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singillppl2024-02-05 02:31 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2024-02-05 02:31 pm
Entry tags:
February 2024 Test Drive Meme
FEBRUARY 2024 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: Yet another 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 — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.
PROMPT TWO — OF FAIR FORTUNE: After spell of bad luck, finally, the Interlopers find A Very Good (albeit slightly spooky) Boy.
PROMPT THREE — BAD PICKINGS: An error is made when foraging for mushrooms that have been altered by the Aurora makes for some interesting situations for the Interlopers.
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.
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. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. 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.
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. Interlopers who arrive during the month of February will find themselves especially likely of falling foul to accidental injuries and the like. It's as if the bad luck of finding yourself in this place only gets much worse. Maybe you get yourself horrendously more lost than you mean to, maybe you end up with a sprained wrist or ankle after a fall, torn clothing from fighting through the thicker parts of the wilderness.
But soon enough, you'll be able to find a path to town. A little more worse for wear, but alive. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused — battered from the journey. 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. Some of them will direct you to the Community Hall, tell you to head there — you've been expected.
There is a sombre mood to the town. Although you can't quite place why, maybe you should ask?
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a community hall, by the looks of it. 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, but looks sad. He smiles warmly despite the sadness in him, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.
“Another batch of poor souls from the wilds.” 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. The lights are changing things, bringing more of you here. Come, we must get you warm and fed. Mother Nature has not been kind.”
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 and perhaps a rare canister of coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. 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 is very troubled, thoughtful. Much has been happening. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search among the new faces.
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, his mood is... low, mournful. but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.
This time, if he is approached, particularly by those who have been in Milton for some time, he will frown in thought. He is… considering something. Finally, he will speak:
“I had hoped that the secret cache I and your fellow Newcomers had found two months past would be enough until the spring comes.” He hesitates for a moment, his gaze moving to one of the many windows of the Community Hall. “If she ever arrives, that is.”
He doesn’t believe it will.
“More and more of you come. Life will continue to get harder with the numbers rising.” Methuselah explains. “Milton is but one town, and the way out to the south is blocked.”
He means the road out — the one that follows out of town, past the gas station and through the mountains. The tunneled road ends there, caved in with snow and stone. There is no way out that way. Methuselah is quiet for a few moments.
“... There must be another way out. For all of our sakes. It must be found."
OF FAIR FORTUNE
WHEN: The month of February.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts, Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: otherworldly animal;
The Interlopers have discovered that it is not best to trust the canines in this world. The wolves and volatile, aggressive — prone to attacking the town, people. There has even been an instance of a dog leading Interlopers off the beaten track some months ago, into trips and falls and all sorts of mischief. To come across any sort of dog these days would draw suspicion, perhaps even aggression from Interlopers.
And certainly, coming across this particular dog is enough to turn plenty around and start heading in the opposite direction.
There is something…. Otherworldly about this dog. In terms of breed, one might recognise it to look a great deal like an Old English Sheepdog — but far bigger and hardier. It almost looks as if moss and vines are matted in its long fur, which seems ridiculous — but it’s true enough. The dog does not bark, but instead will stop and look at you silently when you come across one another. If approached, it will not run off, but it does not want to be petted and prefers to keep a respectable distance between you and it.
Then, it will turn to look in one direction and begin heading that way. It looks as if it wants to take you somewhere, but it won’t run off for you to catch up. It keeps to your side, silent and steady as you head through the snow, the woods. Wherever you’re going, there seems to be no rush in getting there.
It’s a little unnerving: where did this dog come from? Why does it look so… strange? Where is it going? Where is it taking you? But even with these questions, it doesn’t seem like you’ll find much in terms of answers, not at first.
Soon enough, you’ll find it. It’s different for everyone, but it seems like it all has some recurring theme. Perhaps out in the cold wilds of the Northern Territories, you’re in desperate need of shelter or warmth — you and the dog will find yourselves facing an abandoned cabin, a place of safety from the cold, perhaps with warmer clothing within. Or perhaps the dog may lead you to some secret stash: a metal cache half-hidden in the snow, a small stone cairn — with vital loot hidden within: matches, flares, maybe even food. It may even lead you to foragable foods: mushrooms, berries or of the like — all safe to consume.
