memesinthenight | TEST DRIVE MEME #5

Entry tags:

!tdm

TEST DRIVE MEME #5

Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for October! Thanks for your interest in our game! Reserves open on October 20, and applications open on October 22.

While you're here...
Take a look at our rules and faq pages to familiarize yourself with the game.
Note that we have a reserve cap of 20, and a (current) application cap of 10 apps this month for new players, as the game has a player cap of 60. An accurate count of current players will always be available on the taken page.
TDM threads can become game canon if both players wish. If the situation isn't something that could happen in-game, you're free to chalk it up to some strange hallucination, a shared dream, or other mysterious circumstance.
Note that this is not limited to new characters threading with characters already in-game. If current players wish to thread out the TDM prompts as canon events, they are welcome to do so. They are welcome to make posts in the main comms for TDM events as well. Please note, however, that actual plot clues or happenings will not occur in TDM prompts.
If you plan to apply, please keep in mind that we do require at least one sample thread on the application to be from our TDM (though it doesn't need to be the current TDM).
You're welcome to use the provided prompts or come up with something on your own, but we do ask that all threads take place in our game's setting.

Thank you again, and we hope you'll choose to join us!

log prompts

MAMMA MIA

The town is quiet, the forest spirits behave business-as-usual, Rastus doesn't know what's up. Whatever's going on, you'll have to figure it out for yourself.

And you will, though the hallucinations are subtle at first: objects moving when they shouldn't, people's proportions looking just a bit off, voices in an empty room, and so on. Is it just your mind playing tricks in the darkness? Might be! As the days go on, the hallucinations are harder to ignore, no matter how much you may wish to wave them off as flukes. What's wrong with everyone's faces? When did all the howling start? Who do you hold onto when the world drops out from under you? And those hands...

While you might know it can't be real, it certainly feels real. But at least it can't last forever... Right?

This prompt is a mini version of the game's Bury a Friend event.

GIMME! GIMME! GIMME!

Although the month is already well underway, residents of Beacon will notice a brand new shipment being delivered to the general store—only this one comes via the forest, as a small legion of spirits quickly drop off crates of boxes at its doorstep before scampering back into the woods. Hopefully nobody is riding too hard on hoping for further rations or supplies, because opening them up quickly squashes any notions of a full month's restock. Instead, it looks like each crate is bursting with costumes! Coming in all shapes and sizes to fit anyone of any age or decree, there’s plenty to choose from. Something scary? Magical? Clever? Or maybe even a bit on the sultry side? Dig deep enough, and you’re sure to find something to suit your tastes, props, accessories, wigs and all!

If nothing else, surely you can find an alternate use for a bit of spare fabric in your size, but what's the harm of having a bit of fun? But, oh, be careful if you're playing dress-up while the hallucinations from the event are in play... These costumes might just have a funny effect on you. 🤔!

network prompts

S.O.S.

The morning is interrupted by an alert. The text, which helpfully converts itself to automated speech when opened, reaches every inbox across Beacon, refusing to disappear until acknowledged. The problem? The username it comes from is glitched and unreadable, and all attempts at responding directly appear fruitless. The message is simple, three words:

SOS. SEND HELP.
There's nothing that seems to be able to be done about it, but with the earnestness in which it appears, maybe it would be wise to discuss it with the other residents. Isn’t there something you can do, even to track down the source? Maybe that will help you better put it from your mind.

TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

The longer you stay in Beacon, the clearer it is that you’re here for the long haul. And, on that note, the clearer it is that this place is going to need a lot of work to meet your standards. Obviously there isn’t much that can be done about certain things, like the state of lighting, or some of your potentially missing powers, but there are a lot of things that would certainly improve your personal quality of life. And for that matter, maybe some of your ideas would be agreeable to others, as well.

