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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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!]

head on straight

[ribticklers]

Sans is circling the neighborhood again. It's a ritual now, every day since Papyrus vanished. Start at Papyrus's house (still strange to think about, when they've spent so long living in the same one), then the places Papyrus might be. He's never there. Not the library, the grocery store, or the hardware store. Not driving around town. Not at the bars trying to find Sans, which he knows is a long shot but makes sure of every time before he circles back to Papyrus's house in the evening. It's a problem he can't get inside the house; he should have asked Papyrus to make a copy of the key. Every time, he gets a little closer to trying to break in.

But this time, this evening, Papyrus is outside. On the front step. Sitting there?

"Papyrus." Sans's relief is embarrassingly obvious on his face, though not as much as it was that first time he recognized his brother. He's still getting his human face under control, but he's been getting better at it. It's only after that initial spike of relief that Sans processes the details: that Papyrus is outside in his pajamas, more collapsed than sitting, and his muscles keep twitching. Sans's face twists in uneasy concern. "Bro?"

[spaghettimonster]

Even as out of it as he is, Papyrus reacts to his name, looking to squint up at the approaching human. He's dizzy enough (he'll later justify to himself) not to recognize the still-unfamiliar and emotive face. It takes until that second word and concerned expression for him to place the voice, at least, and twitch his face into a pained smile.

"Sans. That's... You're Sans, right?" His brother. That sounds like his brother, he's pretty sure. But he's still hearing things, sometimes, nearby but without a source to explain them. He doesn't remember planning to be a human or American or Marylander either, so it's not clear why all the responsibilities of those have fallen on him. At least he'd been elected ruler, and given the chance to accept it, after he'd already been striving for another important job. But he was saying something, wasn't he...? "You sound like Sans."

[ribticklers]

Sans can feel himself frowning. He can feel that frown pulling itself deeper as Papyrus keeps talking. Again he's reminded that Papyrus should be dead, that he'd had doubts when he first saw Papyrus in this human body

"Yeah, I'm Sans." His voice, at least, he can keep calm. Having physical vocal cords isn't really that different from having magical ones as far as his control over them goes. "You look kind of sick."

What Sans wants to ask is where have you been, but he's very aware they're out in the open right now, with no dire threat of bombing to distract any passersby. This is going to have to do until they go inside. Papyrus's--sickness?--is a pretty relevant concern anyway. He takes another step closer, studying Papyrus's face.

always happy to pour some fuel on the suspicion fire

[spaghettimonster]

Whoever each of them is to each other, in the end... The Papyrus slumped on his front step brightens a bit with relief, to hear it confirmed even as he watches those lips move with the words.

"I don't feel good!" Papyrus agrees readily enough, with a laugh that feels a little too hysterical to sound like his usual. He tries to wipe at his face, but it's hard to keep his arm steady enough for swiping motions instead of something that smacks himself in the process. Only lightly, it's hardly more painful than the rest of the aches, but a little embarrassing to be seen, while so uncoordinated, so unlike himself. "I... don't feel good. I don't think I've slept. Did you know... it's very important, to get a full night's sleep? I didn't."

He didn't know, and has never particularly believed it. Even in the weeks since waking up in a now-somewhat familiar bed, he hasn't been sleeping all through the night. And last night, he certainly didn't. (Was it a night and part of the day? It feels like it was longer.)

[ribticklers]

It's like Papyrus is drunk, except not exactly. Except vanishing and coming back drunk isn't something Sans can imagine Papyrus doing. Sans didn't know that particular kind of hysterical laughter was a trait the two of them shared, either. Where has Papyrus been? The question is even more important and Sans still doesn't want to ask it out on Papyrus's front lawn.

"Why d'you think I take all those naps?" Sans says, forcing his mouth to form that casual grin he's supposed to be making here. "Can you stand up?"

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus doesn't repeat the hysterical laughter at the joke, but he chuckles and leans a little harder against the doorway as his arm jerks. It's funny, because Sans is always napping, skeleton or human. It's funny because Papyrus is exhausted now, and maybe it's because he didn't amass naps all those years to have in storage now. Or maybe it's all the electrocution! But he manages to tune in again for the followup question, and think.

