cursedcontent | TEST DRIVE MEME #1

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TEST DRIVE MEME #1

A Blood Offering

You wake up cozy in bed at the Saturn Motel. As you observe the room you may realize that it looks a little dated. Or, perhaps from your point of view the lamp and TV are wildly futuristic. Or, like Goldilocks, it may seem just right: close to the world you just left behind. Either way, you just had a very strange dream (see the arrival scenario) and now you're here. And you're not alone: there's a bed next to yours and someone else is waking up just like you are.

You can chat for a while if you like, but if you try to leave you'll find the door is firmly locked and no amount of kicking, punching, or hitting it with an object will do you any good. Instead, there's a letter on the nightstand which reads:

"Good morning and welcome to your new home!

You may be wondering why you're trapped in this room. Fear not, the door will open easily if you offer a bit of blood. More than a few drops but not enough to be a serious wound. A handprint's worth will do, let's say, and it only needs to come from one of you.

I'll let you sort that out yourselves. See you on the other side.

Sincerely,
The Mayor"

And indeed, a handprint's worth of blood pressed against the door will unlock it and let you out into the world. Do you volunteer your own blood? Do you take it from the other person by force? It's up to you! But there's no food in here, so you better figure it out eventually.

Roller Rink

As a celebration of your new lives here (and an apology for the whole blood offering thing - they were just testing something out, really) the Mayor has invited everyone to the Crazy Eight Roller Rink for a private, after-hours party.

Attendance isn't mandatory, but it is heavily encouraged so that you can meet your fellow Cursed and know who's in on the whole secret. It'll help you down the line at some point if your Curse gets out of control and you need someone to wrangle you.

As a reward, everyone who shows up and completes at least one lap around the roller rink (you must be wearing skates, but you can crawl the lap if you can't get the hang of them) will receive a free walkman with a mystery tape inside. The color, style, and mystery tape your character gets are up to you.

Mallrats

Everyone loves the mall! Right? Right! And this group of newcomers is lucky enough to be here for the White Pines Mall Grand Opening celebration! Feel free to walk around the mall and partake in sales galore, check out the attractions, or just get to know the layout of the place.

The Mayor has given everyone a gift card for $100 that can be used anywhere in the mall as long as they attend the Grand Opening.

They also strongly suggest that you familiarize yourself with the mall and its layout, just in case you ever get stuck there for a while and have to compete with others for food and resources. But that probably won't happen.

Extra Info

The test drive meme and the IC intro log will have the same prompts, and threads between two accepted characters can count as game canon.

The first prompt is flexible: technically you're supposed to be with one other person, but if you want to do larger groups that's fine.

Rooms at the Saturn Motel initially contain two beds for the prompt, but upon leaving and returning characters will find that they all have their own rooms with one bed. If you want a roommate, someone better be ready to sleep on the floor or snuggle up! The room doesn't have to look exactly like the reference image as long as it's not too fancy and suitably dated.

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It wasn't that Wren didn't know any rich people, just that arguably the one they were closest with wasn't born into it and acutely remembered lacking it. Everyone needed a little help sometimes though.

Wren doesn't interrupt as Alec lists places that are well beyond the reach of a late 80s mall food court, even a higher end one, mildly relieved when he seems to realize his own situation without being reminded of it. Okay, not hopeless.

"Absolutely not the pizza or the hot dogs then," Wren concluded, figuring those likely to be the worst offenders of being grease bombs masquerading as food if they held true to the malls Wren was familiar with. "Salad Bar probably the best bet for non greasy, I think the smoothie place has sandwiches that are also probably acceptable. Chicken Wings - sorry, wingz might have some waffle options? The burger place could also have a breakfast menu, it's early enough. You'd probably have better luck at some mom and pop diner outside the mall for pancakes though, if not an IHOP."

