silentspringmods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silentspringmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
silentspringlogs2024-06-07 09:03 pm
silentspringmods) wrote in silentspringlogs2024-06-07 09:03 pm
Event № 3 : June 2024
Event № 3 : June 2024
Part I; Chapter 6. Had some kind of mushroom and your mind is movin' low
Part I; Chapter 6. Had some kind of mushroom and your mind is movin' low
I. The weekend squire just came out to mow his lawn
Throughout June.
CWs: game-typical sleep deprivation torture/brainwashing.
June brings a turn in the weather—the smoke from the monthly controlled burn is that much more unbearable from the first to the third, choking, suffocating, adding to the blazing heat that beats down from largely cloudless skies. Houses get muggy, mosquitoes come out in full force, biting flies besiege the stables. It’s the perfect weather for a barbecue or a trip to the community pool... but you’ll want to get up early to mow that lawn, neighbor!
No, seriously. You’ll want to mow that lawn.
With so much sunshine, bright green grass has been shooting up like crazy, and Marjorie takes the HOA’s goals of neighborhood beautification very seriously. One of those, Haven Street residents will be informed, is that grass must be no taller than two-point-five inches. Characters who haven’t come up with a way to divide summer’s new chores with their “family” members should do so now, and for those don’t know how to use a lawnmower, now’s the time to learn—because those who run afoul of that particular bylaw will land themselves a reserved seat in Norman’s re-education room.
Some characters may find that their air conditioning units very inconveniently quit working in the heat of midday and have to call a repairman to come in and fix it. There will be potential IC consequences for this next month! Sign up in the mod comment below.
June brings a turn in the weather—the smoke from the monthly controlled burn is that much more unbearable from the first to the third, choking, suffocating, adding to the blazing heat that beats down from largely cloudless skies. Houses get muggy, mosquitoes come out in full force, biting flies besiege the stables. It’s the perfect weather for a barbecue or a trip to the community pool... but you’ll want to get up early to mow that lawn, neighbor!
No, seriously. You’ll want to mow that lawn.
With so much sunshine, bright green grass has been shooting up like crazy, and Marjorie takes the HOA’s goals of neighborhood beautification very seriously. One of those, Haven Street residents will be informed, is that grass must be no taller than two-point-five inches. Characters who haven’t come up with a way to divide summer’s new chores with their “family” members should do so now, and for those don’t know how to use a lawnmower, now’s the time to learn—because those who run afoul of that particular bylaw will land themselves a reserved seat in Norman’s re-education room.
Some characters may find that their air conditioning units very inconveniently quit working in the heat of midday and have to call a repairman to come in and fix it. There will be potential IC consequences for this next month! Sign up in the mod comment below.
II. Tropical drink melting in your hand
June 15th.
CWs: poisoning.
Those who don't find themselves confined on the 15th may want to come down to the community pool for some burgers and franks (and, of course, splashing around, if that's your thing). In any event, it's probably a good way to meet some new neighbors or could make a convenient guise to touch bases with old neighbors. It's also just nice to cool off in the water, considering that weather is in the high eighties with no cloud cover all week that week.
Marjorie does the honors of preparing a delightful snack spread for one of the tables further back from the water—cool and refreshing gelatin creations, a fruit bowl, cheese and crackers, and both alcoholic and nonalcoholic punch. There's also hand-squeezed lemonade and apple juice for the kids, and little party umbrellas for whatever drink a character chooses to add that special touch.
Characters who are unlucky enough to accidentally swallow a little pool water while swimming may find they feel slightly nauseous, in a way they wouldn't have felt back in their own world if this had ever happened to them before. It's probably fine!
Those who don't find themselves confined on the 15th may want to come down to the community pool for some burgers and franks (and, of course, splashing around, if that's your thing). In any event, it's probably a good way to meet some new neighbors or could make a convenient guise to touch bases with old neighbors. It's also just nice to cool off in the water, considering that weather is in the high eighties with no cloud cover all week that week.
Marjorie does the honors of preparing a delightful snack spread for one of the tables further back from the water—cool and refreshing gelatin creations, a fruit bowl, cheese and crackers, and both alcoholic and nonalcoholic punch. There's also hand-squeezed lemonade and apple juice for the kids, and little party umbrellas for whatever drink a character chooses to add that special touch.
Characters who are unlucky enough to accidentally swallow a little pool water while swimming may find they feel slightly nauseous, in a way they wouldn't have felt back in their own world if this had ever happened to them before. It's probably fine!
III. Wearing smells from laboratories facing a dying nation
Throughout June.
CWs: poisoning, blood/nosebleeds, implied harm to children.
