soddersays | SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

Entry tags:

SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to September's Test Drive Meme! This month's Test Drive's theme is: CHILDREN/YOUNG ADULT HORROR.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: Evil dollhouses, potential body horror (turning into a doll), heights, pranks with the potential to cause harm, some stalking vibes
Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One
Prompt Two
Character Arrival
Master Navigation

THE EVIL DOLLHOUSE

When you wake up, you find you're not in your own bed, your own room, or even your own house. The room is well decorated, almost Victorian in fashion. The bed is pretty uncomfortable and you're not even sure the mattress is a real mattress. The chairs look like they might be made of plastic and the doors are flimsy. But it might not be what catches your eye, especially if you look out the window.

Through the clear panes (which also seem to be plastic), you will notice you do not see the town of Deerington, or even the outdoors at all. You see a living room that feels larger than life. There aren't any people in it, but as you look around at the fake looking furnishings and the strange view, you might be hit with a realization: you're inside a dollhouse.

The dollhouse has three floors for those who explore; the second floor you woke up on has two bedrooms and a fake little bathroom, all decorated in the same Victorian dollhouse style as the room you originally found yourself in. The bottom floor has a cute little kitchen with small porcelain dolls sitting around the table, a living room with all the basic furniture one would expect to find (in fact, it looks a great deal like the living room outside the windows), and an office filled with books that can't actually be pulled out of the shelves. On the very top floor is an attic. It's dusty and filled with broken toy beds and chairs, a few shattered doll pieces, and on the far wall you'll see another bookshelf. All seems... fairly standard, really, if you're used to seeing dollhouses.

But what there doesn't appear to be is an exit.

While searching, you may run into another Sleeper. A friend or a stranger, it's clear you're both stuck here together. And the longer the time ticks by, the more concerning things get. You might not notice at first, but anyone inside the dollhouse starts slowly... changing. It seems to go at a different pace for everyone, but the results are always the same. Your skin will start to become porcelain, your cheeks more rosy, your clothes made of cheaper cloth material, your joints become stiffer, and your eyes will start to become more and more glass like. If you don't get out of the dollhouse soon, it's clear that you may become the next doll at the kitchen table.

Searching the house again may feel fruitless, but keen observers may find light scratches on the floor in front of the bookshelf in the attic. Maybe they were like that because of someone moving things around or maybe there's a reason. If you decide to eventually pull the bookshelf aside, there will be a large door in the wall. It may seem strange, given that the wall only leads to the outside, but it's the only door to the outside that actually opens. You expect it to open up into the living room, but instead you'll see the grass of the park below. Far below. It's likely you could get hurt jumping, especially if you've started to turn to porcelain, but what other choice do you have?

Once characters take the plunge, they will find that they land rather softly in the grass, despite how high the jump may have seemed. As soon as you are out of the dollhouse, your body will have returned to complete normal.

And the house with the dollhouse in the living room will be nowhere in sight.

THOSE PESKY KIDS

You start off thinking maybe you're just forgetful and moved minor pieces around in your house without paying attention. You might think you're just seeing strange things out of the corner of your eye, because why wouldn't you? It's Deerington. Things are always strange. But each day, there's something weirder going on. Small objects might turn into entire rooms being rearranged, strange sightings out of the corner of your eye might turn into you swearing you saw a lake monster running through the street, and you swear you can hear the rattling of chains or the sounds of someone telling you to leave echoing in your house at night or following you down the street.

A haunting seems plausible. It wouldn't be the first time in Deerington. But no amount of herbs burned, or exorcisms performed, or chants and spell cast will make these things go away. In fact, they seem to just becoming more and more frequent, and more and more intense. Eventually, the strange creatures you see running around may start to try and attack you. They may start to try and kill you. But they always run off before you can attack back or show yourself to be stronger than them. It's probably the first time the monsters have ever been so easily scared.

