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memesinthenight2020-01-15 12:52 pm
inthenightmods) wrote in memesinthenight2020-01-15 12:52 pm
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TEST DRIVE MEME #8
TEST DRIVE MEME #8
Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for January! Thanks for your interest in our game! In an effort to streamline our application process and avoid future confusion between incoming and existing players, we will no longer have a reservation period. Applications open on January 22, and will be judged on a first-come, first-served basis.
While you're here...
- Take a look at our rules and faq pages to familiarize yourself with the game.
- Note that we have a (current) application cap of 16 apps this month for new players, as the game has a player cap of 70. 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
CAKE BY THE OCEAN
It's a brand new year, and with it, a brand new...you? Well, you are dead, but there's still plenty of ways that you can embrace the spirit of starting fresh, especially when it seems that the forest spirits have their own traditions that they're eager to share! If you've only just arrived, you may find yourself pelted with loaves of bread and accosted with noisemakers, or if you're a seasoned Beaconite, maybe you're wearily unsurprised to find strings of onions being placed around various doorways. Just another day in the afterlife. Best to go along with it, even if some of these practices seem to be somewhat chaotic. It's never a good idea to make the spirits mad, after all, and especially not when they're trying to show you...some sort of semblance of good will, you think. For the most miserable of souls, at least you can be comforted in the knowledge that it should all be over before the day is out.
This is a miniature version of the festivities present during this month's intro log!
I CAN'T FEEL MY FACE WHEN I'M WITH YOU
Winter has made its way to Beacon. It's fortunate that plenty of snow gear has been made available at the general store, so this is a great time for those with little-to-no experience with genuine snow to get out there and draw some angels or build forts for some playful snowball fights! At least...it is, at first. Linger too long and you'll find yourself caught in the middle of a raging blizzard that seems to have swept in out of nowhere. In an instant things seem to go from cold to freezing, and the need to get back inside where there's safety from the elements is pressing. Fortunately, you aren't alone. It might not be your usual residence, but more than one of you have tumbled into the same shelter, and will probably be stuck in there until the worst of the storm passes. No time to get to know each other like the present, right? Gotta break the ice somehow (haha).
network prompts
RUN BOY RUN
The changes in the weather isn't the only thing that residents old and new need to keep weary of. While a great many of the forest spirits remain generally friendly, traveling alone comes with its risks. There's always the possibility that you may encounter a creature that's less inclined to let you pass it by unscathed. And so it goes for you as you venture out into the trees with your lantern and torch in hand. Whatever reason you had for starting out alone, and whatever got you to this point, you've had to take shelter from a very, very displeased spirit. Maybe it has a body not meant for climbing, and you've scaled high up into a tree that it won't let you down from, or maybe you've taken shelter inside of a structure that it's too big to squeeze itself into. Whatever the case, it's clear that your pursuer isn't giving up the ghost (haha), and you'll need to contact someone for some form of help to get yourself out of this.
1000 FORMS OF FEAR
It's a normal day in Beacon...which means that something inconvenient at best and terrifying at worst must be just around the corner. Whether or not you're on edge about the relative calm, it doesn't seem that anything weird is happening...until you try and post to the network. No matter how many times you try, the message you intend to write erases itself. As if someone else has hacked into your tablet, a new message re-types itself in front of your eyes. One of your greatest fears or greatest regrets announces itself for all to see, and there's no getting rid of it. All attempts at getting rid of it are fruitless, and it doesn't seem that you can back out of the new post window now that you're here. Your only option now is to hit send. But, hey, your fellow residents are a pretty understanding lot. Maybe they won't hold whatever it is against you. Maybe you can explain it away. There's always lying, too, if you want to go that method of covering your tracks.
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no subject
Clark.
[Bruce, sounding not at all unfamiliar with giving orders to men twice his size, reaches out with one hand and halts the movement at the nearest possible place. His knee.
The pressure isn't nearly enough to imply that he's trying to force the other man to sink back down, but rather that he's making a very firm suggestion.]
There's more than enough room. [His face turns to the side, a kind of gesture to the space around them without removing his gaze and by extension, without letting Clark from his sight. The reminder he offers is matter-of-fact and yet still as polite as any comment he might make at one of the Wayne Foundation galas.] It's a museum.
Besides, even without considering blood loss or the plunging temperature, trudging out into the snow is only going to exacerbate it.
