dankmemes | Test Drive Meme #22

Entry tags:

!test drive

Test Drive Meme #22

Welcome to Hadriel's test drive, and thank you again for your interest in the game! As always, our reserves page is here, and our applications page is here! Reserves open July 25th, and apps are open August 1st. Please remember that there is an app cap of 20 apps.

Two quick points here as well:
1. Any thread made in Hadriel's test drive will be accepted as the sole Action Log sample in the application.
2. All threads made in the test drive can be considered game canon, either through handwaving or through a shared mental experience while coming through the Door!

Test drives will be broken up into specific god mini-events, during which your characters can see how well they fare under the watchful eye of one of the gods. Choose wisely or just simply pick 'em all, and have fun!

F E A R

SCENARIO ONE: THE WRONG KIND OF SCARY
[The Door brings in all that is chaotic and evil in the world. This may include you, may include the person next to you... and may include the monster behind you.

There's an odd shuffling to your right and to your left. Do you know what that is? Maybe not, but at least nobody else does either. You might peek at an eye stalk or a stinger, you might catch a glimpse of something that can maybe pass for fingers... or maybe it just has a mouth on its butt because its creator was feeling particularly sadistic that day. That's right, you're looking at the creatures from Spore, EA's infamous alien creation game with the most awkward alien creator imaginable.

These particular Spore creatures are the carnivorous kind, the kind who seek out and eat other creatures so that they can instantly procreate to pass on their victim's genetic code and make their species even more wild. You might not want to stick around and watch the mating process. I promise it's just as weird as you think.]

T R A N Q U I L I T Y / C O N F U S I O N

SCENARIO TWO: STEPFORD SUNDAY
[You wake up one lovely weekend morning to the sounds of birds chirping outside and sun streaming through your window. What a wonderful day to be perfectly normal and happy in the suburbs! Your family is all around you, like a Norman Rockwell painting, happy to go about their average day in their average life in their average city.

So what if your sister is an archdemon? Or your father is somehow a dragon? It's just the way that things have always been... isn't it?

The perceptive of you may begin to see cracks in the veneer, may begin to wonder why everything seems to be so perfect... and as the truth begins to unfold, it paints a much darker picture than the one you're seeing. Are you sure you don't want to stay, just a little while longer?

This is a mini version of our Stepford Summer event this month!]

R A G E / D E L I G H T

SCENARIO THREE: CAKE WARS
[There are plenty of ways in this world to rouse your competitive spirit. Many of them involve athletics- few involve such beautiful edible artistry as this.

That's right, you're in a cake baking competition, and no matter how competitive you normally are, thanks to Rage's influence, you want to win. Competitors can be in teams of two or alone, and they have until morning to bake their cakes to the fullest and bring it to Delight's temple for judging.

So what kind of cake baker are you? Do you revel in your artistry? Do you measure everything and carefully prepare each icing tip? Or do you know that you suck at cooking and decide to use the opportunity to sabotage your opponent's cake instead? Nothing is off limits, and all's fair in cake and war, after all!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Motherfucker's got fast reflexes. Ephemera just lifts his arm, activating the flamethrower just enough to show he has it. That he can get a blast straight into Washington's face before the man can get a shot off with his rifle. And it won't be the first time Ephemera's gotten shot and stayed standing.

He doesn't smile. It wouldn't matter, with the helmet.

"Not yet."

The day's still young.

"Drop it or I cook you alive in your armor."

He should fight. He should take a shot, roll out of the worst of the flames and get up and fight, because if they're not dead somehow, like hell is Sharkface going to be the one to kill him. But they must be dead. So Wash lets go of his rifle, lifting his hands to his helmet to show he's not going to reach for another weapon. Not right now.

"You're dead," he tries again, because he's not going crazy. Not again.

That's better.

Ephemera almost smiles. Doesn't. "Am I?"

The only good reason to keep an opponent on the ground is to kick their fucking skull in. He might not be Sharkface right now - not yet - but Ephemera still has his armored boots. And a pressing need to beat some Freelancers bloody.

