Event № 1 : January 2024

[silentspringmods]

Event № 1 : January 2024
Part I; Chapter 2. Silence tells me secretly everything

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

I. A Thought Is Haunting Me

January 1st.

CWs: nonconsensual memshare/receiving of memories, flashbacks to combat zone and injury, blood, hearing loss/burst eardrum, panic attacks.

Just in time for New Year's Eve, the town square that held a magnificently decorated 15-foot Christmas tree last week now has a glittering silver ball to rival New York's own waiting atop a flagpole rooted in the same spot. Strings of lanterns illuminate the snowy brick courtyard, lined with stands offering hot cocoa, ciders, and various warm snacks, or perhaps characters are more interested in obtaining a pair or two of silly New Year's glasses that allow them to look through the numerals 1961. Eventually, though, all goes quiet for the exciting countdown.

'Five... four... three... two... one!

The ball drops, and confetti streams down onto the square (and the people standing in it!) as the Sweetwater High School Marching Band picks up a jaunty rendition of the New Year's classic Auld Lang Syne—but characters will likely find themselves distracted by the dark spots that appear in their fields of vision, gradually expanding until everything is eclipsed entirely by soft blackness. They feel less and less of the world around their bodies, numbness starting at their fingertips and toes and creeping up their extremities until they feel touchless, floating, completely absent of sensation. Then something replaces it: fragments, or perhaps all of what follows.

The world flashes black, then returns, hazy and doubled, half obscured by smoke as you lie face down on the hard, rocky earth. One ear shrieks, a whine that grows higher and higher. Hot blood streams down the other earlobe and drips onto your neck, washing off sweat and grime as it trickles toward your collar. Pain slices through what you think must be your eardrum like a jackknife shoved into your skull. You cough, throat burning, ribs protesting the movement. A coppery taste, a warmth, fills your mouth. You check with your tongue and all of your teeth are there; the blood is coming from your broken lip. The hair on top of your head feels hot and wet. You know your cheek is scraped open from the gritty sting taking up most of your face.

The doubled image of a medic gets into your face, his lips silently moving. You try to shake your head, to communicate that you can’t hear him over the shriek of your own tinnitus, but your neck is too stiff. Your brain slams against your skull and your head feels like it’s been hit with a brick. Blood drips off of your brow and into your eye.

The medic squeezes your shoulder and pushes off, scrambling across the debris until he disappears in the gray-brown smoke. There’s a moment of irrational fear: he’s leaving you here to die. You’re hit somewhere and you’re last in triage. You’ve heard about soldiers not feeling the gunshot until much later. When he and his buddy come back with a stretcher, surprise mingles with the dread of being lifted.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to recalibrate your vision, but it still swims with the pitch and yaw of the rocky earth beneath you. When you open it, he’s trying to look into your eyes, hand on your shoulders, his lips finally moving in a pattern you recognize: Going home. Going home.

Going home.

You close your eyes.

*

You stare at a long tawny finger as you wind it into the red plasticized cord of the phone set, doing nothing when it begins to throb against its tethers, the single physical sensation anchoring you in reality.

“Listen to me. I need you to be calm and handle this. Someone will be there in thirty minutes, Ron. You need to keep it under control until then or we’re going to be in a world of shit you can’t even imagine—Put up roadblocks. Say a convict got loose. I don’t care. Do what you have to. Don’t call me unless it’s resolved or someone’s fucking dying, Ron, do you understand me?”

*

The door opens as the emergency light comes on, flickering. The room fills with the suffocating stench of diesel. A candystriper’s golden-brown hands wrap around your thin wrists, pulling you as she rocks back on the heels of her wet tennis shoes with all of her might. Tears stream down her cheeks, strands of relaxed hair hanging in her eyes. She chokes her words out around sobs of her own, eyes wild with terror, screaming: Miss Ruby, you have to get up! You have to get up, Miss Ruby! But your legs won't move. Your breaths shudder ragged in the air just like the volunteer's.

At 12:01, characters return to consciousness: but there are little changes, twinges that make this a bit realer than a dream. Perhaps their index finger twinges as blood returns to it and the impressions a tight phone cord left on their skin fade, or maybe they find themselves wiping a few droplets of blood from the corner of their jaw. Perhaps their ears ring, gradually giving way to clearer sound—or maybe they awake sitting on the ground with their arms around their bent knees, face wet with tears, overcome with a raw panic unlike anything they’ve ever felt. How very odd.

