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Entry tags:
- !event,
- !tdm,
- athena | borderlands,
- benedict dearborn | original,
- carver hawke | dragon age,
- denji | chainsaw man,
- eliot waugh | the magicians,
- ellie | the last of us,
- ivar ragnarsson | vikings,
- logan | marvel,
- octavia blake | the 100,
- quentin coldwater | the magicians,
- robbie reyes | marvel,
- ruth aldine | marvel,
- will graham | hannibal,
- william | westworld
THE SKY WENT OFF-WHITE.
WHO: Anyone and everyone.
WHAT: Our inaugural test drive meme.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: Whenever your character arrives.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
WHAT: Our inaugural test drive meme.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: Whenever your character arrives.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
Art by Basile Godard
THE SUNLIGHT SPLINTERED.
You reach the end of the ash-gray hall at a run, hands fumbling for an antique door handle. And then you stumble, fall, tumble—any number of adjectives, depending on where, exactly, the door opened—into a radio station.
The equipment is old and dusty, but devoid of cobwebs to the observant eye. And it's dark, save for whatever light makes it through the windows. They display disjointed locations; perhaps one shows an upside-down tower, while its neighbors frame the crumbling pavement of a rotting car park and the stripped out interior of a sewer. Whatever the case, peering through one window reveals a landscape that impossibly doesn't connect to the next.
The door is still there, the only exit to this grubby room. It opens somewhere, anywhere else in this distorted world. And once you leave, it no longer leads back whence you came.
Where do you go?
The equipment is old and dusty, but devoid of cobwebs to the observant eye. And it's dark, save for whatever light makes it through the windows. They display disjointed locations; perhaps one shows an upside-down tower, while its neighbors frame the crumbling pavement of a rotting car park and the stripped out interior of a sewer. Whatever the case, peering through one window reveals a landscape that impossibly doesn't connect to the next.
The door is still there, the only exit to this grubby room. It opens somewhere, anywhere else in this distorted world. And once you leave, it no longer leads back whence you came.
Where do you go?
THE LIGHT, DIVIDED.
A sun on one horizon, a full moon on the other. They're luminous but unreal, like they were plucked from a sky and pasted to a flat, starless backdrop. You can see only one, depending on which side you entered; it's essentially random. Both "sides" overlap like alternate dimensions and you can't see anyone who isn't on the same side as you. Light or dark, you walk in the light of a muted sun or an overbright moon. It never feels quite real.
Neither star nor satellite seem to move from their position. The passage of time is at a standstill.
Regardless of which side you're on, you'll find signs that you aren't alone. What someone does on one side affects the other, so moving an item or writing something down will translate to floating items and mysteriously appearing letters. Speech doesn't travel...unless there's a radio. Radios may turn on and off, with voices audible through the white noise. And if you walk past a mirror, the reflection isn't your own. Instead, it acts as a window to the other side.
In-character observations:
Neither star nor satellite seem to move from their position. The passage of time is at a standstill.
Regardless of which side you're on, you'll find signs that you aren't alone. What someone does on one side affects the other, so moving an item or writing something down will translate to floating items and mysteriously appearing letters. Speech doesn't travel...unless there's a radio. Radios may turn on and off, with voices audible through the white noise. And if you walk past a mirror, the reflection isn't your own. Instead, it acts as a window to the other side.
In-character observations:
- Anyone sensitive to time, space, and related dimensional shenanigans will feel they're distorted. And it isn't something they can fix, at least not with powers.
- It's possible to cross dimensions if a character has related powers, but they'll suffer backlash and significant stress from the transition. Successive jumps aren't gonna fly.
- If a character is affected by the sun or moon, they'll find neither holds sway over them here; e.g., vampires can walk in daylight and werewolves won't shift in the full moon.
THE SHADOW REALM.
Outdoors, there are shadows on the prowl.
Silent and eerily insubstantial, they trail after you like blind spots given form. Staring at them too long is unsettling but, for the most part, they're content to watch you back...if they can watch. They don't seem to have eyes.
When that isn't enough, however, they attack. Stealing the shape of monsters from other worlds, they may lack special powers, but that doesn't keep them from being dangerous. When in doubt, you're safest indoors.
But maybe that isn't good enough for you. Or maybe you just fucked up. Either/or.
Silent and eerily insubstantial, they trail after you like blind spots given form. Staring at them too long is unsettling but, for the most part, they're content to watch you back...if they can watch. They don't seem to have eyes.
When that isn't enough, however, they attack. Stealing the shape of monsters from other worlds, they may lack special powers, but that doesn't keep them from being dangerous. When in doubt, you're safest indoors.
