test drive meme #001

[foundingfathers]

→ Test Drive Meme

☠ faq ▪ taken ▪ reserves ▪ applications ▪ housing ▪ setting ☠

→ Arrival

Waking up in the warehouse is extremely uncomfortable. It’s warm, stifling even, and as you open your eyes, you realize two things: you’re somehow standing and you’re not alone. The room is filled with people grouped at its center, and like you, they are blinking into consciousness and wearing similar expressions of confusion and distress. To the left and right there are closed doors, a man and woman at both; their clothing and demeanour are widely different. The left is clearly upper class while the right is lower class. At the top of the room is a stage adorned in red, white, and blue banners with NFFA in block letters so large that it’s visible from the very back. What is the NFFA, you ask? Within minutes, a man that gives off a ‘Republican senator’ vibe steps up to the podium and begins to speak. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers for letting us Purge and cleanse our souls. Blessed be America, a nation reborn. Hello and welcome to the city. After fifteen successful purges, we are at a standstill. The New Founding Fathers have found a way to bring you here to promote a higher response in participation. Annually, for one night, any and all crime is legal, including murder. Everyone has the right to purge, and in doing so, you become the best you that you can be. During peace times, crime is lower than five percent and United States citizens know true harmony. The New Founding Fathers have assessed our Annual Purge laws and adjusted them to allow for this unwanted change. In a three month cycle, all citizens will celebrate a time of peace, preparation, and purge. All previous Purge Night guidelines still apply. This will continue until the Nation is no longer in an economic collapse and rising social unrest has been quelled. Blessed Be the Founding Fathers. Blessed Be the Addend. Each of you must choose. To the left is those who support and will participate in the purge and to the right is those who do not; pro-purge and anti-purge respectively. This warehouse is the only neutral zone in the city, except during Purge Night. Blessed be America, a nation reborn. Once he steps down, a woman takes his place and explains further, though in a less formal fashion. Everyone must choose. Pro-purge is anyone that will be actively participating - this means murder, specifically, though all other crimes are still allowed. There will be consequences for anyone who chooses the pro side and then doesn’t purge properly. Anyone who is in full support of the purge and completes three successful purges may go home. Those who choose the anti-purge side, anyone that doesn’t want to kill or believe in the NFFA’s right to purge, are not given this same incentive. All are given time to think it out. They can speak to one another for as long as they need. Any unrest will be not be tolerated. After everyone has chosen, the anti-purge side exit and are picked up in old buses and vans to be taken to old apartment buildings with basic necessities; there is no reception but are told exactly how it is by veteran Purge survivors. They must get a job and earn money to protect themselves during The Purge that cycles every two months. Those who choose the pro-purge side are chauffeured in limousines to fancy hotels with even nicer accommodations and are welcomed with an extravagant party as well as motivation to purge: you have to purge.

→ Advertising is a Purger’s Right

Throughout the year - and especially now that there is a two month period of peace and preparation - all citizens are allowed to advertise their needs as is sanctioned by the United States Government by any means; Craigslist, Twitter, Facebook, Reddit, newspapers, the big screens in Times Square, etc. These advertisements may come in many forms, such as a person looking to pay another (with very specific appearance and background) to allow them to purge them. Payments are legal and binding. The purger might request that they kill, torture, and other various acts—all is legal on Purge Night. Advertisements may be as simple as looking for a partner to purge with or someone to help fortify a house or vehicle. There is no limit to what advertisements may be made. It is the right of every citizen. Blessed be America, a nation reborn. Advertisement Form <lj-raw><div style="margin:0 auto;width:370px;padding:50px;background:#fff;border:1px solid #ccc;text-align:justify;line-height:175%;color:#555;font-family:georgia,serif;font-size:12px;-webkit-box-shadow:2px 2px 5px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.2);box-shadow:2px 2px 5px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.2);"><center><img src="IMAGEURL" width="120"> <img src="IMAGEURL" width="120"> <img src="IMAGEURL" width="120"> <img src="IMAGEURL" width="120"></center><br> ☠ <b><a href="WHATEVER LINK YOU WANT" style="color:#888;text-decoration:none;">AMOUNT OF MONEY.</a></b> <br> <br> Title of advertisement. <br> <br> Describe what you want/need here. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, errem recteque sit ad, elit choro pro at. Qui no autem debet noluisse, eu iusto posidonium duo. Aperiam sensibus democritum ea sit, no qui dicam exerci primis, pri cu congue animal. Ut mea oporteat reformidans, vide duis qui te.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, errem recteque sit ad, elit choro pro at. Qui no autem debet noluisse, eu iusto posidonium duo. Aperiam sensibus democritum ea sit, no qui dicam exerci primis, pri cu congue animal. Ut mea oporteat reformidans, vide duis qui te.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, errem recteque sit ad, elit choro pro at. Qui no autem debet noluisse, eu iusto posidonium duo. Aperiam sensibus democritum ea sit, no qui dicam exerci primis, pri cu congue animal. Ut mea oporteat reformidans, vide duis qui te.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, errem recteque sit ad, elit choro pro at. Qui no autem debet noluisse, eu iusto posidonium duo. Aperiam sensibus democritum ea sit, no qui dicam exerci primis, pri cu congue animal. Ut mea oporteat reformidans, vide duis qui te.</br></br> <div align="right">☠ <b><a href="http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/thepurgemovies/images/3/3f/Nffa.jpeg/revision/latest?cb=20141108112525" style="color:#888;text-decoration:none;">Blessed Be America, a nation reborn.</a></b></div></div>

Comments

Cali Sanchez | Purge : Anarchy

[safehold]

Arrival;
[Oh Hell no.

She is not going through something like this again. The last time she was brought into a place like this against her will, she had been put up on stage and auctioned off to be purged by the highest bidder. She had grown stronger since that time, and she wasn't about to let it happen again. But she had been conditioned her entire life to "know her place", and with so many rich Republicans in one room she wasn't about to make a scene.

