TDM: DECEMBER 2023

[citycenter]

TEST DRIVE MEME

JUMP TO MONTHLY PROMPT ↓ A TRAIN COMES INTO THE STATION. You wake up on a train. Your phone is buzzing. It's in your pocket, in your hand, on the seat next to you. It's a normal phone, and you're on a normal train car. One of the lights flickers, a little further down. The world is very quiet. It feels like you're right where you're meant to be. On the phone's surface is a white screen and the words— WELCOME TO THE CITY. BEGIN ORIENTATION? ▶ YES ▶ NO Please take a moment to complete your orientation. Once you're finished, the subway doors slide open to let you out onto the train platform. To your right, the platform continues on and eventually ends; to the left is a set of stairs that will lead you up into the station itself. The platform is quiet, clean, empty—there's no one else around, and the only sounds you can hear are your own footsteps, your own breaths, and the occasional faraway sound of a creaking pipe or rush of air. The train you disembarked will stay there as long as you do, its doors still open, until you finally decide to venture up into this new locale. As you make your way up the stairs to your left, you find yourself in the belly of City Hall station. The station is large, a sprawling underground mini-metropolis of corridors and storefronts. Here, you may find others like you, freshly-arrived city residents from other realms (or even your own). There is also a subway map, which will give you an idea of the layout of the neighborhood, and ticketing machines, which can currently only be used to buy tickets to a handful of stations located on lines 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 9. If you're hungry or in need of any kind of supplies, there are plenty of storefronts inside the subway station as well—snack stands, convenience stores, restaurants, clothing stores, a pharmacy, and a variety of empty shops that may or may not have ever been in use. Everything is unlocked, and you can take whatever you need. Characters may stay on the train platform indefinitely, and may re-board and re-disembark from the subway as many times as they like, but the train will not depart nor will the doors close. Once they go up the stairs into the train station, they may hear the train doors closing and the train departing. Another train will not arrive, no matter how long the character waits. Only once they come up the stairs into the station itself may characters encounter their fellow newly-arrived residents and take advantage of what the city has to offer. JUMP TO TOP ↑ | ↓ JUMP TO COMMENTS WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD. The station is located in the city center. It has three major exits that lead to areas of interest in the district, but there are several other smaller exits that lead in other directions around the neighborhood. You are welcome to use any of them, but may find the north, southwest, and east exits to be the most welcoming. TO THE NORTH The northern entrance to the station leads up into the sunlight and puts you out in a brickwork plaza. There's a modest building in front of you, three or four stories of stone with a welcoming facade. There's a sign above the entryway—it says City Hall. You may be tempted to explore, if you're interested in learning more about the city and how it functions, but prepare to find yourself disappointed—the folders in the records rooms are full of empty, blank sheets of paper, and the logbooks and balance sheets are similarly devoid of information. Immediately to the southwest of City Hall, you will find a small building that houses the tourist information center. It looks welcoming, with an inviting glass facade and a sign above the entryway announcing it as the "TOURIST CENTER." It's a humble building with a receptionist's desk on the back wall opposite the entrance, empty magazine shelves lining the side walls, and a few spinning brochure racks full of blank pamphlets. Anyone is welcome to peruse the tourist literature, though they won't offer much information, being primarily filled with pictures of the surrounding area—City Hall, the park, a statue garden, and the surprisingly heavily-featured cemetery. There are a few sentences sprinkled throughout about basic offerings of the city, such as apartment complexes and office buildings, as well as a few maps with the same limited scope as the larger version on the wall behind the receptionist's desk. TO THE SOUTHWEST The western exit of the station takes you up into a city park, lush and green with a very light fog still hanging about the trees. There are lampposts on the walkways and benches where you could rest, and plenty of flora, although you can neither see nor hear any signs of animal life. You walk the paths that meander idly through the verdant grass and you feel a sense of peace, some of your unease about this place easing into a pleasant calm. The air smells fresh, like it's recently rained, and you'll find the grass ever so slightly damp should you decide to take a seat. As you make your way deeper into the park, the trees grow denser and the smell of soil and plant life grows stronger. This is the older part of the park, very nearly a forest, with ivy climbing the trunks of the trees and plants and shrubs growing riotously around their bases. As you turn a corner, you find yourself first in the statue garden, although the statues are harder to see now, choked as they are with ivy. There are many statues, some partially obscured, some fully—very few of them still stand free of the vines and clinging roots. (It doesn't feel quite as peaceful here.) If a statue's face looks a little bit familiar, you may not want to look at it too long. Continue down the path and you will find yourself in a graveyard, one that seems centuries old. Most of the headstones are worn away by time and covered in moss, rendering them impossible to read. The few that are free of moss are blank, or bear only suggestions of names too faint to be understood. (Was that the name of—no, it couldn't have been. Could it?) Many of the headstones stand at an angle or are toppled over completely, having been subjected to either strong winds or the roots of the trees that grow up from some of the graves, spreading branches toward the sky. TO THE EAST The final exit of the station, to the east, puts you out on a quiet surface street. Are you hungry? Or are you paralyzed by choice? There are plenty of restaurants, offering options of almost any food you can imagine. You could try a convenience store—it's well stocked, and the items there seem free for the taking. How about a restaurant? There's no one to take your order, but when you look in the kitchen, there's something on the stove, and it's just what you've been craving. Imagine that. A few blocks down, you come in through the lobby of a tall building and find yourself in a corporate office. The fluorescent lights are steady and unforgiving, and the cubicles and offices are empty. There are a few pieces of paper on desks, a few folders left in organizers, but everything is perfectly blank. Despite how empty and quiet the office is, it nonetheless gives you the feeling that just a few minutes ago, this place was bustling with workers going about their daily business. You enter another building and find yourself in the lobby of an apartment complex—finally, a place to rest. The first door you try opens easily into a completely empty living room, freshly vacuumed but without a single piece of furniture. It's a nice apartment, quiet, but with a little too much echo for your taste, maybe. Still, and perhaps oddly, you have no trouble envisioning what life here would be like. The second door you open leads to an apartment that feels lived-in. Why does it feel lived-in? It's fully furnished with items that seem to go together perfectly, true, but the feeling is more than that—the room feels like someone was just here, maybe standing right in the kitchen only moments before you swung the door open. The air is a perfectly comfortable temperature, and it somehow smells like home