etcelsior | now don't be rude

TEST DRIVE MEME

Considering apping into MASK OR MENACE? Want to dip your toes into the setting and get a feel of whether your character will fit into it? Or maybe you're just cruising and want to play around? Then you've come to the right place!

Pick any of the following scenarios below or feel free to make up your own, but don't be afraid to throw yourself at anyone's thread, either!

And remember to have fun!

01. Your memory is hazy and you might feel increasingly frustrated or anxious, or maybe you're excited as soldiers march past, barely glimpsing you. One second you're somewhere underground, the next you're enveloped in blue light, and suddenly you find yourself directly under Flordia sun's bright and burning glare. A female soldier steps toward you with a wide smile on her face and directs you to a car, ready to debrief you. You realize you are not the only one, surrounded by equally confused or eager faces... and you're all sporting a digital tattoo on your wrist.

02. Welcome to Cape Canaveral, where the smell of the ocean is in the air and locals are more than pleased to see new imPorts roaming their streets. They wave, they cheer, they ask for pictures as politely as they can. The more inhuman you look, or if you're wearing a costume, the more likely locals are to approach. Hey, enjoy the moment! The popular malt shop is offering you a free drink if you need it.

03. The technology in this world is certainly something. The cars are clearly modeled after popular 50s cars, but they hover several feet above the ground as they drive down the street. There are digital jukeboxes in restaurants, motorcycles also hover through traffic, advertisements can be seen on a digital projector on the taller buildings. Even kids on skateboards appear to drift a safe ten feet off the ground while playing!

04. Wherever you are, you can hear the loud revving of an engine, distance at first before you finally see it: a hovercar bursting around the corner, going beyond the maximum speed limit and just barely making its sharp turn. It doesn't appear to be slowing down any time soon, not with two police cars trailing it... and uh oh. Those skateboarding kids don't have much time to get out of the way as the car comes speeding down the road. You've been brought here for a reason Hero — so you better act fast.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Will might as well have been guilt personified and Jesus (Murder Messiah!) in one go, with his unique set of skills that would fill up a good chunk of bible verses and his qualities as a fisherman. A two for one, as per usual.

Thank some higher power that he wasn't wearing one of his suggestive, extremely tacky fishing hats. (How would Abigail like to look up and see a fish next to SIZE MATTERS or I'D RATHER BE F____ING with a tiny i-s-h that had to be squinted at to make out?) Even if it sat on his head, it was the last thing on his mind. The looks had been worse not too long ago. One might have argued he looked more animal than man, hair almost long enough to pull back. Hannibal arrived, Will cleaned up. Good influence, Hannibal Lecter.

What he didn't know.

He follows the way she toys with her hair, realizes it must be over that ear, and drops his eyes to the next thing—water. Water in a malt shop. Streams, waves, tides, antlers, Abigail in the midst of them, sometimes at his mercy and sometimes smiling, keeping up, letting him teach while providing far more interesting conversation than he'd let anyone in his class ever try for.

Teaching him in return.

It makes that smile less strained, almost genuine. Difficult to smile in the company he's in right now, but that's not her fault. Whoever killed her, that blame rests with them. But that wouldn't have happened if they weren't angling to set him up for whatever sick reasons, and as such:

most of that of awkwardness and trepidation? His bad. He could argue all of it was on him, since he was the adult. He'd rather not argue, but he's not the only one with a final say in whatever happens between them. He's not Dad.]

Water. [The way it comes out, pushed through a throat made of cotton, it might sound like a request. It's not.] Possibly the best choice. Malts here are the opposite of super.

[They are not, however, people.]

Convinced they're imported, too.

[There's no design for "talking to Abigail Hobbs" and the more he struggles to come up with one, the more it becomes apparent he hasn't a damn clue what he's "supposed" to do.

Not exactly a common scenario, is it?]

I'm not very thirsty. Or hungry. [ maybe it's a side effect of probably, most likely, being dead. or that the only food she trusts not to be people is bagels and there are no bagels here. basically water is all she can handle right now.

she swallows, before her lips lift into the tiniest of smiles. ] You look different. [ she's smiling because different = not dead or dying on the floor next to her. ]

[Will wasn't thirsty or hungry when he got here, either. Then again, when Will got here, he was in a loud orange jumpsuit covered only by a jacket, his thumb in need of help. He had more important things to worry about than food—namely, getting into his new housing without people asking if he'd just escaped the local jail.