( they is deliberately vague — not anyone peter's come across here — but more everyone peter ever meets in space. like, yes, he knows technology has come a long way from ribbons and plastic, but he likes it. he likes the process of finding a cassette, finding the right location and the right when in space to be able to (re)record his favourite songs. it's a sentimental process in more ways than one, and the inevitable trips down memory lane are as close as he wants to get to actual time travel. ) A sad case of a superiority complex, ( is his answer then, half-mumbled and semi-distracted.

but then she asks him if any of the tapes she's holding are good and he turns to appraise her findings. ) Ye— ah. ( the smiths are one of those that he can only listen to so much of. sure, a lot of it's more tongue in cheek than some people like to think, but after a little while, there's only so much nobody loves me and I'm so lonely a guy can take. he taps the tape, and says— ) Maudlin, ( beat. oingo boingo, another tap— ) Acquired taste. ( sisters of mercy— ) Yes.

Normally Alec doesn't actually notice when people are noticing him, but Fukawa is not particularly subtle, with the gasp and the hands on the heart and the brightly flushed face. She might even be less subtle than Magnus, at least to Alec's memory, which admittedly does paint him quite generously to seem so much more graceful and suave than he actually was in those early days. Alec gives Fukawa's immediate retraction of her initial, blurted answer an odd look, leaning away slightly like a bit of distance it might help him figure out why she really seems so nervous.

He does not, for even a moment, consider that he's standing in the middle of a food court with a weapon like it's normal.

Either way, for the first time since waking up in a weird little hotel room, Alec is glad that Jace and Izzy aren't around. They would have an absolute field day at his expense with the stuttering, blushing girl currently halfway into his personal space. A handful of months ago he'd have sneered something rude to chase her off, but he's newer, nicer Alec now. Sort of. He's... trying, anyway.

"I don't know that this town has a lot going on other than the mall," he ventures, having been deeply spoiled by living in downtown Brooklyn for so long before this unceremonious abduction. Even in what he'd have considered modern day, he's certain that Nowheresville, Oregon wouldn't have done much to compare: Portland is, like, the only part of Oregon he's even ever heard of before now, and this is definitely not Portland. "Why are your clothes all torn up?" He means to say that in a concerned way, considering it sorta looks like she's been through hell and back in a midi skirt, but it comes out sounding a touch judgmental despite that. Sorry Fukawa.

And yes, this is Alec when he's trying to be nice.

Vasiliy Yegorovich. Call me Vasiliy.

[ He's been in America—and healthcare—long enough to get the joke, but he doesn't laugh. Not out of any moral outrage, of course. Just seems low-effort. Besides, he's more concerned with stopping the obvious and unexplained blood flow from his dominant hand. Vasiliy reaches for the tissue box in the center of the bedside table only to pause before the fingers that aren't bleeding make contact: there's a small, neatly sealed envelope, the kind a card might come in, at the base of the table lamp.

He takes it and shakes the envelope open over his lap, lacking any interest in smearing blood all over it by using both hands. His brows furrow as he reads, eyes lingering for a moment on this bit about what amounts to a blood sacrifice—well, that explains what's going on with his fingers, at least.

Vasiliy holds out the letter with his good hand. ]

It says we need to open the door with blood.

Yeah, I know. This Mayor person seems like a felony-grade pervert, if you ask me.

[ Deely pulls her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them so she can rest her chin on her knees. She blinks at him, owlish and a little presumptuous. ]

So this has to be a Stanford Prison Experiment type thing, right? Like, trap two people in a room and leave a note telling them to— [ She cuts off, abruptly, as she suddenly becomes aware of the blood on one of his hands. ] Oh, I see you already got the party started.

[ Vasiliy has no idea what that is, but he has a pretty good idea based on the name alone. When her eyes fall to his hand, he grimaces slightly, awkward. What the fuck do you say in this situation? ]

Apparently. I woke up and it was bleeding.

[ A pause. ]

If this isn't dream and everything here is real, it could be too easy to get out. I wake up and already have blood on my hand. Something else could be on other side of this door.

[ Like someone waiting to drag them off, a decidedly Soviet fear ingrained in his very DNA. The wall outlets here look American, but that doesn't mean that they're not in some culture or era where that's very much something that their captors can do—already, they're probably being watched. ]

Okay, by the way, just so you know, you sound super fucking paranoid right now. Like, levels of paranoid hitherto unknown by human science.