despite that you've never once set foot here before. The refrigerator is stocked, and the cabinets are full of spices and flatware and kitchen utensils. As you look around the living room, you find that there are pictures in frames on the walls and some of the flat surfaces—a seascape, a field, a shot of a city park bench. In each of the photos there's something just slightly wrong with the angle, as though the photographer were aiming for a subject that can no longer be seen. Characters are welcome to explore the district around the City Hall subway station to their heart's content. The City Hall building itself contains several floors of offices and file rooms, but none of them contain any particularly interesting information. Nonetheless, characters may wish to team up with other newcomers and try to find some hints about the nature of the city. They can also spend a while in the park, the statue garden, or the graveyard. In the blocks surrounding the station there are plenty of options for food and housing, as well as office buildings, storefronts, and alleyways to look around. There are no workers in any of the buildings, and there does not seem to be an honor system for payment, nor any consequences for taking food from the stores or setting up camp in an apartment or office building. JUMP TO TOP ↑ | ↓ JUMP TO COMMENTS I WANT TO BE SEEN CLEARLY, OR NOT AT ALL. » DAY AFTER DAY IN THE ARTIST'S STUDIO… When you step into the lobby of the museum, you find yourself faced with several options. Ahead of you, as well as to the right, are long hallways full of blank canvases, faceless statues, and pieces of art of varying skill levels created by fellow City residents. The hallways seem endless, but the lighting is warm and inviting, encouraging you to walk along their lengths and explore each of the canvases in search of some invisible treasure. As you walk along the hallways lined by these empty frames, you begin to notice podiums standing at even intervals. They look like docent podiums, the kind where a museum guide might stand and store their guidebooks and informational materials. You decide to open one of the podiums, and are surprised to find that instead of a map of the museum and an explanation of the art, the podium is overflowing with various art supplies. There are watercolors and oil paints, acrylics and pastels, brushes and turpentine and palettes on which you can mix your shades. Maybe you leave them there, or maybe you decide to create some art for yourself. These canvases just look so empty, after all, and deeply in need of a little color to brighten up the place. It doesn't seem all that likely that anyone will come around to punish you, either—and with that, you grab a handful of art supplies and make your way down to claim a canvas for your very own. » …I DRAW A SECOND BODY, THEN A THIRD, AND SO ON. Down the hallway to your left, however, is an exhibition room full of masterfully painted canvases, sculptures with faces, and even more abstract pieces of contemporary art. The walls are painted a warm, dark brown and the overhead lights draw attention to each of the pieces of artwork, leading your eyes around the room and encouraging you to gaze at each piece in turn. There are benches in the center of the room as well, cushioned ones that allow museumgoers to have a seat and spend a while contemplating the art they're observing. As you continue around the room, examining each piece one by one, you begin to realize that some of these works of art look… familiar. Not familiar like you know who painted them, but familiar like you recognize the contents, or at least you recognize something about the setting or the circumstances depicted in the painting or sculpture. In fact, upon closer inspection, the common theme uniting all of the pieces of art becomes even clearer: these are all works of art that have to do with you. There's a painting of the house where you spent your childhood, maybe, or a portrait of the woman who raised you. A sculpture depicting the person you've regarded as your rival for most of your life. There's the building where you went to school, or the jail where you were falsely imprisoned, or the ship that you spent months aboard before you ran aground. Each piece of art depicts some important moment in your life, whether positive or otherwise. Some are rendered in brilliant detail, while others are in an impressionist style, but it's clear that everything is somehow connected to you, in one way or another. You look closely at each of the cards affixed to the walls next to the works of art. While each of the pieces has a title, the artist and year fields are blank—there's no way for you to know who created these pieces, but it must have been someone who knew you very, very well. Before you know it, another museumgoer has entered the room. Maybe this is a little bit awkward now, letting someone else look so intently at all the most intimate moments of your life. Or maybe you find it exciting to finally be able to explain all of the happenings that made you who you are today. Either way, you find yourself compelled to give the newcomer a tour of the exhibit of you, and to explain to them the subject of each painting so that they might better understand how it ties in to the greater theme. The art museum has been open since District 4 opened in November, but until now, the exhibit in the left wing of the museum has been closed to the public. It's open now, and full of beautiful works of art—paintings in different styles, sculptures, even more experimental and conceptual pieces—that all have to do with the theme of you. That's right, your character is the subject of this exhibition, and every piece of artwork in it features something that makes them who they are. They could depict landscapes of places that are significant to them, portraits of people who have influenced them throughout their lives, photographs of the worst things that have ever happened to them, or conceptual art depicting their mental state. Upon entering the left wing, characters will feel the urge to stay there in the exhibition room and act as docent for their own exhibit. They will feel oddly compelled to explain at least two of the works of art in depth to any museum patrons who come through the exhibit, and only once they've given those two detailed explanations will they be able to leave the exhibit hall. The works of art can depict anything that was significant to the character, not only negative things but positive as well, and can be any style of art that the player wants to explore. Please feel free to be as creative as you want! For characters who don't want to enter the exhibit hall at all, there is also the option to create art of their own. In the main and right wings, there are plenty of blank canvases all over the museum walls, and interspersed throughout the hallways are podiums containing various art supplies: watercolors, oil and acrylic paints, pastels, etc. Characters can make use of these mediums (or bring their own from home) to create works of art on the available blank canvases. These works of art will not be reset, unless a player chooses not to app, and starting the following day will have a museum card on the wall next to it indicating the title, artist, and medium of the artwork. The title for this month's monthly prompt comes from "Bluest Nude," a poem by Ama Codjoe. JUMP TO TOP ↑ | ↓ JUMP TO COMMENTS WILDCARD. The city is by no means small, and there are plenty of things for you to see. There are even some places that other residents have created! There's no rush in exploring, so feel free to take your time looking around and peering into various nooks and crannies and alleyways—and don't worry, you're not very likely to find anything peering back. If none of the above prompts appeal, feel free to check out the Locations and Maps pages and write your own freestyle prompt using one or many of the available locations. We highly recommend checking out the Character-Run Locations as well - they might be great places for new characters to get started! JUMP TO TOP ↑

