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TDM #9

➥ Arrival

Photo of a modern office building from the outside. There is a manicured lawn with several trees and bushes. To the left side of the photo, there is a waterbody with reeds around the fringes. There is a purple gradient filter over everything.
(cw: potential for severe disorientation/vertigo, claustrophobia, arachnophobia, body horror)

It happens in the blink of an eye. You may have been asleep. You may not have. You may have stepped through a door or turned a corner. You may have seen a flicker of something at the corner of your vision and turned to look. Or maybe you didn't.

It doesn't matter. What matters is that you find yourself somewhere entirely new and entirely unfamiliar. The arrival point is not always the same. (If you're lucky, it might be a canteen or an open office. If you're not, well... you aren't claustrophobic, are you? Or arachnophobic. These ducts do seem to be a bit cobwebby.) There is no one waiting for you but you don’t seem to be alone, either. Even in a janitor’s closet or the bathroom, you’ll find at least one person who seems to be just as out of place as you are.

If characters have arrived in a location devoid of NPCs, they may want to work together to figure out what is going on... or to avoid their 'kidnappers.' If you’ve arrived in the middle of the entry foyer or the gym, there may well be a few people who startle a bit at your arrival and try to approach (or discreetly leave the room... where are they going?). Will you cooperate or fight? Do you even understand what they're saying? You might need to find a translator, if you’re not immediately willing to follow a stranger.

After characters follow their new hosts (or are forcibly taken in) there will be a limited tour and the chance to settle in at the ADI-provided housing. (Do you enjoy living with strangers? Well. It's a new situation to navigate, anyway.)

➥ The Road We All Must Travel

Photo of someone in blue jeans and brown boots walking along a path in the Dogtown forest. The trees do not have foliage, the sky is blue, and there is one of the Babson boulders to the left that reads 'study.'
(cw: death, child death, semi-graphic description of injury, existential terror, memory manipulation (adding memories))

Weird things happen in Dogtown, everyone knows it. The Apocalypse Disruption Initiative (ADI) is not above taking advantage of that to test out the waters for its newest arrivals. They're not looking to send anyone to their death, though, especially not with recent events that have transpired surrounding Dogtown. An employee gives you a number to call if anything truly dangerous happens and you've been left with another person at the trailhead. Maybe they're a new arrival, as well, or a more seasoned 'veteran.' Either way, you're together for the next while and you've been asked to find and record any paranormal activity in the park. You have your phones and any other equipment you might have brought with you. Those who succeed in documenting anything peculiar will receive a $100 reward to be used as they see fit.

There is a body on the side of the path. From a distance, it's hard to tell who it might be… apart from someone who's made terrible life choices about where to take a break. You might find the body propped up against a boulder, lying in the snow, or even slumped on a bench. Approaching, though, brings into view… someone. Maybe someone you recognize vaguely. Do you know them from- Where exactly do you know them from? Or maybe it's a complete stranger, someone foreign in face and form.

The body is never the same for any groups of people who might happen upon it. One time, it's a young white man dressed in what seems to be parachute pants, a boombox fallen or resting with him. Another, it's an Hispanic person, their clothes reminiscent of something out of a western. Still others, it might be a little black girl, looking like she's cosplaying one of the original settlers for Gloucester. People of all different races, ages, genders, times, all beside the path. Some of them look to be obviously dead, their heads caved in or blood splattered across the path. Others, it's harder to tell. They might be someone who's passed out? A drunk who's wandered here from town and could need help.

The moment anyone touches them, though, the body crumbles, something made of ash that simply wipes itself away. And in its place, it leaves memory. The person who touches the body will find themselves reliving the last horrified moments of this person's life. They will know precisely how and when this person died. Every death has some component of agony or fear. No one found passed quickly or painlessly.

Everyone dies, and it is never so kind a thing as they might have hoped. Never.

➥ Prisoners of Consciousness

Photo of a woman of Asian descent banging her hands against a frosted glass pain. The woman looks distressed.
(cw: altered mental states, breathing difficulties, imprisonment, victim-blaming)

Repairs are going about as well as they can be at ADI; the building still bears the scars of last month's attack but day to day matters slump back toward the status quo now that the acute crisis has passed. For a few days it actually seems as though the press of unending needs and obligations has abated, like a massive crushing stone lifted from one's back to allow a gasp of breath, leaving workers and residents reeling in the exhausted aftermath.

