TDM 005

[etrayamods]

⏵ arrival ⏴ Arrival goes as anticipated. Characters awaken in a sterile hospital bed in a clean, white room to the hum of machines under the unnatural lighting common to well-kept institutions. Every bit was designed to be comforting and calming, even with the jarring undercurrent of this situation. The first face they see is Aurora's: her smile appears to be warm, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She might offer a quick explanation, or leave characters to figure it out for themselves depending on their approach. The door to the room swings open, revealing a hallway that stretches out ahead of them. There’s noise from outside and strong pumpkin spice scents coming from the lobby. Ah, muffins and tea. Grab one and head into the crisp, sunny fall morning ahead. ⏵ potluck ⏴ Cutthroat Iron Etrayan Bake-Off As you step out of the arrival holding area into the main thoroughfare, the entire street has been turned into tents and chef stations to accommodate the activities of thirty people at once. There’s seats, trailers, and robots bustling about to make sure everyone is ready. A couple of cheerful robots in aprons and colorful sweaters approach and redirect you as you step towards the cooking area. There’s gas ranges, ovens, grills, blast chillers, mixers, and set walk-ins and pantries with just about every ingredient you can imagine. There are cameramen (also robots) patrolling the area to capture all your best moments and to broadcast them directly to your fellow citizens’ devices. Your instruction? “Make your signature dish. You have one hour, chef.” It can’t just be straightforward, can it? The land itself is held together with pure chaotic energy. If you’re lucky, all goes as planned. If you aren’t… well… Roll a Die 1 Your leg is now tied to another chef’s 2 Your meal is continually un-cooking itself. 3 All of your ingredients are pickled now 4 The longer you touch an ingredient, the bigger it gets. 5 Every time you lift your pot lid, a component changes. 6 The aromatics are glowing and flashing like LED lights. 7 Your knife has been replaced with a cheese grater. 8 The ingredients are now magnetically stuck together. 9 Your meal is becoming deep fried. 10 Kittens are multiplying out of the cupboard. * 11 All of your ingredients have become incredibly heavy. 12 Your cook pot moves burners whenever you turn around. 13 Eggs scream when you crack them 14 The kitchen has become incredibly slippery. 15 It’s soup now. 16 All utensils have been replaced with crustaceans. ** 17 Your knife has a mind of its own. Watch out! 18 Your fridge catches fire. 19 Your pasta is trying to escape. Go get it. 20 Any ingredient not in the pot starts to float away. * All kittens disappear at the end. ** These however, stay. ⏵ share a meal ⏴ As all the cooking concludes, you will be invited to plate your meal into one of many casserole dishes, regardless of what was made. A ladle will be tucked into the corner and placed on the table with a folded bit of cardstock declaring the chef’s name and the name of the dish. A helper camerabot will come around to each participant and ask for their thinking and their process. Even if you got away without having to cook, even looking towards the table of dishes will spur a helper bot to start making you a plate with one of everything. The helperbot will insist that it is rude to not at least try what their peers have made. In fact, if you are to fill out the score card for each person, you really must taste everything! The robots can’t try the food, so it’s up to you. The cards look like so. The grading system is opaque. Is it meant to be numbers? Stars? Letter grades? Well, you’re the judge. You figure it out. Chef: ___________ Dish:_____________ Judge:___________ Overall Rating:_______ Flavor Presentation Stackability Wet Originality Rizz ⏵ tummy ache survivor ⏴ No matter how well your compatriots cooked or baked their dishes, there are… factors. You see that carrot? It’s really just condensed chaos in the shape of a carrot. No matter how powerful you are, these particular ingredients may not mesh with your being. …And even if it is truly a carrot, do all the chefs know the proper cooking temperature of chicken? Even chickens are aliens to many. (Optional) Roll a Die 1 Tummy Ache. Go lay in bed. Complaining alleviates symptoms. 2 That plate of food has energized you. You feel compelled to race or spar. 3 The food has reminded you of home. You must tell someone a detail of your childhood. 4 That food was so horrible that it simply must be washed out somehow. Spicy peppers? Booze? Gravel??? You’re going to over do it. 5 You have now discovered your new favorite dish. Make them teach it to you or you’ll lose sleep over it. This is all you want to eat for the next week. 6 The oddity of the ingredients has transferred to you. You start floating away. 7 The range of food and textures have inspired you. Acquire an annoying new hobby or habit. 8 You are now haunted by the digital souls of chickens. ⏵ NOTES ⏴ Please direct all questions to our mod queries comment! ⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Comments

