There was an accident. The details are hazy and obscure, but it's still the first thing you remember. Maybe a car wreck — metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the
screaming. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. Maybe something less mundane, even impossible seems to have happened to you. You can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can truly remember.
It's also the
last thing you remember from before waking up.
When you open your eyes, the accident is gone. Instead, you're in a hospital bed, and the nursing staff greet you with cheerful smiles.
Don't worry, they tell you. You'll make a full recovery here. Where is here? Why, home in Wayward Pines, of course!
option one | WELCOME TO WAYWARD PINES |
The hospital staff had seemed very friendly, but ultimately unhelpful when it came to answering your questions, insisting you shouldn't worry about such things, and that it was smarter to just rest until you'd fully recovered.
That was some time ago. You've since managed to leave the hospital – either via escape, or simply by waiting patiently and filling out paperwork until they finally agreed to release you. Now you've found yourself in the small but hearty town of Wayward Pines, Idaho. It's a charming little place, and the people there are all friendly enough, more than willing to greet you on the street, or give you directions if you need them.
Unless you're asking for directions
out of town, of course.
Some will simply smile and give you a hearty pat on the shoulder and ask why you'd ever want to do a thing like that? Others will get quiet for a moment, and direct you to the nearest
sign posted near the doorway of every building.
Don't bother taking the road, either. Whether you walk or get your hands on a vehicle, you won't get anywhere. The road simply takes you away from town for a short while
before looping around and bringing you right back in.
There's no use questioning things, and it seems pretty useless to try to leave. So really, why not stay a while? Everyone's convinced that you'll find something to love in Wayward Pines.
(For the purposes of this test drive, you're welcome to handwave the existence of basically any local business or activity.)
You've just heard a scream from the woods.
I mean, it could've been an animal. There's bound to be some kind of wildlife amongst the trees, right? But then again, it did sound awfully...
human.
Though all of the locals nearby conceal a flinch at the sound, they'll assure you it's nothing, if you ask them. Why, you're probably just hearing things! (But with an anxious undertone of
stop asking questions.) If you're curious, though, and brave enough to go see, they won't make any move to stop you from going into the wooded area surrounding the town.
The trees are tall, and their branches are thick enough to block out a significant amount of sunlight from breaking through the canopy, leaving the forest floor a little dimmer and cooler than the streets of town.
Whatever the source of the scream was, you won't be able to find it out here. An experienced hunter might notice some signs of a struggle, and a few faint boot prints, but they don't really seem to lead anywhere in particular.
What you
will find, if you walk far enough, is a fence. A
big one - at least 30 feet tall, made of metal and concrete. It goes on quite a ways in either direction as well; follow the wall far enough, and you'll see that it connects with the steep, sheer cliffs that surround the rest of Wayward Pines, effectively boxing the town in.
In actuality, you'll probably feel it before you see it. A full 500 yards from the wall, when it's hardly a shadowy smudge through the trees, you start to feel a little bit tired, a little bit weak. Trouble is, the closer you get, the weaker you feel - like the wall itself is sapping the strength out of you, and the closer you get, the worse it feels. Any powers you may have had grow weaker in kind as you make your way to the fence, but even ordinary humans will find their strength sapping away. By the time you're close enough to
read the signs and to feel the crackle of electricity radiating from the thick wires criss-crossing the wall's metal surface, you're too weak to stand.
Do you crawl closer still and risk electrocution, or do you crawl
away and assess the situation once you're far enough from the fence to be able to stand?
option three | TRACK AND FIELD DAY |
With the current school semester coming to a close and summer vacation on the horizon, school administrators have elected to end the year on a high note with an invigorating Track and Field Day at the park, in order to better foster fitness and health in the children (outside of their government mandated physical education classes, anyway).