It doesn't last, but when the pressure intensifies once more it takes on yet another new form. Things will seem to be back to normal when suddenly you realize that the room in which you find yourself is getting smaller–or perhaps the air has grown stale, perhaps that's why it's suddenly so hard to breathe. You're trapped in here, locked in, locked away. Windows seem to shrink and fortify into slitted openings too tight for escape; what might have been an ordinary office door is now a heavy metal thing fortified with deadbolts.

They've locked you in; they've decided that you're not to move about freely, that you're a danger to others. Are you a danger to others? You must be; you must have done something to deserve this. The question of who 'they' are is one without an answer, a nebulous sense of them, the ones who call the shots, the ones who must be looking out for everyone. They don't speak to you; there's no chance to plead your case, only this miserable, tiny cell and your own guilt over something you must have done. You hear them passing by your door at times, keys jangling, footsteps heavy, but there's no hope of aid from them.

None of it is real. The rooms don't shrink; the doors and windows don't change. To someone not caught up in the illusion, it will seem as though those caught in its grip have gone into hysterics over nothing at all, insisting that they're trapped when all they need to do is open the door.

➥ A Trick of the Dark

Black and white photo of a woman on a cobblestone street at night. She is backlit by a street lamp and appears in silhouette, her features completely obscured. She is holding something in her left hand.
(cw: monsters in the dark, altered mental states, semi-graphic description of injury)

When the crushing claustrophobia finally abates, this time seemingly for good, the shadow woman makes her first appearance. She is seen only in darkness at nighttime, silhouetted in a doorway or lurking in an underpass. Turn on the lights, and there's nothing there–it must have been a trick of the light, the mind making connections out of something seen from the corner of one's eye.

Turn off the lights, though, and there she is again.

She's patient at first, toying with her prey. Lights on, and you're safe. Lights off and the figure returns, still and staring and something you can almost convince yourself you've somehow imagined. But leave the lights on too long, play with the light switch too many times, or watch her too closely, and her patience has an end. When she finally moves, she's fast, charging across a darkened street or a darkened room, the only expression visible on her face is the inhuman light in her eyes, and there is nothing left except to run for the nearest patch of brightness in the night. Maybe you even get away–flee to the circle of sickly light under a lamppost and she must halt at the edge of the darkness, unable to follow. She might circle, waiting for you to make a run for it, or she might disappear back into the night. Will you chance a sprint to the next pool of light?

For those she catches, there is pain. There are rending claws that leave her mark, bleeding, on her victims–but the pain does not end in death. It ends in madness. You may descend into a state beyond thought, mind disappearing into a panicked fugue from which you will retain no memories. Or you may believe yourself to be still fighting off the creature of the night and legions like her, using your environment to protect yourself, to stave off attack.

Those unaffected will see what is truly happening: victims of the creature run rampant in frenzied efforts to bring more and more darkness to the nighttime city. Wild-eyed and unaware, they may start at something as simple as unscrewing a lightbulb, or engage in something as complex as cutting power to entire buildings. Regular citizens of Gloucester fall victim along with the people of ADI and sabotage runs rampant through the city, but it seems that above all else, ADI itself is the target of these attempts to turn out the lights. Panic begins to spread throughout the city as the attacks continue night after night.

➥ Mod Notes

ARRIVAL (March 1 - 31): Two people will always arrive in the same general location together. Arrivals occur throughout the early month, not all on the same day or in the same place. Arrivals are not naturally fluent in English/other languages immediately upon arrival. Characters may attempt to evade capture, but they will eventually be snagged before they can leave the building. PC's already in-game are more than welcome to interact with and try to guide new PC's to get them oriented. Please refer to the Arrival page for details regarding the arrival and onboarding process.
The Road We All Must Travel (March 1 - 31): The bodies found can be photographed, but they'll turn up blurred. There's nothing that can be gleaned about the bodies from a distance, only by moving close and touching them. The bodies can be anyone from any time and any place, even other worlds. Characters might even see non-human races represented. In every case, the body will disappear when touched and characters will pick up the final moments of the person's life. Players are welcome to make these final moments anything they want. The person could have died by mundane or supernatural means, but they will have died a painful or terrifying death in some way.
Prisoners of Consciousness (March 4 - 12): Episodes in which characters believe themselves to be imprisoned will occur exclusively on ADI property and in the Flophouse. The hallucinations may last for minutes or hours, though characters are likely to perceive time as though they were imprisoned much longer. Characters not affected by the hallucination may help pull others out of it by grounding them in reality, but it is also possible for them to be drawn into the hallucination themselves if they become frightened.
A Trick of the Dark (Nights of March 12 - 15) While people who have been caught by the apparition seem to focus their attacks on ADI property, the shadow woman herself never appears within ADI offices or apartments. She may sometimes appear in the Flophouse, and frequently appears outdoors, in darkened hallways of local businesses, and in the homes of locals. ADI housing curfew at 11:00 PM each night is still in effect; characters who stay out later may crash at HQ but will not be let into the apartments (they may also be able to get into the Flophouse…if its residents are kind enough to take them in). Characters caught by the shadow woman will experience confusion, terror, and compulsion to sabotage lighting, particularly in and around ADI property, until dawn of the next day. Characters who attempt to fight the shadow woman will find that she fights back (and that any scratch from her claws still causes the fugue state); if they manage to pin her down she will dissipate into shadows.
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He glances away when he realizes there're far more hot dogs on those pages than he's ever seen in one place, including bunk house washrooms or local pitch fields. It's not his place to judge. Doesn't mean it isn't uncomfortable.

