June 2025 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

JUNE 2025 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — and the current inhabitants, their fellow survivors.

PROMPT TWO — WHAT LIES BENEATH: New fissures caused by seismic activity within the Northern Territories physiologically alters the Interlopers who check them out.

PROMPT THREE — SUFFOCATION RISK: Interlopers find it hard to breathe, and need a helping hand to catch a breather.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

These are the words of the Darkwalker, you’ll soon come to find.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. This place has been ransacked, abandoned long ago. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you.

Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

The sun is bright, enclosed in light fog. It is a strange kind of twilight.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilization...?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!

As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Ah. Once more, you poor souls come.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you, Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful... and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas, mostly. But some coffee can be found. There’s also soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast for those who have battled the cold to come here.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks — aided by a handful of others in the Hall. Your fellow survivors, but those who have been here for some time now. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but gesture to your fellow survivors. They will have better answers than him.

WHAT LIES BENEATH

WHEN: The month of June.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural ailments; mental manipulation; altered physiological states; potential character injuries; potential dangerous situations; potential cold injuries.

The world has gone quiet since last month’s quake that caused a considerable amount of damage around the Milton and Lakeside regions. Newer Interlopers have been met with a town still in the process of being repaired and rebuilt, and some properties have been abandoned all together, used only for spares and repairs of homes that are actually occupied. Milton was home to some thousand people in its hey-day, now it remains a shell of itself. Some hundred or so people making this place a home in a harsh and unforgiving world.

But the world is not completely quiet: tremors and minor quakes can still be felt as time goes on. These tremors don’t have the same impact as earlier quakes, but they’re enough to give someone pause — keeping Interlopers on their toes.

What’s more is the damage caused by this ongoing seismic activity is dotted all over the landscape: scars are beginning to show in the earth itself, or rather — open wounds.

The fissures are small and unassuming, but can easily snag someone’s attention. Even more curious about them is the occasional strange vapours that seem to curl and lazily rise from these fissures. The vapours are a faint green in colour, almost sickly, and there’s plenty enough in you to make you feel like you should keep well away from these rising fogs. But there’s something about curiosity and cats, after all.

The vapours won’t kill you, no. They certainly won’t do you any physical harm, either. No instant burning of the strange, caustic fog that plagued Interlopers last year, nor the sickness that Glimmerfog brought.

But getting close enough to the vapours to examine them will cause a change in you. It’s more of an insidious thing: gradual and slow, changes in your behaviour over the course of a week. Feeling a little more anxious than normal; snapping at people you interact with; avoidance of others; the feeling of being watched and a growing paranoia. You feel like the animal that has known the feel of the snare, or seen the barrel of the gun. Hunted and small.

Soon enough, this slow chipping away at your mind is enough to cause you to snap: fight or flight.

Fighters are lost into states of pure rage. They are combative, blind to anger in a desperate bid to survive — seeking out their dangers to face them head on. They are volatile, difficult to reason with. They will cause damage to anything around them, or anyone. They will cause damage to buildings, objects — smashing their way through whatever stands in their way. They will fight with those around them — their fellow Interlopers — lost in perceived threats.

Flighters are lost into states of pure fear. They’ll break down in crying fits, hysteria and abandon all logic — avoiding their dangers. They will try to escape from wherever they may be — wanting to run out into the wilds, putting them in potentially more dangerous situations. They could end up getting lost in the wilds, or encountering dangerous wildlife like moose, wolves or bears. Or perhaps even onto thin ice on bodies of water. They will hide whenever they can: under beds, in caves, anywhere their minds might tell them are places of safety.

To those around them, it’s finding a way to try and bring the affected Interloper back to their senses. It’s a little stumbling in the dark: wrangling flighters back to the safety of town, like trying to calm a spooked horse and give them a sense of safety and care and connection might be enough to bring them back to their sense. Fighters can arguably be dealt with the same way, but some might need restraining or fighting back in order to knock some sense into them. Perhaps even literally. Drawing blood in a fight with Fighters will also… strangely calm the affected Interloper down.

Affected Interlopers will be a little shaky afterwards. But a stiff drink or a hot meal and some rest will end up soothing them. Hopefully they won’t go poking around those fissures again.

