cityarcade | [meme] test drive

Rose Marshall is back again. It looks like spring is wearing into summer, and summer can be a tough season for hitching. People worry less about passing her by when the weather is mild. And while they're less likely to need whatever outerwear they might have to hand — and a little more ready to lend it — they're also more likely to think she's nuts for claiming to want it in the first place. So she dresses herself in something that could be a little too light for even this weather: cutoff denim shorts and the memory of Gary's white undershirt, timeless enough that people don't tend to question it. Just a regular teenager who made a dumb wardrobe choice, right?

And then she starts walking, eyes out for someone who looks like they might be a soft touch.

Wendy Christensen

Yelena Belova

Dr. Michael Robinavitch

Bellara Lutare trips and very nearly falls, her foot catching in the gap between paving stones, her attention catching and sticking on the unfamiliar skyline. She throws her hands out to steady herself with a low gasp and comes to a stop, still staring. The architecture here is like nothing she's seen before, and that's just the very beginning of the input threatening to overwhelm her.

"What?" she says finally, soft but sharply enunciated, heedless of the people that are moving around her.

Not exactly a familiar face, but familiar nonetheless. Norah feels vaguely drawn to the girl in a way that's starting to become recognizable. She's met more ghosts now than she could once have imagined.

So many of them children, which is painful to consider and difficult to engage, but so it goes, apparently. She approaches, catching the girl's eyes — or perhaps they've caught hers. "Hello?" she says. It is best to start simple.

The girl is entirely underdressed for the weather, and Larita feels comfortable guessing that she's new. The alternative is that she's stupid, and for all that Lari can't deny that it's a possibility no matter who the person is or how old, she isn't especially prone to thinking ill of someone out the gate. In her opinion, everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt at least once. Even teenage girls in cutoff denim shorts and a-line shirts.

Lari brakes, slowing the car so she can pull over, and she throws the shift into 'park.' The car's top is down, the windows open, to enjoy the fresh breeze, but it's still just chilly enough that she's glad for the hat and light jacket she'd donned this morning.

And doubly glad that at least one of these, she can offer the girl.

"Where on Earth are you from that wearing that was seasonably appropriate?" she asks, draping her arm across the back of the passenger seat.

She's wearing some sort of metal gauntlet, stretched from shoulder to fingers, which is strange enough to catch Tom's eye. It's her remarkable hair, facial tattoos and the long, acutely pointed ears that really capture his attention, though.

He tries not to stare, as a rule: staring often invites people to stare at him, and he's spent so much of his life trying to avoid the attention of strangers out of self-preservation. Robin called it camouflage: his tweed jackets, his smartly parted hair, the thicker-than-strictly-necessary frames on his glasses, all of it was engineered to make himself appear utterly unremarkable, unmemorable and, most importantly, easily overlooked.

Since coming to Darrow, that's changed, of course. It has taken years — every single hour of every single day of the nearly four years he's been here, in fact — and it hasn't been without its obstacles and setbacks. But now, his hair is gently mussed from its perfect part and he's in a simple lightweight jacket over a tee, and sometimes he even holds Daniel's hand in public. Now is not one of those times, as he's alone when he spots the young woman as she trips and nearly falls, and he's just offered a quiet 'Oop' before she catches herself, and that's when he sees the gauntlet and the hair and the ears — and, finally, the look of confusion on her face.

"Ah..." he adds, realizing exactly what he's seeing. "I think I can explain, Miss...?"

Well, now. Dowd's my name, Elwood P. Let me give you my card.

Women don't often stop for her. Some combination of stranger-danger paranoia and a fear that whatever put her on the road might be contagious, that they'll end up in the margins by association. They especially don't stop for her in a 1937 Frazer Nash BMW, and Rose forgets herself enough to actually gape for a moment. It's a spectacle so far out of time that she really ought to be looking at a phantom rider, but no — the woman behind the wheel isn't a road ghost. And while the car looks well-loved enough to leave a ghost of her own, her tires sit firmly on the daylight asphalt.

Rose blinks, then looks down at her outfit as if she's only just realized how inappropriate it is, taking the moment to gather herself. "Not here," she replies with a small, sheepish shrug. "I was on my way to..."

She trails off, her smile fading and her gaze going distant. All she'd done was reach for the road, trying to gauge where she was and where she might reasonably be going to, to spin a quick lie about her last ride and why they'd left her here, but this road has next to nothing to tell her, terminates in nothing a few miles in either direction. She stands on a little orphaned tributary cut off from the rivers of asphalt that cross North America, dwindling too quickly into thick-baked mud.

Where the hell is she?

She tries to drop into the twilight, to find the nearest ghostroad and run. She doesn't go anywhere. The woman is staring at her in clear concern.

"I, uh," Rose balls her hands into cold little fists and loosens them, veering unsteadily off-script. "I think I might be lost?"

Rose has been running through the onion-skin layers of the twilight long enough to have seen a lot, and to know she hasn't seen everything. That she can't immediately categorize the ghost approaching her (not a road ghost, not a homestead, not a haunt) doesn't have to be alarming. Said ghost appears lucid and peaceful — at least for the moment — and that's a hell of a lot more than can be said for some.