"I... stood up," he says like it's agreement, but he stares down at his legs uncertainly. Even now that he's out here, he's not entirely sure how he got out here. All of him wants to be lying in bed, shivering or twitching or whatever this is, except for his mind. His mind does not want to be in that bed, in an empty house. No wonder he got out here, somehow. (Aches on his legs suggest, he didn't walk most of the way.)

[ribticklers]

Sans feels like he's prickling inside and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like any of what's going on right now, but the way his own feelings jerk around and clench at his stomach isn't helpful right now. He needs to get Papyrus off this lawn. He can't leave Papyrus alone like this.

"Yeah, I figured you didn't just appear right here," Sans says, but honestly, can he really prove Papyrus didn't? Sans still doesn't know the rules of this place. Regardless, he reaches for Papyrus's hand to try and pull him upright, prepared to let Papyrus lean on him. He really hopes his extra foot of height and however much mass will help him out here. (It will, but he's never tested it before right now.) "C'mon. I've got a couch."

[spaghettimonster]

"Is it green?" It should be green, he thinks, and says before he can even consider why he's asking. Better that than saying that he has a couch, not when he doesn't want to go back inside to it, and maybe that's why. He misses their couch, jangly as it was.

Meanwhile Papyrus accepts the hand as best he can, trying to use the lift and the doorway together to help himself get upright. He does have to lean on Sans to stay upright away from it, between another wave of dizziness and muscle spasms. Everything feels even stiffer, maybe from sitting there in the cool air too long, and he forgets he's leaning on Sans, too busy wondering whether all the water in his human parts has managed to start freezing.

[ribticklers]

Sans wobbles a little, but not as much as he really expected. Papyrus is heavy like this, but it's manageable as long as Papyrus doesn't forget to support at least some of his own weight. As far as the couch--Sans can't, for a moment, remember what color it is at all. He thinks of their green one instead, the one Papyrus obviously means, and wishes they were there.

But if Sans goes back, he'll be alone. So it's not worth continuing to think about.

"Nah, it's beige-y brown. Came with the house." Like all of the furniture, and also Sokka. Speaking of the kid: "But if we head back to my place maybe you'll run into Sokka."

It's been kind of funny seeing how long it takes for Papyrus to actually see the other person that lives in Sans's house, but now Sans wishes he'd been a little more proactive about arranging a meeting. Or active about it at all. This isn't an ideal meeting situation.

But he can't leave Papyrus alone. So he starts walking, seeing if Papyrus will be able to keep up without shaking out of his skin.

[spaghettimonster]

Well, the shaking absolutely continues. But where Sans's answers and comments help distract Papyrus from the idea that he's freezing, the first step draws his attention back to his body. He staggers with the motion, but leans a little more into his brother's shoulder as he starts a very shuffling stride to keep up.

"I still can't believe... you named the sock."

To his mind right now, it's the most sensible explanation. One of the two inanimate fixtures of their old house traveled with them, somehow, across wherever they've come to - and the pet rock didn't transform into a human, the way they did. But if anything else were to haunt their lives, it would surely be that sock. What better to name the fake son of the photos around Sans's new house, than after it?

[ribticklers]

Sans makes a little grunt of exertion as Papyrus's weight presses down further, but once they're both walking, it's okay. He can manage this. He hopes none of the people who live here question them, but Sans devotes some small portion of his mind to coming up with potential excuses just in case. This would all be a lot easier if he could just take a shortcut.

"He named himself." Or, more likely, one or both of Sokka's parents did, but regardless, Sans had nothing to do with it. He might play up the ambiguity a little more under better circumstances; as it stands, Sans is a little distracted.

[spaghettimonster]

"Of... course he did," Papyrus says, tone clearly humoring him, through the effort of keeping upright without the solid doorframe. Classic Sans, pretending he doesn't know the things he clearly did. There must be a punchline coming up.

But his brother doesn't make it right away, and the process of walking takes a lot. His new muscles are stiff, like they're expending all their energy into these uncontrollable-thus-far twitches and jerks, try as he might to walk more smoothly. Past that, he's dizzy, still hearing snippets of a voice like a description of how wonderful this town and country are, along with what's probably conversations in the houses they're slowly passing. Probably.

He tries to swallow, and tries again when it doesn't work. Maybe he's forgotten how to swallow, or maybe those muscles aren't working right either. But he has forgotten what they were talking about, so he has to ask: "...Where are we going?"