Anyone who looks into it further may start to find weird clues lying around after a monster has been chased off. Footprints that don't look quite monster-like, tapes or records that when played will make strange rattling sounds like the chains you've been hearing, a piece of rubber that looks a lot like the monsters skin... Huh. The more you follow the clues, the more they'll lead you towards the answer to your dilemmas; these aren't hauntings.

They're pranks.

People can work together to catch a monster or ghost (or killing it, if you decide to); catching them will lead to them getting quite flustered and angry, struggling to get away. Pull off the mask or the sheet and underneath you'll find... a very disgruntled townsperson. Maybe your business was taking too much money away from theirs and they were hoping you'd close down with enough scares, maybe you talked back to them one time and they were looking for revenge, maybe you ruined their house or garden when you were fighting the things in Deerington that actually try to kill you, or maybe they were just having some "harmless" fun; they all have a different excuse, but they're clearly angry about getting caught.

They woulda gotten away with it if it weren't for you pesky Sleepers, after all.

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Even after a year in this place, there are skills Wes possesses that Deerington has yet to reveal. His ability to move like a shadow is perhaps one of the most easily forgotten. He knows he hasn't been particularly stealthy -- he hasn't been endeavoring to anyway -- so when Jean-Paul pulls out of his arms, he lets go of him without any kind of a fight.

Watching his companion turn on him, there are things he really should notice. But beyond the haircut and the mild differences in personal style, there's a lot of similarities. The ice in the man's eyes, the pin-straight look of his posture, and a certain air about him that simply says that he knows better. Wes has never heard of Occam's razor, and even if he had, he's not sure the same philosophical principles can be applied to Deerington. Sure, it could be a Jean-Paul from a different reality. It might not even be Jean-Paul at all. Or, perhaps, his lover's mind has simply been taken over by the next strange occurrence to darken the doorstep of this place.

It's the last conclusion he jumps to most easily, history paving a smooth road to his destination. You don't recognize me?

There's no dawning realization that this man cannot hear — that much had been obvious by his use of sign language — but it's habit that keeps Neal talking. He speaks a lot of languages (eight, in fact, including conversational Swahili) but they all depend and build upon each other, and none of them allow him to interpret what's being communicated.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he says, mindful to say so clearly before shaking his head more emphatically than necessary. "I'm sorry," he repeats, rolling around the display to gain some additional distance between them as he attempt to continue his retreat.

He hates to admit it, but he's spooked by the sense of familiarity this man carries, his expression full on questioning concern. It leaves Neal feeling as if he's standing outside the point, like he's the last one being let in on the secret.

Neal doesn't want to be rude, but he definitely wants to get away.

The lack of recognition is troubling, the confusion over the language he's taught Jean-Paul piece by piece is frustrating, but the inherent fear this man seems to carry... that feels soul-crushing. Wes allows himself to be hurt by the sight of this man's retreat. Rather than rethink his position, it allows him to affirm something he's always feared about himself. It seems clear that this is still Jean-Paul, and the man's mind has been changed by some force that defies them both. It won't be forever, surely, but without knowing the pattern of it or what can be done, Wes lets it hurt.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his Fluid and opens a blank screen. It's been a long time since he's reverted to such measures with any of the men in the cabin, but he types with fast fingers into the text-to-speech reader.

WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT DID YOU FORGET, ME OR HOW TO SIGN?

Immediately suspicious of any action this person is taking, Neal watches like a bazooka might somehow come out of his pants. He's fairly adept at taking care of himself, but the majority of Neal's confidence lies in his ability to talk his way out of a situation, which is significantly more difficult when a person happens to be deaf.

When the phone speaks in this man's stead, Neal looks uncomfortable at best, perhaps hedging on downright disturbed. Not so much because of the process, but instead because of the questions asked of him.

He shakes his head, confused, and then realizes that'a the wrong answer. Digging into his own pocket, he finds his phone, taking a cue from this man, and quickly types an answer, even going so far as to increase the font size so that he doesn't have to get any closer for this man to read his answer.

I'm sorry, but I don't know you.

He figures the rest is obvious.