Hank Anderson | Detroit: Become Human

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Arrival

Hank despises hospitals. The uniformity, the sterileness — it all makes him shudder.

At first he’s too groggy to say “fuck you,” so he lets the AI prattle on with her introduction — of course she’s AI — before he’s slipping out of bed. A little shaky on his feet, but whatever.

Now, Hank gets to voice his sentiment: “Fuckin’ AI. I’m outta here.”

Being in a hospital has him on edge, but at least there’s food once he stumbles out of the hospital room. His stomach growls, so he grabs a muffin. Holds it in his palm, staring at it in a daze as if it’s some pastry that beggars belief.

“Can’t even get coffee in a place like this, huh?” he mutters.

Potluck

Hank can cook — kind of. He’s mostly survived on takeout food for the past few years, but he knows his way around a microwave.

“Oh, you bet I’ve got a signature dish. It’s a fist up your —”

He’s talking to the robot, but his voice is raised so he may as well be talking to everyone nearby.

When Hank steps up to a counter, drumming his fingers along the edge, his mind blanks. But luckily the knife he grabs proceeds to immediately turn into a wriggling lobster.

“What the hell?”

Share a Meal

Hank is stuffing his face, bobbing his head at the robots who insist he must rate every meal.

For flavor, he jots down “yeah.” Presentation — “yes.” Stackability — “ok.”

When Hank gets to the last box, he has to ask: “What the fuck does rizz mean?”

Tummy Ache Survivor

In retrospect, Hank shouldn’t have eaten all that weird food. His stomach is rumbling something fierce, and not from hunger this time.

He places a hand on his stomach. Thins his eyes.

“Shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich in particular,” he says, and, oddly, his stomach starts to feel better when he degrades the food. “Why did you use so much fuckin’ lobster? Just ‘cause your knives and spoons were turning into lobsters doesn’t mean you had to use it all. That’s weird! Needs cheese and mayo, like a normal sandwich.”

Wildcard

(Feel free to PM me here or on Plurk Giangio if you’d like to discuss anything! Also, I’ll match style so please switch to brackets if you prefer.)

arrival! hi!!

[reconstruction]

[Connor spends more time at the hospital than he'd like. once the time of the month rolls around, he's usually seen waiting outside or in the lobby. he's anticipating strays to explore the lower levels, but more importantly, he's cataloging all of the new faces. so he acts as somewhat of a wallflower, blending in to the crowds (as much as he can, he still wears his uniform every so often despite Damian's blatant dislike of it, and today is one of those days).

what he doesn't expect is a ping to his stored memory as he scans. information floods him and he's standing there, shocked. recall. system running at optimal levels. software instability. error? y_n?

n.

this is not an error.

he beelines for Hank as he holds his muffin, and emotions - emotions, big ones, rise up inside of him: relief, worry, fear. fear. he shouldn't be here. but Connor is happy to see him all the same, even though he isn't quite sure what to do when he reaches him, except-]

Lieutenant, [there's urgency in his voice, mixed with excitement. he doesn't know where to start. so he cheats, scans his vitals] we should get you something better to eat.

[his mouth breaks into a smile,]

And maybe a drink.

Hi!!! 😊

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Yeah, a drink sure would be fuckin’ nice.

[Hank is mumbling, still groggy, blinking at the muffin in his hand — pumpkin spice, he’s pretty sure — when he plays back the voice he just heard.

