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
peter nureyev ✦ the penumbra podcast
network, because U Know.
Is this an A.P.B. or the rough draft for your classifieds ad?
[ "HARMLESS"? ]
no i don't know i am innocent
But I was getting a touch worried, and I thought maybe this would work.
[ "SOMEWHAT harmless" as in he didn't want to scare anyone. he's letting you do that yourself. ]
that lie was so filthy i need to shower!!!
Actually, scratch that. You seem like you're exactly the type to use it.
[ just stop using it call him out!!! ]
I'm still in the hospital, by the way.
you're going to need a lot of showers if we're going to do this
You'd be surprised, darling. Social media is but a tool, why fear it? You simply need to know how to use it in just the right way.
[ mmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!! gotta love that good run first before they ask more questions instinct. ]
I'll come and fetch you. I didn't wander too far.
no subject
[ MMMMMMMMMMMMM. ]
God, I hope not. I heard all we have to our names until we talk to the sheriff is a crummy hospital gown.
no subject
[ tally ho then at a slow shuffle. ]
From what I've been told, he's delightful. [ which peter definitely doesn't believe for 5 seconds. ] Your room number, Juno, do you know what it is? I'm not quite up for playing a rousing game of "Marco Polo." [ much less standing, but hey, he's doin it. ]
no subject
[ which means this last message really is his last, until peter finds him: ]
No cop is delightful. The nurses won't let me out of bed yet, so listen for the sound of my voice. It'll be yelling.
no subject
[ but that'll do.
as long as juno is doing all the yammering himself, peter will follow the sound of it, granted, it takes a while because a) he feels about as steady as a wet pool noodle and b) his glasses are not in great shape. like period. so it's a lot of politely smiling and soothing and squinting at whichever nurse asks if he needs to be shown back to his room.
no, thank you.
it takes some doing, but the fact that juno is one particularly strong, steady heartbeat of a notion in the forefront of his mind thrumming along aggressively keeps peter going step by careful step until he hears some very familiar yammering from a door that's propped halfway open. that's it. he'll linger outside, waiting for the nurse to leave before sliding through the door as they take their leave.
his stomach churns, not unpleasantly, but it does perform a few acrobatic flips and jumps up between his ribs when he spies juno laid up in bed. peter's voice is soft, a little dry with disuse beyond the few questions he's answered for the staff, but it's fond despite the bit of bite over text. ]
And here you are.
no subject
it's directly mainly at the borrowed laptop, the one that he is pushing back and forth across his thighs, as though trying to gauge at which distance he can read the font. at one moment, he leans down to squint at it. and winces in pain, shutting it with a snap before shoving it away. it slides across the rumpled blankets, while juno sits - alert and upright, with one hand pressed to the wad of gauze and surgical tape strapped across his right eye. ]
Here I am.
[ he sounds woozy.
still looks plenty disgusted, this time at the I.V. still feeding into his arm. he's sick of needles, sick of drugs. it's a gut reaction, one that he can't place, but he wants nothing more than to rip the thing out of his arm and get the hell out of this environment. what keeps him from doing it, right now, is the hoarse crack in
peter's
voice. ] She just, uh. [ the wooz' is growing, but he's not wobbling. ] Gave me something?
[ painkillers, most likely. ]
Th' hell kinda name is "Pierce", why'd I get with a guy with that kinda name. Hi, why are you all the way over there?
no subject
god they'd gotten into some kind of mess. whatever mess, he isn't sure. it's vague, like grasping in the dark, rooting around and the only thing he's got is the distinct feeling of being sunburnt hot underneath his skin like a leftover fever and the sight of juno with his right eye gauzed and hooked up to a drip and... ]
I almost... [ wrote my name. my real name. the one i'm not supposed to tell anyone. i can't tell anyone. he shakes the rest of the sentence off, moving forward and navigating the short distance from door to footboard to bed. it feels like miles when it's only steps and when he sits down on the edge of the bed, he's pretty sure he isn't planning on getting up again, at least not without some help or leverage of some kind. ] It's my name, Juno. [ a breath. he'll have to talk about this when he's more lucid. he glances at the iv line once more and frowns, adjusting himself a bit closer as he follows the tube downwards and downward and...
