tip, because he's a demon, not an animal. The waitress gets a playful wink; it helps to pretend these people are real, sometimes, takes the edge off the claustrophobia he feels when he thinks too hard about it.

Out on the street, he leads Castiel around the corner of the block, to a quiet side street.]

No touching.

[Just to — make that clear.

With a roll of his shoulders and a check to make sure no one is lingering nearby, he allows his wings to manifest, long black feathers stretching out. There's a faint iridescent sheen to the feathers that's only really visible in direct light, which is shame, since Crowley thinks it makes them look very pretty.]

[heraldingangel]

[ There's an annoyed look at the warning. Wings were deeply personal, no angel would ever touch another's without permission. It's insulting to insinuate otherwise. ]

Get on with it.

[ He stands back, giving him room to manifest his wings - if he has them. He has his doubts still. It's not until large black wings unfold behind him, electrifying the air, that the debate finally settles. ]

....

[ Alright, Crowley. Guess you're not a liar. ]

So, you're not a demon.

[ Color him surprised. It's about the only reaction you'll get from him. He's an angel. Wings are pretty much standard among his brethren. They don't dazzle him but there is a hint of respect in his gaze. They were brothers. ]

[demonicmiracle]

[Better safe than sorry, when it comes to that sort of thing.]

Not what you'd call a demon.

[It's semantics, perhaps, but he's always thought demons calling themselves the fallen or the damned was a bit wanky.]

Whatever you want to call me, I'm not much interested in being your enemy.

[heraldingangel]

Demons don't have wings.

[ They were corrupted souls, nothing like an angel. Seeing his wings, it becomes apparent that their two worlds while similar were rather different. No angel, fallen or otherwise, would ever think of themselves as demons. They were so far beyond souls it was difficult to understand his brother's logic. ]

Neither am I. [ They agree on that at least. ] I have other concerns. Whatever you want to call yourself, I don't much care.

[ Even if he does think an angel calling themselves a demon is kind of weird. ]

[demonicmiracle]

Right, great. Glad we're on the same page.

[That's all he really needs out of this situation. Castiel can call him a fallen angel, or brother, or whatever the hell he wants, as long as he isn't going to be a threat.

With a shrug, Crowley tucks his wings away. He wonders if he should mention Aziraphale, see how Castiel reacts, but he'd rather check in with Aziraphale first before mentioning him.]

You gonna be alright settling in?

[heraldingangel]

I don't plan to settle in.

[ His eyes shift to the entrance of the alley and he wonders how far he can make it now that he ate? He's not used to calculating calories with distance traveled. Maybe he should pick up something to eat before he started his trek out of town. ]

I'm heading to the next town over. Maybe they'll have a phone I can use.

[demonicmiracle]

[He can't resist rolling his eyes; that's almost insulting. It's only the fact that he's not interested in starting a fight that he isn't more sarcastic.]

You reckon you're the first person, of all of us trapped here, to consider the brilliant option of leaving?

[Like! Really!!

He's tried to leave multiple times and hasn't got very far at all.]

[heraldingangel]

[ It's okay Crowley, he wouldn't know sarcasm if it bit him in the ass. ]

Why haven't you?

[demonicmiracle]

[Why are all angels like this.]

Obviously I have. There are cops on the roads out of town as well as in the woods, and fuck knows what else in lurking in there with them.

[Considering the monster he ran into in the Christmas Village after it was abandoned, he's not inclined to try his luck in the woods again any time soon.

Any particular feelings he might have about wanting to stay here, rather than going back to await the end of the world, are totally irrelevant.]

[heraldingangel]

What do the police have to do with anything?

[ Really, you should have seen this line of thinking coming. ]

[demonicmiracle]

They have guns?

[Also he learned very early on in his existence that drawing attention to himself is a mistake, especially where authority is concerned. Best to stay under the radar, and he can't do that by getting arrested.]

Not to mention they seem to have ways of making people compliant. Being turned into a Stepford Wife isn't exactly my idea of a good time.

[heraldingangel]

They need those to enforce the rule of law. I won't be breaking the law. I'll be walking.

[ Look, he's been undercover as an FBI agent enough times to know that local law enforcement didn't just shoot people. They were helpful if you knew how to smooth talk them.

.... Okay, now you're just making things up. ]

What's a Stepford Wife?

[demonicmiracle]

You know what, I'll let you make your own mistakes. Let me know how walking out of town goes for you.

[He probably won't get shot, it's fine. He doesn't care enough to go into all that detail.

He will explain the basics of what a Stepford Wife is, because apparently he does care about that. He's a multidimensional demon.]

And it's from a book about an idyllic suburban town named Stepford where the women get brainwashed or turned into robots to be turned into some man's idea of the perfect wife. You'll likely hear the reference a lot around here, it's an easy one to make.

[heraldingangel]

[ It's not like he can stop him. So, he says nothing and listens to the explanation, his expression morphing into a cross between surprise and rejection. ]

And you think the police here are going to turn me into some man's idea of a perfect wife?

[ Really, Crowley? Is that what's going to happen?]

[demonicmiracle]

Well — [With a gesture at Castiel, as if that explains anything.] — I assume husband for you, if you're presenting as a bloke.

[There isn't a book called Stepford Husbands because it really wouldn't hit as hard.]

One of my mates here had it happen to him, got brainwashed into acting like the ideal American man.

[heraldingangel]

Brainwashed?

[ His brows furrow. That's the first he heard of this. ]

Is that why everyone acts odd? They're brainwashed?

[demonicmiracle]

[It takes a truly heroic amount of restraint not to say you know, like Heaven?]

Might be. Or they're sort of... figments? Made up by whoever or whatever made this place. M'not sure exactly, and I can't tell while I'm human.

[heraldingangel]

[ Truly some a-level restraint there. ]

Yes. I can't see their souls in this state either. It makes it difficult to know what's real and what's not.