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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[Was that all he had to say for himself? Sheesh, and people told her she was rude. Fukawa scowls, fingers clenching around her own tray (in lieu of a decent Japanese style lunch, she's taking a chance on a Wendy's skinless chicken breast sandwich), teeth gritted tight.]

W-well, you'll have no one to blame but yourself if anything happens. If you v-vomit you better do it somewhere else!

[Preferably not on her, if you please.

Still, she doesn't flounce away. Doesn't take a seat either, stuck in place as if nailed through the feet. Her expression stays dark, but settles, ire taking a backseat to a keen suspicion.]

...Wh-when's the last time you had food cooked for you?

[ City people like to say they don't know their neighbors, but damn, every single one he's met is nosy as hell.

More disgusting grease intake, as Daryl assumes she's going to leave. She doesn't, and so he exhales in a rush, and sits back as he begins to deface the napkin dispenser, shoving his fingers into it to drag out a stack of napkins instead of tediously drawing them out one at a time. ]

I always cook for myself.

[ In fact, Daryl was proficient in the kitchen years before most children, because it was either that or starve. Skills that have evolved to being able to feed himself in even the most dire scenarios, which has kept him (and others) alive in the apocalypse. From deer to snakes, and wild mushrooms to worms, he knows what he's doing every manual step of the way. (Forcibly shoving thoughts out of his head, about those and others; it's fine. It'll be fine.)

Fast food is a novelty. Always has been. Before, because it cost money, and now, because it plain hasn't existed in years. ]

So I'm taking the night off, same as you.

[When he takes his napkins he rips them loose in a callous wad. He's so uncouth it's almost fascinating. Brusque, short on words and patience alike, not one shit to give about his smell or demeanor.

Part of her is revolted. The other half itches for a pen. She doesn't have time to write fiction anymore. For a long time it's all she did: an escape for herself and an easy paycheck for her parents, a prospective ticket out of hell once she was old enough. Her topic may have been romance but the subjects were always the mean folks. Lowly and low class, overlooked, unbecoming, unwelcome. Stories by beautiful people about beautiful things were devoid of meaning. The real meat was in the leftovers.

The way this man moves, the way he talks, it all stamps itself on the back of her brain before she's thought to clock it. There's story here. It won't be a pleasant one, but there are elements of him she could use. Just where was he from, anyhow?]

I c-can't tell if you're being obtuse on purpose. [He probably is. Even the most restrictive home chef wouldn't go full neanderthal on food court pizza.] I mean you're from somewhere that doesn't have all this greasy pig slop.

Or not anymore.

[Same as her indeed. Sure, there were places you could find hold outs of the good old days. Mostly isolated communities, like islands, or pockets of wealth next to still usable land.

Inland your luck was much worse. That's where she'd put him if she were placing bets.]

Edited (Forgot spoiler warnings oops) 2022-08-25 11:50 (UTC)

[ His pizza has seen its last moments of life outside of someone's internal organs. Alas. Daryl makes performative efforts to clean his hands and face, though it doesn't so much besides move some warmth-loosened grime around. Distantly, he considers getting up to order something else, as he doesn't know when he'll next get the opportunity, and meanwhile takes a moment to consider the young woman who's still taking time out of her day to judge him while her own food gets cold.

For the first time, it occurs to him that her raggedy appearance isn't the norm, here. To preoccupied with food, and the old, ingrained habit of being dismissive of critique by strangers. ]

Anymore, huh. [ He puts the soiled napkins onto his empty plate. ] That how it's gone for you? That why you ain't got new clothes neither?

[ He nods at the chair opposite him. ] C'mon. We'll both look less weird if you sit down.

[ It's one thing to politely ignore one weirdo, it's another to expect the trickle of ordinary civilians not to stare at something that looks like it could erupt into Making A Scene at any second. ]

[Alas sweet pizza, we hardly knew ye.

Though her mouth zips tighter than a drawstring bag, when he makes his return volley she gives a slow nod. Then there's an invitation. Sit down, don't be conspicuous. Only then does a thread of doubt weave into the picture.

