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fuckthistown2019-02-23 10:36 pm
rebirthorder) wrote in fuckthistown2019-02-23 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
Test Drive Meme #2
TEST DRIVE MEME
Well, I'm alone there now...
In our 'special place'...
Waiting for you...
Waiting for you to
come to see me.
In our 'special place'...
Waiting for you...
Waiting for you to
come to see me.
I. Blue Catfish Diner - Daytime
Supplies in the Inn and Hotel have run low, so what is there to do but search the town? And restaurants and diners seem a good place to find something to eat.
It may take some doing to force open the diner's door, and the inside of it smells of dust and rotted food. There are dishes still on tables, and a horrible smell floats in from the kitchen. The roof must have developed a leak in its years of abandonment, and the black-and-white tile floor has cracked and mildewed without care. What were once shiny golden ceiling tiles are now black and grimy with tarnish -- and quite possibly mold -- and even the jukebox that looms over one corner has seen better days.
In the kitchen, a few cabinets hang open with huge cans visible. A closer inspection reveals things like Spam, canned chicken, cream of mushroom soup, and creamed corn. Not appetizing, maybe, but edible. Maybe even plentiful.
Just as you finish your inventory, something in the main room blares out static, and then the jukebox snarls a gamut of sounds from the beginnings of songs. It eventually settles on Folsom Prison Blues, but every so often, the playback intercuts with something else entirely --
The music cuts out, interrupted by a woman screaming something incoherent and agonized, or a man begs some merciless other for his life, or somebody else wails for everyone in earshot to run, run, don't look back.
Just as suddenly as the screaming started, it stops, and Johnny Cash returns to singing about the train he watches going by. Considering the things that happen in this town, the real question here isn't what happened, or how, but whether the jukebox is worth investigating, and what it will do if you try to change the song.
Supplies in the Inn and Hotel have run low, so what is there to do but search the town? And restaurants and diners seem a good place to find something to eat.
It may take some doing to force open the diner's door, and the inside of it smells of dust and rotted food. There are dishes still on tables, and a horrible smell floats in from the kitchen. The roof must have developed a leak in its years of abandonment, and the black-and-white tile floor has cracked and mildewed without care. What were once shiny golden ceiling tiles are now black and grimy with tarnish -- and quite possibly mold -- and even the jukebox that looms over one corner has seen better days.
In the kitchen, a few cabinets hang open with huge cans visible. A closer inspection reveals things like Spam, canned chicken, cream of mushroom soup, and creamed corn. Not appetizing, maybe, but edible. Maybe even plentiful.
Just as you finish your inventory, something in the main room blares out static, and then the jukebox snarls a gamut of sounds from the beginnings of songs. It eventually settles on Folsom Prison Blues, but every so often, the playback intercuts with something else entirely --
The music cuts out, interrupted by a woman screaming something incoherent and agonized, or a man begs some merciless other for his life, or somebody else wails for everyone in earshot to run, run, don't look back.
Just as suddenly as the screaming started, it stops, and Johnny Cash returns to singing about the train he watches going by. Considering the things that happen in this town, the real question here isn't what happened, or how, but whether the jukebox is worth investigating, and what it will do if you try to change the song.
II. Lumber Yard - Daytime
There's only so much furniture you can break down for fires, not to mention only so many broken stairs anybody can skip and stay sane. Assuming anybody is still sane and you're not all having the same hallucinations.
For example: somebody closed the lumber yard's fence and chained it shut, and left a crucified man to watch over the entrance like some demented scarecrow. They left a mask and goggles on him -- or forced him to wear it, just to make his crucifixion more painful -- but if it was ever air-tight, something shattered the lenses in its eyepieces, and rather than eyes, dark, jagged holes stare sightlessly from where the lenses used to be. The person or persons who crucified him wrapped his wrists in barbed wire, and one clenched fist has fallen loose from its moorings. In his other hand, he clutches a knife, and somehow didn't let go, even in death.
What are the odds they promised they'd let him live, if he could cut himself free? Knowing this town, you probably shouldn't bet against it. Especially since it would take some serious strength to cut barbed wire with a single serrated blade.
Beneath the body, somebody painted the word O U R S in jagged white letters.
If you choose to enter the lumber yard despite this warning, you'll need to climb the fence. There is lumber here for the taking, though none of it looks high quality. But you're trying to stay warm and repair some stairs -- you're not exactly building your dream house.
Getting it out might prove to be a problem. You'll either need bolt cutters for that chain, or a key for the lock.
