Duplicity Game Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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duplicitymemes2020-01-12 10:22 pm
duplicitymods) wrote in duplicitymemes2020-01-12 10:22 pm
Entry tags:
TDM #10
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It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. Yet, solace is found in the lies we tell each other, comforted by the peace of knowing that we're not alone in our depravity, and once on this path, sin itself becomes the lesser of two evils masked in a cloud of normalcy. This is how Duplicity has functioned since the beginning. The divide of power and social standing is overt in that Dominants influence the decisions made both publicly and privately while Submissives cater to the rules presented to them. It is the way of Duplicity to assign random designations at birth with no leeway in altering what has been given. Climate in the Up is far stricter than that of the Down; violating outlined personas for a Dominant or Submissive while in full view of others is punished by degree of infraction. In the Down, many tend to turn a blind eye to these sorts of offenses. To counteract the discovery of the Deceit Gene – a natural "negative" response to all stimuli – the L.I.E.S. program was founded. The program had been designed to introduce new subjects to the current environment and test for the Deceit Gene through immersion in Duplicity's standing society. Sexual impulses and encounters increase the chances of detecting the gene within these individuals. Participants are typically released from L.I.E.S. after a year; however, results have remained unsatisfactory and testing still continues. ... and you’re here! Finally! Welcome to Duplicity. After choosing a door and stepping through to the other side, the first thing that greets you are the enthusiastic faces of people in medical scrubs and pristine lab coats. Their enthusiasm translates to eagerness as they strip you of your clothes to perform a thorough examination—you will be healed, bathed, and given a paper gown to wear until your items can be processed and delivered to your residence later in the evening. You are also given a device that accesses the network as well as the time and location of orientation. If you enter Duplicity into the Up, congratulations! You’re a Dominant, which means you are immediately picked up by a limo after processing and taken to your highrise. Here, it is two Dominants per floor with separate apartments. If you enter Duplicity into the Down, congratulations! You’re a Submissive, which means you are directed towards public transportation with the address of the motel you’ll be living in. Here, it is two Submissives per room with a shared common space for all rooms. Enjoy your free time until orientation! Participation is mandatory by all new and old arrivals. The weather is a brisk negative seven during the warmest parts of the day. |
 It's time for the monthly Duplicity train tour. Seats are in pairs and randomly assigned to Dominants and Submissives alike. Traveling from Fiddler's Square, the train journeys through various parts of the Up, showcasing society and examples of lifestyle. Along the way, frequent stops are made; a variety of passengers can be seen exiting and entering the doors. A Dominant with a kneeling Submissive takes a seat near the front of the train at one stop. A small group of Submissives board and sit closer to the LIERS at another, all seemingly content in their roles. As the tour continues through the Up, the train passes close to the Market and White Wall Bridge and zips by North Park before heading into the Down and bypassing Red Wall Bridge and South Park. The train makes a "final" stop at Riddler's Square, where inhabitants of the Down are instructed to return to their temporary housing. Those who live in the Up are permitted to stay on the train and revisit the same locations while returning. |
 Along with the usual Dom and Sub seminars and demonstrations, the powers that be have decided to try something a little more friendly. After attending the mandatory classes, all characters are invited to a (mandatory) social mixer! There are beverages and light snacks, and mingling is highly encouraged. Also, all participants have had their clothes removed and replaced with long shirts ( they are allowed to keep their undergarments, but nothing else is allowed ). Said shirts have the phrase “Ask me about _____!” plastered loudly and proudly on the front. It could be a character’s deepest, darkest secret, their most negative trait, or something embarrassing they had happen to them. Each participant is given a clipboard, pen and a piece of paper and are tasked with “asking” three others about what’s written on their chests. Once they’ve completed the task and handed in the assignment they’ll receive their clothes back. Of course, the long shirts can be removed, but that means you’ll be stuck in the nude or in your undergarments until you cooperate. |
 Not into your long shirts? Want to complain or refuse to participate? There’s another option! Unruly Dominants and Submissives will find themselves locked in a private room with a bed, stuffed together into a get-along-shirt. There’s no escaping the garment either, until certain conditions have been met. Written on a flip chart in the corner of the room are the tasks that need to be accomplished to “get along.” Are the two supposed to share a kiss? Sing a romantic duet together? Say the alphabet backwards in sync? The whole point of the exercise is to find that synergy a Dom and Sub pair are supposed to have. Maybe this isn’t the best way to find it, though… When the conditions are met the shirt is removable or rippable. Otherwise no matter how hard the characters struggle they’ll find themselves unable to get the pesky thing off. |