As the politician she didn't recognize spoke she looked around the room in practiced vague disinterest. She was the picture perfect image of compliance, but anyone close to her could see the tension in the way she carried herself. The more she blended in, the less likely she'd stand out as a target, and the easier it would be to try and find her mother. She took in everyone else's reactions and was mentally attempting to sort which side of the fence everyone else would end up on. There was no choosing for her. As far as she was concerned, she'd stay on the same side she had been born into.

So when the room starts to divide, Cali glances over at whoever's closest to her. With an eyebrow arched, she looks them up and down as if she's sizing them up. A purge once a year was bad enough, but every few months? She was going to have to be careful who she got to know.]

You're going over to the right...right?

[It's said like she can't believe they'd even have to think about it. Probably not the best first impression.]

Bus Ride;

[Cali finally realized she wasn't going to be going home. This city wasn't her own, and the rules that were in place kept her right where they wanted her to be. Carmelo and the resistance likely weren't here, she couldn't see their symbols spray painted on anything. Her head rested against the window and her eyes watched the passing scenery. On the inside, she was growing more and more angry by the second. From up at the front of the bus, the veteran survivor attempting to prepare the others for what was to come sounded like nails on a chalkboard to her. It only serves to make her angrier, until it's all she can feel and she can't contain it any longer.]

You think that you're helping them, but it's just filling their heads with shit! You can't make them be ready for this.

[The words are shouted out, and she moves to stand up. But she respects anyone that survives the purge and she knows this isn't the way to show it. And this definitely isn't the way her mother would want her to act. So after getting the attention of everyone that was on the bus, she ends up slamming herself back down to slump in her seat. ]

Nothing can, except actually living it.

[This is said only loud enough for people right around her to hear. If she has someone sitting beside her in the same seat, she won't blame them for thinking about moving.]

Arrival

[ilexiona]

[These people are perhaps the strangest she's ever encountered. Inga watches them, face hidden beneath her helm. Only her eyes are visible. The plate makes her invisible - a ghost rather than a person, and certainly not a woman. But these people - these strange, strange people - know nothing of her father's rules. Or, she thinks, of his gods.

No matter. He died. These ones will be no different. Their clothes are thin and strangely cut. No use as armor. And they may have taken her sword, but not her armor.

Inga glances at the girl curiously, then removes her helm. Her hair is knotted up in scarf to keep it out of her eyes. The chainmail rattles.]

I have not decided. If it is honorable combat with honorable warriors, then it will be a good fight. [Inga pauses, considering it.] If they are not, then I shall kill most of them regardless.

Arrival

[misruled]

[Listening to the politician's speech without showing any emotion comes with a practiced ease. He'd learned that early enough in life, used it when training to be a cop, and it'd probably saved his life more than once after the Purge started. If a person couldn't keep their mouth shut and their head down, then they were as good as painting a target on their own damned back. Year round, smart people kept to themselves so that come Purge Night, they had less to worry about.

Less. Funny how doing that wasn't enough to keep a person safe.

He'd never been a supporter of the Purge. Not until he'd lost his boy to a drunk who'd gotten off by a technicality. Then he'd had a reason to stock up and go out, to 'cleanse his soul' because he was a broken man with no idea which direction would let him get any sleep at night. But a mouthy pain in the ass and her mom had gotten to him, helping him to realign his views, digging in deep and changing him.

A mouthy pain the ass whose voice he just heard. Two fucking feet away in the middle of the hell version of real life - purging every three months instead of once a year - and every nerve in his body lights up. Sure, he's attached and protective and about to cause problems for anybody that messes with her. He crosses the space and puts a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her conversation, turning her around.]

Cali.

[pincherinche]

bus ride

[ Freddie's tears his attention from a far-off stare into the landscape towards the woman causing a scene on the bus. She's in the row in front of him on the other side of the aisle. Nudging the passenger next to him, his request to change seats is approved. If anyone has any answers that will get him back to his family or preserve them, if they are indeed here, this person might be his shot. ]

Hey.

[ He reaches out to tap the back of her seat and gain her attention. ]

You know about this? This is normal to you?

arrival

[axeyou]

[Johanna's lip curls.]

You're kidding, right.

[She gives about two seconds for a response before she laughs, short and pitched.]

Hell no. Did choosing the right sound like there was any chance of getting out of here? [Not that she's interested in going home, either. But one game is the same as the other, right? This even feels all Capital, all that blessing and accolades and praise while waiting to get screwed.] Why, is that what you're choosing? Does having a super fun little job sound like a good time to you?

[For the record: she isn't relaxed. She's tense, a coiled wire. If she could run, she would. If she could hack her way out of here: ditto, would. This is also kind of the norm for her in a seriously screwed-up way--not this exactly, but close enough.]

Frank Castle | mcu

[whatsrequired]

during/after the speeches

[Frank Castle isn't shy, and not one to stay silent. To say that he doesn't like the terms set before him is an understatement. As the speeches continue he listens, but it's not long before he stands, marching directly toward the speaker, jabbing a finger already covered in a scab across the knuckles toward the stage.]

What kind of a choice is that, huh?

[His voice is loud, carrying across the warehouse. It doesn't matter who hears. In fact, he hopes everyone hears.]

You think we're gonna march just because you say march? Fuck that, fuck this shit. I'll just stay here with you assholes.

[Amid Frank's protesting are two warnings of caution. He's not done, but three bodyguards force him to be, two holding him down while one lands a series of blows to his face. Once they are finished, he is tossed back into the group. Depending on who looks his way he'll either glare, but say nothing, or inhale loudly, causing a sickening call of attention to his newly bloodied nose.]

[safehold]

[Cali watches him protest and feels a surge of admiration. She wants to be brave like him, like Carmelo and the other activists and anti-purgers. But fear always holds her back, no matter how strong she thinks she is on the inside. Used to having to pretend to be indifferent no matter what kind of warring thoughts are in her head, she averts her eyes when he starts to be hit. Only when they finish and leave him does she start to move in toward him.

It's a risk to talk to someone that's now viewed as trouble but it's one she's willing to take. ]

Here.

[She pulls off her jacket and starts to remove her plaid button down. It's old and threadbare enough to tear right into, and she works a little off the edge to offer him so he can clean up a little. As she does, her eyes look up at his face. She's very careful not to show him pity because she can guess that he won't like or want it.]