He nods jerky like and climbs to his feet so he can take a few steps away to gather himself. "Yeah." He hasn't been OK since Lennie. He's not sure he knows what OK is anymore, if he ever really did. What's one more gut punch after all that business in Soledad?

"Let's jes' get this over with so we can get that hundred dollars." His voice has a thick quality, words forced through a tight throat. "What you gonna spend yours on?" That's better, maybe, something to get them past this and through it, future talk and future thinking. The past is nothing but a maze of painful dead ends.

"Cupcakes," she says in all seriousness, not looking up from her page. "Maybe some new paints or clothes. I've never seen clothes like they have here."

She wants to know what he means by having 'gone bad'; less from morbid curiosity and more because she wants to do a good job for their mission. Getting in the good graces of authority has its perks. But none of that is so important as to refuse the subject change when George is obviously more affected by what he'd seen than Jester was by the dead person. She'd killed a lot of people, after all, even if most of them deserved it, but most people can go their whole lives without having seen a dead body.

Which would be kind of nice, she's not going to lie.

"What about you? I think you'd look nice in a big fancy hat."

"Cupcakes, huh?" He snorts a little, more bemusement than derision. "That don't sound half bad. I ain't seen many clothes like they got around here, neither." He's satisfied with what he has, durable and comfortable. It'll be a few years yet before anything but his socks wear out.

That gets another snort, this time a nose laugh. "Ya think? Maybe one a' them Stetsons?" Something like Slim or Carlson had? He'd look ridiculous, he's sure, a little peacock strutting around in something too big for his britches. "Maybe I will." He won't.

"I think..." He slows down the way he always does when he actually is thinking and not just spouting off. "Think I'm gonna set mine aside mostly. A hundred dollars can really get you somewhere if you don't decide it's burnin' a hole in your pocket." Not as much as he thinks, as he'll doubtless soon find out.

"What kind of a hat is a Stetson? Is it like a really big one?" She pauses in her drawing for a moment to cast a glance at George, definitely waiting for him to describe it so she can draw that too.

"I guess saving money is probably a good idea. A dollar doesn't seem to be worth as much as a gold piece, which makes sense since its just paper. Paper money is really weird, but it is lighter so that's nice." A lot easier than carrying around sacks of gold and platinum. Which she still has to get ADI to help her turn into weird Earth money.

Finished with the drawing of what they'd found, she goes on to start doodling George and his Stetson hat in the margin of the page. Only it looks more like the hat is wearing a very small George with how big it is.

"Yeah, big ol' brim. Sweeps up a little." He pantomimes something probably a lot bigger than an actual Stetson in comparison to his own hat. It's not like he can see his hands up there. "It's what the cowpokes wear."

He all but spit takes. "Yeah." It's a slow, drawn out word, much slower than he has been speaking up to this point. "A dollar's worth way less 'n gold." He has never held gold in his hand in his life. It's more some out there concept than any value he can put a number to, the kind of thing a man thinks if he had a little of, he could retire and live fat.

"I wonder what else they want from out here. Think they might want some 'a that ash?" He makes no move to touch it, not after his first experience. Pulling out the...phone...still real weird thinking of it like that, he manages to turn it on and pull up the camera. The picture he takes of the ash looks kind of just like dusty ground. He grimaces and shrugs.

