Event № 2 : March 2024

[silentspringmods]

Event № 2 : March 2024
Part I; Chapter 4. Stardust on our boots

universe/setting information, role assignment, and FAQs

I. Rooftops are shaking under the pressure of days

March 1st.

CWs: nonfatal earthquake.

On the first of the month, characters are awoken by the ground under their beds—and their beds themselves—shaking with deep tremors, accompanied by a low rumble from deep within the earth. Picture frames fall off shelves, decorative plates crash to the floor, potted plants leap from windowsills and become heaps of potting soil and shattered terra cotta. Dogs bark and howl through the neighborhood. Animals panic. Any lights left on overnight go out; phone lines are dead, switches do nothing.

The earthquake—which experienced characters might be able to ballpark as less than or about equal to a 6 magnitude at most—lasts about fifteen minutes, although the single jolt of a solitary aftershock comes about an hour later. Even once it ends, however, the animals seem just as uneasy. Horses at the riding stable stare at nothing in the horizon, necks upright and rigid, nostrils flaring, bodies stiff. The birds are silent. Dogs pant nervously, hiding or barking incessantly or both—it's probably best to take them outside on a leash, lest they panic and escape the yard. Even as the neighbors step outside to see if everyone's okay, cats hide under beds and dressers, refusing to come out. Though the townies seem a little rattled by the event themselves, none of them remark upon how incredibly unusual, even unheard of, an earthquake in the mid-Atlantic state of Maryland is.

II. That old evil spirit, so deep down in your ground

March 1st.

CWs: dead birds, bird attacks, attacks to face, animal suffering.


Following their eerie silence, numerous pigeons and crows around town begin to behave just as oddly as the domesticated animals on the day of the earthquake: some wander aimlessly in circles, others sit on power lines with their feathers fluffed up, heads pulled back into their bodies, eyes closed to a squint. Some begin to pull out their own feathers until naked pink patches appear within a matter of hours. Handfuls of dead birds appear on roads, in yards, and in the park. Around midday, the most troubling new behavior emerges: some of the birds begin to swoop down and attack visitors to the park, pecking and scratching with a particular affinity for faces, refusing to give up their pursuit until the target has taken shelter indoors. By late afternoon, some of them make their way onto Haven Street and demonstrate the same behavior; characters can barely step outside without being mobbed by a flock of anywhere from five to eight of the birds.

It’s not just pigeons. Particularly unlucky characters may find themselves terrorized by the neighborhood’s resident Red-tailed Hawk, which bites and tears with sickle-like talons and a sharp, hooked beak evolved to rip apart flesh, requiring serious medical attention.

Within a few hours, the emergency radios in characters' homes turn on untouched, all playing the same message: This is Dick Clark, your police chief, with Cecil LaMont, your town animal control officer. This morning's earthquake has passed, and no further aftershocks are anticipated. You may leave shelter, but remain indoors. Animal Control and the police department are aware of strange behavior from local birds and recent attacks in the neighborhood.

The situation is being actively investigated by veterinarians. Birds are carriers of many diseases, and can cause serious damage with beaks and talons. The birds are known to be free of rabies virus. If you are subject to an attack that breaks skin, seek medical attention. If you must leave your home for any reason, park as close to the entrance to buildings as possible, and walk quickly until you are indoors. If birds begin to attack, cover your face to protect your eyes, nose, and mouth. Do not touch any dead animals. If dead birds are found in your yard, contact animal control for removal service.

Keep your home radio tuned to this station for further instructions.

The abnormal behavior of the animals around town, including the feral and wild birds, ends around midnight, and the Sunday paper on the 10th attributes the strange behavior to a non-zoonotic avian influenza that has since been eradicated thanks to quick action on the part of Animal Control and the town veterinarian.

Notes:
— Because power is out, the usual close-captioned television broadcast that has accompanied emergency broadcasts in the past is not available. The only way to receive the message is by audio from the household's cordless emergency radio or by transcription from someone who can hear it. All houses are outfitted with an emergency radio of this type.
—Characters who try to kill the birds with firearms will be re-educated and will have the gun confiscated by the police in addition to being hit with a significant monetary fine. What are you thinking, firing off rounds in the middle of a neighborhood?

