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]

( 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. )

[hydraulics]

[ Ian. Glancing at him as he walks over, Mace makes a note of it with a nod, and then holds out his hand for the other bottle. It’s a solid name; short, simple, no nicknames required. Although Berkeley’s a pretty good one, if Mace had to pick. ]

It is a Molotov situation. [ Agreeably, turning back to the kitchen counter and going through the cabinets next, pulling out an old-fashioned glass pitcher. Into it he pours first his and then Ian’s beer, setting it aside. ]

Could probably use that for cooking, I dunno. Seemed a waste to dump it. As for these —

[ And Mace picks up the beer bottles with one hand, easier now that they’re empty, the necks wedged between his first three fingers. The dishcloths he offers to Ian, and there’s a slightly new energy around him now: efficient but pleased, like somebody settling into their element. ]

We’re gonna take these not-so-bad guys to the garage. Motor oil, gasoline ... some bits of rubber, although that might be harder to — hang on, wait. Got an idea.

[ After the garage, the kitchen is Mace’s favourite room in any house. It’s where the food is, and it’s where all the most dangerous household items are. Knives, bleach, and thermic instruments aside, it’s also the home of various detergents, and it’s the latter that Mace grabs with his free hand: a box of baking soda, an excellent thickening agent in a pinch. ]

Beer bottles are pretty much ideal for this, they shatter like a dream on impact. [ He nods over at the kitchen entrance, looking at Ian meaningfully. ] C’mon. I’m the vanguard.

[wittingly]

( It's probably not visible, his slow progression from uncertain to impressed. It is a molotov situation has him thinking all the advice about the proof of grain alcohol has gone out the window initially. And then goes the beer, he's handed dish towels to hold like he's a kid learning how to bake and totally "helping". Doesn't even mind it, really. He's content enough to watch Mace go through his process, amused and passive.

Motor oil and gasoline'll sure fucking do it. )

Yes sir, Mr. Vanguard.

( Murmured with trace amounts of humor. Ian's already rearranged the garage into a workshop. Blew half his bank account on power tools and other supplies — plenty of motor oil on tap, along with half a dozen other chemicals no regular person has any reason to have.

It's perhaps noticeable that Ian's resentfully tossed some things he finds stupid into the large garage garbage can — polka-dot pajamas, a Bundt cake pan with cake included, the ugliest fucking drapes he's ever seen. Shitty versions of the tools he replaced with better alternatives. Moreover, a dozen crumpled up packs of cigarettes because apparently everybody fucking smokes in this era and he sure as fuck isn't letting it exist in his house. )

So, hey. Why the fuck do you know the perfect ideal recipe for a Molotov cocktail? Were you in, like, weapons engineering or something?

[hydraulics]

[ Inside the garage, it’s the polka-dots that catch Mace’s eye the moment he turns on the single, dingy bulb hanging overhead. White and goddamn pink, he can tell the pajamas are designed for an adult male — possibly by a sadist — and it’s no mystery why Ian would toss them out. Same thing with the single most hideous drapes known to mankind, garish and edged with wilting, yellowed lace. What has him glancing over at Ian, though, are the cigarettes.

Packs and packs of them, clustered in the dip between the cake and a bent hammer, and it’s not lost on him that they’ve been deliberately crumpled. Mace doesn’t drink, and he sure as hell doesn’t smoke, but even he hadn’t gone to the extent of tossing out what looked like every packet he could get his hands on. And the fact that they’re clearly stuffed alongside the ugliest, most useless items in Ian’s house is what gives him pause — but it’s brief and without commentary. For now.

Hell, maybe Ian just ... can’t stand the smell of smoke.

He pops a squat by one of the cabinets, setting out the empty beer bottles and reaching for the nearby canister of motor oil. It’s brand new, and with a quiet grunt he breaks the seal with his injured hand by accident. Switches seamlessly to his other hand for adding in the baking soda. ]

Nah, just military. Kind of. I was headed for the Air Force, but it didn’t take.

[ Which is why, if he hadn’t already firmly decided that he liked Ian, that teasing yes, sir earlier would’ve done the trick. He’d known it was entirely ironic, but the terminology was immediately familiar, and therefore immediately comfortable — and over his shoulder, Mace calls out in a good-natured tease of his own, ]

Why do you know that beer won’t make a Molotov worth a damn, Mr. Rearguard? You chuck a few through the Dean’s window at UC Berkeley during a strike?