The event is, of course, open to the community at large, whether you have a current affiliation with the school or not. Because, well, everyone could stand to get up off their couches for an afternoon of running around in the sun. Or, in the case of residents with a particular sun allergy, under the shaded tarp canopies that dot the field here and there with healthy snacks, drinks, and some of the less expansive games available today (such as, oh, a nice sedate beanbag toss).
Wayward Pines thrives on the inclusion of all varieties of people, after all. Even those that aren't, strictly speaking, people at all.
All of the most recognizable games are available, of course: sack races, relay races, three-legged races, any sort of race you can think of, really; flag football and dodgeball with soft spongy balls to keep anyone from getting
too competitive (the school nurse is on hand just in case though); a massive tug-of-war rope that spans nearly the entire field; and water balloon and blanket tosses. If you're not too sure what the latter is you can ask Linda at the makeshift juice bar and she'll be all too glad to explain for you.
Actually, on second thought, don't ask Linda anything. Don't give her the satisfaction.
option four | ON THE NETWORK |
Though it's not as high-tech as you might be used to (or hell, maybe you're ren faire and it's centuries beyond anything you've seen), Wayward Pines does in fact have a network to accommodate its citizens.
Go ahead, post a network post! Just note that the network currently has
two basic functions. The first is audio-only and can be accessed from the telephones in each character's home. If an audio-based medium doesn't suit your needs (or aesthetics), be sure to take advantage of the Wayward Pines Message Board from your brand new laptop for the chance to communicate with your fellow townspeople!
( a few notes )
Welcome to our fourth test drive here in The Pines! Just one important thing to note:
Upon arrival in Wayward Pines, characters find themselves struggling to remember entirely who they were or where they came from. Memories return progressively over the next two weeks. You're welcome to play with this mechanic in any of these prompts, but it's definitely not mandatory! For more details on this temporary memory loss, see our FAQ.
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bumfuckidaho2017-05-17 09:14 pm
TEST DRIVE MEME
screeching noises
Well, how-de-freakin-do to you too, stranger. He pulls a disgruntled face, he can't help it, taken aback and affronted by Mr. Who-in-the-Hell and his audacity to preemptively know Dean's inclination toward walking home and then give him shit about it. Take a walk yourself, pal. It's only because there's some clear underlying concern and care layered in there that he doesn't take up an immediate defensive, in fact somehow it makes him more inclined to tolerate the berating.
He's not quite down with that hand on his shoulder just yet, and rather than move into some kind of mutual embrace like this guy might be expecting, he just gives it a sort of wary, perturbed glance. Stiff, not withdrawing but definitely not engaging. ]
I'll be sure to line-item that on the apology letter.
[ He rasps out frankly, finally, because how do you start a conversation about not knowing the name of someone giving you down the road over your life-choices? ]
They definitely missed the memo, nobody could even tell me what the hell happened, alright, so cut me some slack.
[ Like, a lot of slack. So much slack, because if this guy knows Dean at all he's going to have alarm bells going off pretty quick that something's off from whatever rapport they might normally carry. ]
no subject
John's hand makes a retreat back into the pocket of his jacket, fingers fiddling around his keys out of habit. When he'd arrived at the hospital they hadn't given him any information, and while he's glad they're all willing to maintain confidentiality, it had crossed his mind to swing his weight a little to get a few answers. Maybe then he wouldn't be walking into this like a blind man. ]
Yeah, okay, no need to get all squirrely 'bout it. Slack cut.
[ But hoo boy, does his demeanor change, like a dark cloud passing over on a partly sunny day. His concern-o-meter kicking into high gear, he gestures at Winchester's place and then scrubs at the short hair on the back of his head. ]
You wanna— [ A glance around and it doesn't escape his notice a few passer-bys are staring, probably just as looped into the rumor mill as he is, if not more. There probably isn't a person in town that doesn't know Dean's had some kind of accident. ] Maybe you wanna get inside, sit down... Been through a lot, y'know, and that— that's gonna be hard on a guy.