But maybe that isn't good enough for you. Or maybe you just fucked up. Either/or.
RADIO WAVES.
If you aren't wondering how you got here, you're probably at least asking why. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be anyone around who can answer your questions. Everyone else is as clueless as you.
But, some time after you arrive—whether it's days, hours, minutes, or seconds—the dead air stirs. The atmospheric pressure drops and playhouse lightning arcs across the facsimile of a sky. It's a storm that warns of what's to come, as an earthquake shifts the ground beneath your feet. Around you, buildings flood, and water pours out in falls only half aware of gravity. Wind hurls debris at such high speeds, it turns into shrapnel. Rain pelts you from above and below as the temperature plummets. It starts to snow.
Somehow, the sun and moon remain visible through the turmoil. A collection of mirrors scattered through the world don't reflect their light; instead, it passes through them and illuminates the other side. These specific mirrors, all set in ash-gray frames that match the halls, are untouched in the unfolding natural disasters, and standing before them will shield you as well. Consider them havens in the chaos, proverbial eyes in the storm.
In the dark, a radio turns on of its own accord. Is someone—something—talking to you?
But, some time after you arrive—whether it's days, hours, minutes, or seconds—the dead air stirs. The atmospheric pressure drops and playhouse lightning arcs across the facsimile of a sky. It's a storm that warns of what's to come, as an earthquake shifts the ground beneath your feet. Around you, buildings flood, and water pours out in falls only half aware of gravity. Wind hurls debris at such high speeds, it turns into shrapnel. Rain pelts you from above and below as the temperature plummets. It starts to snow.
Somehow, the sun and moon remain visible through the turmoil. A collection of mirrors scattered through the world don't reflect their light; instead, it passes through them and illuminates the other side. These specific mirrors, all set in ash-gray frames that match the halls, are untouched in the unfolding natural disasters, and standing before them will shield you as well. Consider them havens in the chaos, proverbial eyes in the storm.
In the dark, a radio turns on of its own accord. Is someone—something—talking to you?
INTO ALL OUR DARKEST FEARS.
Welcome to THE WASTEYARD's first test drive! Some quick things to remember:
- Our TDMs tie into the game plot. As such, any applicants can keep their TDM threads as game canon.
- The network is exclusive to in-game characters. TDM characters can only use radios.
- There is a language barrier, so please mention what language your character speaks somewhere.
- We don't have a fixed day ratio; instead, you pace yourself at your discretion.
- Characters may face backlash when using any powers.
- Mark if your character is on the sun or moon side of the divide. The choice is yours as the player.
- If you have any questions, please direct them to our FAQ!
better that than on a dark horse (i can unfortunately do this all day)
so, a mirror portal that shows him another place. sounds like fantasy, but not impossible. Ben doesn't entirely connect the idea that where he is seeing into is even present in this wasteland he's found himself throttled into, given the absolutely foreign appearance. on Ben's side, the light and sky feel like midday overcast, despite that the dull sun hangs tauntingly above the horizon. on the other side, the sky appears navy-black, and everything shines whitely under vivid moonlight.
which ricochets off the face of a man stumbling back into view, unkempt hair and modest clothes. funnily similar to Ben himself.
the man's mouth moves, and it's the cue Ben needs. he blinks, eyes narrow with question, as he tilts in closer. as if in a vaccuum, the man opposite him is absolutely soundless.
all right, problem-solving time.
Ben visibly ticks over into a new mode of thought. he thinks he might write on the glass — but all he has is a ballpoint pen, in his inner breast pocket. he reaches into it, twists the top to unsheath the pen, and begins to scribble 'Cᴀɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜ' onto his palm...
he leans back from his hand, as...bubbles of black ink spill up from his naked palm, floating sleepily up and away from his hand.
understandably, Ben just...stares. it's difficult to pin his expression down to one mood — stupefied, horrified, or just outright offended, but he watches as the bubbles lift up and away, like a separated balloon headed for the stratosphere.
Ben looks slowly back down to the pen in his hand, as if it might be the culprit in all of this, before giving the most frustrated and animated blink at himself. if Will is any good at reading lips, he might catch the man speaking to himself — ) I hate this place...
( waste not, want not, as they say. Ben puts the pen back into his pocket before looking at the other man again. he doesn't know sign language, but that is like most people, and figures even if he did, this stranger might be lost on it anyway. they will have to resort to something a little more simple.
