TEST DRIVE MEME #1

[inthenightmods]

TEST DRIVE MEME #1

Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for June! Thanks for your interest in our game! Reserves open on June 20, and applications open on June 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/application cap of 20 apps per month (this has been waived for the first month!).
  
• 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.
  
• Though threads can become canon, they cannot count toward AC.
  
• 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

YOU'RE DEAD, JIM

You haven't been in Beacon long when you find yourself in Bonfire Square, staring into the flames and thinking about how you ended up here. Maybe it was an accident, a sudden freak thing that you never saw coming until you woke up on the ferry, or maybe it's a miracle you made it as long as you did. Maybe death was a relief. Maybe it was just your time. Whatever the case, you can't help but reflect on your final moments as you linger in the firelight.

But however you died, it's behind you now, and you're here, stuck in this little town with just a few buildings and a smattering of other people. You're going to be here a while, so you may as well get to know your neighbors, but... Would it be cathartic to commiserate about your deaths? Or is your time better spent stocking up at the general store? Then again, you've got plenty of time, so why not catch a drink or two (or three) at the Invincible? Pretend you're unaffected by your death, and, well. Fake it 'til you make it, perhaps.

Point is, you have options. You're dead, you died, and this is your "life" now. Better get used to it.

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

Currently, there's only one place to live (technically speaking) in Beacon: the Invincible, a tavern and inn located in Bonfire Square. Luckily, the place has working amenities (minus light), and the forest spirits don't charge anything for your stay. Unfortunately, it seems there may not be enough rooms for everyone. Guess you'll have to get cozy!

Maybe you'll try to pick a roommate from around town or in the bar downstairs, or maybe you'll just walk into the first room you see and choose that way. Want a room all to yourself? Get ready to fend off any potential intruders. And the fun doesn't end there.

The Invincible's rooms aren't all created equal. Some may have had their furniture stolen or become a dumping ground for unwanted pieces, resulting in a single bed, five dressers, and other equally distressing situations. Will someone sleep on the floor? Will you nail two beds together to form bunk beds? Maybe you just want to make this room into something more like home— potentially to your roommate's chagrin. Whatever you decide, this is where you're staying for now, so you might as well get comfortable.

network prompts

HACKER VOICE: I'M IN

In order to use the network, you have to register a username. Er, at least, that's how it's supposed to work. For some reason, new users have recently been able to bypass that requirement, allowing them to post anonymously. Time to troll strangers on the magical internet!

Eventually though, you'll need a username in order to use the tablet's other functions, like the direct messaging system. So hey, why not take advantage of the ability to source opinions, and workshop your potential usernames on the network? Share ideas, get feedback, steal ideas, critique others, and figure out what you want everyone to call you.

TURN ON YOUR LOCATION

When you wake up, you're in the woods. An iron shackle complete with a chain leashes you to a tree, and the only light you have is your lantern. You've never seen this area of the woods before. You certainly didn't go to sleep here.

Hm.

But, all is not lost. You find your phone in your pocket, as well as a scrap of paper covered back to front in cryptic scribbles. Are these clues to your location? They must be. You also spot a key dangling from a branch, though it's hanging from a tree you'll never be able to reach from here. Perhaps someone on the network will be able to lend you a hand...

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Comments

gene hicks | oc

[preseance]

character infograph!

  death is just the beginning;

( he thinks it's a shellin' what kills him. hard to say. he'd've stuck around after to tell for certain — his pa said acceptin' your own fate was an important part of grievin' it — but instead, he wound up here.

now, he ain't one to argue with the almighty, but. dead's dead. he knows that, he's been livin' it his whole life. ghosts move on, but it's a choice, mostly. leastwise that's what he's always been told. he's got the whole of that ferry ride over to think about it. hardest part is reggie bein' gone. he's grown so used to havin' him at his back the whole of this war, it's a queer thing that he ain't.

but breathing's nice. the air is cool, dark's a cloak tucked in close around them. he can't hear bombers overhead or the distant whistle of fallin' mortars and that's about as close to paradise as he can imagine, so he's right fortified against complaint.

should another soul look lost or upset, though, he'll be right there. pushin' a cup of some manner of broth into their hands, the drape of his wool coat around their shoulders as he takes a seat beside them.

the war never leaves your bones. an' as far as he's concerned, anyone here's on the same side as he is. )

Hey, there. Easy, now. You holdin' up all right?

