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]

( 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.

[hydraulics]

[ Audible early alarm system. That gets a laugh out of him, low and quick, but sincere. The mental visual of one of those gangly-legged things getting tangled in a pile of tin crockery is unintentionally hilarious, mainly because he doesn’t think they’d register that as aggression —

No screeching, no wailing or murder attempts, just a confused refrain of rise and shine to the beat of Ian’s pots and pans.

Funny enough, it’s the memory of that which sobers Mace right up, too. Because while the imitation hadn’t been identical — had been far from perfect, considering the easy, charming tenor of Ian’s real voice versus the ungodly screaming coming from the simulacrum — it ... had been, nevertheless, an imitation.

And now that Mace has spent a couple of hours in the guy’s presence, hearing his voice and his laugh, what he sounds like when he’s flirting —

It’s already hard to find any humour in the mimicry of it earlier, no matter the screeches. ]

You’re just one solid idea after another.

[ Is what Mace opts for saying instead, and although it’s teasing, a flirtatious pun slipped into it, it’s honest. An alarm system is fantastic, an emergency exit is even more so, and although Mace would’ve been just as ready to lend a hand if Ian had been an artist, after all —

It helps a lot that this is a guy who’s on not only the same page as him, but pretty much the same dang sentence. ]

We can take some extra bedding, line the house underneath the windows. Give you a soft landing, in case of escape. Keep your radio on you at all times, by the way; gotta be able to get a hold of me if you need it.

[ He nods over at the hand Ian had flexed earlier, and amusement fades out of his voice to be replaced with concern and curiosity. ]

Your hand okay, Rearguard? Be honest. If you pulled something, best to get some first-aid on that right now.

[wittingly]

( It actually confuses him for a second; is your hand okay. He hadn't even really realized he flexed it, it has him momentarily thinking back over the fight again. Checking his mental repository for any incident that might've seem like he injured it. Two seconds later he realizes, and shakes his head. )

No, nah, I'm fine, and... We don't have to fuck up the linens. I've have an almost ridiculous amount of experience under my belt climbing out of windows.

( Granted, it's been a while, but... Just like riding a bike, right? His own bedroom window a couple times, but mostly it was into other people's, ascending abandoned warehouses, or — once — the notorious two story finger-in-a-forty-bottle house. He's pretty confident in himself.

But about that radio thing-- )

Did you just volunteer to be an on-call knight in shining armor? Are you going for a peace prize or are you just, like, really into fighting stuff?

[hydraulics]

[ Climbing out. Mace wonders if that rules out climbing in being the primary reason why he’d need out in the first place, his curiosity growing stronger than concern, now that Ian’s confirmed he isn’t injured. Where’ve you been climbing out of, Professor? Or into?

But before he can ask, Ian beats him to the punch — and the question has him hiding a grin as he puts aside the gasoline and picks up the remaining Molotov.

No peace prize. And I do like fighting, now that you mention it.

[ Almost drawled out, contemplative in a way that makes it clear it’s on purpose — dragging it out, punchline incoming. And then, over his shoulder as he heads toward the garage door, pointing an index finger in the air as though he’s just scored a goal: ]

But that’s not why I’m offering.

[ Leaving it open as to the real why. Shouldn’t be hard for Ian to guess at least eighty percent of it, Mace hasn’t exactly been subtle. The remaining twenty percent, though, that’s ... well, that’s for Mace to know. And for him to puzzle over, too. In the meantime — ]

If I’m a knight, though, does that make you a Prince?

[wittingly]

( Ian follows again obligingly, because evidently that's just the pattern they've somehow fallen into. Mace directs, Ian follows wildly interested and amused by the show. He's comfortable with it, which is a weird thing to think about a stranger in your house — that isn't your house, you just woke up in it wearing someone else's ugly ass pajamas.

He'll hazard a guess that the reason behind the offer might be half to do with the flirting, but at least half is just because that's who Mace is as a person. Why the hell else would he have sprung into action before they even exchanged a fucking word? Hell, there's no way the guy could've even gotten a good look at his face before he started dragging Ian away from that porcelain nightmare.