The corpse might not be a bad place to start, but neither would the dilapidated building.
There's only so much furniture you can break down for fires, not to mention only so many broken stairs anybody can skip and stay sane. Assuming anybody is still sane and you're not all having the same hallucinations.
For example: somebody closed the lumber yard's fence and chained it shut, and left a crucified man to watch over the entrance like some demented scarecrow. They left a mask and goggles on him -- or forced him to wear it, just to make his crucifixion more painful -- but if it was ever air-tight, something shattered the lenses in its eyepieces, and rather than eyes, dark, jagged holes stare sightlessly from where the lenses used to be. The person or persons who crucified him wrapped his wrists in barbed wire, and one clenched fist has fallen loose from its moorings. In his other hand, he clutches a knife, and somehow didn't let go, even in death.
What are the odds they promised they'd let him live, if he could cut himself free? Knowing this town, you probably shouldn't bet against it. Especially since it would take some serious strength to cut barbed wire with a single serrated blade.
Beneath the body, somebody painted the word O U R S in jagged white letters.
If you choose to enter the lumber yard despite this warning, you'll need to climb the fence. There is lumber here for the taking, though none of it looks high quality. But you're trying to stay warm and repair some stairs -- you're not exactly building your dream house.
Getting it out might prove to be a problem. You'll either need bolt cutters for that chain, or a key for the lock.
The corpse might not be a bad place to start, but neither would the dilapidated building.
III. Playing Field - Nightmare
The Playing Field overlooks the river, sloping gently down toward the water, but there are glints in the grass that hint at the presence of broken glass or maybe needles, and the river itself looks like a roiling mass of black sludge. Even under ordinary circumstances, the place might make you shiver. After all, is there anything worse than an abandoned playground?
Turns out yes: a not abandoned playground in Silent Hill's nightmares.
The worst part is the way they shake their heads: too quickly, so swiftly it's a surprise they don't snap their own necks. Back and forth, back and forth, like some sort of twisted bobbleheads, and the patches of hair still left to them bounce as they move.
No, the worst part is that as they move toward you, they scream with a noise that sounds like a baby's cry. It's a long, endless, almost gurgling wail, the kind of sound that would cut to the center of any parent's brain, right through the eardrums. The sound that means they need something. They need to eat. They need to be changed. They're scared and lonely and need to be held, to be reassured.
No, the worst part is their little shriveled gray fingers and how they end in what look almost like fishhooks. The better to catch you with and never let you go. At least not until they rip you to shreds.
No, the worst part is they know you're here, and they're toddling toward you, ungainly step after ungainly step. Slow, for now, but there's no guarantee they'll stay that way.
In the corner of the play yard, one of the swings is still moving sluggishly, back and forth, back and forth, creaking as it goes. It's the only swing left; the others all have rusted chains and have fallen to the ground.
Not a bad weapon. Just one problem: the children are between you and the chains.
The Playing Field overlooks the river, sloping gently down toward the water, but there are glints in the grass that hint at the presence of broken glass or maybe needles, and the river itself looks like a roiling mass of black sludge. Even under ordinary circumstances, the place might make you shiver. After all, is there anything worse than an abandoned playground?
Turns out yes: a not abandoned playground in Silent Hill's nightmares.
The worst part is the way they shake their heads: too quickly, so swiftly it's a surprise they don't snap their own necks. Back and forth, back and forth, like some sort of twisted bobbleheads, and the patches of hair still left to them bounce as they move.
No, the worst part is that as they move toward you, they scream with a noise that sounds like a baby's cry. It's a long, endless, almost gurgling wail, the kind of sound that would cut to the center of any parent's brain, right through the eardrums. The sound that means they need something. They need to eat. They need to be changed. They're scared and lonely and need to be held, to be reassured.
No, the worst part is their little shriveled gray fingers and how they end in what look almost like fishhooks. The better to catch you with and never let you go. At least not until they rip you to shreds.
No, the worst part is they know you're here, and they're toddling toward you, ungainly step after ungainly step. Slow, for now, but there's no guarantee they'll stay that way.
In the corner of the play yard, one of the swings is still moving sluggishly, back and forth, back and forth, creaking as it goes. It's the only swing left; the others all have rusted chains and have fallen to the ground.
Not a bad weapon. Just one problem: the children are between you and the chains.
Sweet Dee Reynolds | It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
[This diner can suck a dick.