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TDM QUESTIONS.

[citycenter]

Please direct all TDM-specific questions below. If you have a general question about the game premise or mechanics, please direct it to the FAQ page. Our taken page is here so you can see who is already in the game!

As a reminder, TDM top-levels should only be posted by potential new characters. Existing characters are encouraged to tag in, but should not top level; however, players may use the TDM prompts for catch-alls in the log comm.

Please include your character's name and character's canon in the subject line of your top level. Happy TDMing!

[featheradrift]

Question about the exhibition room! If a character attempts to take down or destroy any of the art pieces related to them, what would happen to the art piece and the character?

Also out of curiosity, does the answer to the above apply to the canvases painted by other city inhabitants? If someone tried to destroy them, would they suffer the same consequences?

And if a character paints a canvas and then later decides they don't like it anymore, would they be able to take it down without consequence?

Thank you!

[citycenter]

Characters are not able to take down or destroy art pieces related to them in the exhibit that's on the TDM, at least not until January! They would turn around to find that the piece is right back where it was hanging, in perfect condition.

Characters can, however, take down or destroy their own created artworks without consequence. If they destroy artworks created by other residents, they would be handcuffed the next day for destruction of property, and the other resident's artwork would be back in place the next day.

🦊 Erichthonios | FFXIV (Pandaemonium Spoilers)

[awesomegaolgreatjob]

🦊 Train Station 🦊

One moment he's in Pandaemonium, preparing for what he assumed would be... an inevitable end. His crystal set adrift, and most of the other warders long since evacuated. Erichthonios is not a brave man by any measure, but he does have a strong sense of duty, and staying there, waiting for either some abomination from outside or some abomination from inside to come end him was proof enough of that. Even if he was practically trembling.

So, needless to say, this situation comes as a massive surprise. Erich has to duck under the doors. They're almost the right size but just... oddly a bit small by just a touch.

He steps out onto the platform looking utterly bewildered. Help?

🦊 Art!!! 🦊

Erich is no stranger to art museums. That said, this one certainly steps outside of what he is used to. More so, when he walks into the room of... art that seems to look right into his very soul. He startles when he first realizes it. The metaphor and imagery are too on the nose to ignore. All of the chain motifs. The pinned butterflies. The depictions of the death of a phoenix. Erich can't help but feel sick to his stomach. He wants to leave, but he's drawn in by it. He wants to understand the meaning of it. The point. If this is some kind of joke, it's a terrible one.

He sits down on the bench at the center of the room and sinks his head into his hands. Above him hangs a painting of a child bound up and hung from his arms.

🦊 Wildcard! 🦊

Hit me with whatever!

Train Station (FFXIV spoilers)

[zodiheart]

Having recently arrived himself, Elidibus has not quite left the station. This place is strange, far from the soothing feel of the Aetherial Sea he had gone to rest within. But still, should this be no dream, no mere illusion, he would embrace it for the second chance that it was. That decision, firm as it was, fully comes to be cemented when he spots the red-orange hair and dark robes of an individual he would know anywhere. His heart skips, mind awash with so many words left unsaid, deeds yet to be done.

Their future taken from them far too swiftly.

