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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a blood offering

It’s not the realization that he can’t remember falling asleep that’s most distressing. Matt scarcely sleeps any more. If it’s not his own tormented guilt keeping him awake, it’s the sounds of anguish from those around him — the ones they don’t even know he can hear. But when the dream comes to an end, everything is quiet now. The stillness is beyond that which he’s ever known. It’s that gentle sense of tranquility that brings Matt Murdock lurching to consciousness. For a man who’s used to an incessant cacophony of sounds and scents and vibrations, the total absence of anything at all is all the proof he needs that something is terribly wrong.

Not entirely nothing; not exactly. The bed beneath his shoulders is softer than anything he’s known in months, and the carpet between his toes is plush and warm. It’s a far cry from a prison cell. Under a different set of circumstances entirely, Matt might even call it hospitable. But with the steady realization that he is blind — well and truly without sight — it’s hard to appreciate these little niceties.

His first instinct is to reach out for anything with which to orient himself, but the particulars of his current environment are further away than they’ve ever been. Matt stifles his instinct to call out. He can hear his own hands on his skin, but not his heartbeat, nor the heartbeat of anyone else. If there is anyone at all. Head swimming with static, he takes one bold step forward and promptly rams his shin into the nightstand. The table lamp sways ominously, then crashes to the floor and shatters.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The Man Without Fear. Who would believe it now?

mall rats

What better way to get to know his new confines than through a little bit of retail therapy? Matt certainly has a taste for the finer things, and after his stint in prison he's not apt to say no to a bit of shopping. Especially with the offer of a gift card. It's something of a trial by fire for the man, when the world around him seems so flat and so dull. But he takes his time to learn his surroundings as he browses.

paradiso

No surprise that among the first of what Matt locates is one of the most extravagant clothing stores the mall has to offer. It'll drain the entirety of his gift card to accessorize his feet alone, but that doesn't stop Matt from flicking through the racks and running his fingers over the various fabrics.

"What about this one?" Matt asks no one in particular, fishing off the rack a coordinating navy blue double-breasted pinstripe suit with gold buttons. (Emblazoned, of course, with the telltale Paradiso logo.)

Slice 'n' Dice Pizza

It's sure as hell no New York slice, but it's hot and cheesy and a far cry better than anything they serve up from the kitchens of federal prison. Matt's got two slices of cheese balanced precariously on a takeaway tray as he navigates his way through the food court. The cheery music coming from the beckoning indoor carousel is a good homing beacon. Unfortunately, the riders spilling off the little plastic horses are a bit tipsy from their tour, and when one steps in Matt's path he loses the tray and flings those two bubbling slices of pizza splat into the middle of their chest.

wildcard

[Prefer something different entirely? Come at me with whatever you've got.]

Nell had woken before him, taken a glance at the sleeping form in the other bed, and decided the strangeness that was their new situation didn't warrant her waking him. Instead, she'd read over the note and frowned at it as if she could change what it said. It had fluttered to the ground and was still there, she'd made her way to the attached bathroom to see if there was anything to wash her face with.

Honestly, she'd only been in there for maybe two minutes when she hears the thud and crash from out in the room. She exits the small bathroom, a worried look on her face, "Is everything okay?"

Aside from... Well, everything else.

The second voice in the room is not what Matt would call an unwelcome surprise. He freezes instantly, back half-turned to the emerging woman and encircled by the bits of shattered lamp. Why hadn't he heard her shuffling around? Sensed her heartbeat? Smelled the remnants of where she's been on the clothes she's wearing? Something. The world around him feels cold and empty, and Matt is absolutely not okay.

"I'm fine, it's fine." Is she in on this somehow? He holds up a wary hand, like he means to shoo her off. "Who are you?"

Honestly, he probably wouldn't want to be able to pick all that up on her. It smells like decay and death, of fallen leaves and musty wood. Even with him saying things are fine, she wanders over to help with the clean-up. Eleanor crouches as she answers him, picking up the larger pieces first to nestle the smaller ones into.

"Eleanor Vance," a gentle clink of the lamp shards hitting one another, "I woke up maybe...five minutes ago? They left us a letter, I did something with it..." She glances over her shoulder as she finishes that statement, looking for the paper. "Ah, over here."

She picks it up and holds it out to him, not yet realizing he's blind, "Here."

"Watch it!"

Too late.

Fukawa had woken first. Naturally, her first instinct on finding herself in a strange room with a strange man and an even stranger message on the door (more on that delightful creepshow later), was to scour the place for a weapon. Yes, she had her scissors, but she was loathe to use them herself and would feel better figuring out the situation safely. So, stripped down bedside lamp it was.

Second, she would wait for him to wake. No use attacking first when she wanted answers, and she couldn't risk tying him without waking him prematurely. Fukawa bided her time, palms sweating around the ceramic and heartbeat thudding on the double.

Yet when he did rise, he didn't react to her at all. Fukawa had stood on the other end of his bed, lamp primed to swing, and he didn't so much as flinch. After a few tense beats she'd realized what was wrong. Just not quickly enough to spare him.