Whatever the strange dog leads you to, it is a fortune. A small one, but a fortune nonetheless. It seems as if it wanted to bring you to something to aid you in your time here. Upon finding whatever it is the dog leads you to, the dog disappears — never to be seen again.
BAD PICKINGS
WHEN: Mid-month onwards for a few weeks.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: altered food/foraged foods; drugs/hallucinogens / negative hallucinogenic trips; severely altered/warped moods; temporary amnesia; personality switches; loss of senses
The Northern Territories may be harsh, difficult conditions to survive in, but certainly not impossible. There is an abundance of wildlife, hardy enough to withstand the weather — even in the extreme, unpredictable times such as these. Foraging will soon come to be a staple for those stuck here in this world, and is just as important as hunting down any deer or rabbit. Flora is not only useful in terms of sustenance, but in its use in medicines and tinctures.
Mushrooms can be found here and there in particular areas: taking advantage of the wet, rotten wood of downed trees, or nestled in the sheltered undergrowth of the more densely wooded areas where it’s a little more suitable for fungi to grow. But not even the flora of this world is safe following the recent Auroras. The world is changing, and for the next few weeks — foraged mushrooms will have some… interesting effects, when consumed.
Interlopers that come across these mushrooms in the wilds will find themselves compelled to pick and eat these mushrooms right away. They're perfectly fine to eat raw, just more enjoyable to eat once cooked.
The effects of the mushrooms will last between eight hours to a full day, depending on how much was consumed. Nothing can be done to alleviate symptoms. You will feel incredibly hungover the day after the effects have subsided, and feel completely fine after that. The Aurora’s influence on mushrooms is only temporary, and the mushrooms will cease their effects after a few weeks.
Reishi mushrooms This mushroom will temporarily take away one of your five senses: sight, touch, smell, taste or hearing. You may find yourself feeling completely numb to touch; or unable to hear or see anything.
Oyster mushrooms Eating one of these mushrooms will give you temporary amnesia. You may forget yourself, things about your life, even your own name. Or maybe you will forget those around you. Or perhaps both.
Black Morel Eating this mushroom will seem to switch your personality to its complete opposite. Introverted sorts will become extroverted, those prone to anger will become more calm and chilled out, cheerful sorts will become more morose — and vice-versa.
Chanterelles Your mood is lifted and you become more cheerful and affectionate with those around you. You may even become more enamoured with the next person you happen to meet, regardless of your feelings towards them previously or your own orientation/attractions.
Amethyst Laccaria There is nothing supernatural or strange that happens when this mushroom is consumed. You just have a super bad hallucinogenic trip of your own horrible making. This mushroom is literally a nightmare. Sorry about that.
FAQs
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.
1. Please Do Not Pet That Dog.
1. Interlopers that pick a variety of the mushrooms and cook them together to eat will suffer the effects of whichever mushroom was in the largest quantity.
2. The mushrooms are fine to eat raw, and characters will feel compelled to eat them raw.
no subject
He doesn't quite like that Maccready seems to have followed the question to its natural conclusion; stupid as it is to want to have expected otherwise. There's nothing really meaningful in his answer, either, besides that revelation.
Don't ask, Tobi tells himself. This time he listens.
Biting his tongue, he turns his gaze aside to...something. He doesn't even know what, too busy staring at the picture in his thoughts. ]
So how'd you end up here?
