lumon | TEST DRIVE / JAN '25 / BETA.

TEST DRIVE / JAN '25 / BETA.

Test drive.

Welcome to AFTER LIFE, a game based in the world of Severance! This test drive serves as a place to help you figure out what characters you'd like to bring into the game. Some details (housing, etc.) may require further out of character conversation; please refer to the OOC meet and greet!

These prompts are all relatively low-stakes as a reflection of the nature of the game: slice-of-life until character and player interaction bring out the more psychological horror/thriller aspects of the setting. If none tickle your fancy, feel free to provide wildcard prompts of your own.

The test drive is open to anyone. We encourage messing around here to figure out exactly how you'd like to port your character into Kier! Threads may also be considered game canon if you so wish.

Got any questions? Check the FAQ or ask in the comments.

outies: deals all the way down.

There's a sale on at Lindt's Groceries! Discounts on pretty much anything you could imagine! The store is a middle-sized, relatively bougie, locally-owned grocery, with aisles stocked full of food and general necessities, as well as a small counter for deli meats and fish, and another two across the shop stocked with hot food (rotisserie chicken, sandwiches, sides) and a very limited selection of sushi (some sashimi, some hand rolls). And right now, there's a 20% discount on anything in the shop (supposedly to celebrate someone's birthday, though whose, you have no idea).

Are you browsing the aisles? Are you working a shift? Are you checking out?

outies: rain, rain, go away.

It's a grey and cloudy day, and as the cherry on top of the gloomy day cake, it's started to rain. The closest place to get out of the downpour is We Love Books, the local bookstore. Like Lindt's, it's not huge — it's not so big as a Barnes & Noble — but it's big enough, and obviously well-maintained.

Maybe there's a book you've been meaning to pick up? Or maybe you're really just waiting out the rain. Or you could stop at Leaves of Grass, the cafe next door, and get a coffee, tea, or hot chocolate to help warm up the cold day. Or maybe the rain doesn't bother you at all, and you're totally willing to keep on trucking. Are you brave enough to ask someone for a spare umbrella?

outies: neighborly fun.

You've been invited to a night of board games and conversation by a neighbor — or maybe just a friend of a friend. Either way, you're in a stranger's (nice, midcentury) house with a bunch of people you've never met before. There's wine, there's charcuterie, there's seltzer — bits and bobs for consumption until the games begin in earnest. (You've heard that some people at the party might be Severed — are you?)

Why not say hi to the person standing next to you? Or remain a wallflower and see if a more enterprising guest will decide to bestow you with a conversation starter.

innies: another day in paradise.

The elevator doors open, and another normal day at work begins. You know the way to your office, and don't see anyone else on the way there. What's your routine to get settled when a day starts? Do you like your coworkers? Do you like the work you do? Have you been doing it for a million years, or is this your first day? Maybe you're a manager making sure everything is running smoothly?

innies: waiting for wellness.

For one reason or another, you've been given the opportunity to visit the Wellness Center for a session. Except someone seems to have made a scheduling mistake — as you sit in the waiting room, you hear footsteps coming from the hallway. You've never run into anyone from another department before; in fact, the idea of fraternization has been expressly discouraged. Maybe they're coming into the Wellness Center's waiting room, too, or maybe they're just passing by. Either way, this might be your only chance to see who else works on the Severed floor — or maybe it's just one of your usual coworkers.

Will you get up, or let them go by?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ask them here!

OUTIES: NEIGHBORLY FUN.

[ Silco accepts the invitation without thinking about it/at the behest of his wife. It's not that he's not social but— there are other things he'd rather be doing, arguably even other people he'd rather see. But he doesn't have a good excuse not to go, either, and so—

—and so, as soon as he's managed to acquire a glass of wine, he finds a seat amid the circle of seats in the living room rather than hovering around the spread of food laid out on the dining table.

He's a slight man, dressed in a white button-down shirt under a burgundy sweater, sleeves rolled up to a reveal a silver watch on one narrow wrist. Perfectly normal, perfectly mundane. He wouldn't be notable at all, in fact, if not for the eyepatch he wears over one eye, the oval of black leather too small to fully cover the scar that runs nearly the length of his face, from his temple down to the narrow set of his mouth.

