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?

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Comments

EVENT QUESTIONS.

[silentspringmods]

Please read the event and game pages carefully before submitting your question.

THE TOE TAG.

[silentspringmods]

Comment here if your character is sent to re-education and tries to fight Norman while bound. There is a chance that he will back into the filing cabinet while struggling with them and knock free a photocopy of a toe tag, though whether or not a character is able to read it before their vision blurs from the overdose of haloperidol he administers will be determined by RNG.

TALK TO NORMAN.

[silentspringmods]

There will be a narrow window of time for characters to ask questions of/argue with Norman while he turns on the TV and sets it to the right program, although if they argue with him they may be injected. Limited to three threads capped at 5 total comments before he decides to inject.

MISC INVESTIGATIONS/INTERACTIONS.

[silentspringmods]

If your character investigates the department store (or another location, such as the library) for something specific and you would like to know what they'd find, comment here. One investigation per character!

Bucky Barnes | MCU/FatWS | OTA

[freakymagoo]

1a. A thought is haunting me [mingle]
Bucky is a little hesitant to choose between the hot chocolate and the small powdered doughnuts. He winds up getting both, but it’s a struggle to hold both the drink and the food in one hand while trying to consume anything. So he ends up sort of– alternating between the hot cocoa and the doughnuts, standing at a tall table near the stall.

When someone comes to his table and asks if they can use the other half, he nods wordlessly and tries to keep his mess contained to his side. He only breaks his silence once he pushes his paper tray of doughnuts towards the centre of the table, a peace offering ahead of the new year.

“Want some?” He’s not half the supersoldier he used to be. No longer super and no longer a soldier either, actually. Doesn’t have the metabolism or cravings to devour all this sugar.

Looking around at the town’s New Year setup, fragments of tampered memories slip into his consciousness like sand flowing between his fingers. The ball didn’t drop at the end of 1942, and he remembers the juxtaposition of the moment of silence with the roar of truck engines and the jingles of chimes ringing in the new year. New York City is a completely new beast these days. A million people in Times Square standing around for 16 hours at the mercy of the weather, and he doesn’t fancy himself doing the same, pressed up against a dozen strangers who are feeling miserably pissing and shitting themselves because they’ve been barricaded in and have to endure whoever’s stupid idea it was to go see the ball drop.

It’s a quaint little affair in Sweetwater though. Heaven forbid the night turns out to be remotely enjoyable.


1b. A thought is haunting me [immediate aftermath]
Don’t mind him just jolting up at one minute past midnight, gasping for air. It almost looks like he forgot he’s missing his left arm? He’s– unstable, propped up partially by his right arm and his elbow almost slips, and he shoots an alarmed glare at the empty left sleeve like he’s surprised by the absence. He’s just some crazy person writhing on the floor pulling his jacket open and untucking his shirt, patting over his stomach and touching his bottom lip and cheek and then reaching back down to pull his shirt halfway up his torso and try to look down, like he doesn’t trust the lack of blood on his hand.

The back of his head hurts and the corners of his eyes are prickling from how he must have hit his head going down, but apart from the confusion, he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by that right now.


1c. A thought is haunting me [research]
Alright. He spoke too soon. That wasn’t an enjoyable night at all. He can still taste the blood in his mouth. He spends the morning of New Year’s Day at home proverbially licking his wounds and scrawling down everything he can remember about what he saw. It’s familiar enough of a memory that he could have easily dreamed it up, but he can’t say for sure whether that was a flashback or somebody else’s burden to carry. They all have some unresolved something from the wars they’ve fought. Nobody’s special. Judging by the way the others at the town square were reacting though, he’s pretty sure he wasn’t the only one tripping on Sweetwater’s tap water.

There wasn’t anything particularly identifying about himself (or “himself” - whoever it was that got injured) that he could jot down, so he fixates on the medic. He can’t draw for shit but he can at least note down all the identifying features he can remember - surprisingly, when there aren’t any scientists or technicians up in there trying to turn his brain into scrambled eggs, he can recall things very well - and makes vague plans to monitor anything strange popping up on the network, and to do some research.

For the rest of New Year’s Day and the days immediately following, Bucky can be found at the local museum, library, city hall, VA, church, and any other relevant Sweetwater locations pouring over all the old newspapers, photographs, historical records, archives, books, diaries and any other resources he can get his hand on. Eyebrows furrowed, scrutinising every detail pouring over single page with an intense glare, he might not seem very approachable, but he does have piles of boxes and books in front of him, and even if he might get startled if he’s interrupted from what he’s currently engrossed in, he might be willing to share or divide and conquer some of his hoard.


2. Valley of the Dolls
Don't go to the dept store


3. Drill it in like J. Paul Getty
Bucky isn’t sure what drew Doctor Pollock’s unwanted attention in the end. Maybe he was snooping around spending too much time obsessing over what he saw on New Year’s Eve. Or he shouldn’t have warned people about those sales to die for at the department store - not that he regrets trying. Did Sweetwater boycott Lucky Strikes and he should have bought Camel cigarettes instead? Or is the rolling monthly average height of his front lawn two inches taller than the approved Homeowner’s Association guidelines? Whatever the case, he finds himself a rather… captive audience of the good doctor. And while it’s normally a challenge to get a reaction out of Bucky, strapping him down to a chair is playing the game in easy mode, straight to jail without passing “GO” and collecting his $200.

If this looks like HYDRA. Smells like HYDRA. Feels like HYDRA. Hurts like HYDRA. Then Norman is obviously HYDRA.

Bucky fights. Of course he fights. He always fights first. Even without the supersoldier serum coursing through his veins, even as just a washed out old soldier with one arm, he struggles against his restraints until the angry red welts on his wrist starts to bleed. When he’s able to get a slight upper hand on Norman, the first thing he does is lash out like a feral animal in a frenzy. Just as well he isn’t as strong as he used to be. He lost all self-restraint at that moment and might have put Norman straight through the filing cabinet, done something he would regret.

He’s not used to how fast drugs can consume his new and unimproved body. Everything’s worse about his body here, in fact. No stamina. No strength. No speed. No durability. Still, he speedruns through the five stages in those 36 hours, without sparing a second to mourn all of HYDRA’s gifts that he’s lost. He fights first and the breakdown comes swiftly after. It takes about 20 hours before Bucky starts whimpering. Bargaining with his new handler. I’m not your Soldier anymore. Please don’t. By the 32 hour mark, he falls silent. Accepting his fate. He’ll be a good boy. Just let him go.

And then, strangely, it’s all over. And unlike their previous attempts at forcing a trauma bond upon him, there’s nobody there pretending to be kind to him, nobody offering comforts in the thinly-disguised safety of his fake home. If he had all his mental faculties about him, he wouldn’t be sure what to make of all this.

But he’s just partially curled up on the floor of his bedroom, five o’clock shadow sprouted along his jawline like pervasive weeds, awake but somehow not fully conscious, an uncontrolled tremor in his right hand, simultaneously feeling disconnected like he’s floating in some out-of-body surreal experience but his body is physically too big and heavy and cumbersome to move. Even when the doorbell rings, he hears it, but. It’s like the noise is coming from somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Luckily it’s unlocked - because it’s the kind of town where you can leave your doors unlocked and he better remember it or he’ll have to go visit Doctor Pollock again for a timely reminder - or his guest will be waiting outside in the cold for a very long time.


4. Watching you shovel snow
Bucky is clearly struggling trying to shovel snow with one arm. It’s not something he can do using his teeth to substitute for his left hand. Not like tearing open packaging, biting his keys, or putting on clothes. Couple the missing metal arm with the newfound fatigue that his body seems to regularly be weighed down by, and this futile exercise feels like an insurmountable battle against the weather gods.

Still, he tries. He’s got some sort of process working, using his right hand to steady the shovel handle and his foot to push down into the snow. It’s just painfully slow when he’s clearing out literal inches at a time. He’s stubborn enough to get on his knees and use his bare hand to do this, but. He’s not reached that low just yet.

helly r. (lester) — severance

[perceptual]

001.Haunting.