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And boy, if Blake thought he was squirrely before there's no doubt about it now that he's stopping in his tracks and holding up his hands. ]
Wait, hang on a second do we-
[ And he double-takes, gestures vaguely between himself and Blake, between them and the house. ]
Are we-
[ And he's fumbling, because hand on a stack of bibles he's not sure if they're, you know-
He lowers his voice so, god forbid, the neighbors don't hear. Ducks his head in a little. ]
Domestic?
[ He finally settles on the word, comically confused, horribly tactless, exceptionally more flubbed by the concept than any grown man in the 21st century should be. ]
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Domestic?
[ The image that springs to mind when he thinks of himself and Dean is not one iota domestic — not how he thinks of domesticity, anyway — and he suspects he's better off not asking the full implication of Winchester's question. Instead, he huffs. ]
You wish.
[ It's not lighthearted, but he's trying to maintain some normal semblance of order here, some shred of their previous friendship, as if that might help to jog Dean's scrambled brain.
He waits a second for Dean to move again, and when he doesn't, Blake shakes his head and pushes past his forgetful friend, digging in the rocks for the hide-a-key he knows to be nestled near the front door. Key in lock, doorknob in hand, he swings the door open and then steps aside to present the entrance to Winchester. ]
You really got messed up, didn't you?
[ This time he's much more sincere, much more pointedly observing, on the look out for injuries, itching to check out that hospital band he sees hanging there like it might warn him what they're dealing with here. ]
Surprised they even let you go...
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Shrugging it off, he gathers up his bootstraps and stomps into his house with all hesitancy gone. Under his breath, a distinct; ]
You wish.
[ Can be barely heard, a grumpy retort that he knows is too childish to say any louder. Who is this guy even, what a jerk, how does he know where Dean's stupid rock key is and when can he hide it. Dean's meager bag of belongings gets discarded onto the floor with little to no care, and he wanders through the threshold, slowing a few paces in to look the place over. There's probably something in his fresh-eyed gaze of a space he's probably supposed to know like the back of his hand, normal people have their entranceways committed to memory, but every detail to him seems new and to be absorbed.
It looks like somewhere he might live, he figures, more or less. Not that he knows what his interests are or what he'd fantasize his home to look like, but the neat minimal decor that speaks of comfort and nostalgia seems to jive with him on some innate level. Nothing stands out as being something he doesn't like, which has gotta be a plus.
A few seconds of study later and he's turning, settling his back onto what he guesses people call a breakfast bar, some long wide stretch of counter that separates living space from kitchen space. Arms cross over his chest, fingers wrap around his own biceps. ]
Yeah, turns out there's only so much they can do for head injuries once the outside's more or less patched up.
[ He responds, letting the implication hang for a second, leveling John with a look. It's guarded and apologetic somehow all at once. ]
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Dean is still Dean in all those quirky ways, like his personality is separate and enduring wholly without the experiences that built that part of him. John would like to take comfort in the little senses of familiarity, but the whole ham, no burger situation has him wanting to back his way out of this Uncanny Valley. ]
So, what does that mean? Did they—? [ His gaze shoots back to Dean, locked in tight eye contact. ] Well, I mean, what d'you gotta do for that? Do go to sleep or do you gotta stay awake or—?
[ That neurotic side tends to come out here and there, but only in very specific situations. Give him a bank robbery or a hostage situation and it's cool cucumber all the way, but when it's someone close enough to be family ailing and injured, he might as well worry himself into a tizzy.
He turns and picks up the bag Winchester had discarded at the door, nervously picking at this idea that he needs to not only pick up after Dean, but make sure he hasn't discard any doctor's advice in his bout to remain entirely independent. ]
They didn't just send you home, there's gotta be some kind of— instructions.