Who else but Connor would call him “lieutenant” and not sound like they’re one-hundred percent done with him already? And that voice sounds excited, even?

Familiar.

The only ones who are ever happy to see Hank are Connor and Sumo.]

Connor?

[Hank turns on his heel to stare at Connor, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Crushing the muffin in his hand.]

The hell are you doin’ here? Or, no. Let me guess. You’re in with that weird AI lady. Projecting people I know just to fuck with me.

[He nods to himself. This sounds entirely plausible in his current state.

Hank squints at Connor as if his vision is failing. It is not. He’s just tired — and hungry.]

What’s my dog’s name?

[reconstruction]

[is Hank ... intoxicated? Connor tilts his head, minute workings of a concerned expression on his features. no, just - tired. very tired. that's normal. plenty of people arrived exhausted or overly stressed, or both.

he glances down to the crushed muffin in Hank's hand. this might take a while.]

I promise I'm not a projection.

[though, he has no evidence for Hank to prove to him that what they're experiencing is real. he's only able to conclude that it is simply because of his time here, but he does still have his doubts.]

Sumo. Your dog's name is Sumo.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Yeah, well, that’s what a projection would say, Connor.

“Not a fuckin’ projection,” jeeze...

[Hank is mumbling that latter bit to himself, wondering what to do with his demolished muffin — eat it, anyway? Throw it at projection-Connor just to be an asshole?

But then Connor says “Sumo,” and Hank’s expression softens. There could still be a million reasons this Connor knows about Sumo — maybe the AI is reading his mind, for all he understands of technology's bullshit — but Hank wants to believe. The alternative is too depressing.]

Connor.

[Hank’s voice is quiet. Almost sad as he really takes Connor in, but he’s relieved. Of course he is. It’s just all so damn weird.]

Don’t scare me like that.

[He says this as if the misunderstanding is Connor’s fault, but of course it’s not. Hank’s just stubborn and old, and his stomach growls again, but he ignores it.]

C’mere.

[Hank doesn’t even give Connor a chance to acquiesce or not. He closes the distance between them, patting Connor’s shoulder with his free hand — but then he drops the muffin so that he can wrap his arms around him, because fuck the muffin, this is Connor.]

Really thought you were a projection there for a second, Connor.

[reconstruction]

[Hank is just as he'd left him, all gruffness and exhaustion. he knew people from other worlds could arrive together, but the chances of that happening to him were about as slim as anyone else's. he'd calculated it, then calculated it again. each month has posed the same outcome - until today.]

I wasn't trying to scare you.

[Etraya can get scary, but before he's able to prattle on about the mechanics of the planet, Hank has him by the shoulder and is pulling him in for a hug. Connor doesn't hesitate in returning the gesture. despite there being no true tension in his components that reflect what people exhibit in their muscles, he does seem to relax, movements mimicking that of a human's as they embrace.]

I'm happy to see you, Lieutenant. A lot has happened.

[his friend, partner, human - words murmured by his ear. he doesn't like that he's trapped here with him, but Hank knows Connor unlike anyone else. he feels selfish for wanting that for himself, LED whirring yellow as his thoughts stir up all of the potential outcomes now that he has Hank to worry about.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

I know you weren’t tryna scare me. You’re a good guy.

[Hank’s just… well, Hank, and the whole hospital setting isn’t helping. He’s patting Connor on the back, assuming it’s more comforting for himself, but he’s going to give his friend a pat, dammit.

If Connor’s been here a while, he might know where the booze is — he has to know where the good stuff is, right? He almost asks, but Connor saying “a lot has happened” puts Hank on edge, has him stiffening, and he gives Connor a final pat before stepping back.]

I’m glad to see you, too — [Hank has to add this because he isn’t entirely an asshole, not with the people who matter] — but what the hell does “a lot” mean? You haven’t been…

[He gestures vaguely with his hands. Taps his temple, mirroring where Connor’s LED is.]

Dying, you know? Please tell me I don’t gotta worry about that, at least.

