DECEMBER 2020 EVENT - PART 1

[robbies]

CHAPTER ONE, PART 1: A HOLLY JOLLY HOLIDAY

Do you hear what I hear?

DECEMBER 5th | A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE | THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

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DECEMBER 5th

Don’t you hate to be the last to know? Out of the windows of your brand new homes, you spot families trotting along in their happy, nuclear units. Stores and restaurants have closed early—on main street, where jingle bells hang from every door, the only souls to be seen are heading toward the town hall, where wreaths hang around the stone lions’ necks. A stage, awash in string lighting, has been erected with three chairs sitting empty behind a podium. Policemen with their smiles and baby-blues stand guard before it; they too are not allowed beyond the velvet ropes. Twenty feet tall—near to reaching the tip-top of the clock tower—a mass is hidden by black tarps. This is the most guarded of all, ringed by no less than twelve junior policemen standing vigil around the clock. At sundown, you start to see what’s to come. As the crowd swells, bundled in their coats and scarves, the ladies with silk scarves drawn around their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, three figures take to the stage:
Chief of Police, Dale Harding, who must constantly slip away and bend his ear to listen to one of his boys, giving orders with long sighs, firm words, and grumbles as he takes his seat again. Occasionally one sees a flash of silver moving from his lapel up to his lips, but surely that must only be his policeman’s badge that he kisses, because he loves his town so very, very much! The Happy Homes Association—or at least, their junior representative. Her bright and shining pin of office sits hidden behind the tremendous fruit basket poised upon her lap, where green and scarlet cellophane cannot quite hide the fruitcake inside the way it does her name. How does she keep her teeth so white and her lipstick so clean and red? Subscribe to their newsletter and read Cathy’s Cosmetic Can-Dos! column to find out!
Mayor Phillip Clarke—well, Phil to his friends. He takes his place at the podium, his top hat inky black, leather gloves oiled and bright, and draws all the town’s breathless attention. He taps the microphone. Once—the crowd inhales—twice—their eyes shine as they look up—three times— “Gooooood evening, Santa Rosita!” The crowd goes wild as Clarke bellows. Eventually, he raises both arms and gestures for them to quiet down. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out, especially on a school night!” Like the admonishing parent, he wags a knowing finger at several teens in the crowd. “Believe you me, on a night like this, I know how tempting it is to stay home and curl up on the couch with a good book. And,” he adds with a wink to a woman in the front of the crowd, “maybe some of Margie's famous hot chocolate.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. Again, Clarke patiently waits until they’re finished before continuing, “But that's exactly what makes our little town so special. No matter the time, every day of the week there's always someone out there who will sacrifice something for the better of the community. Be it the energy to get this terrific tree set up—” he gestures to the tree, “—the patience to string twenty yards of lights up—which, I might add, have been generously donated by our pals at Honeybees—or even just time.” Clarke’s tone turns solemn, but his face remains fixed in a winning smile. “Santa Rosita isn't just a town. It's a family. Each and every one of you out here tonight is a valued member. Even all you new faces out there!” He points to several newcomers in the crowd in what might almost be an accusatory manner if not for the smile on his face. “Don't think I can't see you! Tonight, you have become part of that family. Santa Rosita is your home now. It's through our traditions that we endure, and it's my sincerest wish that you, all of you, will join together with us and help us keep them alive for years to come.” The crowd applauds, everyone turning to face the new families. As Harding takes a swig from a flask he pulls out of his pocket and the HHA representative continues to beam at the audience with her too-white smile, Clarke fully turns to the tree and pumps his fist in the air, riling the crowd back up. “And now, without further ado, let's RING. IN. THE HOLIDAYS!”

As his words come to a close, at last the tarp is pulled away—revealing twenty feet of pure, polished, brilliant... ...aluminium christmas tree. Quick as the busy bees they are, the Happy Homes Association is there to announce that you can buy both table-sized and home-use duplicates for your own homes! The cost is $8 for the little ones and $18.50 for the big trees—get your wallets ready! As the crowd stampedes toward their own tiny and/or six-foot silver replicas, the three figures on the stage are hurried away. The HHA representative presents their gift basket to the Mayor. He kisses her on both cheeks, rubbing his belly in anticipation of the deliciousness to come, and hurries on. Chief Harding takes the rear, casting back a sour look, and before you have a chance to see if the three could answer any questions, the stage is empty again. ...well, get in line! You want those trees too, don’t you?