Whether you’re here to call for the establishment of a club, a new business, or even some kind of monthly therapy circle, the best way to get your message across is to turn to the Network and give your pitch. Whatever skills you may be lacking in the organization of this project, there’s undoubtedly someone out there who can provide. What are you waiting for? No time like the present to start collecting signatures!

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

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Villanelle's fingers itch for a weapon. She bends, skims the feathers with the back of her hand, and drags the scarf from the ground, the bells jangling softly as she winds it around her fingers. Red silk, so soft and fine it catches on the ridges of her fingertips.

"Weird? No." She takes a step toward him, anticipation tightening in her gut. "But you must be the expert if you've been here that long. What kind of weird are we talking about?"

"Hardly an expert," he says, toying idly with the mask around his neck. "Ask the wanker on the tablet if you have questions. He thinks he knows everything."

If he took off his sunglasses and put on the mask, what would happen? What would he see? Part of him thinks it's worth the risk to find out. But, then again, something really weird could happen, and he's not sure he wants this girl to deal with that. He thought she was a bit odd, almost frightening at first, but her questions make him think she's harmless, maybe even a bit stupid. She'd probably only get frightened.

"Hmm, maybe I will." Okay, enough talking. She puts a slight bend in both knees just enough to lower her centre of gravity. The end of the scarf trails by her leg, silver bells strike their notes, echoey and haunting.

"Is that the rest of the costume over there?" As distractions go, it's predictable, but her delivery was flawless - wide eyed and perfectly genuine. She gives it a fifty-fifty chance.

It's a predictable distraction, but Crowley is completely gullible. He doesn't even care about the rest of the costume, but her words make him turn to look. He looks around at the costumes, some of which he could swear weren't there a moment before, and scrunches his face up in confusion.

"Where?"

The moment his eyes are off her, she leaps the remaining distance. A practised flick of her wrist and the scarf is around his throat, she catches the trailing end and pulls tight. The bells jangle just like she thought they would, and she's smiling as she pulls it tight.

Of the things Crowley expected to happen, being attacked by a pretty little blonde girl is not one of them. And let's be perfectly frank, Crowley is not a fighter. He's not much of a lover, either. He's more of a sauntering pain-in-the-ass and that's how he likes it.

So suddenly, he can't breathe. Suddenly, he feels the bones in his neck get constricted. He wants to cry out, but he can't. He flails and reaches up to grab at the scarf around his neck.

His hand makes contact with hers, and his hand is hot, hot like fire. Maybe it'll be enough to frighten her, make her release him.

Villanelle screams. What the fuck? What is that a taser? Her skin is blistering. She loses her grip, stumbles back. The scarf dragging free over her skin makes her gasp in pain. "You bastard."

She hadn't expected him to put up any real fight, and she can't work out what weapon he's used. Worse, she's lost the element of surprise. It's a scramble now to try and get back onto him before he recovers from the attempted strangulation. Her hand aches, but she's fought through worse. She launches herself forward again, hoping to knock him to the ground.

She releases his throat and he lets out a deep gasp, taking in air as his hand goes up to his throat. He can't believe that just happened. Why did she attack him? Did she seriously just try to strangle him with a bell-covered scarf? Why would she? What did he do?

"What the f----"

And when she launches herself towards him, Crowley immediately goes down, and hard, all of the wind getting knocked out of him immediately. He scrambles to try to grab at her hair, to pull her back off of him.

When was the last time he was in an actual brawl? He certainly can't remember.

They twist and roll, clothes ground into the dirt beneath them. Villanelle hears a crunch and wastes a second to mourn the mask. Her inattention loses her her place on Crowley's back and his fingers tangle in her long hair. She should have tied it back. Foolish mistake. She's thrown off him, twisted around and she hits the ground hard.

The pain brings tears to her eyes and she snarls, grabbing for him, her face close to his. Her teeth white against red lips. "You broke it. You bastard." She forgets her murderous goal, she just wants to make him hurt. She brings her arm back, fingers closing into a fist.