[He doesn't yet move to get off of his knees, but he does reach for the blanket, pulling it carefully into his lap.]
It was my invitation. But failing that you can call it selfishness.
GOD
Rationalising is a good thing. It makes the part of Clark's brain responsible for logic fire synapses to tell the stubborn part of him to calm down. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the word selfishness makes him laugh instead, all shaking shoulders and moving torso... before he mutters an 'ow' and sits as told. ]
"Selfishness". [ He takes in a deep breath, stiffly sinks further into the backrest of the seat, and shuts his eyes briefly. ] Funny thing from a man who spent so much time to fix a stranger up.
[ But here he is, seated again. Down because Bruce insisted. Now it's imperative that Clark keep a debt to him, and when he opens his eyes again he uses them to find the thermos he'd put aside. Reaching is kind of an ordeal, and Clark still asks a brief 'may I?' like Bruce might say no, but at least this time, with both his hands free, it's a touch easier to open.
(Even if he has to exert some effort, still, to twist it. Golly.)
He considers the dried blood on his hands, and then the dried blood on Bruce's, and after he's taken another few gulps of water he pours another serving out. Bruce's hands are dirty with him because he'd worked so hard. Clark feels sort of stupid, offering water that Bruce himself had gotten, but the sentiment is there as he holds the cup out. ]
You should have some too, m-mister. [ Then, he realises: ] Ah, I promise I'm not sick.
i have so many feelings
Perhaps it's a difference in life experience. He's heard plenty of stories about Metropolis, and the man before him now, sweet-tempered and conscientious is- at odds with his life experience.
But Clark sits and perhaps that's enough to be content with. The cushions yield beneath his weight and Bruce gathers the blankets as he settles, turns renewed attention on the thermos of water. It gives him space to interrupt- to drape the heavy blankets over the man's lap and trap what warmth might remain.]
You could argue that I just don't want to see my hard work go to waste.
[Clark drinks and Bruce watches the bobbing of his adam's apple, reconsiders his plans for the evening. The weather is unlikely to turn again, the last of the blizzard passed a few hours ago- but he has enough supplies stock piled to make something for dinner. Something he wouldn't have considered if he didn't have company to think of. And he's prepared to push to his feet and get started, until a portion of water is offered to him in turn.
He hesitates. Looks at his hands.]
Bruce.
[He reminds- reaching for the cup with the heels of both palms, an attempt to keep himself from making a mess.] Even my father was rarely a 'mister.'
no subject
Sorry, [ while he has genuine intentions in his apology, there's a small chuckle there that shows he isn't too broken up about it ] 'mister' is a bit of a, uh, force of habit. [ But a lot of Clark's habits are a touch outdated, a little bit out there. He doesn't seem to be embarrassed by them as much as he is aware of who he is; even now, chances are he'd only apologised because he didn't want to make Bruce uncomfortable, and he's already made one ill-fated misstep today.
It takes some bravery, but in a small gesture he pushes his glasses up his nose, chuckling (and biting back the wince when he does it too hard) as he says, ] I suppose "Bruce" is better if we're gonna be friends, isn't it?
[ And though it isn't outright forcing, there is an ease in the way Clark says it, but it's not like it'll take much to get Clark to like Bruce to begin with. ]
If you'd, uh. If you'd like, I mean.
[ He did, after all, say that there's no-one out there quite like Bruce. His father always told him to hold on to the special people you meet in life-- it ought to be the same in death, too.
That being said, he's hoping the fact Bruce accepted his little cup of water is a step in the right direction. Clark doesn't know how likely Bruce is to take anything from anyone in such a way, but decides there must be some level of comfort when their fingers brush as he takes the cup back in his shaky grip. (If not some resignation at the fact his hands are still unsteady.)
He refills the cup, and if Bruce doesn't take what's offered a second time, he'll start to sip from it like a dainty little girl at a tea party. You don't realise how thirsty you are when all you feel is shock, but Clark worries he might choke on water if he went too fast. ]
...are you going to stay here, too?
no subject
No one, in Gotham, would consider this a declaration of friendship.