SUFFOCATION RISK

WHEN: The month of June.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural afflictions; themes of suffocation; themes of co-dependency/unhealthy codependency; potential character death/near-death experience; medical emergencies.

You think that maybe it’s the weather. The Northern Territories have been known for unsettled and sometimes ferocious climate — this is the world of endless winter, after all. But June marks a period of calm as the midsummer draws near. Occasional biting winds are the only disturbances to that calm. Other than that, it’s just damn freezing. Even with the midsummer upon the world and the still weather — the world is frigid.

The cold often bites at one’s lungs, and maybe that’s all you think it is at first. Each breath is like ice, hard to catch, and you feel like you’re suffocating sometimes. Overexertion seems to make it worse, whether you’re hiking up a particularly difficult piece of terrain or carrying a heavy load.

Interlopers will need to stop to rest often, and even then it feels like you still can’t quite get your breath back. This breathlessness will slowly get worse over time, until it’s almost unbearable.

Until it ends up nosediving into something more horrifying. One day, it’s the worst it’s ever been. It feels like you’re drowning. Your breaths are shallow and quick. Your vision blurs and warps, a shimmer of dull prismatic at the corners of your eyes. The world grows smaller around you, your hearing growing dim and distorted. You cough and splutter, gasping for air that you cannot seem to breathe in.

Panic sets in. You are suffocating, and if something isn’t done quickly enough, you will die.

But there’s a strange pull in you, too. A need. A person. You get a sensation of them, something about them. Their hair colour, their voice, their smile. Maybe it’s someone you know, maybe it’s a complete stranger, but something in you pulls you towards them.

As the world closes in on you, everything zeros in on that person. They can help. Hopefully you have enough time to reach them, hopefully you can find them. Maybe they’re searching for you too, in the exact same predicament — unable to breathe and trying to find that person to help.

Reaching that person and touching them will finally allow you to breathe. Like the air is clear, and breaths are painless again. It’s like an instant balm, and slowly the world grows back again — vision and hearing restored. You don’t know why, but this person, whoever they are — has given you your breath back.

You’re spared from the affliction, for a short time. Soon enough, it will return, and you’ll need to find that person again. Or just keep them close for a little while.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

WHAT LIES BENEATH

1. Characters can be affected multiple times by the vapours.

SUFFOCATION RISK

1. The length of time Interlopers are 'stuck' together to combat the Suffocation Risk affliction is player choice. It could be a couple of days or even weeks — with the affliction itself ending by the end of the month.

2. Both Interlopers can be suffering from Suffocation Risk, or just one.

3. Interlopers who do not reach the person in time will die. They could potentially be revived through CPR, however — provided they are found quick enough.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

frédéric "freddie" lavoie | original character - modern realistic setting | current player!

[faa]

[ I already play Vasya (m1895) but figured I'd toss someone on the TDM this round! Character warnings. Freddie's a former-military, 33-year-old lapsed Catholic commercial pilot who has spent the past 4 months skating under the radar with severe undiagnosed bulimia. He's friendly, genuinely kind, and can be fun to be around, but he has some serious commitment/intimacy issues stemming from the parental divorce that made him a devout atheist at age 7 and getting cheated on during his first deployment ten years ago which have left him chronically incapable of attaining the intimacy he craves. Instead he just chases it with a life full of hookups, which he consistently self-sabotages by ghosting or calling it off after two or three meetings before he actually gets the kind of affection he's seeking. Despite his poor body image and repressed feelings of inadequacy, he gives the impression of someone confident and in-control - when in reality he spends each day feeling like he's holding on by his fingernails. Synopsis & full info! ]

I. JE N'VEUX PAS ÊTRE UN AMÉRICAIN IDIOT (BIENVENUE À UN NOUVEAU GENRE DE TENSIONS!)
arrival | CWs: contextual pejoratives, discussion of complex irl ethnolinguistic tension, mentions of french-canadian stereotypes

[ Freddie Lavoie—LAVOIE, FRÉDÉRIC IAN on the last page of the passport in his back pocket—hasn't been to Canada in... Christ, at least five years? It'd have to have been at least three, because he definitely hasn't been since before his last deployment. He can't really remember what was on the radio at the time, so there's not really a good way to pin it to any one moment in the past decade.