"Hey." Rose offers a cautious nod, keeping her posture loose and nonthreatening. "Are you one of the locals?"

Something about the way she carries herself, holds her arms relative to her sides, makes him recognize their likeness. A killer knows a killer.

Or, y'know, it might be her military gear.

"Hey," he calls, making sure he's in her peripheral vision, empty hands obvious. If she's a new arrival, it might be wise for someone to greet her who's trained in deescalation. "You okay?"

"I should say so," Lari agrees after the girl's verbal stumbling. She gives her a sympathetic smile, then reaches over and opens the car door. "Hop in, won't you? Goodness, you look frigid."

She leans back into her own seat and unbuttons her jacket — a lightweight enough thing to weather the ups and downs of Darrow's uncertain spring without being too overwarm should the sun come out in full force — and offers it over by the collar.

"Put this on," she instructs. "It isn't much but it's more than you've got on now. I'm Larita. And this is Darrow. The city, not the car." She winks; the admiring gape hadn't escaped her notice, but it has done wonders to ingratiate the girl towards her. Anyone that can appreciate a car like Larita's is someone Larita is just fine knowing.

[Performance Reliability: 89%]

Murderbot

Edited 2025-05-17 02:22 (UTC)

Ruslan still doesn't like the looks of this place. Or the smell, with his heightened wolf senses and the way he can't sense the rest of his pack here.

[ A rumpled-looking, dreamy-eyed man approaches, his gait meandering, shoulders loose. Over one arm is a suitcoat and hat — similar to the suitcoat and hat he's wearing. He stops beside the long-haired individual and looks around, an easygoing smile on his face. ]

Good afternoon! Dowd's my name, Elwood P. And with whom might I have the pleasure of speaking, on this fine day?

This isn't quite how these scenes are supposed to go. Rose isn't above accepting the living's pity, and she can't deny it now; if the twilight won't have her, then this is what she needs to do. Hell, she's already doing it: sliding into the passenger seat and taking the coat with soft but sincere thanks, feeling mortality settle into her limbs as she pushes her arms through the sleeves. The upholstery is warm beneath her — the car, like its driver, inclined towards sympathy — and it begins to thaw a little of the twilight chill out of her bones.

But she doesn't do lost, is the thing. It sits a little too close to 'pathetic' for her liking. She's supposed to know where she's headed, or seem like she does... but there's no scent of lilies and ashes on the wind, no sense of direction from the ghostroads. And while 'Darrow' sounds like it could be anywhere, she can't say she's heard of it.

"I'm Rose," she says, managing a smile, trying to claw her way back into an approximation of confidence. "Does the car have a name, too? She's pretty enough to deserve one." Loved enough, is what she really means, and she briefly rests her fingertips on the polished wooden window frame.

Norah lets out a soft huff of a laugh at that. "In a manner of speaking," she says. "I suppose you could say I've become part of the locality, through no choice of mine." She gives the girl a considering look. She seems to be sizing her up, or keeping an eye out for something. It's difficult to tell if this is good caution on the part of a child meeting a stranger, or something else.

"My name is Norah," she says after a moment, then hesitates. Does this girl know she's dead? She's a little bit translucent right now, so she may as well cross that line first: "I am a ghost."

Bellara blinks up at the human addressing her. Human isn't a very useful identifier, she notes. Everyone she can see is human. It's a little unnerving, but at least this one seems nice.

"Um," she says. "Could you? Explain what, I mean? That is, I do need an explanation, but I want to be sure it's the same thing as whatever you're talking about. Bellara. That's me, I mean. Sorry." She pauses to catch her breath, reaching up with both hands to push strands of loosened hair nervously behind her ears. "There's a lot going on here."

Oh, wow! Thank you! [She clutches the card, staring at it before looking back at him.] Should I have a card? I never really thought about it before, but it seems kind of useful. Um. Sorry. I'm Bellara Lutare. Should I call you Dowd, or Elwood? Or Elwood P? Or Mr. Dowd?

Edited 2025-05-20 04:46 (UTC)

[ Ruslan blinks at him in quiet bewilderment, and glances briefly to the side, as if the man might be speaking to someone else — Mahan, maybe, or Khan, though neither one is here. ]

Oh, I... I'm Ruslan, sir. Mister Elwood?

"You know, I haven't thought much about it before now," she admits. Her eyes soften a little. "You like cars, do you? It's not often I meet a like-minded girl." She grins and checks her mirrors before getting them back on the road.

Elwood's just fine, Miss Lutare, just fine, or Mr. Dowd, if you'd prefer. Now if you should call me, use this number; don't use this number, that's the old one. And it's a fine day, isn't it? [ He beams, looking around with pleasure that gives way slowly to puzzlement before he turns a smile back to Miss Lutare. ] I don't suppose you've seen Harvey, have you?

Ruslan! What a fine and unique name you have. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ruslan. Call me Elwood, please. Now— I don't suppose you could assist me, could you? I find I'm at a disadvantage. You see, I've lost track of a very dear friend of mine, and I'm finding I'm unfamiliar with this area of town.

[ Said with all the flat, skeptical affect of a 'troubled' teenage boy: ]

...What's the card for?

[meme] test drive

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Harvey

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Let me know if I should change anything!

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