( he's got an alabama accent that kicks like a mule, heavy on the drawl. )

  roomies for better or worse;

( a soldier's billet was rarely a thing of comfort in the war. hell, barely a place to rest your head. he's used to the close quarters, ten men to a two-man room, but it's hell and gone warmer here than it was at st. vith, and he doesn't mind the starlight none.

so, gene, bein' the outdoorsy sorta fella he is, has simply strung up an old tarp outside. he's used one of those discarded dressers as an anchor, dug a trench for any water-related run-off, and he's in the process of kitting it out with whatever he can find to sleep on that's a solitary step up from the cold, hard ground.

the whole damn shanty is up to military standard. point of paratrooper pride. should anyone else venture in close to see what he's up to, he'll call out to them, )

Hey. Plenty of room if you're havin' trouble securin' a berth inside and don't mind a few mosquitoes.

  drown your sorrows in spirits and soul;

( the invincible's about what he's used to in europe, that down-home feel sunk into the walls. he still doffs his service cap as he comes on in, holding it in his hands like he ain't quite certain of what to do with it or himself now that he's here.

he ain't much of a drinker. new york just before they boarded the monterey was enough, an' he got so drunk he wound up in a rubbish heap in an alley and a few boys had to come dig him out before reveille. he won't so much as look sideways at whiskey again so long as he lives (ha) but beer. he reckons beer is just fine, and orders one as he heads over to the common area cleared for dancin'.

if you play an age-appropriate lady (he's 21) he will absolutely ask them to dance with a smile and one hand held out. he ain't shy about it, but he is soft-spoken and humble and hey, he'll take rejection well. if you play a fella, he'll ask them too but be a bit more playful about it, maybe a nudge to the side or a hand clapped to one shoulder.

better hope you know how to do the foxtrot! or at the very least the lindy. ww2 was a Time. but if you don't know, you won't hardly find a more patient teacher. )

roomies

[stolenparts]

[It definitely is curiosity that brings Robin close to the tent. He's impressed at the ingenuity, which brings a smile to his face.]

You think that we'll be dealing with insects often as ghosts?

[That's insult added onto injury, honestly.]

I'd hate to take up such a hard-earned space.

[preseance]

( he glances up from where he's workin', lashin' some tree branches together to make somethin' like a mattress if you don't mind the sap.

ghosts, he says, like it ain't no mind. gene's noticed the forest spirits, 'course he has. he just thought he was the only one that could see 'em. he lowers his hand from where he'd lifted it to gesture the boy on inside. )

You mean us bein' dead an' all?

( he can't help the caution, though he sounds more confused than downright suspicious. it ain't hardly to the soul of him, but generations of his family dealin' with this particularity have left him wary on the matter. ghosts are a private affair for the hicks boys, and anyone who can speak on them so cavalier could well be a worry.

they ain't so long from the days of burnin' witches, after all.

but where are his manners. jesse hicks would be aghast. )

Ah, I mean. Space is yours if'n you want it. Reckon my shovel did more work than I did.

[ roomies for better or worse ]

[identifier]

[ the rooms have all been combed through. assessed. dick would prefer somewhere with a view. a window. and no roommates, thanks. he's got his hands full looking for kory, gar, and rachel. worrying over the new arrvials won't do him any good, but his mind runs him in circles anyway. after the sick corners of the asylum, he's on extra edge when they disappear.

knowing the perimeter clears his head some. spotting the tarp (and the paratrooper standard is a signal. military, probably reliable. worth talking to, at least. he wanders over, carefully and lies, with a brisk smile. nothing to be cheerful about here. ]

Just walking.

[ his attention rests on the shelter. then on gene. the fatigues and the accent. ]

You're staying out here?

[ plenty of room inside, is what he's saying. ]

[preseance]

( dick gets an acknowledging nod as he's putting the finishing touches on the knotwork holding the tarp down. he hears that unspoken invitation, and his smile's a bit wry. )

Ah, I reckon it's just what I'm used to.

( it's not exactly a rebuff, just a statement of fact. plus, he'd rather make his own place than take one he can't pay for. at least this spot is well-protected. he can worry about earnin' his keep later. if they can still be hungry and tired after death, then it ain't the great equalizer folks' been preaching, now is it? he gets to his feet, dusts off his palms and politely holds one out for dick to take. he has a medic's hands, rough and calloused, knicked in a hundred places with the trade of beatin' death on back from a body. )

Name's Gene. New around these parts.

death is just the beginning

[evocation]

[Kyna certainly looks upset. Her mind keeps seesawing back and forth between the mess she's gotten herself into here and the people she's left behind. As much as she tries to shove those thoughts aside and seem unbothered, she's never been good at concealing her emotions.