[reconstruction]

I try to be.

[he learned from the best - being around Hank taught him more than he ever thought possible. no one else (aside from Markus) gave him the time of day, or encouraged him to have wants of his own. being in Etraya has shaped him more, too. he's stepped out from his usual role and is beginning to help lead people in the right direction. that's what he hopes, anyway.

his lopsided smile falters at Hank's question, but he shakes his head.]

No. I have had a few close calls, but I haven't died. People don't die here, not permanently. [he lets that sink in.] Do you want to talk about this over a meal?

[he knows you're hungry, Hank. they don't have to do this in the lobby of the hospital.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

You would have a couple of close calls without my sorry ass to keep you outta trouble, huh?

[Hank almost asks about how many close calls there have been — and what the hell does Connor mean about people not dying here? — but his stomach growls so loud that he can’t hear himself think for a second.]

Yeah, yeah. Lead the way.

[Leaning closer to Connor again, whispering in his ear conspiratorially as if anyone is listening, or cares:]

Take me to the good shit. Not these fuckin’...

[A glance toward the abandoned, crushed muffin on the ground.]

Not more muffins, Connor.

Share a meal

[levelshift]

There is one scrawny white-haired teenager using his fork to poke at what appears to be an actual, honest-to-God plate of casserole with an unenthusiastic air. It's not that he's a picky eater, this whole setup is just really, really dumb (and really uncool).

"It's short for charisma. Like being charming or some shit," Accelerator states without skipping a beat. He looks up, eyeballing the companion bots that are nearby. All of them look thrilled with the whole Bake-Off thing, and it makes him sigh heavily. No one can say those things aren't trying their best, even if the results are awkward. "The robots probably don't realize no one in their right mind describes food using 'rizz.'"

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Hank is, admittedly, gawking a bit as he has this new slang explained to him.

“How the hell is food supposed to be charming? Hell. Guess I’ll have to write a big ol’ ‘no’ for all these. No rizz. None. I mean, look.”

He uses his spaghetti sauce covered finger to point to a sad looking lopsided cake, covered in dripping fondant, with the words ‘help me’ scrawled across the top.

“No rizz at all with that one,” he says between bites of spaghetti molded into the shape of a donut. “Not a damn ounce.”

Pointing at the unassuming plate of casserole, Hank asks, “What about that? Got any rizz?”

[levelshift]

Weird slang isn't something Accelerator is unused to, falling square in the age where that kind of nonsense is perfectly normal and acceptable. However, the cake that may or may not be some sentient existential horror gives him pause, and he stares at the fondant cry for help.

"................................ I'm not touching that one."

Is it alive? Did the baker just find that funny? Did a robot make it and is trying their best? He has no idea and he doesn't want to find out.

He turns his attention back down to the casserole, poking at it again with his fork. "It's fine, I guess. Reminds me of doria, but with egg noodles and tuna instead of rice and shrimp."

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

“Hm. Good call, I think. Fondant sucks.”

But what a mystery on their hands! They could crack open that fondant monstrosity and maybe, just maybe, it’d have a nice, normal cake inside.

Or maybe it’d just be more fondant.

Hank’s gaze swings from the cake back to the casserole.

“That doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, not like these other abominations.”

He gestures to another dish: a tower of toast piled high, almost as tall as he is, burnt a crisp black. There’s an almost artistic arrangement of toothpicks pierced through the bread — assuming it is bread — attempting to hold it all together.

“Gonna give this a ‘yeah’ for stackability,” Hank says, with a hint of admiration. How does one mess up toast this badly? And who keeps going? “Although I am not tasting that, and the damn robots can deal.”

Hank wipes his dirty hands on his jeans. He could go for more donut-shaped spaghetti, in truth, although the texture is a little odd. So much spaghetti, crammed into such a small shape.