Dee walks into it and almost walks back out; it smells like Charlie's apartment, which means a noxious combination of animal pee, mildew and rotting food, and clearly no one's getting pancakes and strawberry jam in this shithole. It's only because hunger has turned her into a goddamn animal that she sticks around, looting through the kitchen and packing cans of preserved bullshit into a duffel bag, grateful that stink can't permeate aluminum. She gags a few times, but she's honed her skills at pushing through that.
She miraculously stumbles onto a half-used bottle of old cooking sherry alongside the cans of useless bean sauce and jams, and figuring there's no time like the present, pops the cap off and takes a swig. She immediately grimaces; it's the cooking sherry that manufacturers add salt to. It's also probably contaminated with some kind of ghost plague, if the sticky residue around the mouth of the bottle is any indication.
Well, she's already had this much.
The diner is loud enough with the sounds of her rooting around that she doesn't notice the jukebox playing until it starts outright screaming. Dragging her duffel bag on the floor, she wanders out and goes over to the jukebox, less confused than annoyed. She fiddles with it, but the only music it seems to want to play is Johnny Cash-horrorcore mashups. Eventually she just kicks it like someone less classy than her would kick a vending machine and the sound cuts out.]
Finally. Stink and silence. [She takes a swig of her gross salted sherry, standing in front of the broken jukebox like a victorious gladiator.]
II. Lumber Yard
Well, that's dark. [Dee swallows back a rush of nausea as she passes the corpse. Her arms are wrapped around her, and she can't tell if she's shivering from the morning chill or from the shakes that have set in between now and her last beer, which, by now, was yesterday. She doesn't remember when the drinking got so bad. Cravings in her head roll around, alcohol and crack and really anything to take the edge off. She's forcibly pretending, right now, that just sitting by the fire is what her chemically-fried brain needs, and that delusion is enough to live off of.
She needs wood for fire. She takes a deep breath. The voice in her head is somehow both hers and her brother's. Get it together, bitch. You goddamn bitch.
Goal-oriented as always, she starts snooping around in a foul temper, kicking at rocks and dirt. She scrabbles at the chain with her hands, but it's cold enough that her fingers feel all-knuckles, and it doesn't give. After a moment, her mind jumps to the potential shortcut, and she turns her attention to the mutilated corpse dangling like an evil Christmas ornament from the fence.
She tells herself: it's not like she knew the guy. Hell, even if she did, she might go ahead and loot the corpse. It's not like he's going to miss it. He'd probably going to miss his eyes and his ability to breathe a hell of a lot more.
Face pulled into a ghoul's mask of revulsion, Dee shuffles closer to the corpse, picking at his pockets with her thumb and her index finger and not a single digit more. When she finally determines there's no key in there, her eyes drift to his hands.
She bets she could cut her way through the fence. Upper body strength has never been a problem for her, at least, not the lack of it.
She tugs at the knife, annoyed that the hand doesn't seem to give, pulling at the arm and quickly lowering her standards from picking at the corpse with two fingers to seriously considering biting its fingers off, when a particularly strong yank puts too much pressure on the body and breaks its neck. The neck wobbles, and then there's a wet ripping sound, and the rotting head dumps onto the floor like a mushy cantaloupe and dashes gore across her shoes.]
Oh, god damn it!
III
And people thought he couldn't see the bright side of things.
"So, you have any idea what's in there?" The short teenager pointed to the 'OURS' scrawled near the body, "Or were you just going to run in and hope not to end up like our friend here?"
Not that it was any of his business. He was just bored.
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She gives the corpse another unceremonious yank and the knife finally comes free, along with a piece of the body's thumb. She gags into her elbow and tosses it away, suppressing a high-pitched whine only for the sake of saving face in front of this smart-ass. Gross.
She wipes the knife against the corpse's ratty clothing - as if that helps things - and starts to saw away at the chain links. After a moment, she pauses, wraps her sawing hand in the corner of her jacket, and starts again in earnest. It'd be easier if her hands weren't shaking.
"As far as I can tell there's wood in there, and I need a damn fire." She narrows her eyes at him, the conniving little wheels whirring away in her head as she tries to come up with some kind of way to trick him into going in on her behalf. Make him a little canary in the mine. She has no idea if he's dumb enough to fall for it, but underestimating her opponent has never given Sweet Dee pause. "But if you're so worried about me, we could use the buddy system."
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Sure, he could have morphed and torn through the fence for the woman, but Marco wasn't anyone's babysitter.
He gave her a sarcastic little wave as she sized him up, then laughed, "More like I want to know what's writing graffiti before it tries to attack me in the middle of the night." Also he wanted to know how dumb the other people here were, "That said, sure. I'm bored." Another shrug.