They aren't going to let you stay here. Trust me, I know how these assholes work. You have to choose a side.

will bailey | the west wing

[firstlieutenant]

arrival: will's written better speeches in his sleep

[He's had dreams like this before. He's crammed refrigerated leftovers into his mouth too close to bedtime despite Elsie's warnings, and he's woken up in a cold sweat from visions of some radical conservative hellscape.

And her response has always been a too-sweet I told you so, which made him wonder, every time, why he bothered telling her about it in the first place.

He thinks — hopes to God — this is one of those dreams. None of it feels real, until —

Any unrest will not be tolerated.

The rest of it seemed fake. The rest of it seemed like dialogue out of some movie he'd flip past while attempting to watch something other than the news. It seemed like it couldn't possibly be what it was: a very real declaration that the America Will knew had somehow been obliterated while he wasn't looking. What he wouldn't give to hear Elsie say she told him so, right about now. What he wouldn't give to wake up.

His skin crawls, his gut twists, and he plays those six words back over in his head. Just as he's about to start shouting his disgust, someone else does the same, and they wind up face-down on the floor.

Jaw set and skin pale, Will steps over to the right as if pushed there.

And bumps right into someone on the way.

Mechanically:] Sorry.

[safehold]

[This poor guy looks like he'll be killed in two seconds. Cali feels a strong surge of sympathy for him but it doesn't show on his face. Instead, she eyes him like she's worried his paleness means he might fall over at any second.]

You don't have to apologize.

[She sounds a little surprised that he'd bother.]

Do you need any help getting over there? [She nods toward the right side of the room.] You look a little...well, like you're sick.

[She really sucks at being tactful.]

Inga Ward | Original

[ilexiona]

After Speeches

[Talking, talking, talking. Inga listens to the whole thing, utterly silent, and shaking with rage. Her armor shivers with it. Half of the words make no sense at all. But the ones that do, oh they smart.

They've taken her weapons. Her horse. Her shield. Everything.

And they've spirited her away from her glorious purpose.

To return, she must---

What? Slaughter until their toll is satisfied?]

They have taken my sword.

[Inga clenches her fists, then releases them. Her voice echoes rough in her helmet. No one will recognize her here, not in full armor. The Green Knight is a ghost, a legacy that slaughtered a king. Inga is nothing but the Green Knight is certainly not. The mistake is thinking the two are the same.]

I want it back.

Hotel

[Regardless of what might be said, Inga makes a choice in the warehouse. It's led to her fancy accommodations. Shiny walls and cool stone floors, the like of which she's never seen. So many colors, so much light, and none of it comes from candles. There are windows, of course - though none as beautiful as she'd like - but the curtains are half drawn and don't rely on the sun.

How odd.

You'll find her wandering around, knocking things over and examining the accommodations. Locked doors and Staff Only areas will not dissuade her. Thankfully her curiosity is keeping her from causing too much damage, though she will corner people from time to time in search of answers.]

You! What is this thing?

[This time she's not decked out in full plate amor, but rather a silk bathrobe that was not meant to be worn in public, and no shoes. Be warned.She will get in your face.]

Wildcard

[Hit me!]

hotel

[notgreat]

[ It's rare that Bob misses a beat, but the woman's appearance (is she drunk?) coupled with the fact that she's brandishing an ironing board like a weapon is enough to give him pause. ]

That's, uh, that's an ironing board. [ Pressing his lips into a slightly puzzled smile, he reaches for it. ] Here, I can put it away.

Laura | Logan (X-men movies) | Can keep it spoiler free on request

[sniktita]

Arrival

Laura stopped really listening ten words into the woman's talk. Nothing important to what she wanted, to get back could come from her. Not when she's reading from some script. Small and skinny, she's still a tiny force of nature as she presses her way towards the front, towards the stage. She heard the demands, the purge, and she's already made up her mind.

The people on the stage could die. Then they'd all get free. The claws start sliding out of one hand as she reaches the halfway point, a hard-to-ignore growl forming in the child's throat.

Buses

Whether through another character's intervention or just inability to get access to the captures, the murder plan had failed. Laura sits in a window seat of the bus, arms crossed tightly across her chest, brow furrowed, and teeth intermittently bared as she stewed on the current situation. There was no paradise waiting just beyond reach now. She wouldn't kill for these people and their sick games. Not willingly, not after everything she'd learned from her...family. But there were others that had gone to the other side.

The youngest occupant of the bus punched the window next to her without warning, lashing out in rage at the...the bullshit of it all. The plastic-glass splintering under the impact. A small glob of blood from her knuckle stayed on the window, following the cracks to turn a small number of them a dark red. She wiped the rest off on the seat next to her, the cut already healed.

Arrival

[misruled]

Like hell he was going to let some pissed off little kid do anything like threaten to hurt any members of the NFFA - in the middle of something that they're all clearly in control of. He's not a supporter, but he's not stupid. They'd either kill her or take her down, and if it's the latter, then she was setting herself up for trouble come Purge Night.

He grabs her by the collar of the back of her shirt, yanks hard and hopes to use the momentum to get her back into the crowd. There, at least, they'd be surrounded by people in the same boat as them - meant it was easier to talk.

"Cut it out, kid."

Leo lets her go. His eyes narrow, but his expression is otherwise blank.

Bob Benson | Mad Men

[notgreat]

ovation

He starts out as scared as anyone, this clean-cut young man who is more than likely now late for a meeting, but he doesn't give in to panic. Bob's eyes go wide; he steps back, reflexively, only to bump into someone. He turns around and discovers he's part of a crowd. There's nothing familiar about the others except their expressions—anger, fright, stupefied blankness.

Frantically, he thinks: what did we do? How did they find us? And then: who's in charge?

The answer to the last question ascends the stage, and Bob doesn't relax, but there's something comfortable, broken-in, about the attentive posture he adopts. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, absorbing every word and gesture. At some point, the fear leaves his eyes.

The speech concludes. There are mutters, whispers. It verges on awkward, the lull before Bob begins to clap. As he does, he looks to those standing beside him, nodding in encouragement, agreement, or both.


we say die you say party

“What a view, huh?” Bob's smiling—it's inviting, that smile, there's room for two. The party takes up several floors of the hotel, including the rooftop, which has been strung with lights. The city's chandelier.