[wittingly]

( Military makes immediate sense — no wonder he'd gone in headfirst with the kind of bravery Ian doubts he could ever muster. It matches the air of confidence and surety Mace wears. It's not always a positive trait, being that confident in your own decision making —
namely, when you're stupid. Mace seems like a smart guy, sharp as fuck so far, so he's slipping into that narrow margin that makes up the best version of it.

He leaves the garage door open as they pass through, circling around to settle against an empty space on his work table.

Deeply considers saying something about the term rearguard, but he's known this guy all of twenty minutes. Better keep that shit to himself. )

Nah, I just...

( A concession, a little shrug with one hand (towel) before he settles it against his thigh. )

Know the flammability of alcohol. If it's not at a certain level, it's more likely to put the fire out than anything. Especially if the glass doesn't completely break on impact, which... contrary to what movies might have you believe, is harder than it looks. Commercial bottles aren't like... drinking glasses, they're a little more durable. Thicker, generally. Unless you're—

( A beat, a little struggle, and— nah, he gives up. )

A famous baseball pitcher that I don't know because I don't watch sports, you gotta angle that shit really well and hit something really solid. I mean... theoretically. Having never... You know. Thrown a Molotov at anything.

[hydraulics]

[ There’s an approving hum in his throat as he listens to Ian and keeps working, swilling the baking soda into the motor oil in each bottle. Ian’s not only correct about the flammability of alcohol, he’s giving a perfect rundown of the density and hardness of beer bottles.

And you don’t necessarily learn that during the pursuit of a doctorate, engineering or not. Mace has been around too many drunk, highly educated idiots during college, pissing near an open flame after game night and regretting it very soon afterward. But Ian’s clearly not just book-smart, he’s clever, naturally honing in on any possible weaknesses in a plan to ensure that they won’t give way. Making something airtight. Reverse-engineering the situation.

Mace already likes the way this guy’s mind works. ]

See, now I just have more questions. [ Wryly, going for the jug of gasoline next. Luckily, it’s already been opened, and he doesn’t mess his hand up further as he pours it out. ]

You’re right, it’s not as easy as it looks. But you wouldn’t be able to make a solid Molotov with, say. A jam jar, or a wine glass, even if they’d be easier to shatter. They don’t have the same build or the same breakage resistance, or the thermal strength.

A beer bottle, on the other hand — [ And Mace gets to his feet, sauntering over to where Ian’s leaning back against the work table, intent on nabbing the dishcloth from him. ]

Whether it shatters or not all depends on how you aim it, and where. And ... the precise timing of ...

[ His left hand reaches forward, fingers curling into the dishcloth at Ian’s thigh; it’s a casual movement, and his voice is still matter-of-fact, but Mace’s eyes are intent and focused on Ian’s face. ]

Heat. [ His fingers tighten into the thin fabric briefly, and then he’s tearing it in half in rough, quick tears. ] But there’s something real funny about beer bottles. Remember what you just said, about how hard they are?

[wittingly]

( That's a technique he learned early on. Not in high school, not while he was still an absolute novice that happened to be handy with lawn mowers and toaster ovens. Early in his undergrad years, though, this particular method came in handy: when creating something, break it in your mind. Imagine that it has fallen apart, and then work backward to determine how it happened. Fix those issues before you even build. Credit to one professor that Ian particularly respected.

He's got plenty to say on the subject of beer bottles versus mason jars, and the rate at which fire will burn through the gasses released, and an anecdote about hand sanitizer and a zippo during his miscreant youth.

But.

It all dies in his throat, interrupted by this particular exchange. Proximity and hand towels and eye contact and "heat". Oh yeah, this dude's swinging for the fences — which he assumes is a legit baseball term. Who knows.

It's hard to disrupt Ian's permanent state of unfazed chill — externally, anyway. He seems steady, amused, fenced in under the rule of calm. )

Yeah, man. Go ahead, tell me all about their hardness.

( Good job sounding collected despite the real Chemistry & Vibes you're getting right now, Fowler. Judges score: 9.5 out of 10. )

[hydraulics]

[ That serene calm isn’t something Mace had been expecting to ruffle, but the smile he catches in Ian’s gaze, that’s what he’d been looking for. Quiet and steady amusement, with the hint of something else flickering in the depths of his eyes, bright and warm — and there’s an answering warmth in Mace’s expression as he leans in. ]

I mean, it’s like you said, right? Thick. Hard. [ And Mace raises an eyebrow and lowers his voice, adding earnestly, ]

Durable. You hit somebody over the head with that, and it’s lights out.

