whispers I wrote y’all a book…Sorry.
I love y’all and this thread and this game so much. This thread and everyone in it are blessings, got me checking in every day, bringing a smile to my face. Even the angst. In some twisted way, especially the angst? But y’all got me itching to break my self-imposed forum exile/lurkerdom.
And the game… I haven’t grown so attached to a world and a cast of characters that I want to actively develop my MC beyond the text in a longass while. If that makes sense? Uh, I guess another way of putting it is that I want my MC to feel as alive as the world he’s supposed to be living in? And that I haven’t felt like that for a long time? So major props to the author for kicking ass and taking names while also being a major sweetheart in your interactions here and on your Tumblr which I may or may not peruse regularly. I’m throwing a whole host of internet hugs your way.
(And also thank you for Adam. I just want him to be happy. That would be enough.)
But. Anyway. I saw the last batches of character questions posted and I felt the desire to actually answer them and write shit down again and share it. I haven’t wanted to write anything in years, and I just spent the last bunch of hours writing a silly little “book.” If I were capable of tears, honestly, I might be crying. So thank you all for helping me rediscover a part of myself. It’s atrophied and a bit crumbly in parts, but it’s still there. Thank you.
Here’s my unnecessarily long batch of answers to the aforementioned questions that I thought would be neat to try to attempt to answer sort of in character (in that if it were fully in character, there would be no real satisfactory answer and I couldn’t go deeper, y’know?) I present it as a gift. Or perhaps as a mild bit of convoluted revenge because I’m actually crying internally from all the proposed scenarios of angst. The world may never know.
Detective Oliver Scott Westwood
(Let me set the scene: “you” are a shadow being descending on this plane for a singular purpose- to ask the detective some questions like some extraplanar journalist hellbent on a scoop. Keyword being ‘like;’ if you were an actual journo, he’d tell you to fuck off. Luckily, the man’s feeling uncharacteristically chatty today, likely due to the bout of OOCness going around the town. He stares at you from behind his desk, you stare at him, and then he sighs and says “ask your questions, then.”)
General
Describe them in only 3 words.
He doesn’t look up from the monitor or stop typing, but he purses his lips to one side and scrunches his eyes ever so slightly in consideration. “Kinda… busy now…?” Here he glances up and meets your eye, a helplessly apologetic half smile on his face and his left shoulder raised in a half shrug.
(A/N: Real answer: “thinks too much.”)
Birthday?
“November 26, 1991.” He grins, flashes you a brief, not-at-all-sarcastic thumbs up. “Makes my ass a Sagittarius. So, y’know, dun fuck with me if you dun wanna get arrow’d. Or something.” He waves the thought away. “I can never remember what all that astology shit means.” The typing continues for a few soft taps; it ceases and he leans back in his seat and eyes you suspiciously. “Hold up. You’re… not asking so you can plan something, are you? Because I don’t play that game.” A moment passes. Suspicion gives way to resigned contemplation and his gaze drifts to a spot just past your left shoulder as he begins to drum his fingers on his desk. “If you really DO wanna do something for my birthday, the best thing you can do is to do something rad for someone else.” With a sigh, he hunches back over his keyboard, eyes on the monitor, no longer contemplative but wearily resigned. “But I’m 90 percent sure that Tina’s got something ~extra~ planned already anyway.” Tappity tap tap tap. Click. Tap. And then he freezes, eyes widening in panicked realization. “Oh GOD, and if Fe catches wind, it’s all gonna become super extra…” He breathes out something that sounds like it could be either a groan or a whimper as he buries his face in his hands. “Can I change my answer to ‘never was actually born?’ I can’t have a birthday if I was never born, right?”
Ethnicity?
“European?” He gestures vaguely with his left hand as he swirls a mug of coffee with his right. The computer speakers emit a soft chiming noise and he switches the mug to his left hand, fiddling with the mouse and taking a drink of coffee as he squints at the screen before rolling his eyes and slightly shaking his head. He sets the mug down, swallows, squints at you. “What was I…?” The silence and the squinting last a beat and then he nods. “Oh. Yeah, all right.” He leans back in his seat, holds up a hand, and begins to tick off his fingers as he speaks. " Irish, Scottish, Norwegian. Got some Swede in here, some asshole, French, Welsh, Spaceball…" He glances at his hand with a shrug. “There’s probably more. I think the technical term is ‘mutt.’”