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A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE

The days are getting colder and the entire town seems to be getting into the holiday spirit, between the tree lighting ceremony and the decorations your neighbors are putting up. But something seems to want you to get into the Christmas spirit as well—you haven’t done anything out of the ordinary, but when you open the door, you’re met by a burst of frigid air carrying the scents of gingerbread and peppermint on it. Stepping through the door, you are not in Santa Rosita any more. Well, technically, you are; you’re just down by Rose Garden Park, before the Old Growth starts. But it’s not where you thought you were going, and it doesn’t resemble the normal streets of suburbia now. You’ve stepped into a charming Christmas village, packed with all sorts of fun winter activities and sights to see! The ground is covered in pure white snow that never seems to melt into slush, and the sounds of high, sweet jingle bells fill the air as a team of reindeer haul a sleigh past. Maybe that’s Santa’s sleigh they’re pulling?

As you walk into the village, a red pole demands your attention, placed in such a way that no one can miss it. A letter is attached to it: ’Twas the month before Christmas and all through the town The people were smiling; there was nary a frown! They entered my village, all brimming with cheer And knew that quite soon, old St. Nick would be here There's skating and snowmen and light shows galore There's even a place to make wreaths for your door! But somewhere inside there's a mailbox to find And Santa may bring you what's most on your mind… As the letter suggests, the village is full of hustle and bustle. Santa’s elves—Robbies decked out in red and green costumes with matching tights and jingle bell boots—are everywhere, making sure that there’s always plenty of holiday treats available for visitors to eat and drink. The nearby pond is iced over and the elf manning the ice skate exchange station seems to be able to guess your perfect size with a glance, while reindeer racing courses have been set up encircling the village. All of the buildings and many of the trees have been lined with lights, warm and bright, and there are stations set up where visitors can make garlands or wreaths to take back with them to the real world. The real world? Yes, of course—that boring place with work and school and vacuuming! Though the door you initially walked through may have turned into a station for making gingerbread houses, you can hoof it back to your home in Shadyside at any time. The public library is just that way, past the baseball diamond! Any time you open a door, however, you run a risk of finding that it leads back to the village, where the elves are waiting to ensure you enjoy your visit. You can try to close the door and open it again, but who knows if your luck has changed? The organizers of the village seem to be most insistent that you come and enjoy yourself—flyers are all around town, stuffed in your mailbox, and pinned on bulletin boards. Though some signs on lampposts seem as though they’ve been torn down in a huff, you still can spot them on Main Street: “Visit Santa Rosita’s Very Own Christmas Village!” And visit it you will.

While the elves are happy to welcome visitors to their village, they also have to work. Christmas toys don’t build themselves, you know! The elves will point out Santa’s Workshop to you, where you can buy freshly made candy canes, charming ornaments for your new aluminum Christmas trees (you did buy one from the Happy Homes Association, didn’t you?), and other sundries and stocking stuffers. There’s even a German-style bar in the back serving hot chocolate and mulled wine—non-alcoholic, of course; this is a family event. Just outside of the workshop’s entrance is a mailbox, its post swirled red and white and wrapped in garlands. A small desk sits next to the mailbox with a stack of stationery, envelopes pre-addressed to Santa Claus at the North Pole, and pens on top. At the top of the stationery, beside cutesy illustrations of hippos and children missing their front teeth, are the words, “What I want most for Christmas is…” Why not write Santa a letter? What have you got to lose?

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THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...

...to the annual Christmas gala, beginning at 4:00 pm sharp at Santa Rosita’s stately town hall! The invitation appears in your mailbox with just enough time for you to gather all your family and go shopping, because you certainly want to look your best. You simply must. The who’s who of the town will be there, all wearing their finest velvet dresses and shined black shoes. Be warned that the dress code will be strictly enforced by the Happy Home Association—only red and green allowed, or else it simply isn’t festive. Men in bright red or green suits - women sporting taffeta skirts in complementing shades - pinned corsages and matching handbags - no detail left untouched! You wouldn’t want to be caught standing out from the crowd, would you? In the Mayor’s presence? That might be a bad idea.