Before. [ Helly is, despite everything, actually having a good time. Every gathering she attends is a wonder to her, because it's hosting more people than she's ever seen in her life, and she's taking it all in with a sense of almost childlike wonder. The movement, the noise – it's overwhelming, it's oppressive, it's almost brilliant. With a cup of hot cocoa, Helly lingers on the edge of the crowd, content to just watch, to take it all in. Even if most of it is bullshit, just a bunch of empty husks with bland, even-toothed smiles, it's still a sight. Now and then, she throws a grin at someone – maybe you remember her from knocking on your door with a bunch of questions, or maybe you just make the kind of eye contact that feels more honest and real than any of the townspeople can offer. ]

After. [ Helly gasps into awareness with the same raw shock that she'd felt when she woke up on the floor of the elevator, only to find Mark staring at her with an expression of awkward concern and uncomfortable paternalism. She becomes suddenly aware that she'd fallen, right into the snow, and the seat of her skirt is soaked through with snow, and she knows she should get up and pull herself together sooner rather than later, but the shock of it all keeps her grounded right where she is. She's barely aware of the cold.

She'd spilled her drink too, cocoa melting the snow around her and splattered over the hem of her skirt, and she glares at the stain miserably as if she can will it away just with a look. Miss Ruby, you have to get up! You have to get up, Miss Ruby! But she doesn't want to get up. ]

Later. [ She does get up eventually. She tries to enjoy the party, as late night becomes almost morning, but it's not long before she calls it quits. She needs to go home – and it's awful to think that that place has become home to her, but it's the only place that makes sense – and she needs to change her clothes, and she needs to think. She's not alone in her journey, though; she's barely made it away from the crowd when she spots someone she recognises from a house call, and hurries to catch up. ]

Interesting party, huh?

002.Dolls.

[ Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit. Shit!

Helly, crouched behind a kitchen counter in a store display, can't breathe. She feels sick, woozy, her vision swimming with a mixture of panic and the urge to just curl into a ball and put her arms over her face and shut her eyes and let it all just happen. She's made of stronger stuff than that – maybe, hopefully – but that doesn't mean the urge isn't there. She's alone, and that's bad for two reasons: one, there's nobody to help her, and two, Arthur. He'd expressed quickly enough that he had to rely on her, and even though she's not the only person in this town who can help him, it's tearing her up inside a little to think that they're separated, that he might actually be alone.

Lips pressed to a flat line, she squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, and then tenses up as if she's about to make a move. Her plan is to get out of this store first, into a more open space – potentially extremely stupid, but it'll be easier to look for Arthur that way. Maybe she can call out to him. ]

003.Snow.

[ Helly's never been ice skating before, but honestly, it sounds kind of amazing. She grabs the pair of skates in the garage with the enthusiasm of someone about to go to their local store and slam down a winning lottery ticket on the countertop. The thought that this might actually be difficult does not even enter her mind until she's sitting on the edge of the lake and tying the laces of the skates, and she feels one of them slip out from under her. Well, she's certainly not going to succeed if she never tries, so —

Laces tied, Helly stands up, slides forward a few yards, wobbles awkwardly, and immediately falls flat on her back, knocking the wind clean out of her. ]

004.Wildcard.

[ plotting post. i'm open to wildcarding another aspect of the snow prompt, or if you want to squeeze in something somewhere else that's not covered by my starters, lmk (crowders) or just throw something else at me! you're more than welcome to handwave that helly has met your character already via my open post, even if you haven't tagged in – just let me know what energy your character would have had and/or what would have been discussed. i'm also happy to switch to prose if you prefer. ]

Sokka | Avatar: The Last Airbender | Child

[carniravenous]

I. A Thought is Haunting Me:

A. Mingle
[The real reason Sokka is wandering around the town square is his desire to eavesdrop on conversations and hopefully learn more about the locals. Unfortunately, he gets a little sidetracked once he learns there are snacks. He can be seen standing off to the side of the snack table trying to balance an armful of food and hot chocolate, which, as he takes a step, comes dangerously close to spilling on your character. Thankfully, he thinks fast and hurries to catch it. He's successful, but he ends up tragically dropping the several delightfully named "pigs in a blanket" that he was planning on eating.]

Aw, there goes my dinner.

B. Bad Memories
[After he wakes up, Sokka won't spend very long immersed in the uncomfortable feelings that result from the...dream? Vision? There's too much to do and he has too many questions; he can't just sit around and recover. But in the immediate aftermath, with his own traumatic memories of grief dredged up by the candystriper's sobbing words, he sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, tears on his face. It takes him a long moment, but he tries to wipe them away and collect himself.]

II. In The Valley of the Dolls We Sleep:

A. Fight Time
[Sokka actually loves shopping, and under most circumstances, would be glad to check out the department store with free money (gift cards) in hand. He's been wanting to shop for different clothes, in hopes of finding outfits that are a little easier to fight in than what he has at "home." This means it wouldn't have taken much coaxing to get him into the department store. Of course, when that choice is taken away from him and he finds himself heading toward it by creepy impulse, rather than by will, his feelings about shopping skew toward negative and make his current closet seem a lot less unappealing.

He's been in his share of battles before, but creepy mannequins are an entirely new experience. That doesn't mean he hesitates; as soon as he's under attack, he pulls his boomerang off of his back and starts throwing it around the room. His aim is true, and it's clear that he has a great handle on the physics of boomerang throwing, as he's able to hit multiple mannequins without issue. Unfortunately, a boomerang to the head does little to slow the mannequins down, which means that Sokka ends up acting entirely on the defensive until he manages to brainstorm a plan. If your character gets in the way of his boomerang, he'll yell out a loud:] Duck! [as he throws. If your character look like they're in need of help warding off the mannequins, he'll jump in front of them and use his boomerang like a club until your character can get away.]

B. Tripping Up Mannequins
[Amidst swiping his boomerang through the air and alternating between hiding and attempting to gain ground, Sokka has managed to knot a bunch of (ugly and incredibly unfit for fighting) clothes together to make the world's worst trip wire. Is your character loitering near one of the bathrooms in hopes of getting water? Hopefully they're ready for Sokka, who officially enlists them in his plan.]

I'm going to lure them out. [Quickly whispered, while he swings the clothes-rope like a lasso to indicate that he's going to toss it in your character's direction.] Get ready to trip them. [If they pull this off, the mannequins will hopefully fall into a pile, remaining down for the count for long enough to steal a very fast drink of water. Long-term, Sokka needs a better plan than this, but he needs water to survive and therefore think, so this is a first step until he scouts out the rest of the store.]

C. Sleep Time
[Guess who's made his way to the hunting section of the department store? Sokka, that's who! He's sporting a few newly forming bruises and a bloody lip to show for it, but he also has a brand new machete in hand, fishing line wrapped around one of his arms, and several packs of bullets stuffed into pockets. He's exhausted, so the priority is to find a place he can hide to rest. He makes his way to the furniture section, with hopes of barricading a sleeping spot.

He can be found shoving sofas around, wrapping fishing line around them to trip up anyone who comes near, and tossing bullets all around his sleeping area. The idea behind this is that they should trip the mannequins up and cause enough noise to wake him if he's danger of being attacked. Try not to slip if you approach him, but if you look like you're also in need of some rest, he'll flag you down with a wave...]

IV. ...And I Am Watching You Shovel Snow:

A. Snow Tower
[It's been months since Sokka was back home in the South Pole, and he misses it a lot, so he's happy to see that there's something about this place that he doesn't mind, which comes in the form of a snowstorm. His assigned father may not be interested in shoveling the driveway, but that's fine, because Sokka has a plan of his own. He clears all the walkways and gathers up a bunch of snow to...

Well, he wants to flex his art muscle and make a snowman of some kind, but he's well-aware of how the locals view him. Very few people here seem to take him seriously, and that's saying a lot, because Sokka isn't always taken seriously back in his world either. It bothers him because he feels like being treated as a child is holding him back. He has to go to school, when he would rather spend hours at the library researching this place. He also has to be home at a certain time in the evening, he has to defer (in theory) to a parental figure, and he has to deal with all the looks leveled his way because of his hair or boomerang and whatever else about him drives the locals crazy. So, making a snowman probably isn't going to help his case, which is tragic.