The more action this man takes, the more those subtle differences begin to emerge. At first blush he might look like a carbon copy of Jean-Paul, but Wes notes that their movements aren't the same. Apart from the well-trained posture and the air of certainty that both men share, there's something lacking in this man's fluidity. Something that signifies training, rather than inherent ability. The difference is subtle, but it's there. Wes has been a long time at studying Jean-Paul, after all. When the man holds up the screen to show him the words, something in him deflates.

He doesn't blush or search himself for an apology, but his shoulders slacken, and then tense again in a very different way. The light in his eyes goes dim, and the uncertain curl in his lips smooths itself into neutrality.

YOU LOOK LIKE SOMEONE I KNOW. Understatement of the century. WHAT'S YOUR NAME? DID YOU JUST GET HERE?

Edited 2020-08-27 18:06 (UTC)

That's probably the first time Neal's been told such a thing — most people can't begin to reach his level of polished — but he doesn't immediately discount that he could appear similar to someone else. He has some experience that suggests he ought to keep an open mind, especially by now. Still, this whole scenario puts him on edge and he can't seem to shake the feeling that he should probably just walk away.

Too bad he's not so good at doing that unless there's a gun pointed in his direction.

He nods and goes back to his phone. Neal he writes, showing it to the man and then pointing back at him questioningly. He'd like to know who here's trying to talk to here. Maybe to know who to avoid later.

Now that he's sure of himself, Wes watches the man for an entirely different reason. He can't blame him for his tension. Trying to imagine how he might've reacted if the roles were reversed yields nothing good. Certainly not a year ago, when he'd first come to this place. Had someone been bold enough to grab him from behind, Wes might have discovered a lot earlier the way that this place handles death. He watches the man's fingers tap against the screen. He's comfortable with technology, at least. That says something about the place and time he's come from.

Neal. Not even Jean-Paul, from a different universe. He knows there are multiple Logans, multiple Buckys. The same men and women in different forms, plucked from the endless expanse of possibility that must cause the universe to fraction itself eternally. Is it better or worse that this man who shares a face with Jean-Paul has nothing else to do with him? Wes frowns at his phone.

WES. DIDN'T MEAN TO TAKE YOU BY SURPRISE. YOU LOOK EXACTLY LIKE MY PARTNER. He clarifies a little further, watching for any sense of a reaction.

I'M SORRY, I WAS JUST PICKING UP... He pauses for a long moment. MY OTHER PARTNER. HE OWNS THIS PAWN SHOP.

It's hard enough to know what to think of this place being that it's quite the transition from the last place where he'd found himself, but add in the "small town feel" that he gets, and not just from Deerington, and Neal can't help but sense himself as a little out of sorts. It's like going from a ritzy hotel to a slummy barracks to a dingy motel, and he doesn't particularly like it.

For that matter, he's got to wonder when Wes — if that's his real name — is from. His jacket reads dated, although he's considerably more polished than one might expect of a person wearing fringe.

Your partner must be a handsome man. I'm guessing you're not talking about your law practice?

Despite their strange meet cute, Neal still possesses every bit of the charm he's always had and his little joke comes with a tentative grin. Just how much of a sense of humor does Wes have?

HE CERTAINLY THINKS HE IS. Wes can't hold back his smile. It's not as earnest as someone he's more familiar with might be privy to. His lips stay firmly closed around the little gap in his teeth and his eyes don't completely crinkle, but some of the tension manages to go out of him anyway. The statement is so like Jean-Paul it's almost uncanny. Wes spares a moment to wonder what his partner would think of this reflection. Where he might pick him apart for being a less-than-adequate version, and if there are any places he might draw a bit of jealousy from. It would be interesting to have a front row seat to that debate, he thinks, and has to stop himself from disappearing down the rabbit hole of ideas that wouldn't serve him well in front of a stranger.

I'M A BARBER. It's such a simple statement, it appears at first that Wes has missed the irony entirely. But he keeps his head down, typing more that's eventually read by the same automated male voice. MY SHOP IS JUST NEXT DOOR. YOU SHOULD REALLY COME BY SOMETIME.

