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purgeooc2017-04-27 01:56 pm
foundingfathers) wrote in purgeooc2017-04-27 01:56 pm
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test drive meme #001
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. 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. |
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. |
Ronan Lynch | The Raven Cycle
[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
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. ]
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[If Gansey had been there, he probably would have snapped, one of his Ronan that he meant as a warning. But Gansey wasn't here, nobody was. Nobody to try and rein in Ronan's worst tendencies.
Perfect.]
The lack of specificity is getting to me. [Ronan did not lie, and he truly disliked the lack of knowledge. Like a bad dream - not a nightmare, but a dream where things are fuzzy, and he can't grasp at them. The alcohol usually helps, but not right now, because he's not, actually, sleeping.
What a shame that is.] What a strange game we seem to have agreed to play.
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Have you tried asking anyone? [ Ivor prefers the blunt approach; no one is going to give them answers if they don't try. Texting is so tedious too, and he misses the ease of his comp band. Maybe he could figure out how to make it work if he had time and the right equipment. ] It's more politics than a game. Killing is just another tool for them to use.
[ Like us. But it's only implied, not said. He still doesn't know if anyone from that warehouse had chosen this side for reasons similar to his own or simply because they enjoyed killing; it was a fine line to walk. ]
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This is the same kind of night, charged with electricity and violence is dripping from every surface. He wonders if guns are going to be produced, if night horrors are lurking in the shadows.
Probably not; this is not a dream, after all.]
A sword's never the killer. It's a tool in the killer's hand. [Words he'd been told. The same idea his new acquaintance had, in different words.] Politics are a game, man. The kind of game the populace - [He waves a finger between the two of them,] - never wins.
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[ Because it's what drives people crazy, what makes them believe things that are never true. It's why some of the colonies are so eager to turn kids over to a cause that's nothing but feeding them to the creatures of deep space, why they think it's for something they would inevitably come back from and - in reality - never would. It serves no purpose other than that, and Ivor wonders how easy it'll be to remember when they make them kill to "cleanse themselves" of whatever sins they have. ]
But I can play their game for a while. If anyone tells me something, I'll pass the information on. [ A soft sigh, and there's a brief pause where he takes one of the glasses a server passing by offers him. Something like this would be too expensive to afford back home; if he wanted it, he'd have to steal it. Here, they're just giving it away without a care. ]
What's your name?
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It's possible there are some exceptions, but he doubts he'd find any here.
He nods, not replying out loud - no point to divulge plans to possible eavesdropping. Ronan was used to being wary and distrustful, and for once, it would probably come in handy. Just like his tendency to want to use his fists more than his words.]
Ronan. Lynch. You?
speeches!
( oh what's that? sarcastic statements that didn't really call for a response? in a room full of people, half openly gaping at those stepping towards the left hand door, and the rest an awkward jumble of excitement and internal anguish that are just begging to be released via snappy backtalk? not happening.
not that clarke has any moral high ground to stand on, she's made the same choice here. has her reasons, has her vaguely formulating plans, has her war with her conscious playing out on the space between her eyebrows, and is sure they differ from everyone else's. but in the end they're standing by the same door. she's just not bothering to fake a smile about it.
her face is red with a solid mixture of frustration and emotional duress, and her eyes are swimming with tears that just won't let up, but haven't insisted on making tracks down the dirt and sweat caked on her cheeks just yet. her chest is bloody from collar bone down to the hem of her shirt, and it still looks wet. long story short, she's a great big hot mess right now, and has no interest in his sardonic anecdotes. )
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There's a part of Ronan that immediately, instinctively, likes her. It's a strange feeling, one Ronan isn't used to having.]
Well, nice to see you found civilization again, Marina Chapman.
[It's not the place to actually ask her where she's coming from, to be looking like that. And there's also the fact that Ronan doesn't really care. It doesn't matter, it has no impact on where they are now.
The image they must make, right now, the feral girl with her crazy hair and blood-soaked clothes, next to him, in his Aglionby sweater and shiny shoes. Yet both of them sharp, angry, simmering under the surface.]
Let's hope they let you shower.
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another time, a place literally anywhere but here, clarke might have laughed. a short little huff of humor and a tiny smile, that sort of laugh.
but humor might as well exist solely on another planet right now. she's got her eyes fixed on the door in front of them, above the heads of their escort as they wait for the final few to make their decision and the join the crowd; let's the silence stretch between them so long that it almost seems like the conversation is done before — )
I wasn't raised by capuchin monkeys.