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He watches, keenly perceptive of the way John moves around the room. He's got no reason to think of this guy as a threat, contextually speaking he's got to be a close friend or maybe relative, a cousin or a neighbor, a best friend or something. He gets that feeling just on Blake's body language and the rapport he seems to expect that would, Dean assumes, line up pretty well with his own attitude were the situation a little better. Empathetically speaking he can see how this is harder for Whats-His-Name than it is for Dean, so he's not about to snatch his belongings out of the stranger's hands.
He gets the feeling he's pretty okay at navigating intense traumatic situations, maybe he's a cop too. Maybe he's got a uniform in the closet that matches Blake's. Maybe that's why they're close. ]
They said it's temporary.
[ He'll just go ahead and drop that piece of info off first and foremost. ]
Couple of days, couple of weeks maybe, and it should all come back. Whatever happened, I don't know, I guess I cracked my skull pretty hard on... something, I don't know, but it's...
[ He shrugs a stiff shoulder. ]
Buddy, I gotta be honest- this house? You? I got nothin' up here.
[ He gestures vaguely with one hand, arms still crossed, to his head. Most people, normal people, they'd be freaking out about it he supposes. Logically, consciously, he can't justify why he's so calm about the whole thing. Maybe it's because somewhere in there, deep down in his gut, somewhere he doesn't want to shed the light of day, he feels... better than he might if it all came flooding back. Ignorance is bliss, and he's got a hell of a lot of temporary ignorance to carry his burdens. ]
no subject
John finds that hard to believe and he spends a couple seconds even after Dean's admitted the cuckoo's flown to coop to really ponder whether that could possibly be the truth. What kind of medical professionals would not only let the guy with the head injury walk home, but would do so without sending him something to help ease him through the transition back into a society that expects him to be whole?
By the time he's got his hands on the loose prescription slightly crumbled by the contents of the bag, it's just settling in what all this really means.
Dean really doesn't know him, doesn't know himself, doesn't know this life. John's clearly more familiar with everything Winchester should know, and that is truly fucking unsettling to a guy like Blake.
But it's not like he can blame Dean for that. ]
We're friends...
[ It's only tentative because it sounds well shy of their relationship over the years. They'd grown up together. Blake had helped Dean move in to this very house. Many a nights he'd crashed there, too tired or too drunk to walk himself home, but always welcome on the couch.
He swallows and now he's crossing the room again, one hand still retaining the Rx, but the right reaching out for a handshake. It doesn't feel right, but only an angry punch would at this point, rendered because Dean had to go and hurt himself, didn't he? Why was it that he'd thought he couldn't blame Dean again? Suddenly it's slipped his mind, but only for a second while he struggles with this misplaced and momentary crisis of self and selfishness. ]
Blake. John Blake. We've known each other forever — all our lives.
[ And he couldn't sound more crestfallen about that if he tried, as if he just forgotten Dean proclaiming it's all temporary. ]
no subject
But nevermind that, right? What's he thinking. His brains are scrambled, he doesn't know what he remembers, and they're trained medical professionals. What reason would they have to withhold treatment information from him? Right?
We're friends, this guy says, and Dean huffs out a noise akin to a laugh. That much is obvious, even to a brainless shlub like himself. For the first time, though, a little trepidation is starting to settle in. The doubts cast upon the hospital staff take a back seat to the inexplicable guilt he feels over this situation, like it's somehow his fault that he's putting this guy through the ringer. For all he knows it may have been, maybe he's an alcoholic and he was drunk driving. Maybe he ran a red light, maybe he didn't use his blinker. Maybe he is to blame for whatever accident caused the injury, maybe he isn't, but he feels bad for delivering the news.
Blake, John Blake. Seems like a nice guy. Kind of a nagging nancy, but a good guy. Handshake seems a little out of place, but all things considered he can't say he could think of a more appropriate alternative. The hesitation's short, just a brief second before he drops his crossed arm stance and reaches out, slapping a hand around Blake's wrist instead because it seems like a little bit more. It's a firm grip, not really a shake so much as a grab. Look at him being a sucker for giving a damn. ]
Some friend, couldn't'a thrown in a couple edible arrangements for the bedside table, huh? Notice the guy in the bed over had about four dozen roses, but I didn't even get a single damn Happy 50th Birthday, Grandpa hallmark card.