With summer comes the return of some familiar faces: the Good Humor ice cream truck slowly rolling down each street while playing its cheery jingles every couple of days and the Mosquito Man every Thursday evening. Who is the Mosquito Man, you might ask? The Skeeter Man, Smokey Joe, or the Fogger Truck - or simply the dark green pickup truck that rounds the corner onto Haven Street between 5 and 7 once a week, dragging a massive white cloud of fog behind it and a trail of children on bikes, scooters, and running barefoot, playing in the sweet white mist as though following the pied piper. The tremendous crate that fills the neighborhood with thick white clouds is spraypainted with the labels DDT and DMTP(II), below them smaller font that reads Sweetwater Public Works.
Kids run down the front steps to join the throng playing in the fog when the truck comes down their street, some of them shooed out of the house by their parents. Nobody seems remotely concerned—in fact, they welcome the almost ritual return of the Mosquito Man and the sudden drop in insect life that accompanies him every week. The only one who seems anything but relieved when he comes each week is Dr. Ravichandran, whose home, if characters happen to drive past it, is set apart from its cookie-cutter replicates by its closed windows and the wet rags stuffed into the windowsills behind them.
What is DMTP(II), you might ask? Answers range from the truck driver sticking his head out the window and informing characters that look, he just sprays the stuff, and he has a lot more streets to get to today to vague answers from the neighbors that can be summarized, if characters ask enough people, as a statement that it’s a new pesticide developed right here in Sweetwater after the war that combats mosquitoes and nearby yard pests like beetles that produce root-eating grubs, a magnificent and completely safe scientific marvel.
Characters who stay out long enough on the days the Mosquito Man comes, once the children have gone back inside for dinner, may notice that the initial odd taste in their mouth progresses to less innocuous symptoms—such as dizziness, watering eyes, chest tightness, heart palpitations, trouble breathing, headaches, malaise, burning in the nose, and, most theatrically, bright red nosebleeds accompanied by redness, white spotting, and inflammation in their mouths. The symptoms take around four days to resolve, and faintly linger even longer than that. If they visit the hospital, they’ll only be told that they seem to be having an allergic reaction to something they ate, and concerns about the Public Works projects aren’t taken seriously - looks like any amelioration of symptoms that can’t be achieved with benadryl will be on a strictly neighbors-helping-neighbors basis.
With summer comes the return of some familiar faces: the Good Humor ice cream truck slowly rolling down each street while playing its cheery jingles every couple of days and the Mosquito Man every Thursday evening. Who is the Mosquito Man, you might ask? The Skeeter Man, Smokey Joe, or the Fogger Truck - or simply the dark green pickup truck that rounds the corner onto Haven Street between 5 and 7 once a week, dragging a massive white cloud of fog behind it and a trail of children on bikes, scooters, and running barefoot, playing in the sweet white mist as though following the pied piper. The tremendous crate that fills the neighborhood with thick white clouds is spraypainted with the labels DDT and DMTP(II), below them smaller font that reads Sweetwater Public Works.
Kids run down the front steps to join the throng playing in the fog when the truck comes down their street, some of them shooed out of the house by their parents. Nobody seems remotely concerned—in fact, they welcome the almost ritual return of the Mosquito Man and the sudden drop in insect life that accompanies him every week. The only one who seems anything but relieved when he comes each week is Dr. Ravichandran, whose home, if characters happen to drive past it, is set apart from its cookie-cutter replicates by its closed windows and the wet rags stuffed into the windowsills behind them.
What is DMTP(II), you might ask? Answers range from the truck driver sticking his head out the window and informing characters that look, he just sprays the stuff, and he has a lot more streets to get to today to vague answers from the neighbors that can be summarized, if characters ask enough people, as a statement that it’s a new pesticide developed right here in Sweetwater after the war that combats mosquitoes and nearby yard pests like beetles that produce root-eating grubs, a magnificent and completely safe scientific marvel.
Characters who stay out long enough on the days the Mosquito Man comes, once the children have gone back inside for dinner, may notice that the initial odd taste in their mouth progresses to less innocuous symptoms—such as dizziness, watering eyes, chest tightness, heart palpitations, trouble breathing, headaches, malaise, burning in the nose, and, most theatrically, bright red nosebleeds accompanied by redness, white spotting, and inflammation in their mouths. The symptoms take around four days to resolve, and faintly linger even longer than that. If they visit the hospital, they’ll only be told that they seem to be having an allergic reaction to something they ate, and concerns about the Public Works projects aren’t taken seriously - looks like any amelioration of symptoms that can’t be achieved with benadryl will be on a strictly neighbors-helping-neighbors basis.
IV. I fashion my future on films in space
Throughout June.
CWs: poisoning, dead bodies/death by suicide, graphic/callous discussion of death by suicide.
But those who aren’t so lucky may briefly black out if they breathe the fog long enough, and when that happens, they return to consciousness but not wakefulness, instead finding themselves frozen in place in a chill room, staring at the wrinkled bare soles of a pair of gray-blue feet belonging to the naked body of a man lying motionless on a flat steel table. A cardstock tag, identical to the photocopy found by Bucky Barnes in January, hangs from one big toe.