One cannot blame the breathless call he makes as he hurries over. It is almost wordless, a noise of shock, but when he comes to stand before the other Ancient he finally finds his words.

"Erichthonios, is it truly you?"

Train Station

[nomoresharks]

New arrivals tend to come around the turn of the month, Hythlodaeus has learned. And, being a curious soul by his very nature, he can't help but draw near to the subway when the time comes. Mostly, it's the promise of a new world's knowledge that draws him here--a new story's beginning, or the little pieces here and there he can note for his own amusement.

What he isn't expecting is the telltale glow of aether. He nearly misses it, catching a glimpse out of the corner of his eye before he turns his head and focuses.

The soul is not a color he remembers, but there's something vaguely familiar about the newcomer's aether all the same. And even if there wasn't, his feet are already taking him to the landing.

Immediately, he brightens, glad he's decided to keep his mask around his neck, even if these days he's eschewed the customary robes of his people for a nice, warm sweater, and he raises his hand with a bright and cheery grin. "Greetings and salutations! And welcome to someplace entirely different than either of us are useful. You moreso than myself, I get the feeling."

art /dean voice

[reposing]

There has been at least one good thing about stopping by the museum, and that had been picking up the art supplies. However, the rest of it has left much to be desired, admittedly.

Alucard stands before a piece, feeling weariness in his body. It almost looks like broken stained glass adhered to a canvas, each piece displaying something a bit different. A bloody red moon, fire, a stake, fire, fire, fire--

"What terrible taste," he whispers, as if brushing it off would make him feel better.

It does not.

And it does appear that he is not the only victim of tasteless displays, as he spots a particularly tall individual, weighed down too much by revealing the inside.

"Come," Alucard says to him suddenly. "Let us go elsewhere, away from this."

No, Alucard doesn't know who he is, but they're both better off sparing themselves.

Art | Spoilers through Endwalker.

[recreator]

Although Emet-Selch has always been one with an appreciation for poetry and metaphor, the images which greet him in this particular gallery are disconcerting to say the least. Their true meaning woefully beyond his comprehension.

So while the image of the phoenix immediately brings to mind the creator of that immortal bird (as well as one particular iteration of the concept and the pitiable soul which he himself had ushered back to the Underworld), the rest serve only to offer the general impression of one trapped and imprisoned. The last of them, perhaps, being the most unpleasant of all. For the Amaurotines have ever been a people with the utmost pride in nurturing their children, in bestowing knowledge and guidance upon those who would one day follow in their footsteps and their care of the star.

He doesn't know this individual, yet even with his head bowed and buried, Emet-Selch can identify the young man as one of his people, even were it not for the telltale glow of aether which terminates where that bright shock of fiery hair begins.

"Not a connoisseur of the arts, I take it?" Though the words are brusque, his intention isn't one of cruelty. Emet-Selch waits, his arms crossed over his chest just beneath the scowling face of the red mask that marks his station.

"If you've seen quite enough, I'll escort you out. You look as if you could do with some fresh air."

Elidibus | Final Fantasy XIV (spoilers through most recent patch)

[zodiheart]

Train Station:

Elidibus was not unused to strange occurrences, throughout the many thousands of years of his existence he had seen many oddities. This, however, was a novelty. He had gone to rest at the end of his long journey, duty finished, the Star left in the hands of stewards able to protect it - and the end of all averted. It was tempting, to keep watch from the Aetherial Sea. So he did. Why resist such things? He watched, but from time to time, he closed his eyes to sleep. To rest after so long.

He did not expect to open them in a completely different place. From the start he can tell he is no longer on the Star he so loved, phone and network aside. The very feeling of his body had changed - he felt... lesser, somehow. No longer as mighty. But that did not trouble him overmuch.

Not when there was clearly new sights to see.

He heads up into the train station, and begins to take in what he can.



Artwork:

The gallery is full of shattered mirrors, and Elidibus stands transfixed. Swathes of light and dark war with one another, an ouroboros of balance with a long figure in white in the center. A slash of red across the faces mark his station, and he knows the truth of things. Divine justice stands tall in the center of the room, a depiction of his transformed self but eyes covered and wings broken, kneeling before a violet chrysalis. There are paintings of his outline but no features. Outlines of his people but without faces. Great sheathes of poetry where all the pages are blotted out with bleeding ink. And all around the mirrors throw broken images of all back at him.

He stands before the statue wordlessly, unable to bring himself to move. He knows it is the truth, was the truth for millennia as his memories and very identity was lost inch by agonizing inch. That he has it returned is no comfort, not now. Not when the mirrors twist his own face in ways he almost doesn't recognize.



Wildcard!

Free space, tag me with whatever!

[nomoresharks]

Though his sight is not what it should be in this city, it is all but impossible to miss the rare sight of aether in a place as devoid of it is this once Hythlodaeus grows close. And besides that rare sight, there is an even rarer color. Not one he sees often, but one easily recognizable nonetheless, both by station and via a mutual friend.

And though he enters the exhibit in search of the young man within, any words he may have to say to Elidibus fall silent at the display before him--meant for Elidibus, but echoing so deeply within him that his breath shudders.