[ Not exactly a fair question, when he's pretty sure Maccready still doesn't know where 'here' is, but he wants to hear it from his perspective first. In a way it's a trade-off, in his mind: a leading question, for the mercy of not following the trail of details that ends in whatever wretched memory gripped them earlier. ]
no subject
[ It'd almost pass as a whine if not for the low laugh. It is the unfortunate reality of the matter, though. Wherever they are, it's not the Capital, not the Commonwealth, either. He's barely grasping at the concept of time being non-linear, and as unbelievable as it might be it's not entirely far-fetched, is it? The idea of being in a different, alternate world hasn't even entered his mind. ]
We— [ mm, no. ] I didn't stick around in the Capital. I'd been running with some caravans for a while, managed to convince one of 'em to let me ride with them further north. Anyway, I'm gonna take a wild guess and say it had something to do with a voice and the green lights we saw in the sky, and hope that you saw something similar, or else I sound insane.
[ There's… a lot of omission there, and he's aware he probably sounds like he's skirting around the topic, too. Some things he doesn't feel like talking about right now, but he figures it's enough to let him know that whatever it is that resulted in them being here, it can't be localised to one area. ]
narrator: he was in fact not fine or dealing with it
Yeah, well it'd take a lot for you to sound crazy to me. World's fucked, man. [ It's a relief that Maccready's processed as much as he has already, because it means maybe he won't waste their time thinking Tobi's got some reason to be making up bullshit. ] And a lot fucking bigger than anyone acts like it is.
[ Where to begin... ]
Aliens are real. Like in the comics. And there's something under the Capital that I don't even know what is, but it's a lot weirder than that.
[ The way he reaches up to card his fingers through his hair, pausing to sigh before he shakes them loose, is an anxious tell he'd like to think he has complete control of, normally. Part of the presentation, the fact that he's being as honest and straightforward as no one ever expects the Devil to be. ]
So, you know, I'm not even that mad that there's some kind of transdimensional aurora connected to a town in another reality that's been eaten by an angry ghost of the apocalypse or whatever. I'm dealing with it.
[ He is dealing with it. The way he dealt with Jonas's death, and the first time he woke up with hands around his throat. Too many hands reaching, grasping, jagged nails peeling raw flesh heaving a bloated, rubbery corpse out of the water. Prayers for forgiveness; seeing bits of his own brain on the outside.
He's fine. He's fucking dealing with it.
But he expects most people wouldn't swallow the idea as easily, couldn't stomach it if they did, so he keeps his eyes on Maccready and measures his reaction to the absolute nonsense he just spouted at him in the impassive tone of someone complaining about the weather. ]
But just as an FYI, so far it looks like there's shit dick all we can do about it except try not to die.
no subject
He's staring, he knows he is, smoke trailing from the end of his cigarette as he takes in everything he's just said. It wasn't a lot, really, in terms of the amount of words used, and yet it was simultaneously so much. If it were any other person sat opposite him, he would call bullshit. Something about the way he states it so plainly, though, he can't bring himself to not believe it in some capacity — maybe it's cryptic, metaphor or the like.
One thing he thinks he can say for sure, is that he's not convinced Tobi's dealing with it at all, actually. If it all sounds as bad as he says, how is anyone supposed to deal with that? Slowly, he takes a drag of the cigarette, exhales deeply and heavily. ]
Okay. [ Stated with the air of someone who is still very much processing all of… that. His lips pull into a thin line, serious as he watches the man opposite, shakes his head, and before he can catch himself; ] Fuck, man.
[ Just this once, he thinks it's probably permissible. He runs a hand through his own hair, shoulders sagging. ]
So, let me get this straight. We're stuck. Wherever this is, with… what was it, an angry apocalypse ghost. Yeah, okay, sure. [ The laugh that draws from him is the emptiest sounding thing imaginable, this isn't funny at all. It seems even he has his limits. ] Try not to die, what's new there, then?
no subject
It wouldn't even bother Tobi if he wasn't...if it'd happened sooner. The thought crawls up his throat: he didn't want to be the one to leave. But that same sense of responsibility is what lets him smother that feeling, watching the way the revelation hits Maccready. And then weighs on him.
So he forces himself to smile. Speak lightly and with confidence, as if it really isn't all that much of a burden. Let him carry it. Let him lead by example. ]
Yeah, see. You get it. [ As if there was never any doubt Maccready would; of course another wastelander understands that sometimes the only thing you can do is choose to survive whatever bullshit life tries to bury you in. ] Stay with me.