For a moment, he checks his phone (nothing new, no emergency to pull him away), but he puts it back in his pocket as soon as someone sits down next to him, offering a polite smile and a nod at the unopened board game sitting on the table in the middle of the arranged chairs.

Mildly: ] I don't suppose you've played this before?

INNIES: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.

[ There are a few things that Silco Z. knows about his innie. Among them is a strict adherence to the dress code, to the point that he only ever wakes in the office dressed in black and white, with no space left for the other "neutral tones" specified by the introductory guidebook. He knows he must be punctual, too — even with their staggered windows of arrival, he's practically always arrived on the Severed Floor at the same time, right on the dot. The same goes for today, as he blinks back to consciousness in the elevator, makes his way down a maze of white hallways, and turns the lights on for his department.

(There's one other thing that he knows: that, in his years working here, it's become clear that there's something strange happening here. Exactly what, he couldn't say, but—)

Whatever doubt he feels doesn't dissipate when he hears another set of footsteps, but it becomes less pressing. As for the words that leave his mouth, it's not as though he really cares, even given his usual timeliness, but he's not necessarily an easy department head to get along with, either. ]

You're late.

WILDCARD.

[ hit me with whatever! for my starters specifically, i've bolded stuff that's malleable for the tdm/subject to change once the game actually gets going. as always, i'm @ marlinspike on plurk and @ thejuicyfruits on discord. c: ]

[ Matt doesn't blink at the eyepatch. You see all types at the grocery store--how can you not? Everybody has to eat--and despite a natural lack of poker face, Matt's gotten used to smiling at whatever stranger's face swims into his field of operation. It's just plasticity: Repeated action that sets a standard. People are so lonely these days, he thinks. Working a service job, you might be the one pleasant interaction somebody has all day. All week.

Lifting his seltzer, he takes a buzzing sip. ]

Oh, uh, "Colonists of Balsam" ...? Not myself, no.

I think it's supposed to be resource management. You know, getting wood to built forts, trading iron for ... whatever people trade iron for.

[ Matt's demeanor is such that Silco feels fairly confident that he won't be making a social faux pas by allowing his expression to turn a little wry, even as he turns his face to get a better look at the game's box.

(The truth is he doesn't need the eyepatch — that he can see out of his left eye just fine — but it's— ease, he supposes. Social lubricant. He doesn't like it, exactly — doesn't care what people think of him as much as he's told he should — but it is what it is.) ]

Iron for wheat, grain, potable water. Though a filtration system seems like a stretch for an exercise like this.

[ Apparently satisfied — or resigned — to what little he can make out from the game's exterior packaging, Silco settles back in his seat, transferring his wine glass to his left hand before offering Matt his right. ]

Silco. Presuming this is a competitive game, I hope you won't think too poorly of me once we're done.

[ Matt's lips twitch for filtration system. He's scooting his own chair forward, peering more closely at the box--glossy, deep enough to hold a small birthday cake, low on instructions--when Silco extends his hand. Matt turns to shake. His grip is sure, easy, and seems to linger just exactly as long as Silco's comfortable with. There's no calculation behind it, though: What mental power Matt's expending is torn between the game and whether "Silco" is a last name or a first.

Gotta be first, right? ]

Matt. Nice to meet you. [ His smile widens, though it remains crooked. ] Are you one of those people whose Monopoly games end in screaming eight hours later? I was going to suggest we make up our own rules and make one of the tokens stand for water filtration ...

[ Matt reaches for the lid of the box, popping it open and revealing small models of mountains and forests. ]

But I can color inside the lines.

[ Everyone agrees: Silco Z. is a drip. With his starched collars and bland colours (or lack thereof), he could blend in with the minimal decor. Jinx F. does a great impression of him, when he isn’t looking: She stands stock still, arms by her side, scowling as she leans against the wall. The others pretend they can’t see her, despite the bright blues and pinks that break the monotony of her uniform (a fuchsia turtleneck, today). ]

Technically, I’m not.

[ Jinx arrives late most days — or rather, her outie does. Sometimes, she and her colleagues debate why this is. I think you spend all that time braiding your hair is a popular theory. Another is that they search her multiple times now, after she snuck contraband in through the lift twice.