There's champagne, caviar, gold-flecked ice cream. The tuxedo he's wearing had been presented to him with an apology: there wasn't time to have one tailor made. Bob gave up on trying to tally the cost of it all.

“But the rest of the city's looking up here, wondering what the lights are for. Wondering what it's like.” He laughs—a little forced, but his smile doesn't waver. “I'm sorry—Bob Benson, Benson Cooper advertising. Formerly, I should say.”

[mcgill]

Jimmy doesn't know what the fuck he's doing here.

Literally speaking, he does, of course: He woke up, he chose a side, he got into the limo, he grabbed the shrimp and put it in his mouth and started mingling. But he really doesn't understand any of it.

The last time he wore a tuxedo was to his senior prom, and even then, it was at least ten times cheaper than this. Probably more. And in the end he bailed anyway, to go off with some friends and get drunk on just-as-cheap beer instead of hanging around at a party where none of them felt like themselves. He trashed the suit.

Just like he wants to trash this one.

Someone's talking to him. Jimmy blinks and looks over, plastering on his best apologetic, sheepish smile as he turns. "Jimmy McGill, formerly of the Law Offices of Jimmy McGill. It's — yeah, you're right. It's something. Some view."

Freddie Gonzalez | From Dusk Till Dawn

[pincherinche]

warehouse

[ The more the rules of this reality are explained, the more fidgety the Texas Ranger gets. Inclined as Freddie might be to do his part to keep a sense of civility and justice in this world and protect those who are incapable or otherwise tread upon, he does have his own priorities.

As the applause rises and echoes in the warehouse, Freddie shoves his way through the crowds. There are two people on his mind and he hasn't caught a sight of either of them: his wife and child. ]

Margaret! Billie!

[ People of all ages and walks of life and pushed out of the way-- frankly he can't discern them from blurry figures. At this moment, only two people in particular would be clear to him. ]

apartments

[ Listening to the survivors rekindles some faith in Freddie's shaken spirit. He still hasn't found his family and the longer he stays, the more alone he feels. While it's a relief to know the people he would protect with his life are not in physical danger, the lack of answers to his concerns create a churning pit in his stomach.

He's never felt more alone and at a lack of purpose.

After acquiring a small tote from one of the Purge survivors, Freddie begins to organize his supplies. He keeps to himself, in the corner of one of the hallways with his back against the wall. Inclined as these people may be to survive without harming others, he's not entirely inclined to believe there's any alliances to be made here. Not yet. [

warehouse

[vacancies]

[This man looks distressed. And in turn Norman is distressed. As he stands quietly he is pushed aside with a force he had not expected, and lanky body is shoved aside. He does his best to straighten himself, tripping a little over his feet before fully standing. By the time he does so, the man hasn't gotten far, blocked by the number of bodies in his way. These people are probably family, and if this man is close with his family then Norman can certainly empathize.]

Can you tell me what they look like? Maybe I can help you look. I can't find my mother either.

max briest | original

[thephix]

arrival

[Max watches everything.

The overwhelming patriotism dripping from the stage is the first thing she noticed upon waking and her initial assumption changes very little as the man steps up to explain the situation. It's almost laughable, that these people think they could contain her, but then she tries to shift her body into something more useful, only to find it doesn't work, and she's forced to recalculate her exit plan. So she watches, and she listens, her shoulders straight and eyes sharp. If she's scared, she doesn't show it, not when there's talk of murder, not when the woman talks about allowing them to go home.

Max has no power and no weapons, but that's no reason to be afraid.

As the speeches wrap up, she knows what her choice will be, there's not even a need to hesitate, but she does, because she's not the only one here, and she'd rather gather as much information as possible before moving on to the next stage in this fucked up game.

She approaches the nearest person, softening her expression with something that looks a little like worry]

I'm sorry, did you understand that any more than I did? Are they asking us to murder people?

[She hasn't decided exactly who she wants to be, here, but for now playing it a little clueless might get people to be more honest with her.]

party

[It really was an easy choice. If there are people against this idea, it means there's some slim chance of it being undone and that means the best place to be is with those who want to keep it. The fact she'd been escorted out via limousine had only reaffirmed her assumption: the purgers are the ones with power, and the best way to kill someone is to get behind their defences.

She drops the clueless act once she's at the party, figuring she'll better ingratiate herself with the others who make this kind of choice if she seems smart, maybe a little ruthless, though she won't show too much of the latter just yet. Right now, making friends seems like the first order of business. There might be others who made their choice for the same reason she did, and she'd like to weed them out as soon as possible. Max isn't used to working alone.]

What do you think of all this extravagance? It seems counterproductive to reward violence, even if I can understand the rationale of the purge.

[No she can't, she thinks it's garbage, but keeping up appearances means lying, sometimes.]

[fiachdubh]

[Ronan tips the last mouthful of whiskey into his mouth as he gets approached. It's a strange thing; he's pretty sure he gives no image that he wants a conversation, or to know any of these people. If he was back home, at Aglionby, it'd be one of these times where he puts his feet up on a desk and closes his eyes, the image of perfect indifference.

But there's someone, right here next to him, looking dainty and like a lie. A future purger, like him - if he ever goes through with it. He's not yet decided.]

Is it productive to reward peace? [He asks, words tight but something genuine behind it.] Haven't we tried that, before? Time and time again, to no avail?

[Ronan's not been at peace in a long time, for long enough that he forgot how it feels. But the world's been in the same state. Pretending to want peace, anxiously waiting for the first opportunity to throw the first punch. Peace is an illusion.]

Ronan Lynch | The Raven Cycle

[fiachdubh]

I. Speech

[There's something predatory about the whole scene. As he stands in the middle of the crowd, listening to a man that makes him want to burn flags, Ronan crosses his arms over his chest, runs his tongue over his top teeth.]

You ask me, doesn't sound like we've got much of a choice.

[His words are low, growled more than spoken out loud, meant for himself, and maybe the people standing next to him, if they're close enough.