[levelshift]

All the more reason to not touch the fondant monstrosity/possible alive cake..... thing. Accelerator spares it one more wary glance before switching his attention to the toast. It looks pretty bad, and the toothpicks aren't helping. The whole tower seems so dry that it might just fall apart into a pile of burned crumbs at any second.

"It's still a step up from the natto cupcakes," he says slowly and seriously. That isn't a joke, and he wishes it was. He reaches for a bit of burnt toast in between all the toothpicks. Breaking a piece off, he'll munch on it, and unsurprisingly make a face. Yep, it's burnt, and tastes just as bad as one would expect.

"'No' for 'wet,'" God, why is that even a category, "'No' for flavour. All this fucking thing has going for it is the stackability."

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Hank is about to ask why this guy is bothering with clearly burnt toast, but he shrugs and breaks off his own piece. A crumb of burnt toast won’t kill him — probably. Hopefully.

“Jeeze.” He chews thoughtfully for a second before spitting the toast on the ground. “Tastes ‘bout as appetizing as it looks, huh?”

Looking down at his card, he nods. “Not a damn bit of wetness. Like chewing on concrete.”

Under ‘wet,’ he writes ‘-9000.’

“Stackability is pretty admirable, I guess. Considering.”

Hank’s eyes dart to his left. Right.

“Any of those robo fuckers lookin’?”

He reaches for one of the toothpicks holding the toast sculpture together — calling it “food” just feels wrong — before plucking it out. Then another, and another, like he’s playing a game of Jenga.

[levelshift]

"Concrete would taste better," Accelerator agrees. Maybe they should be congratulating whoever made it, because much like the tallness of it, making bread taste this bad has to be some kind of accomplishment.

At the question Accelerator glances around, noting that the robots are all off helping other contestants either cook or judge, and shakes his head.

"No, but I think they're gonna notice when that thing falls over," he replies, otherwise making no attempt at stopping Hank from messing around with the toast tower. In fact, he just sits there, resting his chin in one hand and taking a bite of his tuna casserole. He isn't the adult here, so he doesn't see any point in trying to be the one enforcing the rules.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

“That’s the nice thing with Jenga,” Hank says, as if he’s even played the game in years. “Just gotta be careful.”

He also says this as if he knows what he’s doing. He does not. Hank is not an architect of toast, doesn’t know what beams of toothpicks are necessary for each slice of bread to remain stable. But still he plucks away, almost merrily.

“Old guy like me has gotta find joy wherever I can.”

And what was it that AI lady was saying about judging their worlds? Representatives for their respective homes, blah blah blah? Worlds worth saving have some jolliness to them, Hank thinks.

“All right.” He steps away from the toast tower, inspecting his handiwork. Toothpicks litter the ground. “I’m just gonna keep on down the line of this abominable buffet, and the next fucker who reaches for that — it’s gonna be funny, let me tell you.”

tummy ache survivor

[dustyroad]

"I told them I didn't cook,"

Shelley grumbled, leaning back in his chair and pulling his beaten hat over his face so he didn't have to think about any additional sensory stimulus besides the roiling ache in his stomach. A ragged reed of a man with messy hair and muddy clothes, he was hardly an inspiring picture for any competition. His words were the bald truth-- he hardly cooked at all since he was usually alone. It was pointless to cook if it was just for himself.

Unfortunately, it meant he only knew enough to make sandwiches and not burn the house down.

Shelley groaned.

"I was trying to make a grilled cheese. Between the cats and the crawdads, I don't know where the lobster came from."

He tipped up his hat slightly to stare at the other man like a bird disturbed from it's roost.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

“How the hell do you go from grilled cheese to lobster? Where’s the damn cheese, man? We callin’ this sandwich ‘rumor of cheese,’ huh?”

Hank stared at him, his face blank for a few seconds. Jaw slowly dropping.

“A little tip for next time.”

Because Hank’s advice was exquisite, and there probably would be another obnoxious get-together like this, wouldn’t there?

“Throw the lobsters. At the robots. Everyone. Hell, throw ‘em at me.”