there among the sheets are juno's hands and peter immediately scoops them up into his own, stark, pale fingers sliding against roughed up knuckles, though he takes enough care not to jostle the needles that look like they've been painstakingly stuck through him until they found some kind of give in his veins. peter holds them a beat more, smoothing his fingers just beneath the divots of the lines etched into juno's palms slowly, feeling them so the sensation will maybe etch itself good and proper into his own skin.
he looks juno square in the eye after a few seconds of this, breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out, before he very slightly squeezes his fingers. he looks up at the iv bag again, squinting some more. eugh. ] Sounds like they have you on quite the cocktail, don't they?
no subject
peter's face is nothing but soft colors and muted shapes, until he gets close enough for juno to focus on the angles of his cheekbones and the worry creasing his brow. he's wearing nothing but some other name and the same sort of shapeless hospital gown that juno's got on as well ( "this isn't my color OR my style," had been the first, entirely irate thing he'd said when he had woken up hours and hours ago. the nurse had pumped him full of painkillers then, as well. and he'd drifted away. ) ]
Uh-huh, [ it's not his name, and he knows that; the same as he knows that he'd never give away the name he thinks of, when he looks at this man. for some reason, it's important. the reason is drifting somewhere far away, in something murky and dark. like soup. like the rest of his memories, just out of reach. whatever had happened, it had put both of them in the hospital. there was red dirt under his nails and bruises livid along his wrists and ribs. and his eye --
( hell, his eye. )
juno can't stop touching the gauze, until peter's hands catch his and still them. seeking some sort of comfort in the pits of his palms and the span of his fingers, and he can feel them ache when he stretches them out. everything hurts, like he's been tossed around and around for some time. peter looks no better and smells slightly singed. ]
They made me take a -- "mree". [ oh, he's definitely fucked up on the meds now. ] A "mree".
[ his chart says an MRI ]
What the hell happened to us? Don't go anywhere, they're gonna take the laptop away and I had to say please to get it in the first place. A lady's gotta' have his charms, even in the worst-fitted gown he's ever worn in his life.
[ he's babbling. drugged and unable to string together thoughts, but he's conscious and leaning in, wresting his hands from peter's own so that he can maneuver, slowly, towards the end of the bed where his, uh, husband? is seated. steady on, peter. stop shaking like that; there's a hug involved, to make the world stop for a moment. ]
I want to go home. I want my pants, and I want to go home.
[ GRUMPY SOUNDS. ]
FUCK
Be--be careful, move your knee. You don't have to be a brute to get in my lap, I... [ he breaks off as juno settles. and then his arms are full and warm and juno is pushing up into him to fill that cavernous space between his ribs, trying to sink into him when everything hurts and he's sure it can't be pleasant for juno either. he moves to catch him up anyways and hold him fast, one arm snaking around his waist for support, the other over the expanse of his shoulders, fingers fumbling blindly to clutch the back of his neck and feel his hair thread through his fingers. juno is babbling, something about home and pants and home. he shifts until he can fully sit up on the bed, but god juno is dense, to put it politely. or maybe he's just too much of a waif himself. ]
Now be still. [ a breath as he moves his hands to help him, pulling him closer. ] We'll find your pants, that much I can promise you.
[ but until then, peter will gather the edges of the flimsy hospital gown close together. something like modesty or what have you. he's trying to wrack his brain for how they ended up here, how they ended up the way they did, but he can barely remember himself, really. shapes and colors, the feel of playing cards between his fingers, sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, names he can't remember, leaning over a mirror, a knife, an old man, a place? it's red. very red. and by the time peter gets to this point he has to squeeze his eyes tightly and juno even tighter than that.
one thing is clear: juno. he's bright. north star. lighthouse beacon. his heart is thrumming hard, tattooing its beat up against juno's sternum and he murmurs his name again, like he's afraid it's going to flutter away like the rest of him. he aches.
he tries to shift his hands around, long-limbed, but aching. his arms hurt, his legs, his chest keeps jumping and he isn't sure if it's his nerves or if it has something to do with the distinct sort of fiery smell he keeps catching on himself. it doesn't matter--it doesn't matter because he can take big fistfuls of juno's hospital gown and keep him clutched tightly to him, bowing over him like he's all he's got. tenderly, peter rests his chin on the little divot of juno's shoulder and neck, lets himself sigh out slowly. ]
And once we get back on our feet, I'll find you the best-fitted gown you've ever worn, Juno. Just to make up for... all of this. Whatever color or cut you want. Something right and proper and yours.