"Maybe," she replies maybe a little shortly as she continues to draw George in his Stetson hat reaching about halfway up the page with the brim covering his eyes. She's not annoyed, per se, but she is a little awkward about her lack of knowledge concerning money. She'd finally gotten better at figuring out just how much a gold was really worth and now she has to learn a whole new money system. It's really not fair, and now George probably thinks she's stupid...

She smiles through it and starts sketching in George's body. He'll be poking a cow, because he's wearing a cowpoking hat. Why anyone wants to poke cows is a mystery to her though. Maybe that's just what they do for fun where George is from. "I think I have a jar in my bag somewhere, hold on."

Another few strokes of her pencil and then she sets it aside for a moment to go digging in her haversack, unconcerned if George sees what she's been drawing.

He narrows his eyes a little, not sure what he said to get that shortness. Couldn't be about the gold, he thinks. A second or two later he just lets it go. Who knows what sorts of things run through women's minds? Trying to keep track'll just run a man ragged.

He can't help but grin at the drawing. "Say, that's real good there. Funny." She's weird, alright. Not offensively so. He's not sorry they got sent out together on this beyond what they found and what he saw. It's fine. He's working toward shaking it off, same's he does everything else he doesn't want to dwell on.

While he's waiting, he takes another quick look around the area, partly to see if there are any more bodies, Lord, he hopes not, partly to be sure nobody's coming up on them, either being nosy or with worse intentions. It doesn't look like a great area and sounded even worse in the briefing. "Where you from, anyway?" He hasn't heard many accents in his life. Curiosity is finally getting the best of him.

"Oh, thanks! I sort of want to see you in a hat that big now," she replies with a grin as she finally pulls the bottle out from the innards of her haversack. She'd made a point not to look into it as she was rummaging. She'd done that when she first arrived and the resulting vertigo was enough to make her stomach stage a revolt. It still works just fine to carry all of her things though, so she'll still use it. Just... maybe not look as she shoves her arm in there and wills herself to find whatever she needs.

The bottle itself is a small pewter traveling inkwell with a little latch on top to keep it closed. There's a hammered design of small flowers around the edge, nothing too fancy, but still more decorative than strictly necessary. "How about this? I already used all the ink from it and pens here don't even need ink which is so crazy. Maybe we can get some ashes in here."

She leans over to try and do just that, but pauses as she isn't really certain what's ashes and what's just ground. Luckily, that's when George asks her a question so she doesn't have to contemplate it too hard just yet. "I'm from Exandria. Nicodranas specifically. It's not Earth, so it's okay if you haven't heard of it."

Bombshell dropped, she sits back on her haunches and hopes he doesn't freak out. She hasn't had anyone panic on her yet but the folks at ADI had told her that the people of Gloucester weren't prepared to face the concept of people from another world running around among them. Jester wonders - belatedly, after she'd already told him where she's from - if George is the same. He seems very nice, but just a bit bewildered about most things. Also out of step, too, like her in a way. He speaks differently than the Gloucesterians (Gloucesterans? Gloucesteies? Who knows.) and uses the phone like its as unfamiliar as it is to her, so maybe he's from somewhere else too. She'll only know by talking to him, anyway. "What about you?"

"We might be hard pressed to find one that big." He gestures toward the notebook, still chuckling a little. But she keeps going on past the part that's funny to the parts that are a different kind of funny, and he finds his mouth wanting to do strange things, one eye wanting to twitch at the outer corner.

He takes a few steps away with a hand lifting up to rub at his hair under his hat band, just above his nape. His other hand flutters a little uselessly at his side before stilling down to a few finger twitches. "Alright." He sounds like he's talking more to himself than anyone else. "Alright, yeah. You jes', you're tired."

It rings false as he says it. He twists to glance at her over his shoulder. Sure, he has caught glimpses of...of different people at ADI. Sat through the orientations and listened to all the flimflam, because in the back of his mind, it's what he has been thinking from the start, this is somehow all a con. But here she is saying things like gold and paper might not be all that far off, and pens don't need ink, and why does any dame need that many hotdogs in one notebook?

It's the names and the ease they roll off her tongue that do more to break down his resistance than anything else so far, including the weird color of her hair and eyes. "California," he says, finally swinging 'round to face her fully again. "Bet that don't make no more sense t' you than X Andria or Nicotinas makes t' me. Right?"