Immediately feeling the way this man shifts into an easier rapport, Neal logs the creep of satisfaction that edges into his being. He loves the attention, he likes being liked, and despite the issues with boundaries at the start, he has to admit that the quick turnaround, while not necessarily solidified, does feel like a victory. Then again, where Neal's concerned, most anything can be considered a win from the right point of view.

Reaching up, he feels at the length of his hair, and it is a bit longer than he likes to keep it, isn't it? Of the last nine months, he hasn't wanted for much in the way of amenities for seven of them, but he admittedly had avoided going out into public a lot more, particularly for the things related to personal grooming.

I'd love to. Do you do appointments? Is there a menu of services I could look at?

Leave it to Neal to pretend like this is some expensive endeavor. Surely the experience will be on par with Paul Molé on Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. He's expecting hot towels and a cocktail and possibly a butler on the side.

THERE'S A POSTER ON THE WALL. The voice from the phone might not capture Wrench's particular sarcasm, but the quirk in his lips certainly does the trick. It's something he pulled from the back of another abandoned space he came across not long after his arrival. The item is a relic, clearly intended for that exact purpose, but belonging to a long-bygone era. Not that he couldn't see Jean-Paul -- or Neal himself -- in one of those styles anyway. Both men have the sort of classic rat pack look that could make it work.

I'M NOT SURE YOU'RE READY FOR THE FULL MENU. The words are a little more cryptic than he intends, but Wes passes an evaluating gaze over the man again, thinking of the breadth or services he's developed for Deerington residents who are not quite as human as the two of them. He wonders again how long this man has been around. WHERE ARE YOU COMING HERE FROM?

Neal's forced to take pause, his interpretation of the electronic voice lagging far behind what he'd manage with someone's natural tones. Is this flirting? Is it innuendo? Knowing now what he does — specifically that Wes has a proclivity for men (and specifically men who look like him apparently) — and having come from nine months in an over-sexualized culture, it's difficult for his mind to not immediately track in that direction.

Plus, he's hardly met a person that doesn't want to immediately flirt with him. But that's another story and likely one that should be set aside. After all, this guy's clearly got his hands full, and Neal isn't exactly looking either.

Hesitating over the keyboard of his phone, Neal considers his answer before replying. That's a long story, he types slowly. For another time, perhaps?

He's not usually so reticent to share, but he's still trying to get his bearings and decide what this place actually means. As far as he's concerned, it could all be a trick, or a dream, or diversion. It wouldn't be the first time.

He can't fault a man for his suspicion. In fact, Wrench has to wonder after just how much has changed in his own life to make him entertain a conversation like this with a stranger. It's been a long, strange year. These days, any given week holds more conversations with more people than he's had in his entire life leading up to this point. It's ignited the kind of curiosity in the man that's been allowed to take root, but that in itself is a dangerous allowance.

At the end of the day, it's better not to forget who he is. The rumors painted all around town did a good job to remind him of that. They may be gone now, but that doesn't mean they won't be back, and he'll have to answer for them all over again. Face a new crowd of people who may not be as forgiving of the kind of company they're forced to keep in this place.

Wrench narrows his eyes, and nods permissively. PERHAPS. GOOD TO MEET YOU, NEAL. IF YOU FIND ANYTHING YOU LIKE, JUST PAY UP FRONT. He doesn't say what he might have seen or what he assumes, but he doubts the man came with too much money in hand, despite how he's dressed.

Neal's only so lucky as to have missed the rumors, although he's never feared them, at least not in this life. More often that not, rumors have only helped to bolster the somewhat preternatural abilities he's relied upon as long as he could remember, and he's liked that. It's given him a greater edge over the others — particularly his contemporaries (if any such exist beyond Mozzie, that is).

Gesturing towards the counter in questioning, he notes he understands where the money should go, then offers Wes a thumbs up and a broad smile. He hadn't intended to buy anything — he doesn't yet have the money to do that — but he also hasn't felt settled enough to use his arguably sticky fingers to any affect in this town, either. Give him time.