[ribticklers]

"My place," Sans says, when what he wants to do is take Papyrus to the hospital except he's not putting his little brother in the hands of the humans who live here. The house Sans is stuck living in is going to have to do, even as Sans tallies up strange symptoms and wonders how much Papyrus is even going to be able to tell him about what happened once they're inside. "I'm loaning you my couch and I'm gonna teach you how to take a nap."

He's not really used to feeling this particular brand of concerned for Papyrus. Not for a long time, anyway. Papyrus, as a rule, can take care of himself better than Sans can. But right now--he just has to deal with this, he guesses.

[spaghettimonster]

"Ohhh. That's... that sounds. Acceptable," Papyrus concedes, with an attempt at nonchalance as slow and stumbling as his own steps would be. He knows he tries not to let on to his brother when serious things are wrong, especially not things that Sans can't help with. He tries to keep the earnest expressions of frustration to the more superficial, to the things they can joke about or the things they can more easily resolve. Complaints about cleaning, complaints about food choices, complaints that lead into chances to brag about his brilliant oncoming plans.

It's hard to focus enough to do anything of that, so he admits, "I could, probably use that. I don't think I slept."

He frowns down at his brother's shoulder, at the sidewalk passing underfoot as their feet find some kind of rhythm to keep from jostling him off. The sidewalk isn't blurring into repetitive imagery the way the video did, but the conversation has something of deja vu to it. "Did I... say that, already? I think I said that."

[ribticklers]

"Yeah," Sans says, and it's not great, but Sans already realized Papyrus wasn't quite following the conversation when he asked where they were going, so additional confirmation doesn't shake him too much. "Which is more proof you need a break. Don't worry, I won't say I told you so."

Of course, in totally-saying-I-told-you-so-by-saying-I-won't, Sans is trying to give Papyrus something more normal to focus on: exasperation with Sans.

[spaghettimonster]

Yeah, that's at least a familiar conversational gambit. Familiar enough for Papyrus to follow and make an amused sound before he can help it. "I... see. You're going to, instead, say... I told you so."

Since he apparently has, at least twice...? Awful. Exactly the kind of distracted weakness he should never reveal to Sans. If things are really bad, it will just worry him, and if things are only kind of bad, his brother will make fun of him with it. Especially now that... he gave Sans the idea? He grumbles, with the sort of exasperation Sans was aiming for, only to startle a little at the sensation of it. It's so strange, feeling things like that somewhere inside his neck.

[ribticklers]

"Nah. You fell for my trap. I was gonna make you say it for me." Sans rolls easily with the conversation; talking about nothing of importance is his specialty, after all. He turns Papyrus down the sidewalk to his (temporary, he always thinks of it as temporary) house, slowing down because he's not sure Papyrus will recognize it when he's this out of it.

[spaghettimonster]

Another amused noise, but the conversation cuts off with the unanticipated turn worsening Papyrus's dizziness. He stumbles and tightens his grip on Sans's shoulder, leaning more weight for balance, before managing to resume the gait his stiff and erratic limbs allow.

Once that's established, he does peer up at the building, eyes squinting more than usual to try to make sense of it. A house, sure, he can see that much - like he sees the shapes of light and shadow and color of the neighborhood. But he watched the shadows and large shapes like passing people because the finer details are escaping him, and right now there's no recognition on his face.

Wildcard - lmk if I should make any changes!

[carniravenous]

Not long after Sans goes to sleep, Sokka makes his way to the living room where Papyrus is resting. He takes a seat on the floor, back to the coffee table, and watches Papyrus for a long moment. He's already decided what he's going to do, but that doesn't mean it feels great; actually, Sokka feels a little bad about. He shouldn't. This really is no different than defying a spirit librarian for vital knowledge or snooping in a dangerous woman's house to find out what she's hiding. This is about figuring out the threats they face and making plans to do something about them — and it's about protecting others. Sokka hasn't been here very long, but there are people here he wants to help, and regardless of his feelings about Sans' supposed status in this household, he has started factoring him into his plans, too. He can't do that if he doesn't fully understand what's going on.

But Sans didn't need to be explicit in his displeasure when Sokka started asking his questions. He didn't need to say anything at all for Sokka to see in him the same way he'd feel, if it were Katara lying on the couch. He tries to be a practical person, but even he loses his practical approach when Katara is in danger — like when he tackled their friend because he accidentally hurt her. He gets it, and that's what makes him feel guilty about this, like it isn't the same as outsmarting a spirit to end a war.