It's more of an impossible choice. Ronan's used to impossible things, but that doesn't mean he likes them. His eyes take in his surroundings, even though he knows he's alone in a sea of people. None of his friends are here, and if they are, their decisions might be extremely different than Ronan's. But he doesn't need approval; not from the Republican on his stage and not from the people around him. Ronan Lynch will make his own fate.

The speech ends, and Ronan doesn't hesitate; he walks over to the left, the pro-purge, the smile on his lips sharp and dangerous, and absolutely not reaching his eyes. An impossible choice, that barely feels like one at all. The real choices will come later, he knows, when there are weapons in his hands and opportunities ahead of him. Right now, even if his head rebels against it, this is the only choice. He looks around him at the people coming along with him, trying to determine the reasons behind their standing there. He barely refrains from spitting on the ground, keeping his venom at the back of his throat. For now.]

I do love being a puppet on strings. [It's, again, said to no one in particular, but the words drip with sarcasm. Ronan Lynch makes his own choices.]

II. Party

[The party reminds Ronan of the ones the Ganseys would throw - extragavant, boorish, ridiculous. Full of masks with too many teeth on perfectly pretty faces, hiding terrible truths and worse secrets. He picks at a scab under his leather bracelets, in between stealing tumblers of whiskey from passing trays. He's 18, he shouldn't be drinking alcohol, God Bless America.

He's uncertain when the purging process is supposed to happen. It reminds him of - the Hunger Games, Battle Royale, a series of unstoppable events, like a dream or a white Mitsubishi yards ahead on a ribbon of black road. The alcohol loosens the tension in his shoulders, and he rubs a hand under his jaw, stubble catching at his palm against the hard jut of bone. He smiles.]

So when is the fun supposed to start? [He doesn't mean the violence, but he doesn't care how people interpret it; it's none of his concern.]

III. Wildcard

[Hit me with anything! Also, if you prefer prose, I'm happy to switch!]

II

[stillstar]

[ Ivor hadn't made the choice based on what he'd actually wanted. The idea of resisting seems pointless given their circumstances. Besides, there's only one real incentive he's grasping for in a situation like this, and the idea of killing is— well, it isn't a new one. People do too many reckless and crazy things in space, on the certified planets and even deeper in the backwater colonies that don't get much news until months or even years from the time it's happened has passed. They live on their own terms, just as Ivor has lived on his own for far too long to remember what it's like not to, and the idea of going home is a much easier one to swallow than lingering around and waiting for something else to come along.

At least, then, he knew he could go home.

The party itself is something that makes him think of rich socialites looking for a good time in the more expensive brothels, boring but simple enough that the point isn't missed. He's supposed to be having fun, and all he can really do is worry about home and Cae and the siren sickness that's slowly eating him from the inside out. He's never heard of America or the NFFA or the purge; he's never seen cities so clean and peaceful. And when Ronan speaks, it's only by happenstance that he hears him as he passes by, the question a reasonable one considering. His mouth thins, contemplating a reply even as he catches himself signing. ]

« I don't know. » [ But he pauses, knowing from life-long experience that most people don't understand. So, he digs out the phone they'd given him - rudimentary compared to the now useless comp band still curled around his wrist - to type out a response instead. ] I guess a couple months from now. No one is being very specific about it. [ And he just shrugs. ]

ivor grames ( original )

[stillstar]

( arrival )

[ He feels like he's being recruited.

The speech doesn't interest him, and the choice is... is it really something they'll be able to decide for themselves? It's kill or be killed, the oldest rule of survival, and no matter how much they sugarcoat it, those are the hard lines being drawn. Take a life or wait for someone to take yours, and it's like being in the colony slums all over again, dodging the dogs that nipped at heels or the others who'd eventually dragged him away to his death. Ivor is cautious as he glances around, watching some of the others there with him react - either in support or against - and as much as he wants to go to the right, nothing good will come of that in the long run. He won't be able to go home; he'll be stuck in an endless cycle of running and murder, and it's so much like his life before he'd met Cae that he can barely stand it.

So, rather than put a heavy influence on which door he's going to take, Ivor just sits down right in the middle of all those people and rests his arms over his head. It's not fair, and that's what he hates most about this entire situation, though he's grateful he hasn't seen Cae in this warehouse. He's the only reason he'd kill, and anyway, the slight difference in gravity here is making him feel a little sick. Maybe it's something he'd just have to get used to being in a place like this. ]

( network )

[ It's been long enough since the initial arrival that reaching out seems to be better than sitting around doing nothing. Or pretending that things are okay. He doesn't have to talk about what side he's chosen when there are other things to ask. ]

My name is Ivor. [ Simple enough start. ]

I don't come from a place like this, and I don't mean the existence of the Purge. My home is a galaxy far from this one. I've met a lot of people from different places, and it made me wonder if others here were the same. Would you do anything to go back there? Would you do anything to make that happen? [ It's the biggest motivator behind choosing what he still feels is the wrong side but necessary regardless of his feelings on the matter. ]

network

[misruled]

[Leo never thought he'd say this but - ]

I'd go back. If only to be in a place where the Purge happens once a year instead of every three months. But I wouldn't do anything to make it happen.

Sometimes doing the right thing is harder.

Norman Bates | Bates Motel

[vacancies]

warehouse

[A seventeen year old Norman Bates stands amid the crowd, hands folded in front of him and listening quietly. He doesn't know what to make of the situation. It's confusing and just so much. Only yesterday his concerns were trying to convince his mother to allow him to keep going to public school instead of being homeschooled and trying to make friends in a new town. This was certainly a new town, but there was indication as to where yet.

He waits until both speakers are finished, giving them his full attention. It's only after those gathered are given time to think that he turns to someone nearby, raising his voice only a little and being careful not to intrude on their personal space.]

Excuse me, um, but where exactly are we?

limo

[If the speeches were too much, the limo certainly is. Everyone seems so nice, and Norman attempts to join in on the conversation but easily finds himself tripping over his words. He declines all offers of alcohol, designating himself as too young to drink. He doesn't blame anyone for wanting to have a good time, but he wants to join in also. When he speaks up again he does his best to make eye contact with someone who doesn't seem otherwise busy or preoccupied, giving them a friendly smile.]