Tipping an imaginary hat, he turns on his heel and wanders off, utterly intrigued and now interested in finding the man who supposedly shares a likeness. Not to mention doing a little more research on Wes, who happens to be particularly intriguing in his own right.

It takes him a couple days to scrape up enough money that he feels safe spending a bit more frivolously. The good thing about a small town is that it's fairly easy to pull a couple quiet cons. The bad thing is that it seems to create enough ire with the local Authority that Neal's felt watched. Sure, he's no longer sporting a tracking anklet, but he hasn't felt free in quite some time. Good thing people around town have been kind enough to tell him that he'll eventually get paid no matter what — a stipend helps — but eventually he will have to get a job. Which means he'll also need to look his best, including a hair cut. Fortunately, he happens to know a barber in town.

Stepping into Manes on Main (a charmingly clever name, he thinks, without considering there might be more to it) he holds a fedora in hand and waves to catch the attention of the man he'd met in the pawn shop. Dressed in an entirely different suit — one he'd acquired since coming into town — he's pleased to find fashion from the era he prefers is considered too old (and too fitted) to be so picked over in a town trapped in the fifties. He's still not sure what to think of Deerington, but having considered himself a character born out of his own time, this works for him more than he'd like to admit.

Coming prepared, he's got a legal pad under his arm and a thick marker in his pocket, and he quickly scrawls on it before holding it up.

I HOPE YOU TAKE WALK-INS

Neal never did hear whether Wes takes appointments, but considering the door is unlocked and there isn't another customer in sight, he thinks it's probably a pretty good bet.

Even at the best of times, business for the little barbershop is hardly what Wes might classify as booming. He might try harder if he really needed the income, but having a steady flow of cash is not the way he's lived his life up to Deerington. Between the classes he teaches at the local college and the varied income from private tutoring, any amount that he receives feels a bit like a windfall. Unlike Neal, Wes would hardly know what to do with more if he had it anyhow.

The overheads lights flicker in a pattern that can only be intentional when the front door opens, but he doesn't turn immediately from his work. Unlike some of the other plans he's worked up lately, this one is a bit of a pet project yet to be revealed until the night of his impending nuptials. He finishes measuring a few blocks of wax before turning around to greet his customer. At least this time he can tell from the jump that it isn't Jean-Paul. Wes smiles and grabs a towel to wipe his hands, then ushers the other man in.

IT'S YOUR LUCKY DAY. I THINK I CAN JUST SQUEEZE YOU IN. He sets his phone on the counter in front of an elaborate and old-looking wall mirror and taps the back of the barber's chair. True to his explanation, a few vintage reclaimed posters have been hung on the wall, displaying a selection of men's haircuts and facial grooming styles. A couple more are clearly more recent, displaying the fingerspelled alphabet and a few simple words in ASL.

Taking in the greater decor, Neal's reminded of something in the far past, a distant memory that feels like home. There's a charm to it all that makes him smile openly, perfect teeth glistening in a pinball smile.

He sets his hat down and pulls out of his jacket, draping it out of the way as well before taking a seat with his pad and pen resting in his lap. Neal's not entirely sure what to expect here — how skilled Wes happens to be — but he's willing to take a risk for a little pampering that doesn't require any kind of extreme measures.

YOU DON'T HAVE ANY HELP?

He writes backwards and holds it up to the mirror so Wes can read. It's no trouble for him — he's been writing codes and studying written communication in some manner pretty much all his life.

Wes doesn't seem in any great hurry to get started. His days have never been structured around the typical 9 - 5 anyway, and obligating the man to any schedule that requires a routine and concrete start and end times isn't very likely to capture his attention. He walks around the back of the chair and over to the side of the room, where an industrial-looking cart holds a few haircutting supplies, a large candle, and a bluetooth player that looks asynchronous with the rest of the scene.