Honestly? Powder suspects she just isn’t a very good employee. ]

Edited 2025-01-28 21:17 (UTC)

[ It's a strain of speculation that Silco mostly abstains from, though that doesn't exempt him from being a subject of the theories that get tossed about. That his outie needs some kind of witness protection — hence the scar, the eye — or that maybe he was involved in some kind of industrial accident. Or maybe he'd been a hibachi chef. He tells them, once, that it's a failure of imagination that all of their theories circle back to his scar.

But they talk, anyway, the same way Jinx imitates him when she thinks he's not looking. (Because they know he won't send them to the Break Room, because he's never once smiled on a tour of the Perpetuity Wing.) ]

And yet you'll be the one complaining if you're sent home late.

[ Or maybe she wouldn't, he's not sure — time means something different for them, after all. A longer day means a longer existence. ]

[ He only said hibachi ‘cause you’re so fun, boss. Not because of the scar, which Jinx has caught herself looking at over or between her cubicle screen, the tiny sliver of him, diagonal from her. ]

And you won’t be?

[ When she falls behind, it’s Silco who stays to watch her finish sorting numbers into boxes, never relinquishing his duty to the severed floor supervisors for reasons unknown to her.

Jinx steps forward now, fearless. ]

Your outtie must not miss the wife.

[ At that, Silco's frown only deepens, his gaze remaining on her a moment longer before returning to his computer screen, though his hands remain tellingly still, fixed over his mouse and the edge of his keyboard. He swallows down the retort, what makes you think I'm married, because it only invites further speculation, and moreover, takes the bait she's dangled in front of him.

She infuriates him. A constant prickle under his skin, one that follows him into the elevator and reactivates like a shimmer when his eyes open again. He wonders if his outie notices, if — and these are thoughts he never voices — he would ever recognize her, out there. A natural enemy or, Kier forbid, a loved one. ]

It's hardly my concern.

[ His lips purse as, perhaps inevitably, he looks up again, that familiar heat tickling the back of his neck. There must be someone else waiting for her, up there — some brash boy, or a girl with an equally colorful shock of hair.

With a nod at her desk: ] Nor is it yours.

INNIES: WAITING FOR WELLNESS.

[ —The figure who rounds the corner is someone you've seen before: Mr. Ancunín, the Wellness Counselor, his hair — prematurely grey (well, white) hair neatly combed, offset by a red turtleneck and grey slacks (clothes and colors that always seem to fit him and yet don't, like they've been chosen for him by someone else). He's clutching a file folder to his chest, and his fingers flex on reflex as he realizes that the waiting room isn't empty. ]

I'm sorry. [ Simple words delivered mechanically, like he's working through them as they leave his mouth. ] You've been kept waiting.

[ His features don't warm, exactly, but he smiles, letting the words settle in the air before beginning to cross the room. When he reaches the door to his office, he glances over his shoulder just the once, then opens it, stepping aside to allow for enough room for his next appointment to pass through.

The room is as it always is — less like any other part of the Severed Floor and more like some sort of installation, a tree arching over the two seats, up toward a ceiling that almost looks as though it's been punctured. Nature sounds, piped in through— somewhere. Mr. Ancunín settles into the far seat, looking up expectantly until his companion sits as well. ]

Are you ready to begin?

WILDCARD. 

[ yes, i'm making astarion a perma-innie :) but he's Around on the severed floor if you wanna cook up some other reason for your character to interact with him! ]

outies: neighborly fun.

There's a roar of laughter from inside. Muted, from outside the glass. Charades, and someone brought out a hat — quite a good impression of some notorious clown on TV, if James is honest with himself.

It's colder outside. There's charceuterie and seltzer and there he stands, on the outside of it, in the backyard looking out at some stranger's lawn. (Who was it— Bethany and her husband? The one that drives that bloody ridiculous BMW?) Black slacks, a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled, loafers; James exhales a breath from a cigarette he shouldn't be smoking. Idly distracted, if only for a moment, at watching some ant crawl from the perfectly even cobblestones and onto the toe of his shoe.