A future yet to come. One soul of many, soon to be lost in that swirling darkness. And the heart of it all here before him now. It cannot be ignored and will not be forgotten, but Hythlodaeus tears his gaze from the sight nonetheless, plastering a smile on his face and doing his best to appear welcoming.

"I think I preferred the previous art installation more," he quips lightly. "Much more whimsical, for one, and not something I think we would see on Etheirys."

artwork.

[limbical]

"Try to not put much stock in the display."

It's hypocritical advice from Daan; too often this place has played upon his experiences and fears, his greatest failures, and no one else is any different. But he's always been one to dispense advice regardless.

And so: he addresses the too tall man, a bag slung over his shoulder. Daan gives a vague gesture, as if to suggest they make their way to the exit.

"Whoever runs this city probably gets their kicks by messing with us. Wouldn't be the first time... and certainly it won't be the last."

Artwork | Spoilers through Endwalker.

[recreator]

It isn't the art gallery which has drawn Emet-Selch's attention so, although one might be forgiven for thinking as much. The City has revealed things to him in glimpses - from the name of a foreign land spoken by one unpossessed of magic to the mighty dark visage of a being who would one day become their god. Puzzle pieces which mean little to him out of context, but which continue to pile up like snow upon his shoulders, cold and unsettling.

Not so much this particular hall, however, even with its imperfect and cryptic reflections. For at its heart he has already detected a thread of aether - persevering and warm and nigh on ageless even by lofty Amaurotine standards. A willing shift into aethersight reveals to him a unique color which can belong to only one. ...And that's where Emet-Selch finds Elidibus.

His sharp gaze sweeps over the walls, settling on the familiar white robes as he makes his way to his side.

"I've heard it said that works of art are as mirrors unto the soul. Reflecting a man's aspirations and ambitions, his most enduring of hopes and most unyielding of struggles. A thousand words captured within a single brushstroke."

For Emet-Selch's part, he looks much the same as he always has in the world unsundered. His red lacquer mask hangs about his neck, just as it would have during meetings of high import. And though he is not dressed in his usual robes, the overcoat he wears is modest and black.

Lyney | Genshin Impact

[hatinacat]

a. step right up, feast your eyes!

[despite everything (and. . . it is a lot of everything, most of which Lyney has yet to fully absorb), this boisterous new arrival exits the train with a bounce in his step and his phone spinning precariously on his finger. he holds his head high, gaze uncannily keen as it sweeps across the surroundings, absorbing far more than his relaxed demeanor might indicate. nevertheless, he keeps mostly to himself, swiftly brushing through the subway maze until he finds an exit and steps out into the unfamiliar sun]

[it is then, and only then, that he adeptly flicks his phone into a pocket, grabs at the pole of a nearby street lamp, hoists himself up onto the base, spreads an arm to his side in a grandiose gesture, and belts--]

Greetings, esteemed strangers and soon-to-be audience members! I come to you with a simple, honest proposal-- there are no tricks, no lies, no hidden deceptions. . . well, save for those that exist purely for entertainment, of course.

[he pauses for a moment, but only so he can tip his hat off of his head, spin it between his hands, and then tap on the top. out drops a bundle of cards, which he catches adeptly, before replacing the hat on his head and beginning to shuffle, fingers moving smoothly across each individual sheet of paper]

If you care to give me a moment of our time, I'd love to exchange a few performances for information.

[NOTHING IN THE WORLD IS FREE INCLUDING KNOWLEDGE--]

b. and here is the monet. . .

[as though the mildly unsettling atmosphere of the city wasn't enough, the museum had to crank the disquiet up like twenty notches, didn't it? he knew coming here was a bad idea, but somehow, he hadn't anticipated that he'd find himself browsing an entire gallery filled with paintings that should not exist. each one sends a tense shiver down his spine. . . but he tries not to let his mind wander with thoughts of how and why. he knows better than to ask questions to which there are no true answers]

[the silhouette of two ragged children holding hands, standing on a dirty street corner, surrounded by adults dressed in lavish garbs who tower over them menacingly]

[a line of older children, one of them Lyney, standing at attention in front of an impmosing figure who looks down on them with sternness in her gaze]

[a pudgy purple cat peeking out of a black top hat, only the ears and piercing star-and-teardrop-shaped eyes visible]

[a glamorous stage, awash with lights and colored curtains, the center of which is occupied by a single, cracked tank of water]

[it is the latter portrait that has captured Lyney's attention most, and he stares at the brush strokes with an unusual crinkle in his brow. at least. . . until he hears someone else enter the room. only then does he smooth out his features to pull up his cheery, easygoing smile, greeting the new guest with a sheepish rub of his head]

Aha. . . why, hello there! [if there is any tension remaining from his discomfort with this room, it is not visible] What brings you to this fine exhibit?

c. wildcard

[hit me up in this top level if you'd like to plot something else!]

b.

[excaliburden]

[The museum is very, very disorienting. She doesn't care for the quiet, nor does she care for the paintings and sculptures that all seem to be in poor taste, more often than not. Her heels are loud on the marble flooring, which undoubtedly gives her away as she walks down the hallway that Lyney is in the midst of.]

Oh... hello.

[He responds much quicker--and much more chipper--than she was prepared for, but she smiles in return.]

If you really must know, I'm afraid I'm lost.

[Oh.