"Nicodranas," she corrects, that pronunciation somehow being important now that she doesn't know how to get back. "And yeah, don't know any California, but I remember seeing it on the map in the classroom so it's at least the same continent, right? That's pretty good for you!"

She's trying to be uplifting, in her way. She may not know George well, but she knows a quiet sort of panic when she sees it. Caleb didn't really emote at all in the early days of the Nein, or maybe she hadn't learned to recognize it yet, but she knows now and she can compare it to George.

She sits with the empty inkwell in her lap, at a little bit of a loss as he walks back and forth a few paces. At length, she finally just asks. "Are you okay?"

It's great for him being all the way across the continent from a place he's not sure he'd even recognize if he went back. The thoughts are angry buzzing in his head, bees slamming the walls of his skull to get out. He clenches and unclenches his fists in his pockets several times. He reminds himself that if this is weird and bad for him, how much worse for her that she's on some whole other planet? Like what, some alien? He never did like those kinds of pulps, never read them beyond seeing some of the lurid covers, and...

"I'm swell." It comes out of a clenched jaw, hoarse and harsh. "Jes' swell." He rounds on her and thrusts a hand out. "You want me t' take that an' get that ash? I already touched the damn thing once. I don't think it'll do more t' me this time than it already managed."

"Woah there, man. You don't need to get angry." She does hand over the pewter bottle though, because while she's taken aback at how suddenly aggressive the gesture is, it's not as if she doesn't understand where it's coming from. She thinks if she were like Beau or Caleb she'd already be picking at the seams of this place, trying to find a way back. She was looking forward to the grand new life at sea with her handsome and thoughtful boyfriend. If she could go back right this instant, she would. But she's not smart like those two, so instead she focuses on the new things she can experience here that she never would have in Exandria.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't sometimes throw her pillow at the wall of her room in frustration. George's body language feels kind of like that.

"You know, a lot of people are in the same situation as we are. You can talk to me if you want to." Which is as close as she manages to admit she's upset as well despite her sunny disposition.

He's doing it again, what he always does when the frustration builds to boiling point, taking it out on the nearest target and giving her hell. His whole body language deflates, all of that nervous, buzzing energy draining right out in a wash of guilt and self-loathing. He doesn't quite make eye contact when he takes the inkwell far more gently than his initial movement telegraphed. "Sorry." It's a quiet mutter.

He turns and squats by the pile. Despite what he said, he's also careful in how he scoops, making sure none of it touches his fingers. A little shake flips the cap closed. He hears the rest of it, back still to her. His head drops forward, the dead grass between his scuffed work boots suddenly absorbing.

"I ain't never been much of a talker. You get t' talkin' and it's jes' words goin' in circles in your head. Don't solve nothin'." He stands, the movement as abrupt as everything else about him. By the time he turns to face her and offer the filled inkwell, his expression is back to neutral. "I am sorry for alla that. My temper ain't never been the best. I know it ain't much excuse." He shrugs.

"I'll try t' do better if they send us out together again. Promise."

"I feel like... if you don't talk then it's words in circles in your head that don't solve anything. Saying it out loud gets them out of your head. Or maybe not even saying them, but having an... outlet, right?" She pulls her sketchbook back into her lap and runs a hand over the page.

At his apology, she simply shrugs. "It's okay! There's a lot of stuff happening and I know you didn't mean to be mean. Its pretty obvious when people are actually nasty, you know? There's a feeling that's sort of icky."

She's a pretty good judge of character, if she does say so herself.

"But I do appreciate it!" Closing her book, Jester stands and dusts off her skirt before pulling her haversack back on. "How about we go get some donuts before we turn this stuff in? Donuts always make me feel better."

"An outlet." He rubs his hand down his cheek, afternoon whiskers rasping a bit on calluses. "I reckon work is an outlet for me." He gets himself tired enough, all he wants is a good night's sleep in a bunk.

He nods agreement to that. He knows nasty people when he sees them, too. He had Curley pegged from first sight, and dozens of guys just like him. "Thanks." If she had wanted to make more noise about it, she could've and would've had the right to it.

"That's a plan I can get behind. Seems like there's food all over the place around here." He has never quite seen anything like it, not even in Los Angeles. "Lead the way."

"Right? It's pretty great!" She beams at George and turns her feet towards the path they'd come in on. "I'm going to get so many sprinkles."

And she'll make sure George does too, because after having seen his face after he touched the body and the pent up frustration after, he definitely deserves some sprinkles in his life.

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TDM #9

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wrap?