[ A good point worth verbalizing, she reckons. But also, wait a second. ]

Your hand was bleeding when you woke up? Is that, like, a normal thing for you?

No. It has never happened before. [ Vasiliy reaches for another handful of tissues; the rough one-ply he's squeezing over his cuticles has long since reached its saturation point. He says nothing of the fact that she thinks a reasonable amount of suspicion after waking up from a kidnapping is "paranoid", but he thinks it: it's an Americanism, this blind trust in everything and everyone. She sounds like she's from the future he'd just started to grow accustomed to before being dragged here—no real concept of danger, no frame of reference, no experience actively working to preserve her own life.

He starts to get up, pulling his shirt from behind his belt and withdrawing the firearm tucked into the front of his dark navy work pants. A revolver, pretty much anyone could guess, though the specifics—Soviet Nagant M1895 double action officer's model, NKVD issue, awarded 1937—might be harder to guess at with the year and five-pointed star engraved into the frame partly obscured by his bloody hand. ]

I am going to check the peephole. You should stay back.

Edited 2022-08-27 00:30 (UTC)

[ Well, this guy isn't much fun. Deely figures it could be worse – of all the people to be trapped in a grody little motel room with, at least he's not losing his mind and banging on the windows or, worse, smiling at her evilly from across the room while she struggles to break free of some sort of restraint. He seems practical, very strait-laced, and clearly he's not the type of person to sit around and wait for a situation to be resolved, unlike Deely, who still hasn't moved from her bed. At least until she spots a flash of dark metal in his hand and, a moment later, registers what it is. ]

What the fuck—

[ Deely's heart jumps into her throat, but before she's even aware of that feeling she's scrambled all the way off her bed to hide between it and the other one, her head peeking up over the mattress, eyes wide. ]

Is that a fucking gun? [ Her voice shifts to an awkward squeak towards the end, which she will absolutely laugh about later, but right now it feels incredibly necessary to transmit the fact that she definitely almost shat herself. ]

The more that they said the less it made sense to V. Illnesses just weren't that serious where he was from as long as you had the money to buy treatment. Hell, his 89-year-old rockerboy boyfriend who had just a rough lifestyle as he had looked in his early or mid-40s. He'd watched a 158-year-old man get strangled to death by his own son - if that hadn't happened, who knew how long the emperor of Japan would have lived? He had the money to last for as long as he wanted.

Well, maybe it made some sense. Cyberpsychosis had a fatal prognosis if the NCPD or MaxTac got involved - which they often did - and there was no real known cure. It was heavily stigmatized as well. Somehow, though, V felt that this wasn't even remotely in the same ballpark. If AIDS caused something violent then he imagined the tone of this conversation would be rather different.

Regardless, V seemed to withdraw into himself a little as they both figured out how many years Mercury had left. It was grim to think about, and he hated that he could relate to this complete stranger about that specific feeling of knowing you will die but not knowing when. It was so fucked that they were standing here talking about this man who had died in one timeline and was alive in this one - was there some version of Johnny or Kerry there standing in some other version of Night City talking about him in the same way? Remembering the day he stormed Arasaka Tower and failed to make it out alive? Talking about how it hardly mattered the outcome - he was fucked if he did, he was fucked if he didn't?

He hated this.

"This is so fucked," he said softly. "We're talkin' about this guy and when he flatlines like it's some casual fuckin' conversation."

V stopped the mindless movements he had been performing, his hand curling into a loose fist resting atop the cassettes.

"He's not even dead yet."

...Right, [she frowns slightly. Not a great answer, but he's distracted. She'll forgive him. Besides, he's helping her with all of this music.]

Right, okay, Sisters of Mercy then. [She slides the other cassettes back.] What else is good? I mean, what should an eighteen-year-old woman like here? [She looks at a copy of Aladdin Sane and frowns slightly.]

I can be quiet, if you want to browse on your own.

[Wanda's fine with not drawing attention to the mess on Max's face. She's not too far removed from being young and frightened herself. She remembers what it's like.]

There's a place to sit over there.

