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
By the light of their makeshift torches, the contents of the store room are revealed: boxes of peanuts. Jars of pickles. Bags of dessicated lemons and limes. Canisters of hand wipes and spray bottles of cleaning solution. Rat traps. Toilet paper rolls. And alcohol.
“Oh, mama,” Dee whispers, grabbing a bottle by the neck. She’ll have to ration this out. She’ll have to make sure she’s the only one who ever has the key. She’ll have to hide it in her underwear or her mouth or her ass when she sleeps. She’s found her purpose in this weird scary world and it’s keeping everyone else out of this room.
Maybe she should kill the kid, club him with the torch so he doesn’t tell anyone. She only doesn’t take that option because she doesn’t know how long it would take him to turn into a tiger and eat her face. She takes a drink, still looking at him like she’s measuring up how fast he can run.
“You’re right. I am lucky.”
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He recognized that look, and tilted his head at her. That was the 'What can I do to take this person out' look. Marco held her gaze, "Look, alkie," He didn't say it as an insult, just as a fact. She was obviously an alcoholic, but it wasn't exactly his place to judge anyone else's coping mechanisms. Hell, he'd probably have an alcohol problem himself if he didn't have to go out in public so much so everybody would leave Jake alone, "First, you can't take me, so don't try. Second, chill out a bit, okay?"
It was disgusting, but Marco sat on the floor, "You've got to taper. That or figure out how to make booze. Who knows how long you're going to be stuck here, and this doesn't strike me as a good place to go through detox. Something's gonna eat your face. If you want to be fucked up the whole time you're here, I can't blame you, but you should find something sustainable."
"Plus, if you wander around reeking of alcohol and don't share, people might kill you if the monsters don't. So I'd recommend dialing it back or learning to share."
Marco watched her closely, "I mean, or you can drink yourself to death. Whatever. I'm not your dad."
no subject
He sits down, which is an obvious cue of “I could kick your ass so quick I don’t even need to watch my back”, and that’s infuriating. For once, she doesn’t succumb to her first and most petty impulse.
“I’m not an alcoholic so stop being a little bitch. I’ve got habits. I work at a bar, for god’s sake.” She swigs from the gin in the bottle (good shit). “Now, crack, I am totally a crack addict. I miss crack like I’d miss a kidney. Now grab some of those peanuts and let’s go upstairs and have dinner before it gets dark.”
It’s weird, using that as a source of humor, but what can you do?
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"Okay, so you're an alkie and a crack-addict," He said cheerfully. Like he didn't try that type of misdirection constantly: 'I'm not traumatized, I'm just a psycho'. Please. People gave Cassie all the credit when it came to reading people, but then again they didn't realize that not caring didn't mean he couldn't read people, "So what, you withdrew here by yourself? That takes some balls."
Then he shrugged and stood, "Sure." He'd said his piece. Like he said, he wasn't her mom. If she wanted to drink herself to death, it wasn't his problem.
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"I'm not an alkie and a crack addict, I'm a bartender and a crack addict, and who asked you anyway? You're like, twelve, give yourself a few years to ferment and you'll probably be tying off for heroin." She tucks the bottle into the waist of her pants and grabs a jar of pickles. It's bound to be nice and warm upstairs by now. She starts to head up.
She did withdraw by herself, or rather, with her twin brother, but no rehab or medical care was involved. Just the willpower to move on to the next thing and leave that brief chunk of her life behind. Amazing how an addiction that last a few weeks permanently carved the word "crack" into the back of her brain.
Greatest life success: kicked the drug habit she developed trying to scam the government for benefits. She's doing great.
"Not going to be much in the way of table setting, but I'll bet there napkins and silverware around here somewhere. We'll find them tomorrow." She's assuming he'll stick around all night, if only for practical reasons. Monsters are creepy in the day; at night they're outright terrifying, or at least, that's what she assumes.
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"Yeah, but the question is did you become a bartender because you're an alcoholic or did that start after? For the record, I'm 16 and yes, I like heroin." It helped him sleep. One thing Marco had to give to the world of the rich and famous was that nobody cared what you did as long as you didn't make the world look at it. Which was pretty much his job: Make the war, and them, palatable to the public. Not that he was an addict or anything.
He was far too paranoid to get himself addicted to anything. Dependency on anything was weakness, because you could always end up having to live without it.
"Oh man, napkins and silverware? You are fancy," He teased. Really, it was fine. He'd lived in the middle of the woods with an Andalite.
no subject
She actually does sound concerned. She isn't, really, except in the way that being in close proximity to someone who might get hurt is innate to the human condition. Give her an hour and she'll forget entirely about it. Put it on TV and she'll laugh about it.