[ He draws back, evidently satisfied with having imparted that bit about blunt force trauma and how it links, seamless and full circle, with what Ian had been saying earlier. Satisfied with something else, too, in the back of his mind. Wanders back over to the beer bottles, dousing the lower half of each piece of dishcloth with gasoline before stuffing it into the neck. ]

It’s hard enough to fracture a skull, especially if the bottle’s full. So, if any more of those things comes at you, or if something else tries it with you, and I’m not around, and you can’t find your bat — well. All you gotta do is grab a cold one from the fridge, and ... crack it open with the boys.

[ Pleased as punch with that pun, holding out a now-completed Molotov for Ian to take. ]

Or girls, you know, it’s — all sorts, here.

[wittingly]

( It's the abrupt and absurd change in trajectory that has a laugh escaping him — you hit somebody over the head with that—. Sorry man, it's just funny.

He wraps his hand obligingly around the bottle. Alright, so he has a dual purpose bludgeoning device slash explosive, so that's a nice improvement. )

This hinges on the contingency that they make it inside. In your limited experience on top of me, what do you think the odds are that it's fragile enough to break under its own weight if it were to fall?

( Totally straight face through the entire thing — technically completely accurate. )

If not wholly break then at least fracture? Either way, it wasn't particularly fluid or graceful in its movement. In theory, a net or a latticework-type— you know that... thing they use in sports where you have to kind of... bounce back and forth along a path of tires or ropes or whatever and not trip and land on your face? ...Jesus, I really gotta learn some of these terms.

( Apparently it's somehow relevant now, go figure. )

[hydraulics]

[ Bulls-eye. Ian laughs, as easy on the ears as he is on the eyes; and Mace’s pleased gaze drops to the beer bottle as it passes hands, lingering at the curl of Ian’s fingers around the neck. It’s not for long, however. In your limited experience on top of me — Mace’s eyes flick back up to that straight face Ian’s got on right now, and while his expression doesn’t shift too drastically ...

The look in his eyes goes thoughtful, intent.

On the surface, something mischievous and steadily warm. Below, things get a little conflicted, a little guilty, his pupils dilating involuntarily as he hesitates. It wasn’t Ian, though, right? Ian doesn’t see it like that, right? Not exactly, not — even though Mace had, briefly, recognized those eyes. That nose. That profile. That face, enough for it to make him pause mid-punch. The arms he’d tied back, fingers long and twitching; the legs he’d snapped off, alone in the basement, before — ]

I mean, you got fifty percent of those right.

[ Offered quietly but decisively, and Mace firmly interrupts his own stream of thought with a final stopper of a memory: Dude, you probably saved my life. Don't apologize. ]

Tire runs. Rope drills.

[ And the corner of Mace’s lips goes crooked into a grin, because he can see where Ian’s going with this, and ... ]

I like the way you think. Yeah, that thing definitely wasn’t limber enough to make it past any of those. Odds on a fracture if it falls seem about four-to-one, though; it felt like it was designed to be resilient to anything except ... deliberate, touch-instigated force. And it wasn’t as solid as you, so its own weight wouldn’t —

[ Ah, but what would you know about that, Mace? A touch hastily, the amendment: ] As solid as I’m assuming you are, I mean.

[wittingly]

( There's another little stuttered laugh, this time in the form of a quiet series of breaths through his nose. His brow scrunches as he internally debates a few remarks he really considers saying, but manages to stifle last minute. )

I'm solid enough.

( Reassured with the confidence of a man who does not in fact have a dad bod beneath his flannel.

Not that it matters. Because it doesn't. Because the flirting's great, but Ian has absolutely no plan to act on it, or let anything happen. They're neighbors, presumably. They're both stuck in this weird town. The last thing he wants to do is give somebody the wrong idea, particularly when he can't in good conscience ghost them while still hoping for their help later.

Because he's an asshole.

Just keep that in mind, Fowler. Keep your head out of the clouds. )

I can —

( He starts, the fingers of his free hand flexing — and then he falters when he realizes he actually can't.

Barely a beat skipped, he picks back up again. )

— get some rope, maybe at least make it an audible early alarm system, you know? The whole... bottles and cans and bells thing. Should probably give me enough warning to climb out the damn window anyway.