If Crowley could list off his favorite sins, his most favorite is and always would be Sloth. Top favorite, always up there. Followed quickly by Gluttony, another favorite sin. Very good, always excellent to indulge in with some great wine. Going down and down and down the list, you'd eventually get to his least favorite sin: Wrath. He's never seen a need for Wrath. It's just anger turned violent, and Crowley has never seen anything fun or interesting come out of Wrath.

This sin, it appears, is this girl's favorite. She gets her face up in his and he can basically feel it coming off her in waves. Crowley doesn't know where this started, but he knows it's not going to finish with a nice glass of wine and a conversation about how it's just too bad sometimes things break.

"Fuck!" Her fist comes up and he ducks.

She just manages to pull her punch, the muscles of her shoulder protest, but it saves her breaking her fingers on the gravel. Instead her knuckles drag against the ground, opening bloody scrapes across her hand. She lets the forward momentum carry her down onto him, her other arm angled toward his throat. If she can get her forearm flat against his windpipe, she can get back to the serious business of choking the life out of him.

She can feel blood in her mouth. She's bitten her lip, and the coppery tang is bright on her tongue. She'd felt dead since arriving here. It wasn't the memory of the knife in her gut that had convinced her this was the afterlife, it was the dullness that had plagued her. But right now? With a fight at her hands and blood on her lips? She feels alive.

Her arm goes flat on his windpipe and he feels the air blocked from his throat again. She's not a large person, but she's strong and determined, and he can feel that he's not going to be able to just throw her off of him with any measure of success. He thrashes, reaching up a hand to try to smack at her face.

This is bad. This is very bad. Crowley has been discorporated before, but that was back on Earth, that was back when he knew he just had to fill in some paperwork and he'd be back. This is different. He doesn't want to just die---and more importantly, he doesn't want to just lose to this girl.

He rolls his eyes back and concentrates. Focuses on making himself long and thin. If he can transform himself into the serpent, he might be able to literally slither out of her grasp before she can choke him to death.

His blow connects, but she just takes it, feels the side of her face sting under the slap, bears down more heavily on his neck in return. Next thing she knows he's moving. He's moving strangely. Not bucking her off, but writhing, his entire body narrowing. Her grip on his neck is rapidly fading leaving her hands closed on empty clothes. She stares down at him incredulously. What the actual fuck is going on?

Villanelle has never fought a man who could turn into a snake before, she can, perhaps, be forgiven her momentary inability to compute. She scrambles away, a shiver running through her body - an unexpected wave of revulsion. There is something seriously wrong with this man, not least the whole snake thing.

She is, however, nothing if not resourceful, and as his clothes empty out beneath her, her hand is pressed into the hard shape of the broken mask, a long, smooth piece that fits into her palm just like a knife. She grips her raw knuckles around it, rallying. A snake he may be, but a snake can die just as easily as a man.

She can't give him time to escape, there are enough clothes strewn about that he could wriggle into a dark hole and get free. She needs to end this, and with that thought in mind, she leaps for whatever part of him she can reach, the shard in her hand.

Crowley hasn't been the serpent in a long time. He often thought if he turned into the serpent, he would forget what it was like to turn back into a person. But right now, all he can think about is escape. If he's useless as a man, he's definitely useless as a serpent. He's not even venomous, he's just long and thin and bigger than an average snake.

He makes a beeline for the clothes, thinking he can bury himself underneath them, maybe dig a hole into the earth and go down where she can't find him. But her hand connects with his middle and he wriggles helplessly in her grasp.

She grabs at whatever clothes are nearest with her free hand, keeping him pinned with the mask shard as she does so.

The moment she has something, she throws herself forward, flinging the clothes up towards the snake's head. She has no idea if it's venomous or not, in fact has some vague idea that big snakes are more likely constrictors, but she doesn't want to gamble her life on that half-remembered fact.