There could be something said for caution. Maybe she shouldn't go around advertising who she is and what happened, where and when. With a spread as broad as the Mayor had, it was possible he'd snared some rough fish in his net. Coming from the same place wasn't automatically a good thing.

Well, she's already flubbed it up then. As usual. And she'd been the one nagging him, so if she backed out now she'd look like a crazy person. Fukawa fusses with her tray a bit, glances quickly over one shoulder, but ultimately takes the seat. She hunches into it as if to willfully shrink to nothing, studying the strange man beneath a tangle of too-long bangs.]

H-how long has it been for you? Since things were normal? [Though tattered, his clothes are clearly not hand-made. Besides, he'd gone for an electric blue slushie. Anyone from a more ignorant time would take it for poison, or worse.]

[ Daryl considers what degree of transparency he should have. He knows, already, that they come from different places, mostly without end-of-world events. He's not in a hurry to totally alienate himself from the other people who are sharing in this 'cursed' experience, when by default he does it a little simply by being himself. He's aware it sounds insane. She could be from his world, just on the other side of the planet. On the other hand, maybe not. What's the play?

After a long moment, he shrugs. ]

A few years, at least.

[ Hard to tell time ~~when the show doesn't care~~ between trauma and seasonal anomalies during the onset of serious climate change repercussions. Others have alleged to track days, but he's heard more than two different assertions. He'd tried to keep tabs by the weather, but it hasn't been consistent— instead, they all just watch Carl and Judith grow, and estimate by that. ]

You?

About the same.

[And yet he's much worse for wear than she. Again, that might be up to location. She's no good with discerning accents (and whatever fantastical crap is granting her fluency in English does not make this easier), so it's the attitude that spurs her next guess.]

America, right? [If they keep up the three-word repartee, they might have an introduction down by midnight. Fukawa tugs at a loose strand of hair, fishing for the next move. She doesn't touch her food. Her stomach's doing too many somersaults for that.] It's T-Tokyo for me. Or...I'm in Towa City now.

[A world famous metropolis in her parts, but that was after everything went to pot. They were the source of the air purifiers that saved so many skins. Prior to that, no foreigner outside of true blue techie geeks would know it existed. Westerners especially. It had never been squashed by Godzilla.]

And it's definitely not 1980-whatever. I w-wasn't even alive. S-so stupid, I even saw a rotary phone in the motel. Might as well use a t-tin can and a string. [She frowns down at her tray, still seething. The cardboard cup of fries looks deeply unappetizing. It'll sit too heavy on her stomach for sure.

She passes that over his way, along with the packets of ketchup.]

T-take it. Since you're so desperate. Save you a c-couple dollars on that cheap gift card.

[ (Maybe he's magically speaking Japanese, who knows. Reverse 90s dub style, getting translated as a clumsy Kansai accent despite that not even being close to a cultural equivalence. But he'll just assume she can speak multiple languages because she's smart; most foreigners seem to be.)

Daryl nods, about being from America, but offers no further information. He'd feel like a fraud saying he's from Washington DC, regardless of the fact that nearby is home now, when he's so obviously from somewhere barely civilized. Not in a hurry to fumblingly explain himself. He does huff a quiet laugh, though, about rotary phones and not even being born yet. Shit, he is old.

Hesitation, about the fries. Not sure if she should be passing up food. But arguing about it seems dumber, so. He nods. ]

Thanks.

[ Regardless, he'll leave it between them, in case she decides she wants one. The ketchup packets get split open and squeezed out onto the edge of his tray. Unexpired ketchup, what a world. ]

What's your name? I'm Daryl.

[(Really looking forward to the next season of the hit seinen horror The Dead are Walking: Heart Stopping Havoc in the Land of the Free.)

That the fries stay within arm's reach doesn't escape her. Fukawa's lips twitch. She says nothing of it. Honestly. It's fine, she doesn't want them, and she seems to have fared better than him. She gets supply drops, running electricity, and breathable air. All more than most people get.

Yet the kind gesture only bolsters her imagination. If she could just weasel some good details out of him, she might get the bare bones of a new protagonist. It should be her last priority but passions were sticky things. When you're a writer a good idea is a tough burr to shake loose.]