When the back door opens, he barely starts. (He's always been a little hard to startle.) He exhales another short plume and chuckles, friendly and the veneer of being embarrassed, caught out with a laugh:

wildcard.
[ deeply debating bond working as a real estate agent obsessed with fishing and lawncare who does not have an innie, so feel free to wildcard anything! run ins at the florist's? neighbors? on the sidelines of the same, boring high school soccer match? i'm

virginiawoolf on plurk if you want to add or chat! ]

[ It's pure coincidence that has Matt slipping out the back door as the laughter crests. The two pure facts that have collided are: 1) He needs a breather at the midpoint of any party, no matter how swimmingly it's going; and 2) either he's gonna call his mother or his mother is going to call him. It's as good as a law of physics.

More startled to see James than the other way around, Matt jumps. Then, in a mixture of relief and (real) embarrassment: ]

James? [ He laughs, shoulders slumping, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. Lucky to run into him here; he's probably the closest thing Matt's got to a friend in this town. He hasn't told his mother--she has a lot of opinions of the danger of peer contagion, and smoking is one of the many habits she's afraid Matt will catch. But all the literature says camaraderie is supposed to help. Matt quirks a smile the other man's way. Watches smoke fade into the night air. ]

First I'd have to meet your wife, [ he notes dryly. A beat. ] You have a wife?

Mm. [ An agreeable noise. He gestures, using the hand cradling the cigarette, behind him with a half-turn: the glimpse of a blonde woman, tall, in a circle of four others. The back of her head doesn't give all that much to go on, save the cut of her bob, and the glint of little gold hoops in her ears.

James exhales a thin stream of grey. Hazy, and the opposite direction of Matt. ]

My blonde menace.

[ He does, at least, sound fond about that.

Less so, perhaps, about the party in full. He makes a face, free hand opening into a comme ci, comme ça type of expression. A domestic menace who's far more willing to be entertained by charades than he is. And it is much cooler out here, with company he can better tolerate. Matt is, he reflects, not a bad friend to have.

It's at a delay, but James does return the smile: small in the corners, but freely given, a light glance given to the phone Matt chooses to pocket away. ] You didn't want to stick around for all of that? We're a drink and a half away from a riveting game of Twister.

[ Matt cranes to follow James--the wave, the slight turn. There's an unfussy sort of grace behind the movement. Economy of gesture, you could call it. Matt's attention catches with interest on the sleek, golden head of the woman in question. He didn't talk to her, but he got the impression she was nice.

He gets that impression about most people, though. ]

The last time I played Twister was in college, [ he says. ] And I didn't exactly cover myself in glory. So as tempting as it is to race back in there and sow some discord in your marriage, I'm good out here.

[ For a moment, Matt's quiet, considering James' small smile out of the corner of his eye. When his phone starts buzzing, he ignores it. ]

i. outies - deals all the way down
[ Matt's button-up is rolled past his elbows, unbuttoned at the throat. His hair is dark and tousled. The nametag on his dark-green apron says MATT (he/him). And he's peering at you from behind the sushi counter like a concerned dog, slightly fretful over what he seems to take as either indecision or disappointment at the meager selection. ]

The normal sushi person's out sick, [ he explains. ] But I do a lot of the flower arrangements, and the fundamental principles aren't, you know, that different … it's all katas. Repeated actions that set a standard. [ If you look closely, you'll see that his hands are smooth, with neat nails. What repeated actions does he take? ] So, uh, maybe the tuna sashimi? The reverse caterpillar roll is good too.

[ Or perhaps you'll encounter Matt ringing you up. ]

All right, well, with our birthday special, that's gonna be 20% off. [ He smiles at you sincerely, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ] Lucky you.

[ It occurs to him that he doesn't actually know whose birthday it's supposed to be. Shouldn't that have been posted in the back? Or at least sent out as a text message. ]

ii. outies: rain, rain
[ By the time Matt gets off his shift at Lindt's, the gray day has gloomed into evening, and the rain he'd bet wouldn't come is bucketing down. He steps sputtering into We Love Books, his nest of dark hair plastered to his head and his clothes soaked. Matt huffs and puffs, blinks the water from his eyes–

And, careful not to touch anything or anyone, he sidles towards the table marked New Releases. ]

Oh God, [ he mutters, as one of the hardcovers in particular catches his attention. ] How'd he write another one so fast?