She sets their bounty on the bar and pulls up a stool. There are saucers behind the bar, presumably for coffee, and she sets them out. "Welcome to Sweet Dee's. We've got pickles, peanuts, and a jerk kid who thinks our name's shitty."
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"So will sleep deprivation." Marco retorted, "Besides, I'm not an addict. Anything you're addicted to is something people can use to control you, so no thanks." Was it a good or bad thing when the only thing stopping you spiraling was unhealthy PTSD-induced paranoia? He had no idea.
He grinned and plunked himself down on his own stool, which was one of the ones that spun, so he spun it around a few times, "Hey, what else do you need? I bet for here this counts as five star dining. Oh my God, I've missed salt." Marco picked up a handful of the peanuts.
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"Okay, Rambo." Dee snorts. She doesn't know what a sixteen year-old has to be paranoid about, but the kid turns into animals and talks about aliens, so she's not going to dig. She has nothing to gain by learning about his weird, boring life, so fuck prying. "Maybe you're just addicted to being a paranoid freak."
When he grins, she grins back. It's strange, how people respond when she's being funny in a conversation, and yet the instant she starts to perform it's just crickets and blank stares. She thought she could be a comedian because she makes people laugh; she still refuses to believe that everyone's just laughing at her more often than not.
She sets a pickle on the saucer and sprinkles some peanuts on the top. "There. It's a fucking salad."
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"Damn straight," Marco said with pride. Rambo was an awesome nickname. He'd take it. Sure, Rachel was way more Rambo-ey than he'd ever been, but still. Awesome, "Better a living paranoid freak than a dead idiot."
He wrinkled his nose, "And about as appetizing as one. Seriously. Good reminder of why I live on junk food back home." Still, salt was salt, so he picked up a pickle, "You really don't appreciate spices until you don't have any." Food wasn't a problem. It just all tasted terrible.
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She picks apart the pickle with her fingernails and takes a bite.
"Yep. It's pretty disgusting." Washing it down with gin doesn't make it much less so. "This is a terrible date you're taking me on. I'm going to leave you with the bill and then call the authorities on your crimes against fashion."
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"Lucky for you, I'm great at running out on tabs and getting by the cops." Good luck chasing a cockroach, assholes.
"I'd suggest a long walk on the beach, but the fish-faces don't seem the type to respect romantic boundaries. Rude." He declared.
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"Get real, boner." She takes a slug of her gin just to be spiteful, but she does get the bar hose and pour him water. "It comes out clear, so it's probably fine."
And if it's not, well, how long are they going to live out here anyway? If it's not botulism it's going to be monsters, and if it's not monsters it's going to be starvation, and if it's not starvation it's probably going to be the worst fate of them all: boredom.
"Running out on the tab, that's a classic move. Do you grab other people's bills on the way out? Because you can grab two or three credit cards if you move fast and pretend you're the waitress taking it out back to charge it." She looks deeply pleased with herself. "I call it a Sweet Dee Swipe."
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Marco shrugged. The water probably wasn't going to kill him. So he took a swig of it, "Thanks." He told her. Hey, he was an asshole, but that didn't mean he had zero manners. He just usually chose not to use them.
He shook his head, "Nah, I was doing this when I was 11 or 12. Way too young to pass as a waiter. Good call, though." Yeah, yeah, stealing was wrong, blah blah. But once in a while he'd wanted a damn hamburger without dealing with Jake's pity and attempt to split his allowance, or Jean's subtle 'oh my god, are you okay, Marco?' They could afford groceries (mostly), but that didn't mean Marco could cook for shit.
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"My brother and I used to run cons all the time." She doesn't specify 'when we were that age' because they never really grew out of it. Dennis was the one who got off on the thrill of the chase, and Dee was always the one nosing in, more afraid of being left out of the fun than of getting caught or scapegoated, which happened about as frequently as it didn't. They never needed to steal, but it was something to do, a way to capitalize on that fervent, tight-knit, grotesque bond between them.
Then they grew up and sank into the morass of never having honed any other skills at all. Only lying and stealing and taking.
"Are you saying you don't run out on tabs now? Look at you, Mr. Moneybags, I guess some of us at this table are too good to steal food."
no subject
He shrugged, "Hey, if it's not hurting anybody, it's none of my business." And he meant actually hurting people. If nobody was dying, not his problem, "Having backup must've made it easier, though."