Favorites
Favorite Color?
“Red.” There’re rustling sounds and then a soft clatter as he slides his cell phone from beneath a small stack of paperwork. He taps at his phone, swipes the screen, and then hands you the thing; he’s showing you his home screen, his wallpaper an action shot of a hockey player in a red jersey, stick raised forward as though he had just released a slapshot. “I bleed red, black, and white.” He takes the phone back with a grin, but as he goes to sit back in his chair, his gaze is distant and contemplative. “That said…” He smiles softly, fondly. " I suppose I AM coming to appreciate the, uh… many… virtues, I guess, of the color green." The smile grows, the look on his face almost dreamy, and for a moment he seems to be lost in some wonderful reminiscence.
Then he starts a bit, smile still wide and all but imperceptibly toothy as his eyes widen and flit about the room in…confusion? Embarrassment? That range of emotions one feels once caught with their hand in the cookie jar scant seconds after swearing off sweets for good? Regardless, his train of thought seems to have switched tracks for a moment; you suppose this must be him realizing that. And then he moves to rectify the situation as, with a nervous laugh, face falling, he returns his attention to his computer. “But, yeah, no. Favorite color’s red. Definitely red.” He coughs lightly into his fist and then raises it into the air as though in celebration. “Go 'Hawks.”
He lowers his hand to the keyboard, eyes pointedly fixed on the monitor.
That definitely isn’t a faint splash of his favorite color spreading on his cheeks.
Favorite Season?
Soft laughter fills the office. “The only true answer to that question is ‘hockey season.’” He breathes another laugh and then shakes his head. “Nah, but seriously. I guess it’s a tie between late fall and ‘winter, so long as it doesn’t snow to the point that driving becomes the most dangerous fucking thing in the world.’” He grimaces. “Dead honest, I’d much rather face Murphy and his thralls naked and alone than fuck with the roads during a particularly Midwestern winter. At least Murphy wouldn’t be actively trying to kill me.” He shakes his head, taps away at his keyboard, starts grumbling; you manage to catch some of it: “- we’re hours away from Chicago, how the fuck do we manage to consistently catch bits of fucking lake effect snow?”
Favorite Smell?
“Well…” He tilts his head to the side and lets out a soft ‘hmm.’ “This is gonna sound kinda weird, but… honestly? I love the smell of gasoline. I mean…” He gives a one armed shrug, straightens in his seat, looks at you. " I wouldn’t bottle it or anything, but I will admit to purposely trying to spill a bit when filling my car so that I get some on my hands and the scent lingers." There’s the sound of a drawer opening, rustling as he rifles through the drawer in search of something, nervous laughter. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m more or less succeeding at quitting smoking. That’d be a hell of a way to go… in a gasoline rainbow, fiery inferno.” He smiles briefly and then glares at the drawer as he comes up empty in his search for… whatever it had been he’d been searching for. The drawer’s slammed shut and he mumbles something as he returns his attention to his computer, clicks from the mouse sounding off at irregular intervals. “Also…” The clicking stops and a tapping takes its place as he begins to rapidly drum his thumb on his desk. Then the tapping stops and he shrugs like ‘nah’ and returns his focus to his work. “N-nevermind. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Sorry.”
Favorite ice cream flavor? Favorite pie?
“Jeez, ice cream? The fuck’s the last time I had ice cream?” The padded office chair creaks as he leans back and stares at the ceiling, head tilted and one eye squinted nearly shut in thought. “I guess… Chunky Monkey? Even if Ben and Jerry’s is fucking expens–” His face lights up and he grins at you. “Ooh. Actually, I’m a sucker for green tea mochi. That shit’s fucking divine. Now, as for pie…” The chair creaks again, his gaze directed once again at the ceiling, lips pursed as he strokes his chin in thought. “I’m gonna go with ‘American Pie’ by Don McLean.” A soft chuckle. “But if that answer’s not to your satisfaction, then it’d have to be French silk.”
Favorite flower? Tree?
“The skunk from Bambi and the Giving Tree, respectively.” He sighs, wistful. “That fucking tree gets me every time, man. Just… so… giving.” And then he tilts his head from side to side as though weighing something. “Actually, I’m changing my flower answer. I dig red geraniums. And snapdragons.”