When he was last here is getting into the weeds. He needs to focus on the situation at hand, and he does so deliberately. Why, exactly, he's shuffling up to a sign that reads MILTON, CANADA — 2 KM AHEAD in his dreams remains unclear, though he's sure a therapist would slap a bright red "Daddy Issues" label on it and call it a day the moment she heard about the okayish Québécois father part of the equation that makes up whatever the hell is going on with him now. At the moment, Freddie finds himself significantly more concerned with the bone-chilling voice that woke him from sleep-within-sleep in some rickety old shack and his seeming inability to wake despite recognizing this as a dream. That's pretty fucking unnerving.

There's an element of absurdity to all of this. He's not dressed for the weather in the dream in the slightest; while his pilot's jacket provides at least some measure of protection against the cold as he pushes open the front door and it almost falls off its hinges, it's not nearly enough, and he's cold within a few moments of standing outside— made worse by the snow getting into his black dress shoes and soaking through his matching unwarm polyester men's dress socks as he traipses through the snow in the direction of the road's dead end. There is no driveway to connect the shack to said road.

He's not sure what, exactly, he has to do to wake up. He's tried pinching himself several times, and he's felt the pain as vividly and clearly as he would while awake. The chill is more vivid than it should be in a dream. Usually that kind of discomfort would wake him up; even the uncomfortable burn of the acid reflux he's developed of late has been enough to jolt him from sleep in the past.

So why can't he wake up now?

He doesn't know, but he knows he might as well follow the dream's logic and see if there's anyone to ask in the town ahead so he can wake up and stop freezing his ass off in dreamland. Once he's on the road, he follows it, walking along the edge of the cracked asphalt and stepping over gaping ravines torn into the pavement by what he assumes to be either some sort of tectonic activity or grave misappropriation of construction equipment.

It takes about thirty minutes of this before he reaches the next breadcrumb: a sign planted to mark the city's outer limit. Milton, Pop. 947. Smoke from someone's chimney trails into the air beyond the treeline. And then there are people, all going about their daily activities while paying no mind to the man in the crisp commercial pilot's uniform that stands out so starkly against their well-worn winter clothing.

Milton, Canada. That's an Anglo name, so it's fair to say he's not dreaming about anywhere he's personally familiar with, but the French-Canadian population has scattered across the country enough by this point that half of these people might be Francophone.

...There's also a distinct possibility that they might not be, and might feel a little equivocal about their daily activities being interrupted by some fucking guy named Frédéric and start anticipating an attitude; at worst, whether he's being rude and interrupting or asking for help might depend on the twin accents aigu on the Canadian passport in his back pocket. Best to keep that card in the deck until he knows if disclosing his father's point of origin would be shooting himself in the foot, especially given that, as far as he's concerned, the specific genre of French-Canadian accounting for half of his parentage haven't exactly gone out of their way to endear themselves to the rest of the country, or assimilate, depending on who you ask.

And if one asks Freddie Lavoie, well, he gives less of a shit one way or the other than he probably should, but he's never taken the extra three seconds to set himself apart from all the Smiths and Taylors and Browns of the world by writing the diacritics omitted from his American documents, so maybe he's in the business of appeasing the Anglos too.

Sorry, Papa. Too late to stop now, especially given the circumstances. ]

Excuse me. Where am I? [ If it's a year other than 2025, Freddie's not aware of it, so one had better believe he's shoving a hand into his back pocket and holding up his closed Canadian passport. For all he knows, Milton could be some right-wing natalist cesspool in rural Saskatchewan. ] I'm a citizen. Do you know what's going on here?

[ But there's still reason enough for a citizen to know French without being French, and it's entirely possible that this person speaks English as a secondary language, as is the case with Matthieu Lavoie, and would very much appreciate the gesture of addressing them in their own language and their own dialect. Appreciate, ie, be more likely to help, especially if they recognize him as like.

And that's what he needs. Help.