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It's very possible that after this conversation, he will never see, nor hear from her again, and that suits him just fine. He's not here to make friends - he's not been good at it, really, since his father died, not has he cared to even try. His friends had been thrust upon him, really, which didn't feel all that different from his current situation.]
Ah. Wolves, then.
[She might not be in the mood for his sardonic replies, but that's all he's got in store, right now. He hopes they're not supposed to murder each other, because he might be in danger, otherwise.]
Seriously though, they're going to let you shower, right? Your smell alone will warn everyone you're coming for them otherwise.
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I don't smell.
( a statement that leaks out between gritted teeth, and has her hackles raising just for the sake of raising; a perfectly legitimate response to a stupid conversation in a tense situation. but under all the ruffled feathers, she probably does a bit. smell like blood and carnage, sweat and the musk that came from riding around in rovers with teenagers literally sweating bullets and fear. maybe a little mud and rainwater and gunpowder beneath all that — all together a scent she and those around her at home have grown too familiar with to even notice anymore. the apocalypse hadn't exactly seen to spare the deodorant.
she'll sniff her shirt and feel self conscious later, if not never. but with an ounce less feeling, more composure, she jerks her chin towards the escorts seemingly counting heads in preparation of releasing them. )
Guess we're about to find out.
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[To him, it's a very sharp, obvious scent. Maybe she's grown too used to it to realize, but in his head, it's a heady scent of forest and rain and fear - all kind of smells he's used to, on himself, permeating Cabeswater, on his friends. A metallic hint to it, like a cut on your lip you can't stop licking.
She was obvious to him, but he wouldn't say it. He was pretty certain she'd knee him in the balls if he did, if he pointed out the little chinks he could see in her armor, and it would most definitely clash with his determination to not show interest.
He straightens up when he sees her motion and sees the guards - he couldn't tell if they were military.]
Hm. Don't bite anyone.
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Don't worry, I'll try not to sit next to you.
( what's that? a glimpse of could-be humor, if only she didn't sound quite so cagey and serious about everything? maybe.
they're hustled through the door in a rather morose line, and outside there's sunlight. outside there's building, and gum on the pavement, birds on telephone wires, and cars nicer than any she's ever ridden in; old world technology that's nowhere near advanced as the ark, but still manages to look sleek and pristine. the old romantic in her, the one that had pored over books in history, had drawn landscapes and trees and cities on her cell walls, had dreamed of earth since she was a child almost wants to stop on the sidewalk and look around, gaze at everything that wasn't destroyed or covered in moss, and try to determine how traveling back through time fit in with this sick game as well.
but her love for things as insignificant as warehouse paneling and distant cranes had died a while ago. these new surroundings are filed away to be dissected with interest at a later date, when she was alone — and had showered, thank you very much, rude stranger.
clarke's eyes dart around like she's thinking about making a run for it all the way up until she's clambering into the back of the limousine, making a light mess of the recently detailed interior with the dirt off her shoes. and maybe, while she can be flatly humorous in times of high pressure, the universe can be down right hilarious — because of course she winds up in a corner of a tightly packed car with her new best friend that somehow knows how to push 80% of her buttons. )
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The limos, when they get out of the warehouse, don't bother him either. He doesn't like them - he doesn't like not being able to drive his own car, misses the feeling of a steering wheel under his hands already. But he's not delusional, either. There's nothing unexpected about the cars, and about being pushed into the back of one, lowly growling at his manhandling escort.
Of course the girl is in the same car as him. He grits his teeth as he settles in the car as best he can, the leather creaking under him. It smells like new - like a car dealership and a gross salesman with clammy hands wearing a garish shirt. It smells like it needs to burn, and Ronan takes a deep breath, biting that frayed part on the inside of his cheek, where his teeth keep on going back to.
The girl, funnily enough, smells better than the new car.]
Guess you didn't try very hard, huh?
[It's the same humor as hers; barely there, sharp and angry. A distant image of what it could be. They're pressed against each other, from shoulder to knee, the window on her other side and some guy on his other side. It's making Ronan want to escape inside his own head.]
You gonna play along with their game? [It's a whisper, meant only for her, his head turned towards hers. They're closer than he'd like, but while they are, might as well ask the kind of question he's certain she's not going to want to answer.]