Notes:
—Characters can experience all of the memories, or players can pick and choose.
—Characters do not have to be in the square to receive the memories.

II. In the Valley of the Dolls We Sleep

January 13-15th.

CWs: violence, entrapment, hypnosis, living mannequins, dismemberment.


'New year, new you!' the cheery saleswoman on the radio and television ads for the local two-story department store proclaims ad-nauseam, becoming more and more of a regular guest in characters' homes as time marches on toward the 15th of the New Year. There are great sales to be had, and would you look at that, characters have a few gift cards to this very store in their respective purses and wallets! Over time, the voice of the young woman in the advertisement almost seems to grow more insistent, even though the same ad plays every time: surely it's just familiarity altering one's perception of her voice, right?

On the morning of the 13th, characters wake up to the sound of every radio and television set in the house turned on and blaring the ad. The saleswoman reminds them that time's running out, and that the sales will only last for another 48 hours before they're gone. If characters can't hear, they only make it as far as the living room before the television screen comes into view, the same message scrolling across the bottom of the screen in large close-captioning... even if they haven't turned it on. This time, something feels different, and characters find themselves compelled as though by a supernatural force to go check out the sales being advertised.

Characters may notice once they're inside of the building that it's only new arrivals here: the townspeople of Sweetwater seem to have already done their shopping! Fortunately, there are still some great items left. It may be when looking at that cashmere sweater or a nice pair of snowshoes that characters catch a tiny flicker of movement out of the corner of their eye: but when they turn in that direction, there's nothing except a faint, nagging sense that something's not right. It happens again as they pass through the store—and then, with no warning, the faceless, eyeless mannequins throughout the store burst into motion at the same time as the sales associates collapse to the floor unconscious, attacking characters with inhuman strength and whatever items they have at their disposal with the intent of bludgeoning them to death.

If characters try to escape from the way they came, they will find that the automatic doors and fire doors are all locked as though from the outside. The windows cannot be opened or broken, nor can the glass of the doors—they're trapped here. Really, truly trapped.

To make matters worse, the mannequins, unlike the salesman, seem truly impervious to... everything. Guns can pierce them, but they have no blood to lose or brain to damage. They can be dismembered, but they're strong, and hard to pull apart; even if a mannequin's head is removed, the body will still function. Characters have one advantage, however: the mannequins are not as intelligent as human beings, and seem to mostly lack object permanence. If characters can stay silent and out of sight after finding somewhere to hide, the mannequins will drop their pursuit after about fifteen minutes of trying to get to them.

The mannequins stay alive for 48 hours, and the doors stay locked for the same amount of time. Characters who do not find a way to sleep risk sleep deprivation symptoms similar to the ones detailed in the explanation of modes of torture in Sweetwater, and will be slower, weaker, and less able to fight off or escape from the mannequins. 48 hours is also a very long time to go without water, which can only be obtained from the sinks in the bathrooms... both of which feature nicely dressed mannequins in one corner.

Notes:
— The departments of the store are as follows:

- Women's Clothing
- Men's Clothing
- Children's Clothing
- Furs
- Baby/young child supplies
- Home appliances
- Kitchen
- Decor
- Furniture
- Toys
- Hunting, Fishing, and Outdoors (hunting-style guns, ammunition, snowshoes, fishing rods, flies/fly-tying equipment, dog beds, hunting blinds)
- Tools ( Limited. There aren't any electric saws or more specialized tools like bolt cutters to be found, but simpler "Little Joey picked this out for you, Dad!" wrench/screwdriver sets, branch loppers, lawnmowers, snowblowers, etc. - in general assume that there aren't any power tools player characters can use to bulldoze the mannequins with, but there might be some tools that could help with other things... )
- Fine Jewelry/Watches
- Ladies' Gloves

— Deaf characters and characters who wear earplugs to bed will be awoken by their spouse moving, or will randomly wake up even though they can't hear the ad.
— Players who wish to opt out can say that their character simply slept through it and woke up after the doors to the department store had already locked.
— The mannequin limbs are inert after they've been removed, but the mannequins can still operate without a head.
— Characters may try to investigate at the risk of leaving cover. If a character is able to get close enough to the service desk on the second floor, they may also notice that one of the customer service associates, a teenage girl, lies slumped over the counter as opposed to on the floor with her coworkers, an unlabeled, recently installed button depressed beneath her shoulder—she was leaning forward before she lost consciousness. If her body is moved, the button stays anchored in place. If characters check it again, hours later, they'll notice that it can't be depressed or lifted, but seems a little higher—almost as if it takes a set amount of time to return to resting.