 Many local businesses have adapted to the timing of newcomers, and take advantage of the incoming crowds to do a little marketing. Stationed throughout Duplicity in LIEr-adjacent places such as the train station, the Up Apartments, the Down Motel, and the orientation center are representatives for local businesses and companies handing out free samples and hoping to attract business later. This month, there’s a particular presence by Harbroken Industries, a cosmetic and beauty company. They’re pushing free samples of their new pheromone perfume sprays, delicately scented and guaranteed to work. Sample bottles are freely available, but some overeager volunteers are taking the department store approach and spritzing unwitting passersby. The citrus scent is energizing and bright, inducing a talkative state where users cannot get enough conversation, and lose any internal filter for their words. The strawberry-vanilla scent is sweet and comforting, like a warm hug, which users will get a lot of with their new obsession with physical affection. Cedar-sandalwood makes those who use it tough as nails, angry and ready to pick a fight over the smallest slights. The cinnamon-pear scent makes its users feel adventurous and curious, and maybe a little TOO bold about trying new things. And predictably, the patchouli spray inspires “free love,” with an aphrodisiac effect that gets worse over time, unless taken care of quickly. The scents will wane and the effects will fade after six hours, or after the urges they cause are fulfilled. These volunteers are so eager to make a sale that it’s entirely possible to be hit with more than one spray at a time, so maybe take the long way around these areas if you’re looking to avoid them. |
Please read carefully. On each Test Drive Meme, there will be a section noting character roles; these will vary each TDM. On an IC level, characters will still have gone through the doors but assignments OOCly are still randomized. When applying, there is a section of the application that denotes whether the character chooses "left" or "right". When participating on the TDM, there will be a third option. Players may link either a top level or a thread (five or more comments from their character) from the TDM and title the link as "Door Pass". This means that the player is choosing to take the designation that they were randomly assigned on the TDM, rather than taking the designation of a door. If the player decides to select a door rather than use the pass, then they are trying their luck; they may get the same designation they had on the TDM or the opposite. Once the application is submitted, players can't change their choice. To assign roles to characters for this TDM, use the following guide: Count the letters in your character's full name ( first, last, middle or whatever combo that they have ). If it totals twelve letters and below they are a Dominant. If it's thirteen and higher they are Submissive. Please remember to mark any necessary content, and have fun!! |
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He'd expect deflection or even raging, but not this. More than anything else that has happened so far, it's this which makes it all feel plausible. He watches the scenery flash by out the window long enough to decide on his approach.
He's an angel, for Hell's sake. He can act like one.]
We're going to talk once this urge wears off. For now, it wouldn't be untoward if you held my hand. [Primly.]
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What eventually comes out of the angel's mouth isn't much better, but it's so typical despite it all that Crowley can't help laughing. Fortunately, it does sound more amused than unhinged.]
Oh, you've just decided for us both now, have you? Who says I want to be holding your hand? [And yet, he shifts his grip on the wheel and holds out the hand closest to Aziraphale.] It mightn't wear off. Sometimes these things don't until you've satisfied some mysterious criteria.
[This reminds him of those strange little plant creatures, actually, though that's clearly not the case here.]
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Well, if it doesn't wear off, then I suppose eventually we'll have a very cozy conversation, because we can't avoid it forever.
[Would that be so bad, he wonders? To have a terrible conversation wrapped up in a nice tight hug? If people hugged more, they'd fight less. It's science.]
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Fuck's sake, he's a rubbish demon.]
Could do. We're good at it. [Not talking about things, dancing around the important topics. It's mostly muttered to himself, though, followed up by a sigh.] Nearly there.
[It seems safest to keep his mouth shut until then, focusing on the road and the feel of Aziraphale's hands wrapped around his.
A few minutes later, they're pulling up outside Crowley's apartment building, in a miraculously free spot. He turns the car off, looks over at Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow.] Think you can keep your hands off me long enough to get upstairs?
[A very funny joke.]
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He has confidence. He gives him an extra warm squeeze and a soft scoffing laugh. They are masters at not talking about both context and subtext. It's likely why they usually get on.
The rest of the ride is quiet on his side, too. Once he pulls to a stop, he purses his lips.]
Send me up first, and it's a guarantee.
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What, and give you a chance to poke about unsupervised? Not likely, come on.
[He does give Aziraphale's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go and getting out of the car. It'd be easy to offer his hand again, but he's wary of how it'll be taken with two doms, so he tucks both hands into his pockets and keeps a few steps ahead of Aziraphale as he leads him inside to the elevator. It isn't really anything new, to be worried about who might be watching. At least that's familiar.]
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[He climbs out of the car. It's always a treat having his feet back on terra firma after these car rides. To Crowley's credit, not that he'll say it, he didn't terrify him to the degree he usually manages with the Bentley. They didn't almost flatten a single pedestrian.
The hands tucked away are a disappointment. It's a challenge walking as close as he'd like without stepping on his heels. The desire to touch is growing from the denial. Despite being able to recognize this as wrong and alien to him, he can't banish the compulsion.
He wonders if he can at least banish the sickly sweet scent. Ahhh, yes. That's better. He continues to follow, looking around in open curiosity as they go.]
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[Just that he'd look, which is a crime in and of itself, when Crowley's place here isn't as stark as his one in Mayfair, which means it gives far too much away.
There's some anxiety there, about all that, but Crowley keeps it tucked away as he ushers Aziraphale into the elevator, leaning his shoulder against the angel's to maintain a point of contact without being too affectionate. The whole place screams expense, but the more subtle kind. There's some warmth in the wood finishes, nothing too gaudy in the halls or elevator.
Crowley is, naturally, quite high up. Once they're out of the lift, he leads Aziraphale to his door, which opens without any need for a key, and then it's — into the flat. Like the rest of the place, it's expensive without being over the top. It isn't the harsh concrete of Mayfair, and there are clearly personal touches. A hand-knitted blanket folded over the back of the couch, the aforementioned mice (who are brightly colored and well looked after), the books and art that he's collected in his time here so far.
It doesn't occur to Crowley that there might be some trace of love in the place, considering the time Martin spends here. It isn't something he can sense, so it slips to the back of his mind, most days.]
Right, home sweet home, I suppose. You want that tea, or something stronger?
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It's nice not to be subjected to elevator music. Not that he'd mind an instrumental rendition of something from Johnny Mathis, or perhaps Frankie Vaughan.
Once they're in the apartment, his eyes alight on anomaly after anomaly and linger rather overly long on the mice and the blanket.
He could never be too distracted to feel traces of love. For the first time in memory, he's at an utter loss. He couldn't be more gobsmacked if he had found him tending a basket of kittens.]
Whiskey.
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Best thing you've said so far.
[There's a posh little bar cart near the sofa with a decanter of whiskey on top, and it doesn't take Crowley long to pour them each a generous glass.
When he brings it over to Aziraphale, he lingers in the angel's space, just close enough that he's within reach if that's... wanted. It's strange to navigate something the city is encouraging when he's not equally under the influence. He knows how uncomfortable it can be to resist, but he equally doesn't want to overstep. It's a strange line to walk.
He opens his mouth to say something and ends up just making a couple of meaningless sounds before he sighs and decides to just drink his whiskey. Hopefully the alcohol will help.]
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The lodestone pull toward affection is only stronger in a place where such feelings linger. He'd never felt it at his flat in Mayfair, especially not over the terror of the plants. There's no such terror from the mice.]
Pets?
[He can't stand it, the insufferable longing. Reaching out, he strokes down his sleeve and at the outer edge of his hand. He doesn't believe he ought to give in fully. It's crossing some unspoken line and can only lead to complications in a situation that is already beyond Gordian.]
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They were a gift, meant to be a snack, but I didn't have it in myself to eat them.
[Crowley bites his tongue against a sigh when Aziraphale touches him. He hasn't made it six thousand years to be undone by a little physical affection, especially not when it's outside Aziraphale's control.
When he breathes out, his chest feels too tight.] I don't — mind. You can do whatever you need.
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A snack? Who would--it wasn't that woman, was it? The one who insisted you were my serpent? Honestly, the people you know!
[That does sound chiding. He'd much rather be petulant about inconsequential things than think about how difficult it is not to wrap him in both arms, or to break out the wings and bring them into play, too. It's not temptation. It's compulsion, or something so close that it's physically painful to hold it in.
He shakes his head abruptly.]
How is that fair to you? Enduring my glomming onto you like, like...oh, what are those little things that stick on the rocks? Like one of those. I know you don't enjoy displays. I'm fine.
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Who else could it be?]
It wasn't a woman that gave them to me. Who's been calling me your serpent?
[Like, it's true, but they shouldn't say it.
As for the glomming, Crowley turns to face Aziraphale, reaches out to gently touch his arm with his free hand.]
Didn't I say? There's a lot worse than this that you could want. [He'd allow that too, if it was necessary, but that's not the point.] Promise not to make it weird once the feeling's passed and I'll not complain about your displays.
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[Especially not once she mentioned Crowley.
He leans forward. It would look comical, the beginning of a pratfall, if there wasn't so much open longing in the small movement. It's mortifying.]
That's beside the point. [Breathless. He never was a good liar.]
I don't have to make it weird. It is weird. I've never been compelled, Crowley.
[And then he's at the end of his ability to stop himself. He folds with a whimper rather than a bang, just a simple falling into him with arms spread and encircling, and after that wings, too, almost upending some things from the cart in the process.]
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Crowley doesn't comment in it, can't comment on it, not when Aziraphale is looking at him like that, with all that want, as if he's the sort of thing that an angel could ever want. His heart aches with the knowledge that it isn't real, that this is the best he'll ever get. Something fake, something that's practically hurting Aziraphale with how unnatural it is.]
I know, I know. [It's quiet, almost plaintive, and he can't help the soft sound of surprise he makes at the sight of Aziraphale's wings. It takes every ounce of his own self control not to touch them, but he manages it, shifting enough to disappear his glass into the ether and then get his arms around the angel's shoulders. He's so focused on not touching feathers that he doesn't think much about curling a hand around the back of Aziraphale's head, holding him carefully in place.] S'alright, I've got you.
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Without too much thought, he snaps his glass back to the cart. Clean. He still has standards. It allows the full wrap and press of hands. His wings encircle him so thoroughly, all anyone watching would see of Crowley would be a pair of shoes, maybe a few inches of lower trousers leg.
Their height difference isn't so pronounced that it's awkward to press his face in against his neck. It's a good fit.]
I hope you know I wouldn't deliberately put you through this.
[He feels as though he has to say it. How often has he gone on about love and the beauty of its expression? How often has Crowley demanded that he stop it already? That's a familiar dance, a little light teasing. This feels too good. The pain is gone. It's delight, all right with the world, and yet whatever it is doesn't have enough weight to remove thousands of years of knowledge and experience.]
This has happened to you?
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He'd briefly entertained the thought of taking off his sunglasses when they'd entered the flat, and he's endlessly grateful he didn't follow through on it. His eyes sting, and he has to blink a few times to clear them.]
Stop that. You're not — you're not putting me through anything.
[He tries to sound casual, like they're talking about Crowley suffering through a play that he doesn't want to see, but his voice is too strained for it to really work.]
Not quite this. M'sure you don't want the sordid details.
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[Such an empty threat he has no way to complete it. He's not used to being so anchored into bodily sensations that there's emotional investment. It's not like indulging in crepes or going to the symphony. No question, he'd be kind to him if the situation was reversed.
He asked him to go away with him.
Kindness? Not even he's that naive.
His throat clicks with his swallow.]
No, I don't need to hear that.
[He won't ask him to recount humiliation to make himself feel better.]
You need to--I need you to tell me about Armageddon. You said it's averted?
[Throw him a lifeline. He needs something else to focus on besides where his mind keeps taking him. He asked him to go with him.]
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He's barely holding it together now, just for entirely different reasons.]
The boy, the antichrist, he decided he'd had enough of everyone telling him what to do with his power, so he just... stopped it. Told Satan to bugger off, basically, rewrote reality so that he wasn't Satan's son anymore and it sort of stalled the whole business. [He assumes there are going to be a million questions, so he decides to cover the basics and leave room for what Aziraphale decides to focus on. At least this is easier than talking about kindness, or what's happened to Crowley since he arrived here.] Gabriel and Beelzebub turned up, but you, you clever thing, pointed out that the Great Plan might not be the Ineffable one. They had no idea what to make of that, but it pulled 'em up short. Then, uh —
[This is the trickier bit. He hasn't really had a chance to go into detail of his trip to Heaven back home, and now he has to try to manage it when they've skipped a few steps.]
Heaven wasn't... pleased with you. We swapped places, corporations, I went to Heaven in your place and stood in the hellfire that was — that was meant for you.
[For millennia, Crowley has known that Heaven is full of hypocrites and assholes, but he hasn't even begrudged Aziraphale his loyalty. That sort of thing can't be rushed, it would've been cruel to do so. He knows it's going to hurt, learning that Heaven wanted him dead. But he won't lie, not now.]
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That is clever. Good for me!
[If he wasn't holding him so tightly, he'd pat himself on the back, all in good fun.
Until. Oh.
It doesn't matter that Crowley can't see it with his face pressed up against his neck. The smile is automatic and forced. Long, long habit. It feels strange on his features, like it doesn't quite fit right.]
Clever.
[It's a shadow of the previous declaration. He pats him a little. A very little.]
They were intent to do for both of us, were they? Well, I suppose they would be.
We spoilt their fun.
[Another few moments of quiet, until the whiskey bottle spontaneously shatters, along with every glass.]
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He wishes he'd known a way to be kinder with that information, but Crowley's still figuring out how to soften the rough edges of himself, and sometimes honesty is the best he can offer. Honesty, and his grip tightening around Aziraphale, as if a hug helps any of this.]
They never deserved you. Gabriel and the lot of them are bastards who are so far up their own arses they don't remember what they were made for. [Love and goodness and all those things that angels were full of in the beginning.] It's just us now, me and you, and I swear I'm not going anywhere.
[He doesn't want to talk about this, but maybe it's important. Crowley exhales slowly, turning his head just enough to press his lips to Aziraphale's hair in something of a kiss. It happens automatically, as he weighs up his words, a small gesture that he's come to associate with comforting someone.]
I wouldn't have gone, you know, to Alpha Centaur, not without you.
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It tracks with some of what that woman said about a different Eden, maybe. He's absorbed enough that for a little while he forgets to breathe.
Just us now.
It has always been just them for a long time. He probably would have seen it earlier had he not been so afraid. What is he now? Maybe that's why he can't leave, why neither of them can, they aren't an angel or a demon anymore.
Maybe that's all hogwash and this is unrelated to anything from Earth. He draws his delayed breath and lets it out.]
I know.
[He settles his fingers at his nape and gently rubs. It might be kinder to disambiguate exactly what part of all of that he's claiming to know. He doesn't want to try while he's this angry and confused. Resigned. He'd only muddle it worse like this.]
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Because the thing is, Aziraphale doesn't know. Not about how much he means to Crowley, he can't understand the depth of it if he even for a second thought a hug was something to be endured. This isn't the time for that conversation, though. Dealing with this place and learning about Heaven turning their back on him is already enough, he hardly needs Crowley's messy feelings dumped on him as well.]
You're doing that thing. Thinking too much, I can practically hear it. [Spiraling could be a more accurate word, but Crowley is kind enough not to use it.] Talk to me, angel, let me help.
[There likely isn't much he can do to help, but he can listen, if nothing else.]
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[He'll know the tone, the one that says, I can't ask that of you, the one that's starkly aware of their differences. What he likely doesn't know, and doesn't need dumped on him while he's already close to being climbed like a tree, is that he has been avoiding demanding too much for longer than this. Their dance has always been delicate. Now it's also on a razor wire where one slip could...
His hand at his nape tightens for just a moment. Loosens. He draws in a deeper breath, so stupid how good that can feel when technically he doesn't need it and never really has. He draws back just enough to look at him, wishing those glasses weren't in the way but not daring even to think about touching them. He knows what they are to him. He'd never violate his privacy that way.]
I'll do better. Get better at resisting these pulls of theirs. The trouble is I'm soft. Thousands of years to get used to being soft. The past eleven have been just a blip of stress.
I'm...glad the boy came through and it sounds like we bought a little respite for that silly little planet.
[He runs gentle fingers down the front of Crowley's lapel, smoothing what he has rumpled.]
I am not going to be your burden, or a burden to the humans trapped here with us. I'm an angel. I need to be that. Strong. So I will. I'll be all right, Crowley.
[As though to demonstrate it, he draws his wings out and back, pulls them in, forces another step back. Both hands come to rest against his chest without pushing.]
You're right. It is just us now. Which means you need me, too. I won't let you down.
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