So Freddie immediately offers the translation on the heels of the initial probe in English, not realizing, of course, that they're both just going to come across in the same language as the listener's thoughts, albeit accented. Anyone who can set apart I am Québécois from a mention of the same group at a native speaker's tempo, he figures, is at least sympathetic enough to put time into learning more than Je m'appelle Chad. ]

《 Hey, excuse me, are you able to help me? I'm Québécois. I don't know where I am or what's going on here. 》

II. I'VE BEEN LIVING IN A MOVIE SCENE, PUKING AMERICAN DREAMS
methuselah's feast | CWs: binging and purging, internalized fatphobia, orthorexic thoughts, emeto

[ Even in his dreams, Freddie purges.

Because that's what this is. A dream. And that's what he's doing. Vomiting in another unfamiliar bathroom.

It's rough this time, like it sometimes is, and he has to use his hand, like he did back when he was new to doing all of this—but he has to do it. The alternative is far worse, no matter what the old man said about diseases stalling in their progression here: Freddie Lavoie isn't in the business of just believing random old dream wizards, first of all, and second of all, he doesn't even want to think about how many calories he just consumed after discreetly inhaling his bodyweight in red meat and bread because he'll probably throw up a second time, not on purpose. Even if his blood sugar should be stabilized here (sounds unlikely), his weight sure as shit won't be. And that's motivation enough.

So is the rising sense of anxiety, the feeling of being a rat trapped in a flooding cargo hold. He wants to wake up. He wants to wake up.

The feeling of absolution after he's emptied himself is the nearest substitute, even if his throat sears and the insides of his cheeks are on fire and it's making his eyes water. He sniffs, straightens up, wipes his mouth, flushes and rises to his feet. He needs to wash his hands before he lances himself and uses the familiar battery-operated meter he found little too conveniently in the shack beside his passport and gun.

The old man told him he won't be able to find many strips other than the ones he came with, but that he shouldn't need them. Well, that was before Methuselah presumably saw him consume enough bread to feed a small village, which should be enough to convince him to revise that answer. It's worth expending a strip. He'll try harder tomorrow.

He stifles a hard, reflexive cough when a little residual acid prickles at the back of his throat on his way to the sink. And then he realizes someone is staring, like they've just heard the whole gory thing. The back of his neck burns; it feels intimate, voyeuristic, a violation, regardless of whether or not they just wandered into it. His tone is more than a little indignant, questioning. ]

Can I help you?

III. I'M UP ON ZILLOW, ACCENT PILLOWS
misc arrival | CWs: standard character-specific warnings.

[ Well, no matter where he ends up crashing tonight, it's going to be one hell of a downgrade from the apartment in Queens in every regard except for floorspace. So that's what Freddie tries to focus on: not the loss of electricity, or the lack of takeout, or lack of hot water, or shitty insulation, or the fact that all of the houses around here look like something from a shitty New England horror movie or the cabin in the woods from Cabin in the Woods, but the floorspace. And he'll have a yard, even if it's covered in snow all-year-round.

He'll be a homeowner in hell, but he will be a homeowner...

He has no fucking idea where people are and aren't occupying, though, because he doesn't know the area. And he needs somewhere to sleep tonight if he's going to sleep (and then hopefully wake up in the real world). Being that there are no real estate agents here, he's just going to have to ask for help—in his first language this time, given that people seem able to understand you no matter what you're speaking. ]

Hey, excuse me, sorry to bother. My name's Freddie, I just got here. Do you know where people are moving to, generally?

I couldn't find a realtor.

IV. WILDCARD

Feel free to shoot me a DM on discord @ redmaresociety or PP bluehellgazette if you'd like to plot something! In general, Freddie's going to be spending most of his time exploring and trying to scrounge and stockpile any useful items he can.

iii - I'll be using spoiler tabs until collapse kicks in c:

[shewhograspsthesky]

Le Spoilers

[A teenager with long red hair turns to his question. Her face warped from scars of fire and her right eye missing, an empty socket that contrasts the light blue of her left. Her voice sounds like grating sand against soft tissue. With an emphasized shrug she gestures around them.]