He closes the garage door behind them and twists the deadbolt — now a very cognizant move. )

I'm about the farthest from royalty you can get.

( With a little subdued scoff in his tone - if only you knew. Lower class trash from Weaverville doesn't get a crown. )

[hydraulics]

[ Farthest. Now, that’s an extreme that it doesn’t take Mace too long to figure out the reason behind, and he’s quiet for a minute as they enter the rest of the house, doing a rapid surroundings check before gesturing to Ian that it’s clear. The muted clank of the deadbolt behind them is a good noise, and not for the first time, Mace is glad that the guy next to him is as sharp as Ian is. ]

I don’t know, you fit the Prince mold to me.

[ Musingly, as they reach the kitchen, and Mace sets the Molotov to the side before starting to open cabinet after cabinet. Pulling out assorted pans and pots, handing each one to Ian as he speaks. ]

Tall. Got the looks. Shoulders. Hair. The hands. [ Mace still hasn’t explained what he means by that and he isn’t about to start now, but. Has more to do with their shape than the callouses, right now. ]

Can’t fight. [ A furtive twitch of his lips, and another glimmer of mischief in the gaze that he briefly locks with Ian. ] But tries to, anyway.

[ And you know what, that’s what makes the goddamn difference at the end of the day. It’s what had solidified Mace’s subconscious liking of the guy before he’d so much as gotten a proper look into those big, dark eyes; he could’ve ran, the moment help arrived. Mace hadn’t been expecting him to stick around, much less hurtle back into the fray with a baseball bat — and when he’d pinned Ian against the wall, that bat held between them, he’d seen the fear and uncertainty in his face, in his eyes.

The guy’d been scared.

But he’d still fought. ]

About as royal as you can get, barring all the bad stuff. You know. Obscene wealth, servants, power, all that sick crap.

[wittingly]

( He seems to hum thoughtfully with every new adjective, playing along like he's conceding each word as a fair point — until can't fight, which pulls out a laugh instead. Yeah, okay, fair enough.

He's got questions about the hands thing that he'll work in later. )

Wait, obscene wealth and servants count? Oh, then yeah, my bad, I'm definitely a prince. I've got like fifty of those out back.

( It's at about the fourth pan that he realizes standing around holding cookware is absurd, and he transitions them over onto the counter instead. Jesus, dude, you're distracting as hell. )

Hang on.

( A murmur that preempts him dipping out of the kitchen for a few seconds, just long enough to grab a pad of paper and a pen. When he comes back, he slides down the closed cabinet beside mace until he's sitting in the floor with his back against it, an off-set reflection.

It's list thirty.

Item one: rope. He's not sure he has any, and if he does he doesn't know how much. Item two, fishing line. Just in case it somehow makes it inside, a line across the doorways wouldn't hurt. )

So what did you actually do? Before you got here, I mean.

[hydraulics]

[ Flirting’s one thing — simple, light, and pleasant, a thing that stays skin-deep and goes no further than that. The gentle warmth of sunlight on skin.

Slipping into this flowing back-and-forth, that’s something else — something even better, that goes deeper, that stays longer. Something Mace hasn’t had since the Earth disappeared behind the Icarus II, a dim blue marble sinking into the tar-black depths of space. Leastways, that’s what Mace is assuming it had appeared as; he hadn’t actually looked back.

But — easy, friendly banter. It’s like a hot cup of coffee, warming one from the inside out. Ian laughs again, Ian quips right back, and with a faint, lopsided smile, Mace watches him momentarily duck away from the kitchen — presumably to get something that isn’t the crockery now stacked across the counter from them.