Focus. Control your breathing. Control your enemy.

Yeah. That. Don't kill the fucker just yet.

So he only makes one attempt at kicking Washington square in the visor.

Sharkface aims a kick at his head and Wash does roll, then, to get out of the way and when he comes back up sitting he's somehow got his pistol in his hand. He aims at Sharkface's throat, hand steady. Stalemate, he hopes.

"Yeah, you are." Of course this would be his hell. Facing off old enemies again.

Oh, he's fast. That's fun.

Ephemera doesn't lower his flame thrower. And this time he does smile. Wonders if it's going to bleed into his voice.

"You and your friends dropped a building on me. A bullet? Really?"

Ephemera leans forward a little. He's starting to feel on edge suddenly, hating the almost-stillness of the moment. It shouldn't be this quiet. Someone should be dying already.

"Go ahead."

Wash doesn't lower his weapon, but he doesn't shoot either. Sharkface would be surprised the damage one bullet can do, if he aims it right. And everything in him tells him to take the shot. Hit his carotid, take him down and finish him off again. Survive.

Breathe, Wash. This guy is your only clue.

"No. I want some answers. You think we're not dead, then where the fuck are we?"

Oh, that's how it's going to be? Ephemera laughs, low and mean. "I lied. You're just fucked in the head, David."

God, those intel files were thorough.

He's not. He's not he's not he's not, this is real. It feels real, he's never had a hallucination this complete, this violent, and he's better now. He knows the difference. And there's no reason to be having one now, when he was in the middle of a battle, head trauma or no. It makes sense. The mercs must have had their files, since Hargrove had access to everything else Freelancer. Sharkface is just fucking with him. He scowls behind his visor.

"I'll ask you one more time."

No sell. Motherfucker.

Ephemera snorts. Ducks his head. And activates his shield.

"You get one shot, Freelancer. And then I beat you to death."

Well he'll never make a shot with that up. Even if he wasn't on the ground at a disadvantage. Wash sighs, wondering what the way out of this is, until Sharkface calls him Freelancer again. No. If that's what he hates so badly... maybe that's the way out.

"You're wrong, you know. I haven't been a Freelancer for a long time. We brought them down."

It's the wrong thing to say. Ephemera makes a strangled sound, ugly and full of rage, and aims another blow at Washington's head.

"No, no, no! You don't get to just walk away from what you fucking did!"

Well fuck. Wash rolls again, this time getting smoothly to his feet in the blink of an eye. Recovering his rifle and stepping back out of range. If Sharkface wants a fight, he'll get one. This is a sore spot.

"I didn't! You should know what they did to me."

Motherfucker. Trying to dodge the blame as if someone he's suffered enough. As if it changes anything. Ephemera fights down a scream and just drops his shield. "Boo hoo. You think you're crazy?"

Really? Really?

"You killed my family. I'll show you fucking crazy!"

Ephemera knows he's going to take a bullet, probably more than one, and doesn't care. He goes for his flame throwers and lunges.

Maybe he does deserve to die, but not for this. Not for shit the Project made him do. Abused him into doing. They've all suffered. It was a fucking war and they were led by madmen -- Wash is always amazed he's still alive and not in a good way. But hurting him won't fix any of that. He takes careful aim and shoots for the flamethrowers, first the right and then the left, trying to hit the trigger mechanisms. If a bullet happens to go through the canisters and blows them both up, well so be it.

Wash has gotten lots of second chances to do right, he's taking this one. Carolina seemed to have almost gotten through to him once before. Maybe. "We don't have to stay crazy. This won't change anything!"

The first bullet slams into his gauntlet right over his wrist and Ephemera feels his hand go dead-numb. Tries to fight through it. Can't. And then the second shot hits the trigger mechanism head on and napalm explodes around them. Fire, sound, burning--!

Ephemera twists, going low. Protect your head, soldier. "Stop. Talking!"

His arm is burning. He can feel it melting his armor.