But in a roundabout way, this is also about protecting Katara. If Sokka can fill in all the blanks about why and how he was brought here — and if he can figure out who's responsible and do something about it — then he can ensure that Katara and their friends never come here. He has to ask, and it has to be sooner rather than later. This is an active threat, and he's wasted so much time already.

That doesn't mean he has to start out by being blunt. He would normally — it's what he did earlier, when he tried to ask a few questions — but he thinks about Katara saying, Sokka, with a chide in her tone and it makes him temper his approach. Instead, he offers a piece of information about himself that he's told no one here — not Sans, not even Bucky — in fear of drawing this place's attention to her. He says, quietly, "I have a sister," like it's an apology for the barrage of questions that are to follow.

[spaghettimonster]

As much as Sans insisted he would teach Papyrus 'how to take a nap,' as much as Papyrus has tried out of sincere exhaustion, sleep has been fleeting. He's awake again when Sokka comes in, staring in the direction of the television's black screen and faint reflections, half expecting it to turn on and start showing that movie again on its own. The way his limbs and face keep jerking are almost helpful, in that sense - he can feel he isn't restrained to a chair, when his leg kicks out before settling back into its stiffness. There's always a positive to be found, if one looks hard enough.

He startles a little when Sokka sits down to watch, because, well. By now, Papyrus has made enough sense of the situation that he's a bit embarrassed by it, on and off, when he recalls enough of the details. That Sans is showing so openly (for him) protective concern, that Papyrus is barely able to stand or walk with assistance, that his attention keeps wandering off into distraction and fear... That, insofar as he'd humored his brother's tales of a designated son, he'd expected to make a far more impressive impression.

And this whole train of thought is itself another distraction, as he almost misses Sokka's comment, almost forgets it before remembering to reply to it. "A sister...? Sans didn't..." He considers again, opening and closing his mouth with words he doesn't quite sound out. Tries to swallow and smile, with dawning sympathy. "Oh. A... real sister. Not here...?"

i'm so sorry for the delay on this

[carniravenous]

"She isn't here," Sokka confirms, a statement that still fills him with a lot of conflicting feelings. "Which is good. I don't want her to be." And yet there's an unspoken but at the end of that statement that would elaborate on how much Sokka misses her, and how much he hates that he can't be back in their world, protecting her. How nice it would be if she were here, if he ignored all the reasons he absolutely cannot let them take her. This very situation would be a lot easier, because Katara would do all the right things in this scenario, like offer to fetch Papyrus another blanket or get him some water, and Sokka could focus entirely on his questions until Katara got fed up and chased him from the room. That's the kind of balance that Team Avatar provides each other; it's the kind of balance that Sokka doesn't have being stranded here by himself.

But he's glad for it. He is. No one else should be here with him, no matter how strange it is to sleep in a bedroom by himself, or how weird it is to hold his tongue whenever the locals refer to his family.

"She'd probably tell me you need to rest." It isn't that she wouldn't see Sokka's logic; she would. But she's the healer — and she's better at placing sympathy above being pragmatic.

life happens! o/\o

[spaghettimonster]

Papyrus's head bobs in a stiff sort of nod, mouth twitching in a sympathetic smile at the apparent universality of siblings. "Sans would say, the same thing."

He says this like he's imagining it, all too aware of what his brother might do or say in any circumstance. But Sans did say the same thing, variations on it multiple times - that it was time to learn to nap, to just get some sleep, to rest so he'll feel better sooner, and so on. Sokka surely heard a couple rounds of it, the awkward concern and too-casual coverups alike, just from being around the house.

But the sympathy is thoughtful, conflicted, shifting to a distracted frown. Papyrus can't entirely relate to being glad of a sibling not being here. Not when he'd been so desperately relieved to find Sans despite all the strangeness - no, because of all the strangeness of the circumstances here. Finding himself uncannily human, in a strangely outdated human surface town, without any explanation, was a shock. Acclimating to the differences of body and technology and social mores, while trying not to let on the full details of just how much this life isn't his... The Great Papyrus surely rose to the occasion, of course! But it was tricky. And it helps now to have the reassurance of his brother around, both for his company and for the confirmation of the memories of his life.

