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dankmemes2018-07-22 02:53 pm
hadrielmods) wrote in dankmemes2018-07-22 02:53 pm
Entry tags:
Test Drive Meme #34
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: OOZES GEOMETRICALLY
[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.
The only warning you may get is the squish slick sound of movement before a gelatinous cube is upon you. Leaving gross trails behind them and with their see-through bodies filled with the bones of those that they've dissolved in their jelly, these cubes have no real vulnerability other than their limited movement.
Gelatinous cubes are exactly what it says on the tin, giant translucent cubes of jelly whose main attack tactic seems to be cornering people in small hallways and just sort of absorbing them into its mass. They then digest all meat and flesh and leave only floating bones and various metals their victim may have been wearing stashed inside of their jiggling forms.
Maybe it's time to apologize for the last time you brought a jelly mold to a potluck.]
A L L
SCENARIO TWO: MY LOYAL SERVANTS
[Thanks for your service to the gods! In order to power each of them up, it's up to you to pick a deity you like most (or dislike least, as it were) and simply say their name in order to be influenced by them and encouraged to inspire their emotion in others!
What, you don't want to play? Too bad, accidental name calling works just as well, even if you didn't mean to incite them- you'll feel their presence pulling their chosen emotion out in you anyway. Hope you picked a good one!
This is a mini version of our In Need Of A Boat event this month.]
C O N F U S I O N
SCENARIO THREE: I MISS GPS
[Sure, you might be a little confused at being here at first, but that generally goes away within a few days. This time... well, this time, that feeling of befuddlement isn't quite going away. Roads that you take seem to disappear behind you when you turn around, your right turns are left turns on the map you're following, and you're pretty sure that everyone except for you put their shirt on backwards this morning.
Is everyone high? What they're saying makes absolutely no sense to you. You can't find your way out of a paper bag, let alone back to where you've been staying lately. Is that a dog or is it an eldritch horror coming up to lick at your calves?
During this prompt, everything will feel off and it can be very difficult to get your bearings at all. That's Confusion for you!]
agent maine | red vs. blue
[ He wakes up spitting blood.
There's blood on his visor, inside and out, distorting the warnings flashing on his HUD. Maine blinks up at them, uncomprehending. There should be more, some part of him thinks — but how the fuck could he be alive if there were more? He spits again. Rolls himself onto his hands and knees. Sucks in air that feels strange in his throat, like there's something stuck. Tries to gain his bearings.
He's got that fancy new weapon in hand — the Brute Shot — and something's locked to the magnetic holster on his back. It takes him a moment to remember what it is.
The briefcase. The objective. The mission.
And he remembers the last minute of his life.
He remembers fighting on a flatbed in the middle of a city. He remembers taking a bullet under the chin and getting thrown onto his back, boot on his chest to keep him down. He remembers seeing a muzzle flash, rapid-fire — one two three four five six seven eight — aimed at his neck. Should've killed him. Would've killed anyone else. But he got up. Fired a grenade to throw the truck off course. Went flying through the air, and ... woke up.
Maine pulls a gloved hand away from his throat. Can't remember grabbing it. Can't understand why the pain is so dull, more discomfort than anything. Knows that, regardless of how it feels, he needs immediate medical attention.
So he shoves himself to his feet. Ignores the blood shining on his white armor. Takes in his surroundings. Turns a slow circle to really take them in, because they make no fucking sense. A minute ago, he was in a city. Now he's in some ... arena?
Then he spots a giant cube of jello oozing along, and Maine comes to a conclusion: he's either dead, or he's so high on painkillers that he's hallucinating. Hospital jello turned monster. Sure, why not?
The massive blood-splattered Freelancer turns his back on the blob and starts making his way out of the arena. Because fuck that shit. ]
III. CONFUSION
[ In retrospect, exploring a fake city born of painkiller-induced dreams (because that has to be what's going on) might've been a bad idea.
The giant Freelancer is currently standing in front of a shop, white armor still splattered with now-dry blood, the gold dome of his helmet tilted up as he squints at the shop's name. He's positive that he's read it at least seven times now, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't get the words to stick in his head. Can't figure out what the fuck is in the store. And sure, he could just go in and see for himself — but right now, he's too irritated by the fact that he can't seem to fucking read.
Maine lets out a low, strangely wet growl as he glares up at the letters, big hands clenching into fists at his sides. It shouldn't be this hard. He knows this. And the longer he stands there, trying to figure it out, the more anger and confusion builds in his mind. ]
WILDCARD: NETWORK
[ "Agent Maine" is the name attached to this account, and the message itself is short and sweet: ]
Need medic.