[ as if it's his fault, but juno should be made up to, apologized, between his eye and the blotches and bruises and aches and painkillers pumping through him, leaving him like this. he turns, pressing his face into juno's cheek, the side that isn't all taped up and protected. he holds him fast and stays there murmuring his name like the only quiet prayer he's known. ]
ur welc
[ It's belated, but he corrects himself; he's not so far gone that he's unable to spell, and wants Peter to know that. He's good, he's okay. It's just that his body has wandered off somewhere and left a giant aching sore in response. From what he can see of Peter - drawn, bruised, singed at the collarbones where whatever... whatever... whatever had happened to them had left its mark. He thinks: this isn't how Peter should look. The man was a knife. Dress him up in dark silk and lipstick like summerwine, and he's still a knife; quick and sharp. He shouldn't look like this
that much, he can recall.
There's not much else in there, which makes him restless and far more impatient than normal. There's Peter ( wearing some other name again; typical, traditional, part of his modus operandi ), swimming around in the inky black, somewhere alongside the sharp pains that he knows he should feel in his head, his limbs. His heart. The staff at the hospital are kind, but ultimately unhelpful. Barely a question out of him in regards to "the guy with him", and they had done their best to soothe him into silence. And now, Juno is trying to bat Peter into silence, calm.
Ur both stressed, it's ok.Briskly, and snappish, despite that the wooz' has reached his voice: ] Don't get ahead of yourself, N-- nnnnot until we figure out what happened.
[ All business, that Juno Steel. Even if he is drifting aimlessly. ]
Ssssso, what happened?
no subject
juno knows. he can trust juno. he trusted him the moment he looked at the fields "FIRST NAME" and "LAST NAME" and signed, signed, signed away his life. somewhere in the dark, he knows there should be details, that he's cleverer than this, that there are more layers to the fantasy, but now? now he doesn't know much much beyond the fact that a) he is a man whose name is solely his own and b) somewhere in this hospital is a surly dame named juno steel who knows it too.
and juno won't let him drown. like he won't let juno sink under, not without his hand to hold. juno, juno, juno fills his mind like a heartbeat. ]
Your guess is as good as mine, [ peter confesses, pulling back just enough to reveal the truthful pinching of his brows, an expression no one else would see pierce steel wear. he was always certain, no guesses, no puzzling, only surety.
all he remembers is dark and murky and he just aches from the tips of his toes that feel so incredibly cold to the pit of his stomach clenched fast in a fist (he's hungry). but god he doesn't care about any of that more than he cares about juno. he had two eyes before, not one bloodshot and tired and more pupil than bright iris.
peter shifts, cups juno's cheek with his palm, thumbs the skin under that one good eye and his heart wells up. steady. keep him steady. keep him afloat. ] The only thing I can be certain of is that you're my very, very brave detective. And... [ peter's voice falters, dry, throat working. he closes his eyes a moment. juno is a silhouette, strong against the light, all coat and shoulders and jauntily tipped hat in the dark. silhouette like some avenging entity.
it'll come back. it will. it has to. there's more to the story, the entire thing, but thinking about it makes peter's head throb something monstrous. ] And... I think you should lie back down. With me. Because you are crushing my poor legs, Juno Steel. [ ur heavy and he's blaming it on the painkillers that are turning u into dead weight. ]
no subject
[ He's loathe to admit that the sound Peter makes ( that laugh ) is far more reassuring than anything that the nurses have said, thus far. ]
Whatever it was, [ he looks down, at himself - at the chipped and broken edges of his fingernails and the bruises on his cuticles and he thinks - what was i clawing at - and he feels the dull ache behind his right eyelid, throbbing to the stuttering beat of his heart. There's a pit in his stomach, and he has a feeling that it mirrors the one in Peter's. That twisting thing called hunger, tossing itself against a set of bruised ribs. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck; gut instinct, and he knows it's gotten him through worse things than mysterious accidents and the long, long waiting game to be dismissed from the hospital.
He forgets to respond.
It's not his fault, really. The painkillers combine with his natural tenancy to drift, mind rifling through available information and observation, trying to piece things together in a way that suits the narrative. Everything had a narrative, after all. Part of his job was figuring that out. Narrative yielded motive, motive yielded answers - though not always in that order. If only it were in that order, he wouldn't be needed. Any old asshole off the street could do his job -- and he thinks. Real hard, about what brought them here. ]
Ow.