Fine. Fine. He'll ignore it. Washington is still standing and that's fucking unacceptable.

His right arm is dead and useless, but his left is still working. Burning, skin bubbling under the armor, but working. It's enough to go for his pistol and aim for Washington's head.

"Start listening!"

Wash rushes in close, knocking Sharkface's burning arm away -- the shot he fires goes wide and Wash hopes it didn't hit a bystander. Anyone with sense will have gotten out of the area, but some people don't have any sense. His other fist smashes up under Sharkface's chin, rocking his head back hard. Hopefully disorienting him.

"You're not the only one who lost everything."

The blow knocks him back. Catches him on his good side and sends the world tumbling into blurry shadows. Ephemera holds tight to his pistol and staggers, trying to get his feet under him. He's fast enough to match Carolina, he should be more than fast enough to put Washington down for good. Except it's going wrong now, isn't working, and Washington won't. Stop. Talking.

Get your feet under you, solider. Retaliate.

"Shut up and fight!"

Ephemera drops to one knee for more stability and fires at Washington's center mass.

Wash only has to twist to the side for the bullet to miss him, Sharkface's aim obviously off. He can take advantage of that, of the fact that the other man has dropped to one knee. He darts forward again aims a kick dead center, reaching forward and grabbing the pistol as he does. Hopefully the pain of impact will have him let go of his weapon. There are just too many civilians around.

"You don't win this. No one wins this."

It doesn't work. It doesn't fucking work and Washington darts in close, lands a hard blow to Ephemera's chest. Ephemera feels the air leave his lungs, a sharp pain in his ribs as he falls, and drops the pistol. There are two rules. The first is don't drop your weapon. The second is don't die out of stubbornness.

He has others. He has fucking knives.

Ephemera bares his teeth in a silent snarl and grabs one of his blades. Aims for Washington's ankle. Get him in the joint, bring him down.

Oh no you don't. Wash moves back out of reach, fast as lightning, Sharkface's gun in his hand. He flips it in the air, grabs it by the grip instead, and adjusts to its weight. He doesn't know it like he knows his own but at this range it'll do just fine. Like hell he's dropping it.

There's two options. Go back in and stick it right under Sharkface's chin, but he'll probably take a blade somewhere. Or hang back and take a shot that probably won't down him. He aims for the shoulder joint of his opponent's armor.

"Stop. Don't make me do this again."

So that's how it is, huh? Ephemera adjusts his grip on the knife, holding it ready. He's going to get shot in a minute. He can tell. Maybe it'll be right between his eyes and that'll be the end. But maybe it'll go somewhere nonfatal and he'll be fine. He's taken blows like that before. Survived them, walked them off and kept fighting.

He laughs, low and hoarse.

"Do it!"

Make it interesting.

"Why do you want me to so badly? You want me to be the villain? I'm not."

He keeps the gun trained on Sharkface because he's not an idiot, but he doesn't shoot. Not yet. Not unless he absolutely has to.

"Stop talking!"

It's pointless, doesn't change anything, and Ephemera's tired of feeling insane. He wants the clarity of a fight, everything drawn into sharp relief. If Washington won't take the shot, then Ephemera will just hit him again. He surges upward, knife at the ready.

With no other options, Wash shoots dead into the shoulder joint of the arm Sharkface is gripping the knife with. No way he could miss, at this range. That's going to be a bitch to heal, and probably hurts a good amount, but pain's never stopped Sharkface. Wash stays on his guard.

Hit. The knife slips from his hand. Hits the ground.

There's probably pain, somewhere.

Ephemera twitches, feeling his arm spasm as if from a distance. His HUD is blaring a warning and somehow that's more pressing than the sharp hurt.

Goddamn it all.

He staggers, fighting to keep his feet under him. Can't make his hands work. The fire's out but he can feel that tell-tale slipping of skin and cooking muscle under his armor. It's probably bad this time, the sort of thing CT would have yelled about. Look what you fucking did, asshole.

Yeah, well.

"Fuck you," Ephemera spits.

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