[ The book in question is glossy and comic-book bright. Its author is one Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD. ]

iii. outies: neighborly fun
[ Matt lasts about five minutes with the drinks and the charcuterie. I shouldn't, he says politely when he's offered wine, plucking up a glass of seltzer instead. Then he asks where the bathroom is. And from there …

Look, he doesn't mean to snoop around in a stranger's house. He's just feeling a bit overwhelmed, finding himself in a hardcore commingling environment with so many people he doesn't know. Doesn't know well, at least–familiar faces from around the neighborhood, maybe the store, but that's all. Trying to move soundlessly, Matt turns the knob to a door in the hallway. It probably goes to a study or something, and a study might have books, or a spot he could sit without everyone else here having a line of sight on him.

Do you catch him wandering?

Maybe not. Maybe instead, you spot him pacing outside, mid-phone call. ]

No mother, I haven't made manager yet. I mean, we don't really have review cycles as such. I guess I could ask at our quarterly all-hands, but I don't … uh-huh. Yeah, I'm at the neighbors'. Lowkey thing, board games and cheeseboards and wine and stuff. [ A pause. He listens. And his eyes tighten at the corners, set of his jaw stiffening. ] Yes. I am. Don't worry so much.

Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Yes, I'll let you know if I make a friend. Tell dad I say hi.

Yes. Okay.

Bye.

[ ooc: Please feel free to wildcard me! Are you Matt's wife? You could be his wife! Does your character want to run into him elsewhere in the grocery store? Go for it, delivering an excellent customer experience is his job! Or find him elsewhere in Kier.

Outie prompts only for now, but other than that, go wild. PM this journal or ping

artistformerlyknownas to plot something. ]

[ It's only when Matt begins speaking that Gal realizes that someone's talking to her at all, that she's been zoned out at the sushi counter for the last— how long has it been? She doesn't startle, exactly, but her eyes widen, a hand rising to her mouth as she attempts to recover her thoughts, to actually hear the words being spoken at her. ]

Katas? [ is the first thing she picks up on, though he explains what he means almost immediately after as she looks first to him and then back — well, more like finally — at the contents of the case. (Faintly, she thinks to herself that it'd be rude, now, to walk away without buying anything. It doesn't occur to her — another sign of how out of it she is — that she hasn't even picked up a basket or cart.) ]

Oh, um—

[ She blinks as though to renew her focus, her brow pinching as she attempts to identify both items he's named. Her fingers pick at her sleeves, at the loose braid that hangs over her shoulder. ]

—which one's the reverse caterpillar?

[ It's okay, we all get lost in the supermarket sometimes. For his part, Matt doesn't notice her lack of basket, or at least he doesn't think much of it. Maybe she's just coming in to grab a prepared meal. Matt doesn't like to dictate other people's process in here. ]

Oh--it's this one. [ He points towards a hand roll that appears to be topped with barbecued eel. ] Normally a caterpillar roll would have avocado on top and the eel inside, but the reverse one does it the other way around. I guess we could call it something that honors the placement of the "caterpillar" part, like a cocoon roll or a chrysalis roll, but I didn't pick the name, so.

[ Matt lifts his gaze from the sushi to the shopper's face. He's a little worried he's talking too much, and perhaps has put her off sushi altogether. Or maybe she's just tired. Or maybe she's allergic to avocado.

... He takes a moment to breathe.

One of the only actually useful things that came out of his stint in rehab was those yoga classes. The meditation on the body, miracle that it is. Prana and in the beginning. Matt inhales, holding it at the top; lets it out one, two, three, four. He feels easier at the end of it, more relaxed. His smile comes more fluidly as he regards her. ]

[ As Matt points out the roll in question, Gal peers intently in the indicated direction, one of her hands rising to her mouth, her fingertips hovering over her lips.

If she's being honest, she's thinking about work. The silence of the Board, the mandate to continue work on the Severed Floor. (She's been told, more than once, that she's speaking to them directly. Only once has she mustered up the courage to ask why they never speak.)

Distraction accounts for the words that leave her mouth next: ] They should have little feet.

[ The sentiment seems to startle her as soon as she expresses it out loud. It's more like the kind of thing she'd say to her brother — her poor brother — when he'd still been alive, a childish thought hardly suited to her current work. ]

Sorry, I— it's silly.

outies: rain, rain, go away.

Joan's always been very lucky, you see.