She doesn't expect the sudden show of kindness, though, and before she can react she's got a coat wrapped around her shoulders and a warm cup in her hand. She blinks up at the man standing beside her, trying to figure out how the hell to answer his question.]

Uh, I'm dead, so... Technically no? I guess nothing's falling off yet.

[It's supposed to be a joke, but it sounds kind of lame even to her.]

[preseance]

( what it sounds is shell-shocked. he sits down beside her, not quite touchin' but enough to share warmth and air, and he gives her a polite nod. the furrow to his brow is all concern and worry for her. gently, )

My name's Gene. Ain't got no injuries to speak to, though?

( his first priority. worry about the physical, then he can unpack the rest. )

#3

[sulfa]

[ wade's one-and-a-half beers and zero dances into the night when someone's elbow catches him in the side - he turns his head to apologize, then realizes that it is in fact not someone trying to squeeze through. it was meant to draw his attention away from the amusing scene at the center of the room, and is coming from someone wearing an all-too-familiar uniform. that alone is something of a comfort, even though it shouldn't be, given that seeing soldiers means that they were killed before medics could get to them. or, in this guy's case, other medics.

then the paratrooper in question asks wade--who prefers not to dance--to in fact dance. irwin laughs quietly, like he's just remembered a joke, and shakes his head. ] I'm not much of a dancer. All the dexterity went to my hands and left nothing behind.

[ he punctuates the statement with a small sip from the dark bottle in his right hand - he's being careful to pace himself, seeing as he doesn't particularly enjoy feeling like he isn't entirely in control of what he says and does. ] You're a medic. How'd they get you?

[preseance]

( christ o'lordy, the familiar uniform draws the eye. gene could kiss the man if it weren't so riotously steeped in impropriety. it's the first genuine smile this place's gotten outta him. better than christmas, given all the other folk he's met here. ain't a one been from his war, much less the year familiar to him.

that question, though. it don't leave him cold, he's seen too much death to really be troubled by the thought. but he does gesture for the bottle the other man has. no dancin', well, they can find a quiet corner just as well. man's a ranger, by the insignia. up in the thick of it since normandy. )

January 4th, 1945. Just outside'a St. Vith. Shellburst, I think. ( he hands the bottle back politely, an' in exchange he offers the man a smoke. chesterfields. ) What about you?

roomies! (or not)

[makeshivt]

[ He looks Gene over, focused and intent. ]

Ain't havin' trouble with inside.

[ Out here is safer, though this fella's got a good spot already. Joel's scoped out a few more, gotta put distance between himself and the sudden community of others that has popped up here. He hasn't spotted Ellie, and she damn well better not be here, if they're really dead. (If they are, it doesn't bother him any.) ]

[preseance]

Well then you're set, ain't you?

( not a word of back-talk, just an acknowledgement of fact. gene still holds out a cup of coffee, nevertheless. the camp sort, brewed in a pot and strained with cheesecloth. the end result is somethin' that looks like an oilslick, but it tastes just this shy of heaven. )

Welcome to join me anyway. I'd like to get to know the folks hereabouts some. Name's Gene.

death is just the beginning;

[darkeyed]

<sub>[He'd arrived with the rest, but few may have noted it at the time. Half a day in and M.K. hasn't bothered to make contact with anyone, spending his adjustment period alone, stalking the outskirts of Beacon and the living ghosts in it. If the foreign-looking leather armor made for blunting sword strokes over bullets and the bloodied twin scimitars didn't keep people away, he did the job for them, always at a distance.

Apparently someone with darkness in their blood still has limits when the impenetrable darkness all around gets to be too much, because he eventually submits to taking respite by the bonfire, making a grim study of the flames. Absently, his hand finds the right side of his face and rubs the unblemished skin there ceaselessly, off and on for the better part of the hour.

He hadn't realized he was pressing the pad of his thumb into his jaw hard enough to bruise (where are the scars, there should be scars), knee jittering up and down beneath the elbow he's rested on it, until someone's pushing a warm, steaming distraction into his hands. His shoulders twitch the barest amount at the proximity, the move an animal makes before it bristles. Worse: comfort and kindness. The last two things he wants.