Ben shakes his head, using a horizontal gesture just below his chin with a flat hand signalling something that all together looks like no, before his hand references his ear. he can't hear you, is the intent he tries to get across.
and as Ben breaks away to look around for anything else possible to communicate with...he notices that the arrangement of the trashed furniture has shifted around, as if slowly seeping around on a painstakingly slow tide. Ben really does hate this place. )
no subject
Will's still having trouble trusting his senses, here. Everything feels very real, and he doesn't think he's missing time, but...his usual cues to keep track of himself are useless, here. His wristwatch has been displaying 2:35am since he arrived, and he hadn't had his phone on him at all.
So there's an insidious, very real fear that this is all in Will's head, all a twisted perception fraying at the seams on him again. Compulsively, while he waits out this other figure's rifling for a pen, Will feels his own forehead with his palm and then the back of his hand.
Not feverish. And the only headache he's had since appearing has been decidedly stress-related. That's a good sign for him personally, a bad sign for this entire setting.
They both watch the ink bubble away, Will's expression and mouth going slack with a sort of resigned horror. Of course. Nothing else works as expected, why would the easiest solution be available?
And then, as he sees the other mumble to themselves, Will...laughs. Just a syllable of it, dry and echoing back pitifully at him where he stands alone in this enclosed place, but it's there and it crinkles the skin at the edges of his eyes. Me too, he mouths, over-enunciating, and then as he blinks down to the ground...something occurs to him.
Will doesn't have his own pen to try, but instead he leans forward. He feels a bit self-conscious pressing so close to the mirror that his lips nearly brush it, and feels a slight heat at the tips of his ears as he huffs warmly against the surface, but the resultant small white section of fogged-over mirror is worth it.
Now...what to say? Will doesn't have a lot of room, but he quickly writes with his finger: ]
I woke up here.
You?
[ It will, of course, be written backwards from this other man's perspective, and it fades relatively quickly in the cool air... ]
no subject
someone laughing is somehow the most impossible phenomenon Ben could have thought of, if it made it on the list at all.
me too. a connection, a mutual understanding, an agreement. it's warm, just gently, and that feels significant in a climate such as this — barren, devoid.
Ben swallows and his face relaxes back enough to allow a smile to stretch, but it is brief, possibly lost on all parties present.
he watches openly as the other man leans into the glass, eyes flicking over the scene of the stranger breathing upon it — and thankfully, it isn't the expression of a gawker that Ben gives. he looks watchful, but fascinated, observant in a clinical way. he bends at the waist to level himself with the mirror, looking at the words being finger-scrawled across the glass. backwards, as it happens, momentarily leading Ben to think there is something wrong here— Until his brain picks out the word 'ekow' and realizes...'I woke up', just as the breathed fog begins to shrink away. English, plain as day, and not complete nonsense. this is the best news Ben has heard all day.
the realization is easily telegraphed on Ben's face, the expression of scrutiny and assembling details, before spreading back with understanding. Ben nods finally, moreso to himself, before looking at the man.
all right, then. Ben doesn't think he will have the luxury of time to play 'how to spell an entire sentence backwards," letters and all, so these responses will have to be short.
but as he considers his answer, he doesn't appear to struggle to decide, rather pauses to evaluate the truth of it. his lips curl in quickly between his teeth before his mouth relaxes, exhaling with intent against the glass on his own side. )
I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴄᴀʟʟ.
( Ben's penmanship would befit an architect, all uppercase, legible. Ben is not often a man to be misunderstood. what he doesn't understand is where he left off, in the looking monotony of where his life had left off. he remembers much of his life, mostly all of it — but in those last days, it all bleeds together in a dark blur.
Ben lifts up higher and breathes against the glass again, animated with an afterthought to add: )
I ᴡᴀs ʜᴏᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʀᴇ.
no subject
But are they even in the same place? Whoever's on the other side seems to be beholden to the same bizarre not-rules that seems to have wherever Will is in a vice grip, what with the ink floating right back off his hand...
Will has a feeling he knows the answer to this, but he feels the pull to ask: ]
Where is 'here'? [ He looks at the man's eyes, briefly, and his own expression may transmit his own doubt clearly: Will is expecting this man has no answer, just as Will doesn't. It's just that knowing he's on the same playing field as someone else would be appreciated right now.
And then the other man's view of Will in the mirror must jolt suddenly, and disappear from view a moment, because... Will senses something. Did he hear it? He isn't sure, but...