F-Fukawa. [By now she doesn't expect to be recognized. It seemed stupid to try an alias — if he were familiar with her at all there'd be no helping it. Her face wasn't going to change, and by now that was just as infamous as the name alone. Besides, she would absolutely forget it. Better to not play ball than get caught fumbling it.

And now they've hit another dead end. She picks at her sandwich, prying a bit of bread and lettuce loose and tucking them into her mouth. She's a touch shy about it. She still doesn't like eating in front of anyone, but absconding to a mall toilet for sanctuary seems like a good way to chuck it all back up. Forget it.]

You're n-not much of a talker, are you? [Which leaves her and her stutter leading the way. Fukawa sighs] Well bad l-luck for you. I'm no good at this crap either, so don't expect...I j-just wanted...does the word "Despair" mean anything to you?

[Real master of subtlety she is.]

Fukawa, [ he echoes. No nice to meet you, because this is all bullshit, but it passes as a greeting. (And a mild check to ensure he's saying it right, though Daryl's not that dim, really.)

He eats a few fries while she picks at her sandwich. The salt, the fried texture; he's getting to the point where he's not sure if any of this actually tastes good, or if he's just feeding a starved part of his brain that's withered away since the last time he had a cold Mountain Dew. Taste buds change over time— everything now nearly burns. He eats it regardless.

Anyway. No, he's not much of a talker, and just shrugs at her, for that inquiry. ]

The emotion? Sure. It's a shit world most of the time, ain't it.

[ Besides that, he doesn't know. A beat, and he mumbles something that might be 'gimme a sec', before getting up and going to the nearest food vendor. When he returns, he has a complementary plastic up of water, which he sets down near Fukawa. ]

This'll help. You better eat something, this abduction crap is stressful.

Edited (when will i be free from the word repetition curse ) 2022-09-01 00:18 (UTC)

[The emotion?]

N-No, I mean...

[Nevermind. That's answer enough, isn't it?

He's excusing himself the very next second, Fukawa barely biting back a protest (don't just leave in the middle of a conversation? Is she that repulsive?). His goal becomes clear at once, so she contents herself with watching his back while he waits in line. She chances a fuller bite than usual.

So. Either not from her world, or so incomprehensibly rural he caught the fallout without knowing what toppled over. How sad that it's probably the former. Being forced to re-examine her core understanding of reality six times since this morning was popping her brain cells. She'd be dead by tomorrow if anything weirder happened.

So, what had done in humanity for him? Nuclear winter? An apocalyptic meteorite? It better not be some stupid Lovecraftian beast.

He's coming back. She quickly pretends she was looking anywhere else, at least until he puts the cup in front of her. Fukawa boggles at it.]

Huh? [She blinks up at him. Was he really so worried? Over a total stranger?] Th-that's not — I'm not stressed out! What gave you that idea? Do I look so haggard to you?

[Her elbows thunk on the table as she hunches tight, yanking at the roots of her hair. She casts a mean scowl to the side. They were surrounded. No reprieve from any angle.]

I just don't like eating around other p-people. I can f-feel their nasty eyes raking into me.

[A fear gleaned less from the end of the world and more from middle school cafeterias. Horror of a whole different sort, that.]

[ His back is no cleaner than his front; old jeans, a long-lived vest with angel wings sewn into it that have seen better days, a red rag peeking out of one pocket, and, if she's got a keen enough eye, a holster under his pants. But seeing as this is a small town in the 1980s, the fact that he's carrying a gun might actually be one of the least alarming things about him to anyone local sizing him up.

Back at the table, Daryl leans in his chair, still scavenging the occasional french fry. He opts not to give her any feedback on how she looks, because it sounds rhetorical. Even if it wasn't, he knows better than to fall into that kind of a commentary trap with somebody obviously on edge.

Because, gurl. ]

Don't worry about it. They're looking at me.

[ (Like she was.)

It's not currently bothering him, though. He's used to it, and even when he is bothered by this kind of treatment, he's self-aware enough to understand that it's a Him Problem. Right now, he doesn't have the spare energy to be annoyed, owing to the much larger issues taking up space in his head. It is what it is. ]

((Continued here.))

Edited 2022-09-03 15:46 (UTC)

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TEST DRIVE MEME #1

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