Gaze snapping up, he speaks for the first time since making land.]</sub>

I didn't ask.

_{[Whatever flavor his existential musings have taken, it's not meekness. The warning to back off behind the terse retort is as clear as the day that will never come, and with it M.K. holds the cup out again.]}

Take it back.

!! i love into the badlands hello

[preseance]

( well, how 'bout that. thing about gene, he may seem mild and soft but the man's got a spine to him, an' he don't so much as flinch. that reaction ain't nothin' he hasn't seen before. it's how some folk cope. if there were any malice to it he'd be wearin' that cup of broth by now. just the fact the kid's tryin' to give it back to him instead speaks volumes.

he's seen all manner of boys do all manner of things what stain the soul. he knows someone hurtin' when he sees it. call it a medic thing, call it the province of a soul that's seen ghosts since before he could walk. some folk ought not to be alone. )

Well sure, if you ain't gonna drink it.

( there's no trace of havin' found the boy rude or crass to his tone, just calm acceptance as he sits down beside the kid. near, but not so near as all that so as not to set him off further, and he holds out his hand to take the cup back. he won't insist on it, that sorta attitude is like as not to scare his type away. it's like handlin' a spooked horse. you gotta calm it some before you try to lead it anywhere safe. )

Name's Eugene. There somethin' I can call you?

at the bar

[callada]

[This seems to be the spot people are congregating. And for good reason - food and drink and light. It doesn't take long for Rosinante to learn just how important that last might be after all. When he arrived, he expected the sun would rise eventually. He's since learned that was a naive assumption, but who would think otherwise?

Whiskey is his preferred drink, and it's what he has on the table in front of him as he browses the network. He dominates the table; barely fits in the chair, and his legs are stretched out underneath for were he to bend them and place his heels on the floor he'd likely tilt the table itself from underneath. Next time he'll just bring a pillow to sit on the floor with, perhaps. At least now with the blood and makeup scrubbed off, he looks like a normal person, just exceedingly tall.

Movement draws nearer and he glances away from the tablet just as he's asked... to dance? He opens his mouth to reply, but notices the man is in uniform. Well, that's interesting. It's a little like some of the military outfits used by some of the smaller countries - but still not quite familiar entirely.]

I'll have to pass. But do you mind if I ask you where your uniform's from?

[preseance]

( lordy, he's a big fella. he'd missed it at first, on account of the atmosphere and the amount of beer he's gotten himself into. now that he's had a chance to slow down and actually pay attention, it's all too obvious. reminds gene of that canuck they met up with on d-day. he steadies himself on the table a bit, the question makes him blink.

give him a moment, he needs to think about it. he's met enough folk here from enough different places and times that he has to suss out just how much information is necessary, an' that's a mighty tall order when you're halfway to tipsy. he's from a dry county, booze was a foreign thing to him before he got into the war. his tolerance is almost laughably bad. )

Ah... American infantry. 82nd division, 1945.

( a pause. then, helpfully, )

On Earth.

( at least he ain't slurrin' his words none. that'd be a sure sign to stop. though his alabama accent is perhaps a touch stronger than usual. )

⤜ drown your sorrows

[dadyl]

[ Daryl hasn't been appreciating the music, exactly, but the whiskey is soothing the ragged edges he feels all over. If he really is dead, then it was at the hands of murders that he failed to protect his people from. If it's true, then he's left his people behind to deal with those murderers without him. That's been weighing on him more heavily than the actual acute thought of his own death, and even the noise and relative life of the place around him can't distract him.

Until someone is shrugging into his space and getting his attention. Asking him to dance. Daryl's scowl slips for a moment in his surprise and his blinks behind his tangled hair. He lets out a brusque, dismissive noise. ]

Nah.

[ But he can't help but smirk at the guy's forwardness. He lets out a breath of a laugh that isn't quite a whole sound. It's the first smile that's cracked him since arriving in all this darkness after so much horror. It must have been the pure surprise had being approached that did it. ]

Ain't no dancer.

[ He's not sure why he felt like he needed an excuse, but to the trained eye Daryl is slightly flustered. He covers it with his usual sulky reticence easily enough, leaning both elbows back on the bar to designate his own space. It's a hiding place he's very comfortable in. ]

[preseance]

( funny thing about the war. dancin' wasn't about romance, it was just a way to kill time. stay fit. have a bit of fun in an otherwise dismal place. and since war often involved a whole lotta men in a place where there weren't a whole lotta women, a blind eye was often turned to gender.

daryl's hesitance seems more about the dancin' itself than the fact he's a man, anyhow. so gene gestures for a beer from the bartender behind where he's set up shop, and tips it in a little salute. )

I don't mind the teachin' if'n you wanna learn.