[ It rolls out of his mouth before he can stop himself, it's rude as hell and it's no real condolence for the sentiment Blake's trying to express. What it's meant to be is a reassurance, that diffusing the tension with a joke means it'll all be okay, that Blake shouldn't worry. They're friends, right? They're close, so what's a couple of weeks? If Blake's a perceptive guy he'll pick up on an apology wrapped up in there too, an earnest layer that suggests he might've had a little tug on his heart strings during this whole exchange.
That hand stays anchored around his wrist, so if the words don't offer much by way of reassurance, the physical gesture might. ]
no subject
Just 'cause you didn't get the box of chocolates doesn't mean they didn't get sent.
[ Which is an utterly shameless lie for the sake of comedy — and poorly done if he's honest with himself. Anyway, John would send a bottle of whiskey and a deck of playing cards well before a box of chocolate. At the very least, he'd send an Almond Joy instead of one of those good-luck-to-you mystery morsels from the local confectioner. (No matter how many times he tries to avoid it, somehow Blake always ends up with the lemon creme filled candies, his least favorite of them all.) ]
Look, I did come by. [ And this is where his own guilt on the matter seeps in. He'd had a shift and he'd missed visiting hours and the one chance he did have, the nurses were administering some kind of test and he wasn't allowed in. It wasn't personal, he really had tried. Maybe he should have tried a little harder. ] Had me so worried I was walkin' my shoes off in the hall 'till they told me it wasn't gonna happen. So, I left the message, expected I'd get a call, and...
Well, you know the rest.
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His hand drops away shortly after Blake's own (failed) attempt at a joke, waves absently at his lack of visitation. Dean's not worried about it, he hadn't exactly been lonely, as far as he's concerned it's no transgression worth justifying. ]
For what it's worth, I didn't know any better anyhow.
[ He offers as an inappropriate, insensitive dismissal. Too soon? Glossing right over that: ]
Look, man, don't sweat it. I got some one-on-one with that blonde nurse, if you'd'a been there she'd have probably headed right back out the door, right? Besides, you're a cop, more important stuff going on than bedpans and jello.
no subject
Yeah, yeah, don't strain yourself. Conscience cleared.
[ Or close enough he'll concede for the time being. He still doesn't like the idea that all of this has gone down in such a strange and disjointed way, but moving toward the mend will alway be preferable to beating around the bush. ]
Get that prescription filled. And call the hospital, get yourself some real damn doctors orders. Do it for me, okay?
[ Blake isn't sure why Dean should care, at least at this point, but he's hoping there'll be some lingering impression it's the right thing to do. They've always been pretty good about caring, even if they're hardly ever saying as much. ]
no subject
The prescription is still on Blake's hand, Dean reaches out to tug it away gently and examine it. Pretty sweet contents, he's gotta say. It'll be a fun night, or he'll fall asleep in point seven seconds watching Star Trek reruns (also fun). ]
Okay, okay, whatever you say, Robert.
[ He mutters it distractedly as he deciphers sloppy doctor script. The name falls out of his mouth despite having been just told the guy's name, despite it sounding nothing like Robert in the slightest, and yet it feels right. Muscle memory, jaw memory. ]
Where's the nearest pharmacy again?
no subject
He gestures vaguely in the direction of the door. ]
Coupla blocks north, next to the library. Can't miss it.
[ John shifts between his feet and the keys come out of his pocket, shaking around in his hand as he lingers, not wanting to overstay his welcome. ]
Could take you, if you want.
[ Not a matter he'll push, but an offer he feels he can't bypass, even if it is a bit out of the way. After arguing over the whole walking ordeal, he'd be a pretty crappy friend not to offer a ride. ]