Welcome To The Village

[number_2]

Who: Everyone who was signed-up for the excursion
What: The Village December Excursion
When: Dec 1st - Dec 23rd
Where: The Village
Warnings: Involuntary capture and confinement including immobilization and restraints, violence, injury, maiming, possibility of death, torture, coercion, gaslighting, mind control, drugging, scientific experiments, and extremely inaccurate depictions of mental health facilities/hospitals, among other potentially triggering themes. Please mark all threads appropriately.




"Good morning, good morning, good morning!" A voice that sounds very similar to Friday's chirps over a loudspeaker outside your character's home. Yes, their home.

Overnight, all the passengers who signed up for this excursion have been transported to their very own personal cottages. They will awake in a bed that is familiar to them. While this home of theirs does not necessarily have to resemble the place they were born or raised, it will be a perfect replica of a place they truly thought of as their home, down to the most minute details.

The cottages are self-contained, the size of a large studio apartment so, in some cases, they may only resemble the bedroom and living room of a person's home with a shrunken-down kitchenette and bathroom adjoined. But the heirlooms of their past are here. A favorite doll? A treasured family portrait? Trinkets you have long forgotten about? All of them will be here, somehow. (All except for weapons, that is.) They are indistinguishable from the real item, down to the molecule.

After that wake-up call, the voice continues on to express that the weather will be warm and sunny, with no rain forecasted. A brass band concert is announced, to start at noon on the lawn next to the living chess set. And once that bit of news is wrapped up, lively marching band music will begin to play. And it will continue to play. All day. From every speaker...including the ones hidden in their home.

Welcome to Your Village

It only gets stranger from here. Characters may be dismayed to find that they are without any of their original clothes or belongings. They awake in conservative button-up pajamas. The closet in their home is full of the latest Village Fashion to choose from. Everything is The Village label brand, including the tin cans of food that stock the kitchen and any of the groceries you could get at the General Store.

Your ship phone rings. When you answer it, you will be greeted, once again, by the voice of Friday. "Your number, please? Of course, you have a number. Look at your badge." If they look down at their chest, they will discover a small round number badge has been pinned to their pajamas. Was that there before? It bears the symbol of a Penny-farthing Bicycle, with a number in the spokes. This is their number.

"No names here," the voice of Friday chides, "Only numbers. Number 2 would like a word with you at the Green Dome. He requests you come for breakfast. Thank you!" Before they can protest further, the line goes dead.


Some Notes:

No matter how many times your character tries to take off and disregard their number badge, they will always find it re-attached to their clothes again the moment they look away and look back.

Your characters still have their phones but now they can only make calls instead of sending texts. They also do not take or store photographs anymore.

If your character destroys or damages anything in their home, or in The Village it will instantly repair the way things used to on the Serena Eterna.

The noise from the speakers can be muffled by covering it with pillows or other creative items, but cannot be stopped entirely. (Sorry Phil)

Comments

[leaningontheeverlasting]

That might just be how it looks from this angle, but there's a... tension, in the way he flexes his fist immediately after she slips out.

"Just as I said, yes ma'am. The poor dears."

Well, she's bought it, no need to milk it any further.

"Want me to pass on a message for you? I was thinking of doing a round tonight, see if some prayer mightn't lift" that little Catholic shit "our dear number 69's spirits a little."

[not_the_last]

She's almost sure he thinks she believes him.

"Oh, would you? That would be ever so kind. Or -- I don't suppose I might go with you? It would mean a great deal to me, to be able to pray with," she fumbles for it, seizes on it after a frantic moment, "Number 0202 again."

[leaningontheeverlasting]

"Ah, would that you could, would that you could. Didn't think you were th' praying type, though, y'didn't answer my question before."

He buys it, but like. Not that much. It's not like he thinks he's the only person in existence who can use the town's pleasantries for their own ends.

"You're saved, then?"

[not_the_last]

"I didn't answer you before, did I? I do beg your pardon, I was distraught. I don't know that I would say type, but I think one can find oneself of a mind to pray in grievous circumstances, even if one sadly doesn't make a habit of it in better times."

A pause.

"'Saved'?"

[leaningontheeverlasting]

"We're all ungrateful for the good deeds of the Lord, in our own ways. It's a bad habit. One you ought to rectify."

His smile only widens, so pleasant it's almost unthreatening.

"From sin, you understand. Heard the good news, been redeemed in the light of the Lord."

If this strumpet is also Catholic he's going to lose it.

[not_the_last]

There's a pause, the kind that stretches.

And then her eyes widen in what looks for all the worlds like delighted -- but detached -- fascination.

"Oh, you're a Christian!" Her tone matches that look, that of a scholar coming across a rare book in someone else's field, or a naturalist who specializes in lichens admiring a rare butterfly. "How interesting! I don't think I've ever had opportunity to meet a Christian cleric before."

[leaningontheeverlasting]

Lord, he is tired of all these crass heathens. Especially that blue one- the one what refers to herself as a cleric. Maybe she put her up to this. That 141 is always up to tricks.

"Suppose not then," and God if he does not sound every one of his years of age. Maybe he can still save this one. If there's any point to it. Damned creatures of sin.

He holds up his hand so that she can see the 'HATE' tattoo'd across his knuckles, "would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand left-hand?"

[not_the_last]

"Please do." She folds her hands and watches him expectantly.

[leaningontheeverlasting]

It'll need to be an expanded version, like the one he had to tell that blue heathen. Before she asked nonsense like 'was this Jesus guy cuuuute' or 'was this Cain guy cuuuute'. He still does not believe it was in service of 'painting a better image in her mind'.

He raises his left hand.

"H. A. T. E. With this hand, old Brother Cain, the son of the first man did strike his own blood, his own brother, and commit the first act of murder, born from jealousy."

He holds up his other hand, "L. O. V. E. The veins in this hand do stretch to the very heart of man. With this hand did the son of God perform miracles- raise the dead, turn water to wine, heal the sick and blind and lame. Such is the power of the love of the God of Gods."

This is the bit where he usually does the wrestling bit, but this woman ain't some hick townie who gets distracted by such theatrics. So he decides against it, settling for merely clasping them together.

"In the hearts of all men, this war is waged. Left hand and right hand, evil and good. But little right hand," he flexes it illustratively, "is always stronger, and will always prevail."

[not_the_last]

She listens, watching his hands. And waits for a few moments when he's done, still with an air of faint expectation, as though there might be more.

"Quite a charming story," she says, smiling, when it's clear that's all of it. "Very ... very simple and direct. Is it meant for children?"

[leaningontheeverlasting]

"Does everything have to be Shakespeare?" he asks, dryly.

"Where I come from is filled with a lotta simple folk who ain't big on reading or writing. A travelling preacher needs to make it simple for 'em. Bible's a big book."

For a moment he wonders what sound she'd make with his hands around her throat. If she'd be so damn clever.

"Figure you're not buying, anyway." Damnable heathen.

[not_the_last]

(What's a shakespeare?, she doesn't ask.)

Her eyebrows rise. "Are you selling, then? There are simple folk where I come from as well, but they're not children, sir. And I think they would know quite well what to make of a cleric peddling his god door-to-door."