III. Drill it in like J. Paul Getty

Throughout January.

CWs: torture, non-fatal electrical shock, restraints, medical/psychiatric abuse, nonconsensual drug administration, altered states of consciousness, needles/injections, gaslighting, brainwashing, sleep deprivation torture, antipsychotics overdose, smoking.

Should characters discuss the horrors of the month on the network, over the telephone, or in places where townspeople can hear, they’ll face the consequences. They go to bed the night of the offense as usual—and come into consciousness in a dark room, a basement of some sort, bound to a chair with leather restraints buckled onto their wrists, their ankles. A leather strap runs across their chest, holding it to the back of the hard wooden chair they’re bound to. A few feet away, the static electricity of a television box provides some measure of light as noisy waves ripple across the screen.

Upon further examination, there’s one more thing on characters’ left wrists, directly north of the leather straps holding it to the armrest: a set of electrodes and thin wires that run down and across the room.

“You’re awake. Good morning.” None other than the town’s private practice doctor, Norman Pollock, greets them, with the same matter of fact tone he’d use during a standard physical exam. “You seem to have lost sight of what makes Sweetwater so special, so we’re going to watch some videos, get your head on straight. We can’t have this kind of subversive behavior when the country’s already under attack, Sweetheart.”

He presses a button on the television remote—which characters might notice has a second, less refined one taped to its side—and a program comes on: What Communism Will Take From Us.

For the next 36 hours, the hour-long video plays on repeat, showing idyllic scenes right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, detailing the joys of the American way of life, emphasizing all of the ways subversive thoughts and actions undermine it, and how they hold the door open for the Red Menace. This is what’s at stake, what little towns like Sweetwater, Maryland have to use. Norman sits in a chair nearby, smoking cigarettes, reading issues of the New England Journal of Medicine, the remote never leaving his hand. The moment characters’ eyes close for longer than a single blink, the electrodes on their wrist deliver a nasty shock to help them wake up, growing in intensity with every additional offense. His never do for longer than a regular old blink.

By the end of the 36 hours, characters can expect reality to begin to blur at the edges, and may be experiencing auditory hallucinations, paranoia, and their minds wandering in ways they haven’t before. At 36 hours of sleep deprivation, the body cries out for it, desperate to rest. Maybe they erupt into hysterical laughter, or weep uncontrollably, or panic. Norman is unphased by all of it.

If characters try to fight back, or prove too argumentative and unwilling to learn, Norman will produce a glass syringe and draw up a thick fluid from a dark glass bottle, which, if characters have the necessary visual acuity to see, reads haloperidol. He jams the needle into their gluteus and injects; within 10 minutes, characters will feel very, very sedate, almost catatonic in their stupor. Effects vary from person to person, but it is not a pleasant experience: in addition to the deadness it brings on, hearts race and mouths go dry. It gets harder to swallow, or maybe a character’s vision begins to blur. The limbs contract in fits and jerks in the immediate and for the week the drug lasts. The face twitches uncontrollably, muscles ache in their rigid stiffness, and it becomes hard to stay upright throughout the week as the drug interferes with the character’s balance, making them dizzy and confused.

THE TOE TAG
If characters fight Norman, however, they may find that he backs against the nearby metal filing cabinet–knocking loose a piece of paper hanging from a half-open drawer when he does. It’s recognizable as a photocopy of a toe tag, the kind affixed to corpses in a morgue, but characters have seconds before their vision doubles and blurs too much for it to remain readable. Characters who are injected with haloperidol for subversion, either for talking about the murder or a different offense, may comment to the event post under the designated mod comment to take a shot at reading the tag. Remember, though, it’s probably best not to advertise that they saw anything out of the ordinary, or to even mention what happened to them, on a publicly visible communications channel…

They wake up in their own bed shortly after losing consciousness, and spend the next week corpselike.

IV. It's Freezing and I Am Watching You Shovel Snow

January 7th onwards.