But that's okay, because he gets to work on something even better: a watchtower made entirely of snow. The neighbors will probably think he's just being a kid, which he accepts for this because it'll keep them off his back, but in reality, if he makes it tall enough, Sokka will be able to watch the neighborhood and defend his house from wayward salespeople or whomever else decides to come around. You can find him trying to gather up snow from random places: sidewalks, the street, even mailboxes, shoving it all on top of a wooden sled he found in his garage and dragging it back to his house.]

B. Network: Text
[It took him way too long to compose this message but finally:]

need help with your snow problem? i'm your guy! i'll shovel your snow for the low price of a hot meal. [He will also accept cold hard cash, though, if that's all you've got. He has big plans and small means, so he has to hustle a little.] i'll even take all the snow away when i'm done with it

Wildcard
[Hit me with something and I'll roll with it! Does not have to be event related, if you want to encounter Sokka in the library while he's reading or looking up maps, or out and about somewhere. Feel free to PM me if you want to work something out.]

margaret houlihan | m*a*s*h | will match format!

[regulararmybrat]

i. for auld lang syne (ota)

a. For the most part, Margaret can be found mingling around the town square. She's bundled up, head to toe, warming her hands through her mittens with a cup of hot chocolate. She gazes up at the Christmas tree with an expression of awe and wonder.

"I can't remember the last time I went to a New Year's party like this," she says idly. "I served in Korea, you know, during the war. It's not like the army'll requisition Christmas trees or banners or champagne."

She sighs, looking off into the distance.

"Strangely, I kind of miss it." She looks over towards her neighbor, tilting her head to the side. "What do you usually do to celebrate New Year's?"

b. Or, following the aftermath of the memories, Margaret finds herself on the ground, crouched on the freezing ground and hyperventilating. Panic seizes her chest, her instincts telling her that the square has just been rocked by some sort of bomb or explosion, even though there's no evidence to suggest it. The terror ebbs from her mind slowly, and as she collects herself, she glances around the square, confused. Her eyes land on another person similarly afflicted or clearly disturbed, and her training kicks in. Margaret stumbles forward, reaching out to grab the person on the shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asks, voice shaking slightly. "What was that? What happened?"

ii. we are under fucking attack (ota)

[Of all the places Margaret thought her army training would come in handy, the last place she imagined was a goddamn department store. She sure as hell wasn't immune to the gift card--more things she can buy for herself and subsequently taunt Vasiliy with.

Of course, all thoughts of buying any nice jewelry or perfume was thrown out the window once the mannequins began smashing said windows. If you find yourself trying to search for a place to hide, you might spot what looks to be a bunch of turned over couches and tables placed in front of the entrance as a makeshift barricade and a blonde woman feverishly smacking any mannequins that get close with a side table. Fort Houlihan seems to be under attack right now.]

Get over here and help me! [She shrieks.] Kill them! Smash them! Do something!

iv. s'no place like home...after the holidays (closed to vasiliy)

[Margaret has been watching the snow slowly pile outside, choking down an oven-warmed TV dinner of turkey with gravy, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes. She just missed the invention of the commerical TV dinner--and to think that any family could just buy dozens of delicious pre-made meals at once was somewhat mindblowing. If only the army had come up with it a few years earlier--then, maybe she wouldn't have been stuck eating rehydrated eggs and milk every day.

It's been a while since she's been able to appreciate the beauty of snow. Most of the time, snow was just another nuisance and discomfort in the army--especially at the 4077, where they could never seem to fully prevent the cold from entering their tents. Even a roaring stove had a limited range, and your only hope would be to move your cot closer, bundle up, and hope that it didn't catch on fire in the middle of the night. But here, safely inside her home, she doesn't have to worry about any of that. She can find respite by the fireplace and enjoy warm food. All she's missing is the warm company.

(Though, truly, she would wish for any company besides Vasiliy Andarkin.)

When the snow shows no signs of stopping, she sighs and gets up to relucantly address her "husband".]

Do you know if this house has a snow shovel? If this keeps up, we might get snowed in. And I don't want to be stuck in the house with you.

[At least she's honest about her intentions.]

wildcard

[Want to plot a specific thing with me? Hit me up on my OOC plotting post or on plurk @ wolfnoir!]

Arthur Lester | Malevolent | OTA

[lestercraft]

I. A Thought

a. the revelry
[Honestly, Arthur hadn't really wanted to come out for this one. Hadn't wanted to think about how it's been the better part of a fortnight, now, since he's lost John, and gained little new awareness of what Sweetwater is. People were great about giving him directions, sure, but he didn't really know what anything looked like.

Part of him wondered how John would describe it - what was no doubt a beautiful tree, its lights reflecting on clean, pressed snow.

(And then he remembered the ritual, and no he didn't.)

He came with Helly, but he assures her he'll be fine enough for her to leave him unescorted by a table, one lined with (admittedly delicious-smelling) hot chocolates, and so he's easiest found leaning on a short brick fence, his cane hanging loose from his right wrist as he drinks carefully from a full glass. He can't tell when people are looking at him, but more often than not his polite smile slips, letting through an exhausted kind of melancholy.]

b. the memory
[He's almost glad for the countdown, so that he can brace himself when the clock strikes down.

Less glad, obviously, for the sudden loss of feeling that starts creeping up his hands and feet. Terror grips him immediately, heart hammering like a fucking drum, but before he can do more than get to his feet with a panicked-]

John-?!

[- he realises even his own voice sounds faint, distant, and the world doesn't slip away as much as...

He goes somewhere else.

A memory, maybe. Of a young woman looking down at him, begging him to move. Someone he doesn't recognise, but- in the context of that, almost, he feels like he should.

And then the vision - the vision, he could fucking see-- vanishes.

And Arthur is back in his own body with a gasp that feels like the air just got sucked out of him, there's music blaring and people screaming and movement jostling around him and he's still drifting somewhere a few inches behind his body and he curls up tighter like it'll ground him, he can't- he can't fucking breathe he doesn't know where he is where the fuck is John--]


II. The Dolls

a. the fight
[The fact that he and Helly both want to go to the shops is suspicious enough, certainly when they've both been increasingly annoyed by the pushiness of the advertisements; but then they end up here anyway, and he's... pretty sure he recognises a few voices when they get there.

But even though he can't see, he can still feel something tense in the air, making the hair on his neck stand on end.]

Wait- something's wrong.

[And then someone screams. And suddenly everything in in motion around him at once, he tries to turn and grab Helly's arm--

And something clocks him hard in the back, sending him to the ground with a shocked-]

Fuck!

[- and starts scrambling, onto his back and away from whatever just hit him, trying to get back to his feet but there's too much going on around him, and when he manages to get back up something slams into his side, throwing him into a table.]

God damnit-!

b. the flight
[Eventually, he finds out that hiding is the better option. Largely by accident; turns out scrambling under a table to save his own skin worked, and by the time he got his breathing under control, most of the place had gone quiet.

He has no idea which department he's managed to end up in, no idea which way the front doors are - no idea how long he's spent here, with his energy flagging and bruises burning across his back and sides, every part of him aching.

The only sound now is footsteps, the heavy, clumsy footfalls of something taller and lighter than him, hard and hollow tapping along the linoleum floors.

Maybe if he can at least find the walls, he can get the shape of the room, maybe find an exit. So when he hears the thing tap past his hiding spot, he makes a blind run for it, scrambling quietly out from under the table to try and bolt for a new one. Theoretically it should be straight ahead, right? That's how aisles work.

Someone please help him, he has no idea how close he is to the mannequins seeing him.]


III. Drill it in

the medicine
[It was never going to end any other way. He's claustrophobic - the instant he realised he was tied up and helpless, he struggled - and felt the jab in his thigh, and everything went...

Well. It went.

And it makes it... difficult, on a whole other level than it had been before. At least before he could dress himself, trust himself to shave - now his muscles lock up, he nearly falls over in the shower and does crack his head on the tiled wall, and it's only the sting of hot water in the bleeding wound under his hairline that wakes him back up.

There's the dim awareness that he shouldn't leave his house like this, but the thought keeps slipping away like smoke, and he leaves without his cane, under the exhausted delusion that John will keep him right.

This is... very very wrong.]


IV. Freezing in the Snow

the shovelling
[Possibly Arthur isn't the one who should be doing this, but he's got two arms and nothing better to do, and it's more to make himself feel like he's not a useless sitting duck than actually achieving a clear path.

