(a.)
There is a woman standing on one of the modest retaining walls of of the brick courtyard. It doesn't afford her much of a vantage, really—it's maybe two feet of elevation—, but it allows her to see over most people's heads and hats. It also makes her stick out like a sore thumb, a little foolhardy and unladylike there on the wall, easily visible between the pop-up shops and amidst the glow of string lanterns. But it's New Years Eve. A little nonsense is forgivable, isn't it?

Not that Maureen particularly looks like she's enjoying herself. Stood there in her heavy wool coat and sensible pumps (how challenging was it to clamber up onto the wall in heels? Don't worry about it), her attention is devoted to scanning the crowd.

(b, closed to one thread please. cw: abrasion injury)
There are worse places to be than standing than on a two foot wall when suddenly overcome by a bizarre out of body sensation that culminates in an all-consuming hallucination. Behind the wheel of a car, maybe. Over a hot stove. Doing laps in a pool.

But it is one minute past midnight, and Maureen Robinson (that's still her name) rings in 1961 by taking a bad step off a wall.

There's a crack—the heel of a shoe snapping free of its base—and the less than graceful tumble that follows. Hot pain, alien in its immediate familiarity (her ears are still ringing) bursts with renewed fervor as her knee meets and is torn up by the brick. So much for these stockings.

There are times in which a sudden unexpected loss of power would prompt decisive action out of Maureen. When the electricity fails in the Sweetwater house though—

(She freezes, a sharp bolt of something like anxiety rising in her. What now, it asks.)

—but given no visitations by murderous Sweetwater residents or rogue linemen, Maureen does the sensible thing: she packs up the disparate pieces of her project from the kitchen table into the brown canvas rucksack that shouldn't be here. She puts on her hat and coat. And she ushers her alleged husband and the pet dog both out of the house. If the power is out for a reason, then she doesn't want to wait to find out what it is. And if it's just out, then to hell with it. The air is breathable here. Nothing is technically relying on the house not being dark and cold and miserable for a few hours. Trudging through a few snow drifts and imposing on a neighbor isn't the end of the world.

Which is how the neighbors, complete with family dog, arrive on your, yes your, doorstep. Maureen shifts the packed rucksack on her shoulder. She knocks twice.

(a.)
Somewhere in the depths of home appliances, amidst a series of show models of refrigerator units and stoves, something is making a series of small, studious clanks and clacks. It's the stubborn, metallic click-click of a wrench being turned. And occasionally, from behind a modest selection of portable stand washing machines, a rasping hiss is followed by a tell-tale flare of light.

She might actually prefer to have a lookout for this. A second pair of hands, even. As it is, Maureen has the crank flashlight crammed between her arm and side while her other hand works to loosen ring clamps and yank various hoses from the standing washing machines.

At the first scuff of a sound—someone approaching, human or otherwise—she pauses. Stills. Waits, while the small hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

(b.)
"I can take first watch. You should get some sleep."

A series of clothing racks arranged to form an impromptu bower of trousers, winter coats, and various suit jackets, doesn't exactly seem like the most impenetrable position when it comes to an impromptu camp made in the middle of what now qualifies as a hostile landscape. But it's relatively easy to get in and out of, no one risks being cornered in the close quarters of a dressing cubicle, and the mannequins are just ungainly enough to be slowed down by the prospect of wading through layers of clothes that the vulnerable people inside it may well have the ample opportunity to slip out the other side before being beaten to death by less than ideally inanimate limbs. Besides, there's something to be said for hiding in plain sight. A few racks of clothes crammed together are inconspicuous, and mostly hides the occupants from sight which is all the mannequins really seem to care about.

Sitting cross legged on the makeshift bed of scavenged furs, Maureen has a baseball bat set across her thighs. From the faint indentations along its shaft, it's recently been getting a workout.

[I'll match brackets or prose for any threads. Feel free throw me a misc starter, or hit me up either at my plotting comment or at prosodi for something bespoke if you want something but none of these are speaking to you.]