It's a cold winter for Maryland, characters will hear their neighbors complain, and within a few days of the New Year they have reason enough to complain too: the snowstorm everyone's been talking about in the neighborhood clubs comes on the 7th of January, dumping a foot and a half of snow. Better grab that snow shovel, or find someone to help you if you can't! A snowstorm like this takes multiple visits outdoors to keep up with, so maybe now would be a good time to practice divvying up responsibilities with characters' new spouses or children—or for bachelors to seek out the help of a neighbor. Characters may also have to deal with a power outage lasting up to 14 hours—better visit a house that has power if they need anything, but at least this is the kind of experience that brings a parent and child or a new couple or even two members of the same community closer. At least in theory.

It’s not all near-death experiences, psychological torture, and power outages, though! Characters who find themselves in need of some R&R will be pleased to know that the local fire department has tested the municipal park’s pond and found the ice is now suitably thick for ice skating. Characters will find lace-up leather ice skates in their size hanging from their tied-together laces in the garage, though this probably isn’t the best way to learn to skate if they haven’t before, given the lack of rail to hold on to–unless they have a friend to help them balance?

navigation

Comments

mr numbers | fargo (tv) | ota!

[workingthenumbers]

i. a thought is haunting me

a. [Numbers is mostly lingering on the edges of the square, more inclined to simply watch and observe the partygoers and try to make sense of suburbia. He had always looked from the outside in on these kinds of towns, and never really gotten a chance to be immersed in people's day-to-day lives. The more he watches and learns, the more puzzled he becomes. Why would anyone ever chose to live in this kind of place? To blatantly, intentionally ignore issues in favor of social cohesion? To suffocate others and be suffocated--what was all this posturing for? Who benefited from all of this? Because the citizens certainly didn't seem to be gaining anything.

Despite trying to look inconspicuous, Numbers looks way more out of place by not engaging, a disgruntled expression on his face as he watches the townies giggle and sip hot chocolate and talk about new year's resolutions. He wrinkles his nose, a deeper frown settling on his face.]

Do people ever actually keep up with new year's resolutions? [He mutters, to no one in particular--though you might overhear if you happen to be in range.] Why wouldn't you just make a goal at any other point during the year? That's what I would do.

b. [And then comes the onslaught of memories. By the end of it, Numbers is doubled over and gasping for breath, his vision returning. He hears the faint cheer of people around him, ringing in the new year, but he ignores it. His head whips around as he tries to find someone--anyone else who might look out of place or ill at ease. When he's found a target. He doesn't hesitate--he stumbles forward through the crowd, slightly uncoordinated, and reaches forward to tightly grasp the person's shoulders.]

You saw it too, didn't you? [His voice is demanding, aggressive. Still recovering, he doesn't seem to care that his behavior is clearly visible to anyone else watching. Numbers shakes the person in his grasp, trying to illicit a response.] Tell me what you saw!

ii. in the valley of the dolls we sleep

[Gunfire rings out in the department store as Numbers fires at several oncoming mannequins to no avail. He knew that department stores were a special kind of evil, but he didn't expect this to be a potential danger. Realizing that he'd be wasting more ammo, Numbers lets out a frustrated growl and holsters his pistol. He sprints in the opposite direction as fast as he can, turning the corner in the hopes of finding a place to hide and losing these freaks as quickly as possible.

He doesn't anticipate running smack into another mannequin, which lobs a hefty punch at his gut. Numbers lets out a surprised yell, stumbles, and slips. He falls onto the linoleum tiles and gets the wind knocked out of him. A sharp wheeze punctuates the air. More plastic hands move to swing at him, and instinctively, he moves his arms up to protect his face. He can take on one mannequin no problem, but four, all moving to bludgeon him to death?

He's going to need a little help. Numbers managers to snarl out what he considers a cry for help:]

GET THESE ASSHOLES OFF ME!

iii. drill it in like j paul getty (january 16th to january 23rd)

[It turns out that the community doesn't take kindly to Numbers' aggressive approach to pushing against the town's placid veneer. After the New Year's incident and the mannequins, Numbers found it upon himself to walk into the police precinct and try to goad answers out of the local policemen. He was well aware this was a stupid idea, that he would be attracting the attention of law enforcement, but he was impatient--he needed to see how the local authorities operated, if they were crooked or otherwise simply conforming, as the rest of the town was. But of course, he got nothing--the police simply asked him to leave, repeatedly, until Numbers realized he was getting nowhere and stormed out.