Will peers out the window that's next to the mirror to re-check, and sure enough...one of those shadow creatures is outside. His expressions aren't censored - Will's surprise pulls his features loose and then narrows them as he sets his jaw and frowns at this dilemma. Because now the question is: abandon this first person he's been presented with since arriving to run from the creature? Or risk it for the connection, and hide in the bus?]
no subject
but there is something on the tip of Ben's tongue, when he considers the question, where is 'here'? it's difficult to define in clear terms — which is of course a bane for Ben, by nature, but there is something about it, in the back of his mind... not necessarily like a sense of belonging, but—
the man isn't looking at him anymore. his attention has jumped like that of a dog, whose senses have instinctually latched onto something. Ben blinks and whips quickly around to check behind his shoulder — look, given the vantage point and his luck, Ben just expects he's about to find something behind him.
nope, just continuously moved furniture. also the warped ceiling is...lower. Ben isn't a fan of that.
he turns back and leans in, possibly uselessly; Ben can't see what the other sees from his view, and he certainly can't overhear what's going on. what is going on?
whatever is happening, Ben doesn't like the look on the man's face.
something pangs his gut, as he watches movement shiver, vague and subtle, against the glass behind the man. is something there with him? Ben has to grasp onto something — he wants to know more. )
Nᴀᴍᴇ?
Bᴇɴ
( Ben can feel his pulse ticking up. it's moot to ask the man where he is — the landscape and its contents change regularly — but who should be trustworthy. Ben sees the backdrop to this mirror's view and sees cheaply upholstered benches and clunky windows, knowing it to be a bus. a bus is recognizable, amidst all the chaos.
assuming...the two of them are even in the same world, at all. )
no subject
Will glances back when he sees movement, and when it takes a half-beat longer to decipher the last word until he realizes it's a name...it gives a slight twist in his chest. Connection, unexpected and not really enough, but enough for now.
Will looks back out the window and then bends back in towards the mirror, careful, knee balanced against the bus bench. ]
Will. [ He adds the period after a moment's pause, in an attempt to head off any wrong assumptions that he's interrupting himself during a sentence... Will's not just a name, but a word, after all. ]
Danger. Shadow.
[ It's a very brief explanation, as it needs to be. And then Will disappears from frame...literally, outside what the mirror frame can capture. He's hunched over, clearly avoiding being seen through the windows, before he disappears from Ben's sight.
The bus feels like shelter and like a trap, but the bus also has glass windows. Will is well past the point of knowing he's capable of jumping out one of them to escape and ignoring any resulting injuries for long enough to get away. And as adrenaline settles in, buzzing under his skin and giving way to a terrible sort of clear-headedness, Will realizes he...should have risked interacting with the strange scenery long enough to pick up a weapon, after the first encounter.
He's hiding under a bench further back in the bus, and hoping the shadow creature will pass his hideout by. ]
no subject
Ben doesn't know yet what it is, though. having just cleared away from the radio tower and its saturation of garbage, it's been only as ominous as the unyielding sense that being this alone is...unbearable. or, that it will be, if this steady incline of terror Ben has felt crawling up through his chest is any indication of what is to come. he might have chalked it up to human nature, feeling the singular isolation so keenly, and feeling such a pull to find someone else here, but Ben also knows himself.
but more than that — he can now say that he knows a name. Will adds something on after his name, and for a pair of singular words, each one packs a dreadful weight.
Will slips out of frame, but Ben remains tethered to the mirror. the shadows... Ben has seen them, at distances that might have been comfortable in technicality, but never felt that way officially. by sheer paranoia, Ben suspected they might pose a threat, but was very content to keep himself out of sight of them (could they even see?)
this is a confirmation. danger.
Ben can do nothing. he has always felt the drive to step in and help where he could, but has never been so aware of a moment when he couldn't do anything. he pulls away from the mirror, once Will is out of view for long enough, and looks at his surroundings. the tiled floor is now on the rightmost wall to him. awfully indecisive, aren't you, room?
he feels discontent with striding so close to the door, glancing past his shoulder to look at the mirror from across the room, as if he doesn't trust that it won't suddenly disappear on him. because yeah, he doesn't.
but he steps outside and looks around, lapels and hair catching in the breeze that sighs dejectedly across this dreadful landscape. a bus... Ben's gaze is investigative, head twisting this way and that, looking for anything resembling a bus. it could be a useless cause — that bus could be the interior to a closet, for all they know. nothing makes sense here.
it takes minutes, ones that feel far too long, far too desperate, but Ben doubles back past a bus cubicle before realizing — that it's attached to a bus. he doesn't see a shadow anywhere, which is as fortunate as it is troubling. no shadow, no one, especially not Will. there's something wrenching about that, something mournful and disappointing. Ben climbs into the empty bus and stares at a loss. who was he interacting with? someone in the past, or future?
he looks at the sun, seated on the horizon, more stubborn than anyone Ben has encountered. he thinks...that it can't possibly be past, or future — not if time is standing still.
there is no time to run back and check before making this decision, one that Ben isn't sure makes any sense... ah, but of course, how does he keep forgetting? repeat after us: nothing makes sense. nothing makes sense.