[An unassuming bench is what she motions to. It's out of the way, at least, and somewhat out of sight behind a pillar.]

“Hey Joyce.”

It was kind of a mixed blessing to see her here. On the one had he was glad for it, because he missed her and because he hadn’t had a lot of friendly faces in his life lately. On the other hand, something stunk about this place and he didn’t necessarily want her to be stuck here with him.

Still, with his broad arms he pulled her into a hug and he held her for a beat or two longer than he probably should have …

“I wanna say that I’m glad you’re here, but I’m not too sure about this place.”

[Wow Ciri way to rub it in. Fukawa is seething at the brazen show of skill, and, the closer she gets, the lovely set of her face. Oh, wonderful. So not only was she little miss Stars on Ice, she was good-looking to boot.

She loathes her already.]

It's a w-walkman, not a bauble. Did you crawl out of Sherwood Forest or something? [Though with those clothes, that might not be far off. Fukawa huddles closer to the railing, her scowl intensifying. Does she need help?]

No.

[Which is when her legs whip out from under her.]

GAH! [WHAP!!

And so lies Fukawa Toko, spread eagle on the floor in front of the Roller Rink Queen. She blinks up at the ceiling. She wishes for death.]

Edited 2022-08-27 01:23 (UTC)

Yes.

[ Finally, some semblance of self-preservation or anything other than passive acceptance of their situation, even though her panic seems more appropriate for a situation in which one is pointed at her, not between her and whatever is on the other side of that door. She should be reassured, especially seeing as he's in a first responder's uniform—the first he's worn that instills confidence as opposed to fear. ]

I am not going to shoot you. Just stay back in case I have to shoot someone. And cover your ears. This is loud.

[ Hopefully, though, he won't need to discharge it. There's no telling how difficult it may be to get ammunition here, and a gunshot without a Bramit device affixed to the barrel of the thing is going to get attention. The last thing he wants, here or anywhere. ]

“Sure do.”

Hopper murmured and he procured an undecorated silver zippo style lighter from his hip pocket. He flipped the top open and struck the spark wheel to ignite a flame.

“Emotional support vice, huh? I like that. I might use that line.”

When he was satisfied the end of his company’s cigarette had been lit, he closed the lid. Then he returned the lighter to his pocket.

A hat.

[The rifling has stopped. She is leveling him with a stare that could cleave even the most bloated ego in two.]

...Well, at l-least you're aware of it.

[Best feature, sure. It had nothing on the impeccable texture of Byakuya-sama's coiffure. How many times had she dreamed of slipping her fingers through those golden tresses, to brush them away from his noble brow. Lean in close, lips quivering, hearts beating as one....

Wait where was she? Shoulder pads yes, shoulder pads.]

Are you k-kidding me? If I put this on I'd look like a triangle! [Perhaps an exaggeration, but she is rather petite in all dimensions. It's a style best left to bolder frames and bigger hips. Fukawa scoffs and shoves it back in.]

Of course this all looks normal to you. Stuff like this is way out of fashion. N-no one would be caught dead in it back home!

[ She'd been reassured a minute ago by what seemed like plain practicality, but right now Deely cannot for the life of her work out why. Now he comes across like a completely insane person – for some reason, it's currently fucking her up more that he just produced a gun with the same mild pragmatism of digging the door's key out of his pocket. Like, Oh, look, I've fixed it! Nothing to see here! But there is absolutely something to see here. It's not that she hasn't handled guns before, but they weren't real guns, they were pretend guns for make-believe. And the BB gun her friend Wade had let her shoot in his back yard when they were eight demonstrably does not count. ]

Well, then what the fuck are you gonna shoot? It's a door! You gonna, what, incapacitate its hinges?

If there is something or someone on the other side.