Have you ever been in a limo before? It's pretty cool, huh?

MURDER PARTY BUS

[notgreat]

[ Bob's one of the limo's more outgoing occupants, introducing himself to anyone who'll listen, seatbelt unfastened so he can shake hands with ease. He even pours a round of drinks for the car.

Norman's question catches him during a break in the action--he's looking out the window. ] It never gets old, [ Bob assures him with a smile.

He has not, in fact, been in a limo before. Company cars, sure, but never a limo. ] You could get used to this, right?

Hanna Heller | Hanna

[justmissed]

Warehouse

[Hanna listens to everything that's said with a blank look on her face. She takes direction from her father well, but none of these men are her father. She's on her own here, but she's used to that now. When it comes time to make a decision, Hanna doesn't hesitate before walking over toward the left. It's easy to pretend, to be someone she isn't. Hanna was taught to wear masks, and the one she puts on now is that of a quiet and frightened teenage girl. Being only sixteen and looking weak makes her a target in the eyes of others. It's as much a strategy as her choosing the side where she'll be guaranteed more resources.

Whatever this Purge is, she has no problem killing others. It's not the life she wants for herself, but if it must be done, then she's going to ensure she has a higher chance of survival. Her father's voice plays in her head, telling her the cover story that he created for her new identity. He taught it to her from such a young age, and had her recite it over and over. It rolls off her tongue easily now. Like a silly, frightened girl babbling. Whoever is closest to her while she waits on the left side of the room can be subjected to listening to her speak.]

I am Hanna. I live in Leipzig, German city. Population zero point seven million peoples. I like literature and sport, in particular tennis and athletics. We live at number seven, Vicenza Platz. I go to school at The Klaus College Gymnasium and my best friends are Rudy Gunter and Clara Scheitz. I also have dog called, Trudy.

Party

[She wears the dress that's been offered to her because she wonders what it will feel like to put it on. It isn't as easy to move in a long gown, and her need to always be ready to strike if it's needed sees her quietly trading the expensive dress for a shorter one. It's more revealing than she likes but she can move better in it.

Being sixteen and in a place such as this means attention is put upon you. Unlike in the warehouse, there are no looks of pity here. She stands out with her vibrantly pale features, a stark contrast from the deep ruby dress she's wearing. The color reminds her of freshly fallen blood on the snow, and she thinks of home and her father.

Thoughts of death and killing swirl through her mind as she quietly observes the crowd. She's already making a list, deciding who to kill when the time comes. Every man walking by with a tray of food has Hanna taking something to sample it. By the time she makes her way up to the rooftop level to take in the fresh air, she's got a plateful. It's all delicious and extravagant. A lifestyle she isn't used to living. She kicks off the heels she's been wearing and walks over to the edge of the rooftop.

Someone else is out here. But she still puts her food aside and climbs up to stand on the ledge. Looking down over the city, she feels like she's made the right choice.]

You left the party.

[She speaks to the only other person out here. They're bathed in moonlight, and her hair seems to nearly glow beneath it. She understands why the light reflects off of her that way, but she doesn't understand this stranger's motivations.]

Why?

party

[thephix]

[The easy answer to Hanna's question is between Max's lips, the light from the cigarette casting shadows on her face.]

It's a terrible habit, I was a little embarrassed.

[Seeing a teenager here makes her feel sick. Surely there should be some sort of exclusion, any sort of civilized society doesn't expect children to fight, but then, this is hardly a civilized society.]

elizabeth shaw | prometheus

[emohemekat]

▲ arrival ▲

[ The next time Shaw wakes up, the throbbing pain in her abdomen immediately lets her know this is not a fever dream she had collapsed into. This is all very real. She's not sure how. She was on a ship, as far away from Earth as one could be. Looking down, she's still in her blue spacesuit. No head gear, no feed to David. Just her and these... strangers. People she's never seen before in her life. Her voice cracks, not knowing what the hell is going on. She can't even get it out of her mouth before someone else is speaking.

Elizabeth is sure she might faint, hearing what is said. This is a nightmare. She's traded one nightmare for another. Her legs give way after the little speech, falling onto her knees again. She feels like she might throw up, a hand going to her stomach again. The pain doesn't seem to stop and she's fairly certain at least a few staples have been pulled or torn. Sweat dripping from her face as she takes in deep breaths, trying to compose herself while feeling like she's drowning.

Her father's cross dangles out in front of her face, below her chin. She already knows which side she will pick. Even after the hell she's been through, she will not participate in this. They can't make her. ]

▲ bus ride ▲

[ During the ride, she listens to the other passengers and can't make herself say much. She listens and takes it in, trying to understand the present and what needs to be done. Figuring out how she got here will have to wait until a later time. A hand is still pressed to her stomach, her complexion pale. She needs to get to a hospital but, looking out the window, she has no idea where she is. America but the time is all wrong. It's like she's stepped into the past. Or fallen back in it. God help her.

Eventually, she clears her throat, though her voice is still quite hoarse, and asks the nearest person, ]

Excuse me. Do you know what city this is?

Arrival

[ilexiona]

Are you going to die?

[Inga glances down at the woman in vague concern, helmet tucked under her arm. She doesn't kneel or offer to help. If someone is injured enough to show it, then there's usually nothing to be done for it. Her chainmail rattles. Thus far, she's the only one wearing armor - or at least armor in the way that Inga understands it. This place is strange. Who's to say what they might consider proper?

Inga watches the woman.]

I will bury you, if you die.

[She won't. But it's a polite lie.]

Gazelle | Kingsman: The Secret Service

[steeletto]

Arrival

That should be her up there. All the talk of the newest plan to keep humanity in check, of the public service it provided. It stirred that old something in her, not as deeply or potently as Valentine. But enough to know which side of this little debacle she was on. If nothing else, it was impressive how blatantly public they were able to about it. This had to have taken years, maybe generations to craft as part of the normal order.

There was no home to go to now. Still, she would have her prize. A place in this new order.

Gazelle gave a polite golf clap as the speech ended. No matter personal feeling, there was a way to behave in society. Then turned to the person next to her with a small, polite smile in place.

"Just arrived?"