But the holidays do get the better of us sometimes, don’t they? The HHA understands, and if on the day of the party you have found yourself without a red or green garment, they have some loaners to wear. If you’ll simply follow Mrs. Jones down to the coat room, she can show you some options. For the ladies (and female-presenting), they offer up beautiful green or red dresses as loaner. ”It matches the metal trees!” the coat clerk brightly tells you, her own dress as shimmery as they come. For the gentlemen(ly presenting among you), fresh off the rack at the local Sears Roebuck department store, these fetching blazers are available, complete with matching trousers. In front of you in line is someone who very clearly does not have the Christmas spirit flowing through them, judging by how they wish to argue with the HHA about these “loaner garments.” How rude! But don’t worry—when you see the once-irascible individual later by the punch bowl, there’s a glassy smile on their face and they’re decked out in jolly green and poppy red, happy as—well, a kid on Christmas morning. Tables are laid out with food and drink aplenty. Even the sandwich loaf has made its effort to match the decor, as red poinsettias and holly berries dot the windows (careful children—they’re poisonous) and rich green pines occupy every corner. Move outside of the room and you’ll find nothing more than locked and darkened offices, with the occasional policemen and night guards shaking their fingers at you to go back and enjoy the party. This is a night to be merry and drink some mocktails, not to go through the filing! Up by the fine wood paneling and brilliant metal tree stands the mayor himself. Looking dashing as Santa Claus, a cluster of parents flock nearby beaming as their child gets their photo taken with Mayor Clarke! That’s certainly going in the Christmas newsletter! Each of them has a little present—perfectly wrapped, just see Grandma’s Gift Wrapping Guide in this month’s HHA newsletter—to give to the Mayor for all his hard work this year. You didn’t think that stack of presents by Santa’s chair was for him to pass out, did you?

Between music sets (graciously played by the Frederick Loren High School marching band), the Mayor stands—the hall falls silent, all the little cups and plates still in jolly hands. He has a speech to give you all, you fine citizens, faces old and new: “Ho-ho-hi there, Santa Rosita! And how are we enjoying ourselves tonight? I see some of our new families were able to make it out tonight—is that Richard O’Reilly and the missus?” Using a hand to shade his eyes, Clarke squints into the throng of townspeople. “And Jim Astin with Lucy and little Susie! Wow. Isn’t that something?” In the back of the room, Chief Harding pours himself a glass of punch, takes a sip, then reaches into his suit jacket for his flask.

“Now, in my house,” Clarke continues, “we have a rule not to open any presents until Christmas Day, but with all the ones I've gotten tonight, it's just too darn tempting.” Reaching down, he takes a box from the pile of gifts at his feet. “I think this one's a tackle box, and I'm pretty sure this—” he reaches down for another smaller box, “—is that electric razor I’ve had my eye on.” He shakes the box, chuckling, as the rest of the crowd joins him. “But let's get serious for a moment.” Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful. “Although getting a truckload of Christmas presents is swell, do you want to know what the greatest gift you've given me is?” He pauses performatively, waiting for an answer from the crowd that never comes. “The greatest gift you've all given me... is letting me serve you.” In the back, Harding ditches the punch cup and just drinks straight from the flask. “I'm honored to be here with you all tonight,” Clarke continues proudly, “just I am honored to be able to wake up every morning, look in the mirror and tell myself that I... am your mayor. Which is why I want to give something back to you. How many of you have already visited Santa's little village?” There’s a round of cheering in the front of the audience from the many children in attendance with their parents. Clarke opens his arms wide. “My idea! I decided that if I can't bring Santa Rosita to the North Pole, I'm going to bring the North Pole to Santa Rosita. Enjoy yourselves! Saint Nick's got a lot of work to do before Christmas. So be good, don’t pout, and for goodness sake—have fun!” The clapping threatens to take down the garlands hung from chandeliers. ”A fine orator!” “Reminds me of the war, when we heard Churchill over the radio. Why, Clarke gives him a run for his money, ha ha ha!” A delightful HHA elf comes to replenish the pickle tree on the appetizer table, and the covers of Bing Crosby carry you away into the night. Remember to stay until 9:00 pm, when the Santa Rosita Children’s Choir will start caroling!