Well.

That would do it. Still, her gaze slides over to the painting despite herself--two children, dressed in little more than rags. Ah...]

a

[fanstheflames]

Oh, sure.

[ Easily. She's got that openly perplexed look on her face that she would have answered his questions regardless, but if he wants to do a few tricks in exchange for information, she's willing to go along with it.

So-- ]

You wanna ask first, perform second?

a.

[featheradrift]

[ The loud voice is more than effective in catching the attention of a potential audience member. The Wanderer had been meandering somewhat close to the station for various reasons, including to see if anyone new would appear at the turn of the month. Lo and behold.

The drifter stands in front of Lyney, arms crossed. His inert Vision gleams proudly on his chest. The magician is familiar, though he's not sure from where. But the words he speaks—the magician is the same as him. And that piques his curiosity. ]

Alright then. Show me your performance.

zoe murphy ☆ dear evan hansen

[lovelylittlelie]

a. why should i play this game of pretend? [city hall station]

[This isn't where she was going.

Zoe doesn't know how she knows that, but it's a sinking feeling when she steps off the train. It feels so empty. Absolutely lifeless. Freaky, honestly.

Still, getting back on the train isn't an option. So instead, Zoe exits and starts wandering around the station.]

Hello? Is anyone here?

[Please let someone be there.]

b. no one lights a candle to remember [city east]

[Wandering the city is eerie, but Zoe does it for hours trying to find others.

Eventually, though, she gets hungry and stops in the first American-style diner she sees. By now, Zoe has realized there's not that many people around. She's just going to leave some money on the counter after she makes herself something, but instead there's just a perfect burger and fries on the order counter. So she takes it and sits in the vinyl-sticky booth eating it.

Afterward, she goes back to wandering around the city. The apartment building, specifically. Running her hand along a frame in an apartment, Zoe frowns.]

Did everyone get raptured?

c. why should i say i'll keep you with me? [exhibition room]

[Zoe doesn't know how long she's been standing in the room, staring at a portrait of a young man. She doesn't look away even when someone enters, although if they come closer she says:]

Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you were an only child?

d. sing no requiem tonight [wildcard]

[i'll match format, so reply however you want and feel free to hit me with whatever! if you'd like to actually discuss, feel free to hit me up on plurk (flyingthesky) or discord (flyingthesky).small>

B

[miyagimagic]

[ At first Daniel figures it's just someone out here talking to themselves out of habit.

It's only when he stops and really listens for a moment what the voice is saying that he realises it's not just some idle talking to oneself - but that it instead definitely sounds like a new person. The man immediately peeks into the apartment he heard the voice coming from, calling out with: ]

Is everything alright in here?

[ Well, at least she's not alone. ]

aoba seragaki | dramatical murder

[cosmo_call]

 ▶︎「 ✦ 01: Steppin' out ✦ 」•၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

[ After everything that's just happened, there's a real air of needing sleep about him — like he's been awake for a week, or seen too much in a short span of time — so when he steps off the train he does it almost in a haze... but that soon lifts as he takes in his surroundings and realises that he's almost definitely not in Midorijima anymore. He heads for the little information stand first, peering over the counter as though he's expecting the attendant to be crouched down behind it but ultimately, obviously, finding nothing and no-one there. There's a bulging messenger bag that looks as though it might be weighing him down a little slung over his shoulder, and as he stands there somewhat non-plussed, he fiddles with a little keychain strapped to the bag's handle.

When he picks up a map and unfolds it, it's very clear he's not used to following these things without any outside assistance, and he turns it around once or twice before he finally realises he's looking at it upside-down. Not that it helps. District is a word he's familiar with, but having so many of them and so spread out but with very little other information is what stumps him. He looks at the other, albeit sparse, information sitting atop the counter — a few notices, a couple of flyers; he picks up one advertising a Welcome Diner, and tilts his head. ]

New? Lost? [ He reads from it, then laughs incredulously. ] Yeah, you can say that again.

[ He looks around, and jogs lightly over to the nearest person, waving the little flyer aloft. ]

Hey, sorry, are you new here too? Do you happen to know where this is?

 ▶︎「 ✦ 02: Feel Like I've Lost a Friend ✦ 」•၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

[ A few days into his stay, Aoba can be found jogging from street to street, his eyebrows drawn in slightly at the middle, his mouth muttering as though he's talking to himself... though the large pink headphones over his ears create the impression that he might just be murmuring along to a song he knows. He'll pause for a second or two, glance down an alleyway or peer up to the top of a fire escape, perhaps even rummage through a hedgerow or a window-box, before moving on. His movements are so random and so apparently unprovoked that it, of course, isn't too long before he goes wheeling into someone's side as they pass in front of him. ]

Eerk--!! [ He can't really blame them - because really, who expects a blur of blue to come shooting out across the road? - but nevertheless he's rubbing his side where he collided with the stranger as his expression goes a little sour, as if on impulse. ] Ooi! Look- [ Then he seems to catch himself, like a child does when they're trying to act grown up, and his face goes from angry to apologetic in no time at all. ]

Ah... Sorry about that. [ He takes his headphones off next. ] I wasn't paying attention.

[ That much is obvious. Hopefully whoever he bumped into is forgiving.... ]

Uhm. You haven't seen a dog in a spiked collar running around here, have you?