WILDER CARD: ???
( ooc: have another idea? come at me! )
III
there is also its proprietor sitting in a chair, working on another dress. she doesn't notice him at first, but she's been training herself to be even more vigilant and aware of her surroundings than she was. her grandmother taught her well, but if she's to survive and thrive in Hadriel she must become even better.
so when she sees the stranger wearing armor similar to Wash's standing outside the shop, she chooses to leave her sword behind.
when she actually goes out to greet him, she finds herself wondering if that was maybe a mistake as he has what looks like dried blood on him and he seems. . . agitated.
oh well. not much she can do about that now. she puts on a friendly smile and says]
Hello! Is there something you need?
no subject
No armor. No weapon. Civilian, he decides. Can't place her face, but she looks friendly enough. Maybe his drugged brain decided to give him someone to read this stupid fucking sign.
Choosing to go along with it, the Freelancer grunts an affirmative and raises a hand to point at the offending sign. Then he tilts his head slightly in question, eyes still on her.
According to Maine, this is a perfectly adequate way to ask, "What is this?" ]
no subject
though, she must admit that this man is as tall as the Mountain. she maintains her friendly demeanor through force of will.
she sees him point to the sign. she blinks a moment in mild confusion before he tilts his head. oh. he's asking about the shop?]
That's the Sewing Shop which I presently run. My name is Margaery Tyrell, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What's your name?
i.
She's a little later today, having been caught up on their own island, but she does make it. The armor is still shed, left back in her room, although she does still feel naked without out. It's not that she doesn't trust Wash's program, but to date there's been nothing too difficult at the Colossuem. They tend to range from minor annoyances to major ones, but she still thinks those odd homicidal nurses on her own appearance here had been one of the more bothersome ones.
It's a worn pair of slacks, capable of allowing movement, with a blue t-shirt thrown on, and knives tucked away in her boots. Her gun sits at her back, although it is more of a last minute in case of emergency precaution than anything else. Her hair is swept back in a pony tail with those familiar bangs still sweeping over half her face, partially hiding her green eyes. It's that alertness in her steps, that awareness that keeps her glancing side to side, scoping out the island. It's one of these sweeps that draws her eyes back.
He would be hard to miss on a bad day. Always has been. The sheer size of him alone brings the eye over, and add to that the sheer whiteness of his armour that stands out in the sparse landscape. She is drawn back in time, to a snowy landscape and a fight, to searing pain and falling... That breath is sucked in, green eyes intent, sharp, watchful. She notes, as how can she not, the blood that splatters and speckles his suit. It doesn’t make it any clearer about where and when, because here, those are things you need to think about. Is the blood from whatever is going on in there, or is it from home? He’d know her, one way or the other, but how he knows her... That's the question.]
no subject
This may be a painkiller-induced dream, but he's not about to shed part of his armor unless he has to. Not in an unfamiliar environment. Not after getting shot in the fucking throat.
But when he turns his head again, he catches sight of her. Recognition hits him like a blow to the gut — or maybe that's just the breath he lets out, broad shoulders sagging slightly as relief sweeps through him.
Carolina.
A second later, he gives his head a little shake. Stupid. Of course she's here. Last thing he remembers is fighting back-to-back with her on that flatbed. Why wouldn't she show up in his dream?
Still, it's good to see her. And, as Maine starts making his way towards her, briefcase on his back and Brute Shot at his side, there's no trace of hostility in his stance.
(He's still too far off to make out the changes in her face. Too far away to see that she's much older than he remembers.) ]
no subject
The start of the downward spiral, to say the least, although it he has that case, that should mean that the last thing that he recalls is that mission. Before the AI meant for her had been given to him... She tries to rack her brain, to recall if people here show up with random items that hadn't been on them before coming here. Could it be something from the Colosseum? She wouldn't put it past this place, but no.
Her shoulders drop a little, that tension departing them, although her guard isn't dropped completely (is it ever?) Yet she does start to move toward him, mind racing as fast as her pulse. She may slow down a little as she draws closer, head cocking slightly to the side.
It's been... A long time. At least since she stood in front of him and not some projection from the Temple that had forced her to watch them die all over again. Epsilon is here, so she knows that anything is possible (Alpha and Tex too, but she's had less to do with them) and it's not like she's running off trying to figure out what is happening.]
... just arrived, I take it?
[Because how does she even start?]
no subject
(He hasn't seen her lose that spot. Hasn't seen her ambition turned against her. Hasn't been driven mad by a fragment of an AI embodying that same emotion.)