I was told to just pick one. It doesn't seem like too many are bothered where you go.

np! cw eye trauma

[faa]

[ The girl's face is startling, but it's not like Freddie's never seen immolation scars before—he was deployed three times, even if the endcap to his military service was more of a watch-and-wait operation, and he's been in Air Force and VA hospitals to get his shots and get his hearing evaluated and get physicals, all of which involved sitting in waiting rooms with guys who sometimes had it much, much worse than he ever did, the sorts of people his mind turns to when situation forces him to think about the Purple Heart he never should have accepted.

The empty socket, on the other hand, is nauseating, and he wishes she'd cover it and is kind of shocked that she hasn't. Especially given that she seems to be a teenager, college aged at the absolute oldest. A sensitive time, where looks are concerned, though he supposes at the level of mutilation she's faced she may have moved on in a way he apparently never did.

But he doesn't let any of his internal reaction make it to his face; it would be cruel. She's already gone through a lot, maybe was in a war zone or a house fire or something. ]

Did you hear anything about where most of the ones that aren't taken are? There's a lot of people here. Doesn't seem like there would be much free around the center of town.

[shewhograspsthesky]

Spoiler Tab~

[She is aware of her appearance, all too aware. But what can she do?

She crosses her arms, maybe in part for warmth. How does he consider this a 'lot' of people? It feels so... empty to her. It's nothing like Paris. Even Lumiere was more lively.]

You could try knocking. I doubt anyone would mind.

[That's her tactic, anyway. It's not great advice, but then again. She's just a 16 year old.]

[faa]

You had any luck doing that yet?

[ It's cold out, like Upstate New York dead of winter cold, and he'd really rather avoid being out here too long. He'd also like to find somewhere to sleep that isn't the community center before nightfall, or what would be nighttime hours in a place further from the Arctic Circle. ]

[shewhograspsthesky]

Not yet. [She's not even sure if she wants to live in the center of this town. It's probably safer but... people.

She'll point to one house that has smoke rising from its chimney.]

You can tell when someone's home at least. Who lives where. [She shrugs.] It can't be that hard.

[faa]

Maybe. They might be out, might not want to waste firewood.

[ He's heard that there's another development here, more recently discovered, called Lakeside, but it's further away from the center of town than he'd really like to be. He cants his head in the direction opposite the town square. ]

I'm going to start at the outskirts and work my way in, if you want to come. It's probably more likely that there are some places free further away from everything.

[shewhograspsthesky]

[She looks around at the cluster of houses in the center. Maybe being a little ways out couldn't hurt. She's never lived on her own before though and in her condition it might not be a good idea.]

I guess it can't hurt to see what's out there.

[She can always trudge back to the center and start knocking on doors as planned. Surely if it was owned and someone was out it'd be locked or something.]

[faa]

It can't. Are you warm enough?

[ Not that he wants to part with what little warmth his uninsulated suit jacket offers, because he most certainly does not. But she's built on a slight frame, and she doesn't give the impression of robustness or good health. She seems to need it more than him, and he's the adult here. ]

[shewhograspsthesky]

[She has some form of jacket by now, having grabbed one from the hall. Which I forgot to mention. But she certainly underestimated the cold.]

I'll be fine. But maybe you aren't.

[She'll give a tilted smile.]

The community hall has some spare they've left out for us. Maybe we should go there first.

i.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving knows only the very basics in beginner conversational French, but instinct and decorum already have him reaching into the depths of his memory banks to call up what he can when he hears the man — military of some caliber, he's assuming, based on the man's kit — speaking in what is either simply accented English or, in fact, actual French, because if there's some foolproof way to know the difference in this place Irving certainly hasn't cottoned on. ]

《  Hello, sir. Yes, I will help you. You are in the...  》er, the Northwest Territories, I-I can...《  take you to... food. Manges? 》

[ He makes a gesture with his hand like he's putting food in his mouth, since that seemed to work the last time he encountered a language barrier. Not that this is really a barrier in so much as... Irving just doesn't want to be rude and force someone who might not be a native English speaker to think they have to switch to English, even though in the end there is effectively no difference. ]

《  I speak only a little not very good French, sorry, but can understand all here speaking.  》[ He gestures to himself now, then to Freddie. ] Um... that is,《  everyone language understanding? But warm inside, you can follow me please.  》

[ Dammit, where is Hodgson when you need him? He's always been more comfortable speaking French. Irving is well-aware he is making himself look very foolish unnecessarily, and now that he's gotten this far, he regrets making the attempt to begin with. His face flushes pink, equal parts from cold and from embarrassment. ]

Sorry, can you... did you understand anything I just said?