Pro-Purge Party

Gazelle wasn't a drinker, but she was a trained people watcher. At times that meant keeping a glass of fine whiskey in hand and taking the very occasional sip to more easily be accepted in the social contract of alcohol and celebration. Not that she could help standing out at least a bit now that her prosthetics weren't somewhat obscured by the crowded warehouse lighting.

Getting to know people both as allies and potential murder victims was nothing new, meaning there was little point in not scoping out the local talent. She tries to chat with not only the uncomfortable looking, but also the too comfortable. It would be annoying to have to unexpectedly compete with other trained killers for a potential target. Best to see what any potential rivals were looking for in their victims.

"Was it a tough choice?"

Pro-Purge Party

[proscribed]

Credence wasn't trained, he had no skills to help him when it came down to it, but he has hurt people before, he's killed. He doesn't know that that will make it any easier, but for now, this side is the only choice he can make. There's a clear divide between the amount of money both sides have, he could see that back at the warehouse. The party is grand and he's never been to anything like this.

He knows he doesn't fit in, that even with the new clothes they've given him, he doesn't have the charm and demeanor of someone who has grown up in a world that fortune had been kind to.

"No," he mumbles, head bowed and a shoulder lifting and falling gently. As if he's not sure. "Was it hard for you?"

Bellamy Blake | The 100

[unguard]

The Ride
[ The limo ride out of the warehouse is a tense one at least as far as Bellamy Blake is concerned. They're taken out along with a handful of others in one of the nicest vehicles he's ever seen in his life, better than rovers, better than horses, it's technology older than the Ark but more sophisticated. Cleaner, well maintained, free of the ravages of a nuclear apocalypse and the setting-back of humanity. His mouth is set to a grim line as he watches the people around him without the slightest ounce of trust. If they're pro-purge, they're pro murder, and it doesn't matter that he chose that too. He has his reasons, he has his people, and for all he knows the rest of his new acquaintances are just flat-out killers.

Anyone with an eye for it will notice that he's tense, guarded, ready at any moment for one of them to spring at him or make some kind of threat on his life. He's more than ready to retaliate in kind, and evidently not interested in making friends. ]

The Party

[ He circles the room like a swol shark, keeping to the outskirts, studying people and the way they move. These strangers are dangerous, and supposedly his allies, but hell if he's seeing them as such just yet. A logical part of him, the keen survivor in him, knows that he should start some strategic friendship-making, though, and find someone who seems like they'll be a benefit in a few months from now. Someone he can trust not to stab him in the back when the time comes. Guardedly, he'll be looking for anyone who stands out as a potential candidate.

After a while, his stomach starts talking to him. He comes from a place where food isn't nearly so plentiful as this, and although initially he's suspicious of it, people seem to eat it without dropping dead, so. Sure. He's sold. He piles a plate full and picks at it intently, eyes flickering from it to survey the room again intermittently. ]

party time!!!

[skaikru]

( who needs to make friends and new allies when the second you walk through the doors to the hotel conference room dressed up for celebration, your eyes are drawn to an old one. a tried and proven ally, a hundred times over. the only familiar face in a crowd of potentially deadly strangers, and one that almost brings on a fresh wave of those tears she's so valiantly fought down several times over since waking up in a damp, chilly warehouse. clarke stops dead in the doorway for a long moment, relief and further distress twisting painfully in her chest — because if he was here, where did that leave all those they'd left behind. i left because i knew i could. because they'd have you.

it's a long moment of stillness; frozen by the main entrance and staring until his instinct kick in, tell him he's being watched, and bellamy meets her gaze. and it's like every other time they've looked at each other while the world was tilting and trying it's best to throw them off. sad and weighted. though in her ribcage, relief starts to win out over dismay. if he's here, they're still in this together; if he's here, it means maybe she made the right choice and walked to the right door.

then the moment breaks. the lead in her legs is gone and clarke doesn't run, but makes a very purposeful beeline through the crowd of fanatics and begrudging abductees. pushes and shoulders and spares no apologies until she's invading his personal space —slamming into him in a hug that's more a desperate need to reaffirm that he's real than any sort of affection. and it's with her chin on his shoulder, a hand fisted in the back of his shirt, and taking in a raggedy breath that sounds like a sob, that clarke can finally whisper the words that have been eating at her since she woke up. ) It didn't work.

( i didn't get into the city of light. i didn't find the kill switch. i didn't shut down alie. )

clarke griffin | the 100

[skaikru]

ARRIVAL & SPEECHES.

( so this was the city of light.

— no. on second thought, after thirty seconds of blinking around wildly and shoving her way through groggy masses of people, no. it isn't. she's caught the eye of at least three people, and no one is descending on her in an attempt to kill her before she could destroy alie. what's more, there's pain. there's blood on her sternum and the dull throb in her wrists where she'd been straining against ropes not forty-five minutes ago. that really ought to have been enough to cut through the otherwise dreamlike sequence of events and clue her in that this isn't where she's meant to be, but sometimes you're desperately trying to save a few thousand people and it's hard to see immediate reason through that — even with bold, patriotic banners draped across the front half of the large warehouse. so she's shoving, wildly extricating herself from the center of the crowd, trying to make for the door on the right until a man takes the stage and addresses them all.

he speaks first, leaving her feeling slimy by association and ringing bells of fanatic familiarity while still otherwise confused. still and confused and edging towards hysterical anger because no, she had people to save, artificial intelligence to destroy, and a million other problems to deal with outside of being kidnapped back in time to an america, a nation reborn. but then a woman takes to the podium and at least alleviates some of clarke's confusion, if not the mounting frustration. brusque and succinct, the other woman talks of purging, of choosing, of sides. most importantly, of home. home.

really, it should feel like a harder choice. but it's not.

so clarke hunches her shoulders, balls her fists. goes to the left. and it's a long walk from all the way over from the righthand door. )

PARTY.