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the first part of the event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to use the log and network communities as well.

A few things to keep in mind: Firstly, there is no return portal back into town once your character is teleported into the Christmas village. They will have to walk back on foot or get lucky and catch a ride from a helpful citizen.

Secondly, please be mindful of how your character interacts with the setting. While characters are welcome to explore the town and ask questions, Santa Rosita is still a happy little suburb in the 1960s, where appearances matter and acting too out of line from commonly accepted societal norms can come with their own unique consequences. We do not intend to punish players for their curiosity, but be aware that the townsfolk may not be so understanding of wanton disrespect for their ways!

And thirdly, the NPCs will not be available for interactions. At the party, Harding will leave early and Clarke will leave to handle other business. Santa does have a schedule to keep, after all.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

Remember--Part 2 of this event is coming December 15th!

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▶ NAVIGATION ◀
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OOC INFO	premise | rules | faq | taken | applications | hiatus/drop/canon updates | activity check | reserves | mod contact
SETTING INFO	calendar | setting | housing | npcs | death and tranquilizing | event suggestions/engagements

Comments

[ribticklers]

[And Sans is immediately distracted from the conversation they were having in favor of grinning at Papyrus with the least innocent face possible.] What's up?

[spaghettimonster]

You know what's up, you... [Papyrus scowls at the missing bite, eyes flickering as he considers the options here, then pushes that plate closer to his brother.]

You know what! You bit it, you claimed it.

[He makes eye contact and bites the new sandwich.]

[ribticklers]

I said I was going to. [Papyrus was warned! Kind of.] No fibulas this time. [He has to get his awful bone puns out now so they don't slip out in front of other people.]

[spaghettimonster]

[The punning gets an extra scoffing and eyerolling, so much more obvious now that there's irises in play.]

I don't know what you mean. That's your lunch you're eating.

[Pushed a sandwich over whom? This is his lunch and it's always been intended as his lunch, that's his narrative and he's sticking to it.]

[ribticklers]

So you're sayin' you did have a sandwich ready for me. [But also Sans is going to eat the sandwich. Of course he is. This conversation has gotten off topic, but Sans really doesn't mind. This is so much easier.]

[spaghettimonster]

I'm not saying anything like that, either!! [Honestly.

He glances around in search of an excuse, stills, then rallies with a fair measure of smugness to voice and face alike:] That's Kiara's sandwich you're eating. You better tell her thank you!

[ribticklers]

Kiara? [Sans is talking with his mouth full.] 'S that the woman in those pictures?

[spaghettimonster]

[What else is new. Sans is gross, water is (technically not but shh) wet, and! at last! the sky is blue, instead of dark gray studded with blue and purple crystals. So now all the idioms have come home to roost.]

Yes, that's her. My... dear, beloved wife. So have some respect. [He's laughing a little as he speaks, mainly because there's no way to handle this whole situation without laughing, crying, or shrieking about it all. But hadn't Sans mentioned his own no-invite wedding?] What about you...?

[ribticklers]

[This conversation has crossed into the surreal now.] Her name's Lorna, I guess. Seems okay. She was in some other house before, too, with some other guy as her husband and some kid as her son. [Sans is inclined to say she seemed a bit like the serious type, but in a situation like this and having only had one conversation with her, it's hard for him to pin it down like that.] I already said sorry she got stuck with me, so you don't have to do that part. [JOKES.]

[spaghettimonster]

[So there's other people in this situation, shuffled around from the dream version(s) to the current one... even the very specific situation of going from having kids to not. Maybe a lot. He'll have to go chatting with more people than just the ones across the street, see what other people remember. But more importantly, or at least more immediately, there's banter to be had.]

Ohhh, trying to beat me to the punch. Don't worry, I can do it anyway. Just in case she didn't believe you. [If there's a way to very smugly eat a sandwich, Papyrus is doing his best to pull it off now.]

[ribticklers]

She saw me right after I rolled off the bed, so I think that was pretty convincing. [But really, does Sans look that different right now? He is in a constant state of rolling out of bed.]

[spaghettimonster]

Yeah... That would do it. [Especially since Sans is used to that awful mattress on the floor, and they're heavier as humans, so it must have been an especially graceless drop...