III. Welcome to the Twilight Zone

March 2nd.

CWs: none.

That night, characters don't sleep as they usually do. Maybe they don't dream, or maybe they have unusually vivid dreams. Nightmares and night terrors pop up for those who may never have experienced them in their lives. There's one common denominator, however: everyone sleeps, even if they try to stay awake, unable to resist the leaden urge to sit down and close their eyes.

*
On the morning of the second, their new neighbors arrive; in the case of those characters who haven’t moved into an existing household, they take the place of NPC neighbors—waking up in well-lived-in homes without a single trace of the prior inhabitants but quite a few indicators of their own occupancy. Even the refrigerators are stocked with unexpired food—all of which the newly (and oldly) appointed couples, or bachelors, will now need to throw out because power still hasn't returned.

Might as well go say hello, although new characters looking to meet Dr. Ravichandran are out of luck—uncharacteristically, the door to his office, which is usually left bowed in universal academic code for 'knock first', is closed for several days at the beginning of the month, and students who happen to pass him in the hallways of the community college's science department on his rare excursions from his office might notice that some of the friendly, at-ease shine to his deep brown eyes has been replaced with something more serious.

Notes:
—Characters entering an existing household will wake up in the same bed as the current resident, and all of the photographs will now show both of them standing together instead of the single person they showed the day prior.
—Characters who played out arrival threads on the TDM may choose to have their character arrive in this round instead of on February 2nd if they are not keeping any threads from other TDM prompts exclusive to the month of February canon.
—Power and telephone service returns on March 3rd. Characters working at the hospital, or visiting it due to injuries, will notice that the diesel emergency generators fill the air with the same foul chemical smell that filled the supply closet from Ruby's memory on January 1st.

IV. Burned out shell of a Volkswagen

March 3rd.

CWs: sweating, obsessive-compulsive cleaning behavior/paranoia

On the third, in addition to the return of power to the neighborhood, another controlled burn is announced over the radio and close-captioning, and characters are advised to keep their windows shut to keep out “nuisance smoke”—smelling and looking just like it did early last month, carrying faint notes of burning plastic. Characters who have been near a controlled burn or forest fire will note that neither smells like that.

Within about an hour of the smoke drifting in the direction of Haven Street, characters begin to feel a lot hotter under their clothes—even though it’s only 48 degrees outside. Even bare skin feels covered; they sweat, but it’s as though an invisible, unbreathable layer surrounds them, preventing it from evaporating or bringing any cool even once their shirts are soaked through. Even feet sweat, uncomfortably hot; the tops of wellington boots they aren’t wearing brush the tops of their calves every time they take a step.

And characters feel the weight of something: the phantom sensation of metal strapped to their backs, straps digging into their shoulders, thick rubberized material over their bodies, crinkling and pressing into them when they bend even though nothing's there except their nightclothes.

Their thoughts cease to feel entirely their own: characters are struck by a feeling of weariness, looking forward to the end of something, of standing in front of an incredible radiating warmth like a bonfire in any direction they turn. If they shower that night, they may find themselves struck by a feeling that they're not clean, losing themselves in scrubbing at their skin from head to toe for an hour or more, even once the water runs cold.

V. Poisoning pigeons in the park

March 21st-30th.

CWs: historically inspired extermination of birds with strychinine, implied animal suffering

With March comes a gradual warming of the weather in Sweetwater, and although there are isolated bouts of snow showers, it rarely sticks. The earth remains still after the earthquake on the first, and the weather is utterly mundane by mid-Atlantic standards, lack of geological phenomena included. Although the locals can still be seen wearing their sweaters, cardigans, and jackets, the heavier wool and down coats melt away with the snow, giving way to lighter attire more in tune with weather in the high 50s.