Turns out that something is a pen and some paper. Curious, Mace looks over at the list Ian’s starting up next to him, crossing his arms and settling back against the cabinet, legs stretched out in front him. Rope is certainly a given, although he doesn’t know if there’s any on hand in the house — but it’s fishing line that pulls an interested hum out of Mace, bringing up one idea after another. He’s about to start sound-boarding them off of Ian, in fact, when — ]

What did I do, before ... I got here.

[ Ah, repeating the question in order to buy time: an age-old tactic instinctively known amongst students, employees, and spouses across the stretches of time and space. Underneath is the undercurrent of well, shit. There’s a brief pause, and then Mace breathes out a quick exhale, glancing away. ]

Was headed for the Air Force, but it didn’t work out. Ended up at NASA. There was a. Mission. And that’s ... the last thing I remember doing, before I got here.

[ It’s a broad stroke with an even broader brush, but it’s entirely honest. ]

[wittingly]

( It's actually the repeat that gets his pen pausing and his eyes lifting. Boring answers always come immediately. Interesting answers are preceded by a stalling tactic, and so far everything about this man has been fucking fascinating.

Annnnd he's right. )

Holy shit.

( More than suitably impressed, list immediately forgotten in favor of studying the man beside him all over again. )

You worked for fucking NASA? As in, you were an engineer... for NASA. Mission, like-- space mission? Were you on like the ISS or something?

[hydraulics]

[ The reaction he gets from Ian is endearing as fuck, because the guy’s not making a single attempt to hide how impressed he is. Mace can’t help smiling, same as he can’t help glancing back at Ian’s face, and it’s a different smile than any of the others before. Nothing teasing or wry about it. No attempt to charm. It’s a small, quiet smile, uncharacteristically self-conscious. It’s also wholly, unmistakably sad; and after a moment of gazing at Ian’s face silently, Mace’s eyes lower to the paper and pen in Ian’s hands. They stay there.

You’re supposed to be happy, when you impress somebody you like.

But Ian shouldn’t be impressed with him, is the thing. ]

I was the co-pilot and engineer of the Icarus II. One of eight crew members. Sixteen months, in space. Our mission was ...

[ Already speaking low, Mace trails off as the memory of his own voice hits him like a gut-punch. A reminder of how well and truly he’d fucked up. We have a payload to deliver to the heart of our nearest star. The coolant, and the wrench. The mainframe snapping his shinbone in half. Capa, panicked and trapped in the airlock, and all the ways that Mace had failed him and everyone else.

That is our mission. ]

Paramount. [ Abruptly, unexpectedly, Mace snorts; and when he glances back at Ian, the sadness in his eyes is tucked firmly away behind a layer of self-deprecatory humour. ] This is why I was the ship’s engineer and not the, I dunno. Motivational speaker.

[wittingly]

( There's a lot to take away from this, a lot to unpack. First and foremost, the small and sad smile Mace wears — it's unlike any expression Ian's seen from him so far, lacking in confidence or enthusiasm or surety. It speaks of something aching and quiet, with the instinctive air that he shouldn't pry too deeply into it. It's sensitive, for whatever reason that may be.

Paramount.

He can infer a lot, he's going to operate under the assumption that it's classified until otherwise corrected, but... )

I've never even heard of an Icarus one.

( Which means they may not be from the same version of Earth, and that's... Sad. For some reason. That's a sad thing to learn, isolating or distancing on some strange level he can't explain.

Not unless-- )

What year are you from?

( Because he's heard of people being from all different times. That might explain it. )

[hydraulics]

2057.

[ A reply that comes far more readily, and the reason is because it serves as two answers in one; Mace can tell by the pensive look on Ian’s face just now that he’s putting together several pieces in that sharp mind of his. Maybe he’s putting together this one too. ]

To tell you the truth — and I never gave something like this much thought before, but. Suppose we are from the same, you know. Version of Earth. Just different times. What if, me telling you something ...

[ What if it fucks something up irreparably? Mace knows there’s no future, not for him. What if, though, whenever Ian gets back to where he’s from — when he’s from —

But the causality of space and time, that’s far from his expertise, and Mace breaks off into an exhale that’s simultaneously perplexed, self-frustrated, and wry. ]

You wanna know something funny? You’re the only one I’ve told this to, over here.