[ That's a deliberate challenge as much as a request, because now he's getting into the details: ]
The town's called Milton — like the author — and apparently we're up in Canada somewhere off the mainland. All the dates suggest it's 2015, but it's not our 2015 because the technology is weird.
Seriously, just look at it when you get the chance. Any house, any car on the road. It's all basic electronics. No robots. No reactors or anything, like they just never bothered with atomics. This— [ he taps his pip-boy over where the geiger counter rests in its casing, without even looking at it ] —hasn't clicked once since I've been here.
But none of it fucking works unless it's powered by batteries, and even then it's all kind of messed up because everything comes back on with a vengeance whenever the Aurora happens.
[ Maccready mentioned the lights; maybe he remembers the machines around him going haywire before everything went dark. Either way it's here that Tobi pauses, pointedly, to give him room to interject. There's more he could say. There's more he wants to say. But he wants to make sure Maccready is getting it, because he's only going to offer that much once. ]
no subject
He gets it. He wishes he didn't. And that request tells him all he needs to know is that there's more. A tilt of his head at the name of the town, and maybe unexpectedly, a nod — he knows the name, at the very least. A slow arch of his brow at the revelation that they're in Canada. The past, but not their past. None of it makes sense, it all sounds like it's been pulled right from an old radio play. ]
What do you mean it hasn't— [ weirdly, he looks uncomfortable. That annoying click had become such a familiar sound, he'd grown almost used to it. So distorted is his world view that the notion is disconcerting. It's lucky that he's been travelling with another vault dweller, he supposes, that he has a frame of reference. ] But they're battery-operated, right? So they should work…
[ There's a light shake of his head, dismissing his own train of thought. It can't be that the pip-boy isn't functioning, he can see that is operating, which means, what? A world without radiation? What a concept. ]
How long have you been here?
[ It's his turn to ask questions, even though he isn't entirely sure he wants to hear the answer. If he's been here for weeks, months, even? Maccready doesn't have that kind of time to be stuck in some other world, he can't— A thought strikes him. He's here, but he wasn't alone. She could be here too, already in this town he'd spoke of. If there's a sliver of a possibility that it's just him here, though, he'd like to hope she'd stick to what they were there for in the first place. He chews on his lip before speaking up again. ]
And, a follow-up; were you, y'know, with anyone else before you wound up here? Other than him, I guess.
no subject
It doesn't register as unusual to him that Maccready understands that much about the pip-boy...they're rare, sure, but intuitive enough that he thinks just about anyone who's seen one up close could make those connections. Never mind where he saw it, exactly. ]
A couple of months. [ He answers simply, and then does something Maccready might not expect: he tabs the pip-boy over to one of its data screens, and then holds his arm out to Maccready, wrist angled so that he can read and interact with it easily. The clock in the corner proclaims that it's July of 2278, and the unmoving map in the center depicts an area of the Capital Wasteland that's not that far to the northeast of Little Lamplight, actually.
There are other notes and recordings Maccready could access, if he wants to. Status screens prominently displaying a number of biometric readouts. A radio that will currently produce only low static. Tobi wouldn't mind, and either way he continues. ]
I got here in December, which is funny 'cause it was May before I woke up.
[ Another pause. This time it seems to be a result of him considering his answer, because he seems to come to a conclusion shortly before adding: ]
No, I was alone. Picking up something from a safe house. It was supposed to be a short trip.
[ Now there's someone here from ten years later, and he's even more certain he needs to figure out how to get back precisely. ]
no subject
He's not thinking about that at all, though. He's leaning forward to look at the pip-boy screen properly, glancing toward Tobi before he hesitantly reaches out to it — but he goes for the wrong side; reaches for a dial that he's grown used to being on the right side of the screen, but is on the left of Tobi's. It's a tiny thing, and he makes no move to correct and reach over the screen, instead just holds the side of it so he can angle it better. The opportunity for prying is literally within his grasp, but makes no attempt to tab through anything else.