Buds begin to form on the leafless trees in the town park, although it isn’t quite warm enough for them to flower. With the melting of the ice and snow Canada Geese return to the pond and begin to nest at its banks—probably best not to disturb them. Pigeons, too, return in unusually large flocks, covering the brick pathways in iridescent purple-gray droves, leaving droppings on benches and playground equipment. It would seem that the avian influenza that affected such a large portion of the town's avian population didn't do "enough", or so the townspeople say as they regard urea-covered cars, sitting places, and awnings.

After several complaints from the locals, animal control announces in the newspaper that control measures will be put in place to cull the population, and, starting on the 21st of the month, deer corn laced with the poison strychinine is scattered around the playground (the 60s are the golden era of child safety!), various benches, and pathways.

Before too long, the poison has its intended effect, and the park becomes quiet, decorated with the limp bodies of dead pigeons. The townspeople seem strangely unreactive to the sight, although on one occasion characters may notice Ruby and her husband Leland bringing their one-year-old son to the park. Both of them seem visibly disturbed.

Animal control is offering some pocket change to anyone who volunteers to help clean them up, but rubber or latex gloves must be worn, and characters are not allowed to keep the bodies. What a great way to bond with the neighbors - or take a closer look?

navigation

Comments

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

[regulararmybrat]

i. rooftops are shaking (cw: panic attack)

[Margaret has experienced a few earthquakes in her life, but up until maybe a few minutes ago, she was fairly certain that Maryland was not known for its constantly shifting tectonic plates. She's awoken by the shaking, and immediately, her instincts tell her to crawl to the nearest place to hide. Panic and terror seize her chest, making it hard to breathe. The street is being bombed, she's going to die here, the house is going to collapse and there will be no one to tell her father that she's dead--

She doesn't dare look outside. She finds her way to the bathroom and shoves herself into the corner, terrified out of her mind, her hands clutching at her robe and she waits it out. She can hear things falling from the shelves, books and knick knacks, and she waits, and waits, her fear refusing to ebb even as the minutes drag on and she realizes she hasn't heard any explosions.

When the tremors are over, it takes several minutes for her to uncurl from her hiding spot in the tub. She exhales, slowly, heart still jackhammering in her chest. Her entire body feels numb. An inner voice shouts at her--she needs to move. With jerky movements, she draws herself up and blindly makes her way out onto the street, dressed only in a sleeping gown and pajamas.

There's an unnatural silence that has settled over the street. Some damage, but no evidence of shrapnel or bombs. She stands in the doorway, still trying to catch her breath, her hair frazzled and undone.

What the hell was that?]

Can anyone tell me what the hell just happened?! [She shrieks, to no one in particular.]

ii. that old spirit

a) [She's trying to make her way back from the store when the birds begin to swoop. A pigeon flies by her head, barely clipping her with its wing, and Margaret lets out a yelp. She turns to watch it flap away, befuddled. With horror, she sees it wheel around and try to swoop at her again. She begins to hustle down the street, trying to avoid it--only to have more pigeons descend upon her. She lets out a shriek, trying to raise the grocery bags to shield her face. Their claws scratch and beaks peck at her hands as she runs blindly forward.]

Get them off me! Oh, God--they're in my hair!

b) [After being swooped a few times, Margaret has decided to take shelter in the safety of her home. She stands anxiously at the window, watching as the red-tailed hawk swoops down upon another unsuspecting victim. She shrieks, pressing her face against the glass and gesturing wildly to get the person's attention.]

Over here!

[She gestures towards the door frantically, then disappears from the window. The door opens slightly for them to enter.]

Quickly! Don't let them inside!

iv. poisoning pigeons in the park (cw: animal death/suffering)

[Margaret is out here trying to pick up pigeons. She's wearing thick dishwashing gloves and has a plastic bag in one hand. She stares out along the park, taking in the sheer amount of dead pigeons sprawled out on the grass. She looks down, trying to avert her eyes, then kneels to pick up one by her feet. She cradles it gently in her trembling hands.]