"I don't have to steal it now. If I didn't have any other way to feed myself, you bet your ass I'd still steal food." He wasn't going to not eat because he didn't have enough stupid green pieces of paper, "And I earned every cent of those moneybags."
no subject
So he's poor, or was. His life's taken the opposite trajectory to hers, where she grew up in the lap of upper class luxury, in a lavish bedroom with expensive physical therapy and nice clothes, and then slowly spiraled into getting kicked out of college, spending months in the psych ward, coming out of it unhireable and unskilled and then settling into the sediment of a below-minimum wage job at her brother's bar. She's jealous.
"You earned it? Doing what, gymnastics competitions?" She gestures at his clothes for the umpteenth time.
no subject
Liabilities, like stupidity, were problems.
"Your family sucks." He told her with a shrug.
"No. I earned it by almost dying on a weekly basis for three years starting when I was thirteen so nobody had to deal with parasitic brain slugs. Do you know what being bitten in half feels like? Because I do." So shut up.
no subject
Dick.
"Jeez, you're sensitive. It's not like I came here with your biography." She takes a drink to avoid maintaining eye contact, now that he's gotten all intense on her. She wants things to go back to the way they were seconds ago, talking shit about stealing from restaurants and pretending to flirt. "I didn't watch the sci-fi movie of your shitty life."
She fiddles with her pickle and pauses, thinking of how she can try and course-correct, how much empathy she needs to plug into this conversational vending machine until what she wants comes back out. "I'm sorry it was so shitty, though. That sounds nasty."
no subject
"Of course you didn't. I haven't picked a ghost writer yet." Marco joked, switching the humor right back on as he took a drink of water, "And the movie's not released yet."
He snorted, "No, you're not. You just don't like being called out. That's not why I said it." He said it to make clear that yeah, he was a wise-cracking teenager who looked 12 years old, but he'd been through enough shit he'd have no problem dealing with hers if it became a problem.
"It's cool. You don't know me. I don't care about your past. I can hang out and not trust someone as far as I can throw them." That'd been his life for a while.
"Hey, you know what would be awesome? If we found some weed. We probably can't make more alcohol, but I bet we could grow weed." It'd be some reliable source of not being sober all the time.
no subject
He's right; she doesn't like being called out. It makes her uncomfortable not only because she's not at the wheel of this conversation, but because it drives a wedge between the lens of what Dee is and what she thinks she is. She thinks she's practical and normal. She thinks everyone is like this.
"I'd torture animals for weed, though." It's not her favorite drug of choice. "Maybe we can find glue or gasoline around here. It's budget and it's not exactly up to your lavish standards, but if we want to stop talking about serious stuff and start laughing at each others' farts it's great."
She gets up, swaying a little, and starts digging through behind the bar. Maybe there's something that can be used as an inhalant.
no subject
"What standards?" He asked with a laugh, "Glue or gasoline is cool with me." She obviously had money issues. Marco got it. It kinda sucked she decided he was just some rich boy though; it was cool to have someone to talk about the poor years with. Yeah, it wasn't forever, but if mentioned it to Jake he got all weird, and most adults just gave him that 'you poor thing' look. None of them got it. And when he did live in the shitty part of town, he wasn't shitty enough. Too nerdy, didn't know enough Spanish... bunch of bullshit.
Whatever.
no subject
“Ugh, we’re getting really white trash with this one, or whatever trash you are.” She emerges from behind the bar and plunks a can of varnish down. “I don’t know if I’m this desperate. Maybe tonight when we can’t sleep.”
Dee suspects she’s going to be all nerves, and the kid’s jumpy and paranoid enough that he probably sleeps approximately never.
no subject
"Yeah, scraping the bottom of the barrel here." Marco agreed, poking at it, "Wanna sleep in shifts? I mean, I know you'll probably bail if something happens while I'm asleep, but I'm a light enough sleeper I'll at least wake up."
no subject
She takes a whiff of the varnish and pulls a face. While she still has gin, the inhalant is going to be more trouble than its worth. "You've got no faith in me at all. I'll wake you up if something happens. I won't stick around to save your ass, but I'll shout at you or something."
She will not. She will absolutely leave him here as a distraction and/or bait. She toasts her gin to him and takes another glug, then screws the cap on and shoves the bottle into her waistband.
"But I'm not going to be a light sleeper. If something scary comes to eat our asses out while I'm sleeping, don't even wake me up. I want to be so numb I don't even feel it. Just one bite, whoomp, and goodbye Sweet Dee."
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