time travel meme

[socksonfeets]

THE TIME-TRAVEL MEME


Somehow, someway, you've mastered time travel! Well done, genius. Maybe it was accidental, maybe you knew exactly what you were doing all along, perhaps you've even been at it a while!

How to play
① Tag in with your name/series/date. The latter should be from your character's perspective! For example, Jane Doe/That Oldie Zombie Series/1945
② Go to RNG and roll 1-10. That's your scenario!
③ Tag around!
④ Have fun. :)


Scenarios

① Trapped. Something doesn't seem to be quite right with the machine anymore ...
② Long Lost Lovers. You're back in their arms and nothing can separate you, not even time and space itself.
③ War. You've arrived in the middle of a fight/battlefield. Unless you intended for it to happen, this isn't looking so good.
④ Sickness. Did that person mention the Black Death?! Better find your friend and get out of the Dark Ages before you start coughing.
⑤ Party. Lucky you! There's a hootnanny going down in the past/future and it looks like you're just in time to grab a drink.
⑥ Missing. They stole your first time machine, but now you've built another and the chase is on!
⑦ Date Night. Nothing says 'oh, Mr. Darcy, oh!' like a romantic blast into the past or a frolic into the future. Whichever historical event is going on around you now, however amazing, it's all foreplay in the grand scheme of things.
⑧ Lost. It's years ahead of the times for one of you, but things seem normal enough to the other person.
⑨ You Dun Fucked Up, Kid. Which year is it? Which world is this, for that matter? Shit. Looks like you didn't just build a time machine, you're in a whole other universe ... !
⑩ Roller's Choice. Pick your own.

Comments

[thedominatrix]

[ooc: Let's go with Holmes in modern day, then!]

Oh, good. You're awake.

[Hotel rooms and Irene Adler never seem to work out for him, do they? Not that the woman standing over him and looking at her phone rather than his face is the Irene Adler he's used to.

She turns on her heel, slipping her phone down the front of her deeply un-Victorian dress and depositing herself on the sofa, taking off her heels.]

Don't make a fuss, will you? I've got friends outside who care about me deeply, though I suspect it's mainly because I pay them to. Speaking of which, how did you get in? Window?

[stubbly]

[ There's the horrible feeling of having been put through a hell of a wringer of a boxing match when he finally opens his eyes, squinting against the sight of a frame looming above. Female, slender; a voice of remarkable self-assurance, considering he can't for the life of him place it and doesn't know to whom it belongs, same as her face. ]

Begging your pardon, madam. [ Staring at the device (remote control, perhaps?) that she tucks away, he takes stock of her appearance with a few casual flickers of attentive glancing.

Garish make-up, nails. Outfit scandalous. Shoes foolishly tall (scuffed near the base, an intrepid walker). Despite all this, control considered an absolute when handled with the capacity of an impressive ego over hired muscle - without? Safe to assume. Business-woman of some esteem or high-born decadent.

He clears his throat and tests the restraints holding him to the bed, thankfully garbed this time around. ] I seem to have lost my senses.

Last I recall, I was in my home at Baker Street performing an experiment of great import. If you would but only release me, I shall make my way hence. [ Eventually. After probing. ] I do believe you are the one who has kidnapped me, I'm afraid, so you have me at something of a loss.

[thedominatrix]

[She watches him from the sofa, tapping her fingers on the back of it slowly.]

You are a rare bird, aren't you?

[She's speaking for the sake of having something to say while she sorts this out in her head; perhaps he can tell. Her voice is posh, but she lacks a certain Victorian formality—and it slides, sometimes, her vowels getting over-exaggerated or her consonants not quite clicking. It's not fake, exactly, in that she doesn't have to think about it anymore, but it's not organic.]

Alright, I'll bite. [And she changes her posture as if to emphasise what she's saying—actress?—putting her feet on the floor and leaning forward, hands clasped.] What year is it?

[She doesn't believe in time travel, thank you very much, but she does believe in gameplayers, and she knows quite a few. It's best to play along until one learns the parameters, she finds.]

[stubbly]

[ For all that she appears refined, the cusp of scandal lingers on her like fog clinging to cobbles after the rain. It's a shifting notion, amorphous but subtle in the way she presents herself (schooling those gestures, clever enough to realise it might influence him if she behaves a certain way or if Holmes weren't prone to Omne ignotum pro magnifico).

It is, annoyingly, vaguely reminiscent of The Woman's backward charms, such as they were.

The room looks foreign in a way he can't immediately place. No real cultural affects, everything clean — surprisingly so with hardly any sentimentality in such bare furnishings, for a woman — and minimalistic. Curious how she looks entirely at home, then. Could be her ego shining through. He blinks, startled and momentarily beyond veiling it, when she brings the year into question because only Watson did that as a joke, last he remembers — had reason to. That isn't a coincidence.

'Holmes, when may we permit the actual scientists their due appointment? It was half an hour ago.'
'My studies shall prove far more conclusive. Observe! The engineering is the thing, the key, and now as I initiate this lever -'
'You're being farcical about the whole thing.'
'No! You have to stay.'
'Why? In case you shimmy off into the future? Perhaps Jonathan Strange would like some tea, I warrant you would get along famously. Look here, the man who built this nonsense was a madman, Holmes. Nothing is going to come from your tinkering, save one very annoyed Inspector.'
'Precisely. We must deduce what did and, linearly, exactly how he murdered his assistant. Isn't it refreshing?'
'I'm going home to Mary. If anything, it's late.'

His last memory is of Watson laughing as he turned his back on the ridiculous mess within Sherlock's home. And then — lights? He remembers a flash, but his memory is so muddy. It isn't usually this uncooperative. ]

The year is eighteen-ninety-one. [ More than anticipating a denial, the pause before his answer cannot be retracted and so every effort goes into remaining studiously calm. It's difficult to pull off, but far from impossible. All because she asked the year, not the day. ]

Unless, of course, I am mistaken.

[ A normal person would not tack that query on the end. A normal, dreary, idiotic person would still be flailing to release themselves their bonds at waking up with a stranger staring them down. They would not rehash their immediate past, anything salient to collect data on their current circumstances. They would not challenge their own grated view of how things ought to be and find so much (thrillingly) wanting. Ostensibly, they would not draw any cold comfort from the knowledge of why they might need to pose the question solely for the relief of their state of mind.

Above all, they would not allow facetiousness to be picked up on by their captor, for all the politeness in a token tight smile, but then Sherlock hazards a weighty bet that she is more intrigued than prone to murder. That would be so very dull an anti-climax to serve as today's fare. ]