I--I don't know if--

[The pigeon's chest flutters briefly, its toes twitching, and then it falls still. Margaret bites her bottom lip, trying to stifle a cry. She clutches the pigeon more tightly.]

There must've been a better way to deal with this.

v. wildcard

[Got any other ideas? Feel free to reach out and plot with me at wolfnoir or my OOC plotting post!]

v. sans popping over for medical attention; cw: bloody wounds

[ribticklers]

[Sans hasn't really had much occasion to deal with birds. There aren't many of them underground, after all. He's had even less occasion to deal with bird attacks. Reflex and common sense says to guard his face from the talons of the red-tailed hawk, but they don't tell him much about what to do with the deep gashes all along his left arm, oozing blood even as he keeps it covered with a shirt sleeve. You're supposed to apply pressure, right...? He's seen that on TV, at least.

Maybe later he'll see about picking up a book on first aid. For now, he needs to deal with this, and he'd rather not go to the hospital if he doesn't absolutely have to. He remembers the little group dinner party, though, and the woman who'd handled introductions: a serious-seeming army nurse. It's going to have to be her. Good thing he's memorized everyone's houses by now. Hopefully she doesn't think that's so creepy that she doesn't fix his arm.

He knocks on the door with his right hand, a motion that makes him feel a little off-balance. He's hanging onto his shirt sleeve with his left arm, trying to keep the wound covered, but there's enough blood that it's dribbling onto the front stoop. Oh well. Hopefully Margaret is home.]

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret isn't exactly expecting visitors. She's trying to steer clear of the windows and doors, actually, keeping a safe distance from any area a bird could possibly divebomb her. When she hears someone knock at the door, she frowns, then heads over to peek through the peephole. She recoils slightly upon realizing who the man is--but her initial reaction is quickly overtaken by her medical training.]

Oh, God--! [She flings open the door, trying to get a better assessment of the damage.] What happened to you?!

[Her eyes flit towards the street, as if worried more pigeons might suddenly decide to descend upon them, before she grabs Sans' shoulder and tries to pull him inside. Damn the carpet--Vasiliy can deal with the bloodstains. Her personal feelings on this man aside, it's not in her nature to simply sit idly by while someone is injured.]

Don't remove your hand--keep it there, for now. How deep is it?

[ribticklers]

[The way Margaret greets him--if you could call it that--gives him some vague sense of how bad his wound is, which is pretty bad. Of course, it feels pretty bad, but Sans isn't sure how much he should trust his own feelings on it, given his lack of experience with human bodies. He keeps his hand in place as directed, letting her drag him inside without complaint.]

Uh, pretty deep. Didn't exactly have a ruler or anything... [His grin is a little lopsided, but surprisingly together given the situation. This isn't his first life-threatening situation, at least, even if it's one where he doesn't really understand the resilience of his own body.] Got attacked by, uh--a hawk, I think? Definitely wasn't a pigeon.

[regulararmybrat]

[She practically yanks him in the direction of the bathroom and sits him down on the toilet, seat down. There's a lot of blood everywhere, but at least it'll be easier to clean from the tiles as opposed to the carpet.

The human body has around five to six liters of blood. She'll need to make sure that the radial or ulnar arteries haven't been sliced open. Lest those five to six liters spill out onto the ground before he's able to get to a real hospital. But if they have, he'll need to keep putting pressure on it.She moves mechanically towards the sink, rolling up her sleeves, leaving impressions of bloodied fingerprints, and moving to scrub her hands.]

Christ, if they're that deep, we need to call an ambulance. [She turns off the tap and dries off her hands and forearms.] Stay there, don't remove your hand, I'll be back with gauze--In a few seconds, I'm going to lift up your hand so I can look at the damage--

[Basic triage. Assess patients before they go into OR, see if they can afford to wait and bleed. She begins to move out of the room, presumably to get to a telephone.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans is left sitting on the toilet, but he almost stands up again when she talks about calling an ambulance. It's an aborted motion, just a twitch, before he decides he's going to stay where he is.]