Which is to say- Bruce did, once. When he had been naive enough to afford it. But it's a belief he'd grown out of with age and experience, and one that seems to have held true here in Beacon- where relationships are complicated simply because of the population size. The inevitability of overlap. But the genuine, careful way he says it we're going to be friends, lands so close, bypasses so many of his expectations, that there's a definitive moment where Bruce is at a loss. He does not look like a deer in the headlights, he's done his best to train himself out of an instinct to freeze- but for several seconds Bruce looks exactly as disarmed as he feels.
He's spared the expectation to form a reply when Clark continues. When he's able to busy himself with drinking the contents of the small cup. One hand lifts on the second offer, a wordless decline.]
I'm going to make something to eat.
[He glances at Clark's shirt as he stands. Bruce is able to mend most things, but he suspects this might be beyond repair. He doesn't have anything in the museum that would be a suitable exchange. -Perhaps if he's able to get the man to relax enough to fall asleep, there's likely to be something usable in the general store. He can make it there and back in no time. Assuming he sleeps on his own. Riku notwithstanding, ketamine is likely to make a bad impression.
Bruce's hands rest at his sides, but he's mindful not to touch and make more of a mess as he goes. He's had practice.]
Stay under the blanket. It's important to keep your body temperature from dropping.
no subject
In Bruce's defence, he might just make it worse in the end. Lord knows Clark isn't the most graceful person in general, and it'll probably be worse in a kitchen that requires any measure of skill. ]
All right. [ On the bright side, at least he doesn't sound dejected as much as he sounds accepting. ] Just, um, let me know if I can do anything, all right?
[ As Bruce walks away, Clark watches him go until his silhouette is no longer seen in the darkness. After that, he settles into the seat and resists the urge to brush his hand over his bandage, and instead pulls the blanket as much as it can go up his body without messing the set-up on his lap too much.
Having mostly intact trousers makes Clark feel that it's all right to pull the blanket all the way to his chin. Underneath it, he runs warm like a heater, but he supposes Bruce doesn't have to know that. It's kind enough of him to worry enough to want to keep him warm; if nothing else, he'll wear it for the sentiment, and he shuts his eyes and hums quietly, his ankles twisting lightly to tap the tips of his shoes together.
He'll wait patiently for as long as he has to. In any case, Clark supposes it can't be too long. ]
no subject
But instead of completing the motion and pushing up out of his chair, Clark's momentum reverses and he sinks obediently back into his seat. Bruce lingers by the doorway, watchful and quiet for the redirection- only to nod, a small thing, when Clark finally acquiesces. The nod doesn't quite mean that he accepts these terms, that he'll ask for Clark if he needs something, so much as it means he's pleased to see that his directions are being followed. It speaks to his character. Bruce is and always has been attempting to control the variables in his life. It isn't necessarily a good thing, and it certainly isn't always kind.
The kitchen inside the museum is a new addition- a deliberate creation much like the bathroom and shower. These were added as he came to call this building, as he ceased to be the only person spending significant time here. There's something to be said for Bruce's own sense of self-preservation, how hypocritical his standards can be, especially to an outside observer. Until he'd had other people to consider he'd been walking to the lake to bathe and cooking meals to ration inside the Invincible- packing them up and disappearing without a word. Other people is the reason there's a stove for him to work on. That there are ingredients for a simple stew that won't just fill the stomach, but will taste well. Bruce wouldn't call himself a chef by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd learned a few things from Alfred over the years- going without spices for the first few months had been a choice, an attempt to leave the resources for people who might need them. Like it or not, Bruce is changing.
He isn't gone for long and though he's out of the immediate line of sight he can still be heard moving around. There's an occasional clink of cutlery on dishware, a small thud against wooden countertops. When Bruce does emerge again its with a steaming bowl between both palms- and it's to find Clark with his blanket pulled up to his chin. His eyes closed. It's a strangely endearing sight. He waits, just a moment, to see if he'll stir- and if he doesn't will ask very quietly:] Are you awake?
no subject
Hi. [ His tone is soft, and Clark slowly rises from where he's gotten himself slumped into the chair. ] Yeah, I'm awake. [ He shivers only a little bit when he feels his side move with him, dipping his head to take his glasses off and wipe them with the edge of the blanket.
The glasses slide back on and he looks a little more awake, teeth showing a bit in his grin. ] Welcome back.