He had no (okay, very few) qualms about turning into a bird and leaving her if he needed to. And he definitely wasn't doing this because rushing into stupid situations with blonde girls was something he missed. At all.
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"I would have thought you were going somewhere with something to do, Flashdance. I didn't realize Spandex was sitting around being bored clothes."
She gives a little cry between surprise and victory as the first piece of chain-link wire gives under the knife. She's going to get this going. She's going to make this work if she has to tear apart the chain link with her teeth now. Sweet Dee is motivated.
"We're never going to find out what's going to eat tiny people snacks like you in the night unless we break in, loser. Help me out here."
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"Fair point," He admitted. The longer they spent out there the more noise they were making, and if there was anybody in there, the less warning they gave the better.
"So, does telepathy freak you out?" Marco asked in a casual tone of voice, "Because this is going to way easier if you don't freak out."
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thirtiestwenties. What's he trying to do, get her to buy him a six-pack? Deflect from the fact that he's dressed like a backup dancer in a 90's music video?She goes back to what she's doing.
"Whatever, circus freak." Another chain link goes and her grin gets somewhat maniacal.
"What is that, some kind of disease? You're not going to show me your sores, are you? Because I am not interested."
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"No. Telepathy. Talking in your head." Marco tapped the side of his head, "I can get us in there in..." He stopped and thought. He was out of practice compared to the war, but he could still morph fairly quickly, "3 minutes?" Shapeshifting into an alien was a bad idea since he didn't know if it would freak the woman out, but there was always the direct method of just ripping the fence open.
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Another piece of metal gives way and Dee backs up, raises her foot and starts to kick a hole into the fence. It isn't easy, and it isn't technically that effective.
"Three minutes? Do I look like I'm made of time?" It's less about actual expediency than it is about crowing over the fact that she's making the fence bend to her whim and she's going to get into that lumber yard, damn it, and doesn't even need his help. What's he done for her anyway, besides stand here looking stupid in his spandex? He's been a terrible canary. "What's your plan, calling a locksmith and waiting for him to haul his ass all the way out here?"
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He snickered, "Yeah, you sort of do." Marco never claimed to not be an asshole, "Actually, I was going to turn into a gorilla and tear the fence open, but if you want to continue ruining your good shoes, be my guest." To make his point, the teenaged boy sat himself down in the dirt and watched her as though she was putting on some Avant Garde performance: "Woman with Fence".
"I don't need wood or fire, so it's up to you."
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"Yeah, I'm sure you're going to hulk out and rip this fence right down, pipsqueak. Put that in your never-gonna-happen pipe dreams next to being a basketball star and banging a seven." Her foot gets tangled a little, and she squeams as she has to put her hand on the gore smears to pull it back out. "And how are you not freezing? You're wearing negative layers of clothes."
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It was funny watching people get freaked out by blood until he remembered that watching one of your comrades beat someone with their own severed arm was not a normal adolescent experience.
Fuck this. At least if there was something in there, he'd have something to do. It was better than sitting around. He stood up and walked towards a nearby metal shack. No need to make her watch him morph. It was gross. A little over a minute later, a black silverback gorilla emerged and gave Dee a peace sign before walking over and ripping a hole in the fence.
'For the record, I am cold. I was just used to it.'
Now it was time to see if she was going to freak out about a telepathic gorilla or not.
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It occupies her enough that she doesn't notice he's talking in her head. She does notice, however, the gorilla when she turns around. Her eyes bug.
"What the hell?" She yanks at her leg, which is now thoroughly stuck in the fence, not terrified so much as just stunned and confused. Then she starts tugging at her leg harder, spitting a furious "did that brat leave me to get eaten by a gorilla?"
It's not a freak out, and it's not not a freak out. It's up for debate.
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The gorilla crossed his arms, ||Also, gorillas don't eat meat and its brain is thoroughly disgusted by that idea, thanks. || Ew. Having an upset stomach as a gorilla. Yeesh. What was his life?
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"Don't act like I'm stupid because I didn't predict you could turn into an animal. That's abnormal. That weird as shit." She untangles her leg and starts to hack at the fence again, intent on making a hole actually big enough to squirm through this time. "At least I'm betting you can actually carry some firewood now. Most of these planks are bigger than you were."
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˂Like being here barely ranks on my weird-o meter. Look, will you at least let me rip the fence apart? I can't stay like this forever.˃
Sure, morphing was awesome, but without a clock (or an Andalite), Marco preferred to spend as little time in morph as possible. The last thing he needed was to get stuck. He didn't have nightmares about that. Nope. Not at all. He sighed, ˂Yeah, I'll carry your stupid wood, because for some reason I'm an idiot who thinks you shouldn't freeze to death.˃
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I feel like Rachel and Dee would get along for a hot minute.