#1

[fieldhospital]

[ elisha's watching the glint of the moonlight on the dark waves off the ferry's side rail when the grating accent and simultaneous weight on his shoulders jar him from his thoughts, or, more accurately, his lack thereof. he startles, fast, in the kind of way that can save a man's life during a shelling but didn't save his own, and when he reflexively turns his head toward the direction of the voice, hostility is already making a pre-emptive rise toward the surface of his consciousness.

but then he notices a few things all at once: 1) that uniform isn't a rebel one; 2) said uniform is stamped U.S. ARMY; and 3) the Red Cross is apparently still kicking, because he's wearing its unmistakable symbol on an armband. he's still ill-at ease around this boy and doesn't appreciate the sudden invasion of his personal space, but the kid seems nice enough and seems to be at least marginally better educated than most of his ilk, with the exception of basic english grammar, so elisha humors him for lack of anything better to do. ]

Huh. Guess we won. Holding up better now. [ to an extent. the news of their victory doesn't feel as satisfying as it probably would have in 1861, when everyone thought it would be quick. all of that for this? that many lives for a sweltering shithole and the guys like this who crawled out of it? his own accent could hardly be further from the one that opened the conversation - elisha had spent all of his now-concluded time alive in pennsylvania with the exception of a handful of excursions prior to uncle billy grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him all the way down to goddamn god-only-knows-where, georgia to receive some genteel shrapnel in the abdomen courtesy of some idiot artilleryman with probably three days of training and a lousy aim. ]

You're a doctor?

[preseance]

( uniform recognition. lotta that goin' around, but the truth is — gene cut his teeth wandering the battlefields of the civil war, speakin' to folks lost on both sides. he'd be a fool not to know it, moreso given alabama's history. confederacy was birthed there, an' this fella ain't got no reason to be kind to him on that account, though the lack of open hostility is appreciated. guess we won. gene's struck with a curious, sudden sense of bein' in the shoes of all those folk that've been reluctant or slow to confirm an allied victory, and he halfway wants to open his mouth and say, april 9, 1865.

he refrains. leastwise for now, since the man surmises the obvious truth. his kit would'a been stamped an altogether different way if a confederate victory was assured. an' just catchin' that one small thing makes it obvious that he's in the presence of a well-lettered man, a critical thinker. gene spent enough time with reggie's parents — both doctors — to hold his own against someone with miles more education than what he got droppin' out at eleven, and though sobered, he ain't cowed or scared none by it. the shoulder straps mark the man as a medical officer himself. he rubs one hand against that white cross armband, mostly just fussin' at it so the cross better faces outward. )

Ah... no sir, I ain't. Field medic. I'm just there to patch fellas up well enough to get them back from the front.

( a few weeks of first aid tacked onto his paratrooper training, three years in the field. he knows his share, but he'd make no presumptions towards doctoring. stitchin' a wound or clampin' on an artery ain't the same as pullin' shrapnel outta a man's gut.

there's no hesitation as he offers his hand to shake. )

Corporal Hicks. Folks call me Eugene.

roomies (??!?!?)

[nonscriptum]

[ Nate felt sort of bad, thinking about pushing his way into cramped housing to share with people who clearly aren't the sharing type. A childhood spent in the orphanage and, following that, existing largely in the tucked-away spaces people aren't liable to look at too hard, means that while he may not be nearly as comfortable outdoors, he's familiar with it. It's almost soothing, even in this place, as dark and forbidding as the underground city he showed up in a couple years ago.

A stroll with the little lamp attached to his hip is in order, away from the clamoring at that sorry excuse for an inn. Tavern. Whatever.

He stops short as someone calls out and turns slightly, knowing he's drowning in thoughts of where he was before this. Distracted, like always, but Nate mills over in the direction of the tent, propped up with all the military expertise he expects of someone who knows what they're doing. He flashes a smile in the half-light. ]

It's a little too competitive inside for my blood.

(um yes always)

[preseance]

( hope u don't mind Distinctly Southern, nate. )

God's honest truth right there.