[ He debates whether to go into explaining the idea that sometimes, one might open the door and find danger waiting for them, to try and indirectly convey some of what banging on a door at night meant in his world, but he's distracted by the sensation of a trickle of blood beginning to run down his wrist. It's not stopping, even though he applied pressure for a good 5 minutes and it's had more than enough time to clot. Uncertainty churns at his core: he'd know by now if he were a hemophiliac, and that's the sort of thing that tends to stay in particularly inbred circles of the bourgeoisie, but it's not normal to keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding like this. He needs to get to a store, find some styptic powder or something. Vasiliy stares for a moment, then wipes it off on his pants leg and angles the weapon downwards. ]

We do not know if it is safe here. Keep your voice down. Hysteria will not help us.

[ Vasiliy starts to inwardly question how exactly one "splits" a walkman, but decides against it. The kid clearly needs help, and she's trying to save face. He may not have grown up with a concept of "teenager" as a distinct life stage, but he remembers being one. ]

Okay. Another step. You are going to move forward; that's good. You want to move. Just grab me if you lose your balance.

[ He's not talented at this, per se, but he's managed to more-or-less master staying upright. Besides, he's 5'7. By today's standards that's apparently pretty low to the ground, a change in perspective he'll never be thrilled about. ]

[ Huh.

What.

Uh.

The wheels creak in Daryl's head, and he has to ask himself a few things: is all this stranger than the dead coming back to life? Is all this more unbelievable than a chupacabra? Is any of it less unlikely than the specific, insane circumstances of his own lived experience?

He can't come up with an answer. ]

Alright, [ is what he says, eventually. Maybe she's full of shit, but he doesn't know how anyone would pull this off to fake it. Or like, why. ] It's.. maybe 2012, for me, I ain't sure. So some of this is gonna be weird for both of us, but probably weirder for you, I expect.

[ Immediately, Deely's countenance shifts. Her mouth pops open, brow furrowing sharply in raw indignation. ]

I'm sorry, hysteria? [ She's immediately hissing at him now in barely more than a whisper. Sure, it makes sense to be keeping her voice down, but in the defence of Deely from about a minute ago, the stranger she's locked in a room with just produced a gun. ] What are you, some sort of plague doctor? Are you gonna diagnose me with wandering womb syndrome and prescribe a thousand leeches? And what, actually, the fuck is up with your hand, by the way?

2012! [She pales considerably, a small smattering of freckles visible across her cheeks.] Gods that's-- I've never been good with numbers, over 100 years!

[She looks around the new space now with a bit more awe.]

God in Heaven, what a strange place! [She looks up and down the hallway] Left or right? I say away from the noises.

"You m-may be right about that," she agrees, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile cutting her rosy cheeks. "I haven't seen anything yet myself, but...if you wanted to look together?"

This is pretty bold of her. She's only being helpful though, it's nothing more serious than that! And he hasn't told her to get lost, or said she stinks or she'd be better off dead, that he doesn't date four-eyed freaks. None of the usual brush-offs. It's still early, they could come soon enough, but she's eager to count this as a win.

Then he changes the subject.

She gives a squeak, shoulders hitching up tight. Immediately one hand cinches the split of her skirt together. He didn't see anything, did he? Ugh, she looked like such a cheap harlot these days, but it wasn't her fault. If the Foundation would have just made her a full member and ponied up a damn uniform she wouldn't be in this mess. New clothes were in short supply, she understood why they had to be stingy, but this was ridiculous.

"Uh — helicopter!" That's not the whole answer. She swallows thickly and tries again. "Th-there was an accident, and I...um. The city's in the m-middle of a riot, so to speak. And."

Oh my god, how sweaty can one woman's palms get?! She shakes her head and backs away a smidge. Then two. Then three.

"I'm sorry! I c-can go buy new clothes. Right now! You're p-probably embarrassed to be seen with such a filthy person! I'm sorry, th-this was my mistake, I'll fix it! Right away!"

[ Plague doctor!

Vasiliy gestures to the entirety of his outfit with the hand that isn't bleeding: the star of life patch, the scissors in one of the velcro pockets on his thighs, the tactical shoes... the embroidered letters on his chest: EMT. ]

Calm down. I am EMT. Emergency Medical Technician. From 2018. ...And I do not know what is happening to my hand. I woke up and it was bleeding, but pressure isn't helping. I think this Mayor did it so that we have blood for door.

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TEST DRIVE MEME #1

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