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
"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."
no subject
It didn't really matter if she woke him up officially or not. Unofficially was just as good in Marco's book. As long as he ended up not dying, that day was a win. Marco raised an eyebrow when she shoved the gin into her waistband, "Uh, isn't that going to stretch out your pants?" He pointed out, "And it's not like you can go down to the store and get another pair that fit you." Aka: Take care of your clothes; stash your booze somewhere else.
"Dude, I'm not going to leave you to get eaten." He rolled his eyes, "Not unless you do something stupid like walk up to the monster when I tell you to run or you actively try to fuck me over." Then all bets were off, "Or if feeding you to a monster would get me home." His point was if he hung you out to dry, he had a reason. It was a low moral bar given how many reasons he'd put above your life, but at least it was a moral bar.
no subject
She takes a moment to consider that - by now the gin is starting to slow how quickly her gears are turning just a little - and then figures hey, that's like, ten percent nicer than she'd be in his position, so she shouldn't complain. She'd probably fuck him or anyone else over for less. She'd fuck her twin over for less and they shared a womb.
"Well, that just makes you an asshole, because I wouldn't feed you to a monster to get me home." Fuck her folks back home. "I've got to admit, though, I'd feed you to a monster if it was funny. Just so we're all on the same page."
He said he didn't have to trust her to hang; the feeling is mutual. Dee trusts no one and appreciates the hang.
no subject
As with all his advice, he dropped it afterwards. Whether she took it was her business.
"Man, you hate being home that much?" Then again, he'd been in that place, so it wasn't like he could judge, "Yup, works for me. You'd better do my story justice if my death is funny, or I'll haunt your ass. You'll never get laid again."
no subject
Dee's a horrific comedian, but a girl can dream of success beyond dry heaving from performance anxiety at open-mic nights. In front of her bathroom mirror, she's the next Richard Pryor. In front of her bathroom mirror, the shitty impressions and flopped one-liners come alive and then fall at her feet to make a staircase, one she climbs up to someone else's life.
"I don't hate being home. This is just more interesting. You try working at a bar for twenty years with a bunch of dickshits and not getting bored with it."
She suspects they have the opposite problem here; her, boredom, him, whatever traumatic bullshit made him such a bummer the instant you scrape past the sassy surface. It blows her mind that of the two of them, he's the one who wants to get home. She's just, whatever. She's good with whatever. If she were told, she thinks, that her home had been entirely annihilated, she'd probably just use it as an excuse to drink a little extra that night and then shrug it off (she does not, at this moment, account for the gaping hole her twin's absence would leave inside her, is already boring inside her).
no subject
"So do something else?" He suggested. Duh. If she hated her job so much, she should do something else, "It's not like your city only has one bar." He pointed out.
"Meh, whatever." He decided, "If you want to die at 40 with a life full of regret, that's not my problem. You sleep first or me?"
no subject
"I'm thirty-two, you little shit. And you wanted to bang me like twenty minutes ago, so careful how old you call me."
She gestures for him to follow to the back office. He may as well know the layout of this place, if they're going to be lookouts for each other. "Unless you're into people more than twice your age. I'm not going to judge anyone's mommy issues."
no subject
Marco followed her to the back office, stretching his arms above his head. Stupid human arms, "I'm into women who are hot." He answered. Oh yeah, he had mommy issues, but wanting to screw people who reminded him of her wasn't one of them.
no subject
She climbs up on the desk and pops one of the pressboard tiles from the ceiling up. She tucks the gin bottle up there and then moves the tile back into place. "If you need to hide anything useful, the ceilings here are pretty legit. You just have to promise me you won't start hitting my stash."
It's not a gesture of trust, because Dee doesn't really do trust. She doesn't even realize that she doesn't do trust, it just doesn't happen. It's a gesture of showing that she is willing to put some cards on the table in good faith to maintain the partnership.
"Most boys are. Except the gay ones, but even they seem to have a weird kind of misogyny thing about fatties." She flops down on the couch. "How do you want to do this, three hours on, three hours off?"