[ Can't. Too much, too fast, and Peter is talking to him again. ]
If I lay down, I'm going to fall asleep. [ He does shift his weight, feebly dragging himself to the other side of the hospital bed, leaving as much room for Peter ( more than enough, he thinks; peter's a long streak of nothing, if he angles himself just right ). He doesn't say that there's room for Peter, doesn't really offer that, but he's made the space for him, all the same. That's how things are, that's how he says things. No words, just actions. Like the way his hand finds Peter's, and he aches with unconscious, gut-reaction: slender fingers, touching his hand and words, a mumbled aside, a simple request that wasn't so simple at the time and now was. Vague blurs of emotion, and most of them attached to this guy. ]
It's not my fault you've got so much leg to crush. The nurse should be back soon, anyways - I hear I have paperwork to fill out, if I want to leave.
no subject
[ juno slips off of him slowly and he leans back, watching from slightly crooked glasses. he's really going to have to get these fixed. ]
As for that paperwork, I'll stay here to make sure you get your information straight on your forms.
[ mostly to help you keep their details straight. sleep sounds like a terrible idea, but also an amazing idea, and the stretch of hospital bed that juno leaves him is more than enough for him to join him and then hand that brushes his own is all the invitation he really needs. he waits, however, letting juno arrange himself comfortably in a rumpled pile of blankets before following suit. he doesn't release his hand, merely readjusts before coming to rest up against a propped up pillow. everything in him aches and juno radiates heat like a furnace.
the nurse will have to deal with finding him here as he rests fingers lightly against juno's, feels the heat run through them like nostalgia, sweet and honeyed and painful. the scent of blood and hospital making his head swim a little. the fact that nothing feels as strong as juno feels right now is... troubling, but comforting at the same time. there is an anchor, a post, something he can wrap both hands around and focus on.
he adjusts their hands, closer, palm to palm, fingers sliding together slowly, interlacing. the anxiety is still swimming around inside of him, nervous little fish, quicksilver and bright burrowing deep.
he doesn't mean to, but he ends up holding tighter, looking down between them. he can't shake it. ]
no subject
at least, she assumes it isn't. with the no memories thing, it's rather hard to know for sure. it doesn't feel like a good time, anyway. mostly it feels slightly terrifying, being as she can't remember her name. she can remember how to walk and that she can cast spells (apparently???) and do various other things an adult person should be able to do, but her own name is just... poof. gone. the nurse at the hospital wants her to stay a little longer, just until she gets her name back, but she can't wait. she has an egg she has to get back to, so she fakes a return of her memory, writes down a bullshit name, and leaves the hospital to find her house.
her house which... she has no memory of and no idea how to find. she stands in the middle of the road, biting her lip and looking around herself unhappily, when someone approaches her, and —
it's like a piece fits into the puzzle. a piece that should have always been there, was always there, she just needed him in front of her to remember. )Pierce, ( she breathes, rushing forward and throwing her arms around him. her brother, how could she forget her brother? he could fix this. pierce could fix anything. ) I'm so glad to see you, I've been so scared.
THIS! CHILD!
Oh!
[ peter buckles like a pile of reeds. his arms thrust to the side a bit as she fits herself between them, holding him fast. do names get around town that fast? do they shout it from the rooftops or something? (the name was purely an accident, but when this girl says it... it just feels... right. sure, he said it to himself a few times in the bathroom mirror, tried to fix the light in his eyes to make it look unlike himself, but god if from her mouth it didn't taste a little like... home.)
he looks down and for some reason his entire body wells with nostalgia. there's something here that makes him hold on tighter to her and it's uncomfortable and strange, but he hasn't let go. part of him can't. doesn't want to. he laughs--it's the only thing he's got. ]
I'm sorry, dear, you'll have to forgive me.
[ he's still holding on. tightly. partially because he's half-bowled over and the other part is because he doesn't want to release her, like a vice. she knows him? god, she knows him. ] I'm not quite myself you see, and--
[ gradually, nureyev, gradually, just... pull... her... off... and. her eyes. he knows those eyes. soft. somewhere in the back of his mind, a comfort, looking up at him. he's known that face. somewhere. ] Sarra...?