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etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
etrayamods) wrote in etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
Entry tags:
TDM 005
 ⏵ 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…
* 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:_______
 ⏵ 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
Please direct all questions to our mod queries comment! |
tummy ache survivor
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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
"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'."
no subject
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.”
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[They were so screwed.]
Lead the way, partner. I'll have your six in case we get attacked by more lobsters.
no subject
[That lobster mac and cheese isn’t sounding so good now.
Hank’s stomach growls with uncertainty as he shoves his hands in his coat pockets. Eyes darting up, down. To, fro. Squinting.]
You see anything?
[They’re at least nearing the edge of the pavilion: some sort of freedom, he hopes — but then one of the robots starts rolling their way.]
Fuck. Act natural.
no subject
[Shelley asked, scrambling. He pulled the brim of his hat down to partly obscure his face-- but then didn't see the curb that his foot clipped, and went toppling sideways into the shrubbery nearby with a startled gasp.]
no subject
Asked if he needed anything. Hank was about to blurt out more expletives, just like he did with that weird AI lady earlier, but he figured he’ll be nice. This time.]
You know what? Yeah, Mr. Robot Officer. I’m looking for coffee, since all you had at that shitty hospital was tea. Know where I can find any?
[Or better yet booze, but coffee first. Booze later. Wouldn’t it be the dream if they ended up stumbling across both?
To the robot’s credit, it actually did tell him how to get to a little food truck nearby, not too far off. Although it did insist that he wait here and eat all this garbage food, blah blah blah.
Once the robot realized Hank was a lost cause, it was rolling off to annoy someone else.
Hank sighed. Looked over at the shrubs.]
You okay in there? Still breathin’?
[He offered his hand.]
no subject
[He released the breath he had been holding, as if the heat and motion of the very basic act would alert the bots to his presence. He knew he was foolish, but he didn't know a damn thing about robotics except that the small ones that were the size of dogs and walked on four legs were probably safe.]
Last thing we need is SkyLink or whatever that satellite thing is tracking us. We can't let them take us to a secondary location, either.
no subject
[Hank glanced in the direction the robot took off in, just to make sure. It had its hands — or claws or robo arms or whatever — full with helping clear up some of the dirty dishes on the banquet table of horror.]
The hell you mean a “secondary location”?
[Obviously Hank didn’t trust whoever set them up here, including the robots — which wasn’t against robots personally. Hank had come to like some robots. Just not ones who kidnap him from his world and tell him to make merry.]
You know something about what they’re up to, huh? Spill the beans, man.
no subject
Anything that finds you and tries to take you somewhere else is most likely not planning anything nice,
[He said, sounding tired.]
That's what I mean by being taken to a secondary location. You're in for a lot of hurt if that happens.
no subject
[Hank rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.]
Shit, thought you meant they take us away if we disobey, or something. Lock us up for not playin’ their twisted little cooking games.
[Which still might have been true. Hank had no idea. But would he risk it? Probably at some point. End of the world or not, these robots and their AI couldn’t make him do something he really didn’t want to. Hank was stubborn that way.
They really did pick a terrible representative for his world.]
How ‘bout that coffee, though?
[Hank pointed in the direction the robot said. Or maybe it would lead to their doom. Maybe coffee and doom.]
no subject
[He scowled with this assertion, his sentiments clearly written on his face. ]
I don't trust machines that are too smart.
[Although he meant needlessly complicated printers and refrigerators that could peer through the doorbell camera, and tangentially included vacuum bots that escaped their homes, he had no idea how this could apply to the bots who seemed a little too eager to help.
Until he knew more, he wasn't keen to trust any of it.]
... Yeah, let's get coffee.
[he said, finally. ]
Coffee is still pretty normal, right?
no subject
Half the stuff that comes outta your mouth gets me second-guessing shit.
[Hank shoved his hands in his coat pockets as they walked.]
Coffee? Normal? Let’s fuckin’ hope so.
[When they did finally get to the aforementioned coffee truck, it was, perhaps surprisingly, not flying.
Yet.
The coffee truck was a golden yellow, with “COFFEE” and a little picture of a steaming mug plastered across the front.
Predictably, it was also staffed by another robot.
Hank thinned his eyes. It wasn’t going to be some weird coffee, was it? Might as well try, yeah? Couldn’t kill him, right?
Ha.
To the robot at the coffee truck, Hank said:]
Gimme a… black coffee, yeah? You got that here, right?
no subject
Coffee, too-- but with two creams and two sugars.
[he wasn't going to torture himself by risking bad black coffee on top of everything else.]
I'm a detective,
[He added, turning towards the other man while the robot went to work.]
Part of my job is to ask the inconvenient questions.
[The comment was punctuated by a shrug. Detective work also meant that he didn't need to play well with others, which worked out just fine for him.]
no subject
Hank tapped the side of his coffee, deeming it fine to hold without scalding his fingers.]
Well, shit.
[He leaned against the coffee truck. Gripping his cup as he stared up at the sky.]
Lotta cops ‘round here, huh?
[Not that that’d make Etraya necessarily better or worse — probably worse, really, if the cops here are anything like the guys at Hank’s precinct.
But still. Nice to find something to relate over besides the whole being kidnapped by robots thing.]
no subject
[He took a sip of his coffee with an appraising look on his face-- and followed it with a second, deeper sip.]
I work privately. It's more flexible, but cops have their place and purpose.
Is there really a lot of cops here?
no subject
[Hank raised a brow. Sipped his coffee.]
Nice to not be tied to a department’s bullshit, huh? Get to pick your own cases?
[If he hadn’t been flung to whatever hell this is, maybe that’s what Hank would’ve done. Turned in his badge and started his own agency, because hell knew he wasn’t good at anything else.
Maybe he would’ve asked Connor to join him, too.]
Too many. [Another sip of his bitter coffee but it was warm, at least, and hopefully the caffeine would hit soon.] I’m a detective, too.
no subject
Oh, isn't that the dream?
[Living like Philip Marlow, or someone else from a Humphrey Bogart film, was a pipe dream that was out of everyone's reach anymore.]
Can't be picky if you don't get too many, but I'll take a surveillance gig over starving at this point. It's a lot of long nights and time alone, nothing glamorous.
[But he grinned-- it was good to be with a crowd that at least understood. ]
... Is there at least a coffee joint or a poker night everyone hangs out at? I can't imagine there's that many adulterous spouses to follow around here.