Lighting a match, Wes ignites the candle. He can't pretend he's not curious, but he holds off on turning immediately back to Neal and giving himself away. It takes a moment for the heat to bloom the scent anyway, but when it does, it'll be whatever Neal considers his favorite thing in the world. As if perfectly matched to replicate some kind of nostalgia, different to every nose who breathes it in. Wes reads the note in the mirror and taps his reply.

ON AND OFF. A COUPLE OF KIDS ANSWER THE PHONE WHEN THEY FEEL LIKE, A FRIEND MAKES MY DELIVERIES.

YOU CAN CONNECT YOUR PHONE TO THAT SPEAKER IF YOU WANT TO PLAY YOUR MUSIC.

Neal hadn't considered music at all, although he realizes now that it was silly for him to overlook such a thing. He'd discovered an excessive and impressive database on his phone — as unexpected as the phone itself in a town that's otherwise behind the times. Another bizarre allowance, probably to ensure the locals are comfortable enough that they don't cause problems. He wishes he were unfamiliar with these kinds of tactics, but he's honestly lived his whole life under similar circumstances so he can't quite muster the surprise.

I DON'T MIND A GOOD CONVERSATION INSTEAD, he writes in response to the offer.

He watches Wes in the mirror while he putzes around, curious and observant as ever to see more than what's offered. He seems precise and confident and like he's not stretching to impress. Interesting. It's a bit of a change from their last meeting, isn't it?

In the air there's the sulfur of a match followed soon after by the smell of something so familiar it makes Neal's throat tighten. He swallows down the feelings, momentarily distant and glancing thoughtfully at the candle before looking back to admire himself in the mirror.

He runs his hand through his hair, critical of the length and finding it easy to submit to that distraction. Sitting back, he retains his writing pad, crosses his legs primly and flipping to the next page while he waits.

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN WORK WITH WHAT I'VE GOT GOING? He holds it up the new note against his chest, cheeky and watching for a response in kind.

DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU'LL FIND ONE OF THOSE. The automated voice doesn't do much for the kind of irony that Wes hopes to convey, but he gives the other man a toothy smile to bolster the point. Music or not, one suits him just as well as the other, but a few early patrons let him know that the quiet in the shop was unnerving. Even in a town where too much happens all at once, it seems there aren't a lot of people who can easily endure nothing more than the sound of water in the pipes and footsteps shuffling on the floor.

Wes notes the change but doesn't ask. He's found that the candle can be deployed almost like a weapon. Not at all what he intended, but it takes some time for the scent to rise and the comfort to set in. The longer it burns the more that sense of longing will ease into relaxation, but for some it's a harder road to get there. He grabs the cape he made for himself out of the remnants of an old camping tent and clips it around Neal's neck, then stands behind him in the mirror.

Piecing his fingers through, Wes pinches the strands and estimates a more appropriate length, tipping his chin and raising his eyebrows for Neal's approval. He pulls the strands over his ears, then thoughtfully taps his thumb against the curve of the man's jaw.

WANT A SHAVE TOO?

He shakes his head at the question, reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers against the short stubble. Neal rarely bothers to shave cleanly, preferring something a bit more manageable (if not slightly rugged). Anything shorter and he starts feeling too young for his face.

YOU'RE A FUNNY GUY. At least that he can say without too much of a stretch. Wes has shown more than once to be witty and that pleases Neal in a secret manner, like he recognizes something that's not meant to be readily apparent. Maybe his friends and partners already know that about him, but considering how he carries himself, Neal gets the distinct feeling that he keeps at least a few cards close to the chest.

WHAT'S THAT SCENT? he adds underneath, not able to help himself. He almost feels called out, like he's at some kind of disadvantage he's yet to pick out. Considering how careful he is at presenting himself, he'd be surprised to find Wes knows more about him than what's offered. Then again, considering the way the smell slowly mellows him, he'd also be surprised to find he doesn't know more than he's letting on.

I'M EVEN BETTER IN MY FIRST LANGUAGE. There's no mistaking the fact that the compliment pleases him. It's still new territory for Wes, to be truly known and recognized by more than just one person. Most days he's not even sure who he is, but finding people who see more than him than the job he had before this place is like an addiction. He turns away from the mirror for his comb and scissors, but doesn't manage to fully mask his own smile.

