THE SKY WENT OFF-WHITE.

[wastemods]

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.

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 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:

• 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.

TL;DR: Whatever this is, it isn't natural.

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.

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?

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!

And that's all, folks. So take chances, make mistakes, and get messy!

NAVIGATION.

PREMISE
RULES
FAQ
ACTIVITY
APPLICATIONS

TAKEN
HIATUSES & DROPS
CANON UPDATES
REWARDS
TPC CLAIMS

WORLD
EXPLORATION
DEVICES
QUESTS
INFORMATION

CALENDAR
SUGGESTIONS
MOD CONTACT
SETTING INBOX
CODEBOOK

Comments

c.

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

Yes. Yes. Pardon.

[She doesn't know if the voice in the radio is coming from before hers or after. Looking (so to speak) at the radio has her head pounding, and the possibilities moving through her mind are more incongruous than ever. But misery loves company, and this is somehow less miserable than seeing every line lead toward death.]

I'm sorry here. This is a maze.

more like c:

[omniavincit]

[ The radio crackles and—miraculously, smooths into a voice. William's so startled he recoils, recoils from the very thing he's spent days yearning for. His own voice dries up. He's elated, but not in the way he'd expected—it just feels like more turmoil. Voices grasping for each other.

When he finds his tongue, he says the first thing to come to mind. ] A maze has a center. [ As soon as the words are out, he thinks of: ] The tower?

[ And then, soft and apologetic: ] ...hi.

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

No. Yes. No. It could be. Sorry.

[He sounds very far away, his voice made small and tinny by the speaker. It's disorienting.]

Hi.

Who are you?

[omniavincit]

William.

[ Early on, when other people were a contingency and not a faint hope, he'd thought about using an alias. Now it doesn't seem to matter. ] Before this I—I was fighting a war. [ Not "I was a soldier," though technically that's true. He's not sure there's a word for what he does anymore. ]

Is somebody with you?

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

No. No, no, sorry. Just me.

[A lonely state of being. She still misses having a Scottish accent whispering in her ear, bad jokes and stupid commentary and completely distracting stuff.]

We were always pardon fighting a war. [Past, present, and the unending future. There's a pause.] Yes. Sorry-- I'm Ruth.

[omniavincit]

Ruth. [ He repeats, gentle with her name. He shuts his eyes a second, leans a little closer to the radio. There's something confessional about it, this tenuous link between them.

He's already afraid of losing it. ] What are you sorry for?

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

What? Thank you, pardon-- Oh. No. No, no. I'm not.

[The newness of this connection, the mild embarrassment of having to explain herself, makes the slew of extra words come faster. But it isn't new territory, especially lately.]

They're just yes words.

[omniavincit]

I'm not sure I understand. [ He says, not impatient but with a kind of probing regret. The stray words make him think of the radio itself, the hiss of static and occasional eerie interjection from a station wavering between in and out of range. ]

Have you been here long? [ Does it feel long, he means. (Did you always talk like this, he also means.) ]

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

The...the stutter. [That's why he thought there were two people here.] Excuse me. Doesn't mean anything.

I...thank you, sorry. I don't know. [A pause.] Time doesn't work here. No. Like Hamlet--yes, yes out of joint.

[omniavincit]

Seen any ghosts? [ It's a joke right up until he says it aloud. He's not dead, because that was nothing like this—was like brushing up against the infinite. This is just clutter. But who's to say old age couldn't pounce in the span of a conversation? What if the voice he's hearing is like light cast by a dead star? ]

I'm sorry, I—let's be methodical about this. [ He has the presence of mind to take his hand off the button before sighing, loose and ragged. ] I'm thirty-four, uh, give or take. I'm from Earth. [ He cuts off there, the channel still open. For the first time, it strikes him that his life is no longer reducible to a series of drab facts. ]

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

I don't see. [There's no acrimony or accusation there--it's just a fact. (And admittedly, it's a little more complicated than that, but it's also a callback to canon, so whatever.)]

From Earth yes, not thirty-four.

[Ruth pauses, considering the implied question, how old are you? Normally easy to answer, and even now, it shouldn't be hard, but keeping track of any kind of time has been...difficult.

And lately, she has felt old.]

Nineteen. Pardon. Sorry, no-- Give or take. Lived in Brooklyn.

[omniavincit]

[ A pause. ] I'm from Connecticut. [ Said with a hint of self-reproach. He hates this kind of talk, hates himself for making it—thank god they're not both from Brooklyn, he'd be asking about her favorite pizza place. Stalling, is what it is.

“I don't see.” Not can't. ] You said you were fighting a war. [ Another pause, this one quick. When William speaks again, he sounds more focused—in fact, it's almost as though the radio's reception has improved. ] Whose?

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

Yeah. Thank you.

[Calling it "war" might be melodrama, but it had felt like one. The X-Men against everything else, from giant robots to people with hatred in their blood. And in the last few days (days? or weeks, maybe, or longer), it had been something more than that, too. They'd been fighting the future--the whole idea of existing for a reason.]

Not...sorry, no, not a real war. Just a lot of fighting. Sorry. What was yours?

[omniavincit]

It was fucked up. [ His voice dips. He twists his hands together, going over everything he's told her: real name, place of birth. Probably not enough—and the idea that the Regency could follow him here, to this place that exists in defiance of order of any kind, seems far-fetched.

He hesitates all the same. He's linked to Dolores; it's never just himself he risks. ] Maybe this—I hope this sounds insane, but we could travel through time. Maybe we tied it in knots, maybe that's what this is.

How do you fight when you're...how do you fight what you can't see?