...well. The clear path is useful, but. It's a bonus more than anything. And it gets him out of the house and available for people to talk to, if they want to deal with the curmudgeonly Englishman trying his best (and failing) to keep the path he's shovelling straight.]

rodion raskolnikov / crime and punishment / husband

[inaxorable]

i. a thought is haunting me.

a. (ota)
[ It’s New Year’s Eve, and Raskolnikov wishes he’d stayed home. Everyone here is stupid on drink and excitement, half the American locals seem to be wearing the most hideous glasses he’s ever seen, and there is so much noise. The noise is perhaps the worst part, and he has the strange, childish urge to put his hands over his ears.

He takes a drink from a stand, not bothering to ask what it is, and wanders through the crowd, snapping at anyone who bumps into him. He’s so wrapped up in his general dislike for everyone here that he stops paying attention to where he’s going, up until he runs into someone.

Still clutching his cup, which miraculously hadn’t spilled, he snaps, ] look where you’re going!


b. (ota)
[ He wakes up on the ground, curled in the fetal position, gasping for air as though he had just run across Petersburg. What had that been? Some sort of hallucination? He’d seen unfamiliar faces, been in an unfamiliar body, and now he feels as though he’s wearing the wrong skin. It’s wrong. This whole thing is wrong, everything about this place is wrong, and —

— he’s panicking, there is blood on his hands and he’s holding an ax, there is a body, two bodies, at his feet —

— he breathes, and that helps a little. He forces himself into a sitting position, even though his head spins and his stomach lurches. He needs to— to do something, to get out of this place. Is he going mad? Is he already mad?

He turns to the nearest person, ignoring how good (or bad) of a condition they’re in. ]

What happened? What is this? Did you see that too?

[ His voice is strained, taut with fear and desperation, and he looks like a madman. Still, there is something about him that is perhaps pitiable. ]

ii. in the valley of the dolls we sleep. (ota)

[ Walking, murderous mannequins. This can’t be normal, even for America.

They’re terrifyingly strong and fast, and some of the others trapped in the store have been fighting them, shooting the unfamiliarly modern guns the store has (what sort of store sells guns?) and wielding all sorts of makeshift weapons. Raskolnikov too has a weapon, a long kitchen knife with a wooden handle and gleaming blade, but he certainly isn’t using it to fight. No, he’s hiding in one of the women’s dressing rooms, clutching it against his chest.

Should someone enter the dressing room, he’ll jump nearly out of his skin and point the knife at them with the sort of terror that betrays his inexperience with fighting. ]

iii. drill it in like j. paul getty.

a. (closed to Agathe)
[ Maybe it’s because he was researching the people he’d seen — the people he’d been — on New Year’s Eve. Maybe it’s because he wanders Sweetwater at all hours of the day, muttering under his breath. Maybe they’ve discovered that he had killed, back in Petersburg. Or maybe it’s just because he’s Russian. That wouldn’t surprise him. But whatever the reason, he goes to sleep in the house that’s supposed to be his and wakes up strapped to a chair.

He panics. What else is he supposed to do? He thrashes against his bonds and shouts at the man in the room with him. At first it’s threats, and then, as time goes on and his pride wears away, he starts begging. Pollock doesn’t listen. Doesn’t even react. Let me go turns into let me sleep, and even that dissolves into incoherent babble. But even after what feels like hours, days, months of sitting awake and staring at the screen, Raskolnikov still talks, arguing with Pollock and with himself and with his mother and sister when they appear in front of him. We’ve missed you, Rodya.

Norman Pollock must grow weary of it, if such a man is capable of growing weary, because the man finally injects him with some sort of drug, and then Raskolnikov couldn’t talk even if he wanted to.

He isn’t sure when he finally falls asleep, but he wakes up in his own bed. ]


b. (ota)
[ Whatever it was Pollock had used to sedate him still hasn’t worn off, though it’s been three days. His hands won’t stop twitching, spasming enough to make the muscles ache, and his face and lower limbs have become strangely stiff. He doesn’t want to eat, and even though his mouth is drier than he’s ever felt it, he drinks barely enough to survive.

He spends two days cooped up in his house, a strange restlessness building under his skin, until he can’t take the sitting around and doing nothing. Not knowing what he’s doing or where he’s going, his mind wrapped in the morning fog of Petersburg, he leaves the house and shambles through the town. His movements are stiff, corpse-like, and anyone who sees him will know almost immediately that something is wrong. ]

iv. it’s freezing and i am watching you shovel snow.

a. (ota)
[ Though Raskolnikov hasn’t seen this much snow at once since he lived with his family outside of Saint Petersburg, the cold is something he’s quite used to. The Americans are spoiled here, used to mild winters and electric heating, but he had spent many a night lying on the couch in his closet of an apartment back in Russia, using his ratty coat as a blanket, the cold seeping into his bones. He is experienced with temperatures low enough that tears freeze on faces, and fingers and toes turn blue and then black. This is practically tropical.

He layers up, because he would be a fool not to take advantage of the thick clothes in the house he now lives in, and goes outside. Immediately, the sharp air makes his lungs burn and face redden, and even though the snow reaches past his knees he still manages to tromp a path from the door to the street.

The realization that he’s going to need to shovel this is an unpleasant one, and suddenly he wants to turn around and go back inside. But there are plenty of other people outside, and if the Americans can shovel snow, then so can he. He isn’t very good at it, though, visibly struggling. Things reach a head when the thick, heavy snow manages to break the head of his shovel off. So it’s with quite a bit of reluctance that he goes up to a nearby house. If the family living there is still inside, he’ll knock on the door; otherwise, he’ll tromp right up to them and stand there awkwardly until they acknowledge him. ]


b. (ota)
[ The power goes out, because everything in this town seems to go wrong. Still, this at least is something he knows how to deal with. There are matches around the house, and even a few candles for light. He takes all the blankets off the bed and drags them to the sitting room, putting them on the couch and forming something of a nest. Any food in the refrigerator goes into a spare room in which he’s opened all the windows, so that it stays cold. And then, after a moment of contemplation, he drags the carpets into the sitting room and pins them to the walls for an extra layer of insulation.

There are certainly people in Sweetwater that aren’t as experienced with this sort of thing as he is, though. After a good half-hour of deliberation, complete with pacing and muttering under his breath, he comes to a decision.

Anyone in their houses might hear a knock on their door. Standing outside and bundled up so that only his eyes are showing is Raskolnikov, with a box of candles, matches, and food. ]

Hello. I don’t mean to intrude…I only wanted to offer my services, as they might be called, in case your power is out too. [ The mitten-clad hand not holding the box gestures vaguely. ] I have experience with these matters, you see, and if you need any help…any at all… [ He trails off, feeling quite awkward. ]

v. wildcard.

[ Have an idea for something? Feel free to hit me up! My plurk is chaoticgood, if you’d like to do some plotting over there, or just throw something at me! ]

Norton Folgate | Torchwood

[pharadyne]

I. A Thought Is Haunting Me

Norton loves a good party. And even a bad party is better than staying home alone. So he attends the town's disappointingly wholesome New Year's Eve celebration. With a cup of hot cocoa in his hand and the be-lighted ball about to drop, Norton finds himself missing the Romilly Club in Soho. Now there was an institution that knew how to throw a properly debauched party. Up until a police raid closed the place down.

But he's enjoying himself despite the lack of handsome ommes to kiss, up until the clock strikes twelve, the ball drops, and he suddenly feels himself drifting away. The cup of hot cocoa falls from his limp fingers and splashes across the pavement.

There's a memory not his. More than a memory, a now that's not his. A red telephone, the cord wrapped around his (not his) finger. Urgency. Orders to put up roadblocks. And then, after a minute, Norton returns to the here and now, staring at the ground where bits of confetti soak up spilled hot cocoa.

"What the Mildred Pierce?"

II. In the Valley of the Dolls We Sleep

The adverts seem innocuous at first. Norton thinks idly that he might pop by sometime. He could use a few more ties, maybe a dapper hat. But day after day passed without him getting around to it. And the longer he went without going, the more he kept hearing reminders on the radio and the telly, until it reached a point where he certainly wasn't going to go there for shopping because it was obvious that something strange, unnerving, and probably dangerous was going on.

He's absolutely going to go there to investigate instead.

