Event № 1 : January 2024

[silentspringmods]

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

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

I. A Thought Is Haunting Me

January 1st.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going home.

You close your eyes.

*

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

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

*

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

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

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

II. In the Valley of the Dolls We Sleep

January 13-15th.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. Drill it in like J. Paul Getty

Throughout January.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 7th onwards.

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

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

navigation

Comments

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! ]

ii

[carniravenous]

[Despite Sokka's brave attempt to use the network, he doesn't have near enough snow to make a decent snow tower. As it stands right now, his tower is more like a sad, misshapen snowman. He did manage to wall off his front yard with a nice snow barrier, but he needs a lot more snow if he's going to get anywhere with this project. Maybe the townspeople are getting free labor and don't want to supply him with food and/or money for a shoveling job — which would be fair, though just like asking people for supplies in his world, he thinks it's pragmatic to get a little payment in exchange for services rendered, and he is trying to save up for something — or maybe they all think he's weird for putting this much effort into something that will eventually melt. Whatever their reasoning, Sokka has decided to shift gears, walking around with the wooden sled and a shovel, taking unwanted snow from discard piles.

He's in the process of dragging home a meager snow pile when someone calls out and waves at him. He waves back and says:]

Yeah, it's great. [Because as of right now, the snow is all he likes about this place. This is the first time he's felt anything remotely positive about being here, though that feeling is set to be as fleeting as the snow itself.

He abandons his sled-and-shovel combo at the foot of the guy's driveway, then approaches him.] I can do that for you, if you want. [Reaching out a hand, he wiggles his gloved fingers in his direction, trying to make this offer seem enticing, if a little overbearing. Some people, he has learned, are possessive about their snow. The locals, mostly. Sokka didn't think anyone could own snow — that would have been a ridiculous concept, back at the South Pole, where snow is a shared resource — but a particularly angry neighbor set him straight when she accused him of stealing it from her. He knows better than to just hoist his help on people now, even if he tries to make it so that no thanks is an awkward answer.]

[puzzleking]

[ Edward blinks, waiting for one long second for the punchline. Teens aren't historically so forthcoming with their assistance — but it clicks then, his post, and it's easier to believe it isn't a trick. Quick to nod, then, he takes a step back and opens his arms, indicating the yard around them. ]

Be my guest, please. I'm used to plows clearing everything I need, clearly it's spoiled me. I can, uh— [ It doesn't take an empath to discern he's not pleased to offer, but he'd feel some remorse if he abandoned the whole of it to Sokka. ] I can help with the loading up your sled there? And I think I read something about a meal, which we can definitely do. Would you want something for out here? We've got coffee, uh, probably cocoa mix-?

so sorry for the delay

[carniravenous]

[Sokka visibly brightens at the agreement, especially considering how adamant it sounds. And even though he definitely sees that the guy isn't too keen on assisting with loading up the snow, Sokka still readily accepts the offer because it will go quicker with help, and he's trying to accomplish a lot before it gets dark.]

Yes, to all of that. [He really picked the right house this time.] I could use the help and I could really use the meal, and I've been wanting to try coffee. I've never had it before. [Tea can be found everywhere in the Four Nations, but not coffee. He says all this while he retrieves his shovel. He was going to use this guy's shovel since it looks like it might be made of studier material than his own, but if he's going to help load up the sled, then he needs a tool for the job.]

pot to kettle lmao (but no worries, seriously)

[puzzleking]

[ He's surprised for a fraction of a second that he hasn't had coffee yet, but then, people enforce all manner of odd rules. Instead his focus settles on the emphasis that preceded it: that he really needs the meal. As uncomfortable as forced relations are, he does hope whoever this boy is tethered to is bothering to help feed him.

He considers pressing that point, but Sokka is already on the move and to do it now would just sound like he's trying to procrastinate. Then there's the matter of daylight, quick to dissipate this time of year. With a sigh, Edward moves to follow, deciding he'll do himself one favor by starting with the snow nearest the sled. Nice, short trips. A warm up. ]

You seemed surprised, striking out with many people? I'd expect them to be excited.

[carniravenous]

Right? [Sokka picks up his shovel and gestures with it, vaguely but emphatically.] Who doesn't want mostly free labor?

[Mostly being the key word. Sokka has a hypothesis, though, one that goes beyond the neighbors being stingy or weirdly possessive of their snow.]

I think it's me.