Ben looks around the nondescript rubbish lying around. anything light enough to...
he picks up what feels like an empty gas can, and he — chucks it, across the length of the bus. next, a wire rubbish basket, which he tosses away from the bus, yards away, opposite the direction of the sun. Ben finds anything that he can, anything that rattles, anything he can clash together, as far from the empty bus as possible.
and he feels like an absolute fool doing it. )
HEYYYY v-sauce, michael here. how much...does a shadow weigh??
They're upside down, with the cushions on the underside and exposed metal above. Will spares enough time to process this and then crawls under one in the back.
It's a terrible idea, all things considered. He's a grown man and barely fits, but there is something horrible and frantic in him at the idea of losing this connection, however vague it is. There's been no mirrors that contained Will's own reflection so far, only other, alien rooms, but that doesn't mean he'll get lucky about finding one with another human inside of it. Will doesn't want to--
There. The sound of the end of the bus creaking with pressure put on it. Do they even do that, do they weigh anything?
Will stiffens under the bench, feels his shirt sticking to the small of his back with sweat despite the chill that's been in the air since he arrived, and then...
And then he hears a very un-shadow-like noise. Metal on rocks. And then metal on metal, light and clashing like it rolled when it hit the ground. Will blinks and listens to the shadow-dog leave and slowly, he crawls forward enough to confirm what he thought he'd heard... He's alone in the bus.
The mirror is empty, and when Will looks outside to see the source of the noise, he ducks right back out of the view of the window. Because it's empty out there except for the shadow-dog, roving away, presumably following the noises leading it off.
Leading it off...
Will looks at the mirror again, now showing a markedly different empty room with wallpaper on the floor. He bends down to pick up a scrap of metal - a seat belt buckle, separate from the bench? - and carves unevenly into the mirror. ]
Thank you
[ It still hasn't faded by the time he leaves the bus, to pick up one of the items that might have been thrown earlier: a wire trash can, about as tall as Will's knee and broken enough that it's clearly taken some damage...possibly from being tossed around? ]
HEY v-sauce, Michael here. where do people go, when they're deleted?
so Ben, the ever-logical thinker, puts a stop to the ruckus after what feels like long enough; with nothing else happening around this performance of awkward chaos, the span of time is rather short. he stands and scans his surroundings, soaking in the uneasy quiet that comes with this strange place as the metal and stone crashings echo in his ears. it's penetrating, like a scalpel cutting open with ease, the goliath sense of isolation in this world, emphasized greater by the quiet that stretches on for what distance can be seen, and undoubtedly further.
Ben finds for a brutally brief moment, for a particularly striking heartbeat, that he hopes that this ridiculous pocket of commotion he's just wrought does reach where Will is for a whole new reason: Ben wants some knowledge of...
a connection.
he steps up into the bus, knowing he will find it empty, and still disappointed to be proven right — not often that he feels that way about being correct, but here we are in topsy-turvy land.
Ben's steps feel boisterous in the bus interior, his feet snapping on the metal floor no matter how softly he goes, with tired creaks rumbling through the undercarriage under the weight of a visitor. he looks across the seats, stood upside down in their spots like vulnerable animals exposing their bellies, and they tell him nothing. he stares across the windows and sees one pane...unlike the rest of them.
he approaches the window pane and finds a different view — into some unknown place, and a view that is sideways, aimed at a doorway with stairs, stairs that seem to...spiral away as they angle upward...
Ben doesn't recognize it, and moreover, he doesn't see Will. his brow pinches in concern, a sense of dread swelling up like a bubble under his sternum. he can't know if the other man is all right at all—
but he catches something on the mirror pane. etched in roughly with a fine, sharp thing, making it almost unnoticeable at first, words: 'thank you.'
it's Will. Ben thinks it has to be.
Ben touches the jagged shapes of the letters in the glass, brushes the grit of the scrapings away. a connection, or some semblance of; it's something. it's something, in this expanse of utterly nothing.
he wanders back up to the front of the bus, dazed with some bittersweet relief, a gray-area between such polarizing feelings, loss and gain. the front of the bus features an awkward combination of a soundboard and medical machinery, but the steering wheel is in tact, and so is...
a radio.