Hank didn’t mention that he would probably curse and throw them right back, but still. Was his aim good? Well, they’d just have to see.

“If someone caused enough of a ruckus, maybe we wouldn’t even have to cook anymore. Robots running wild tryna stop the lobster fight. Heh.”

But scheming didn’t help his upset stomach, so Hank added: “Sandwich still tastes like ass, though.”

[dustyroad]

Shelley scowled.

"Once the lobster got involved, I was kinda hoping it'd be like this lobster mac I had in Boston."

He muttered, a sour look on his scruffy face while his thoughts stayed to his short stay in the bustling city. Between all of the docks, the grit, the academia, and the strange whimsy of the youth, it was overall an interesting, if intense, place to visit.

"Lobster ain't that great anyway. So long as it's not a gator, I'll chuck anything at them next time."

If there even was a next time. Who knew what was going to happen in this bizarre sci-fi land?

"Damn," he said. "All this talk of lobster makes me want an iced coffee from Dunkin'."

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

“Lobster mac, huh?” Hank tapped his chin thoughtfully, even though ceasing his insults had his stomach cramping up again. “Sounds kind of good — I mean, weird. Fuckin’ weird-good, man.”

Yeah, that felt better. But how long was he going to have to keep talking shit till he knew peace? Forever? He could deal with that, but he’d at least like to know that this robo curse had no permanent cure.

“I could go for some coffee. Although” — Hank kind of side-eyed the guy — “why lobsters remind you of coffee, I got no idea.”

[dustyroad]

It was weird-good.

[He conceded. The over filled bowls of gooey Mac and Cheese with little bites of soft lobster mixed throughout had been a surprising delight.

To the question, he shrugged.]

If you've ever been to New England, you'd see it for yourself. They're so nuts over iced coffee that they drink it when there's snow on the ground.

[The assertion that there were coffee shops on every corner was very close to the actual reality of the place. With a groan, Shelley stood and righted his hat.]

I thought I saw a coffee truck around here, but don't quote me. I only just woke up in this weird place this morning.

[And he hadn't been able to even stomach coffee at that point.]

I just think getting something normal will help. You in?

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Barely been out of Michigan — [till now, apparently!] — but I’ll keep that in mind. Iced coffee when it’s below freezing sounds like some hipster thing.

[Not that he was complaining, exactly. But hipsters.]

Let me get this straight. You’re saying you saw a coffee truck — [ignoring the whole “I thought I saw” bit] — and you’re just telling me now?

[Knowing their luck so far, it was probably a flying coffee truck. A complementary lobster with every purchase.]

Hell yeah I’m in. Where’d you see the truck?

[Hank’s stomach still hurt, but coffee... good. Delicious.]

Maybe it’s still there. Or... around.

[dustyroad]

'Thought I saw,'

[Shelley clarified, wobbling a little on his feet as his stomach threatened to rebel. He regarded the man and tapped his glasses. ]

These aren't the right script anymore. It could be a lobster truck.

[With the luck he was having, they will be flaming kitten lobsters selling pickle flavored soda.]

If it gets bad, we can just go to the hospital and puke on them until they give us coffee.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

A fuckin’... lobster truck.

[Hank felt a crick in his jaw, but he had to breathe. Breathe.]

Suppose so. Could always try asking, too.

[He was too tired earlier to consider this very simple idea, but it was just crazy enough to work. Maybe.]

Or, y’know — what you said. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

[Trucks, Hank thought. If he were a truck full of delicious coffee and/or food — not lobster — where would he be? Hank was squinting; he might not have glasses, but his eyesight still wasn’t what it used to be.]

If I had a food truck in a weird futuristic space world, I’d go where I was needed, you know? I’d be a hero in my damn truck. And you know who needs a hero right now?

[He gestured to everyone brave or stupid enough to listen to the robots’ commands to eat.]

So if it’s not up here — [he pointed vaguely up at the sky, half expecting something to float on by] — then it’s gotta be around. Past this pavilion of fuckin’ horror. C’mon.