Characters’ line of sight doesn’t extend much higher than eye level with the cadaver, but they can see enough to register that both parties, standing with the autopsy table between them, are wearing isolation suits like the man who committed suicide in the middle of the street on that sunny April morning, a stark contrast to the vulnerability of the corpse’s nakedness between them. They seem to be completely unaware of the third presence in the room.
When one of them speaks, it’s the all-too-familiar voice of the town private practice doctor, Norman Pollock.
“Nothing. Not a single thing. He’s healthy. An ordinary 56-year-old man who blew his brains out."
There's a long pause. Then comes the voice of the man whose memory of a telephone conversation some characters shared on New Year’s, and again shortly after the man in the isolation suit pulled the trigger: "The motherfucker. They searched his house and his office. Questioned the wife too. Not a damn thing. Nobody knows shit."
But those who aren’t so lucky may briefly black out if they breathe the fog long enough, and when that happens, they return to consciousness but not wakefulness, instead finding themselves frozen in place in a chill room, staring at the wrinkled bare soles of a pair of gray-blue feet belonging to the naked body of a man lying motionless on a flat steel table. A cardstock tag, identical to the photocopy found by Bucky Barnes in January, hangs from one big toe.
Characters’ line of sight doesn’t extend much higher than eye level with the cadaver, but they can see enough to register that both parties, standing with the autopsy table between them, are wearing isolation suits like the man who committed suicide in the middle of the street on that sunny April morning, a stark contrast to the vulnerability of the corpse’s nakedness between them. They seem to be completely unaware of the third presence in the room.
When one of them speaks, it’s the all-too-familiar voice of the town private practice doctor, Norman Pollock.
“Nothing. Not a single thing. He’s healthy. An ordinary 56-year-old man who blew his brains out."
There's a long pause. Then comes the voice of the man whose memory of a telephone conversation some characters shared on New Year’s, and again shortly after the man in the isolation suit pulled the trigger: "The motherfucker. They searched his house and his office. Questioned the wife too. Not a damn thing. Nobody knows shit."
no subject
💀 POOL PARTY
💀 FOGGER TRUCK
pool party
It explains Sans's response, too: "Yeah, probably." A cannonball competition sounds entertaining to watch, and therefore it's probably against regulations somewhere.
He doesn't say that, though. Just like he doesn't ask Papyrus about where he was the other night. At least Papyrus is here right now. That's going to have to be good enough. He sits down next to Papyrus, wiggling gelatin in his general direction.
no subject
"A shame... But maybe, with a word cunningly dripped in the right ear..." Maybe someone else could start such organized chaos in the pool. If that someone was one of the writers or enforcers of those regulations, anyway.
But he's bringing up the idea of dripping words in ears less as a serious notion, and more as a roundabout explanation of his two nights disappearance.
no subject
"Sounds like a hassle." Maybe that's an understatement, no matter what specifically the hassle is. He does look at Papyrus again, though, searchingly--he doesn't think Papyrus would show up to a pool party if he was still drugged, but on the other hand, being drugged might inhibit that kind of logic.
no subject
For Papyrus's part, he's visibly tired and forcing a smile again, but not nearly as stiff about his movements as after that first disappearance. The smile goes a little more sincere as he complains, "so you won't be starting it, huh? What a surprise."
no subject
"You know me, the only thing I start are knock-knock jokes." He doesn't start things.
(But sometimes he finishes them.)
no subject
"Good thing I'm around to start more important things." He pretends to consider for a moment, then concludes, "but, maybe, a cannonball competition isn't important. Today."
Tomorrow, after he's had more sleep, might be another day.
no subject
"Maybe you could get your own pool. If she's here," Sans says, with a barely there head tilt toward Marjorie, "then it's probably not against the rules."
Of course, Sans knows that with Papyrus, he's more likely to do the building himself. But considering what Sans has heard about vacuum salesman, it's probably better that Papyrus does the work himself rather than invites some weirdo over. At least part of this question is Sans trying to feel out Papyrus's reaction to it, measuring enthusiasm and excitement to further get a grip on how Papyrus is feeling.
no subject
The fog tickles his throat and he coughs.
no subject
"Aha, so they're making... the other kind of fog?"
no subject
He coughs again.
"Bit like this, actually, although the smell's quite different."
no subject
He does his best to pronounce the quotes with his somewhat triumphant tone, for all it's a bit strained from trying not to sympathetically cough again.
"But, hmm... I didn't know coal smoke was toxic. What gave it away?"
no subject
no subject
"...Maybe, but I've never checked the ingredients' lists of smoke before. Steam power is better anyway."
no subject
no subject
Of the things he had wandered around doing inspections on, Hotland's power grid had not ranked nearly as highly as matters of monster morale, after all.