You are not incorrect
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I
Whatever this is.
It is certainly nowhere in the Radch. It doesn't even look like anywhere she's been outside the Radch, even if you count some of the miserable, out of the way places she's been in the past. It's all run-down and primitive and she hasn't found a single flyer, let alone evidence that there's even a station orbiting somewhere overhead. Of course, she might just be a long, long way from any sort of civilization. There's also the question of how, but she supposes she can answer that later.
She should focus on figuring a way out, instead. Which means focusing on survival.
Which, unfortunately, means looting run-down and disgusting buildings like this one.
Breq had actually liked the music until it was interrupted by screaming. That had been unfortunate and rather upsetting, although she didn't let it show on her face. Her expression stayed placid, composed, watching as Dee abuses the music machine until it stops working. ]
What is that you're drinking?
[ She doesn't recognize the label; it's in a language she doesn't know. She is trying to be practical, however. The cans clearly are food of some kind and she's been retrieving as many as she can. It hasn't exactly been a race, but she's prepared to prioritize her own survival. ]
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[That's an understatement; the sherry is straight-up vile. Dee's only drinking it because her other option is sobriety and because she's far enough into it that the taste of salty fermented dishwater is starting to get diluted by stomach acid. By contrast to Breq's composure, Dee's already visibly intoxicated, though not wasted.
She screws the cap on the sherry.]
But if you haven't noticed, this place is a dump. This diner's a dump diner in a dump town. I'm thinking the next time there's something good to drink is way off. [Although trust and believe, the next time there's something good to drink Dee will be at the front of the line if she has to rip people's throats out to do so.
But if she can't offer alcohol, and she won't offer her stockpile of the pie filling and mandarin oranges she looted from the kitchen, so she goes with the option she loves to go with: the first thing that comes to mind that doesn't cost her anything. Free magnanimity.]
Do you want me to see if the jukebox can play some rap music? You like that stuff, right?
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Getting drunk while in a survival situation seems like poor decision making to Breq, but she's not ultimately responsible for Dee, so she'll leave it - at least until it becomes a problem for her. ]
A "dump" is charitable. It's completely run-down.
[ Her tone is clipped and matter-of-fact. Breq settles for putting her pack down on one of the rickety tables so she can sort through it and do a double-check on her current inventory. She's half-listening to Dee and then there's an offer and she looks up with a slow blink. Not quite surprise; more curiosity. ]
I'm afraid I'm not familiar with "rap". [ She does enjoy music. Collects it, rather, or had. But she hadn't told Dee that. ]
The music player seems disposed to horrible screaming.
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For the most part, the jukebox selection taps out around 1985, so Dee tries to do the considerate thing and choose funk music. Sly and the Family Stone start to bump, only occasionally punctuated by a "how could you do this?" or a "please spare my baby!" and an "aiiieeeeee!!!". It's tolerable. She just wishes it were on rhythm.]
Yeah, it does that. [Dee kicks it again, just for good measure.] What do you mean you don't know rap? Are you one of those bl-
[Wait, she's pretty sure she was about to say something incorrect, although she's not sure where exactly she strayed. She tries to correct.]
I mean, I didn't see any jazz either.
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I'm afraid I don't know jazz, either.
[ She says that as the music cuts out and she stands, plug dangling from one hand. One of those... what? She hadn't finished that thought and Breq is a little curious. ]
It's not complicated; I've just never heard of them.
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What, are you from Mars or something?
[She sneers and takes another drink of the sherry, looking annoyed that Breq has turned down her kindly offer at a better score by pulling the plug.]
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[ Breq's fingertips twitch involuntarily for a moment and then she sets the cord down. She's thinking about whether it's worth trying to explain. But it's usually not - telling someone that you're two thousand years old and that you used to be a warship is always an awkward conversation. ]
I've never heard of Mars.
[ Maybe it's outside the Radch. This place certainly seems to be.
Perhaps more importantly, her companion (supposed companion) seems to be irritated about her. She's not fond of Dee, either, but she's had the courtesy not to say anything so far. ]
But it's probably something like that. I'm not from here, if that's what you mean.
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You found booze? I get the feeling that's like seeing a unicorn.
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Yep, I found booze.
[She screws the cap on the bottle, then leans against the haunted jukebox.]
And I found it before you.