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pressing as far against the car paneling as she can and trying her hardest to disconnect with people isn't enough in such close quarters. not when her sullen neighbor she'd tried to avoid half heartedly can all but whisper in her hear without moving his head. one would think with the extravagance of limousines, they could have at least gotten a few more so tempers didn't raise and no one preemptively "purged" out of desperation for a little elbow room. but their benevolent hosts had lacked that foresight, and when clarke turns her gaze from the window to look him dead in eye for the first time, they're left at an alarming proximity.
too close. he can see the several different shades the crescent bruise under her right eye has become in the stages of heeling. the remnants of red hair dye on the baby blonde hairs under her ears. the hot, angry tears that are swimming across her eyes but refusing to fall just yet. )
I need to go home. ( actual. simple. absolutely desperate under a quickly cracking veneer of composure, and preemptively defensive. yanno, like one would be when justifying their willingness to kill random people for a one way ticket back to a war zone.
it's the only reason she has; a good one that still doesn't sound good enough when voiced aloud. )
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He looks down at his own, the fingers of a dreamer. Soft. He can fight, but he doesn't have the calluses to prove it. He has the gas, inside his belly, sloshing with every step he takes, coating his insides, but he doesn't have the match to light it up.
He doesn't know if he can do this, and even less when he looks at someone like her, with her wild hair and the wild look in her eyes. The determination there. She's a caged animal that will do anything to get out. She reminds him of Chainsaw.]
We all do. [He replies through gritted teeth, pointedly not looking at her now. It's obvious in the tone of her voice that it means she'll do whatever it takes. Ronan wishes he could be the same. His jaw clenches again, the muscle jumping. If she's willing to do anything, she might be a good ally to have.] Look. You help me, I'll help you.
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still, on the list of things she'd expected to next hear out of his mouth, silence had been the top runner. another useless barb at her appearance close in second place. that offer? not even a contender, and clarke's face melts into confusion. almost unpleasant surprise. )
I don't know you.
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[He swallows hard, bitterness and bile and terrible, dark words that would help nothing. She needs to go home, but so does he; he has no idea about Matthew's state right now - is he asleep without Ronan around to dream life into him? His nostrils flare, as he turns towards her again, his fingers digging into his knees, this side of painful. A reminder he's alive. He's alive, so Matthew should be.]
I'm not asking you to trust me. But I gain nothing going against you. Do you think you'll gain anything going against me?
[Maybe she does. But if her ultimate goal is home, home, then they would be better allies than they would be enemies. Ronan closes his eyes for a second, just lets the memory of the Barns wash over him, green grass and placid cows, lit up flowers and socked feet stomping up and down stairs; Adam - before he blinks, teeth hurting with how hard he's gritting them.]
We both want the same thing.
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but that barely controlled anger is familiar.
(that fear, too.)
and perhaps the scariest part of clarke griffin, beyond her current, war torn appearance, is just how much she cares. for her family, for her friends; for the rather broken young people that tend to swarm around her knees and clamor to be protected. it's not so hard to blink a few times, and see him as one of them. and misgivings aside, she will always hold a candle of sympathy for anyone sent anywhere just to kill or die. that tight pinch in her face relaxes a little, like she's seeing and relating to him for the first time as something real, a person. even if he's no longer staring her in the face, he can hear her voice soften, no longer choked on the desperation swarming all her senses. )
It's still a little early to start making alliances before we know what's fully expected of us.
( but even murphy had surprised her. he'd cut down her mother's noose. and tentative introductions did not a blood pact make, so there really wasn't any harm. )
But my name's Clarke.
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But Clarke felt like someone useful. He wasn't about to start telling her his secrets and how his help could be invaluable to her if she wanted it, but he could be perfectly fucking civil.]
Ronan. [He doesn't say it's nice to meet you, because he's not a liar.]
I think we know enough. You expect many more tricks?
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in her imperfect but right world, they never would have met at all. )
Who knows. Maybe we have to kill each other first.
( she doesn't gesture, but means the occupants of their limo, and the one or two trailing behind it. all of them, every one who choose the same door; maybe the next step was to be dropped off in some sort of gladiator arena and be forced to fight to the death to prove they were worthy of participating in this game. she hadn't taken a single word of that chancellors speech to heart, found all of the explanation wanting. and fully expected another curveball to be thrown at them — and soon.
nothing in life had been as simple and straight forward as this. not in a long, long time. )