The next comment is somewhat disorienting—he looks different, and she's smiling. I cut my hair two weeks ago. And shaved. Not what she meant, is it?]

I was. Sick. Last time I saw you. Going on about, talking about what I didn't really know. [His hand had reached out to grab the wrapper of the straw without thought when he opened his mouth, and he looks down after the stop-start semi-explanation to find it ripped into several pieces. Pieces which get flicked back up on the table before he returns his hands to his lap as he clears his throat, leaning back.] Being treated for it here. I look different because I am different. I'm me again.

[If only they could have known each other longer when they were both them, though Abigail's road to recovering herself would have been longer than a few months on steroids and antivirals and pills to prevent seizures. Longer and one he would have done everything he could to help her down, had he been capable of keeping himself righted.]

Sure you don't want a root beer. Fries?

[It's difficult to say he's sorry, not because of pride or the fear he'll turn it into something of a spectacle no matter how strained his voice gets as he scrambles for an offer to get her something, a mad dash for something normal between them. No jacked up sense of no need to apologize, nothing can be done, I'm not at fault, no.

There's just so much to be sorry about, five letters doesn't seem to quite

cut it.

Words have meaning. Agenda. Didn't. They. just.]

No, thank you. [ she probably should eat, but... she can't find it in herself to care, apathy weighing down on her shoulders. she's happy to see will, happy he is healthy and his brain isn't on fire anymore. she's just not happy about anything else and that isn't letting her think clearly enough to eat regardless of her appetite.

she looks down at her water, the condensation rolling over her fingers. her mind doesn't see water, but blood, and she stares at her hands until she sees water again. her chest hurts a little, anxious, breath speeding up before it slows back to normal again. ]

You did know, though. Your brain was melting, but you were still right.

[ surprise.

she probably died, she's fairly certain she died, and up to the last second, he was trying to save her. she's not going to lie to him anymore. if anyone deserves the truth from her it's will. and it's all she can really give him. ]

[He drops it, because trying to insist on Abigail Hobbs eating something is cruel. He remembers how she reacted when it was revealed her father was likely feeding her and her mother both the remains of those girls, remembers her shock and revulsion. Fries aren't human beings, but Will attempting to force anything in her in light of that is...tasteless.

What he doesn't know.]

I only knew what you told me, and then I ran away with it. I didn't give you the chance to explain anything else. I don't know anything you didn't tell me.

[It's all stated like fact, because it is. It is, he doesn't really know anything more than that. Can't. Who can, now that she's dead? And it's is not him trying to pull more information out of her. It doesn't matter right here, right now. This world is new to her; getting it sorted means more than sorting out "minor" details. That can wait.]

How long ago did you get stuck here?

You were sick. [ she repeats it quietly, but firmly. she doesn't hold scaring her against him, nor fleeing. but she moves on easily enough, because she doesn't actually want to dwell on that. it was so long ago.

as opposed to heropa, which has not been long at all. ] I don't know, I don't have a watch. [ therefore little enough time for it to be measured on a watch and not a calendar. not that she has one of those, either. ] It's... disorienting, being able to move around without being watched. No one knows who I am here.

[ which, frankly, is kind of great, but she's too confused to feel that part yet. it's pretty excessive jet lag.]

[It's not the time or place to dwell on it, he'd say. It felt selfish to try when she was new, same as it had felt when he'd gone to Hannibal and started off on the foot of what happened as opposed to being helpful. He wasn't the only person in this situation. Trying to shove it to his desires and what he needed/wanted did no one any favors.

It's an urge that has to be quelled, same as reaching out further and touching her hand. She's real. She's talking, he's talking, they're awake, this is real. He doesn't need to go overboard with it.]

Couple people here know who you are. [No one didn't mean she was saying Will was a no one, but he still picked it apart momentarily. No one, huh.] There's a few besides me who are from...where we're from. They'll know you. You'll be the sixth. Probably get asked if you're from Baltimore.

[He was.]

I'm not, I'm from Minnesota. [ represent, yo, mall of america baby right here.] Which... I guess they'll know. It's in my dad's name. [ she's the daughter of the minnesota shrike, not the baltimore... what are they called? orioles. not really a bird of prey unless stealing nectar from hummingbird feeders counts as impaling their prey on sticks or antlers. not exactly the same m.o. her shoulders slump slightly, lifting her hand to prop her chin against it, the picture of defeated. ] So at least four people think I'm a murderer. [ her eyes flicker up. ] Maybe five.

now don't be rude

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z06LXZQwkrc

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject