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 ◀
COMMS	logs | network | ooc | memes
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

B

[ribticklers]

[It's nearly afternoon when Sans replies, partially because he woke up later and partially because he's not yet in the habit of checking this weird watch internet regularly. But even without Papyrus's font, there's only one person who would be capslocking directly at him, so he hardly has to check the name of the sender.]

what's up?
over

[Sans doesn't think you actually have to put "over" on these, but of course he's going to play along. As long as he doesn't forget.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Nearly afternoon. Long enough to make introductions to his new wife, apparently, and determine there's no kids lurking around in any crevice of the building. Long enough to rediscover his human face, and human stomach, and sit down to make a lunch that doesn't consist of old gifted gelatin combinations. Long enough to feel terribly alone... And then, a response comes.]

OH MY GOD. I DON'T EVEN NEED TO CHECK IF IT'S REALLY YOU. WHO ELSE WOULD TAKE BASICALLY FOREVER TO REPLY?? WAS THE RADIO ALL THE WAY ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM?!!!? OVER.

[It was under a sock, wasn't it? He bets it was under a sock.]

[ribticklers]

i was asleep
then i ate breakfast
over

[Also he, too, met his new wife, which was an adventure. She seems perfectly nice but Sans is the last person who should be married, in his own estimation.]

[spaghettimonster]

[This is so Sans that he just might be over-salting some of his food with relief. That's fine.]

I SHOULDN'T HAVE EXPECTED ANYTHING LESS.

[Still, it being undeniably Sans in some ways doesn't tell him how much Sans remembers. Time to very subtly hint around the question of if he's as disoriented as Papyrus feels.]

DID YOU KNOW IT'S ALMOST NOON? ALL THE CLOCKS SAY SO. INCLUDING THE CLOCK IN THE SKY, WITH THE SUN. RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SKY.

OVER.

[ribticklers]

[Does Papyrus know it's almost noon on the first of December? Sans desperately wants to ask, and yet he's not going to say anything nearly that specific.]

so are you making lunch?
'cause i could go for lunch

[But okay, Sans's new roommate remembers October, so. One leap of faith. A very small one. It's more of a slightly longer than usual step.]

i know it's been a little while
but i'm still gettin used to the sky clock

[...

Wait.]

over

[spaghettimonster]

DIDN'T YOU JUST EAT BREAKFAST? YES, I'M MAKING LUNCH. LUNCH FOR ME.

[...Wait a minute. It'd be a lot faster talking while eating, than texting while eating. He starts to invite Sans over, then catches himself on that key word and changes it before the message cuts off.]

BUT YOU CAN COME OVISIT ANYWAY. TO ENJOY THE SIGHT OF A HEALTHY LUNCH. AND MAYBE EVEN ASPIRE TO MAKING YOUR OWN.
WHILE WE TALK.
OVER.

[Because it seems like they have a lot to discuss, if it's been a while for Sans for real. And not strange dreamlike fragments with lots of missing time.]

[ribticklers]

[When you expect to greet a reset or reload with nothing, strange, dreamlike fragments absolutely count as a while.]

it'd be even better if you gave me my own food to look at
and maybe eat
you got an address or something to give me?

[Sans is outside now, but since he got moved, he can't be sure Papyrus hasn't moved. Also, Sans can't actually remember which street Papyrus lived on in October anyway.]

[spaghettimonster]

IF I MAKE YOU LUNCH, AND YOU DON'T EAT IT... I'M TAKING IT BACK. SO NO REQUESTS ON WHATEVER I MAKE.
OVER.

[He has not yet memorized the new address, so that part's tricky to answer. Papyrus heads to the front door, pausing on his doorstep to look back at the radio log.]

...HEY, WAIT. CAN YOU READ THIS?

[...Over.]

[ribticklers]

yeah

[Of course Sans will eat more food, that part goes without saying. By now he's just standing on the sidewalk in front of his house looking at his watch thing.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Surely there's some things Papyrus has cooked that Sans wouldn't put in his mouth... at least, not more than a polite taste's worth. The culinary museum never would've accumulated its works of art, otherwise. (Thank goodness for Toriel intervening, recently.)]

OH. OKAY. SO THE "OVER" PART IS OVER.

[Grump, grump, all the way to where he can doublecheck his mailbox. Fuming all the while, a little, over having been pranked by a barely-awake Sans already. What a nostalgic mood whiplash.]

AND THE HOUSE NUMBER IS 105. I DON'T KNOW THE STREET... BUT IT MIGHT BE ON THE LICENSE. I'LL CHECK.

[He squints down the street in search of a street sign anyway, as looking for them is one of the fragments of how to drive that's sticking with him the hardest. And, isn't that funny, the guy over at the next mailbox kinda looks... familiar...?]

[ribticklers]

[Sans notices someone else outside pretty quickly, even distracted by his watch. He doesn't get a good look at the guy until after he's read Papyrus's message, since that's more important than whoever's next door, but then he realizes. He remembers hanging out with Papyrus more than once in October; the weird and familiar human face of his brother is something he still remembers. As for Sans's own weird human face, all those muscles make it much easier to see how he lights up as soon as he recognizes Papyrus.

...But then Sans looks back down at his watch.]

that's weird
mine's 103

reunion tag before I snooze

[spaghettimonster]

[That suddenly beaming face is really familiar, actually, especially when he notices the watch in hand. Papyrus starts laughing before his brother even sends the reply, and waves wildly.]

Oh my god! Are you kidding??