[faa]

[ Freddie does, in fact, understand all of it. He keeps a straight face through the fumbling attempts at his other language; it would be mean to laugh, and moreover, he wasn't expecting the man to try at all.

He has a very, very strong English accent, and further, he's dressed like he's English, and... possibly from a time much earlier than his own. From the time half of his own ancestors came over from France and the other half were still living in County Cork under English rule. None of this seems particularly out-of-place in such an outlandish dream. ]

All of it. Getting out of the cold sounds good. ...where am I?

[extramuralise]

[ "All of it:" an answer somehow even more embarrassing than if the man hadn't been able to understand a word, which could have easily been the case no thanks to Irving's abysmal French grammar— the words themselves may have (somehow) translated, but like a man speaking in tongues, the meaning had been garbled and broken.

Ah well. At least the man seems to have not taken offense at Irving's clumsy, if still well-intentioned, efforts with the language. ]

I'll confess I've not had much cause for speaking French since back when I was still a schoolboy, [ he says sheepishly, by way of apology. Appropriately, his French proficiency is certainly reflective of someone who took French lessons in school, but then has barely needed it in the many years since. ] But you're in the Northern Territories of Canada— near the Arctic. We're closest to a town called Milton.

[faa]

[ The Northern Territories. Does he mean—? ]

Do you mean the Northwest Territory?

[ That's near the Arctic, and it seems like an easy enough thing for a foreigner to get mixed up. If most of the English can't accurately identify the states in America, he imagines they don't have a standing chance at accurately labeling a map of Canada's far fewer provinces.

Either way, it's valuable information. If they're close to the Arctic and to the west, this place is likely almost exclusively populated by English speakers and indigenous people speaking their languages. The aren't that many French speakers this far north. ]

[extramuralise]

[ The word Northwest suddenly triggers an odd sort of dread in Irving seemingly out of nowhere: a cold and sinking feeling, as if several of his organs have all just threatened to freefall from their usual placement in favor of plunging down into the hollow of his gut. It's a feeling he has neither the time nor understanding for, so like most unpleasant things, Irving gamely attempts to ignore it. ]

I... yes, I suppose I must, [ he allows hesitantly, brows knitting in mild confusion. Not that it doesn't make perfect sense: if they're this near the Arctic — or perhaps, for all he knows, even within its broader geographical boundary — then of course it must be Northwest, as in Northwest Passage. Why hadn't he thought of that before? ] Though as far as I know, they don't refer to it as such here.

[ Not that he's heard, anyway, but then, it isn't exactly like Irving to be proactively investigating situations he finds too overwhelming and/or upsetting to comprehend— and wherever they are really is nowhere he's actually ever been before, although certainly it must still be somewhat close to King William's Land, if clearly not quite within shouting distance. ]

But we've mostly only found notes and literature, to that effect. All the locals and natives have long since... moved on, apparently.

cw mentions of Canada's genocides

[faa]

Moved on? What do you mean?

[ He trails off when he says moved on in a way that gives Freddie the not-so-vague sense that he's trying to be polite about an unpolite reality, like the English often do—even if he's never met a Victorian Englishman before, he's met enough tourists over the past year flying commercial to start to pick up on a general pattern of behavior vis-a-vis how unpleasant topics are addressed.

Is he talking about colonialism? Locals as in the indigenous people who were here before the takeover? There seem to be plenty of people here now, though he's seen very, very few faces that look remotely Inuit or First Nations to his eye, so that's the conclusion he falls on — an Arctic 'explorer' who doesn't quite know how to address the topic of Canada's genocides. The whole conversational guidelines around Truth and Reconciliation haven't reached him yet, it'd seem. ]

iv. @gildedlife

[faa]

[ There's still a part of him, even after meeting John Irving, even knowing that he's in a dream, that remains convinced that this part of the unrealness is especially not real.