[wittingly]

( His eyebrows shoot up — Jesus Christ, 2057 is so far off the guy probably hasn't even been born yet around the time Ian's from. That's absolutely insane. And... maybe kind of a little bit of a relief, the notion that they're from the same place isn't entirely off the table. Even if he is old enough to be the guy's grandfather.

He can't even fathom how in the hell time travel works, whether it's a situation where learning something and taking it back with him changes Mace's future, or if Mace's future is what it is because this already happened in his timeline's past... Fuck, he's done acid and he still can't wrap his head around it. )

How come?

( As far as he can tell, there's nothing particularly special about him that warrants secrets sharing. Unless it's just that he's the only one to have flirted with Mace so far, but if that's the case... half this damn town must be blind as a bat. )

[hydraulics]

[ If Ian’s comment about the first Icarus hadn’t been enough to confirm he was from before Mace’s time, the pronounced look of surprise that follows would’ve done the trick. Although, maybe some of that is from the same conundrum Mace is trying to wrap his own head around — namely, time travel. Which are two words that might technically belong together, considering how often the question of it has come up within scientific circles, but in Mace’s opinion: wham, bam, no thank you, ma’am.

How come?

Now, there’s one hell of a question. Strangely enough, it’s one Mace actually has the answer to, or at least he thinks he does. But the conversation’s gotten perhaps a little too sombre, no longer the easy banter from before; and Mace is conscious that the downward turn is squarely his fault.

This time, the smile on his face is more his own, and his voice is light and lazy. ]

Your raw, mysterious sex appeal.

[ And he leans in to gently take the pad of paper from Ian; it isn’t for long, just enough for him to a tear a single sheet off the back. He returns it safely into Ian’s hands and, scrunching his nose slightly in concession, adds in an undertone, ]

But mostly the hair.

[wittingly]

( He recognizes the deflection for what it is, but they don't know each other well enough for him to call it out yet. Besides that, the answer's actually adorable, and it sticks a sideways grin on his face. )

I get that a lot.

( Assured with grave, grim understanding. His fingers curl around the pad once it's returned, but it's lowered momentarily so as to be dormant. Instead, he nods his head at the paper Mace just stole from him. He asks the question not with his mouth but his eyebrows — what's up with that? )

[hydraulics]

[ I get that a lot, Ian says, cheeky enough to sound as sober as you please, despite the handsome grin on his face; and Mace, already pleased with having had a chance to callback to Ian’s earlier words to him, can’t help the way his smile widens at that. It fades a bit as Ian turns to him again, eyebrows raised as he nods his head toward the paper Mace had so mercenarily nabbed — and yup, unspoken question received loud and clear. ]

Remember how I was supposed to be in the USAF?

[ As he speaks, voice dropping low with the quiet fondness reserved for a particularly warm memory, his fingers begin to work the paper in quick, deft movements. A fold here, a twist there, and soon it becomes apparent that what Mace is working toward is a classic paper airplane. Classic in a literal sense, for Mace — the crude approximation of an F-16. ]

I always wanted to fly one of these beauties. They still had a few of ‘em, even in the 2050s. Never got a chance, though.

[wittingly]

( Mace deftly folds with practiced skill like he's practicing origami -- and he kind of is. Ian's brow knits, subtly impressed while Mace talks. The end result is fucking neat, and he holds his hand out in a silent request to check it out more closely. )

Fuck, man, is there anything you can't do? Aside from... fly one of these, I guess.

( Once he's got the thing in his hands he gives it a little once-over, fingers trailing along the angular folds for a few seconds. After a bit, he gently takes it by the bottom and lightly glides it back across the small space between them, the world's smallest flight to its original owner. )

Just bust in, save my life, beat up a monster, make a couple Molotovs, flex your muscle and own that face, now you're making fucking origami in my kitchen. The audacity.