[He doesn't dash over, though, even when the watch lights up again with that number confirming it. Sans is supposed to be visiting him, after all. And he needs a second to wipe his eyes. Somehow it's a huge relief, that it was only a few hours instead of... days...?]

the most important of tags

[ribticklers]

[Sans walks over toward Papyrus, still beaming. This is a much shorter walk than he expected, which is nice. Papyrus is right next door now--that's almost like being in the same house like they're supposed to be. He has no idea if one or both of them got moved, but it doesn't matter.]

Guess you're not gonna have time to make lunch for me before I get to your place, huh?

[spaghettimonster]

Huh?

[In the surprise of finding Sans right there with hardly any effort, he almost forgot about the promise of making lunch. But with this reminder he cackles and turns to lead them back to 105.]

Nyeh heh heh! No, unless you walk very slowly... [Which, he knows Sans just might do.] --things will go just as I planned! You will see my lunch and just have to wait.

[ribticklers]

[Sans follows at a reasonable speed today. Good job, Sans. He looks at the outside of Papyrus's house as he approaches, trying to figure out if it's the same one from October, but he really can't tell.] I'll just have to eat your lunch instead.

[spaghettimonster]

[It's hard to say, between the vagueness of most of the memories, and the way the houses in this town look so similar to each other. There's different photos all over, different contents in most of the rooms... but it's the same car in the garage, so who can say.

One thing Papyrus can say, clearly and emphatically, is:] You absolutely do not have to! It's my lunch, you can wait. Take a tour. Put your feet back. Keep your mouth off my food.

[ribticklers]

[Sans hums, apparently considering this "don't eat Papyrus's food" idea.] Pretty sure your house is basically like mine, unless you already redecorated. [Or he redecorated in October? Sans is pretty sure they didn't have time for that.] What've you got for lunch, anyway?

Funny story, I never bothered deciding what he was eating.

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus dodges the food question, partly to buy time for the narrator to decide, partly so Sans doesn't get too invested in the idea of it and snag it before Papyrus can make a second share.]

No, not yet. It's only been a few hours... I think. And I'm not that fast!

[He remembers getting supplies for some degree of redecorating. Paint, but mostly deck supplies with which to build a deck and hopefully win the approval of some of the neighbors... But he doesn't see any freshly built deck or supplies thereof around. It seems like a fresh house, except for all the family photos.]

it's a mystery

[ribticklers]

Then we can skip the tour. [Much easier that way. He is going to take a look at the pictures as they pass by them, though--human Papyrus with some woman Sans doesn't know. Even knowing the situation, it's weird. Distracted, for the moment, from food, he grabs one of the photos right off the wall. This might be a little rude.]

New roommate? [Judging by these pictures, Sans is sure Papyrus is meant to be married to this woman, but that's too ridiculous to say out loud.]

It's probably a cheese sandwich, I just wanna know from the mods if they ARE reset to newly moved in

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus doesn't even blink at the removal and examination of the photo, busy heading to the kitchen for food prep. It would be much ruder if they were photos Papyrus had any emotional attachment to, rather than what feels like the decorations of an unexpectedly rented hotel room... and he wants the fortitude of something to eat for this conversation. So he calls out from the kitchen:]

Yes, roommate and also mysteriously wife! At least, according to the photos. And paperwork... But she's like us, I think.

[Not in the sense of being a monster turned human, exactly, but in being mysteriously here instead of somewhere else.]

[ribticklers]

[Yeah, it's definitely weird to hear "wife". But it's not real, so Sans isn't going to dwell on it too seriously.] Can't believe you didn't invite me to the wedding. But I guess I didn't invite you to mine, either, so. [So Sans now has someone living at his house, too! And Sans being married is way weirder than it being Papyrus. He drops the picture on a table as he follows Papyrus to the kitchen.]

[spaghettimonster]

I know, what was I thinking! We'll just have to invite you to the renewal ceremony. [If... they have one. If they stick around long enough, and actually get romancey, and everything else entailed in such a thing.

Papyrus grimaces at the notion of this topic being anything more than bantering, and busies himself grabbing things - his lunch unguarded on the table, with no signs of bites taken yet.]

But really. Do you know what's going on??? I had weird dreams, and they don't seem like they were real... but, parts were definitely real. We're just human, I guess??

[ribticklers]

[Thinking about October, the details are definitely--swimmy. He remembers specific instances, but not how he got from one to the other. It's still more than he'd ever expect to have. Everything's so disconnected, it would make sense to assume they were dreams. Papyrus has the normal idea. Sans is only so sure of himself because--well.

He takes exactly one bite out of Papyrus's food. He won't eat the whole thing, but what kind of brother would be he if he didn't make good on food-related threats?]

My roommate remembers stuff happening before, too, so it probably wasn't a dream. No idea what's happening, really. I mean, it's pretty messed up, but that's obvious. [Even without October, it's obvious. They're in human bodies! And it's December! ...He still doesn't know if Papyrus knows that. He doesn't really know how to ask.]

[spaghettimonster]

Well. Maybe we all dreamed stuff! [Papyrus chops at some unspecified food stuffs, with a little more force than necessary. Muscles work differently than bone, of course, and it's tripping him up - on top of the agitation of all the mood whiplash.

He huffs a frustrated breath, and chops the rest more carefully.] I mean, I remember... having two different wives? Not at the same time. And a bunch of kids...

[There's no signs of kids in this household, not in any of the mystery photos or other impersonal effects.]

[ribticklers]

[Okay, multiple messed up reloads. Resets? He's going to need some other word for this, maybe.] I don't remember anybody in my house before I woke up today. [So it's a bit less disorienting for him, at least in terms of who's in his house.] A giant shared dream'd be pretty weird too, anyway. [This is all weird right now, anyway. But Sans can't really help being his typical, casual self about it.]