Papyrus takes another, less smug bite of his sandwich and hums contemplatively. It probably tastes even better than that first sandwich. That was the practice one, this one has a little more practice and refinery to it.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans does not seem to mind the practice status of this sandwich. The important part is it was stolen, even if Papyrus insists it was not. The silence gives Sans enough time to remember he'd been talking about Halloween before they got incredibly side-tracked, but now that the moment has passed Sans isn't sure he wants to jump back into that. It probably doesn't matter what was going on with October, anyway. Well, there is one thing.]

D'you still have that car? [What does matter is that Papyrus is as happy as you can be in this weird situation, and he knows Papyrus was excited about having that car.]

[spaghettimonster]

I do! [It's a well-chosen change of subject, Papyrus bounces back from his contemplation to his usual energy.] All the children disappeared, and I swear it's a different house... but the car's still in the garage! It even has that scrape along the door...

[For somebody who wants to think the events of October and now are dreams, he's genuinely enthusiastic and even fond about that lingering scratch. Truly, that car is his real child here.]

[ribticklers]

[Good. If Papyrus didn't have it, some part of Sans thinks he might seriously start looking into how to buy Papyrus a car here, and that would be way too much work.] Great, now I never have to walk anywhere. [Papyrus can just drive him everywhere.] I could get used to that. [He is already used to teleporting everywhere.]

[spaghettimonster]

Now you'll never have to start. [They both know what the deal here is, Papyrus isn't even going to do a nonsense banter about it. But he snorts into his sandwich, before going contemplative again.] Hey... isn't that a job? Being a driver... I wonder how much I should charge you.

[ribticklers]

What, you're not gonna cut a deal with family? [This is a True Tragedy.]

[spaghettimonster]

If it's a full-time job?? [As it's sounding, what with Sans's usual preference for doing absolutely nothing - or as close to it as possible - on full display.] Maybe a family discount.

[ribticklers]

Almost makes a guy want to figure out how driving works. [Almost.] But that kind of sucked last time. I guess if it's a discount you're at least throwin' me a bone.

[spaghettimonster]

I charge extra, if you make me listen to your terrible jokes. [They haven't even figured out what the pricing here is supposed to be, or if they're just bantering this idea of paid driving out, but that part is a clear rule.]

[ribticklers]

Now you're just robbing me. [So cruel! Betrayal!] I'm gonna have to get a second job. [...] And a first job...? [That lilts into a question because he does remember having one in October, but not what it was. Well, he's probably been fired from that by now if he didn't show up for a whole month.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus opens his mouth to complain about Sans accepting food and requesting rides when he doesn't even have an income, then pauses.]

Hmmmmm... Come to think of it. I remember looking for a job. But I don't remember... if I actually got one. [For whatever value of "actually" applies to dreams. They can argue about whether it was real or dream later.] Maybe there's paperwork. For taxes.

[Not everyone's as lax about it as Undyne, or as enigmatic about it as whoever it is that hires the sentries, right?]

[ribticklers]

I can just pick up another job somewhere. [Assuming he doesn't pick the same theoretical job he already had. Unless they'd just hire him back. Who knows with this place?] Pretty sure they don't do sentries here. Too bad, that was easy. [So many naps were taken before he had to quit that when Undyne became empress. Naps were taken afterward, too, but work naps hit different.]

[spaghettimonster]

Well. They sort of do. [Papyrus glances to the side, suddenly remembering another fragment of the maybe-dream month before. The muscle memory of the largely forgotten month isn't enough to totally control his expression, and his grimace is plain for anybody to see.]

If I'm remembering right... There's guards to the south, by the tunnel. [He encountered some during a drive last month, when he'd meant to go exploring somewhat further. They'd pretty emphatically turned him around, and - being alone and without magic - he went with the demands. But he's getting distracted, and shakes his head out of it.]

But! They're nothing like sentries! More like the Royal Guard. [Under Undyne.] So don't even bother applying to them.

[ribticklers]

[Sans can't remember checking out the tunnel. That doesn't necessarily mean he didn't, he supposes, but Papyrus makes it sound kind of ominous, considering the current state of the Royal Guard back home.] Yeah, no thanks. [But if there's a tunnel some Royal Guard-like people are blocking...] Guess we really are penned in, even if we've got a lot of space.