You're sure you can't fix it here? I don't want to deal with the weirdos who live here if I don't have to, y'know? [But if it's really bad, maybe he won't have a choice, he guesses. Unless he wants to bleed to death, which isn't on his to-do list.]

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret hesitates. She doesn't have the equipment she would like to have to deal with this. The hospital would be more sterile, probably less risky in terms of infection, but he makes a point. If he's wary about the doctors and nurses here--and, to be honest, who wouldn't be after Dr. Pollock?--then there's no sense in dragging him unwillingly to the hospital.

She bites her bottom lip, staying in the doorway.]

I--I can try.

[Her mind races for what she can do in this situation. She can definitely clean and dress the wound. She has some pain medication--aspirin, over the counter stuff. Stitches, maybe, if it's bad. She can sanitize a needle over the flame and dig out some silk. She doesn't want to bring that up just yet. She needs to assess the damage. She shakes her head, trying to push away too-recent memories of the OR at the MASH 4077.

She kneels down, closer to Sans, to get a better look at the wound.]

Lift your hand up a little. I need to see how deep it is, myself.

[ribticklers]

[Sans reminds himself one more time that Margaret is his best option. It's not that he doesn't trust her, it's--okay, it's kind of that, but not because of anything she's done. Honestly, with the way she reacted to his attitude at the dinner party, Sans rates her as one of the more trustworthy people here. But trusting anyone he doesn't know, it's--Difficult.

Sans raises his hand, pulling back his sleeve at the same time. It's obvious even as he's doing that that the hawk tore through the shirt, which wasn't exactly meant to stave off bird talons, leaving some fabric caught in the wounds. the worst wounds are where the center talon and the back talon struck, leaving two red gashes on his forearm. The two on the outside look worse than they really are with the blood; they'll heal on their own as long as they're cleaned up. No bone is visible, but the two largest ones are going to need stitches.

For all Sans has been put together, for all he remains put together, there's a change in his expression when he looks at the wound. Unease and uncertainty. He has no idea what he's looking at, in terms of how much damage has been done.]

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret lets out a held breath. It's not as bad as it looks. Thank God. Her hands have started to tremble, slightly--they never used to tremble like this. Did it really only take two months in this place for her to lose her touch? Impossible. She's fine in the hospital operating room. So why now?

She quashes down any thoughts of doubt or anxieties for the moment, as she's trained herself to do.]

You can put your hand back. Hope you weren't too attached to this shirt. [She tries to offer Sans a reassuring grin.] Okay. I can help with this. I'm going to clean the wound, remove any debris, and then sew it closed. Alright? Give me a second to grab some stuff.

[She dashes out of the room, grabbing a plate from the kitchen. She fills a pot of water on the stove to boil, then dashes through the house to find supplies. It's deeply unfortunate that she doesn't have latex gloves in the house, but she's worked under worse conditions. She makes a mental note to grab some from the hospital the next time she has a shift. When she returns to the bathroom, she's assembled a plate full of supplies. She sits on her knees, laying out her tools on the floor.]

I'm surprised how calm you've been so far. Most people would've probably wigged out by now.

[ribticklers]

[Sans remembers the moment the hawk clawed up his arm. It should have killed him. In his normal body, he'd be dead. He'd felt something then--something cold and bitter--but it doesn't matter now. He's not in his normal body. Not worth worrying about. A human body can be fixed. He puts his hand back.]

I figured you'd get mad if I freaked out and got blood over even more of your house. [Not that it's exactly Margaret's house, but she still has to live here and blood seems like it would be a hassle to get out of carpet.] Sew it closed, huh?

[Sans doesn't sound disbelieving, just thoughtful. You can sew human skin closed?]

v. of little white pills

[wwrench]

Somewhere in the midst of March's madness in what can only be described as the relative normalcy of their current situation, Wrench decides to pay a visit to Margaret's house. He's never been before, and he very much doubts the woman will be expecting him, given their brief and singular conversation at the so-called "dinner party" some time back. But there's a little white pill burning a hole in his pants pocket, and he knows of no one better suited to the task of determining its makeup than the woman who has identified herself as a nurse.

