singmod: (Default)
methuselah ([personal profile] singmod) wrote in [community profile] singillppl2025-06-04 11:05 pm
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June 2025 Test Drive Meme

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.

offseers: (Erythia Sea)

noah | xenoblade 3 | newbie

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-05 01:23 am (UTC)(link)
( i. methuselah's feast )
[ 'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

noah glances at the mark on his hand. it's still there. even though his Blade can no longer be called. he would say it bodes ill, but he's too tired to care. his body is heavy, his knuckles are raw. it's tempting to lie down in the cold and simply . . . wait.

but.

he couldn't. so he trudges through the snow, arms crossed. shivering away. he remember a distant memory. he doesn't even look up as he passes people by, though he may glance at them curiously. noting their facial features. wrinkles. white hair.

he can't help it, even now. sometimes he stares too long. sometimes, his expression grows bitter before it melts away into contrition. ]


Sorry.


( ii. what lies beneath — fighter ) cw: violence, self-inflicted harm
[ is this how he felt? noah can't help but wonder. compare. he may never know the truth. N was cold all over. everything about him was cordoned off. vicious. ruthless. a cruelty beyond compare. and now, N mocks him in his head. laughing.

"Isn't she your Mio?"

noah yells. slams his fists against the ground. feels his aching knuckle bruise over and over. he tried. he tried. the grief claws at his heart and the rage, oh the rage. it boils over. ]


( iii. suffocation risk )
[ even now, though. noah can't help himself. even when he feels mired in his own despair, he can't help but reach out. a comforting hand on a shoulder. a light touch to someone's palm. fingers that exist to hold onto you. ]

It's all right. It'll be all right.


( iv. wildcard )
[ got a prompt in mind? please pm up this journal! ]
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

Maelle | Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 | fresh meat c:

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-05 07:19 am (UTC)(link)
[OOC Note: Spoiler Opt-Out can be found here. Please pm if you have any particular concerns. Her canonpoint is post-game from a particular ending, so there will be differences from canon.]

Act 2 Epilogue Spoilers+ are inevitable, don't look.

[Arrival]
Cold and soaked through to the bone, a red-headed girl seems determined to cling to the fire of the hall. Her expression twists from her scars, emphasizing in deep grooves of warped skin the maddening questions she can't ask. For a moment between bouts of shivers she'll hold out her hand and make a gesture, a twist of the wrist as though she were conducting a piece of music. When the result she seeks eludes her, her expression only sours.

I don't understand. What am I doing wrong? She thinks to herself as her exasperation billows. She shakes her arms to dislodge the doubts and frustration and tries again in vain.

How did I mess things up this time? A rasp of a sigh escapes her as her one eye wanders the room. When eyes meet her she'll turn away, regretting the glimpse she took.


[What Lies Beneath: Fight]
It's in a quiet corner that she decides to lunge and fleche at a tree with her rapier. A stab, a jab, a cut, a slice. The bark breaks and cracks. The snow falls in clumps from its disturbed branches. And yet she persists with abandon. She might eagerly go after a wolf next.

It would be unwise to disrupt her lest her rapier turn against you instead.


[Suffocation Risk]
Since the fire, breathing has always been painful. So when the pain worsens, she's slow to react, slow to acknowledge the problem is beyond her normal. She brushes it off and ignores it. Until one morning the pain constricts and tightens. She strains and coughs, holding her throat. No smoke, no fire, why can't she breathe?

When she stumbles outside, it's in search of the one in her mind. The wicked winds only feel like they're trying to steal away what little breath she has left. She tries to clear her throat over and over with no reprieve as the world seems to spin. Finally, she stumbles and falls.


[Pick your Own Adventure]
[PM if you want to hash anything out c:]
Edited 2025-06-05 16:58 (UTC)
desperate_times_right: (Default)

I

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-05 07:07 pm (UTC)(link)
[Chloe always comes down from the farm for these feasts to scope out the new people. Unfortunately this month the constant sunlight is leaving her feeling sick and irritable so she's not quite as gregarious as she normally is at these events.

She spots a kid staring at her and gives him a hard look.]


Got something to say?
desperate_times_right: (face forward)

suffocation (I’m canonblind but spoiler agnostic so go wild)

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-05 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)
[Chloe is outside of the farmhouse working on the pipes for the greenhouse’s boiler when she spots a flutter of movement, which eventually resolves into a kid collapsing in the road.

At first she assumes the girl just slipped on some ice she hadn't seen, but when she doesn't get up, Chloe drops her tools and rushes to her side.

Weakened as she is by the sun, she hopes that she won’t have to carry her anywhere.]


Hey, kid. You okay?
meadqueen: (Default)

ii

[personal profile] meadqueen 2025-06-05 07:22 pm (UTC)(link)
[This attitude is everywhere right now, it seems. First Frodo taking a swing at her because they had refused to serve him in the alehouse in Silverpoint and now this.]

What are you doing?
meadqueen: (Left)

Arrival

[personal profile] meadqueen 2025-06-05 07:30 pm (UTC)(link)
[It’s like looking at her own ghost. When Maelle looks around the room, she’ll spot a woman looking at her. She's got long red hair pulled into a high ponytail, and while the scars on her face suggest the claws of an animal more than fire, there is a patch over her right eye. A young wolf dozes at her feet.