That night, he wakes up in a basement. And as much as he snarls and snaps at Norman, it's to no effect. Numbers has suffered through previous torture and abuse--it came with the line of work he was in. But never like this.

The next morning, Numbers wakes up in his bed.

Throughout the next week, Numbers stumbles around town, going through the motions of walking himself to the grocery store, staring at the frozen food aisle, not buying anything, then stumbling back home. He seems dazed, confused, his expression vacant. His appearance is bedraggled, hardly bothering to groom himself or look presentable when he drags himself out of the house--which is alarming to those who know how carefully Numbers tries to present himself. Some days, he'll just wander randomly, not really sure where he's going or what he needs to do, just knowing that he needs to move.]

iv. wildcard

[If you wanna chat about other ideas for the event, HMU @ wolfnoir or my OOC plotting post!]

I.b - I love when I get to pull out specific icons like this

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus looks ill at ease, and even more outright ill to be grabbed and shaken without warning. Between the lingering disorientation and aches and the aggressiveness of the demands, he doesn't even try to pretend to fit in with everyone around.]

A... A phone? Someone crying?

REALLY GOOD

[workingthenumbers]

[Numbers' hands grip Papyrus's shoulders even tighter. His mind is still reeling. A phone--he remembers seeing that. He remembers a battlefield, not being able to hear clearly. He doesn't remember anyone crying.]

Did you see any faces? Do you know who they were?

[A few murmurs can be heard surrounding the commotion. As the initial panic and disorientation begins to fade, he becomes acutely aware of a radius of discomfort that seems to be centered around the two of them. Numbers glances over his shoulder, then moves to grab Papyrus's upper arm and pull him off to the side.]

Come on.

[spaghettimonster]

[He doesn't bother dodging the grab, too accustomed to how the sorts of people who go for suddenly shaking a skeleton... might also go for suddenly suplexing him. There just isn't enough snow around for that kind of wrestling.]

No, they...

[Papyrus cuts himself off, less out of wariness of being overheard or being dragged off to some secondary location with this stranger, but because it wouldn't be helpful to explain that the person he saw was human. Not when everyone around here seems to be. Besides, he's seen more than enough humans by now that he's getting better at recognizing them! And this one, he didn't.]

There was one face, but I didn't know them. They were crying... Or maybe screaming?

[workingthenumbers]

[He listens carefully, nodding, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tries to sort through the chaos of what was projected into his brain.]

I--I don't think I saw someone crying, [He admits in almost a reluctant tone, as if apologetic he can't corroborate this.] I heard--no, I--I couldn't hear. It looked like some sort of battlefield, or...or maybe a war. Someone was telling me I was going home. Something--

[Numbers cuts himself off, realizing he's beginning to ramble. The trained instinct to come off as cool and collected kicks in, and he straightens up, removing his hands from Papyrus and clearing his throat.]

Whoever he was, I didn't recognize him. And I didn't recognize where I was, either.

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus's eyebrows shoot up at the idea of a battlefield, and he almost relaxes about being tugged around. Suddenly living out a waking dream of a battle, without any time to prepare for it, could make a person a little grabby and crabby alike. Fair enough.]

S-So, we both saw different things...

[He's not sure why it's a surprise, but it is. Maybe just because it makes it harder to agree about what happened, or because if it's not shared then it ought to be individualized.]

Saw, and heard. The crying person, and the phone call... They both called me things, but... not my name. I don't think I could pull off 'Miss Ruby'.

[His hair isn't nearly red or crystalline enough for it, for one.]

[workingthenumbers]

"Ms. Ruby"? [He echoes, raising his eyebrows.] So, they weren't calling your name.

[Not that he...knows this guy's name, anyways. Numbers tries to wrap his brain around it. Trying to make it make sense without some stupid mumbo jumbo explanation. He lets out a small growl of frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking irritated.]

It doesn't make sense. It's--It's almost like these are someone else's thoughts. Or memories.

III

[yupe]

[ Jupe—still bundled up but foregoing his scarf for the walk from the parking lot to the grocery store's front door—is wandering the aisles with a studious air, store-issue basket in hand. He thinks nothing of Numbers when he first passes him, but once he's been disappointed by the store's selection of oranges and stocked up on canned soup, he heads to pick up some pot pies and finds the man...