[This is not said out of a lack of confidence in himself and his shoveling abilities. Rather, Sokka considers this to be a realistic possibility. Simply put, he doesn't fit in here, not in the way that he's supposed to. He tries not to make it incredibly obvious that he's out of his element, and he is doing better, but he made a lot of blunders throughout his first week, up to and including upsetting a very gossipy neighbor. And for anyone really paying attention to him, he probably seems suspicious. Which is he! Which everyone should be! Everyone should be trying to figure out what's really going on! But instead of saying all that, Sokka motions at his head.]

It's the hair. [Which it is that too, definitely.]

[puzzleking]

[ Edward stills after depositing a shovelful of snow onto the sled, casting Sokka a sideways glance. He's an easy presence to acclimate to, humorous and more difficult to read danger onto than many of the other hostages. This is the first he's left to wonder if that affable nature is obfuscating some unease beyond what they're all sharing. He wonders if he's ever accidentally caused offense, if Sokka is being treated well in what is basically a foster home—

And then the remark about the hair, drawing the tension from his shoulders. He doesn't laugh, but he smiles, huffing through his nose. Funny. ]

I doubt it's you. [ No great comfort, he knows, but to not explicitly disagree would feel to him like being complicit. Another shovel's worth of snow, and he pivots again toward the sled. ] I think it's... a very easy time to be tense. Very easy to worry about learning new rules and abiding them. I suppose anyone asking for anything with your kind of energy could come across as some test.

[ A beat. ]

The hair is interesting, though. You aren't cold? You can lose a lot of heat through your head.

III. In The Valley

[spaghettimonster]

Trip them...?

[Papyrus considers it, from where he's definitely not cowering behind a rack. He peers, just a little, around the edge - the mannequins move so quickly and aggressively, and he's pretty sure that's a little blood over there from someone else. Not quite feeling like the Great Papyrus, and not just because magic is still inconveniently not happening, he sweats as he pulls back and tries to whisper back.]

Maybe... But, they might get up like people, too. [They're too lively to assume otherwise.] Tripping them up is a good start... But what about tangling them? Tying their legs together.

[There's an idea of a lasso, of traps involving ropes dangling from trees and hidden in leaves or snow, to be had here. But trees and ropes alike he doesn't have on hand, in this rack of various small appliances. Egg beaters aren't about to trip someone or something in any lasting way.]

[puzzleking]

[ A sound point. The benefits of having something or someone there to bounce an idea off of immediately. Slipping comes to mind next, but he'll voice this only if the current idea doesn't work. ]

Did you see if there was any...I don't know, people like this hunt, don't they? An outdoors section, maybe? Camping?

[ He's holding out hope for straightforward rope, but in a pinch he'd wager outdoor supply would have the strongest alternatives. Worst case scenario, they'll have to attempt to tie the hanging garments about them together discreetly, which feels like slim odds. ]

[spaghettimonster]

People like the mannequins...?

[The question is confused but earnest, as Papyrus is uncertain whether these aggressive mannequins are people or attacks, but without doubt that some mannequins are. He catches himself after a second, and forces a smile.]

Uh, that's a joke. As for camping, or outdoors... Yeah, I saw tents. And fishing rods.

[The tents in particular stood out to him - a little way to make an indoors in any outdoors situation. Incredible the things humans get up to, on the surface. Things like the nearby camo supplies hadn't registered to him as anything in particular, with no reference point for their use underground.]

[puzzleking]

[ Peculiar joke, but of much less immediate interest than the idea of— ]

Fishing wire! [ Strong, lightweight, and he presumes they must sell it in considerable lengths. Less cumbersome than rope, a good gauge of the idea's potential. There's stirring somewhere, a display being knocked over. No human scream, Edward notes. A mannequin on patrol (are they intelligent enough to do that?), or some other unfortunate shopper yet to be caught. He's silent, counting to ten before he dares speak again. ]

Don't suppose you'd want to lead the way?

[spaghettimonster]

I'd love to lead the way out... But the doors didn't work.

[It was, he's a little embarrassed to even hint at admitting, one of the first things he tried doing. They'd felt locked tight, and even the glass had felt particularly inflexible. (The first thing was a reflexive attempt to summon bones for a fight, even after all these weeks without so much as an inkling of magic showing up. Just goes to show, you don't need literal muscles to develop muscle memory.)]

So... leading the way to wire, is the next best thing. Of course I will!

[Of course, his reflexes also include a tendency to talk too loudly pretty much all the time. So he has to shush and hold still in turn, when there's an obvious sound of too-steady footsteps approaching and searching around. A few minutes before it moves on, if neither of them draw its attention.]

[puzzleking]

[ Making himself scarce and silent to avoid harm is nearly a reflex at this point, but never had he felt so certain that capture would mean death. He's only spotted their pursuers for seconds at a time, but he's paid careful attention to the fallout. The size, weight, materials they're crushing far surpass any resistance he could offer. Even the Batman, for all his prowess, was so pitifully human in the end, and the plan had inadvertently kept him at a safe distance.