She slows as they near each other, and Maine does the same — though for an entirely different reason. Carolina's bangs conceal parts of her face, but he could swear that she looks ... different. Same eyes; same hair; same confidence and easy grace in her movements. But the closer they get, the more she looks older.
It's distracting. So much so that he nearly misses the hesitation before she speaks. And that? That's enough to give him pause as well.
When has he ever seen Carolina hesitate in anything?
After a moment of stillness, Maine lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug and nods. It's a strange way to phrase it, sure — but he did just "arrive" in this dream. ]
no subject
It is that shock of seeing him. She knows that it is possible, as seen it with Epsilon and even Sharkface, but it is still a surprise. Yet she isn't completely at a loss. No doubt he is confused, and that blood... It's been years for her, since that day, although there are certain things that are still fresh in her mind. York, Wash and her, finding the package, finding Texas The chase, he taking the shot aimed at her...]
Shit.
[And yes, that word slipping past her lips as she glances to the west. She knows where the clinic lays, although she hasn't visited herself. Has had no reason to, surprisingly. Anyone else likely would have been laying on the floor, but he's never been anyone else.]
You're probably wondering what's going on. I'll explain, but we need to get you to the clinic.
i. wake up
And, something he now admits to himself but no one else, he hopes each time he'll find a friend. The whole time that he was here with just Ephemera, he'd been solidly in denial, if not guilt, over those feelings. It's not like he'd wish this place on anyone he cared about but he'd been lonely, and then discovered that the Door could pull from different points in time, basically saving the dead.
He has an awful lot of dead friends.
Still, he'd told himself that even with death as an alternative, he shouldn't want to trap anyone here. So he claimed he just went to help, and to keep an eye out for anyone who might be a problem showing up. Ever since his team arrived he's been a little more honest with himself, and also more diligent. He'd missed Tex and Alpha showing up completely, somehow, that was unacceptable. What if someone like Felix came through, slipped away and shed his armor and started plotting against the rest of them? Wash may be paranoid, but it's not too much of a stretch.
When he reaches the colosseum today, Wash is unarmored -- it's their general rule these days, even with the firewall installed, and most things that come through don't merit that kind of protection. He was glad he had it for the earth elementals when they threw rocks at him, but also glad last month when he didn't wear it -- the rust monsters would have destroyed it and it's not like he can get a new suit. He's still got his rifle on his back, his magnum on his hip, pockets full of hard-earned ammo and all his knives. He's ready for most things.
Check that: if he made it inside, he would have been. But he doesn't. Because the first thing he sees isn't a monster, it's Maine. Or... something in Maine's armor, anyway. Bright white and splattered with blood, though Wash has no way of knowing for sure if it's from a monster inside or the person in the suit. Who he really hopes is Maine, because if it's the Meta, there are going to be problems.
More than that, though? Quietly, secretly, he's been hoping to see his friend again ever since he woke up in Hadriel. Where things like time and space and death don't matter.
The smart thing to do would be hanging back, trying to identify for sure who it is that's just arrived. But fuck that shit, if it is Maine, and he is hurt, Wash doesn't want to waste a second. He approaches anyway, if a little warily. Doesn't reach for his weapons, not yet, keeps his hands slightly to either side and hopes that whoever's in there recognizes his face as a friend. ]
Maine? That you..?
no subject
The big man grunts in annoyance — and fuck, it sounds all wrong. Raw and strained and strangely wet. He swallows, like that will clear it up. Fix whatever's wrong. Make him sound normal, and rid him of the discomfort wrapped tight around his throat.
(He tries not to think about what's going on outside of this dream. Tries not to think about what they're doing to his neck. Tries not to think about surgery and the needles that always go with it.)
Motion catches his eye, then. Grip tightening on the Brute Shot, he turns to face it—
And instantly, he relaxes. Even from a distance, he knows the man approaching him. Knows that he's the very opposite of a threat. Not because of his ability in combat, but because of who he is.
Wash. Maine's best friend.
The big man huffs and raises his free hand to gesture to himself: a silent mix of "obviously" and "who else?" Then he starts forward, intending to meet Wash halfway.
It doesn't yet register that Wash is deliberately showing his empty hands. Nor is Maine close enough to see that Wash doesn't look like he should; that the rookie is much older than Maine remembers. Blame it on a preoccupied mind. ]
no subject
Wash's manner changes a bit, speeding up his approach. Out of armor he can't drag Maine in his, that's for sure, but he's on his feet right now so they need to hustle. He can let himself have feelings later, right now he needs to focus.