The phone might be faster, but he doesn't trust that the screen can't be read even if he doesn't send the message anywhere, so he's defaulted to a notebook and a pen. There's a pre-written message already at the top of the page, so when Margaret opens the door she's greeted by a scowling beanpole of a man and a page already being pushed into her line of sight.

I have a medical question. Can we talk?

[regulararmybrat]

The knock is certainly a surprise, and the man behind the door is also a surprise. She blinks, staring at the notepad being pushed into her view, then up at Wrench, taking a small step back. There's some residue of dried blood on the front steps, still in the process of being scrubbed away, and some drops of blood that have yet to be cleared from the carpet in the main hallway behind her.

Margaret nods, gesturing for him to come inside. She closes the door behind him, casting a quick glance out the door to check if anyone else is watching. Nobody, as far as she can see. Good. She walks quickly towards the living room, then roots around in a side table to find a paper and pen of her own. Upon procuring them, she places them on a nearby surface, scribbles something, and then holds it up for Wrench. Her handwriting is a neat, scrawled cursive.

Serious medical? Hospital?

She doubts it's that serious if he's come knocking on her door, but doesn't hurt to ask. Especially with the people in this town who seem reluctant to go to the hospital.

[wwrench]

Margaret's right in her assumption. Both assumptions, as a matter of fact. Even if Wrench were injured, he wouldn't go to the hospital. It's not just a matter of his own mistrust for the town they've all been brought to, either. That simply isn't the way he handles things. But he looks relatively uninjured as he settles into a seat in the living room, perching on the very edge of the furniture as though he doesn't want to make himself seem too at home here. Perhaps he's a little more haggard than usual, with the strange occurrences around Sweetwater finally starting to take their toll on him, but something about his demeanor seems resolute.

Found something at Marjorie's. She had syringes and vials. Haliperdol and sodium thioperdol.. It's not exactly the right spelling of either, but he's working from memory here. Besides, that isn't what he's come here for. Wrench thinks the others have already figured those out. That Norman might've even given a rather compelling demonstration to Numbers. Wrench keeps writing.

And a load of pills in an unmarked bottle. Here he finally thrusts the page towards Margaret, and goes digging around in his pants pocket to pull out a single sample of the medication in question.

[regulararmybrat]

Margaret's face twists into alarm. She's never heard of haloperidol before--but she recognizes sodium thioperdol. That, on top of the syringes he mentions, and the added information on those that were apparently drugged before the party, worries her. She can only assume haloperidol is something similar in that vein.

She starts scribbling down a response, but pauses as she watches Wrench pulls out the pill from his pockets. It looks like a little white, unmarked pill--which is somewhat unhelpful. There's a lot of unmarked, white, oval-shaped pills in this world. She finishes writing her sentence, shows the paper to Wrench, then holds out her other hand for Wrench to hand it over.

Don't know haliperidol

Sodium thioperdol = anesthesia, truth serum. higher dose can be used as lethal injection

In Margaret's day and age, the idea of lethal injections wasn't really in the public's consciousness--it would only gain traction as usage in capital punishment in the late 70s. But she's heard the horror stories from the Western front, in her early days in the military.

[wwrench]

This is why he came here, but there's still some reluctance on Wrench's part to place the little capsule in Margaret's hand. He's pretty sure he can trust the woman, but he can't be entirely certain. She's passed herself off well as one of them, but what if that's all an act? There's still something about here that feels as if it belongs more to this decade than his own. But Wrench doesn't know who else among them might be likely to figure this out. So he trades page for pill, and reads the words with an ever-growing scowl of concern on his face.

There's no mistaking his disappointment at the half-formed information. Clearly he'd come here in the hopes that she'd know it all. That this would be the key, somehow, to unlocking how they got here and why. How Numbers could be alive here, and how people from worlds and decades far apart from his could be gathered here at the same time. But it's just a white pill. Just a chilling reminder of what was done to Numbers, and to Teddy too, before the latter disappeared entirely.