It's true enough that people dream about celebrities. But Captain Fitzjames from the doomed Franklin expedition Papa told him about on one of his custody days when he was like 12 isn't really that, he's just... a notable figure in history most Americans don't even know of.

But he still makes the walk. All the way to Lakeside, in fact, where he's been told Captain Fitzjames resides. He's not sure what the goal of the visit is—obviously he has some questions he'd like to ask if this is actually real, but he's not really at the step of mentally composing them yet. He's just seeing if anyone answers when he knocks on the front door of the cabin with the correct number on it.

So that's what he does. He stands there catching his breath after the trek and knocks on, allegedly, Captain James Fitzjames' door. ]

[gildedlife]

[It is indeed James' door, and James is, for the first time in awhile, home. It's not exactly by choice, though, as the affliction that had gradually come on and only worsened with time had prompted him to return from Silverpoint earlier than planned.

It also means he's very stressed, at the moment. Although he doesn't feel too horrible in any way other than the difficulty breathing, that in itself is more than enough to be upsetting, even without the memories and associated emotions it brings up in him. At this point he's not sure what to do about it, still hoping it will simply resolve itself, but he'd wanted to be closer to the people he cares for if it doesn't.

So he's indeed in his cabin, though neither in much of a state nor expecting to have any visitors. The knock is therefore a surprise, and he imagines it must be either one of the lieutenants or Zane, and so doesn't bother to make himself any more presentable than he already is, which is... Presentable enough, at least for this place. The sweater he's wearing is one he'd found on the way to Silverpoint, a soft cranberry color and mostly intact, unlike his other sweater which still needs repairs after the bear attack a few months earlier; his hair is somewhat-messily chopped to a length shorter than he likes but still certainly not considered short, and as he's not wearing a hat the grey streak is prominent enough to be noticed.

Had he thought it would be a stranger at his door, or even just an acquaintance, he might've taken the time to compose himself despite feeling unwell. But he doesn't consider the possibility, and so he opens the door, and is met with someone he has certainly never spoken with before.

He should say hello first, and be polite, but that would take breath he doesn't have much desire to waste and he's not exactly in the mood to be entertaining unknown guests anyway. So poor Freddie gets a stare instead, as James is making what's surely not the greatest first impression.]

[faa]

[ The man stares at him, and, well, that blank look mirrors the nebulous remembered image of the daguerreotype in one of his dad's books. That very much is James Fitzjames. One of the captains of the doomed Franklin Expedition.

That does not stop Freddie from asking regardless. ]

I'm sorry, are you... [ This is ridiculous. ] You're Captain Fitzjames. [ Said warily, experimentally, seeking confirmation. It's not a confident statement, despite the striking resemblance to the nondescript features he remembers. ]

[gildedlife]

[Of all the things this stranger could've said, at least it's something that gives James a bit of context, or at least lets him assume some. It also shakes him out of his momentary lapse in composure, and he blinks once before drawing himself a little more upright.]

I am, yes.

[His voice is fainter than he'd like it to be, but he'd rather sound a little worse and better hide his shortness of breath than the other way around. And he remembers his manners, belatedly, and steps aside to allow Freddie in; he doesn't seem dangerous and it's cold outside, so it's only polite to at least not make him stand in the doorway.]

Did one of the lieutenants send you here?

[They're some of the few of know where he lives--it's not out of secrecy, just a relatively recent change--and likely the only ones who would've referred to him as 'captain', so it seems a reasonable guess. It might also explain the uncertainty, perhaps.]

[faa]

[ The man—the alleged Captain James Fitzjames—steps to the side, making an empty, deliberate space to allow him inside. This whole thing feels unnervingly bizarre, but even in a dream, Freddie can feel the cold—and as the sweat he worked up coming here cools on his skin, he quickly decides he's no match for it.

He steps inside enough for the door to be closed behind him, but doesn't venture much further into the cabin. For a moment, he just watches the dream figure, processing. Then he realizes that even if this isn't real, he should be polite, so he holds out a hand for the other to shake, his own voice a little muted, still disbelieving. ]

Major Lavoie, American Air Force. —sorry, you wouldn't... I was in the military. It would have been the far future for you. Two-thousand fourteen. [ He hasn't really picked up on any chronological dates in this world, yet. ] ...You died. You all did. But you're here.