Her lamp is dropped on the mattress as she scurries in to his side, loathe as she is to lose it. He's still bigger than her and much older, but with a fumble like that he can't possibly be behind all this. Besides, if his own lamp was any indicator it would have shattered too quick to do real damage.

"Now y-you're probably gonna have to pay for that. Don't you dare t-try to pin it on me either." She almost reaches for his shoulder. Retracts. She doesn't like to touch people (the feeling was usually mutual) but he can't see and he just knocked his shin really hard. But isn't it rude to assume he needed help? Is she standing too close?

Fukawa grimaces, hands flexing, and ultimately backs away a step. Or two. Better to be unobtrusive than invasive.

"...Th-there's another bed to your left too." In case he's wondering what his options are.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Her voice sounds young. That much Matt knows for certain, even if the rest of his surroundings are a complete mystery. He's so used to his senses firing off a million clues a second that without that constant overwhelm of stimuli, the world that surrounds him feels flat and confusing and more than just a little bit unreal. He can't hear her heartbeat, though the strained tension in her voice is plainly obvious. He can't even get a read on how wide the room is or what might lie beyond the walls.

But hey, there's another bed to his left. Matt turns a small circle to face the young voice and takes a few steps with an outstretched hand to confirm that. The bits of ceramic from the shattered lamp crunch under his shoes, but he ignores that and grips the bedspread under his fingers when he finds it. It feels virtually identical to the bed he just woke up from. "Yours, I presume?" That encourages more questions than it answers, unfortunately.

"Did you just have a really strange dream?"

She tracks his every move, for his sake and for hers. Being stuck in a shitty situation together doesn't mean strangers could be trusted. He finds her bed without further incident, and doesn't make a fuss about anything else. That's one point in his favor. She nods at him before remembering herself.

"Yeah. Or, I j-just woke up in it. It's not mine."

More foreboding is the second question. She flinches. Debates lying, but what would be the point in that? She's had her head messed with before, but it doesn't stop the shiver from running down her spine at the thought. In fact, it makes it worse.

"I...y-yes." She gnaws at her lips. Should she pick the lamp back up? Just in case? "I t-take it you did too? Did it mention anything about some hokey curse?"

Despite the increasing sense of frustration that his current surroundings aren't spilling their secrets to him unprompted, Matt can't find it in himself to be particularly disturbed by what's happening. It's far from the weirdest thing he's experienced before, and if he's honest, prison was getting a little bit dull. At least this new puzzle provides a bit of a break from the monotony. Which is why he manages a chuckle at the girl's pedantic response.

"Okay, that's a fair distinction," he concedes. "That one isn't mine either."

She doesn't sound like she's lying. He can't judge her tone against her heartbeat or rate of perspiration, but the way she hesitates over those syllables seems awfully earnest. So maybe they're both the victims of this strange circumstance. "That's the one," Matt agrees. "What do you think? Do you feel cursed?"

"No more than usual," said dryly, heavy eyeroll implied. Her life's been more a bed of jagged rocks than roses, but to pin it on the supernatural was moronic. Magic wasn't real. Probably.

Right?

"I'm g-guessing you don't feel much different either." He's better settled than she, or at least putting up a strong front for it. She'd chalk it up to age if she hadn't seen too many adults fold under pressure. "Look, it m-may be weird, but I doubt it was a shared dream or any nonsense like that. It could be an implanted memory, or some kind of deep hypnosis. I'm not going to buy into any hocus pocus crap so easily. They're probably trying to spook us."

Edited 2022-08-21 16:54 (UTC)

It's a sort of dark relief that, with all that he's missing, Matt's greatest and most persistent superpower seems intact: underestimation. He's not about to correct her or give her reason to realize that he couldn't feel any more different than he does right now. Like he's been locked into a body that doesn't belong to him -- something heavy and foreign. Matt sinks to the edge of her bed and chuckles. "Good guess."

When the younger girl jumps right into hypothesizing, he bows his head to listen. There are a million explanations for what's happened that seem logical enough, given his own history, but what matters to him much more is how they're going to find their way out of here. How they break the hypnosis or overcome whoever's twisting their minds. "You're probably right," he agrees. "So what do you think? How do we get out?"

Though practically negligible, Fukawa feels a wash of relief come over her. If he'd claimed to feel ill, started showing the slightest sign of abnormality? She wouldn't have anywhere to run.

And that would be because?

"Oh, that p-part's a real laugh. Just a second."

She scuttles in to whisk the note from the nightstand, only to hurry back to the end of the bed. Normally she'd force someone else to read it, lest anyone laugh at her stutter, but there's no one to spare her the indignity now.

"G-good morning and welcome, blah blah blah, th-the door will open easily if you offer a bit of b-b-blood." She pauses to glance up, catch his reaction. "M-More than a few drops but not enough to be a 'serious' wound. Whatever that means. A handprint's w-worth will do, it only needs to c-come from one of you.

"Sincerely," she holds, her sneer begetting a shiver of derision. "The Mayor."

Edited (realizing the note's on the nightstand days later....) 2022-08-23 04:49 (UTC)

Peter is not a morning person.