( she gets it.

they have to kill people. have to hit a quota of at least three to be allowed to return home. have to survive a minimum nine months in this pre-nuclear fall out city, have to play a bloody game, and should like it because it's saving their souls.

but the vigor with which the fun and reward and the absolution found in killing is being shoved down their throats is disgusting. it twists her stomach up in knots that leave her feeling sick, despite the allure of long tables laden with hot, fresh food. she's a little light headed, and a lot preoccupied with those last final moments in the tower of polis. they keep replaying in the back of her head; her brainwashed mother hanging by a noose, their braindead last hope bleeding black onto dirty stone floors, grounders and skypeople alike climbing the exterior wall, the flame and the chip. the improvised ascension ceremony. if she runs her fingers over the back of her neck, she can still feel the hot piece of living metal under her skin, and chokes up because she should be finding the kill switch, not waving off amuse bouche proffered by servers on sparkling silver trays.

so no, clarke has no stomach for food. but when the bartender smiles and hands over a shot glass of the highest proof alcohol behind the counter, she takes that.

don't mind little miss killjoy over here, sitting at a far table and dabbing vodka on the shallow, superficial stab wounds on her chest with a napkin instead of drinking it. )

DEALERS CHOICE.

( hit her up for some limo action! or anywhere action, really. ask her why she looks so damn dirty and like she's been crying for years; where she got that fading bruise under her right eye, or all that blood & dirt under her nails. )

laurel lance | dctv

[lawrel]

ARRIVAL

[ this was insane. at first she thinks she's dreaming, because what the hell is going on? how can something like this be real?! except it doesn't take long for the horrible realization to sink in that this was real.

she's listening to the speech intently, she focuses on the man saying it and on his guards. as much as her gut is telling her to start fighting she knows that right now that's not going to do any good. she'd be outmanned and outgunned.

to her there really is no choice on what side she's going to go to. there is nothing to consider. for a moment she turns to look at the people on the left - studying them, hating them, trying to commit their faces to memory for when the purge night actually came. ]

BUS RIDE

[ she spends half the bus ride staring at the seat in front of her. it's hard to wrap her head around what's happening. it's not that she doubts how evil people can be, it's more a question of how they ended up here. how these people were getting away with this.

she begins to look around the bus, taking in everyone there. it's a real mix of people and that's enough to make her skin crawl. this whole situation was making her skin crawl. it made her sick. it made her angry.

so much for giving up being black canary. not that she'd really be the canary without her canary cry. at least she could fight. at least she could try to do something.

it feels like forever until she finally turns to look at the person next to her. ]

You doing okay?

[ it feels like a stupid question, but she can't help but ask it. ]

bus ride

[aluminumandash]

[ Beside her Rust snorts, glances away from the window for the first time since she sat down. There'd been a rush of impatience, his mind jittery with questions: what do the laws look like? The streets? How had this started?

This city they're riding through, the whole thing is a crime scene.

That's worn off. Now he's doing nothing more than waiting for the bus to stop. ] Fuckin people. [ He mutters, then lapses into silence for a good minute or two. ] Surprised they didn't shoot us the moment we walked out that door.

Rust Cohle | True Detective

[aluminumandash]

a survey

“Name.” The man's stationed outside the lefthand door, his head crooked over a bulky black ledger. Pen at the ready. He's in a suit and tie, but the colors are muted, the material cheaper than anything the organizers are sporting—no red, white, or blue in sight. There's a badge clipped matter-of-fact to his belt, Louisiana State Police.

Rust records every name that isn't obviously false. He doesn't look up until the next question, and while his voice is all lackadaisical Texas drawl, his stare is sharp-eyed and unrelenting: “What specifically appeals to you about murder?”


an ad

☠ FMV

Looking for a handgun, 9mm preferred. Will pay or barter. I have weapons and survival training and am willing to share the fruits of my knowledge. Also in the market for reading material. Non-fiction.

☠ Blessed Be America, a nation reborn.

an option

Wildcard me! (He's anti-purge.)

FMV

[proscribed]

I don't have any weapons yet, but I have a few books. If you tell me what fmv means, I will give you one.

Credence Barebone | Fantastic Beasts

[proscribed]

Arrival

[Credence has never been surrounded by so many people all at once. To his left and right, in every direction, and all dressed in different styles of clothing. He would have felt misplaced if there weren't others in the same situation as he was. He's dizzy and sick and he doesn't know if that's from what the wizards did to him or if it was something these strangers have done.

He listens to the speech and he's reminded of the politicians from back home. They hadn't been kind or honest. He doesn't think this man is either.

Then it's over and they're told to choose. He already knows where he'll go. To the pro-purge side. While he doesn't want to hurt anyone, he can see that they have more money and can protect themselves better. Money buys a lot of things. They didn't say who they had to purge on, as long as they did it, and Credence is convinced that he can manage. He knows what he's going to do but he speaks with the others in the warehouse anyway.]

Hello, I'm Credence.

[He hesitates to extend a hand, not wanting anyone to see the scars on his palm.]

Wildcard

[Open to anything. In the limo or at the party.]

[freiheiten]

[Manners.....another weird thing that he isn't use too. Or maybe it's because he never uses them that they are odd to him. Either way he extends his hand out and gives him a shake.]

Levi.

[His eyes glance at the young man up once and then down. He wasn't sure about this kid. He didn't seem like he could harm a house fly. Levi notices how he is dressed. He seemed somewhat well off if he is in a suit, but looking for he sees the tatters, the worn cloth, and the fixed stitches. It's old, but decently taken care of. Still, the young man would have been an odd sight in Wall Maria dressed like that.]

Are you from here, Credence?

Levi | Attack on Titan

[freiheiten]

Hotel.

[This is just....odd. Levi isn't use to this. He feels out of place and for a moment he things maybe he made the wrong decision. Not because he is having second thoughts about killing, he's killed people for less at home. He just feels so awkward and odd knowing that here the blood on his hands gets him food, shelter, and a better way of life.

It's like living in behind the safety of wall Sina, but the way in was just a bit redder. He wonders for a moment if the others would do the same, Hange would probably yell at him, Eren would judge him, and Mikasa might understand. His decisions were his own though, there was no going back now.

He takes a glass of something as the waiter passes, and it's just as he takes a drink he notices that someone else is right by him. He makes eye contact for a moment and then pushes the glass to his lips.]

Why didn't you take the bus?

[It isn't his business, but color him curious.]