Ben picks up the receiver, clicking the button on the side, but it warrants nothing for him. no sound, no light. he looks over the console and doesn't find a key, or any way to turn the engine on. he fusses with the radio a little more — clicks the button on the side three times. it helps tremendously. he wonders if it does anything at all...and if it does, in Will's side perhaps, is he still around to witness it?
soon enough, Ben decides to move on. this massive labyrinth holds more than he knows that he can conceive on his own; knowing that one person exists here somewhere tells Ben that there may be more people to find.
and if he's smart, persistent, he might be able to find this other man again, soon. )
have fun watching this happen, ben
Bad enough to have been here long enough for routines to kick in. Lucky enough that...surviving, while tedious, hasn't been horrifically difficult. The fact that all the food he's been finding has been prepackaged, doomsday-level supplies has made Will feel like he's in a bad apocalypse film, or raiding campsite after campsite of its non-perishables. He feels like a stranger, except...
He doesn't. Not really. There's something here that doesn't strike him as being unwelcome, as picking up scraps the way he very much is. Will's worrying over all this, frowning as he climbs stairs from a second to a third story, when the stairs abruptly...melt under his feet. Like taffy, the stairwell suddenly stretches, and then - still unfortunately taffy-like - it snaps.
Will grabs for the ragged edge of the stairs with his hands as he falls through them, and feels his palms yell in protest. He thinks he might have sliced one of them, or at least scraped several layers of skin off, but pretty soon he's just trying to figure out how to land without putting his foot through the dresser he can look down and see below him--
When the dust clears, Will's radio is crackling static and his ears are ringing so high he almost misses the sound of a voice yelping on the other end. As if it's surprised.
Will rolls over onto his stomach, groans, and then shifts his ankles one by one. They don't feel broken. His knees, as he starts to rise onto them and his hands, feel very much bruised. ]
Dammit. [ His voice is still resolving in his ears, the incredible noise of his own fall still ringing in them. ] Is there-- is someone there?
no subject
the longer he goes without seeing someone else, whether it be the man he encountered or a new stranger, the words turn his stomach colder, harder. it's a sort of longing that Ben used to tune out with some ease, the kind that comes from being stubborn. the kind that acclimates to something lacking, missing.
Ben came across one mirror recently, which shattered after a brief encounter with a shadow-thing. he felt silly for the hope, the curiosity, but as the shards melted away on the ground like liquid mercury, Ben did find one piece of the mirror with those words — only part of the very rough and geometric 'u' at the end of 'you' was clipped off, but remained the only casualty. the mirror piece seemed content to stay structured as solid glass after being removed from the ground. into his briefcase it went.
while this place feels unexpectedly magnetic to him, as if it exists and brought him here for some intentful purpose, Ben can't say it feels accommodating or welcoming — the terrain changes too much for him to grow comfortable within it. Ben can travel contently, but he can't stay in one spot for too long, before it shifts, melds, or sends him somewhere new. doors don't always lead to the same room twice. quite dreadful.
and something in Ben's bones can't quite...sit still, under the tensely humming sensation that comes with being alone. it puts him back up on his tired feet, sending him out again, looking for something.
this structure is like a cathedral in size, and whatever designs it may have had carved or sculpted to it are smoothed over as if painted with mud. the rooms are numerous, which has Ben testing the logic of them, opening and shutting doors to see where they will lead, or what he may find behind them.
a strange groaning rumbles above his head, pinning a stillness through Ben's body. coming back up a hallway he'd descended through, his eyes round inspectingly as he gazes across the large, non-descript space littered in odds and ends. the sound grows louder, wider, as if expanding, just before a thundering crack rings overhead.
it sends Ben temporarily ducking back, as broken wood clatters from overhead, which finally gives him his clue. he peers up, high enough to see the stairs having come apart, with long and melty pieces of wood raining down too close to his person for his pleasure. Ben yelps shortly to himself, dodging the detritus while trying desperately to peer out and look at it. melted wood...because, of course it is.
but there is a new sound now, through the resettling silence. fizzled, popping...vocal. Ben straightens up from the ground, alert, and uncertain. he hears...words. Ben hears someone talking. )
—H-hello? ( Ben scrambles about the destruction, laid thinly over a bare floor, which doesn't look very promising all of a sudden. he hears someone, but from where? he dives into a heap of fractured furniture, useless objects, tossing things aside as he goes. it sounds like a radio, Ben thinks hurriedly, hands pushing rubbish aside. ) Yes, hello? Damn it, where are you... ( Ben knows how radios work, mostly from films, and he's suddenly hoping that like with guns, the depictions are wrong. the person on the other end can't hear him, unless he finds it and clicks the button on the receiver himself. he doesn't know how much patience this other person has while Ben rifles desperately through the waste, looking for a radio he didn't even know existed until right now.
and Ben especially won't find it so easily if he doesn't have someone to guide him toward it. )
no subject
The crackle of his radio wavers in his ears, buzzes under his skin. Will is overcome with the urge to throw it - instead he grabs the nearest strip of broken wood and hurls it. It hits the nearest wall and splinters, and the splinters shiver to the ground like confetti.
