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

[fortitudosalutis]

[ She says it like she expects a reaction. He cocks his head, doglike. Watching her for a long moment, the silence spreading out between them.

Then: ]

Really?

[tocastashadow]

We've been through this tired palaver before, [she snaps back, no more immune to irritation now than she was the first time. She knows her name is unusual, and not the name her parents gave her, but it's hers.] Yes, it's my real name. And yes, you were precisely this insufferable about it the first time.

[fortitudosalutis]

Palaver, [ Carver repeats, testing the word out because it seems to annoy her. This role he's stepped into unknowing and seems to be hitting all the cues for. ] Fancy. Are we dead?

[ It's an old interrogator's trick to switch tracks right in the middle, to keep people off balance. ]

[tocastashadow]

[Something tickles at back of her mind, a memory of a woman's voice tetchily correcting her pronunciation, as it wouldn't do to have her tongue give away her poor breeding. No doubt something Mother once said to her.

Carver's getting under her skin again, and her tone makes that obvious.] I suppose to those of ill breeding, even the most mundane of words must seem fancy.

[As for his question, Shadowheart knows all the tricks, even if she isn't skilled at using them.]

By all means, do keep changing the subject until you're satisfied that we're on the same side. [She glowers at him.] We're not dead.

[She knows enough about the afterlife – the afterlife of her world, anyway – to be certain of that. She may not be certain which god will lay claim to her soul, if any, but she knows where her soul is bound when she dies. And yet... Those ghosts had warned her that those who failed Echo's tests, those whose worlds were destroyed, would be trapped here after death for eternity.

The truth, or merely another cruel trick? Her hands clench and unclench, the blackened skin on the back of her hand uncomfortably tight around the unhealing wound there.]

You spoke enough of your god, the last time you were here, that I'd think you'd know what happens to the souls of the dead.

[fortitudosalutis]

Don’t mind the village idiot, [ he drawls, pulling the words apart like taffy just because. ] Mama weren’t big on book learning.

[ It’s easy to pull masks, to mock. He’s used to people thinking him stupid; let them. It provides openings. Even so, her words bite at him. All these things she knows or claims to know, a context he’s climbing through blind. But he watches her hands and that clench and thinks, ah. You’ve got doubts, too. ]

Dead’s dead. Souls? That’s philosophical. I might have to break out the big words for that one, Shadowheart, and then where would we be?

[tocastashadow]

[Oh, how she wants to make some snide quip about hygiene, or courtesy, or any one of a myriad things his mother clearly didn't value any more than 'book learning.' But Carver, for better or for worse, is an ally, and a valuable one.

She takes a short step closer to him, lowering her voice ever so slightly. A real, proper effort at being conciliatory, though her tone is still rather antagonistic, despite the effort.]

Trying to get on with you might be akin to trying to douse a fire with oil, but you're the only person here I trust to do whatever's necessary to survive and escape. And I'm the person here you trusted to put a blade through your skull, should you die here.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ That stills him. Those words, spoken softer, like there can ever be trust between strangers. Like the enemy ever does a thing but lie and lie and lie again. He stares hard at her, marking the cast of her eyes, the way she talks like she knows a goddamn thing about him and still chooses to risk closing the distance. They could kill each other, Carver knows. It wouldn’t matter much. It’s just what people do now and Shadowheart moves like she could, like she’s done it before, like she’s figured out this task takes skill and knows that Carver has it, too.

But she steps closer, and she says her piece, and—

Focus, Pope’s voice hisses in his ear. Don’t fuck this up, too.

Carver twitches. There’s only one real way she could know about what had to be done to his corpse. Either he told her, or someone else from home did, and she calls it trust. A practical, conditional trust. And lie or not, something about that just slots into place. ]

Okay, [ he replies softly. His eyes never leave her, not for a second. ] What’s the objective?

[tocastashadow]

Get out, [she answers with a shrug, the easy and obvious thing to say in response to his question.] The person in charge here is called Echo. Who knows who or what she really is, but if we're going to get to her, we have to go through someone called Aurora.

[Shadowheart watches him watch her, the way he twitches, the way his eyes lock on, her own eyes narrowed. He certainly seems the same old Carver. So where did he go, and why has he come back with no memories?]

You truly have no memory of this place?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ None of the names spark any recognition. He watches Shadowheart closely, frowning. Wondering what else he's missing. There's a chance this is an elaborate con of some sort, but he's struggling to see the point of one. There are easier and faster ways to gather information. ]

Not a one. Head trauma's always a possibility but this...

[ He frowns. ]

This feels cleaner than that.

[tocastashadow]

There are other ways of erasing a person's memory besides a knock to the head.

[She's intimately familiar with at least one, and there's something in her tone – something soft, somewhere between grief and resentment – that perhaps gives that away.

She recalls one of the people who tried to help her with the tadpole saying something about dying in this world. They bring you back, but you lose something in the process. Could that 'something' be one's memories?]

Did you die, I wonder?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ That tone is so certain, so calm. It answers a question he doesn't even have to pose: she knows firsthand. And that raises other issues, doesn't it? If memory can be doubted more than usual, where does that leave them?

She knows him, one way or another. That much is clear.

Carver's fingers twitch. He exhales through his teeth, fighting the urge to move, to pace, to escape his twisting thoughts. ]

Pretty sure I was bleeding out. Back home.

[tocastashadow]

Curious.

[There's potentially a connection there. Potentially. But what it is, exactly, she can't say.

She shrugs, almost callous in brushing aside his near-death. But why bother getting worked up over it, she tells herself, when he did not, in fact, die? Whatever twinge of sorrow or anger she may feel on his behalf will do little enough good here and now.]

Let's get out of this place. You'll need a weapon, if you're to be any use.

[One whistle is all it takes to call Scratch back. He comes bounding out of the room he was exploring, wagging his tail at Shadowheart before he spares a curious look at Carver.]

[fortitudosalutis]

Mhmm.

[ There’s no use in dwelling on it as anything more than a data point, no point in showing any emotion one way or another. You cannot be weak, son. Carver’s fingers twitch, and then he breathes and refocuses, forces himself to stand still.

He inclines his head slightly. ]

Yes, ma’am. [ This may or may not be sarcastic. Regardless, he intends to follow her. ] Lead on.