...staring blankly at TV dinners. Jupe continues down the aisle, closer and closer, his glances at the other man increasingly frequent, but he doesn't abandon the pretense of shopping until he's just on the verge of the guy's personal space. ] Hey. [ He says in an undertone, unconsciously leaning to follow the man's empty gaze. He doesn't touch him; that seems like it'd be asking for trouble. A little louder, cracking a smile: ] I know this is the frozen section, but, uh—I think they mean the food.

[workingthenumbers]

[When Jupe speaks, Numbers nearly jumps out of his skin, visibly shrinking away as if he had touched him. His eyes are wide and unfocused, and he seems to be visibly trembling.

There's a guy here. A guy he doesn't recognize. Talking to him. What does he want? Does he know that Numbers is freaking out right now? Jesus. Get a grip on yourself. Instinctively, he tries to smile, a well-practiced gesture, but he ends up sort of grimacing instead, his facial muscles refusing to budge in the way he wants them to.]

I'm--I'm moving. Not frozen, see? You-- [His voice cracks.] Did Fargo send you?

[Doesn't seem like he really knows where he is.]

[yupe]

Holy shit. [ It's out of his mouth before he can think better of it—or think at all. Up close, the guy's in even worse shape. Spooked, fried. Jupe's seen wooden cowboys with more lifelike eyes. And definitely nicer smiles. ]

Who? No, I'm— [ At a loss, he raises his shopping basket, jiggling the contents. He breathes in, telling himself to take it slow. ] Nobody sent me. I'm just a guy. Shopping. [ The shaking's hard to take his eyes off of, but he's not sure what to do about it either. Pile another winter coat on the guy? Or maybe he's an alcoholic.

Jupe turns a lazy circle, trying to give the appearance of scoping out the prices lining the aisle. Doesn't look like anyone's noticed them yet: good. He lowers his voice even more, glancing at the other man's hands for a hospital bracelet. Or something. ] Were you in some kind of an accident? What's your name?

[workingthenumbers]

[No hospital bracelet, by the looks of it. Though, maybe he could've removed it somehow. Numbers maintains eye contact with Jupe just a little bit too long before averting his eyes. He curls in on himself almost abashedly, like a child that was caught staring at someone. His name? He's always avoided the question when asked by those outside of the syndicate. Did he even remember his name before his life of crime? Did it even matter?]

Mr. Numbers. They call me Mr. Numbers. [He doesn't sound particularly convincing. He folds his hands together, tightly interweaving his fingers and looking down at the floor.] Everything is fine. No accident. I'm here in Sweetwater for...for a reason.

[Even if he can't remember what that reason is. It sounds right to say, at the time. His brain is scrambled, intermingling memories from his time in Bemidji and the torture enacted by Norman. He was looking for a man in Bemidji. Why was he looking for a man? Who was it, anyways?

There's a good thirty second pause before he continues, sounding slightly confused.]

I think...need to find someone.

[yupe]

[ What the fuck. What in the fuck. ] Mr. Numbers. [ Jupe repeats, his tone gone flat and dubious. It sounds like the name of a character on a PBS show. Abandoning any attempt at subtlety, he makes another survey of the aisle. How did this quivering mess of a man make it all the way to the grocery store?

Then, in a clattering of wheels and clack of heels, their luck runs out. A cart swings down the aisle, helmed by a well-dressed woman with hair wound up on top of her head. Her eyes pick them out like a bird pecking at seeds. ] Okay. [ He soothes. Touching Numbers gingerly at each shoulder, Jupe tries to shift him away from the oncoming cart and position himself between the other man and the woman's stare. Keeping his voice in that same calm undertone: ] Okay, maybe I can help.

[workingthenumbers]

[He flinches again when Jupe grabs him, but less violently this time. Some progress is being made. Probably. He looks towards the cart coming down the aisle with wide eyes, then shrinks back slightly, focusing back on Jupe.]

His name is-- [He has to stop and think for a moment. He was looking for a man. He was given his name. No--he squeezed the name out of someone. Wrench stuffed a sock into his mouth and they made him scream.] --Malvo. I need to find him. So I can leave. So we can leave.

[Right. Because once they found Malvo and dealt with him, they could leave this stupid town and get back to their lives.

Wait. Wrench isn't here. Where's Wrench? They need to do this together. He suddenly begins to look around, growing distressed.]

Where is--You haven't seen my partner, have you? He needs to do this with me.

iii

[frauseufzen]

[They're just passing in the street, but this man has the same faraway look as her-- ugh-- husband, and it's this that causes Agathe to look into the familiar face of the man she spoke to in the shelter.