Lucky enough to live in Kier; lucky enough to have a husband, and a beautiful house, and time to have a hot bath every Friday without having to cook dinner. It's not that anybody expects it, of course, but there is some part of her that relishes in the opportunity. It's just one of those funny things. Growing up, you know, with and without Judith Butler. The cursed performance of gender. You buy into what you buy into.

And, honestly, why should she? A home's more than a house. The job at the bank keeps her plenty busy.

Today, the rain rolls in. Jeans, boots, a light cashmere sweater — thank God she was inside before it started pelting down, or the thing would've been absolute toast. One eye on the rain pelting the windows, her arms full of books (heavy ones; thick, glossy, with photographs aplenty), by fate or providence:—

—she bumps into someone.

She laughs, a twinkling chime, with one hand lightly covering her mouth. A perfect nude lipstick contours the bow of it.

outies: deals all the way down.

Grocery shopping. Is there any bigger chore?

She's thoughtful as she makes her way down the aisle. A basket hanging from the crook of her arm, one hand scrolling lightly through the notes on her phone: more of the milk, less of that brand of potato chips, they both liked that fish last week, maybe they'll try that pistachio creamer?

The man at the deli hands her her parcel, brown paper and butcher's twine, and Joan blinks at the little sticker indicating the price on it.

Well. Who doesn't love a good deal? (The blue is a little garish, though. She does have some strong opinions on colors.)

Down the next aisle, near the cereals, someone's just in the way of the cornflakes. And it's not that she's particularly nosy, except that she is, and there's a cake in your basket. There's a companionable look as she peers sidelong:

you're

Not that there is a secret Lindt heir. But there's more than one way to make a boring task pass by.

wildcard.
[ hey is JOAN from MAD MEN your WIFE? open to such nonsense if you are! once again, i am reachable at

virginiawoolf, and you can wildcard me just about anything and i'll roll with the punches! ]

[ He's not absentminded, not really, but sometimes he just— forgets. Like some wire's been crossed, like some synapse hasn't fired. Today, he forgets it's supposed to rain. He forgets his umbrella, forgets to leave his leather jacket at home. The bookstore is a point of rescue more than anything else, and he's in the middle of stuffing his eyepatch into his pocket (it's wet, but not unsalvageably so) when he bumps into Joan, both of them moving slowly enough that the collision would be negligible if not for common etiquette.

She's a kind of perfect that makes him itch. Her laugh, her make-up, her demeanor — all of it a sharp contrast to the near-permanent pinch in his brow and the mismatched eyes (one blue, one glassy despite retained vision) that stare back at her.

At the very least, he knows how to be polite. ]

It was my fault, [ he offers, as he takes a step back. ]

She didn't teach me either. [ A beat. Then, clarifying, ] To cook, or to mind my manners.

[ Her smile stays; grows brighter, even, and her gaze remains perfectly level. That's the thing about working at the bank. People come to you upset or hurt or desperate or smug anywhere in between. Anybody who works in something customer-facing knows exactly how to talk to people. It's honestly just a given.

And it's not like Kier's such a huge, sprawling town, is it?

Joan echoes his half a step. Reintroducing the distance, a tit for tat from her end, while she gently rearranges the books in her arms for a much more solid hold. No harm done. No big loss. ]

Well, between you and me, her beef bourguignon is a steal.

[ With another laugh. A beat grows, and it's one shared between two relative strangers — the kind that could just as well be left alone, with one or both of them walking away from the moment. Just another funny little story, in their funny little town. And Joan does think to, of course. But— ]

I saw you last week, didn't I? [ She straightens, a little, and steps to the left, so as to make room for anyone who's looking to move past them and into the aisle of Non-Fiction. ] At that party at Marjorie's?

outies: rain, rain, go away.

[ he'd been out for a quick errand run, a few supplies he'd needed for his next project and possibly something for dinner. he'd been running low on bread, as well, and had thought about maybe spending some time at Lindt's during their sale - he's sure it was for some kind of celebration, maybe a birthday? he wasn't sure, but he did know he didn't want to spend any additional time around others if there was some kind of gathering. he didn't need the prying eyes.

what erik hadn't been prepared for was the sky to fall, a sort of ominous rumbling in the distance before the pouring of rain. he's disappointed that he wasn't able to outrun the storm, but he only seems to be partially damp when he makes it inside We Love Books. he stands right inside the door for a few moments, shaking off what remains of the rain from the fabric of his coat before he notices someone else having just escaped the rain.

he's not the most social on a good day, but he does give you a polite enough nod and move to step by you, keeping his head down. ] Excuse me.