For a moment, he allows himself to stare at the screen, takes in the sight of the markers dotted about the map labelled with names he hasn't thought of in years, and he's gripped by an odd sense of nostalgia. Things used to be simpler, in spite of it all.
His eyes settle on the clock in the corner. May through to July… ]
It's February? It was December back in Boston.
[ At the answer to his question, he releases Tobi's wrist and leans back again, shoulders sagging. It's a surprisingly disappointing answer, and it leaves him just as conflicted as he was before asking it. Months, though, that's… Concerning. Nerves seep back into his voice as he shakes his head. ]
I— I have to get back. There's… [ God, he does not want to talk about that right now. He inhales, an attempt to steel himself as he takes another drag, exhaling smoke. ] I need to get back.
no subject
More importantly, he watches his expression. The way his eyes track to the corner. Boston, he says, and Tobi marks it in his mind to question that later because more immediate is the bone-deep exhaustion in the fall of his shoulders; he seems perpetually tense and, worryingly, defeated. That's not a good sign anywhere, but especially not here.
So he withdraws his arm and starts gently: ]
Hey. Listen to me, yeah?
[ Because he knows, whatever it is, that a reaction like that doesn't happen unless there's something — someone — important on the line. Maccready might not want to talk about it, but he doesn't need to. Tobi gets where he's coming from. He's just better at hiding it. ]
We're going to get back to our people. Even if I have to steal another spaceship and figure out time travel to do it.
[ There's an edge of humor to his voice, repeating Maccready's words, but he's dead serious. The calm, absolute certainty in the weight of his gaze is part of why he feels so dangerous. Why people say he's intense. It's what got him this far, the reason he's still alive after everything he's been through: he decides he's going to do something, and he doesn't let anything stop him. However impossible it seems. Whatever the cost. He'll tear himself apart body and soul to keep moving.
Usually the world buckles first. ]
So just make sure you survive 'til then, alright? [ While he continues, he all but thoughtlessly gestures with his other hand: reaching up beside his temple to indicate releasing an idea in a motion that's simultaneously suggestive of a certain kind of violence. ] Don't let it get to you.
[ That's an order, soldier. ]
no subject
The remark, by rights, should pull a half-hearted huff of laughter from him — of course, aliens are real, and he stole their spaceship — but he's simply thinking why not? There's a reason he has a reputation, no? Everything he's learned has led him to believe that if he says he's going to do something, he is. Sure, some of them might be hollow threats, but they're effective threats because he can follow through.
He retrieves his cap from where it's fallen to the floor, thumb idly tracing over the rounds within the band before he grips it, tight. Skin across his knuckles growing taut, white bone visible underneath. His eyes are unfocused, like he's somewhere else and not the middle-of-nowhere Canada. And the moment passes, as if he's found his resolve, or a scrap of it, at least. His response is delayed, but it's clear, no waver in his voice. ]
Yeah, I know.
[ It's maybe the strangest morale boost he's been on the receiving end of. Feels like the most genuine, too, surprisingly. He clears his throat, though, diverts his attention elsewhere and leaves his ghosts where they belong for now. Compartmentalize, move forward. Instead, he nods his head toward the boarded up window, the wind outside has picked up, whistles through the gaps in the wood. ]
How long do these storms usually last?
[ Not that he's not enjoying being stuck inside a miserable, dusty cabin, but… ]
no subject
Tobi doesn't mind waiting for his answer, as long as it's the one he gets. Whatever those bullets mean to Maccready, he needs that resolve to hold out long enough to find a path and walk it — and selfishly, maybe, Tobi wants it to be the same one he does. It doesn't matter that they're not friends; they're still from the same wasteland, and he's willing to bet Maccready isn't dead weight.
The man clears his throat and asks about the storm, and Tobi flicks his ash aside into their little fire before he turns a glance toward that window. ]
Not yet. [ As if that doesn't make it sound like he asked something else entirely. ] You'll know when it's here.