Favorite wild animal? Pet?
“I unno. Otters are pretty rad, I guess. So are armadillos. And motherfucking jellyfish, man.” He laughs. " Guess my answer’s jellyfish. And pets-wise, if I weren’t so allergic and…" He gestures vaguely at his desk. “…work-ish, I’d probably have an assload of cats. A metric assload. Or an Imperial assload?” Shrug. " Whatever’s bigger." Then he thinks for a moment. “I guess there is Flour Tortilla, but she’s not really my pet…” He fiddles with some paperwork and doesn’t elaborate.
Favorite movie? Disney movie? Miyazaki movie?
“Cool Hand Luke.” He smiles fondly. “He wasn’t my first, uh…crush, I guess, but watching Paul Newman in that flick made me realize definitively that… ‘holy shit, I love dudes!’ So…” Soft laughter. " I unno, Cool Hand Luke and Paul Newman have a special place in my heart. And it’s a pretty good flick anyway. That fuckin’ egg scene, man!"
“Disney flicks? Tron. Definitely Tron.” You give him a look and he sighs. “You wanted a more… ‘obviously Disney’ Disney film, didn’t you? Then I guess Lilo and Stitch or The Incredibles.” He glances away from you; you think he might actually be pouting. “But the real answer is Tron.”
You ask him the last bit and he looks at you, confused. “Miyazaki? Why does that sound…” Then it hits him, just as his palm hits his forehead. “Shit. Right. Uh…” He looks kinda sheepish. “I know his flicks are awesome and critically acclaimed and all that but the only one I can cop to seeing is Spirited Away. So… I guess that wins by default? But, uhh…” He huffs a sigh. “I mean, a shit-ton of my cast and crewmates throughout high school and college were deep into anime and probably showed me more of his stuff than I’m remembering. So… I’m not gonna answer definitively?”
Favorite Marvel hero? DC?
“Squirrel Girl.” Beat. " And though he’s only loosely DC and loosely a hero, John Constantine. Definitely Constantine. But the comic Constantine, not…" He grimaces. " Not Keanu-stantine." Another beat and he sighs and looks at you. “But if we’re asking about the more known kind of “hero”, I guess I’d have to say Gambit and Batman from their respective 90’s cartoons.”
Favorite game (video, card, or board)?
“Huh… I mean, I–” He stops, glances around his office as though just remembering where he is. “Oh, yeah. I’m at work.” He laughs humorlessly, rubs the back of his neck. “Good thing it’s a slow day. I guess. What was your question? Favorite games?”
“Video games? I don’t… I haven’t really played video games. Not since graduating, and it was always at cast parties and shit. So…” He remembers something and grins excitedly. “Holy fuck, dude, I forgot about DDR. I rocked at that shit. And I probably still would…” His nod is one of satisfaction. “So, yeah. Dance Dance Revolution. I wonder if that’s still a thing.”
“War and Bullshit are the best card games. Blackjack’s pretty great, too. As for board games, The Game of Life is probably my favorite traditional board game, but… Back in sophomore year of college, I think, one of my buddies would pull out this horror game every time we hung out in a group. I think it was called Mansions of Madness? Anyway, it was fucking awesome. I miss playing it. I was always this PI dude, I think.”
He goes to drink from his forgotten mug and groans out a disgusted “Jesus fuck” after forcing the room temperature liquid down his throat. He shakes his head as he stands, mug in hand, and he offers an apology as he lightly jogs from the room.
(A/N: In the very near future, Detective Westwood will get a recommendation to try Transistor. He will fall in love with it and his journey into the wonderful world of single player gaming will begin. But Transistor will become and remain his number one.)
Random
What do they smell like?
The sound of dress shoes on tile softens to the soft thump of dress shoes on carpet as the detective returns to his office, steaming mug in hand.
“All right,” he says, settling back behind his desk and taking a tentative sip of coffee. He glances at you. “What’s next?”
You ask the question. He gapes at you and then gasps out a laugh. “Uhh… Coffee and Old Spice, I guess? That’s such a weird fucking question…” He trails off, scratches at his cheek. “I’m not actually sure? I’m used to how I smell so I can’t really… describe… H-how can you not smell me? Can you not smell me?”