The question he returns to makes him set down his tools. There are two ways to answer that, and he isn't sure that either one will give him the information he's so curious for if Neal remains insistent on not revealing much. Something tells him the other man isn't easily fooled, though he might stand a better chance with his messages being passed through an electronic intermediary. SMELLS DIFFERENT FOR EVERY PERSON. JUST PART OF THE CHARM.

I'M GOING TO CUT YOUR HAIR DRY. EASIER TO WORK WITH THE NATURAL TEXTURE. How's that for knowing what he's doing? Wes sets the Fluid aside and passes his fingers through Neal's hair, pushing it until it settles naturally.

Intriguing.

Neal takes it all in, each new piece of information like a page in a book he's piecing together. He's binding it carefully, sewing in pages to be filled in later, expecting eventual completion, although he can't decide how long it might take. It certainly does make him consider the communication barrier between them — something he suspects he'll need to rectify for his own sense of accomplishment, but also so that he can see what Wes means when he touts his own humor. What can he say? Braggarts love other braggarts.

Figuring he's only going to stand in the way of progress, he waves Wes on with a nod and focuses down on the paper, now turned and new. He's not going to be able to keep his head down for long, not by the nature of how haircuts are meant to work, but in the meantime he sketches broadly with his marker, drawing a place and a time inspired by the smell mingling around him.

Whatever he's up to creating, it's structural and old world, a distinctly European flair. Quick strokes, messy but skillfully rendered. He'll stop whenever his head is adjusted for the sake of progress, but otherwise he's content to see how Wes works.

Since Neal seems in no particular hurry, Wes adopts the same pace for himself. He doesn't need this job, but he enjoys the challenge. On typical days, it gives him a way to spend his time and something to tinker with. It's also introduced him to plenty more of Deerington's residents than he'd ever have cause to meet on his own. For a man who's spent the better part of his life in the company of so few people, he finds it fascinating now to learn more about others. Even if the conversation is stilted and largely absent, the simple act of being around someone else and doing something so profoundly normal seems to remind him that he's more than the man of his own past.

He lets Neal work on his sketch, only insisting the man's eyes off his work when he seems at a natural breaking point. Wes trims with restraint, keeping much of the length intact despite his earlier protestations about it. He lets the natural wave of Neal's hair reveal itself and cuts around the coils thoughtfully, letting the man return to his own work after a time. The candle threatens to put his own thoughts to a distant place and time, but the longer it burns the more relaxed he finds himself, and soon its playful magic leaves the whole shop with an air of contentedness.

When he's finished he grabs a hand mirror from the drawer and passes it to Neal to let the man evaluate his work. Leaving him to check, Wes reaches for his Fluid again.

THOUGHT I'D START CONSERVATIVE. I CAN TAKE MORE OFF IF YOU WANT.

Sketch set aside, Neal takes and hand mirror and inspects the work carefully. He runs his fingers through and admires the cut, pleased to see that Wes was able to bring out the natural movement of what is arguably a lush head of hair. He hasn't felt in good barbering hands since New York and while it's not the exact look he would have received from a several-year relationship with the last hair professional he'd engaged in the city, it's more than serviceable.

He tugs at the back near his nape a little more than the rest, finding it a bit too long. It's not a criticism, and he hopes that Wes doesn't take it as one as he turns the page and scrawls an explanation.

THE BACK GROWS FASTER THAN THE FRONT—

Wes is allowed to interpret from there, although if he chooses to leave the length it won't be the end of Neal's good looks or anything like that. He'd just see in two weeks that it's the part of the cut that held up the least and would likely make corrections at that time. Still, Neal's interested in how he takes direction, whether he'll be offended to have his art interfered with or he'll be pleased to have the direct input.

WHAT DO YOU SMELL?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

THE EVIL DOLLHOUSE

THOSE PESKY KIDS

Character Arrival

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject