Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Dead Man's Letters

[FloraRead]

Ugh… your head.​

Do you have it on your shoulders?

[]What?
[]No, it's in the toilet.
[]I've lost my head.
[]Does anyone have a head, really?
[x]Of course!

Ah, yes, you have your head on your shoulders. What a very normal thought. Nothing abnormal about not having a head on your shou— you do have it. So… why can't you ever remember getting it? More importantly, why can't you remember getting here? Who are you? Why are you here? Where is here…?

Oh. It's a hotel room. But it looks bad, alright. Although bad would be a horrible indicator of just how poorly this place has ended up. The windows outside the bathroom are covered up in newspapers. The walls are trashed. Someone must have been trying to write with smeared ink on the walls. Pen ink. A shattered pen conveniently rests beside the bathtub. The writing is illegible.

The newspapers have had someone paint on them a very shitty looking American Flag. Patriotism? No time to ponder on that, you're wet? Why? Oh, because you're shoulder deep in water in a bathtub.

Bathtub, yes, bathtub. You've woken up alone. No ice cubes, but you're in water. In underwear, or with underwear? It's stuck to you, regardless. Black and plain but very damp. What else is there… oh. Yeah. The electrical iron! And the TV. and also, two microwaves. All unplugged, thankfully. Otherwise that phone would have made you dance. Really dance. Until you dropped in the water. But… you're not dancing, or being electrocuted so you must still be alive. So alive you must be… name.

Name name name. Well, you don't have o—what? What's that? You do? Oh, okay! That just must be you, then.

The name of this body is Cata Ventos and for now, it is your name. This is the body you inhabit. There are tattoos on your body. One on the upper right shoulder. You are latina. Yes. Not quite pale. With a nice suntan. Breasts, not much. More brain that boob on this one.

Somehow, this disappoints you.

You get a feeling that this is not something new.

Well… there has to be more to this place, right?

There has to be more to you, as well.

What is it that you do?

[] Get out of the bathtub.
[] Examine your surroundings further.
[] Examine yourself further

 

[FloraRead]

Allies

Spoiler: Cata Ventos (AKA: YOU)

「Deus Online」

On first sight, it only seems to be an extra body, and the ability to ignite things. However! The fire would appear to contain images of what that past object has lived through. It mostly heats just the object it's used on, and the flame seems not to produce heat otherwise. The longer it burns, the more images it reveals.

Something tells you this is not all there is to it. You may need to experiment some more.

Story

You just woke up. This might be you! You don't remember anything other than your name. You may have drawn in your very early youth. You want to figure out what is the cause of this amnesia with your only maybe-friend, Christine Fleetwood.

---

Physical Description

You have numerous piercings:

• Earring on your right ear, gold, in the style of a drawing you think you made in youth.
• Belly button piercing, made of titanium with pink zircon crystals in the shape of a butterfly on the top end. It looks rather pretty

You have numerous tattoos:

• A Monochrome tattoo of a snake curled up on roses on your right thigh. It's rather large, and faces the world.
• Waves under your left rib. Done in the style of an artist you cannot recall. Turquoise and black outlines, with dark blue filling.
• On the sternum, a flaming heart. It small, and more long than it is tall. A simple black outline with white fire and more black lines.
• A view through a window on your right arm. It shows a city under a mountain on a coast, there's a lot of trees, and a lot of blue, and a mountain that sticks out like a thumb from the coast. It's a view of Rio De Janeiro, though you barely remember the place. It feels like home.

You have normal hair (black), which is curly, and goes down to your shoulders, if not a little further down below. You think any other hair colours are abnormal and people with them should be teased to no end. Your eyes are a very dark shade of brown, almost black, but in the light, they seem to glimmer a sort of coffee colour.

For clothes, you are wearing a long shirt with a giant bow on the back made of translucent white cloth, which clinches around your waist. It opens up at the bottom at back, but if it wasn't for that, it could pass for a dress. It's short sleeved, though it seems to give the illusion of having another shirt underneath, due to the presence of a second cuff slightly further away from the first, but you love it nonetheless. The bow is large enough to almost look like a windmill on you, though it's made of soft enough material that it sags quite a bit, and sitting with it isn't terribly uncomfortable.

You're wearing thin, grey, Culotte jeans. Not only do they have deep pockets, which you love, but a secondary deep pockets attached to the knee, which are also rather deep. As it's rather loose, you keep it firmly secured with a long piece of black Chiffon tied into a perfectly pretty bow, slotting right into the spot where your shirt splits. Under these, you are wearing stripped black and white socks, and these go firmly and cosily into a pair of Air Jordan 1's, the original deal from 1985. The Low Variety. Metallic Blue.

To top it all of, there's a wide-brimmed, yellow straw hat with a black band on the base of the the very floppy crown, sewn onto the hat itself. The loose end flows freely downwards. There's a voile chin strap, which ends in a a fairly small bow.

State

There's something akin to a dull ache all over your body. You have collected a wide array of injuries.

• The sclera of both of your eyes is reddened. As if you had been smoking weed. The stinging isn't too bad.
• You would have had a pierced left ear. But whatever piercing was there was ripped off. The injury is infected, and it doesn't look pretty. At least both halves fused well enough. It may need draining.
• Two fingernails of your left foot are missing. Middle and ring. They really hurt. If it wasn't for the migraine, it'd be debilitating.
• A nasty gash, at least half a centimetre deep, runs down the hind-side of your right thigh. It's been stapled shut. Due to a mix of Christine's power not removing the staples, they have remained in your skin. They may need to be removed to avoid an infection.
• You have a few minor cuts on your forearms. Like landing on glass, or sharp pavement, or something else. Maybe blocking someone from stabbing you with a shaving razor? The thought amuses you.

These have all been treated by your one and only maybe/friend's Ability, but they're not healed fully for now. If she were to retrieve Gold Dust Woman from your injuries, you have no doubt they'd go back to hurting lots.

Your thinking is sluggish. You may have a concussion. Or the worst hangover. Pick your poison.

Spoiler: Christine Fleetwood (AKA: VERY ALIVE WOMAN)

「Gold Dust Woman」

A ghost! Made of gold! Sure, she's see-through, almost, but. But! She's pretty! Your first thought when seeing her was "wow".

To quote your memories...
"Gold. That's the first thing that comes to mind. Robot is the next. Followed by ghost. You already knew she was a lady. Golden robotic ghost woman. Segmented fingers that almost feel hollow, a body wrapped in almost silk. Purple, and see-through, it barely hides the scaffolding underneath. It comes like sleeves and pants, as well, melding back into the joins. White joints, like marble, with red not-quite-screws shaped like hearts on each of them. A thorax made of immaculately fabricated metal, blooming into a shape most resembling a scarab, with enough room for an undoubtedly feminine bust to form. Like a knight in golden armour, if the armour was her body. The hips are more of the same. The head… It's almost organic, with her golden-yellow braid merging into her spine as it travels downwards, filling in the gaps where the scaffolding in her neck may have been seen. Slits in the metal mask hide fleshier, livelier eyes, also made of the same material as everything else, yet, moving around as if they were organic, and fleshy."

Her ability seems to be...

• The ability can "fill in" spaces with parts of the stand, not Christine herself.
• If a part that is filled is damaged in any way the damage goes back to her.
  • Even if she pulls back the material, the damage received remains.
• She can pull back the filling at any time that she desires, reverting the changes (though some lingering effects remain on living material).
• Something doesn't need to have been connected to another thing to be "filled", it just needs to be the same object (or have been? Unsure. Maybe experiment in a bit?)

Story

So far, you're trying to piece it all together with her. Both of you woke up in this hotel room, almost nude, with a corpse wrapped in blankets on the bed, and with light to mild injuries. She's treated both of your injuries, but wether of not they're merely paused or completely healed is up to chance.

---

Physical Description

Caucasian, strawberry blonde woman of average musculature, though rather broad shoulders. She may be strong enough to carry you! Her eyes are blue, and she keeps her hair in a braid, though it's rather messy, as of recent. She's got freckles on her forearms, back, legs, chest, and face. Most numerous on her face.

She has three piercings, all on her face.

• Nose piercing on right nostril. Simple silver stud.
• Earlobe earrings. Golden nail shape. Stud-sized.

You think her face is rather pretty. Well defined features, round chin, prominent, bushy eyebrows. She may need a trim, but you like it like that. You're jealous of how shapely she is. Possibly a cup bigger than your own.

She's currently wearing... a bone-white blouse with wide sleeves and a black-purple bow, golden toast-brown vest on top probably stolen from a renaissance fair. Worn black pants with opened up ends at the bottom and a pair of golden round, empty bells held around her belt, hanging freely. And to top it off, plain black socks to go with her flat-heeled, pointed boots.

You'd describe it as "vampire-ish" or "dapper" (according to you). Seeing her with that outfit made impure thoughts spring up despite already knowing how she looks with her underwear.

State

Patched up. Though the injuries may come back if her second-self fades away. Her injuries are as follow:

• Gash on the arm, very recent.
• Two distinct bruises on her forehead.
• Burnt cheek.
• Lacerations across arms, forearms, initially treated by not being treated at all.
• Her abdomen has been sewn shut hastily. It's a nasty looking cut running from one hip to the other, like a semicircle. The string is still in there, and may need to be removed to avoid an infection later.

---

Unknown

Spoiler: Broken Stand?

「Eyes Without A Face」

Too many unknowns to tell.

Story

This stand definitely has something to do with you and Christine's past.

---

Physical Description

To quote your memories...
"There was a figure that followed him silently. All cracked. Blue. Squarish. Silver, maybe. Missing most of its face. It looks like a ghost. Like a Stand. Black hair like a starry sky, trailing like a mane. It possibly looked more corpulent in the past. But that more natural, organic frame has little to no left, revealing wiring and piping underneath. You dread to think what the owner of it looked like, if this was the state of it."

State

Maybe dead? But that doesn't explain just how it moved with such grievous injuries...

Spoiler: Mousey Face Guy?

「Rat Taxi」?

Too many unknowns to tell.

Story

This guy and his stand definitely has something to do with you and Christine's past. Maybe an enemy?

---

Physical Description

To quote your memories...
"Hair brown, jacket brown, details too hazy to call clearer than that. Boring brown. Everything brown. A long, partially undone belt trails behind the jacket, like a tail; with untied boots no doubt 'clicking' at the floor."

Somewhat short, definitely stout. Blonde, though the almost-brown kind.

State

Definitely dead. Missing head and body wrapped under blankets.

 

[FloraRead]

Notes

You solemnly vow to stay away from birds, bees, flowers and everything related until you figure out what pregnancy has to do with those. Number of absolutely meaningless victories against Christine: 2. Number of her absolutely meaningless victories against you: 0. You seek to discover the identity of the rat man you saw using your Stand. You seek to discover the identity of the Stand without a face you saw while using your Stand. It was strong, powerful, and straightforward. It had injuries that should not be survivable. You get the feeling Deus Online is missing something to be most effective. You remember a few other things your twisted psyche slipped up about. Whatever situation you are in has been going on for a week now. Hopefully you're out of this mess before you get to it, because those last five days, and you're not eager to add period cramps into the mix of pains ailing your body. Click to shrink... And you might be a journalist Just another day in the life of a journalist… (leave the bathroom, cautiously) Click to shrink...

 

[FloraRead]

Something will be here.

You just wait.
It'll be a surprise.

 

[FloraRead]

Rules

​

Voting

Winner takes all. Except when ties happen, then I do a coin toss In real life or roll a virtual die if it's more of a two-way tie. Sometimes multiple options may be taken. This is always announced.

Schedule

Varies between the complexity of the post. I haven't included a timeframe for this first one, but it's one day. Longer posts may take up to five days to determine an action. Hiatuses are to be expected depending on my real life availability.

Combat

Rolls are determined by drama, and not displayed. Simple D100 system, with Success at 60. Strategy matters more than straight up power. If one character would die, they'll usually be disabled instead and allow another character to take centre stage. If all characters are disabled by combat- that's it. Quest over.

Encounters

To put it plainly: I will fuck with you. Weird things may happen which have no bearing on the plot or happen to be stand attacks. Caution is advised regardless. Just don't expect everything to be there to progress the plot. Some is there to explore the characters, or the setting, or their abilities.

Investigations

Have no rolls, you are going in blind, and you probably don't want to be. When you see a write in, do try to make best possible use of it. Every answer has a solution, even if I didn't plan it so. Mess around, pick options that seem rather absurd! You may get something to help sooner or later.

Notes/Reminders

If you want something to be pinned at the start of the quest through thread marks, just add a sub-vote titled "NOTE:" under whatever option you selected. Add what you want to be remembered. The note will be numbered and placed on one of those saved posts up above (though I just woke up from bad sleep, so if I forgot to add a post, please forgive me if it's after this post.) If you want to remove a note, the magic words are "REMOVE NOTE (numberhere)". If you instead want to edit or add a subnote to that note, you just need to number the note to what you want to edit/add context too.

You can always add notes, and these can affect future interactions, so do try to make use of them!

---

Edit 1: Added Encounter Mechanics.

 

[FloraRead]

RIGHT! Self Examination

MUSIC​

How was it done again?

Well, you have a body, you have a mirror, and you look yourself over! Simple, right? Very. Now to find a mirror, there's one on the wall right there, ignore the head on the toilet, sorry, can't' talk right now, and get to looking yourself over.

Okay, so, head… very good! Your nose is split. Not broken, thankfully. But that's a nasty cut. As stated before, you are not caucasian. Deeply thankful for this face, you also note your eyes are a very dark shade of brown, almost inky black. The sclera is reddened. As if you had been smoking weed.

But weed is illegal! Right…? Eh, whatever. You have more body to look over. It doesn't even sting that bad.

You would have had a pierced left ear. But whatever piercing was there was ripped off. The ear seems to be healing… as well as it could be, given. It's definitely swollen, and warm to the touch. Infected, probably. Your right ear still has a gold-coloured stud. It's a custom of a drawing you made when you were a kid. Whoa! You made drawings as a kid. Maybe that's important to note down?

In the process of leaning over the sink you wince. Pain from the legs. Deep pain. Almost like burning, but not quite. Two fingernails of your left foot are missing, red scabs taking their place. They seem fresh. Just how did you lose them? Middle and ring finger. They really bloody sting! It makes your entire leg tingle.

And that's not all. Blood, mostly plasma, runs down your right leg. It takes a bit of effort to turn around to see it well in the mirror, but there's a gash, running up the backside of your thigh. It's been stapled shut, which also hurts. It hasn't healed well, being underwater all this time. Thankfully… it's not gotten infected… yet. You almost forgot to note the sick snake tattoo on the other side of the injured thigh. It's just a snake curled up on roses. It means something. You don't know what. Maybe a gang? Were you part of a gang?

Moving up, thankfully. Your abdomen is unharmed, but you do have a belly button piercing! You're very proud of it. Something tells you it got infected often while healing… but not anymore! It's a titanium stud with a pink zircon shaped like a heart on the tip. Aw… wait, how do you know the material? Maybe that's important? Maybe not.

Are you noting all of this down in your mind? There's a part of you which finds doing that deeply comforting. Questions, answers… you get the feeling you did that often. Hey! Another thing to write down.

You'll be halfway to real human by the time you leave the room. Identity, coming right up! Or maybe not. You can't build a personality out of factoids and injuries.

Thank whatever gods exist out in the world that you seem to be coming down from a high. Or an alcohol binge. Because the most notable pain is the killer headache you have right now. If you remembered having migraines, you're sure they'd all pale in comparison to this one.

Something tells you your cycle is not due for another four days. Hopefully you're out of this mess before you get to it, because those last five days, and you're not eager to add period cramps into the mix of pains ailing your body. Or could you?

[]Mess?
[]Okay that does sound pretty bad.
[]ISo I have a tough week?
[x]I'm a tough bitch. I'd live.
[]What is this mess you're talking about?

Right right right. Sure. Whatever.

Abdomen… and… uh… you get the feeling you are living in the first period of your life when you are not underweight. However, this came at the cost of having a bit of side belly. You avoid tight jeans for this reason. "It doesn't look that bad" said everyone ever but it doesn't, like, allow you to comprehend that. It's just noise. There's a tattoo under your left rib. Just some waves. They look pretty, you think. Stylized after an artist you do not recognize. A little splash of blue and green on your body.

Up… no lumps. No injuries. All good!

Above them, on the sternum, another tattoo. It's fire! For the fire in your heart. Or the outline of a heart on fire. Simple black on white whips outlined like ink on one of those ancient parchments for the fire.

Shoulders and arms… Tattoo on the upper left shoulder. Wow, you have quite a bit of ink there. It's the size of your palm, there. A picture of home, through a window. Though you don't recognize where home is. Maybe it's a childhood home…? To remember the family with… There's a few cuts in your forearms. They're accidental. Like crashing through a window. They must have been healed, once, but the scabs have gotten real soggy.

More so, your fingers and toes are prune-ey. At least your toes were above the water, so the scabs didn't slough off like everywhere else.

Your back is sore. You didn't sleep well, so everything else is sore as well. The headache pain dulls everything, though. So you're almost got a functional human body! Hooray?


[] Get out of the bathtub. You did that while self examining.
[] Examine your surroundings further.
[] Examine yourself further You've done that already…
[] Head in the toilet?
[] Write in. (You don't think too well yet).
[] Touch the floor.
[] Hypothesize on what got you here (Proceed)
-Write in here. (Three most voted alternatives pass)

---

………………………​

---

Timer for Vote: 1 Day (For EST, More or less hours applicable if I wake up or don't wake up.)

 

[FloraRead]

Looking around…

​

'Damn, I live like this?'
Are the thoughts of a sane person. Which you very much are not. You can barely even remember your own name, this disorder may as well be normal.

So to start… it's a minor miracle you did not cut your feet so far. There's bits of tiles all over the floor and near your feet. Why is this the case?

Well, there's holes in the wall. Lots of holes. Slightly bigger than fists. Like craters. Bullet holes of a more metaphysical variety. Many of them have blood. It's not yours; you'd think you'd have noticed being shot at by whatever caused them when you self examined, but that leads you to whom most likely was the target of these: hello, head of the toilet! The toilet basin is stained with a smear of dried blood. It was tossed there. Given the lid seems moved, the force used was certainly enough to rattle the entire object. Maybe even the floor.

It does not look good. More like… well, how would you describe this?

Abstract this for a moment, as to not scar your (developing) mind. Take a circle. Then deflate it slightly. That deflated orange, throw it around for a solid fifteen minutes until parts burst.

You can't even tell the hair colour of the owner, too caked in dried stuff. Just a severed head red and metallic and bad all over.

This won't stay in your dreams at all. You are not being sarcastic.

More craters on the floor. Surprisingly little blood in the bathroom. But there's a trail leading out, to that room with the covered windows and the american flag painted on the wall.

Do you head outside to the bedroom?

[x]Fuck yes, I'm invested.
[]Wait no, check it to make sure it's safe, first!
[]I feel safe here! (Lock yourself in the bathroom)
[]Leave this entirely.
[]Just another day in the life of a journalist… (leave the bathroom, cautiously)


Didn't someone claim bravery and stupidity are neighbours?

It's not your concern. This room is definitely not for regular habitation. It's not a bedroom, it's a hotel room. You feel accomplished for telling the difference. There's a kitchenette, though you seem to have stolen all electronics to dump them into the bathtub, except, perhaps, for the coffee machine.

Lovely coffee machine… beloved… but there's no coffee. That's been scattered all around.

When you find who did it, you have decided you'll kill them.

Also, you have decided that when you find out what's producing the smell of faeces, you'll kill it.

The closet has been opened with excessive force. Someone was tossed into there. It broke the hardwood doors. Given the trail of blood you've been following, the broken door was used as a saw. That's where most of the blood is, anyway. Dried and brownish, it makes the brown carpet look positively pristine by comparison. Big splatter, then a trail leading to the toilet basin, and into the bowl. Perfect score, if it were basketball. Maybe not, given it's a head. Would that count as legal in basketball? But it seems more kicked... tossed would imply pulling back one's arm, which would stain the roof. It's not stained here.

Walls, cratered again. Like someone missing gunshots. The owner of the mystery head must have really been hated to have been beaten down this bad.

A finger! Well, you can't tell what it's from… Caucasian, though it's uh. Yeah best not ponder on it too long, pretend it's a chicken bone. Given it's next to a crater, you'll assume the force of the impact ripped it off and maimed the hand.

The curtains are ripped off. Someone pasted newspapers on the windows instead (as you already noticed when you first woke up). You feel bad for whoever has to clean this up in a few hours or so. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

Or never.

Wouldn't that be a sight.

Here is where the first splatters of blood begin, coincidentally, with the craters present on the walls. Right next to the American flag, painted on the window.

The roof… ceiling… you don't know the name. Tiles? White squarey things? Those are tiles, right? Pretty sure they'd be tiles if they were on the floor or the ceiling. Yeah they've been moved. Roughly. Given there seems to be some red, you assume the body was tossed up with extraordinary strength. You take a few steps back as some decide to fall. Safety in the bedroom is paramount to any working relationship that has such activities. Right?

This bedroom doesn't feel safe.

There's an uninterrupted trail of craters and dried substance from the flag and the bedside table to the bathroom back to the closet before it splits in two. One ends in the toilet, roughly discarded. It won't flush.

The other follows the bigger puddles onto the bed. The bedside tables, untouched safe for the falling tiles, are missing phones and lamps, and you wonder where those are. There were no lamps in the bathtub. Maybe they never came with the room at all.

You have a sneaking suspicion what is hiding under the blankets, given the large red stain. Do you really want to do this?

Really? Really? Okay then. You won't judge yourself for any acts of temporary insanity that drive you.

Can you form a clear picture of what happened here? You're missing pieces still.


[] Get out of the bathtub. You did that while self examining.
[] Examine your surroundings further. You've done that already…
[] Examine yourself further You've done that already…
[] Head in the toilet? Found the owner! :3
[] Touch the corpse. (You will not uncover it. You also won't regret it. Maybe it's asleep.)
[] Talk with the corpse. (You will not uncover it. Out of respect for it's personal space.)
[] Uncover the corpse.
[] Look under the bed. (Check for monsters?)
[] Write in.
[] Touch the floor. It feels too icky to do it now. Why did you have this urge?

---

………………………​

---

Timer for Vote: 1 Day (Aprox.) (For EST, More or less hours applicable if I wake up or don't wake up.)

 

[FloraRead]

You clear your throat to talk to the corpse…

MUSIC​

Only to choke on your saliva immediately afterwards.

Coughing hurts. Your abdomen more than anything else. A reminder you didn't sleep well at all. Also that you haven't eaten. Whatever. Nothing wrong has ever come from talking to corpses. You check your mental notes to check if you have anything you could use to fabricate questions, but to no one's surprise, it's empty. Your memory only runs back a couple of minutes. Why would it be filled with anything?

Time to go through the checklist of questions you've thought to ask…

[x]Come around here often?
[]How did you become a corpse?
[]It's rather warm today, huh?
[]What year is it?
[]What is your name?
[]Why do I keep organising my thoughts like this?
[]Are all outcomes predetermined, or is free will a thing.
[]Did you paint the American flag?
[]What made the craters?
[]Are there monsters under the bed? How about the closet (this room has no closets)?


"So… come around here often?"

You lean on the window, looking casual, as one does while being in their underwear, and damp from sleeping shoulder deep under water.

There is no answer. Not a peep. Not a conversationalist, you see.

[]Come around here often?
[x]How did you become a corpse?
[]It's rather warm today, huh?
[]What year is it?
[]What is your name?
[]Why do I keep organizing my thoughts like this?
[]Are all outcomes predetermined, or is free will like,l a thing.
[]Did you paint the American flag?
[]What made the craters?
[]Are there monsters under the bed? How about the closet (this room has no closets)?


"How did you become a corpse?"

Trying to preserve the ambience of utter… something. Carelessness? Apathy? You look at your fingernails. Being soaked all night did them no favours. Maybe you should paint them when you get the chance.

For all its merits, the corpse keeps up the tough guy persona. You can't even tell their gender because they don't even make as much as a sound, or even have the gall to introduce themselves.

Tough cookie… you may need to pull out the big guns: shamelessly begging. On your knees, by the bedside.

"Please? Pretty please? Answer me? I promise if you utter an eep of how you ended up headless and wrapped in a blanket I promise, promise, promise, I'll leave you alone!"

Not. A. Sound.

Asshole.

You skip several questions. Maybe you shouldn't have kneeled. That gash is annoyed again. It makes your entire leg buzz in complaint. Whatever. You stand up regardless.

[]Come around here often?
[]How did you become a corpse?
[]It's rather warm today, huh?
[]What year is it?
[]What is your name?
[]Why do I keep organizing my thoughts like this?
[]Are all outcomes predetermined, or is free will like, a thing.
[x]Did you paint the American flag?
[]What made the craters?
[]Are there monsters under the bed? How about the closet (this room has no closets)?

Sunken cost fallacy is what is driving you at this point. You may be here for hours. Days! Even. There's bound to be food nearby. Or you could like… Eat the corpse. Rescue a couple of electronics from the bath-tub… maybe boiled…

You stop when you realize you're seriously considering cannibalism. You don't even remember table-side manners, how are you supposed to eat?

You say to yourself: "Stop."

So you stop.

Right, what question are you going to ask? Ah, right, the flag. Yeah. It's on the window. You're guessing a janitor beat them up at this point. If that was your job it'd drive you to a murderous rage to have to clean that up.

"Was it you who painted that american flag on the window right there? Over the newspapers?"

Silence. C'mon… fezz up. It wasn't you who did it and you're certain you'd have paint on you if you did.

"Seriously, it wasn't me. And you're the only other person I met."

You're starting to think they may be stupid. Or deaf. Or mute.

Ah. Right. Wait. They have no head. You walk over to the bathroom door. You don't enter, your feet are far too valuable for that.

"Okay so, let me ask you again: was it you who painted that flag?"

No answer. Again, with vigour!

"WAS IT YOU!"

With emotion!

"ANSWER ME!! WAS IT YOU!?"

With dedication!!!

"JUST FESS UP YOU SILENT ASSHOLE I KNOW IT WAS YOU!!!"

No answer

Hmf. Coward.


[]Come around here often?
[]How did you become a corpse?
[]It's rather warm today, huh?
[]What year is it?
[X]What is your name?
[]Why do I keep organizing my thoughts like this?
[]Are all outcomes predetermined, or is free will like, a thing.
[]Did you paint the American flag?
[]What made the craters?
[]Are there monsters under the bed? How about the closet (this room has no closets)?

Right so… maybe the body needs a head. But you aint touching anything that has touched the dirty side of a toilet like that. You can just… pretend they're together. Conceptualize a talking, breathing body on the bed, which you are now sitting on.

Breathe in…

"Do you even have a name?"







Silence… typical…

















"Christine Fleetwood."

Holy shit.​

[] Write in.
(top three questions will be asked.)

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Timer for Vote: 1 Day (Aprox.) (For EST, More or less hours applicable if I wake up or don't wake up.)

 

[FloraRead]

First on the list…

MUSIC ​

You try to not fiddle nervously due to this conversation suddenly not being as one-sided as it once was (and fail miserably).

"Um. Ah. Haha."

Oh no. Off to a bad start. The next time you open you try to salvage this. Lean on the wall, try to look disinterested.You slip twice on the wall itself, but thankfully don't fall. Even if it doesn't have eyes.

"Hehe. Um."

It's worse. Are you trying to fumble this? Because it seems like you're trying to fumble this with the energy of a girl at her first year a christian all-girl's school.



[X] "So… are you busy later? Want to hang out or something?"

You pull your hair behind your ear. Just… all casual like. As if that would have stopped your awkward word tumbling retroactively. Hopefully it did!

"I just woke the fuck up. Could you ask something like… less obnoxious?" Her voice is low, and somewhat gravely. A touch of fry here and there, for spice and touch and… oh no.

You've become smitten with a headless corpse.

Good job, you. Congratulations. There was no bar, but setting it this low guarantees that any future crushes will be on healthy, living people who have heads and all of their fingers.

It's something to hope for, at least.

You sit on the opposite side of the bed, just to commemorate this sort of… milestone. Entirely one-sided, I might add. She has said nothing other than her name and told you off after you just tried to ask her out, but it's okay. You're a good speaker. You can speak for two people just fine!

The lump that feels almost like a hand feels more like fabric than skin. Probably because of all the fabric covering it. For someone meant to be good at observing things, your observations seem to be rather mundane. And needlessly verbose.

Dying couldn't have felt nice, no? Maybe…



[X] "How did…y'know, happen? Did I do that?"

"Ask my mom."

Ah. Birth. How humans come about, you may have remembered reading once upon a time. Or maybe not. The remains of your fractured mind would like to recall if you remember how that works beyond birds, bees, and flowers being involved somehow.

SELF NOTE: You make an effort to avoid those, in the future.

"Are you going to continue speaking or…?" She interrupts your thoughts. You must be lounging about too much in brainland. You need to be here, on earth land. Present and aware! Not lost in your mind as you seem to be right now.

"Yes! Um. Sorry. Uh. You're the first person I remember speaking to! So I'm kinda nervous."

Her giggle is more of a snort that transforms into a series and small, tiny laughs. Very nasal little laughs. "Same."

That doesn't bode well. You may both be suffering from amnesia.

"I mean how did you like…" there's no real way to sugarcoat this, "die."

"Die?" She asks, absolutely bewildered, if her voice coming from a bed holding a headless body was anything short of impossible and something she didn't consider at all. It must be confusing, to be without a head. You don't know how you'd live without one.

Or well, she's not alive. Exist? Must be disorienting. How is she speaking? Her head is in the bathroom… whatever. Hardly matters right now. "Yeah, you're a corpse on top of a bed. Without a um. Head. It's in the toilet."

"Ah." Realization. Flat. There's hardly any room for emotion.

"There's a lot of craters around too."

"Really?"

"Yah." The confirmation leaves you. You don't know if the craters are normal or not in the limited breath of experience you have, but the knowledge that you have of bullet holes, flashing like photographs, in the periphery of your vision. "And um. I wanna know if I did that."

No answer.

"Because I'd feel guilty if I did. Maybe. I think I would, I mean. I don't exactly know what being guilty is like. Like this, maybe?"

"I don't remember."

Ah. Of course. Without a head she's not got any memories. Or maybe she's like you. The presence of a head belittled the lack of need for one. Maybe you really could have forgotten your head somewhere and just walked about without it.

"It's fine I mean. I'm sorry if I killed you. It must have been really shitty to like. Kill you." "Like. I don't know why I'd have done it."

"I forgive you. I mean if you did it."

It's fine. It's okay. You still think you care for her, being the first person you've ever spoken to.

Or corpse.

Maybe it's not a healthy thing to get attached to a living carcass. Or maybe not living. Perhaps you're hallucinating the entire thing.

"But if you didn't, could you like, help me find who did?"

"Oh. Totally. Yeah. I'd be up for that."

Glad to have something you both agree on.



[X] "...Soooo, *who* are you and, more importantly, who am *I*?"

"Um… ugh, fuck. My head hurts. Let me think"

"Yeah, it's in the toilet. Pretty banged up– sorry! You asked for silence."

"Let me just… stand up."

Something hits the bed. The frame shakes slightly.

"Ow." That wasn't you. It was her.

From the blankets, it emerges. A gold plated hand, robotic slowly precipitating into form. It emerges, one finger at a time. It reaches up, finding purchase on the mattress and the body they likely possibly may have mirrored. And it pulls itself up.

Gold. That's the first thing that comes to mind. Robot is the next. Followed by ghost. You already knew she was a lady. Golden robotic ghost woman. Segmented fingers that almost feel hollow, a body wrapped in almost silk. Purple, and see-through, it barely hides the scaffolding underneath. It comes like sleeves and pants, as well, melding back into the joins. White joints, like marble, with red not-quite-screws shaped like hearts on each of them. A thorax made of immaculately fabricated metal, blooming into a shape most resembling a scarab, with enough room for an undoubtedly feminine bust to form. Like a knight in golden armour, if the armour was her body. The hips are more of the same. The head… It's almost organic, with her golden-yellow braid merging into her spine as it travels downwards, filling in the gaps where the scaffolding in her neck may have been seen. Slits in the metal mask hide fleshier, livelier eyes, also made of the same material as everything else, yet, moving around as if they were organic, and fleshy. Moving with impossible fluidity as she stands up, overlapping with the bed, looking at you.

You do not even remotely consider the fact she may be a product of your imagination.

All gold and purple silk, red and white highlights of marble and metal. All see-through. Gold flakes dance around her, melding into her body as needed and floating away from other spots where the gaps where filled. Maybe it's because of this that she has a head and all of her fingers.

A Gold-Dust Woman.

"Does this answer your question?"

No. It does not. But words fail you.

"Whoa."

[] Write in.
(Top 3 Options picked.)

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Timer for Vote: 3 Days (Aprox.) (For EST, More or less hours applicable if I wake up or don't wake up. This is a big vote! So some extra time. Remember that adding notes don't count as a vote!)

 

[FloraRead]

Clear your thoat. You mean throat. Square up.

​

Time to get serious–

But you get interrupted by her. "Are you just wearing underwear?"

"You are not wearing anything." You counter

"Oh no, these count." She holds out the silk sheets attached to her body. "These count."

"Do not!" Cross your arms into an 'X' and hope to die. "That's just as much your body as your gold glitter things are. I bet they feel. "

She touches one of the gold flakes, experimentally, and curls up when, indeed, there's sensation. "…dammit. I hate that you're right."

"Ha!" It's easy to slide down to regularly crossing your arms from their earlier position. "I won my first argument ever. And with it a point of pride to the family I may not have!"

"Awesome. I've changed my mind, I don't forgive you for anything." She declares with a grimace.

"Aw, c'mon, but we barely know each other! Eh. What do you say? I help find who killed you and we stay as besties."

"Fine, but since I changed my mind and if you're wrong, I'm drowning you in a toilet."

"Okay! Faaair. Fair. I'd want to kill myself if I ended up killing you, too." You nod along placidly. Drowning can't feel that bad, can it? Probably no different than taking a bath. And maybe you can come back as a bedazzling ghost, too!

A glare is the only response that you get.

Nevermind that. There's answers to seek. "Can I ask you some more questions?"

She rolls her eyes, taking a few steps up to pull herself on top of the bed and sit on the corpse. It's ethereal. She's not exerting any pressure on the blankets itself. They're barely ruffled.

"Go ahead…"

"Hehe. Um." Okay time to lean on the window again. Play it cool. Maybe you haven't completely ruined things.


[X] "So… are you busy later? Want to hang out or something?"

She opens her mouth, like a fish, kind of.

What emotion does she present? You don't have enough memories for a word to describe her expression. Relaxed eyebrows, open eyes, almost slack jaw…

Confusion? Maybe? Bewilderment, perhaps?

"I am busy… with… being… dead. Yup. Seems about right."

"Cool! Cool! Um. Maybe we can pass by a café and—"

"Watch you eat food by yourself? No way."

That totally just lost you points. Dammit. Uhh…

"Um, maybe we'll go to the cinema!"

You internally wonder what a cinema is.

"And watch other people eat popcorn?"

Damn, no. Somewhere inoffensive!

"The forest?"

"And watch animals eat each other?"

You're beginning to suspect she's a little resentful about being dead.

Specifically, not being able to eat.

She's way too confrontational about it… how will you even be able to treat her right at this rate? It's not a nice thought. Can jewels even falter a woman made of gold? Uh. Any clothes would make her… well, not as pretty. Maybe shades? But those wouldn't work either.

Wait, who's to say ghosts can't eat food!?

"Who's to say ghosts can't eat food!?"

"Do you really want to see a see-through me digest food? Because I don't."

"Well, um…" You should just drop this. "Maybe not."

"It'd be for the best."

But maybe… "You could like… wear a shirt and a mask and—"

"No."


[X] "Weird question, but what are you? You certainly don't look human."

"I guess I'm a ghost?" She mumbled as a response.

"You guess?"

"Look, buster, I didn't ask to die. I don't even remember it. You told me I was dead, I'm sitting on a corpse which may be mine, and I don't particularly feel in or in the mood to like, entertain these sorts of questions."

"But why not!?"

"Because…" the curling of her lips is practically audible with the large pop that she does, "look I feel alive, okay? And I know I certainly don't look like a Bedsheet Scooby Doo ghost."

"What's Scooby Doo?"

"I don't know either."

"Ah."

"But you know those like… bedsheets? Two holes…? Booo~"

"Ah. Okay. Yeah I think I know what you mean."

Nothing more than the ambiance of being in this place fills the gap between words that now stretches between you two. Blue-red lights from the outside mixed with sunshine, and absolutely no other sound that isn't your breathing.

"Well, given how you are transparent and a ghost and I think someone punched about the room in a rage, I think you should be a Punch Ghost! Because you can um. Punch."

"Unlike a regular ghost, who can also beat the stuffing out of you with furniture using psychokinesis."

"Uh."

"Yeah?"

Lamely? "Yeah."

So…

"Maybe Stand would work better? Because you're standing up unlike a regular ghost who floats."

She hovers over the body for a second, just to spite you. "No."

"Okay!"


[X] "...Soooo, *who* are you and, more importantly, who am *I*?"

Are you asking this again because you got too bedazzled to respond in any other way rather than 'waow'?

Yes.

"Okay, so, let's get this over with." She gestures towards herself. "I am Christine Fleetwood."

"Yeah. You should call yourself ｢Gold Dust Woman｣. Because uh. You are a Gold Dust. Woman."

"No."

"Aw."

"And you never introduced yourself."

"Um. Cata Ventos! Hehe. Call me Cat."

"Do you meow on command?"

"Whu–"

"Here kitty kitty!" She kneels in front of the bed, rubbing her fingers together as if she held some delectable snack.

"Mrew?" You stop yourself right before the bed, and by extension, her. "Wait. No."

Some wires must have gotten crossed when you lost your memories. Hearing her giggle with that snort-laugh isn't worth this kind of humiliation.



[X] "Did you know yoiu look really heckin cool?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Hecking?"

"Me mean fuck. I mean fuck. I mean fucking. I mean uh."

"Yes?"

"You look really fucking cool."

"Ah. Wow. Um. I don't have any other memories of anyone calling me that just for existing, but… I guess you look pretty? In the 'I got mugged and just woke up in a bathtub' sort of way."

"I just woke up in a bathtub."

"Whoa. Really? Groovy."

"Haha. Yeah. I'm like… Groovy. Like a washed up rock star…"

"Yeah. Like a sexed up, washed up rock star."

"Hehe… yeah…"

"You know that's not a good thing, right?"

"What?"

"Yeah they kinda off themselves, don't they?"

"No, of course it's a good thing! I uh. I have put the several last minutes of wakefulness towards shaping my personality this way! Because uh. I don't have a personality otherwise."

"Okay but it's kind of pathetic. I'll put the next several minutes of being awake on ending up not like you."

"And I am…?"

"Pathetic."

"No, I'm not!"

"You are!" She pokes you in the lips with her index.

"Mhff-fmh." You can't open your mouth for some reason. So that's the best sound you could produce rather than 'are not.'

It's not uncertain.

"Your lips are fused." She literally pointed this out with a mostly missing index finger.

You can't speak.

She's suddenly missing a finger where she wasn't before. Most of it, at least. Her right index finger.

Oh fuck.

"Wait. Oh shit. MY INDEX IS MISSING!"

"Mff mllmmp mrm fmsmfd?? MFF MLLMMP MRM FMSMFD!!"



[] Hit her. This is her fault. (Somehow)
[] Shout the first thing that comes to mind (This must be an attack!)
[] Take deep breaths and try to calm down. There's gotta be a logical explanation for this. (Hard to do with a fused-shut mouth)
[] Panic-Vomit (You may suffocate.)
[] Write in.
(Top two options selected)

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Timer for Vote: 1 Day (Aprox.) (For EST, More or less hours applicable if I wake up or don't wake up. Also, I'm very sorry for the delay! I took a friend in for the night and I was being a good guest and everything.

I don't particularly like doing dialogue since I can never figure out a balance of descriptions and snappiness.