He's also never had an accomplice, let alone one so loud. He's snap, on a worse day, but the consequence of being the one to pinpoint their location keeps Edward silent. Tense, a tremor running through his limbs, but silent. It's one instead of a crowd, Edward notes, clawing for optimism. It paces their aisle, back and forth, so near he can't bring himself to count the laps. Instead he tenses, readies himself to sprint. Then it's gone as quickly as it came, disappearing into some other segment of the greater area. Muffling a very long, staggered sigh into a coat, Edward turns to meet Papyrus' eye, canting his head this way and that. A silent question to ready himself: which way are we going?

And then an audible suggestion, another whisper. ] Now or never, seems like.

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus nods, having covered his lower face with both hands while keeping cover. His hands aren't quite in the best places to muffle sounds from his mouth, but it still seems an incredible option to him - one of the conveniences of the human body, lips and hands being able to muffle a voice that has to rise through a throat to emerge into the air properly. He parts two fingers to stage whisper between, like the small gap will help keep it quieter - but he is at least successfully keeping quiet, this time.]

This way.

[His footsteps are carefully slower than he'd like, too. One of the incredible inconveniences of his body now is how heavy it is, and stepping quietly takes a kind of step he's been practicing for pranking purposes. Good to know it'll go to good use now.

He leads down a different aisle than the mannequin disappeared to, head on a swivel of looking this way and that for signs of more motion. The occasional sound of destruction or distress echoing through the enormous building is both stress and guilty relief - at least they're not the only ones being hunted, at least there's others they might help and be helped by eventually.]

[puzzleking]

[ He follows, muscles taut and eyeing Papyrus' feet as if he's expecting every other step to land like some kind of bomb. Not his fault, really, Edward knows. A hardwired instinct to expect failure inevitably results in searching it out. At each distant crash he tenses further, spurs himself to move faster until he's all but treading on the other man's heels.

Light glinting off the floor captures his attention, and he pauses only long enough to look over a toolbox. Out of place amidst the clothing they're leaving behind, likely someone lightening their load before being chased. Nothing dazzling on offer, but he secures himself a wrench and shuffles faster, tapping Papyrus' arm with the handle of a screwdriver. ]

Waste not. Maybe if we're lucky they've got sensation somewhere. Eyes, maybe.

[ They're at least crafted to suggest the presence of them, certainly more than they are hearts or spines. Maybe they're some kind of robot, some centralized unit that could be dislodged...

Wishful thinking, anyway. ]

Much farther?

[spaghettimonster]

[For all he heard the slowed steps and then shuffling to catch up, Papyrus jolts at the tap of the screwdriver. His eyes are wide as he turns to look at it, and he grimaces. The implication that they're grabbing tools to use in place of attacks is... off-putting. So close, so personal. Not at all like the artistic distance of tossing around bones and maybe a blast.

Still, he nods grimly and accepts it with one hand, then tests the weight and balance of it. He's not sure he can muster the lethal intention to kill one of the mannequins, on such short and unsettled notice... But at the very least, lodging it in a mannequin's leg joint could make the pursuit far less fearsome. Hopefully.]

It didn't seem far away...

[His mutter is partially muffled by his hand, as he leans to squint down the aisle. Trying to balance speed with quiet makes a slower pace than his usual. But he recognizes a few displays ahead, and points to one that leads around a corner.]

Past that.

[puzzleking]

[ Finding the flinch entirely forgivable given the circumstances, Edward pays it no mind, clutching his own weapon close and peering over his shoulder. He spots the other man's gesture and perks, pace quickening again. To be so close and not beeline feels like jinxing themselves. He doesn't pass his companion, hardly so brave, but he glances to him as an invitation to accelerate alongside him. ]

Oh, I see fishing poles— it's got to be near those. We could set up... [ He looks upward, checking the ceiling for beams, narrowing down potential applications. ] Mm...wondering how we'll get it around them without getting in, er, crushing range. Set up some kind of tripwire to start...

[spaghettimonster]

[The idea of tripping the mannequins up before they can get into fight range just makes him nostalgic for his magic again, and Papyrus gives a muffled sigh. Right, stop thinking about real fights, and think about ways of being annoying and avoiding fights.]

...Something slick, for extra slipping... Maybe ice. Or, uh, oil puddles.

[On reflection, they probably couldn't get a bunch of spilled water to freeze properly in here, not with how heated the interior of the mall is, and how remarkably impenetrable the windows seem. But between kitchen and tools, there's sure to be various oils.]