No answering voice. Will swallows against a tightening throat. He hasn't spoken to anyone in three days, not since the last point of contact had fallen out of range, or been killed by a shadow creature, or lost their radio to the strange laws of physics here, or whatever had lost Will every companion he's encountered so far in here. ]
If this place is trying to tell us that we-- belong here, [ his teeth are grit, and the strain comes through his voice as he speaks low and angry to himself, ] it should probably try a better tactic than sabotaging everything we do.
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—Hah! ( a bark of surprise rings out over the sudden silence as Ben's hands cease their senseless harassment on this pile of detritus. he spots a walkie-talkie, which he grasps for like water in a desert. he scrambles over the impossible device, looking from the front-faced speaker that buzzes with sound, to the non-descript buttons and dials here and there. for all he knows, in a place like this, the wrong button could make this damn thing turn to jelly.
his luck permitting.
Ben has never used these sorts of things before, but it's now or never. can't exactly ask Siri how to use a walkie-talkie right now.
he click a button on the side, and it clicks sharply. the open sound cuts abruptly, impossible to tell if that's a good or bad thing. hesitantly, Ben leans into the device to finally reply— ) Hello? Yes, hello, are you still there?
( it does take Ben a few seconds to realize he ought to let the button go, if he wants to receive any response. that is how these things work, right? should he have finished with 'over'? these are not the nuanced dilemmas that Ben has the patience for right now. )
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So far, Will hasn’t spared a lot of time for feeling sorry for himself. He’s been too concerned with finding his next meal, finding his next human contact, and exploring any piece of the scenery that actually stays static long enough to handle something approaching study. Now, however, he's teetering dangerously close to exactly that.
And then, while he’s still holding it in his hands, Will’s radio contains a human voice. He stares at it like it’s a face, listening to the uncertain – desperate? – cadence of it. New to Will’s ears. He hasn’t met this person yet, then.
He hits the talk button again as soon as there’s a change in the static coming from it, signaling the other might have let go. ] Yes. [ The first word is a desperate burst, too relieved to contain in Will’s chest without feeling like it’ll break a rib or two.
Which just paves the way for the drier commentary to follow it. ] Don’t think I’m going anywhere soon.
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it's fortunate that radios like these require push to talk, which saves Ben the embarrassment of the involuntary breath that is so audible, it rings around the open space of this structure Ben has ended up in. he leans back to sit, on the smoothest part of the stone floor without garbage masking it, listening to the words that trickle through.
and what words spill forth ache in the connections between ribs and sternum, so direly relatable that they feel like words stolen off Ben's own tongue. it's not that it feels hopeless, or melancholy — it carries a neutral weight of truth that teeters on the sort of acceptance Ben might ascribe to understanding one's destiny. it's bittersweet, like coming home.
it's just that, returning home doesn't always feel easy...
Ben swallows, and finds his mouth uncomfortably dry. he buzzes with anxiousness, the sort that burns white and doesn't feel pleasant nor dreadful. ) Yes, well, I suppose that's up to the fickle whim of this...place.
For what it's worth, I could do with the company. ( unintentionally tender, a vulnerable admission to be made. it lacks the words, but it's a burst of gratitude blooming out like a blush, one that Ben has to reel at in a short daze. well, it's been an insane couple of days (Ben assumes; his wristwatch still isn't functioning) and he can chalk this all up to a very normal, human desperation as a response to what's happened to him thus far.
well...what does he say now? )
How are— ( no— ) Are...you all right? ( less awkward, but, hmm, not quite normal. good job, Ben. )
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And apparently, contains the same dry humor that Will does. Will sits back heavily on the ground, eyeing his (still-clothed, still very much in pain) ankle for just a moment before turning his attention back to the radio. He feels like the tar that's been building up behind his ribs is finally cracked apart and is letting him begin to breathe normally. ]
I'm— [ Will's not generally one to lie about things for saving social face, but there's a vulnerability inherent in admitting anything this way. Over radio, when he's just found another person after an indeterminate amount of time alone - everything shared might be the last thing he says. Will sucks in a breath. ] I actually just fell through some stairs.