Norton is browsing the selection of gentleman's hats (might as well look while he's here, until something interesting happens) when...something interesting happens. The shop assistants collapse like discarded puppets and the shop mannequins start to move. Norton backs away slowly, grabs the arm of the nearest person who's a) conscious, and b) flesh and blood.

"Don't panic, but I think these are Autons and they're going to kill us unless we can get out of here."

***

By the end of the day, Norton's thirsty and beginning to get tired. Even while hidden, his heart's been pounding. Water is becoming a priority. He tried to get a drink from the sink in the loo a few hours ago, but the mannequins ran him off. He has a plan now, though and whispers to his companion.

"Let's one of us lure the mannequins that are in the loo out of the loo, then the other one slips in and locks the door so no other mannequins can wander in. Then the bait, if they should survive, circles back around, gives a quiet secret knock or something of the sort, and is let in. Then we'll have water and a safe hiding place while we work out what to do next." He's thinking fire, if he can work out a way to keep himself from being burned alive along with the mannequins.

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

It never snowed much in London and when it did it was never Norton's job to deal with it, so when a storm dumps what seems to him an unreasonable amount of snow all at once, he opts to ignore the problem and hope it will go away eventually. He's not been driving much anyway, since last time he tried he almost hit another car when he turned a corner and instinctively started driving down the left.

Then, as the last straw, the power in his house flickers and goes out. He tries to ignore that too, for a few hours, but as the house gets colder and colder and the sun starts to grow low on the horizon, he bundles up to see if there's anyone in the neighbourhood who has power, or maybe some chopped wood he can burn in his mostly decorative fireplace. Damn new houses with their new central heating. A gas fire might poison you but it doesn't rely on electricity to circulate hot air.

He walks up the street to the first house he sees that appears to have lights on, and knocks on the door.

beth greene | the walking dead

[littlemissfutility]

i. january 1: let's start the new year right

Going out for New Year's Eve is kind of novel - even noticing it's New Year's Eve is, too - and it gets her out of the house she's sharing with a stranger, so why not? She's wrapped up in a blue princess coat and red hat and gloves, sipping hot cocoa and trying to make small talk with people she doesn't trust.

There's the countdown, but everything disappears after Happy New Year!

When she opens her eyes again, she's lying on her side, the side of her face stinging from the snow on the ground. She sucks in a breath, eyes wide, but it doesn't feel like she got any air at all. Another try, and another, each one shallower and faster as she tries to sit up and get her knife from her pocket at the same time. The blade flashes in the lights strung up all over the square, the silver unsteady. She can't stop trembling, kneeling there in the snow.

ii. january 7-10: what do i care how much it may storm

a. i can't remember a worse december january

Their power doesn't go off, thank God. Beth's cranked the heat high, put a sweater on over the bodice of her dress, and wrapped a blanket around herself - and it still feels kind of cold to her.

When the doorbell rings, she's quick to answer, opening the door just a crack. One hand settles on the door; the other's just behind it, waiting with a knife. "Hi."

b. just watch those icicles form

She's at the skating pond, lacing up a pair of borrowed skates - white leather and utterly pristine - and hoping they're supposed to feel this tight around her ankles. This is entirely new to her, as evidenced by the way she stands on the two skinny blades and immediately loses her balance, nearly falling over sideways before she manages to sit back down on the bench.

iii. january 13-15: i would gladly die for a day of sky

flavor text that you can read if you want, but it's mostly here for my reference

Beth doesn't need pushing to go shopping. For what, she hasn't decided - but in a world where you can just do that, go someplace and buy what you need, she wants to know what's out there.

Waking up to the radio and TV screaming at her to go is startling enough - especially for someone still weirdly aware of every sound the fridge makes - but everything here is weird. She'd never thought to ask hey, did TVs just turn on by themselves sometimes, back when you were a kid? when her dad was alive; it's possible that this is somehow within the realm of normal.

(It's not.)

She hasn't been going anywhere without her knife, and today, it matters. It's strapped to her belt like she wore it at home - she's counting on a baggy cardigan and her winter coat to keep it from showing too obviously.

a. soft as feathers, sharp as thumbtacks

Stabbing them in the head doesn't work. Nothing about the mannequins fucks her up like the knowledge that stabbing them in the head doesn't do a goddamned thing. She runs from the first one after she realizes that nothing's going to stop its flailing, too-strong limbs and locks herself in a dressing room.

When it...gets bored, she guesses, and gives up pounding on the door to go off to parts unknown, she ventures out again, hunting knife in hand. Three steps out of the dressing room area, she finds two on someone else and runs over to help. Whatever they're doing to you right now, she'll try to fight them off.

b. i remember days (or at least i try)

"Hey," she whispers, from inside a round rack of men's slacks. Her face peers out between empty pant legs as she stares out at the person - trustworthy for the moment if only because they have eyes - and tries to keep her come here gesture within the fabric. "Come here."

iv. wildcard.

[ Find Beth somewhere, or be found in turn! Visit her house to "play canasta" (talk about what the fuck's going on). Stumble into her on the street - maybe literally, I don't know. PM this journal or reach out to hellzapoppin if you want to discuss - I'm happy to write custom starters as needed. ]

maureen robinson | lost in space | ota

[coefficiently]

→ I. NEW YEAR, NEW YOU

(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.

→ II. THE WEATHER OUTSIDE IS FRIGHTFUL (w/Maureen, Jupe, and the family dog)

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.

→ III. HOSTILE BRAND STRATEGY

(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.

→ IV. WILDCARD

[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.]

Papyrus | Undertale | OTA

[spaghettimonster]

💀 NEW YEARS . . . - Town Square, Dec 31st

Another day, another opportunity for a public event where nobody is looking to Papyrus specifically for comfort or reassurance - a guilty relief, still. Another event where nobody is looking to him specifically for anything - it's still uncanny to be in this suburban surface human world, blending in with the astonishing ease only skin and hair can offer.

His hair care routine has come leaps and bounds over the last few weeks, and on display tonight. He's finally figured out combing it neatly without scratching at his scalp, and getting enough of the pomade in there to hold the shape without stray curls escaping. Finally, half his dream of driving down a highway with wind in his hair is underway. He just needs to get driving down well enough to survive the trip.

For now Papyrus is on foot, milling about the town square and peering out through decorative glasses that do nothing for the view. They certainly don't explain the rest of the decor choices. Finally, he addresses whoever's nearest.

"But I've never understood..." Or, more accurately, this is the first time he's hearing about it, "why a ball?"

💀 . . . DROP - Town Square, Jan 1st

He comes to in a panic, aching like he slipped and fell without warning. Maybe that's exactly what happened, since he's sitting on the ground, hugging at his knees. It takes some gasping breaths to make more sense of anything.

Those moments... felt like the most abruptly vivid dreams he can remember ever having. So vivid some of the lingering pains match those moments, an alarming thing for a waking nightmare to leave behind. But it's only a strange tightness around a finger that makes no sense with how it's clutching the pants around his knee, only a cold wet on his face below his eyes. Nothing to worry about. Except, when he looks up... He's not the only one coming to, is he?

"What... what was that? Nobody mentioned something like that. Celebrating the new year with... weird visions?"

💀 HEAD ON STRAIGHT - Front yard, Jan 3rd

He wakes in a bed. A... familiar bed, it takes him a while to conclude, and one he's been in before. Not his bed, not really, but more his bed than anyone else's. A bed that needs to be his, if he's going to keep this life. He's too dizzy to think this through quickly, even just lying there, looking around. Dizzier still when he turns over, rolls to the edge and attempts to climb off it. It takes a while.

He loses track of things, for possibly a longer while, until he's sitting out on the front step. Sitting is a generous word for it - he's collapsed against the door frame in his pajamas, muscles spasming erratically, unable to settle.

It's... not morning. That's about as much as he can remember about how the sun moves, or maybe how the world moves. The lights and shadows aren't the early morning lights and shadows of a husband with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, a wife bringing over eggs and toast. Maybe it's the lighting of midday, of tossing a ball around? He keeps seeing idyllic scenes of human family life. Keeps hearing the sound of that voice describing and scolding, without clear words.

He watches the shadows, and he watches any people going by.

