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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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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?
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. ]
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[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.
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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. ]
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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. ]