Up close, even though the bloody visor, Maine will be able to tell that he's older. He looks tired, and has new scars visible on his face and his bare arms, and some premature grey in his hair. And his expression is... not just worried about the injury, there's something that runs much deeper and darker. A cross between guilt and grief, hiding behind the relief also in his eyes that Maine is here, Maine is alive, Maine is himself and--
--no. Feelings later.
He reaches up and grips Maine's shoulder tight, even if the other man can't feel it through his armor. ]
Come on, we've gotta get you to the clinic. Can you breathe okay?
[ Maybe, if it only just happened, one of the healers here could even save his voice... ]
no subject
Does Wash have an older brother? Maine's never asked. Never had a reason to. Maybe he should, if his brain's spitting out an image of what that brother might look like.
Shit. If this is how dreams usually are, he's glad he rarely remembers them. This is just weird.
But then the man reaches for him. A hand touches his shoulder, and the motion is natural. Fearless. And that? That's something only those closest to Maine ever manage to do. That, even more than the man's voice, convinces Maine that this is Wash.
An older Wash. A scarred Wash. A tired Wash. A Wash with an expression that Maine's never seen him wear; one that Maine can't fully parse, but he knows it doesn't belong on his best friend's face.
... What the fuck's going on?
It takes a moment for Maine to answer. And Wash may be able to read the startled stillness; the confusion taking hold as Maine cants his helmet, trying to make sense of the situation. Working to pick out the right words — something he doesn't realize he no longer has.
After a pause, he grunts an affirmative: he can breathe okay. And then he tries to speak.
It's one word. A simple one: "Old." A comment on Wash's appearance and a request for clarification. But it doesn't come out as a word. It catches in Maine's ruined throat. Gets lost on a bullet-pierced tongue that can no longer articulate. The word turns into something harsh and half-choked and more like a snarl than anything, utterly incomprehensible to anyone — save for Wash.
Maine twitches beneath his friend's hand. Tries to clear his throat. Ends up turning his head to the side (a habit, even with the helmet on) and coughing. Feels his body tense at how wrong even that feels.
Fucking hell... ]
no subject
Where would he even start? Probably with Hadriel itself, the nature of this place pulling them from different points. That seems safest, easiest, and smartest. It's the rest that he hasn't thought about enough, because he never really allowed himself to believe that this could happen.
He can understand Maine, of course, but the other soldier probably doesn't know that yet if this just happened. And Wash is honestly a little more focused on the cough that comes after, the thick wetness of it, than figuring out how to explain the long stretch of time between them. Even if his breathing's okay, they need to fix him up as much as possible. Wash's brows knit together worriedly and he gives Maine's arm a little tug. ]
It's weird, I know. And I'll explain soon, promise, but let me get you checked out first.
network;
It's not a message directly to him, it's one of the filters Chris helped him set up ages ago. Someone posted to the network needing medical help... Pell does a double take at the name attached.
Stop. Breathe. One thing at a time. He doesn't even have his kit, he'd probably need to get to the clinic or his house for supplies just in case the human shunned his magic a second time around. But obviously he's stable enough to type with proper capitals and punctuation, so. Pell replies as he beelines for the clinic. ]
Where are you and how badly are you injured? Can you get to the clinic?
no subject
Arena. [ His best description of this place. Then: ] Don't know.
[ He took one bullet to the chest and nine to the throat. He knows how badly he should be injured. But it feels all wrong — and he's noticed that the blood on his armor is no longer fresh. That it's started to dry. ]
Location?
[ Of the clinic, he means. ]
no subject
If you're mobile, go southwest, past the abandoned spire. I'm sending you a map.
[ A different app will pop up on Maine's phone, complete with a GPS function guiding him to the marker. And if he can't make it there, Pell figures he'll run into the soldier soon enough since he's following the same path.
He doesn't, though. And when he reaches the clinic himself, there's Maine alright, apparently considering the clinic building. Just as Pell remembers him, about two feet taller and generally massive, encased in white metal. Except right now it's stained with half-dried blood, seemingly coming from his throat... the injury that muted him, perhaps? Maybe he's from an earlier point in time. Pell remembers the mistake he made when they first met, that he certainly won't try again... he just steps forward with a worried expression and opens the door, ushering the human inside. How he's still standing, the healer has no idea, but it's obvious enough that despite their dramatic size difference Pell doesn't look at all intimidated. ]
Hello, Maine. I'm Pell... can you take your armor off and lie down for me?
[ It's probably better if he eases the man into things this time around, and so just shows him to an exam room while he goes to wash his hands. ]