💀 SNOW STORM - Jan 7th onwards

Snow! Finally, this unasked-for home away from home is feeling homey. Sure, maybe he's still a bit tired and stiff, with balance difficult even when he's not standing on slick snow or ice... But it's snow, a reminder of home, and he's out even when the weather's still rough.

At the start, he's more focused on making an oddly skeletal snowman, if with the assistance of a stick or icicle. But the cold seeps in as he goes, and he starts to complain to the air or any passersby about just how many layers he needs to stay warm. The chill in his legs, especially, is motivation to finally get shoveling that path.

Later in the month, though, he'll be better prepared for it. More layers from the start, no more shaking aftereffects from the drug, and no problems with power outages. Then the snow can be something more of a joy and challenge at one - the better for Papyrus to go around the neighborhood, volunteering to help with any drives or sidewalks or yards that could use a bit more work.

💀 HIDE AND SEEK - The Mall, Jan 13th - 15th

There's something about television programs, Papyrus is coming to find, that makes for irresistible messages. First the intense introduction to what makes this community such a joy to live in, and now this savings of a lifetime. And possibly a deathtime, if that shattered glass in the mannequin's unflinching hand is anything to go by.

It's a long couple days, with various desperate attempts to distract or stymie the mannequins. A fishing rod with various things to distract them with movement, except it turns out they're not interested in anything so small as a jacket or shoe or even a detached limb scavenged from someone else's attack. A whole bundle of pillows covered in clothing approximating a human shape, sent down an aisle on a crib. Teamwork, to try wrapping one of the mannequins in a jacket or blanket or any other large fabric to restrict their movement.

Eventually he has to try to sleep, because without electrical shocks the exhaustion sets in with a weight he's never known before. Out of sight, out of mind seems to be the rule, so eventually he's climbing to the highest shelf he can get on, covering himself with whatever items are on sale there - preferably clothes, but curtains or towels or something would work too. He just can't help but hiss out to anyone passing by, letting them know about the shelf and how he hasn't been seen yet - too bad the shelves can't take the weight of two full grown adults, and maybe the sound draws too much attention.

💀 WILDCARD

[Something that isn't quite one of these prompts, but is relevant to the event? Feel free to plot w/me on the plotting post, or PM me on DW or Plurk!]

Edward Nashton | The Batman

[puzzleking]

I. A Thought Is Haunting Me

[ Whatever their kidnappers' motives may be, Edward will grant them that they throw impressive parties. Or maybe his perception is skewed, never having attended any of Gotham's own festivities beyond a handful of tree-lightings at which the boys choir had performed. (Emphasis on performed; they weren't guests, they arrived and left on a schedule and weren't permitted to dawdle, ushered quickly away after their last number so as to not spoil anyone's pictures. A pretty harmony could make them seem uplifting for a few minutes at a time, but a still image would capture too much.) The hot cocoa here is better, though not quite enough to take the edge off. He feels eyes where he doesn't see them, wondering ceaselessly what the point of such an event could be, what they're all intended to be doing. He can be caught in decent spirits for this portion of the night, intentionally quick to raise his paper cup in celebration, recommend a soft pretzel, or muddle his way through talk of resolutions.

Then the ball drops, and it all goes sideways.

He first falls back on an earlier fear, that he's been drugged. It's a difficult, graceless stagger to one side of the courtyard, but with what awareness he has left he wants to ensure he's out of the way if anyone experiencing similar symptoms happens to be, say, operating a motor vehicle, or showing off some interesting fire-based party trick. He concentrates on his breathing until it's all he can concentrate on, every muscle tensed at the encroaching, encompassing dark.

In the end he gets off easy, not that he'd ever describe a foreign memory wedged through his skull in positive terms. It's a short phone call, and he comes back to himself after the memory subsides to find himself still mirroring that motion — turning his finger in the air, a sudden coiled impression on his skin the first wrench in the 'drugged' theory. In a reversal of custom he counts from one to ten, agonizingly slow and with no enthusiasm whatsoever, before unsteadily rising to his feet. He'd dropped his drink previously, he notices, and shuffles slow and numb to retrieve another. These people care about appearances.

He'll take note of anyone similarly indisposed, dazed, or bewildered. Anyone seated or sprawled on the ground can expect him kneeling and offering a hand, a you took quite a spill! offered through a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. You alright?

Once he's sat with the situation for a few minutes, he can then be found ambling toward his car, more lively for having decided on his next course of action. Do you need a ride home? He'll ask any newcomer to catch his eye. I'm probably headed that way. Getting a little claustrophobic, I think a drive will clear my head. This is in no way the purpose of the drive. ]

II. ...And I Am Watching You Shovel Snow

[ He hates it, truly, and doesn't make much effort to hide that. Let them haul him off for disliking the cold, like it isn't a perfectly respectable opinion. He hadn't had to worry himself much about it back home, it was just another reason to stay in on days off and mind his step otherwise. It wasn't tedious labor, tasks he's ill-suited for even on a good day. He does the minimum: keeps the car toward the tail end of the driveway so there's as little to move as possible between it and the road. One footpath, exactly the width of the shovel, from the front door to the car. It all feels like some trap meant to catch him out, and he can't stop unhappily imagining that prim woman from the party materializing on his doorstep. The thought gets more vivid when people begin their short-term disappearances, a frown on her face while she sends him to somewhere, dropping him back off a mess god-knows-when afterward. Or maybe they'll just kill him. Leaning heavily against the shovel's handle in the midst of a brave effort to attempt to clear the yard itself, breath visibly ragged when he huffs, he decides it might happen anyway. At least the power's staying on.

He will of course leap at the opportunity to pause upon sighting any passing newcomer, a gloved hand raised in a wave and his eyes squinting against the sun, which feels brighter for all the white around him. ] Afternoon. Some...some weather, huh?

III. In The Valley Of The Dolls We Sleep

[ He doesn't have it in him to try and cajole Beth into accompanying him, but he knows the minute he begins to doubt the woman's tone in the advertisement that he under no circumstance wants to be browsing these fine deals alone. So he loiters awhile in the parking lot, doing the crossword against the steering wheel until he can spot someone familiar to him entering the store. He follows. Somewhat of a wasted effort, he notes, as every passing face is familiar to him. It feels eerie, and he picks one individual or party at random to tail more closely, a meek excuse prepared about needing inspiration, wouldn't you know it, he just really blew Christmas with the missus and needs something to smooth things over—

Once again, it so suddenly shifts. He processes the sound first, the dull thud of a number of individuals hitting the floor all at once. Then the display behind him, loudly and roughly leveled by one swipe of an inhuman arm. He doesn't need to look back to find it in him to bolt, which he does with surprising speed when so thoroughly motivated. Hiding and stealing glances at the immediate danger is the obvious next step; he doesn't need to know their strength relative to a human when he already makes a point to enter no confrontation he hasn't planned for. Which he proposes, in a whisper, to anyone happening to seek refuge nearby. ]

Do you think they'd trip, like real people? [ He loosely mimes binding their legs. He doesn't yet have a clue how one would accomplish this, but he'll work better with a hypothesis. ]

IV. Wildcard

[ Go nuts! Overall Edward is doing his level best to be non-disruptive in public (and trying not to touch the network altogether, but rest assured he reads along), but can be expected to at one point or another have: followed your character around a (non-lethal) store, approached them (quietly and privately, the way you would tell someone they have something in their teeth) to inquire about any visible injury / questionable network post / sudden absence on their part in his best approximation of town-safe terms, and / or generally looked pitiful while attempting to shovel his walkway in a manner that screams for assistance. Available to bounce ideas around via pms or plurk, etc! ]

Ricky "Jupe" Park | Nope

[yupe]

I. A Thought is Haunting Me

It's only a light dusting of snow, but Jupe's bundled up like he's plunged into the cold, dark heart of winter. In a bulky (yet uncannily well-sized) winter coat, knitted hat, scarf, and mittens, he begins the evening roaming the little food stands, chatting with vendors and trying to sweet-talk them into giving out “free samples” of drinks and snacks that are already free. For his efforts, he winds up with a cup of hot chocolate overloaded with marshmallows. If you're on friendly terms he may toss one at you to get your attention (a laborious process that involves removing one of his mittens, be grateful). Otherwise:

a. Inevitably he finds the glasses. The tacky, unsightly glasses that have already begun shedding gold glitter every which way. He's not entirely without shame (at least, not at his current pay rate), so they only make sporadic appearances throughout the evening—but he's liable to slide them on with exaggerated suaveness, grin, and say, “So what do you think, is 1961 my year?” Or he might offer them to your character, mock-confiding, “Maudie over at the booth says you can see the future in these.”

b. (one person only!) He's looking up when it happens. He thinks it's the cold at first—or, dimly, that there was something in the cocoa—but then he's weightless again, his vision black and body slipping away, awaiting a rush of air that doesn't come. It's possible he collapses against the person next to him, or maybe you find him afterwards—bent over on the ground, tugging off his mittens and scraping his bare hands down the snowy cobblestones, oblivious to the tears on his face.