You stare blankly at him. He sets the mug down, avoiding your eyes, and walks back to the open door. “I guess we could ask Tina…” He leans out of the doorway, calls “yo, T! Got a weird ass question for you!” He stands still for a moment and then he steps back into the room, mumbling “oh right. She’s on patrol.” Stepping carefully around you, he returns to his desk, shaking his head.
“Today has been such a weird fucking day.”
What flavor chapstick do they use? Shampoo/Soap scent?
“Burt’s Bees!” He whips out a small yellow tube from one of his desk drawers. “It’s the original kind, but I don’t really… know… what kind of flavor it is. Bee flavor?” He sets the tube down with a shrug. “Shampoo and… by soap, I’m assuming you mean body wash? I use Old Spice, rotating through different flavors. Right now, I’m digging Amber for body wash and Sport for shampoo. Bonus, hand soap, milk and honey. Liquid only, none of that bar fuckery.”
Random fears?
“I don’t know that I’m really… afraid of anything?” You laugh derisively; he shrugs, tilting his head side to side, weighing his thoughts. “I don’t mean like ‘I’m a badass with nothing to fear’ or anything. It’s just that fear - actual fear, not just being freaked out or getting the heebie-jeebies or something - is a specific blend of emotions and whatnot that I’m not really sure I’ve ever…” As he speaks, trails off, he seems to fixate on the corner of the room furthest from his desk, but his gaze is unfocused; left hand, his fingers lightly trace over the folds in the worn leather of his chair’s armrest; right hand, he unconsciously grabs at his left forearm, his thumb brushing in circles against a spot a few inches below the crook of his elbow, and his jaw clenches and his eyes widen and his breath comes in louder and shallower and harder and faster and he looks anxious, anxious, panicked, bordering on – he almost looks-- as he whispers ‘no’ and squeezes his eyes shut – he almost looks afr–
A goal horn goes off and he jumps, glances about wildly. It goes off again and he glares at his phone - " fucking TEXTS-" and he taps angrily at the screen, shaking his head in disbelief - “motherfucking REDBOX-” before turning off the screen and sliding the phone away. He stares at the thing for a moment and then laughs helplessly and looks up at you. “I guess I am afraid of things. I usually have this whole spiel, but essentially it boils down to being afraid of the necrotic wounds brown recluse bites can cause.” He laughs again and looks at his monitor. “And I live in the Midwest. Where brown recluses live. Yaaaay.”
There’s a disconnect somewhere between the start of a seeming panic attack and the almost nonchalant revelation of one of his so-called fears, but you don’t have enough information to discern just where that disconnect is. It will probably remain that way. You press on with your other questions.
(A/N: Bonus fears: snapping/slicing/otherwise severing his Achilles tendon; being buried alive; being seen/the center of attention as himself, it’s a bit complicated?)
What languages do they know?
“Ig-pay Atin-lay!” He laughs as you stare at him. “That doesn’t count? All right, fine. I speak English. Obviously. Uh…” He shrugs. “I know like one song each in Gaelic, Latin, Italian… I got the pronunciation down and I generally know what the songs are about but fuck if I could give you a translation. I learned 'em for recitals. Beyond that, I know bits and pieces from a bunch of languages. Picked up from songs and shows and movies and whatnot. Generally, I can count the number of words I know on one or both hands.” With an annoyed snort, he shakes his head and looks away from you. “Six years of French and all I can remember is ‘hi,’ ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘wanna bang?’ And I don’t think that last one counts because it comes from that fucking song…” He keeps on mumbling to himself.
If they could have ANY career what would it be?
“Uh…” He runs his fingers through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, shrugs. “When I was a child, I had a fever. In my delirium, I decided that I would become an alligator when I grew up. Does… Does that count? A career as an alligator?”
What skill do they want to learn?
You finish the question and he looks at you, smile spreading wide, eyes bright. “Oh, MAN. SO FUCKING MANY.” He sighs. “I’ll be cool, though. Don’t wanna be here all day.” You look at the camera like you’re on The Office. He presses on. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly airplanes, honestly. I don’t know, that shit always seemed so cool.”
Hot showers or cold showers?
“Warm-ish showers, I guess?”
What kind of pajamas do they wear?