She stops, angling her head in a shrewd, birdlike motion to get a better look, and steps closer to Numbers, falling into stride with him.]

What has happened to you, [she mutters, in an undertone.]

[workingthenumbers]

[Numbers doesn't seem to notice Agathe walking next to him. It takes a minute or two for him to turn and look towards her, and when he does, his eyes are wide and gaze vacant. He tries to take in her face, but his pupils darts about, unable to decide what to focus on.]

Me? [He asks, his voice flat.] Nothing. Everything is fine. Nothing can go wrong. Not when we're here.

[His facial muscles twitch. It seems like he's trying to smile, but he can't.]

[frauseufzen]

Of course.

[Certainly not about to beat it out of him, she continues to walk beside him; this tracks with what she learned of Raskolnikov's situation, as well.]

When did you wake up, [she asks next, in the same flat affect. They might as well be talking about the weather.]

[workingthenumbers]

[Numbers lets out a sort of an unhinged, barking laugh, as if the question that she asked him was absurd.]

Wake up? As far as I'm concerned, this is limbo. [His face twitches again. His cadence is uneven, lilting high and low seemingly at random.] I'm pretty--pretty sure I was dead before this. So who's to say this isn't an elaborate form of hell?

[frauseufzen]

[If she's at all troubled by the laugh, Agathe doesn't show it. She can see how he's fraying, and it's obvious that the last thing this man needs is to be grilled.]

Perhaps it is. [Her answer is smooth, pensive.]

What was the nature of your death? [a pause, as she realizes that's not something you just Ask People,] ...if you don't mind.

[workingthenumbers]

[Numbers grimaces, not really focusing on Agathe as he speaks. He remembers the day well--it was the last day he had experienced before arriving here. Gunshots. A white-out blizzard. They'd slammed their syndicate-given cars into the culprit's own car, trapping him, driving him out. Numbers had wandered off alone.]

Bastard got me in the back and--and then-- [He makes a slicing motion across his throat, his fingers shaking as he does so.] Didn't mean...I didn't mean to get separated from him.

[He sounds sorrowful as he speaks.]

iii (in which wrench stares directly into the camera as all "his people" cause a fuckin' scene)

[wwrench]

If first impressions told the whole story, the average observer could be forgiven for thinking Numbers is the more meticulous of the two of them. Wrench can almost imagine that, after assessing his surroundings for immediate threats to his livelihood, Numbers checked the bathroom vanity first. He's probably already scoped out the best pomade and beard oil the 1960s can offer and made a sweeping inventory of his closet and chest of drawers.

Wrench, on the other hand, is firmly of the belief that sweat is the best natural curl cream. He's also rigorous in ways his former partner is likely to find exhausting: with information, data, and tools. Despite Numbers' insistence that they find the back hatch of this place as quickly as possible, Wrench has begged for more time. Take a beat, sit back, and observe. Appreciate the fact that in this enclosed space, he's alive. Don't go doing anything to change that.

A request Numbers clearly has not honored.

Wrench catches him on one of these walks to the grocery store, through their shared neighborhood. He jogs to be at the other man's side and jostles him with a shove to the shoulder that spares nothing in its bid for attention. Hey, I've been looking for you. I went by your house yesterday and knocked for 45 minutes. What gives?

dont worry about it wrench <3

[workingthenumbers]

When Wrench bumps into Numbers, it takes a solid minute for Numbers to react. His eyes flit up towards Wrench, and a deep sense of shame suddenly pours into his chest. He's not entirely sure what he feels bad about, specifically. Maybe he feels guilty that he ran off and did something he shouldn't have--both in this particular scenario, and during that snowstorm in Bemidji. But right now, Numbers' brain is fried, and all he can do is raise his hands and haltingly try to respond.

I need to get...food? His signing is sluggish and unrefined, his fingers twitching in an errant manner and forcing him to repeat the movement to try and clarify it further. His expression looks vacant and confused. Nothing wrong. Don't worry about me.

He blinks exactly once during the entirety of his reply. It's unclear whether he actually listened to what Wrench was saying to him. Even as he tries to reassure Wrench, it's clear that he's simply going through the motions.