 ▶︎「 ✦ 03: Get Stuck In ✦ 」•၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

[ It's turning toward the evening, and Aoba has decided that if this place is going to encourage him to get comfortable, then he's going to do just that. He had every intention of finding a restaurant packed with people he could talk to, maybe try to figure out what's going on here and when the next train back home leaves, but the only thing he's found so far are cafés with one or two patrons, and fine dining that would have made him avoid the place like a bad smell if he'd been in his own world, just from the emptiness of the seats alone. But he isn't in his own world, is he? And why not throw himself wholeheartedly into new experiences? What's the worst that could happen?

Which has led him here, sat at one of the booths with an array of plates before him - every dish he could feasibly think of, once he came to understand that all he had to do was think about what he wanted to eat, and it would be waiting for him. The fact it goes for drinks, too, means that any trepidation he had about eating strange food in a strange place has gone pretty much out the window along with all thoughts of dignity as he stands from the table and almost trips over his own feet, hand flying out to catch the table and landing directly in a bowl of what looks like a banana split. ]

Whoops..!

[ He giggles, lifting his hand to suck cream and sprinkles off his fingers. He just so happens to do this at the exact time he looks up to meet the eyes of the only other person in the room. Time seems to stop for a few seconds. Then, he bursts out laughing. ]

 ▶︎「 ✦ 04: Baby, You're a Work of Art ✦ 」•၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

[ Aoba enters the exhibition hall with curiosity, peering around for more of those citizen-created art pieces he'd been kind of enjoying studying in the relative quiet. This room feels a little different, with the canvases a different shape, the variation of styles a little more experimental in places, and so with his interest piqued Aoba sets to skipping back to the start of the album on the CD player shoved in his pocket when--

When he realises that one of the portraits, the one of a blue haired man who looks strangely like himself, is frighteningly familiar. The one next to it, too, of an old woman with pinkish hair, holding the hand of a young boy— and the one next to that, the sculpture of chains and bones slightly melted by impossible heat— and the painting next to that, the one that looks like it's nothing but blackness but the more you stare the more it becomes evident that it isn't paint at all.. it's hair.

Aoba steps back, then stumbles. He hits the ground right on his ass, but his hand goes up to his forehead as if he'd hurt that in the fall, his eyes screwed tight as behind them his vision turns to static and pain screams in his mind. ]

desire —

[ If no-one comes to try and drag him out or help him, if he's left to his own mind as he so often is, eventually the pain will become so unbearable that he's screaming, howling, hands clawing at the ground as if he's planning to burrow beneath the tiles to escape this agony, to leave behind those haunting paintings.

Until he stops, and the silence in the gallery is deafening.

When he stands, his eyes are shining inhumanly bright, more white than gold, and when he looks at the paintings that once caused him so much hurt, he sees only a prime opportunity; one that makes a slow, dangerous, cruel-looking smile curl his lips. With all the viciousness of a cobra winding back to strike, and all the feral hunger of a rabid dog, Aoba flies at the nearest portrait and starts to tear at it with bare hands, ripping the canvas, splintering the wood, hardly noticing (or perhaps not caring) when the nails and staples holding the frame together slice at the flesh on his hands. When he turns to grab the next piece of art and finds the one he just destroyed back in place as if nothing had ever happened... Well, he throws his head back, laughs, and tears it down again. ]

 ▶︎「 ✦ 05: Bonus Track ✦ 」•၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

desire's tw's are masochism, sadism, violence and sexual themes. aoba is just a dude.
aoba's permissions/opt out is here - please let me know if you'd rather not have him use his (nerfed) power on you or if you want to avoid desire. feel free to PM to plot!

01

[coolerjunpei]

[Today is grocery day, which for Junpei means going to the convenience store for microwave meals and some energy drinks, but so it goes. He still hasn't, in the months he's been in this city, bothered to move to an apartment farther away from City Hall, so it stands to reason that he'd both a) run into people getting off the train first thing early in the month, and b) remember that that happens, and what week it is.

Well, he's got one of those going for him. He's heading down the street with a bag of "real food" and unfortunately wearing the worst sweatshirt he owns, and fiddling with his phone, so for a second when he's approached he just stares blankly like he doesn't get what's going on. Uh--]

—Oh, uh, the diner? Yeah, I know it. [then a little wryly, like it's soooo funny,] But I'm not new.

[ha ha oh god it's been forever]

C'mon, I'll show you where the diner is. You're like new new, huh? Just woke up?

2

[bardstorming]

[Dorian isn't a person to feel miserable so easily, as he tries to get the best out of awful situations. But he's been in this -bad situation- for two months now at least and the feeling of depression is crawling up on him. Of course, he can't let others see him this way, that would be not polite of him, and it's something he has to deal with by himself.

With a stroll through the creepy neighborhood. Well, it's not THAT creepy, maybe just gloomy from winter weather. Wrapped in a blue long coat with a fluffy scarf and the usual lute on his back, he's been distracted by checking out windows of shops that, as per usual, have no staff manning it.

And then someone ran into him at almost full speed? Had he not been in fights before he'd fall face flat on the pavement right then as he didn't pay any attention to people around him.]

