Rebirth Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[ 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.