When the younger woman looks away, she adopts a bit of a guilty expression.]


I apologize. What were you doing just now?
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

Gonna do spoiler tabs until collapse kicks in c:

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-05 08:00 pm (UTC)(link)
Spoilery Spoils
[Within the dizziness, she can hear Chloe's voice and as if by instinct she'll reach out, almost flailing to grasp at her hand or arm. She doesn't speak enough of an answer to satisfy the question, but through the dry rasps of pain the answer is undoubtedly a 'non'.]
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-05 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Spoils
[Her voice is harsh, scraped thin and tender as though each syllable scratches against sand. At least she has words here, even if unpleasantly so.]

Nothing. [The disappointment hangs over her. For a moment she sulks at her predicament before glancing back at the woman. Her question nears rhetorical wonder as she scans the room once more and those gathering for food and warmth.]

Where is this place?
desperate_times_right: (Neutral)

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-05 08:37 pm (UTC)(link)
[Okay, bad sign. Chloe takes the girl’s hand, grateful at least that she doesn't seem to have that energy in her that Chloe’s always hungry for now, and squeezes it to try and ground her.]

I live just up the road. Can you stand if I help you?
meadqueen: (Tower)

[personal profile] meadqueen 2025-06-05 08:42 pm (UTC)(link)
[The painful rasp in the girl’s voice actually warms Randvi’s heart a little, as strange as it might sound. She has a friend at home whose voice is rough thanks to a mauling by wolves as a child, and the sound feels familiar.]

The village itself is called Milton - you likely saw the sign on the way in - and it is in a land called Canada. You are very far from anything you've ever known.
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-05 09:13 pm (UTC)(link)
Le Spoils
[She holds one of her arms in thought, her mouth twists to the side. This isn't a canvas, these people are real, weird but real. A lot of this place has been same, same but different. So...]

I don't understand. Why don't people just leave, then?

[Paris is far, but not impossibly far, in theory. Why stay?]
offseers: (Memories)

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-06 12:38 am (UTC)(link)
[ noah ducks his head, sheepish. ]

Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude.

[ he's still bad at guessing the age of people. how old can people be? ]
offseers: (Future Awaits)

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-06 12:39 am (UTC)(link)
[ noah chokes on grief and anger. the miasma of pain clings to him. ]

I — I — I can't deal with it.
faa: (shut up / count your calories)

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

[personal profile] faa 2025-06-06 01:18 am (UTC)(link)
[ I already play Vasya ([personal profile] 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 [plurk.com profile] 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.
Edited 2025-06-06 15:09 (UTC)
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-06 01:48 am (UTC)(link)
Spoils
[Just from grasping her hand she already feels better. The constricting feeling lessens, air returns and the pain dims to what it was before. She blinks, bewildered. That wasn't simply in her head, right?]

Yeah. Yeah, I can stand.

[Pulling herself up she looks around herself. Snow, snow, more snow. She can't piece together what happened, but she's clearly spooked.]

Sorry, I don't know what happened. I- I was fine and then...
desperate_times_right: (Default)

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-06 01:52 am (UTC)(link)
[This one’s pushing forty and is a little sensitive about it.]

Okay. I'm guessing you're one of the new guys?
offseers: (106)

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-06 01:55 am (UTC)(link)
Yes?

[ a pause, still perplexed. ]

Though I'm not really sure what it means.
desperate_times_right: (Default)

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-06 01:58 am (UTC)(link)
That kind of stuff happens sometimes. Not used to the cold?

[This is one of the new people. It's often a shock at first.]

I can make you a hot drink when we get back to my place.
desperate_times_right: (Default)

[personal profile] desperate_times_right 2025-06-06 01:59 am (UTC)(link)
I don't know if it means anything. You got zapped away from wherever you came from and we don't know how to get back.
meadqueen: (Outside)

[personal profile] meadqueen 2025-06-06 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
We have not yet found a way to escape. The road you arrived on is blocked. We have managed to finally reach the coast, but the sea there is impassable as well.

But I think even if we are able to leave this island, we will have difficulty getting home. The place that I am from exists in a different time from this.
meadqueen: (Default)

[personal profile] meadqueen 2025-06-06 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
The ground?
offseers: (Elaice Highway)

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-06 02:11 am (UTC)(link)
[ is there anything to go back to? noah clenches his hands uselessly. gives a quiet breath.

one thing at a time. ]


And this world . . . What kind of world is it?
offseers: (Agnus Colony)

[personal profile] offseers 2025-06-06 02:13 am (UTC)(link)
No, not — [ he feels so angry. so frustrated. so lost. because she's gone and he had to watch and he wants time. time to stop. to just. stop.

the bruised knuckle start bleeding again. ]
— that. I lost her.

And I lost it all.
shewhograspsthesky: (Default)

[personal profile] shewhograspsthesky 2025-06-06 02:16 am (UTC)(link)
Spoils
[She shakes her head. She can't help but think of the cold mountains of Monoco's Station, but even that cold felt kinder compared to here. Maybe it was just the cold winds that took away her breath.

To Chloe, she gives a small smile at the offer.]


Thanks.

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