He's not even a waking person, because time is not really a concept he pays particular attention to in space.

Current Peter is cosy and comfortable and he doesn't particularly want to move. Sure, he's just had the weirdest dream — like, not the weirdest dream of his life, that was definitely the one with the Master of the Sun or whoever — but it was still up there. He thinks that if he just stays very still and keeps his eyes closed, he can go back to sleep, back into warm, comforting embrace of the blankets he's currently buried beneath.

There's a part of him that says this is not right. He feels well-rested for the first time in — well, a long time, he doesn't even know. He has no headache, no hangover, which frankly surprises even him. He thinks he remembers, faintly, Groot yelling something at him about the end of the galaxy, or just the galaxy in general. He'd ignored it because he'd felt like death, told Groot he was dead, and now—.

Ugh, fine.

This isn't right. His bed is not this comfortable, his blanket is not this thick. His ship is not this quiet.

He opens his eyes and stares at the not-quite darkness of his duvet-cocoon. Somewhere in the outside world, there's a bang, a slow rattle of china against wood, then a dull thud and the sound of something cracking.

Peter groans and sits up, squinting in the sudden daylight of the motel room. His stomach churns, a mixture of dread and panic pulling at his insides tightly as he takes in the room, before it settles into sharp, sudden confusion.

There's a broken lamp on the carpet between the two (two?) beds, and there's Matthew-flarking-Murdock stood next to the lamp.

The last time Peter had been on Earth — like, actually on Earth in an extended-stay kind of way, in what amounted to the galaxy's shittiest vacation, he'd ended up in court.

Now that it's all in the past, he can acknowledge that Murdock is, presumably, a really good lawyer, but it doesn't mean he's not still slightly salty about the "probably colourful outfit" jab (blue and grey is not colourful, mister-flarking-fancy-suits), or the "it shoots fire so it's a firearm", are you fucking kidding him? God, his lawyer had really sucked.

He runs a hand through his hair, and stays quiet for one second, then two, then—

"Either I'm having the weirdest flarking dream or I'm still drunk."

He's not either of those things, he knows that, but consider this: what the fuck.

Leave it to Matt Murdock to find the greatest sense of anxiety emanating from the stillness. He's learned to live with other people inside his own head. To quite literally be filled with their voices and their heartbeats and a cacophony of ambient smells that paint a picture of everything from their latest meal to their last hook-up. The effort it takes to silence all that information and pass through life as a man unencumbered by distraction isn't easy. It shouldn't be this damn easy.

He doesn't have to do his best vaudeville impression when the lamp teeters and crashes to the floor; Matt really is taken aback by his own disorientation in space. It totally negates any sense of comfort or calm that might've lingered from one of the most restful sleeps of his life. He's pretty sure he's already developing a migraine. Given the choice, he'd rather be stabbed in the gut and pitched through the glass of Fisk's penthouse apartment than have his brain scrambled. Again.

The shards of shattered china crunch underfoot as he reaches for the edge of the bed and lowers himself back down to the mattress, but another sound is just a little bit louder. The sound of sheets being pushed back, and then:

"Peter Quill?"

Well, Matt does have a way of remembering voices. But it helps that his interaction with the man didn't end in that chaotic courtroom or with the Guardian celebrating his hundred hours of community service like he'd just been named the leader of his own dog-and-pony show. No, Matt's a lot more familiar than that.

But what kind of criminal has unresolved issues with a man who patrols a few city blocks of Manhattan's West Side and a man who trolls... the entire galaxy?

"Yes?"

He's not really sure why he's answered Matt's question as if he's not quite sure of the answer, because he is quite sure that he's Peter Jason Quill, it's just—

—this is a bit weird, you know?

It's not categorically The Weirdest^TM situation he's ever found himself in, or thinks he's likely to find himself in, but in the grand scheme of things, if future Peter visited past Peter and said 'hey, you're going to find yourself in a motel in the 80s with Matthew Murdock, have fun with that', he'd have not believed himself.

Well, like, doubted himself a bit, because okay, yes, that does sound like his life, but can someone tell him why that sounds like his life?

His attention flickers over to the letter that sits on the bedside table that occupies the space between the two beds. Peter doesn't need to ask if Matt's read the letter, the answer's obvious and it's not like they've been provided with a braille option.

From where Peter's currently sat, he can only pick out the odd word: something about blood, something about a mayor, something something fear, wound. He pauses. Glances back at Matt, then shuffles towards the letter and picks it up in his right hand.

Door. Blood. Handprint. Open.

Cool, sounds about right. He pointedly keeps the contents of the letter to himself and places it down on his bed, before turning his attention back to Matt.

"—Are you okay?" He asks, somewhat belatedly. "That sounded like it hurt." Privately, he's glad that Murdock is from New York and that this whole thing isn't going to be coming completely out of left-field, it'd just be a little easier if Matt wasn't, you know, a lawyer. If he had superpowers, or something.

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TEST DRIVE MEME #1

Matt Murdock | Marvel 616

blood offering

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(sorry for the delay!)

A Blood Offering

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blood offering, or: zdarsky vs zdarsky

ahhh yes, chip4chip, chum

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