But if no one's around to stop him, Jupe's out of there fast, ducking away from the crowd. New Year's glasses forgotten on the ground.

II. It's Freezing...

Jupe's late to get to shoveling—reluctant to let go of his vague, hopeful notion of waiting the snow out—but starts out good-natured about it, letting out theatrical “whew!”s and stopping every so often to stomp the snow from his boots, survey his crooked line down the driveway. As time drags on, however—as the sun sinks lower and the snow only falls thicker and faster—his choppy shoveling begins to take on a grim urgency. He does want to be able to get the car out of the driveway.

Happen by at any time during this saga, or the next day, as:

a. Jupe, bundled up tight and with his shoulders shrugged almost to his ears, steps onto the shoveled patch of driveway. Eyeing the clouds piled overhead mistrustfully, he...promptly slips and falls. He doesn't even cry out, it happens so fast: a flail and down he goes, landing with a muffled thump.

b. He sprawls over the side of his car—which currently resembles a frosted cake—and sweeps snow from the windshield with a smile (some of this is still novel). Unfortunately, that's not the end of it: there's the matter of the ice lurking beneath the snow. At various times, he'll be running the car's engine and looking at the windshield intently, scrubbing at the ice with the sleeve of his coat, as if it's a particularly stubborn stain, or scraping at it with a bright roll of something that, up close, turns out to be an issue of Life.

III. It's Still Freezing :(

After the snow and the power outage, wobbling around an icy pond is just about the last thing Jupe wants to be doing, but everywhere he turns people are talking about it: so much fun for the kids! So romantic, so exhilarating! He tries to politely excuse himself by saying he doesn't have skates—except he does, hanging next to another, Maureen-sized pair in the garage.

So here he is, face frozen (ha) in a smile as he watches the people on the ice. Knowing the town, a perfectly choreographed ice dancing routine hadn't seemed out of the question, but from a distance everyone almost looks normal—kids laughing and whipping across the ice, people stumbling and helping each other up. Catch him gazing out over the pond, or after he's plunked himself down on the makeshift bench to attempt lacing his skates, or as he takes his first tottering steps on the ice.

IV. Wildcard

Hit me! Jupe's a hapless Californian (affectionate) and his power will be going out, so feel free to have your character notice and help out/snoop around his house. Other than that, I'd love to play out anything that'd give him an inkling (or more) that all is not well in Sweetwater—bring me your recently tortured, your mannequin-maimed, etc.! Or people just suspicious of his general vibe, which is pretty close to that of your average NPC.

Also happy to hash out details/bounce ideas around ooc as well, whether through PM or plurk!

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!]

cw for ...basically the event stuff, plus seizure analogies and VERY brief suicidal ideation

[tedandroses]

o1.o1.61: a thought is haunting me

Teddy isn't much of a New Year's Eve person; never has been, really. It's not that she never got drunk on cheap champagne, or went to whoever's party. But it's only ever been enjoyable since she started coming into her own in college, really, or if she had a gig to get lost in.

Without that, and since her epilepsy decided to turn up the dial -- drinking isn't much of an attraction, and neither is waiting for a ball to drop. And it's not like she gets to feel confident and attractive in a suit flirting with girls: she'd have to play the part of housewife. Besides, going to a well known, blocked-out space where everyone knows everyone will be sounds like trouble, too. Maybe that's paranoid, but there's not much that she can qualify as legitimately unreasonable in this place. Not yet.

Scout hates fireworks: loud noises of any kind. Teddy doesn't know to what extent they happen here, but she's sure they do; they aren't inventions of the 2000s. As the clock clicks down, she finds herself ill at ease, a familiar anxious restless feeling under her skin.

She lets Wrench know she's going out, puts Scout on her harness. The streets are strangely quiet for once in the little cul-de-sac. Normally Teddy likes that, a long quiet walk. Here, a place she neither knows nor trusts, it lends it an odd, liminal feel. The spaced-out, diffuse reflection of incandescent bulbs on asphalt; the occasional susurration of slick tires on the main street. On either side, cheerily-painted houses watch through lash-lace sheers, their generous yards hosting no plant life identifiable as local. It's the fun-house reflection of a holler. One way in, one way out, and everyone watching the whole way.

She pulls her coat a little more firmly around herself.

Scout, for her part, isn't troubled: except that she's clearly been missing proper runs, and there aren't enough birds or squirrels -- or even people, right now -- to smell. She tugs on the harness, just a little, and Teddy obliges, smiling, not against turning towards civilization. Teddy figures she'll go a block or two and then turn Scout back away. Once they get walking somewhere cars have been, Scout settles into work mode, scanning in front of them but keeping at heel, alert to Teddy's body language.

And then -- a few things happen at once. The fireworks she'd worried about explode without warning, bright and startling. There are far-away horns and cheers that distort, somehow, eerie and whining. Beside her, Scout spooks, tucking tail.

The sound desynchronizes from the explosion; new explosions seem to continuearound her, even as the falling sparkles fade: her vision vignettes, her body feels outside itself. Teddy can't move, even as she goes to comfort her dog.

Oh, for fuck's sake, not now. The trappings of a focal seizure are far too familiar not to recognize, although it doesn't usually go like this. It feels -- it feels -- wrong, there's something -- something has gone terribly wrong --

"Put up roadblocks. Say a convict got loose. I don't care. Do what you have to." Her tone is impatient, furious: the telephone cord bites into her tan skin, creates pale bloodless stripes where only she can see. It feels good. It feels like something, anyway; better than the numb, disembodied dread--

The world doubles, keens. No. Not the world. Her vision. Something warm and wet is dripping; her face is pressed to the ground. She doesn't remember falling. A p̸͉̹̬͈͇̟̐̑̈́ȧ̵̲͎͠r̶͙͚͍͇̆͊̍̊͌â̸͓̼̯̜̘̳̾̂͛͛̈m̷͖̫̼̈ë̸̢̧̛͕͙͕̀͘ḑ̶̛̩̻͕̙̦̾͂̐͋i̵̧̢̛̯͓̳̭͒̂c̴̭͌͆̈́ field medic is talking, slowly, but she can't--can't understand what the words mean. She knows how this works -- th̸̢̬͒e̷͇̾̅̽͗̀ ̶̥̝͍̓ṱ̸̛̗̖͚̥̂͊͑ė̴͎̤̪̪̹̻͗̀m̷̱̗̝͖̦̏̏͝p̶̮̄̇̓o̴͙͆̾͊̚͝ȑ̶̝̭̎a̵̡̨̩̳̰͇͑̍̈l̴̟̈̈́̓̓̑ ̸̙̅̾̓̅l̸̳̼̻̈́͛́ō̷͇̟̎͒̕b̷̲͖̤́̒͋̀̓͝e̸͉̻̼͕̬̋̔ -- she -- she knows how this works, the explosion too close. Fear grips her icily: I'm fine, she wants to say, Just help me up, don't leave me--
She's being lifted, then, the familiar and unfamiliar lurch, propelled by people she can't make out --

The smoke, the ground fade, giving way to just ringing and disorientation. Teddy slowly pushes herself up. When did she fall? Wasn't there a -- a...
Field medic? That doesn't make sense. There's not even anyone here she might have misinterpreted.

Scout is abruptly licking her face. She blinks. It stings: she went straight for where there's a long scrape from the asphalt. "Hey," she says, or half-says, and finds herself abruptly on the verge of tears, wrapping her arms around the dog's neck. "Hey." I let go of the leash when my baby was scared, she thinks, feeling irrationally, terribly guilty, and she still did her job and stayed with me.