[ He doesn't want to seem like a complete invalid, so he pulls the blanket into a position draped over his shoulders instead of hiding his lap away. There's a brief exhale and a light shiver of his shoulders, and then Clark sits with as good a posture as he can manage. Hopefully this makes him look more all right and less like a hospital patient.
There is the briefest sniff with his nose, before: ] Wow, [ it's a bit of an awed exclamation ] wh-what's that?
[ Clark has seemed to notice the bowl in Bruce's hands, finally. His gaze flicks from it up to Bruce in question. ]
no subject
There's a small comfort in that at least- that he's in high enough spirits to smile.]
Don't thank me yet.
[Bruce doesn't close the distance right away, a more apt metaphor for the way he regards others than anything words could say. He stays where he is as the blankets shift, become a shroud instead of a fortress and only when the movement begins to slow does he pace quietly into the room.]
There are no animals or vegetables in Beacon. Nothing grows.
Rations are delivered monthly by the ferry.
[It's a diplomatic way of excusing his cooking that he thinks even Alfred would be proud of. But it's also a polite way, he thinks, to set expectations. The majority of their supplies are.... well preserved. Perhaps their physiological changes here in Beacon, the need for less food and less sleep, is a blessing in disguise. The bowl hovers between them and steam wafts upward.]
And I'm no chef.
no subject
Are you trying to, to tell me your food isn't very good?
[ That's what it sounds like, anyway. Clark was primed for argument already, but suddenly Bruce has closed the space between them. He's there, holding the bowl out towards him, and Clark finds himself taking another sniff and thinking, well, it still smells pretty good, so what's the problem?
Up close like this, the steam is more obvious in the air. Just looking at it instills a sort of comforting warmth, even though the motion of his hands and the brush of his fingers over Bruce's sort of gives Clark's own heat away. ]
I promise I won't expect a five-star meal, okay? [ That's neutral territory, isn't it? He's not sure, really, if Bruce is seeking approval or something of the sort, but he seems like a man of facts, and so facts are what Clark gives him.
He dips his head and blows at the soup, thumb brushing gently against the bowl. ] ...but you don't have to worry about taste, Bruce.
Frankly, I-- I'm just touched you made something for me at all. [ That's what makes cooking for someone else as tender a gesture as it is.
He takes the first sip, which is indeed not at all that extravagant, but is warm in a perfect metaphor for the feelings that having Bruce take care of him evokes. Is the stew too hot? He can't tell. Hopefully it isn't too strange he doesn't react with a burnt tongue. ]
Mm. [ Clark nods his head, glancing up at him. ] It's perfect.
no subject
The matter is quite literally out of his hands regardless. Clark takes the bowl and Bruce notes silently that in their brief touch that there's a reassuring warmth to his skin. It's a good sign. He withdraws and moves back out of the room, but his voice carries.] Have you considered that your standards are too low?
[It would probably be best for Clark to stay the night. There are beds upstairs but Bruce can really only ethically offer his own, besides- he rarely uses it anyway. Though he's admittedly less concerned about the pair of them making it up the stairs than he is about convincing him to stay in the first place. There's a line between chivalrous and self-sacrifice that's easier to address in others than in himself.
When he returns a short while later its with his long sleeves gathered up around his elbow, just enough to bare his wrists. And most importantly, it's with two mugs of coffee in his hands.]
I'm your host, for all intents and purposes. And I can think of one person from home that would never forgive me otherwise.
no subject
Clark is eating the soup quite happily, though, despite its lacklustre taste. He hadn't been kidding about the sentiment mattering-- it'd make even lukewarm hotdog water taste like gourmet soup, knowing someone had done something for him specifically. That was how his son's attempts at cooking went for him in ages past, and Jason's skills in the kitchen were a lot worse than whatever it is Bruce managed to do with this stew.
By the time Bruce returns, Clark feels a lot better than he did when he was first found out in the cold night. There's colour in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, and a bowl of soup that's only got one more hearty gulp left. Clark takes said gulp before he goes to take the mug of coffee offered to him, and as he cradles the bowl in his hand, he looks with wide eyes at the drink he takes in the other like he can't believe what he's seeing.
Coffee! Is it the fact he knows he's dead that makes the whole thing seem like a godsend? It's not like canned goods don't exist out here, given Bruce's stew's main ingredients. But then, again, Clark's sentiment goes a long way. ]
"Never forgive you"? For-- for what, not serving me filet mignon? [ After he's bent to put the bowl down on the floor, Clark holds the mug in two hands like a child holds anything precious. ] We make do with what we have, and you didn't have to make any of this for me in the first place.