He doesn't know how to say any of that, though. Their circumstances are probably wildly different. It's not as if this Sokka - apparently not actually a roundabout nickname for the floor sock, it turns out - would have a similar context. Humans don't live in such isolated places where they can't reach the rest of the world, even if they do apparently also face invasions from hostile outsiders. Their lost can be confirmed as dead, not disappeared as dust in the snow or water if murdered. And the particular challenges Papyrus has faced, the struggle to take leadership and bring levity and hope to dismal circumstances for others' and his own benefit...

Well. He's more used to looking to his brother for some reminders and structure, now. Even in the face of this unrequested 'vacation', or the exciting education opportunities apparently available. His eyes drift to the television's screen again, where he watches the reflection of Sokka's back. Sans said to sleep, Sokka's sister would say to sleep, but Sokka is talking to him. "And... you would tell me... something else?"

[carniravenous]

"Yeah," he replies, "I'd tell you that you can rest later."

Sokka wasn't born pragmatic. At least, he's pretty sure he wasn't. It's hard for him to remember what life was like before the Fire Nation raiders destroyed his village and took his mother's life. He mostly remembers the period after, when everything changed and he and Katara had to grow up to hold everything together — Katara stepping up to fill the role that their mother would have occupied, and Sokka trying to protect his tribe after all the men left for war. It's possible, though, that if none of that had happened, he'd have grown to be idealistic, placing his faith in spirits and tabling difficult conversations for a later time.

The thing is, he had to grow into being this way — for the sake of his tribe, at first, but then also for his sister and their friends. Someone has to make the difficult decisions for the group. That's Sokka's job, and he's glad it is. The others can keep their ideals throughout everything they experience, if Sokka is the one who's paranoid enough to see threats everywhere (most of them proven true) or practical enough to keep them moving forward on a schedule no matter what. Once he even slapped a general in the face! For a good reason, but even so — Sokka is the exact person for situations like this, because he's always needed to be, and that isn't going to stop now.

"Ka—" he cuts himself off, then amends, "My sister always wants to do what's right. I do, too, but..." There's a pause here, while Sokka tries to put his thoughts to words. "Sometimes, you have to do things that don't feel right in the moment, in order to do what's right for the future."

He doesn't know if that's clear enough, but it's a difficult thing to say without sounding like he's putting down Katara's approach to problems, which isn't what he wants to do, especially not now. But it's true: from his perspective, Katara tends to be short-sighted. She once called him cold and heartless, and maybe she wasn't wrong — but Sokka tries to stay focused on the bigger picture and the long-term plan.

More firmly, then, as Sokka sits a little straighter: "I have to ask you about what happened, because I need to know what we're up against. It can't wait."

And then Life Happened to me as well, sorry for the delay!

[spaghettimonster]

Initially Papyrus just blinks at him, because it's hard to believe that it can't wait. Not when it took a few weeks for anybody to bother double-kidnapping him to an even more unfamiliar location, or to do anything else while there. To take decisive action when they don't know when, or if, anything like that might happen again...

"How... responsible," he manages to say with a smile, if a more bitter one than he usually aims for. His voice likewise betrays his unhappiness with the situation, even as he tries to force sincerity or at least approval into it.

And he does approve, at least a little, he realizes as he tries again to swallow against the dread of all of this. It hadn't take much for Sans to give up on trying to question him, to encourage him to laze about. It hadn't, somehow, taken much for Papyrus to agree to. Whatever fragments of rest he's managed to get haven't fixed much for his stiff and awful body or his proclivity to distraction, but... now, even while he's still desperate for more sleep, he's feeling embarrassed for going along with it so easily.

"That's responsible," he repeats, no happier but a little more sure of it. "Knowing... what happened. What we're... up against..."

The Red Threat, that sense of a movie on loop helpfully supplies, and he trails off with a shiver on top of the latest spasm. He doesn't want to recount the whole movie, but maybe it would be the right thing for the future. It might help Sans and this Sokka not go through the same thing. But... it's not what either of them was asking, about what happened to him the last... day or so?

"...What day is it?" Papyrus finally asks. He'd like to pretend he's forgotten what they're talking about, to find tangent after tangent until responsible Sokka goes away... But if he doesn't do that, if he does keep remembering what's going on long enough, he needs somewhere to start. Something like somewhen.