She was willing to keep the labels on those vials. What do you think she wouldn't want marked?

He has to think before he commits the next part to the page. It's not fear, exactly; only that Wrench doesn't know how good of a nurse Margaret actually is.

I'll take it, if it helps figure things out. But I don't know what I'd need to monitor.

cw: mention of potential animal harm

[regulararmybrat]

Margaret takes a few moments looking closely at the pill, turning it over in her fingers. Her first instinct is that this is some sort of over-the-counter painkiller. Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, something like that. Maybe even an antihistamine of some sort. But most painkillers have some sort of imprint code to identify them--lest someone accidentally receive the wrong medication. Besides, if it was as simple as that, surely Marjorie wouldn't have left it in an unlabelled bottle, right?

It could be a poison of some sort, meant to be ingested and wreak havoc upon the victim's immune system. In that case, maybe she shouldn't be handling it without gloves. Margaret looks over to see what Wrench has written, and immediately looks alarmed. DON'T she writes in all caps and circles several times for emphasis. She keeps writing frantically, then pauses.

What if taking it killed you? We can figure this out without risking your life

She furrows her brow, trying to think of a different strategy.

Give it to an animal? We can monitor it and maybe even draw its blood. I can try and take the blood to the hospital for analysis

cw: mention of potential animal harm

[wwrench]

The fearful warning is not the deterrent Margaret might take it for. Wrench has no real choice but to absorb the suddenness of her disagreement. He could keep on writing on his own page, overlap her words with his own, but even if he did he’d have to wait for her to finish to thrust the page back at her. He’s only been in Sweetwater a few months, and in that time he’s pretty sure he’s spoken to more people than in the rest of his life combined. He’s also pretty sure that even this method of communication favors the other person. They’ve got to want to bother with it, and he’s got to give them reason to want that, even as he’s navigating a means of speaking that seems to blunt all affect. Right now, all that gets to him enough to make him sigh through his nose.

So he might die, he thinks. And? Numbers died, and now he’s back. Everything Wrench has learned has taught him how to navigate death. How to avoid it, sure, but you can’t cultivate such a close personal relationship with it without knowing it’s an eventuality. He can’t do what he’s done and be afraid of it.

That’s why I came here instead of swallowing it in my bedroom.

Still, she has a point. And there’s no point in taking the risk if another method might do just as well. If something else will give the same results. Hell, it might even be easier to figure out what’s going on if they check the physiology of something that isn’t a 6’4” man. So Wrench relents pretty quickly.

Okay, what kind of animal? You think the college has some rats?

cw: mention of potential animal harm

[regulararmybrat]

Margaret purses her lips, frowning lightly. She scribbles out a response quickly.

If not the college, then maybe a pet store

She's reminded of Radar and the pets he used to keep around the unit. How, when she was in need of a rabbit for a pregnancy test, Hawkeye had asked him for it. Radar was aghast, of course--under normal circumstances, the rabbit would've needed to be killed. But he was insistent on finding another way, and so they did--they'd performed surgery on that rabbit, perhaps one of the oddest things she's had to do in her medical career. But it came through with minimal harm done, and Radar was happy.

If he was here, he'd certainly protest against this idea. But what other choice did they have? Margaret bites her bottom lip. All they can do is make sure that some sort of result comes of this little experiment.

Would you like to be there when it happens?

ii, a

[requel]

[ it was like something out of one of those horror movies her sister watched, birds attacking people. originally sam was just going to stay inside, she was more focused on trying to get the hell out of here than anything else. getting back to new york, getting back to her sister and friends. she still had no idea if they were even alive or okay. it isn't so much that she doesn't care about the other people here it's just she has other priorities.

but it's hard to focus on other priorities when she looks out the window and sees the woman being attacked by birds. she quickly, grabs a broom before rushing to the front door. ]

Hey! Over here!

[ she waves to get the woman's attention, ready to usher her into the house. and to hit any birds with the broom if needed. ]

sorry for the delay!