[ once he makes it inside and the sky makes it known that the rain isn't planning on stopping, erik resigns himself to the diversion and starts to wander the aisles of books, scanning the titles and covers. he's not really shopping for anything in particular, but does find himself drawn to a particular section, coming to a pause and reaching for one of the titles - tugging at a worn, outdated version of charles darwin's On the Origin of Species, and reading the back cover. ]

innies: waiting for wellness.

[ erik l. is waiting for his first wellness appointment. or- rather- it may not be his first, but it is the first in some time. he supposes it's not outlandish to want to have semi-regular wellness checks on employees to keep up with morale and general well-being, but he has to admit he finds the whole ordeal to be more exhausting than revitalizing.

then again, he has been a bit loose-lipped when it comes to his opinions of his current manager. enough, it seems, to require a check-in. he doesn't see the benefit - he'll end up spending another extended period answering questions he knows the instructor will want to hear before he's dismissed to return to his work. very little will change, very little will be done, and soon the routine of his day will resume.

though this has created an unexpectedly pleasant break in that routine, and while the majority of erik l.'s emotional state is marginally annoyed at the ordeal, he can acknowledge the benefit of the change.

for now, he stands before a large painting, examining the scene before him. there's no telling how long he's stood there, or for how much longer he might, if it weren't for the sound of another person that draws his attention. ]

Yes?

wildcard.

[ current thinking is that erik's wife and daughter died tragically, so he moved to kier and was hired by lumon to separate himself from the grief. he assumes his job is as a contractor or engineer, as that's all he's ever known to be able to do. his outtie is a little grumpy and distant but his innie is very pleasant and maybe a little arrogant, so. c:

also wildcard me pretty much wherever/whenever. i am READY and EXCITED. ]

Edited 2025-01-29 05:16 (UTC)

[ Mr. Xavier wakes up with plenty of time to clean up his office before his next appointment. He waters the plants and organizes the desk so that everything is perfectly in place. He goes through the music choices of animal and nature sounds but decides it will be better to choose once they begin their session. Once he gets a sense of his important patient.

He has stepped out of the room to ask for a potential sound of the ocean track, it seems like it would be a relaxing option, and comes back in to see Erik L. gazing at the painting in the waiting room. While it is generally recommended to move them directly into the office, he pauses and wonders if polite conversation is not encouraged to establish trust.

The painting is of Kier over supplicating people, bringing his light to their world, and they cover underneath his greatness. Mr. Xavier turns to look at it, standing next to him. ]

What do you think, looking at it?

001. rainy day

[ What sort of sad sap are you trudging somewhere on the side of the road in the rain? Car break down? Wife kick you out? Whatever the reason, there you are getting soaked down to the bones.

Cutting through the gloom is a car. A shiny, red Plymouth Valiant roars past. The car keeps speeding down the road, driver seemingly immune to the fact to the large sprays of water its wheels cast off. Furiosa squints in her rearview mirror, grimacing at the person she managed to hit only with the puddle carnage. She entertains the idea of not stopping. There's no reason to stop.

And yet, she finds herself rolling to the shoulder. She turns the car around, this time driving back towards the person (well within the speed limit).

Flicking her hazards on, she stops across from the person, rolling her window down enough to shout above the sound of the rain ]

You good?

002. neighborly fun

[ Furiosa feels like there's some part of her that's always starving. She stands at the charcuterie board, food going from board to hand to mouth not bothering with a plate. That is, until she becomes acutely aware of the snide and disgusted stares she can feel from across the room. Some rule she didn't know broken once again. Rebellion burns up through her throat, a childish impulse to lick her hands and rub them all over the food at the party. Then, her better judgement kicks in like always. Blend and disappear. Into what? She doesn't know. She doesn't know why she even came to this.

Quickly, she turns on her heels. She walks purposefully away like that was always her plan, confident even if she doesn't know where she's going. In the hallway past the kitchen, there are several closed doors to bedrooms. Without hesitation, she opens one to slip in.