Scout sits, ready for a command or just to let Teddy hug her, though she still noses at her protectively, checking her over. "I'm okay, you big nerd," Teddy murmurs thickly, and pushes herself, slowly, to her feet, reaching down for the leash. As she loops it around her hand, Teddy startles: there are indentations, like the pale atrophy of rings -- or the bind of a cord -- circling her finger.

She stares. That's -- impossible. It's...there's nothing that would have -- could she have caught the leash, and her brain...? -- but --

Her head throbs; Teddy's heart is hammering. She becomes aware of someone approaching, of their eyes on her. She says aloud the first thing that comes to mind: "Going home," -- which is so unsettling she feels ill, except, of course, they are. "We were just going home," she repeats, apologetic and polite, flashing a smile that hopefully comes out something like friendly and sure as she looks up to try to assess who's seen them.

---

o1.o7.61: it's freezing and...

If this was bound to happen to anyone, Teddy thinks, it might as well be them.

A few days ago they'd had just a skift of snow, but Teddy had cleared the walk anyway. The way people were talking, no good letting it build up. The garage had had rock salt they'd been happy to put down (and they'd quietly salted the nearest neighbors' walks and drives too, since it didn't look like they had). Then, they'd gone around the house stuffing the edges of windows with towels and finding ways to rig up quilts over the ones that didn't get good sunlight, or hang them like curtains behind each door.

Meanwhile, without mentioning it, Wrench filled the tank of the car and a jerry can too, and picked up some canned food and extra firewood: a gesture that, when they realized, had earned a perfectly, enthusiastically signed thank you so much. Teddy hadn't had time or -- even though it didn't seem like it had been a seizure, knowing what they know -- complete confidence in getting behind the wheel. They'd figured one or both of them might just have to go out in the storm for that sort of thing if it lasted very long.

The night of the sixth, snow already falling and the wind picking up, Teddy turns the taps to a steady drip, makes sure the dial on the fridge is as low as it'll go, and -- not sure, exactly, what kind of water pump they have -- fills the bathtub. They ain't about to assume it'll be okay.

On the seventh, Teddy wakes to -- what, they can't tell, at first. The wind is howling, the light an indistinct sort of grey that could be dawn or could be well into the morning and just blotted out by snow.

Then they realize: the buzz of electricity, low and ubiquitous, is gone.

It's possible, Teddy thinks now, sliding out of bed to flick the switch to no effect, that they just lost power, that there was a crackle or surge that woke them: if that's the case, it might be a line down and won't be out long.

They don't really care to wake Wrench. It feels rude, and it's still warm up here, with the dog curled between where they lie and the blankets. But it won't be, forever, and they should go downstairs and get the fire lit. Teddy hovers for a moment; then they quickly dress in layers and go on down, light the fire and then the stove, carefully. They get pancakes started -- the tap at least appears to be working, enough for the just add water bit -- and corned beef hash from a can on the range. At least waking up to breakfast will soften the blow, if not the scrabble of Scout smelling it first.

Later, they curl up in front of the fire as the chill steadily settles in -- damn being little -- and watch the snow, trying to decide if they ought to go shovel again. Maybe when it settles down they'll try out those skates.

[OOC: Didn't have a great ending, please feel free to jump to they were, in fact shoveling/ice skating/prepping before the storm, etc]

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o1.13.61: in the valley of the dolls we sleep

[OOC: this one i'll be tagging around! however on o1.17 teddy will be doing some research at, likely first the library, and then city hall. it feels like a thing that could be both lengthy and boring to read as a post, but anyone who wants can tag in on that premise to join in, or talk to them about it etc etc]

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o1.18.61: drill it in like j paul getty

If she'd known Numbers was missing before late last night --
Well. It probably wouldn't have stopped her, Teddy thinks, as she very, very slowly shifts her hand backwards in the restraints. She's been hearing stories -- seeing people acting odd.

They frown. There's some give; some stretch to the leather, being leather and all, but it's thick and ruthlessly adjusted to their wrist size. Even if they take their time, and tuck their hand in...it could take hours, if that.

The hell of it all is she hadn't even done anything illegal. Accessing public documents? She assumes, anyway. It's so basic. She hadn't said anything, done anything.

Trying to find out more about an obvious safety risk to the citizens of this place? Isn't that the same kind of thing this country holds dear -- freedom of the press, transparency, so Joe Schmoe on the street can ask questions and get answers and vote for a representative in ways other countries can't?

Norman Pollock is unimpressed at their attempt to make this point. "Theodora," he says, which makes them like him less than they had when they woke up bound to a chair (a difficult feat to achieve). "I don't know what you're talking about, safety risk. We both know you have some difficulty with -- reality, sometimes..."

"I have visual and auditory hallucinations that I am well aware are hallucinations, and only occur during seizures," she retorts. Her heart is pounding. The chest strap makes her feel like she can't breathe, even though she can. "You know that. You know I have epilepsy. Your name's on the Rx."

He hums. They wonder, in sudden horror, if the pills on their bedside are even what they're labelled as. What if they're nothing, or -- they're doing something terrible. How would they know? They're literally in a basement, being kidnapped (from a place they were kidnapped to, their mind points out) by a creepy doctor turning on a propaganda film -- "You know I have epilepsy," they try again. "If I have a seizure down here, I could die. Or at least it won't do any good to watch anything, because I won't remember it --"

He's putting the tape in, unimpressed.

"And. And my husband," she adds, feeling herself spiral into anxiety that she had fully intended to swallow down. She'd meant to suffer in silence, to sit through this taciturn, but with every second it's clearer that his 'end goal' is a farce and she knows nothing. Maybe if she acts like she's bought the whole thing hook line and sinker, that she's just a nice little wife -- "He doesn't cook -- and he'll worry -- Let me at least call his, his best friend and tell him I'm all right--"

It's like he hasn't heard any of it. "Let's get started, sweetheart? The sooner you take all of this to heart, the sooner we can both leave."

So they watch for a while. They're not sure how long; at some point the tape repeats, and some time later, they get their first shock but not their last. Teddy sings songs in their head; they make up unflattering verses about the film or Norman; they recite literary passages silently. It doesn't keep them awake all the time, the contact area increasingly burnt and painful even as the shock also increases. But it keeps them slightly sane while they try to wait it out.

They try.

Eventually, floating somewhere slightly outside the world, the panic and anger she feels at being shocked again hits and the filter bursts: Teddy throws herself against her restraints and just starts screaming. She's not even sure she could say what she said; something about fascist brainwashing and doublespeak and people like him being the real unAmericans; part of her, watching her explosion, expects him to just shoot her. Part of her doesn't quite care.

He doesn't quite shoot her. He does draw a syringe. She's half-bent with the chair still strapped to her like a shell or a shield, and she tries to charge at him, to knock the needle from his hand.

Teddy succeeds in backing him up against the cabinets: then, with a sting, they can almost feel their blood pressure drop; the dizziness increases rapidly. It's only moments before they're sliding to the floor, heedless of the chair on top of them.

Teddy wakes in bed, all their muscles feeling like they've been running for hours, a steady twitch in their upper cheek. There's a pervasive sense of calm that's settled over them despite a vague memory of what happened; a haze to all their thoughts, and they give up and just lie there.

Later, she'll shamble downstairs, Scout helping her stay stable. She eats something; she sits and listens to whatever passes for pop radio in 1961 mid-Atlantic Hell. She tries to sign, gives up, writes shaky notes. She sits, she eats something else. She slowly works on getting back up the stairs; she's thankful she can't cry.

After a day or two of the same thing, aching, jerky: so tired, so terribly empty, Teddy picks up their guitar and grits their teeth. Forms some chords they know they know; reforms them until they get the position right. They close their eyes and go through fingerpicking sequences until they get those right. Teddy picks out a melody, and slowly, slowly, works up to forming words, singing softly, just to prove they can.

The next day they do it again. They go outside, and when they can do that without panicking, they take the dog for a walk. They go to a shop, purchase drinks and snacks without speaking. At home they collapse exhausted, but proud.

It gets better. It will. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but she will fight this. They will. All of them, somehow; they have to. That's all there is.
Maybe she keeps her head down for a while. That doesn't mean she's not at war.