“T-shirt and jammy bottoms? Usually shorts, but sometimes I’ll wear jammy pants.”
Extra
Ideal Vacation spot?
“Can I say a pocket dimension where I can sleep for a week and not lose any time here on Earth and also not have to deal with any weird consequences that might result from the differences between the rates of time or something. I mean. The Echo World is a thing. Why can’t my dream pocket dimension exist?” He shrugs. “In terms of things that are actually possible… I really don’t know. I’ve never had a proper, formal- er, informal…?- vacation before. I’ve never really wanted to? So i’ve never really considered where I might wanna go. I guess I have to think about it.”
What physical traits do they find attractive? Personality traits?
“I… don’t?” He sits, lost in thought for a good little while. For a moment he looks like he might say something, but then he thinks better of it. “Next question?”
What are their guilty pleasures?
“All right, see, I have a fucking thing about this. I don’t like to apply the term to things we generally apply the term to. There are pleasures people should feel guilty about, sure; if, say, killing people is a pleasure for you, I’d certainly fucking hope you’d feel guilty. You probably won’t after a certain point or… at all… but it’s definitely something to feel guilty about. Benign things like digging objectively shitty bubblegum pop or devouring trashy romance novels -either figuratively or literally - shouldn’t induce guilt. Kind of pisses me off that they do.” He shrugs and then he laughs. " I kind of want to see someone literally devour a trashy paperback. Not page by page either, but cutting it up like a steak. Wonder if there’s a video on YouTube…"
What’s the perfect gift someone could give them.
“When I receive it, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He smiles. "“Cause that’s when I’ll know.”
Who was their first crush (real or fictional)?
“Special Agent Dale Cooper. I wouldn’t have been able to acquire the taste for coffee if not for him. I mean, there’s more to it than that but… we ARE nearly finished, yeah?” You nod. “Then let’s move on.”
What is their most used emoji?
“Wait, do you mean ‘emoji’ like those fugly little symbols that come standard on every smartphone system keyboard anymore? Or do you use ‘emoji’ as a catch-all term for smileys and the like, like some folks do for some reason? If it’s the former, then… no. If it’s the latter…” He picks up a pen and a blank sticky note and scribbles something on it. Then he hands it to you.
: D or : /
Do they prefer sweet, salty, or savory snacks?
“Hmmm… Salty, I think. I like nuts.” Beat. “Sacksful of-- no, actually, I’m not doing this bit right now.”
What are some items on their bucket list?
“Go see a show on Broadway.” He tilts his head from side to side, weighing his thoughts. “Build a fucking time machine so that I can catch Hamilton with its original Broadway cast.” A shrug. “That’s about it for the moment.”
(You are… not quite satisfied, but you got what you came for. Without a word, you turn from the detective and step from the office, your form fading and fading until you are no longer part of this narrative’s brief diversion from continuity. Your final thought as you fade into nonexistence is that, if one were to squint, one could see where the gimmick began to fall apart. Meanwhile, the detective is staring at where you once stood, scratching his head in utter confusion. “I have no fucking idea what just happened.” He sighs. “Aaand I didn’t actually get any work done today. They’d better cure this OOC shit soon.”
End scene)
Thank you for reading. As an apology, I leave you with my contribution to the overall conversation:
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Y’all talked about strip poker, but what about Twister? Getting tangled up with your LI>> Seeing your LI nekkid, maybe, in my book. Or just go for the best of both worlds and play some Strip Twister. And I’m also not having images of Fe, taking one for the sake of fucking with Adam, purposely losing to ostensibly take control of the spinner, only to call out random spots and body parts so that Adam and my MC get tangled up. Face to face.
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At what point in the relationship -whether it be friendship or a romance- do y’all think a smoker MC could successfully bum a smoke and a light off of M? I ask partially because, under a great deal of stress, that’s something my MC would try to do, and partially because I’m just curious. Or would they chuck a cigarette at any MC who asks for one just so they’re left alone?
And a few MC questions to chew on:
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Are there any songs that, when they play on the radio, doesn’t matter where, your MC feels a moral obligation to sing? As in, if they did not go ham on the song, they would briefly feel a sense of existential emptiness?
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your MC’s texting style?
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Favorite formal joke
. Then, once they and the MC are all entangled, he would turn into Suavewell 