If unoccupied, she taps the door to close but it doesn't quite latch. Any passersby would be able to sit the way she blows a raspberry through her lips as she collapses down the wall to sit on the floor.

If occupied, she raises her eyebrows surprised. Then moves to understanding. You too, huh? ]

003. wildcard

[ hit me up on plurk beehaw to plan something else! i'm still workshopping ideas if furiosa works for lumon or just lives in town working as a mechanic. i'm also down to handwave cr if they've met around town. i'm also playing around with the idea that she might go by the name dee for various reasons idk i'm here for the vibes we'll figure it out. ]

Edited 2025-01-30 18:37 (UTC)

outies; raindrops keeping falling on my head.

[ it's only been a year since—everything. from bran falling out of the window; robb and tally's fatal driving accident on the night of their wedding, with mom in the back seat; dad following not long after, so lost in grief he didn't see the oncoming truck that rammed right through his car. then arya ran away and sansa ended up with aunt lysa, with uncle petyr and his too-warm eyes that keep looking — sansa would've left the very day she turned eighteen, but there was the matter of settling her parents' estate now that her trust is in her control, and——

she's freshly twenty. what does she know about anything? it's too much grief. so she celebrates her twentieth birthday in kier, her application to be severed accepted with minimal fanfare. just a simple gift basket with a little paper card, little lemon cakes individually wrapped in pristine baking paper. exactly how she wants it; exactly how she wants to be seen. (she doesn't.)

the thing is, though— the thing is, is it's raining outside and she has a paper bag of groceries and a rental, and she's parked all the way across the lot because she hadn't wanted to argue with the mean-looking guy behind her for the spot closer to the doors. it's raining, she's tired, and she really wants to get back to her place and stare at the kitchen countertop for a few hours.

she turns to the first person that comes out through the doors, putting on her best i'm just a harmless, stupid girl voice. it never works on aunt lysa, works even less with uncle petyr. maybe here, maybe with her clearly-English accent she still hasn't gotten rid of, maybe— ]

Sorry, I'm so sorry, but could you help me, please? I'm parked all the way across the lot, I can't carry all of these on my own and open the car door——

[ her desperation is a little too honest. ]

They use paper bags.

innies; just did me some talkin' to the sun.

[ her little plastic ID card says alayne s. in neatly printed letters. it's her fifth day on the severed floor as a new macrodata refiner, and already she's feeling a great sense of pride in the work. she doesn't understand how she knows, but she's good with emotions. she can tell when the person in the cubicle across from her is having a bad day, or a sad day, or a "nothing" day — one of those days when the answer to "what are you feeling?" is "nothing."

she could be in wellness, or she could be optics and design, but macrodata refinement — putting the little numbers into their neat little bins — is fulfilling work too. good work. alayne is good, and she wants to stay that way.

she started arranging the pens in the supply closet on her third day. turning the little caps to face outward feels nice, nudging the boxed reams of paper so they're all perfectly aligned to the edge of the shelf. supply closet, then handwashing, and at the designated break times she'll make her way to the vending machine and get something sweet. it's all very good.

alayne's still deciding between chocolate or cherry for her second token of the day when someone comes up next to her, and— ]

—Oh, you can go ahead, I haven't decided what to get. What do you think is good today? I haven't tried everything.

[ alternately, pull a wildcard! feel free to hit me up via dm for ideas, plotting, or a starter also.

quick rundown: sansa is recently hired and moved to kier, a trust fund girlie who applied for a job far away from her aunt and her husband so she can deal with her grief on her own terms. alayne is a girlish and politely enthusiastic junior refiner who's just really happy to be here. everything will be Fine. ]

Edited 2025-01-30 06:33 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

TEST DRIVE / JAN '25 / BETA.

QUESTIONS.

silco, arcane.

neighborly

no subject

no subject

innies.

no subject

no subject

no subject

astarion ancunín, baldur's gate 3.

james bond | the bond franchise

neighborly

no subject

crawls back a week later w/o starbucks

matt jamison, original

deals.

no subject

really thought the link was gonna go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbLZgmoNnEk

joan holloway | mad men

rain.

no subject

erik lehnsherr { xmcu

Bookshop AU lol

no subject

sansa, game of thrones.