[ Hours. The answer to Maccready's question is hours, usually, but Tobi isn't thinking about that — he already said there was something wrong with it, and to his mind it's useless to try and guess whether the blizzard will follow a natural activity pattern when he's still calculating his odds of evading the thing with Maccready here too.
By himself, even with Dogmeat, it's easy enough to confirm the best course of action and act on it. Having someone else to keep alive always complicates things. ]
Do me a favor and block the door with that chair. I'll cover the windows.
[ Or don't. It has the tone of a command, firm and comfortable in its authority, but he won't particularly care if Maccready ignores or challenges it. ]
no subject
Tobi's not-quite-answer has him frowning, if only because it's an answer in and of itself — this isn't even the full extent of the storm. It's not uncommon for some of the less severe radstorms that work their way through Boston to last only minutes, but hours is the only reasonable conclusion he can come to here. Hopes it isn't days. Company aside, Maccready has no supplies, no weapon to speak of — right now he sort of is dead weight. Until it becomes apparent that it might be a problem, there's no use dwelling on it.
His eyes linger on Tobi for a moment before drifting to the chair. Part of him can't help the immediate thought, that it's not to keep the door securely in place once the wind reaches its peak, but to prevent anyone else from gaining entry — it's a cynical thought, maybe, and probably not the case at all. Still, he can't find flaws in the logic. ]
Sure, why not, make the place cozy.
[ The comment is mumbled around the cigarette between his lips. Maccready could refuse, but the way he sees it, there's very little point. So, in spite of himself, he is getting to his feet and brushing himself down, stretching his arms out in front of himself. One final drag of his smoke before the remnants get tossed into the fire, and he shuffles around Dogmeat and to the chair. ]
So, do all you Vault dwellers have an innate knack for telling other people what to do?
no subject
Tobi can see that doubt, the way Maccready's eyes shift from him to the chair like there's one particular scenario playing out in his head. He can't fault him for it. It's the right assumption to make. But he sees the moment he decides to go through with it, too, and his grumbled acquiescence wins a brief smile before Tobi drops a hand to pat Dogmeat's flank and then moves to carry out his part of the deal. A little smoother than Maccready, a little faster, if only because he already had his feet under him and doesn't stop to cycle through some idle animations.
When Maccready speaks again, he's dragging an armful of hefty blanket from the bedroom. The question sparks a laugh, and he answers with plain honesty. ]
You'd think, with everyone having to coordinate to keep that coffin running. No. Most of them sucked at it, actually.
[ They're pushovers, or they're overbearing. Tobi has arguments he'd love to make for why successful leadership is a multifaceted skill that requires at its absolute minimum an understanding of the people in one's care, but he knows that'd be diverting the point of the question to an obvious degree. There's no reason to push his luck when Maccready's choosing to work with him.
So he asks slyly instead: ] Why? You been working for one you wanna complain about?
tells your oc about my oc through a mouthpiece
Tobi calls it a coffin, though, and Maccready doesn't know if he's joking or not. He can't suppress the shiver that runs down his spine at the comparison — it's subtle, and perhaps easy enough to blame on the chill in the air — he pauses in his action to glance at him, unspoken question on his lips. He doesn't want to pry, it doesn't sound like an altogether cheery topic — Vaults so rarely are, frankly — and instead tips the chair back onto two legs and begins dragging it towards the door.
The follow-up does get a scoff out of him, a small shake of his head. That's a topic firmly in a box he's fine opening, it'd be probably be unavoidable, anyway. Pushing the back of the chair up against the wooden paneling of the door, he hums in faux-contemplation. ]
Somethin' like that. More just— [ he gestures vaguely. ] People'll do things just because she suggests it. Didn't think she realized it at first, but…
[ His words are undercut by some frustration, scrubbing a hand over his face before he adjusts the chair and tests the door against it. He's convinced at this point she knows what she's doing, make a little suggestion, all nice and sweet, let people believe it's their idea when they do it. Maccready'd be lying if he said it hadn't worked. ]