Ooof-! I'm so- sorry! [Give him a moment to reorient himself and regain balance.] No, no, it's fine, I wasn't looking myself.

[A spiked collar? Dorian taps his chin and shakes his head,] No, I'm sorry. I don't think I have. [...] Do you need help looking for it? Is it very energetic dog that likes to run off?

john constantine | dc comics / vertigo | ota.

[strewth]

a. MIND THE GAP.

John is a shabby figure, weaving through the underground in a trench coat, hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed. The stench of cigarettes waft off him, if you get close enough to catch his scent. Not that he's drawing much attention to himself-- this is a man very well accustomed to public transport, though he loathes it. London is a city with feet. And this city is... not home, but haunted all the same.

Every city is a haunting.

John draws a cigarette from nowhere (the truly eagle-eyed will realize it's sleight of hand) and stops at the edge of a platform. Warm air wafts from the curving halls of blackness, the homes of sleepy trains. "Dropped something."

He holds out something of yours-- a wallet, a pocket watch, some loose change. Something that was in your pocket a moment ago, and is no longer. John grins his tobacco-stained grin.

b. ARS GRATIA ARTIS.

John finds the gallery, or the gallery finds John. Synchronicity is the way the world speaks its will between mortal breaths; sometimes you have to let it move you where it wants you to go. John isn't usually drawn to posh exhibitions, so he takes this as a sign. Anything is better than admitting he's lost.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette.

In front of him is a blank canvas, save for a smudged, red-black blotch in the center. Closer inspection will reveal it to be a painting of a dirty, rusted rock. It's roughly the size and shape of a human heart. No-- a child's heart. A painting of a child's petrified heart.

"Morbid, ennit?" He wheezes a laugh, a sawing sound born from too much nicotine over too man years, hehh hehh hehn. "D'you think they've any Rothko?"

c. WILDCARD.

[I'm up for anything! PM this journal if you're not sure o/]

cw:drugs { wildcard for maximum noir

[matermali]

This isn’t the escape it once had been, not since they had taken her from this very spot. It had been foolish to treat it like her territory when the expanse of the City was their dollhouse. They can and have taken her from anywhere and at any time.

The shovel—previously propped next to her—has fallen atop the half-zipped leather duffel bag just beside. Her black coat is draped over the gravestone's crumbling side where she leans with ankles crossed and one arm propping up her elbow, finishing off one of her few remaining joints. God help this city when she runs out, if only He had any power here.

Having no animals or insects about leaves an uncanny silence that makes it too easy to discern when anyone is nearby. If nothing else, her senses are more heightened than ever before, and she’s shifted to face the stranger before he can become more than a silhouette.

She wears no jewelry, although the laced blouse and silk skirt might keep as expensive if money mattered around here. The sleeves have been rolled up to her elbows, but they’re still stained from the damp dirt almost as well as the bottom of her skirt. With one eye kept on the shovel, Vanessa's posture remains seemingly amicable if partially removed. The only reason she isn’t more on edge is because something familiar strikes at her curiosity, and that is often enough to trump anything else.

Has he already been trying to discern what the gravestones say? They always do. She’ll even cast a down glance to the one that belongs to her half-dug grave.

“Looking for a name?”

wildcard: a trip down to the shops

[keepgodwaiting]

It's December. It's cold. It's rainy. It could practically be home, if such a place exists and if such a place is London. The sound of water sluicing down the gutters helps mask the uncanny silence of the City, gives its empty face the illusion of familiarity. After all, even in a populated city, the streets would be empty in weather like this. Who goes out in the rain?

Answer: Mad dogs, Englishmen, and tired exorcists who are seriously considering taking up smoking again if they can find any cartons in the picked-over shops. That's who. The last couple weeks have been bloody murder on Johanna's nerves, and her other bad coping mechanisms are losing their savor. Doesn't seem likely that there'll be cigarettes until the next restock (or respawn, if you please), probably already snapped up by the heavier smokers in the City. But god helps those, et cetera.

Ugh, this rain, though. When she left her apartment, she misjudged the weather -- thought that it was going to be just a depressing drizzle, and here it's properly wet. She pulls the collar of her coat up around her neck.

(Her poor much-abused white trench coat is currently hanging in her closet, covered in brown stains the hydrogen peroxide couldn't get out, and until she can track down a replacement she's making do with something in a more traditional colorway that's less likely to show blood.)

Just ahead of her, she spots a similarly-clad figure heading into one of the corner shops and picks up her pace after him, eager to get out of the rain. "Oi, hold the door for us--?"

mind the gap!

[cupperty]

"Oh, thank you!" Muriel beams up at Constantine, radiating earnest gratitude like a small sun that happens to be dressed as an old-timey office worker. "That's odd, it must've... fallen out of my pocket or something." They look a little confused by this, but not unconvinced... even when they feel through their jacket pockets and don't find any holes.

The object in question is a small spiral-bound notebook, and if Constantine decides to have a snoop through it, he'll find that the pages are covered in notes, with headings like 'HUMAN IDIOMS: ('Red Herring - not actually about fish, it's meant to convey that something is intentionally misleading') and 'NEW FLAVOURS:' ('Pepper mint: hopefully doesn't taste like the spice' ).