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worldofmemeness2016-09-30 05:31 pm
modmachine) wrote in worldofmemeness2016-09-30 05:31 pm
Entry tags:
TEST DRIVE 01
Don't feel limited to the scenarios presented - make up your own prompts as much as you want! Reserves will open on the 7th and Applications on the 15th. In a grassy square in the Central District, wedged in between dorm halls, there is a tree. Far wider than it is tall, its leaves are just beginning to turn from yellow to orange, with a few green stragglers near the top and a growing carpet on the grass beneath it. At one end of the tree's reach, there is a picnic table, the sort with benches built in to either side. Anywhere under the boughs, a distinct ticking, like the sound of a clock, can be heard. Moving about makes it clear that the sound is loudest nearest the trunk. Numerous small gears stick out of twists between branches, though they do not appear to move to the naked eye. Someone has hung a string of orange lights in the branches for Halloween, along with some cotton spiderweb. No matter how closely you look, there doesn't seem to be an end where the lights plug in to anything. Otherwise, there is nothing unusual about the decorations. In the center of the table, half-covered by leaves, there is an iron plaque that has not been particularly well-treated for rust. Some of the writing on it is almost legible. It is chill to the touch. Someone's carved their initials and a date into the end of one bench - Abandoned vehicles are by no means an unusual sight in the Sixth District. Abandoned buses are slightly more unusual. This particular bus has boarded up windows, a black light string hanging over the windshield, and the words HAUNTED HOUSE written along the side, where the old inoffensive public-transit advertisements have been painted over. The front door serves as the entrance; the back leads into the wrecking yard and the haunted "house" proper. A girl in her late teens in slightly unsettling gothic lolita sits in a cheap folding chair around the front of the bus. She doesn't charge admission, though there is a candy bowl labeled for Donations on the card table next to her with a few bills and some change in it, in the center of a group of candles that burn in skull holders. She reminds everyone who passes her to please not touch the actors or props inside. Occasionally, mist from a smoke machine on the other side of the wooden fence billows around her ankles, almost seeming to form caressing fingers running down her legs. Across the street from her, two men sit in a beaten up old pickup truck, the much taller man smoking cigarettes with the windows open. The shorter man fidgets almost uncontrollably, constantly glancing in the direction of the girl and her bus. Their voices aren't loud enough to hear distinctly from the haunted house side of the street, but the woman at the bus entrance shoots them occasional looks none-the-less, alternating between pleased smiles and blank stares. Painted along the sides of the truckbed, in much dirtier letters than those of the haunted house, is the phrase NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. In a bar downtown, it's not much different from any other night of clubbing, except that everyone is wearing masks. Ranging from the elegant custom work of a nearby boutique (conveniently open even after sundown tonight, if you need to pick one up) to cheap colored paper held on with elastic handed out at the door of the bar, masks are the must-have accessory tonight. Indeed, many of the parties won't let you in if you don't have one. Those paying careful attention might notice little dots of red on the necks of some of the partiers, especially those who seem a bit pale and have called off drinking for the night. Aside from that, though, it doesn't seem like anyone's really getting hurt; it's just a fun time for everyone. Except for the poor guy who made the mistake of wearing an owl mask and yellow contacts, anyway. Just within hearing range of the beating bass of the clubs, a young woman in a red jacket holds a mask in her hands, turning it over and sometimes holding it to her face to look at in a window reflection. The long face of it calls to mind some kind of black dog, perhaps a Doberman or German Shepherd. She isn't dressed at all for an evening at the clubs, and has a canvas bag slung over her shoulder with the shape of heavy books straining the fabric at the bottom. Not everyone seems to be getting into the spirit. A playground near the center of the city has precious few decorations - save for a spiderweb on one of the swingsets that seems to be natural, not man-made. A pumpkin or two have been left near the edges, but they're all smashed, the orange guts running along in a streak that seems to blend into a thin line surrounding the entire perimeter. The see-saw looks like the board's been freshly painted, but otherwise all of the equipment looks almost lonely and old. The rust on the metal stains everything an orange-red, and the slide in particular seems the worst hit. Still, everything is at least standing, and those who attempt to play on it will find it sturdy and warm in the cool night. ... Except for the merry go round. That one seems to be bent, as if someone very heavy sat on the edge. It still turns, but it wobbles dramatically, with horrible squeaking noises. Still, it's usable, for anyone who would like to play. | |
no subject
[ There was no satisfaction in her tone, but neither did she think he was lying to her. What would have been his motive? And beyond that he seemed polite, congenial even.
Not that Stella hadn't seen her fair share of polite, congenial-seeming men with ulterior motives — to put it mildly — but she usually had a certain... feeling, a gut instinct. A hunch. She wasn't feeling that here. ]
So we have — what? A mass abduction? For what purpose?
[ She didn't actually expect him to answer, especially as he'd already told her he had no more information than she did. But Stella's investigative mind was already working, trying to figure out the situation at hand.
She didn't remember going or being taken anywhere. The last she recalled, she was in the forest with Spector dying in her arms. Then, here — wherever here was. What could possibly have happened in such a short period of time? ]
no subject
[To be fair, polite and congenial was the bread and butter of doctors, but he really had no motives here other than figuring out just what sort of mess he'd managed to put his foot into now. As if getting t-boned by a drunk driver only to awaken to a world of magic and mystery weren't enough.]
I ain't got nothin' fer that other'n speculation, but y'don't go round nabbin' people outta thin air fer no reason. Someone or somethin's got plans fer us, I'd bet my bottom dollar on that one...I'm jus' not keen on t'whole findin' out what them plans actually are.
[Plans that involved taking people like him usually never had positive connotations behind them. Kidnapping as a whole was usually a bad sign, but kidnapping a mage was usually an even worse one.]
no subject
[ Stella crossed her arms loosely, a thoughtful gesture rather than a defensive one, not quite looking at him as she continued speaking. ]
Whomever or whatever brought us here has clearly gone to a bit of trouble to bring us alive and unharmed. We're given leave to move about the city. I can't say I've encountered any hostility, as such.
[ At least, not anything other than the sort of casual hostility one encountered every day in a city like this.
But there was something — something about this place that made her feel uneasy, on edge, and she didn't like not knowing what. Stella had never liked not having the answers; it gave her a feeling of being out of control of the situation that sat poorly with her. She paused, let out a breath, almost but not quite a sigh. ]
Still, something doesn't feel right.
[ There was a pause, and then a little, brief smile as she looked back up to him, realizing she hadn't introduced herself. If nothing else, it would help to have a name to match with his face. She extended one of her hands to him. ]
Stella Gibson.
no subject
[Because she was right. Something DIDN'T feel right, not even a little bit. Still, he could put his unease to the side long enough to offer a smile and an extended hand; it was an old habit he'd never broken.]
Declan Blake, pleasure's all mine.