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cursedcontent2022-08-20 11:49 am
cursedmods) wrote in cursedcontent2022-08-20 11:49 am
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TEST DRIVE MEME #1
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.Roller Rink
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.
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.Mallrats
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.
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.Extra Info
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.
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.
vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original — historical/revenant
blood offering | cw: blood.
[ The blood starts as pinpricks. Brilliant, oxygenated, as though his cuticles have been nicked somehow—one finger, then the next, until his right hand is dripping onto the dubiously clean sheets over his lap. Vasiliy frowns and reaches for the box of tissues next to the fake wood finish radio on the bedside table—then a lump in the covers on the bed next to him stirs. Shit, he's not alone. Fuck. Last time he came back he was alone, in the middle of nowhere, on snow like an organ waiting for transplant. He pulls several tissues and squeezes across as many fingers as he can at the same time, maintaining the pressure even as red propelled by the racing of his heart blossoms across the rough single-ply paper, and waits until the other party starts to sit up. At least being in uniform, the crisp navy blue of a Chicago paramedic's winter dress, might keep them from panicking—and if they do, well, when he frantically patted himself down at the beginning of this his hands quickly located the comforting weight of his sidearm.
He pauses for a split second, mentally assembling the sentence in English before speaking, a conscious effort when his mind is pulled in so many other directions. The words that come out are heavily accented, moreso than usual. Pronunciation or something as trivial as the length of vowels isn't exactly his priority right now. ]
Who are you?
2. LE DANGER IMMÉDIAT ET L'AMOUR FICTION
roller rink.
[ The transition from wheels to blades takes a little effort, initially, like a calf's first few steps in the outside world—but it doesn't take Vasiliy overly long to regain his balance and make the transition from ice skating in Gorky Park in the late 1930s to roller skating sometime in the 80s. Of course, he's hardly as graceful as he would be on a frozen pond, but at least he manages not to wipe out as most of the people around him seem to be doing.
Like the person who starts to lose their balance next to him, swaying back and forth like a sapling in the wind. And down they go—but he snatches their wrist before their ass actually hits the waxed floor, momentarily losing and regaining his own balance in the process. ]
Hey— Are you alright?
3. THESE ARE VERY DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS TIMES
mallrats | cw: blood.
[ It feels vaguely sacreligious, dressing himself in the high waisted, shapeless American blue jeans that surround him at every turn. It's a symbolic yield, a surrender—conformity leveraged against him, a collective he has no interest in. The denim is heavy, unpleasant against the bare skin of his legs, scraping. He's not much happier with the shapeless cotton tee shirt, but at least that's something he's more used to, something he associates less directly with Reagan.
He carries his EMT's uniform (neatly folded, of course) in the Ruby's bag at his side as he exits the store, though he doesn't get far—he stops dead in his tracks in front of a wall of synchronized home television sets, a million replicas of the same birthmarked face standing before dozens of overlapping news center microphones, his lips moving in the shapes of familiar syllables as English ticker tape runs an unnecessary translation below him. In the corner of the screen: RUSSIAN NUCLEAR THREAT ON THE RISE, as though theirs isn't.
In the split second he catalogues all of this information, Vasiliy doesn't get to mutter under his breath before someone slams into his back, clearly not expecting him to stop in his tracks in the middle of the mall's thoroughfare. He turns immediately, starts to issue an apology—and with the motion of the turn a few drops of blood from the palm of the same hand as back in the hotel room land on their presumably-also-new jeans. ]
Sorry—sorry!
[ Why is it bleeding again? Is this my curse? ]
4. WILDCARD
[ vasiliy's likely to be exploring the place/gathering as much information as he can, with his hands intermittently bleeding despite a lack of visible cuts. if you'd like a starter or want to plot feel free to hit me up here or send a pp to
2!
D-do I look all right?!
[That doesn't mean she'll be nice about it.
She straightens on shaky legs, one arm flinging out to find balance. She almost topples instead, and has to snag the strange man's arm with both hands to pull herself together.]
How...how does anybody find this "fun"? I'd rather get p-pelted with erasers.
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It is fun if you are good at it. [ Again—like ice skating. Probably why he's having an okay time, at least, compared to most of the other people here, even if he's not particularly proud of his performance. He was hardly a figure skater back home, but he could at least do enough to not look as awkward as he knows he does right now. ]
It is hard to get used to. Do you need help to go back to rail?
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D-don't rub it in! I already know I'm garbage at this! [Honestly. Did he expect that to sound encouraging?
His offer has her looking to the railing. Sweet, sweet sanctuary. She could just give up.
Her jaw squares, her grip tightens. She turns her focus back to the track ahead.]
No. [Fukawa says firmly.] I'm n-not going to fold like some wet napkin. I have to finish.
[She pulls herself back up, slow and steady. There, feet under her hips, chin up and ready to go. The odds may be against her, but she has a mission. There's only been one whiff of a potential clue so far. It's waiting for her at the finish line.]
I'm g-going to get that stupid walkman. No matter what.
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[ Vasiliy straightens up and takes a step back to give her room—he gets the sense that the girl's probably going to wipe out again in the immediate future, but it seems just as likely that she will be offended by help if she does. Some people have to learn on their own.
Still, he at least offers some advice: ]
Turn the foot you're going to push with out little bit. The toes should not be forward completely. You push and then come back down and go forward. Like ice skating.
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Um. Like this? [She tries a little push, and whoa whoa whoa!
Though her hands fling out she doesn't tumble this time. Only scoots ahead by half a meter.]
Okay, so that's...j-just keep going like that? [Which sounds very final, and she's not ready to fly solo yet.]