[ He grins. It is the most confident he's looked so far. ] My standards are just fine.
I'll admit, though, [ and he leans in slightly in a very careful attempt not to jostle his wound, his voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper ] the coffee does smell better than the soup.
[ Coffee that he sips... and then goes 'wagh, hot!' at, after. ]
no subject
[Bruce is two things at once, always. There is the quiet intensity that lead him to call the museum home, of all places he could choose. That is responsible for the supplies that he has stockpiled in nooks and crannies around town- that led to false floorboards and walls, small bags secured in rafters. He works here, keeps his notes here, and despite the other residents he's managed to collect he's still notoriously cagey about sharing. And then there's this, the real mask. Bruce is a cavalier, disinterested teenager around town. He has easy, meaningless conversations. He sits around in the bar and needs help from others when things go south. It isn't good but it's functional. It serves a purpose.
It's what he does now, who he is now, when one mug dangles from his fingertips and the steam collects against his palm. When he hovers near Clark's side as he finishes and takes the coffee. Only once it's left his hand does he move further into the room- to find a worn old chair, to bring it's crooked wooden legs up and then set it a short distance away. He doesn't use these two points to place them opposite one another, but he doesn't settle at his side either. They're at an angle to one another. Indirect.]
But don't worry. I'll try not to take it personally.
no subject
It’s all right that Bruce is some distance away. If that’s what makes him most comfortable, then so be it. Clark’s not much for wants or demands, and he’s fully content to remain where he is, sipping at his coffee and being surprised at how hot it is and not learning his lesson because he keeps sipping again anyway.
The silence is comfortable as it stretches between them, and Clark looks down at his coffee once it’s halfway full. He’s warmed up nicely now, both from the soup and the drink, and surely those two thing should be enough to energise a man to get up and go.
But he’s not sure, really, how long he’s welcome, and chances a glance Bruce’s way before he looks down at his coffee again, his thumb gently brushing against the side of it. ]
Um… [ His brows furrow slightly. ] Did you want me to s-stay? The whole night?
[ In a way he supposes Bruce’s behaviour had been leaning towards it, but Clark doesn’t want to assume. ]
no subject
The cup sits between his palms as if he'd wanted something to warm his hands more than he wanted something warm to drink. This is partially true. In his experience, it's easier to convince someone to take care of themselves if a social precedent is set. He does not know Clark Kent, but his actions thus far suggest some lack of self-preservation. Bruce does not snort, but there's something in his expression as his eyes move away that suggests it anyway. This is becoming a habit.]
As I said, you can call it selfishness.
If there's anything you need during the night, you can message me on your tablet.
[His gaze flicks upward, to the vaulted ceilings and gallery room at large.]
The museum is large place.
hope this is ok!
Almost.
As it is, he only presses his lips together against a smile and nods his head. Selfishness is something he can indulge in, though he won’t necessarily call it that in his mind; Clark has a tendency to trust too easily and to believe in the best in everybody, and as such calls this a testament to the young man’s heart instead. ]
All right, Bruce. [ Clark finishes the last of his coffee, looks down at his empty mug, and then back up with a smile. ] I will.
I think I’ll just stay here. [ Another part of him wants to explore, to poke at things that aren’t any of his business, but Clark Kent is injured and tired and very, very human. He’ll file this away under things he wants to do later, maybe for the next time he comes here (and he will, if only to repay the debt he now owes). ] If that’s okay.
[ It probably will be.
In any case, the rest of the night (but it’s always night, isn’t it?) runs smoothly, and Clark does as he promised, staying in his seat with his blanket until he’s rested enough that typical humans wouldn’t feel like shit after. The position held that long makes his bones creak, but it’s a small price to pay. The only messages he ends up sending Bruce are May I know where the restroom is? and Thank you so much for letting me stay, Bruce. Hope you don’t mind if I let myself out, I didn’t want to bother. I’ll see you around. :-) with hours set between them.
Clark will clean up to the best of his ability before leaving—whatever it is Bruce doesn’t while he’s sleeping. He’ll find the blanket folded neatly on the seat and the thermos Clark had used washed in the kitchen area. ]