And, maybe, fishing rods? To drop... a bag around their heads. [Almost hopeful, in between moments of secondguessing the idea.] If that's how they see... Tying one up tight might cut down on the crushing time.

[puzzleking]

[ Edward's head shakes at the suggestion of ice, but oil is sound thinking. Even if it's only marginally effective, every second counts. ]

I'm not sure I've got good enough aim to try that, [ Said of the fishing rods, which leave him thinking faintly of Scooby Doo. ] But if we can get them off their feet, more oil in the eyes should do just as well as a bag. Or soap, paint, anything like that. Should be easy to find, too.

[ Satisfied with this and now craning his neck to eye the departments for anything home improvement or automotive-adjacent, he streamlines this aloud: ] Tripwire, slick the ground, get them in the face while they're down.

Slim odds, but humor me: have you ever seen anything like this before?

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus makes a faintly disappointed sound, because - while he wouldn't know Scooby Doo to know the reference - it's the kind of trickery that could work somewhat effectively, with magic to back it. But oil or paint on the face would probably have as good of odds, if they're guessing right about how the mannequins sense things, and splashing them could serve the purposes of tripping and blinding hazard at once.

He's starting to like this idea when the question comes up, and he startles like he's been caught out.]

L-Like this?

[Not nearly as loud as last time, but louder than he's trying to be, so he rushes to half-cover his mouth to better muffle the sound before continuing. If he exaggerates the way he does so, buying for time as he uses the idea of danger to deflect attention, or if there's something conflicted and careful in his face now... Well, there's a lot going on, and there could be any number of reasons for that.]

You mean, uh... Trapped in a shopping center... unbreakable windows, besieged by silent, violent mannequins? No, that's... new. [Mostly.]

IV gimme that stalking

[yupe]

[ Jupe makes it through the first day of the new year okay—dazed, time running away from him then slowing to a standstill once he's caught up, but okay. He watches TV. TV dads kissing TV moms on the cheek, TV kids hatching harebrained schemes. He catches a weather report—snow on the way—and that's enough to get him out of the house and to Sweetwater's main street, where he tries not to look too lost in the hardware store and then slips into Angelo's liquor store.

He's too wrapped up in himself to notice the bell over the door jangling, the man at the counter offering a friendly greeting, or any glances Edward throws his way—but it's a tiny store, and when Jupe abruptly turns for another look at the bourbon, he practically crashes into the other man. ]

[scare chord] :)

[puzzleking]

[ It's a maneuver he's done a hundred times, one wide step back and to the side to accommodate someone he expects would otherwise go right through him. Were it a standard resident he'd move along, mutter a quick hello and resume pretending he's here in hopes of finding wine. But he's pleased to recognize Jupe, to confirm a hunch formed upon entry. He thought he'd recognized the coat. ]

Afternoon. [ Casual, though he's smiling more than he would be otherwise. Pleased at the recognition, and energized at the prospect of asking him how his New Year's had gone. He turns, guessing where Jupe was headed. ]

Bourbon drinker? [ The surprise is a touch forced, but he needs something to justify a conversation long enough to follow them out of the store. ]

[yupe]

Sorry, God. Hi. [ Comes out in a rush, Jupe almost visibly recalibrating to Edward's presence. The proximity of anyone at all. He tosses a look over the other man's shoulder at the door, but for now that's the extent of his puzzling over the timing. ]

We didn't get to the champagne last night. [ He says it slightly abashed, which—he is. Sorry about the insinuation, Maureen. Jupe returns his attention to the bottles, newly invested now that he has an audience. He makes a show of deliberately choosing one and turning it over in his hands. Pondering the label. ] Anything you'd recommend?

[puzzleking]

[ God's not here, he opts not to joke. He meets the admission with a shrug of a shoulder, a nonverbal 'it happens'. Hands slipping into his pockets he turns on his heel, eyeing the shelves. ]

Can't say I'm familiar with many of these brands. [ Both apologetic and honest: he was barely a drinker in his own era, what little he recognizes is beer. Jupe doesn't strike him as much of a beer guy. ] Is it for you, your wife, party planning-?

[yupe]

[ Jupe makes kind of a face—like he's trying to read the tiniest print on the bottle. Is this Edward's weird attempt at inviting himself over? Then again, maybe they're just awkward questions from an awkward guy. Or, you know, maybe since last night Jupe's lost all ability to tell normal from not-normal. ]

Multipurpose bourbon. [ He says lightly, after a pause. ] For nightcaps, daycaps, drinking games...okay, what're you feeling—Old Hickory, Old Grand Dad, or Old Quebec?