( gene moves easy in crowds, but. he don't sleep right no more. the war's a heavy weight, and he ain't ashamed to say he's got some unpacking to do. but bein' outside, even in the endless dark — clears the head some. he gestures nate inside. gene's got his lantern set up for lumination, and has tried real hard to prop up his signal mirror to boost the ambiance with somewhat limited success.

he's got a k-ration broken down into its basic segments on a little stool that he probably pilfered from the inn. he waves a hand at it, to indicate nate's free to take anythin' that pleases him. the crackers ain't bad, but the tinned chicken pâté is best avoided. )

But it ain't all bad out here. Stars're a sight, ain't they? You recognize any of 'em?

up for more roomies?

[hardwearing]

[ Wash is seriously considering crashing in the woods himself, having assessed the size of the inn compared the number of people milling around town and realizing there just couldn't possibly be enough space. But out here... he isn't sure it's a good idea, can't shake his paranoia that there will be things out to kill him even though he's already dead. He's just tired, both of fighting and the confusing tangle of emotions he's stubbornly refusing to process that threaten to send him spiraling into an existential crisis.

Still, the forest is less intimidating than knocking on doors and having to engage with strangers to try and find a space he'll have a roof over his head, so Wash got himself some coffee and went for a walk. With nowhere to stash his armor he's still wearing it, a full suit of gunmetal grey titanium alloy with yellow trim, chestplate severely damaged where something tore straight through the metal. He's got an assault rifle on his back and his helmet dangles from the fingertips of one hand, its HUD inexplicably useless against the darkness here. It's easier to see without it, not that he could miss the light of Gene's lantern in the sea of black. Wary but curious, Wash comes closer, to find that it's a tiny camp very similar to how he would have built one. Even space marines learn basic survival too.

He never would have expected, however, to be invited to hang around. The polite thing to do would be to thank the guy for the offer, but what comes out is: ]

Are you sure it's safe out here?

always, c'mere!!!

[preseance]

( the question stops short of gettin' a low laugh, mostly because... well, it's plenty valid. for all that they're dead an' this is like as not a form of purgatory, he supposes there are plenty of things that can still endanger an immortal soul. but gene just shakes his head, and gestures for the —

fella?

the armour gets perhaps the first real surprise outta him since the ferry brought him on over. he can recognize it as somethin' distinctly military, an' it puts him in the mind of a tank so far as scale and size go, but the person inside, unless they're a talkin' head, seems perfectly normal otherwise. he opens his mouth. closes it again careful and deliberate. then, )

Ain't got no assurance of that, but the same could be said for the inn.

( the blitz left its scars across london. buildings became tombs. if anything comes, better it come out here in the open air, beneath the stars. he'd rather face it. )

drown your sorrows;

[applicative]

[ Dying is quiet. Quick, at least, some credit there to whichever power makes the world turn on its axis. Whatever certainty he’d held close to himself of surviving it all — well it’s fucked now. Nothing else for it. Alex has been nursing the whiskey, listening to the music. Familiarity in the environment here only feels strange. You can still drink in the afterlife, apparently. He wonders if this extends to getting drunk, getting hungover, or any of those other delights he assumed he wouldn’t face. ]

[ And when Gene enters the bar, Alex orients towards him. Compasses find their true north, and he’d never be one to use the metaphor. Too sentimental, in a place full of bodies and unnecessary cruelty. But it’s been months, and his bed has been empty, he drinks alone. Gene’s sweetness is welcome, more welcome than anything else he’s got in his hands — and now, the desire burrows and thrashes like an angry thing. ]

[ He smiles from across the room, nothing of his sharpness. It’s slow and warm. Like that old London bar, now bombed — inhabiting that memory completely. He locks eyes, finishes his dram, and stands. A slow, purposeful saunter, knowing Gene’s eyes are on him, that the realisation of the situation comes down on them both. He closes the distance boldly, the press of a palm first, then he twines their fingers. ]

[ I missed you. I wondered often after you. Instead, his mouth pulls in a fond smile. In a murmur against Gene’s cheek, ]

Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?

[ roommates ]

[telconta]

[ he had sought a place here first. it is the elves who seek the company of stars. and men who looked to the sun as it rose. he has spent a lifetime among elves. and another lifetime sleeping under the stars. strange as they may be now.

aragorn approaches him with a smile. a kind soul, to be out here. offering comfort to the weary. ]

I mind little. What is that you drink?

[ its scent is not known to him. ]