[gildedlife]

[There isn't much to see in the cabin anyway; it's only newly lived in by James, and the previous owner had cleared out much of their supplies. A few basic pieces of furniture remain, but no real personality has been added yet, at least not to this front room. However, there is at least a small fire going, heating up a kettle.

James shuts the door when given room, and then turns his attention back toward Freddie for that little ramble, and finds himself torn between amusement and irritation; on one hand, the disjointed stumbling over what he's saying is kind of endearing, on the other... Freddie could've chosen a better comment to end on.

So James fixes him with another look, this time intentionally, though he does shake the offered hand after a moment's delay.]

I'm well aware.

[He's none too enthused about either the dying or finding himself here parts of things, and doesn't care to be reminded of them. But he gathers his patience, takes as deep a breath as he can, and continues.]

Did you just arrive?

[This seems like the behavior of someone who's just woken up in this place, and if so, James can be forgiving.]

[faa]

I did. [ Wryly: ] Can you tell?

[ A beat passes as Freddie takes in the sparse domestic scenery behind his host. This all feels so very unreal, and so vivid, all at the same time. Fitzjames lacks the ethereal flimsiness of a figure in one of his dreams; the man standing across from him is real, slight of build but still obviously solid flesh and blood, having substance and realness he could reach out and touch. It's deeply, deeply unnerving, as is standing across from a dead man in the same destination.

And that triggers, for the first time, a thought that he can't keep himself from seeking reassurance for the moment it surfaces. His voice comes out small. ]

Am I dead?

[gildedlife]

[Any irritation James might've been feeling drains away at that last question, the tone of Freddie's voice, the memory of his own first few days here--what little he does remember of them--and how he'd been too afraid to ask that same question himself.]

I don't know.

[He wishes he could say otherwise, but he truly doesn't know. It doesn't seem so, but it certainly would make the most sense, although--]

But it does seem that this would be something of a disappointing afterlife.

[Though then again, perhaps that would be fitting in itself in some way. Still, that thought is perhaps even less reassuring than the uncertainty, and he's well aware of that.]

And it's one indistinguishable from life, in many ways. Tea?

[It isn't 'have you eaten' but it's adjacent.]

II cw dumb teen boy; referenced drug dealing, emeto; brief injury mentions

[ployboy]

I have Dramamine and Pepto.

[And Tim has never felt more confident that he's somehow chased the wrong calling in his life: telling his wares to the rickety walls of the men's room, stared down by a man who wants him squashed (Tim's just going by vibes- there wasn't a lot going on in his head when he had just needed to pee. sue him.), debating washing his hands when he knows the water from the sink will make him wish for the sweet release of death, knowing he has a cure (not 'the' cure, 'a' cure)... is neat.

But despite the smooth brained adolescent shit going on in his head, Tim grimaces and turns on the faucet- and he's frowning, too. The broken mirror in front of him is where he looks to this guy, eyes nervous in that way that speaks to the fact that, no, he doesn't make a habit of staring in the men's room. He's sorry.

But he had also heard-- well, yeah.

So Tim cuts his gaze back to that communal bar of soap and his hands hurt from the splash of water he had dared get on them to lather up good and proper. Compared to his unfortunate companion, Tim's a shrimp. And it hadn't occurred to him how deconditioned he was until he'd nearly gotten stomped by an angry cow a week or so ago. His arm still shocks him sometimes with how deep the aches go; the smell of animal still clings repugnant to his nose. He'll avoid the big feast here at the Center...

if the other doesn't, like, beat him up first.

That would suck. Guy looks ticked. It's understandable.

So Tim, awkward but insistent... insists, shrugs a shoulder to move the plain old burgundy backpack on him,] If you want. It took me a while to get used to the food here too. So I stocked up on, like, all the gummies. The good stuff.

[Tim thinks, shaking his red hands dry- yeah. He'd want to beat himself up too if he'd just barfed and had to listen to that.]