When they melted. [ A thought...occurs to Will, sudden enough and loud enough that his brow furrows and he bypasses the next obvious question ('are you all right?') with, ] Can you-- see it too? The stairs?
[ Softer, almost to himself, and yet Will doesn't forget to hit 'talk' to share this, just as the stranger shared that moment of his own: ] I wonder how this world picks...what to let us share and what to use to separate us.
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fell through some stairs...
Ben jumps with attention and looks up, all on his own volition, timed just as the man on the other end of the connection provides words that would be prompting Ben to be looking just there. the stairs above, ones that had seemed to impossibly stretch from one flat wall to the other, with no visible doorways at either end. then again, vantage point means it was difficult to know from all the way down here.
what is more compelling now is...understanding where this other man is. Ben jerks around and stares across the rubbish, the piles of nonsense, unwanted artifacts that feel as though they had a purpose once.
he doesn't see anyone.
this man...on the other end of the radio...fell through those stairs right there...so, where is he?
Ben doesn't like riddles.
riddles, which seems to be the continuing topic, with what remark his radio friend finishes on. ) Wait a moment— you fell through those stairs— I see them, yes— but you're not here.
( Ben emphasizes this point by looking around animatedly, one final time. 'what to use to separate us.' ) But you're saying you...are here.
( all at once, Ben becomes staggeringly pensive, as he considers the details. his eyes scan across the dull room, seeing beyond his immediate surroundings, peering into his ticking thoughts. the things the man says align so fittingly with wordless impressions that Ben has has nestled away, an overarching sense of an awareness, a calm and eerie thing. ) You think it's aware, too. ( this world, he means. )
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Will touches one hand to the ground, pushes aside a piece of wooden rubble. It's exactly the same rough-smooth texture of finished wood that Will's used to...it's just that the broken ends aren't fragmented shards, but snapped-taffy bluntness. Will thinks of Ellie, who he's still never seen, taking the jerky off the ground after he'd laid it out like the world's most generous trap.
Will throws it, and it clatters when it bounces low against the ground. Will the other man see it, too?
But Will goes still after he's released the wood fragment. Instead of scoffing or arguing, he gets...agreement. The relief comes across in his own scoff, a syllable of laugh that's only barely picked up by his radio as he presses the talk button. ] I talked to it.
Or at least I— think I did. I wrote my name on a mirror and asked for the other person's name — I thought I'd be talking to another one of us — but the world...
Answered. In a sense. [ A crackling sigh. ] Not that I have anything useful to share beyond that it just seems...aware.
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it's a comforting thing that rings with something like an old memory, the sensation of someone there, even when they can't be immediately seen. it requires a strange kind of trust, faith, some might call it.
with all of the insane things he's witnessed here, Ben has no difficulty putting his belief in what seems so completely impossible.
Ben jerks with a sudden shock — something rigid clatters a few feet away, 'Christ Almighty,' he breathes harshly to himself. ) Don't worry, you already have my attention. ( Ben's voice is...just a few degrees more tense. a subtle thing.
but Ben can be heard relaxing back down with a thoughtful sound, one that doesn't become entirely swallowed by the ambient static between them. ) Last time I wrote my name on a mirror, I was certainly communicating with someone here. I wasn't entirely sure he was in the same world as myself. Haven't...seen him since.
( and that feeling is nearly gutting.
Ben's head tilts down over his walkie talkie, a nonverbal shift that speaks volumes: focus on the information. as if regarding an examination table, Ben looks over the jigsaw pieces this stranger lays out: the environment responds. how sentient is it? as little as a flower that shuts itself up in the night, or as much as a human? more?
and then, an odd, almost uncomfortable feeling weights down into Ben's stomach: were they...chosen, to be brought here? )
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Will laughs, just a syllable and unshared due to the one-at-a-time nature of the radio, but the sense of confused relief at the fact that interfering with the other's space is possible is...welcome. That's the second person so far that Will knows about interacting with...
Or rather, the third. He thinks of someone throwing wastepaper baskets and errant staplers across a desolate street-decayed-into-a-strip-mall to distract the shadow-dog from himself, and Will realizes he's not the only person who knows that actions travel across...
Well, that's the question, isn't it? What exactly is separating everyone from everyone else?
'Last time I wrote my name on a mirror...' Will's gaze, already thinking of places he can't quite see, goes even further distant. Clues line up, and Will sees the lack of them, too - he'd never gotten to see the way the man on the other side of the mirror really talked, when he wasn't encumbered by the fact that he couldn't speak at-ease and instead had to hastily write only the most pertinent of his intended words.
But Will's never been one for not jumping to intuitive conclusions. ]
...Ben?