She tightens her grip, reaching for the place where the head meets the body. If she can hold his head down, keep any fangs away from her, she'll be free to pull the mask-blade out and stab again.

He can't see. He can't see anything, he can't slither out of her grasp. He hisses and writhes about helplessly, trying to get away, do anything, get anywhere---

He doesn't even see the blade come down at him, he just feels it as she stabs him, down below his first rib cage. The cry he makes sounds like a man's, even as the serpent, and he tries to transform back---giving himself clothes as he does---to give himself more body if she stabs him again. He could handle one stab as a man, but not any more as a snake.

Her grip fails as he transforms back, so she just throws herself over him, less deliberate, more desperate. The sound of his cry has painted the air and she's smiling again. He screams like a man, a snake that screams like a man. It's like a fairy tale. She's enjoying this too much to give up now.

She doesn't pull the knife out straightaway, she tries to ride the transformation, tries to drag it, first across, then up as she realises where his heart ought to be. The cut doesn't go where she wants, ribs thickening to block her, so she twists it as she drags it out, rolls forward and reaches to press her fingers in the wound, trying to halt any attempt at fighting back, trying to cause as much pain as possible. She wants to hear him scream again. Blood has spilt over the clothes, over the ground, a glorious mess.

"Fucking fuck!" he cries out as the blade travels across his body. It hurts, and it hurts here more than any discorporation ever hurt back on Earth. Leave it to this damn town to make everything hurt worse. He writhes, trying do to anything, something, to get away from the pain and the injury. He tries to grab her wrist, to pull her arm back from him, but he feels the blood loss affecting his muscles, and he can't even make his touch hot, can't even make a minor miracle to pull her away.

"Why are you doing this?" he coughs out.

She feels the weakness in his hand and smiles wider, she has him now. She drags herself up his body, plants her knees on either side of his chest, squeezing tight enough to keep him there. One hand settles on his shoulder, pressing down, also to keep him in place, the other, still holding the blade, bloody now, her grip slick with it.

She hears his question, makes a hiccup of a laugh. "Because it's fun." Her eyes are wide and guileless as she stares down at him. Isn't he having fun? Oh, she supposes not.

She moves to stab him again, slow, wanting to take her time, wanting to make sure he can feel every inch of it entering his body. Just like she had with Eve. Her gut tightens in memory, and her smile freezes in place. It's not the same, it's not at all the same, but the memory is insistent, won't fade... She needs him to be dead now.

"No, no----stop---wait---"

The way she stabs him is so slow and so painful. He feels it slide in, and he can't do anything to prevent it. He doesn't have the strength to pull her off of him, and he isn't fast enough to get away. He can't even talk his way out of this----and he's talked his way out of everything in his life.

All he can do right now is die.

He feels his body go limp as the shard goes through him, and he lets out a shuddered gasp.

Her eyes flutter closed in pleasure at that gasp, at the sound of him giving up, of welcoming death. The thought is so alien to her, and she's already dead. Shouldn't she have a different perspective? Apparently not. She can't imagine lying down and letting it happen.

She drags the blade out just as slowly, then considers the body beneath her for a moment. Her blood is still pumping, the adrenaline rush of a kill thundering through her body. She wants to savour it, bottle it and keep it fresh, but she can't ignore the aches from the fight. The afterlife shouldn't have muscle fatigue, bruises and scrapes, but this one does and she'd like to find somewhere quiet to patch herself up.

She brings her blade up to his throat, blood trailing down her fingers and dropping onto his neck, a dotted line - cut here. She giggles.

"Any last words?"

Crowley feels the life ebbing out of him, but he manages to sneer up at her. Always been very good at sneering, he has. Lousy at staying alive, it appears.

"Fuck you," he mutters.

She laughs down at him. "Maybe next time." She says, saccharine sweet in the face of his sneer and slices the blade across his throat in one sharp motion, deep enough there's white bone glistening under the blood.

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TEST DRIVE MEME #5

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holy shit that was awesome.