Wait! Don't — I won't get the hang of it just like that! You better...you b-better stick it out with me to the end! [He's gotta be twice her age. Maybe? Hard to tell. Still, there's got to be some sense of chivalry in him. Obligation says he can't abandon a young girl in need. He'd look cruel if he tried.]
I'll even split the prize with you.
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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. ]
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Fukawa takes turns casting her owlish eyes his way and then to the track below. In theory it all sounds quite easy. Gravity nags at her every move and yet with his guidance, she's staying afloat. It's slow going of course. She's got no natural proclivities for sports of any kind. All that innate grace went to her other half — some inexplicable, psychosomatic split keeps their talents separate. She writes, Syo fights. She stutters, Syo soliloquizes. It's the sort of anomaly a neurologist would wet themselves over.
There's a near topple to the left and she has to snag his arm again. Fukawa wishes desperately she could bridge that gap. Maybe someday, if there's any experts on the subject left. For now she's got to put all her faith in this total stranger. He's shown her an awful lot of grace, considering she's done nothing but be a total pest.]
S-sorry. [That should probably be a thank you instead. She grits her teeth and tries a different tack.] This is probably really boring to you, isn't it? It's all kid's stuff. D-do they expect us to just wait around playing games while they fix this...c-"curse" shit?
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Skating is not only for kids. I think this could be fun if you practice. It's fun on ice.
[ Again, a pang of nostalgia, the memory of ice-coated branches overhanging the frozen pond in Gorky Park, laughter and conversation in his own language, the burn of Moscow's winter cold on his nose and cheeks, little children taking the sorts of wobbling steps she's taking now. ]
Maybe they are not fixing it. [ A dangerous, almost seditious thought, one he doesn't intend to go any further with. Who knows who's listening? ] I think we have to.
your info page says he has an accent, hope this is okay?
Fukawa pulls a face that belies several doubts.]
I'll take your word for it.
[Although — all right, it's hard to parse with this mysterious auto-translation sorcery going on, which is something she both does not want to think about and cannot stop thinking about, but he does have an accent of some kind. It would be easier to tell which if they were speaking Japanese. It sounds sort of European? Nordic, German? Russian? Something stoic and northerly, nowhere near percussive enough for the Mediterranean. Maybe he's got a history of long winters with little else to do but strap on a pair of skates.]
Y-you're probably right. [It's not a comforting idea, but it's a likely one. If nothing else, Fukawa has learned that relying on outside forces to fix anything was a fool's tactic. They're the ones in this mess, so they'll have to be the ones to climb out of it. Still, the addition of the supernatural puts a potent wrinkle in that. The stunt with the door keeps giving her goosebumps, the image snapping back into mind on an hourly rotation. Then there's the anachronism of the setting, the bizarre spread of captives, the oblivious locals. That stupid shared dream.
How are they expected to contend with a force so nebulously defined? She's drawing nothing but blanks. If she had been a sci-fi or fantasy enthusiast maybe she'd have better theories.]
I still d-don't know what to believe. Or what they're even talking about. Have you seen anything weird yet? [She shoots him a quizzical glance.] I don't feel cursed.
yes! he definitely does.
This place seems normal. Only arrival was weird. And the door lock, with blood. ...I think we are in nineteen-eighties.
[ He knows they're in the Eighties, because the first thing he did upon waking up in an unfamiliar place—after hunting for styptic powder for his hand—was locate a newspaper. It's not the first time he's woken up in a different time, but it is the first time others have been there with him, which leads him to wonder if he didn't die in his sleep despite that initially seeming a likely explanation given the events of his paused-and-resumed life thus far.
Seeing a wall of replicas of Gorbachev's face moving in sync across a dozen TV screens in a store window at the mall also helped grind in the point. ]
Excellent ty ty
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3; cw: blood
[Never mind the aggravation of people stopping in the middle of his path - which is very high on the very long list of Things That Annoy Him™ - but now there's also blood in the mix. Rodney's indignation is fueled by an innate need for hygiene and hypochondriac panic and he takes a step back, rising his hands, mouth agape as he stutters in surprise and disgust.
Not that any of that blood actually touched him. But it could have?!]
Are you kidding me? Look, point your sacrificial hand somewhere else or get it fixed like the rest of us!
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Sorry. [ Vasiliy grimaces, a display of submission, then offers, ] I didn't see it started bleeding again. I am hepatitis and HIV negative, if it matters to you.
[ The reaction seems slightly overblown for a few drops, enough so that he infers that information might be of interest to the other party. After all, bloodborne diseases seem to be the number one concern in the future, at least after obesity and cancer. ]
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[Rodney scowls and crosses his arms, huffing. He's in a bad mood; it's been a long day and he knows that this long day will turn into an even longer days, weeks, months, depending on what they are dealing with here.]
So. You're from... not here, I take it.
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No. St. Petersburg.
[ A renaming he hates—Leningrad had been fine, had been a logical change from the Petrograd he grew up in, but to un-name Leningrad had been an erasure of history.
Vasiliy moves the handles of the shopping bag to his forearm and uses his dry hand to fumble through the folded uniform within until he manages to open the velcro flaps of a leg pocket and produce a small roll of gauze, which he proceeds to start wrapping the bloody palm with. It's more awkward, doing the same familiar movement without a hand to keep the tail of the strip in place. The best he manages is to pin it with his thumb and move his knuckle out of the way when he comes back around. ]
You?
1
Hi, my name is Deely, and I'm an addict.
[ Classic al-anon humour. She went to one meeting but has been introducing herself like that for years before and since. It's really funny, trust her. ]
Who are you?
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[ 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.
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[ 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.
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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. ]
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[ 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?
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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Well, then what the fuck are you gonna shoot? It's a door! You gonna, what, incapacitate its hinges?
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[ 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.
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