[wwrench]

Bullshit, Wrench crooks his horned fist, sparing no consideration for the fact he might be wise to slow down. Why are you lying? Tell me what happened to you. It's a desperate kind of insistence, bold and emphatic and born of the absolute terror that he's done it again. He's let Numbers out of his sight, and once more the man has found himself alone and in a world of trouble. At least this time he's standing. He's upright and signing, halting though the effort may be. But when Wrench stoops forward to stare into his partner's dark eyes, it's hard for him to see the flickering spark of light that might still be back there.

I have food. He's signing slower now, more deliberate in his efforts to make sure Numbers is actually watching him. Come back to my house. T-E-D-D-Y went off somewhere. I haven't seen them today. We can talk.

Not that they can't talk in front of Teddy, but whatever Numbers is holding back, Wrench intends to get out of him however he can.

[workingthenumbers]

Numbers maintains his bewildered, mask-like gaze. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly downward, as if to scowl, but his facial muscles seem to be unable to hold the expression for long. He doesn't even know if he can verbalize what happened--stringing together the words in a cohesive way seems like a momentous, impossible task.

T-E-D-D-Y? Oh. Teddy. His brain struggles to remember. Wrench's wife. No. Wrench doesn't have a wife. Not really. Wrench wouldn't do that. Wouldn't marry. Unless something changed in Numbers' absence. Numbers' ten year absence. Christ, wouldn't that be funny? If, after Numbers died, Wrench settled down and became a househusband without telling him.

His thoughts are scattered and unfocused, making errant connections and going off on irrelevant tangents. When he's able to focus on Wrench again, he realizes that he's been just standing there silently for a solid minute. Like an idiot. Was anyone else watching this exchange? Did Wrench know what he was thinking?

He doesn't know how to respond. He just nods, even though Wrench didn't ask him a question. An agreement to talk. He starts to stagger forward, as if having some sort of destination in mind, before nearly tripping over his own feet. He instinctively reaches out to steady himself against Wrench, gripping the man's arm tightly. Numbers' breathing is uneven and haggard, which is even more apparent as he presses himself against Wrench for support.

Maybe it's better for Wrench to lead the way.

[wwrench]

Seconds tick by, and Numbers says nothing. Those seconds stretch into a half-minute, then a full minute, and still the shorter man makes no attempt to communicate. In a panic, Wrench wonders if he even can. What if the first jerky, contorted phrase was the only thing he knows to sign? What if the man who's been his closest companion since they were both children somehow forgot how? Or what if it isn't Numbers at all?

He's had nightmares like this before. More when they were much younger, just cresting into their teens and finding their place with the rest of the Fargo brood. Wrench always thought Numbers adapted faster. Thought Hanzee - Moses - liked the other man more, and accepted him on some kind of two-for-one deal. Back then he'd had the nightmare more than once that he'd sign something to Numbers and the other would look at him blankly, like he didn't understand. Like he didn't want to understand.

Right now, Numbers looks even more vacant than in those nightmares. He stumbles, and Wrench rushes to catch him. Slinging an arm around his back makes damn sure they won't be saying much on the short walk over to his house, but Wrench doesn't care right now. He steers them in that direction, careless of who might see them walking like this. Steers Numbers through the front door and practically shoves him into the couch before going to pour them both a measure of alcohol.

Wrench shoves the thick-cut glass at Numbers and folds himself in front of the man. Don't make me slap you across the face. Are you paying attention?

[workingthenumbers]

Numbers lets himself get dragged into Wrench's house, barely registering his surroundings as he's brought to the couch and collapses upon it. He hears something being poured, and a glass is pushed into his hands.

When he raises his hand to respond, a bit of liquor spills from his cup--though, he doesn't seem to notice. Yes, he replies, a bit too forcefully. He tries to adjust his grip and raise the glass to his lips. His hand is visibly shaking as he does so, but he manages to gulp a few mouthfuls. It burns the back of his throat and he coughs, jolted to attention. Only briefly, but attention nevertheless.

Yes, he repeats, trying to focus on his words. I'm paying attention.

He can feel himself slipping. Numbers forces himself to down more of his drink. It burns again, but doesn't quite have the same effect. He can feel Wrench's eyes burning into him. Christ, he hates it when he looks at him like that. Makes him feel like he's done something wrong. He knows he can't hide anything from Wrench--nor would he want to. But his memories of the situation are fuzzy, intermingling with memories before his arrival in Sweetwater.

I'm tired, he continues, slowly, almost apologetically. As if that explains the situation. Want to sleep.