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret looks up at the sound of someone shouting, and doesn't hesitate to sprint in her direction. The pigeons follow her, pecking at her upraised hands to try and get at her eyes. She lets out a scream as one of their claws snags on her hair, ducking down and shaking her head wildly to get it off.

She can only imagine what she looks like right now. At least Hawkeye and Hunnicutt aren't here to make fun of her misfortune. As she stumbles up onto the pathway to Sam's house, she shrieks:]

Hit them! Do something!

[A few of the pigeons following Margaret change their target to Sam, fluttering their wings noisily as they try and attack her face.]

no worries

[requel]

[ sam takes a few steps forward when the birds make her their target. she swings the broom at them like a bat, managing to fend them off enough that maragret can get inside. she swings the bat one more time, hitting one of the birds and sending it to the ground before she too is inside and quickly slams and locks the door.

she can hear the sounds the birds hitting the door as they try to get in. ]

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret wastes no time to duck inside. She shrinks against the foyer wall, eyes wide as she catches her breath and hears the sound of wingbeats against the door. She runs a hand through her hair, looking towards Sam. Her demeanor suddenly shifts--she has no idea if the person before her is a townie or not. She's met one new person who apparently appeared in town in the last month, yes, but she can't be too careful with her conduct.]

What-- [She exhales sharply, letting out a nervous laugh--though, there's no humor in it, and it's mostly to disrupt the tension.] What on earth is happening?! First the earthquake earlier, then this? The next thing we'll see is--is the sky falling.

[Another nervous titter. She seems uneasy, but unwilling to move towards the door where the birds are.]

i

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy knows of earthquakes, but he's certainly never experienced one—in either of his lifetimes. Neither St. Petersburg (Leningrad, still, in his mind) nor Chicago are particularly known for that, and he was under the impression that it was the Pacific states that were.

His eyes snap open when the bed begins to shake, and initially, it doesn't register that it's an earthquake—he doesn't know what it is, just knows that things are falling off shelves and the legs of the dresser are scraping the wooden floor of the "kids' room" (his room) and maybe this is the end, maybe some horrible strange thing is happening in conjunction with everything else here. Panic sets in, but he remembers something from his time in Ohio: in a tornado, you're supposed to go into the bathroom or a basement.

Well, the basement seems like it might collapse, so he defaults to what he knows and scrambles out of bed, hurrying up the staircase with both hands on the twin railings to stabilize himself. He throws open the door to the bathroom and—Margaret is already cowering in her own pajamas, compressed into a ball on one side of the tub as bottles of shampoo and conditioner and who knows what else fall around her. ]

Move over!

[ He's already scrambling in, losing his balance with another large shock of the earth and catching himself on the short metal handrail built above the little cutout ledge where the soap rested before it fell. ]

[regulararmybrat]

[Margaret lets out a shriek as house shakes more violently, clutter falling onto the tiles around the tub and crashing is heard throughout the house. Under any other circumstance, she might snap at Vasiliy and grumpily tell him to find his own damn bathtub, but she's too terrified, too focused on survival to argue against this. She squeezes against the cool ceramic of the tub, arms wide and knuckles wide as she grips the edges of the tub. There is no force on earth that could probably wrench her from her spot, except for maybe death.

Death. She's going to die here in this town curled next to a goddamn communist and there's nothing she can do about it. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Margaret's eyes dart towards a tiny window near the top of the adjacent wall, fearfully watching for any bright flashes or indications of explosions. Would she even be able to react in time if a bomb hit this house?

She opens her mouth to speak to Vasiliy, but the first thing that comes out is a sort of incoherent, choked noise. As the foundations continue to shake, she manages to force out a sentence:]

Are we under attack?! What's--What's going on?

[m1895]

I think—earthquake, or tornado—

[ Or she could be right, and they might just really be under attack by... something. Not necessarily his country's forces, not here, but... something.

It occurs to him to interlace his fingers atop his head, in case it is a tornado, as his emergency training comes back to him. Things he never had to learn, in Russia—what a wonderful country. ]

Cover your head with your hands. And stop screaming—