TDM #1

[glencolans]

TEST DRIVE MEME #1

Welcome to Glencola Reef's first Test Drive Meme! This is a place where anyone interested in applying a character - or just curious to see how their characters might interact with the setting and others in the game - can mingle with one another. General prompts are provided below for inspiration.

TDM GUIDELINES

• Please read the rules before posting to the TDM. These still apply here and will be enforced, up to and including deleting tags/toplevels and prebanning.
• Posts from a TDM are required to apply. At least three tags across any number of threads within a TDM, posted within the last 6 months, must be provided in every application.
• TDM threads can be used for AC. Note that new characters only need to check in for their first AC cycle, but established characters can use TDM tags for their AC.
• TDMs are not considered game canon by default. This is mostly for logistics reasons - due to how characters travel on the map, it's unlikely that non-network threads that take place here will actually happen in-game. However, I won't stop anyone from working out how to make parts of threads game canon if they really want to.
• New TDMs will be posted every three months. Keep checking back into the current TDM for new toplevels!

I. ARRIVAL

You awaken on a tropical island beach, soaking wet, powerless, and without any idea how you got here. Were you carrying something important, or wearing powerful armor? How unfortunate - it looks like only the most basic clothes, items in your pockets, and simple weapons managed to make the trip with you. Are you even physically the same as you remember? If you had superhuman abilities tied to your physiology, you might be stuck in a completely different body that lacks your usual senses. You might've been whisked away from a tense battle or a near-death experience and wake up delirious, or even injured.

Thankfully, against overwhelming odds, you're not the only one to wake up on this particular stretch of beach. You and your companion have a lot of puzzling out to do.

II. NETWORK

Even if you weren't lucky enough to wake up near someone else, at least you've arrived with a military-grade radio transceiver gripped tightly in your hand (or mouth, or other vaguely opposable appendage of choice). The clunky walkie-talkie will start buzzing and crackling for every public message that starts coming your way. Answering them back is as easy as pressing the "talk" button on the side of the device and either speaking into the receiver, or using the keypad to type into the message box that appears on the screen, then pressing the button again to send. A list of ongoing conversations with responses that are less than 24 hours old can be found by scrolling through the menu, identified by the callsigns that are participating in them. It seems that you've been assigned a callsign, too - it shows up in the top right side of the screen, format AB123C. The letters and numbers picked are...probably random.

This is your easiest avenue to communicating, or coordinating with, or complaining at the other people stuck on this island; how you decide to use this tool is up to you.

III. EXPLORING

For a place that appears, by all signs, to be an equatorial island in the middle of a tropical ocean, the local environments are surprisingly diverse. Beaches range from idyllic white sand to storm-swept pebble crags to cliffs with waterfalls cascading off the edges; the interior forests can be thinned from sandy soil or dense jungles full of prickly underbrush and with towering canopies; and the central mountain peaks, perilous enough to climb on their own, terminate in ravines and sinkholes that are hidden by thick foliage until you already have one foot over the edge.

The animals that make their homes here are equally as varied, and sometimes just as dangerous. The standard Earth fare of tropical fish swim right up to most shores, especially where reefs have grown, and a multitude of seafaring and jungle birds make their homes in ocean-facing cliffs and trees. Any one of these creatures would make for an easy snack. But you're not the only opportunistic hunters here; sharks prowl the waters, big cats stalk the jungles, and feral boars raid any camps that smell enticing. And that's just the stuff that looks like it came from modern Earth. Your improvised fishing rod might have captured a trilobite, or maybe that deer you were stalking has rounded on you with a set of alien mandibles full of sharp teeth. Or maybe, among the plants and animals completely foreign to you, you've stumbled across one that's strangely familiar to your home and no one else's.

There's a lot to figure out about this place. At least, in this instance, you aren't doing it alone.

NAVIGATION

Comments

marc spector — moon knight, marvel comics

[vestments]

—arrival

( marc has been through worse.

at least, that's what he's telling himself as he comes to, clothes wet and uncomfortable, clinging to his skin in all the wrong places as the heat from the sun does its best to dry them and him out — because hey, at least he didn't drown this time.

staring up at the sky, he groans. )

Ugh, god—

( intoned in the way that makes it quite clear he means 'fuck', it's a quiet noise of resignation, frustration and — ultimately — acceptance. acceptance that this is where he is right now and that no, he doesn't really know what happened to take him from new york to here, but in some ways, that's just his life. a day in the life of, and all that.

he's not dressed for the beach, not by any stretch of the imagination: white shirt (long sleeved), white tie, white waistcoat, white suit jacket, white trousers, white gloves, white boots and — finally — white (of course) mask. that sits beside him on the ground, having been pulled off ungracefully and desperately as he'd inhaled a mouthful of wet, and judging by the amount of sand clinging to it, he won't be putting it back on any time soon.

in contrast to the suit (or, at least, how the suit presumably looked BEFORE), marc is — unkempt. dishevelled. brown hair drying into messy waves frame a face that wears an assortment of day-plus old bruises, a nose that's been broken several times and not quite healed right on at least one of those occasions, a scar that runs through his left eyebrow, and he could do with a shave (unless the stubble's a choice, but who knows).

he knows he's not alone. he can hear the sound of breaths behind him, and he reaches, slowly, carefully, deliberately into an inside pocket of his jacket. feels cold, wet metal. familiar. good. the radio he'd awoken with sits just out of reach, and he turns his head to one side, just a touch, to glance over his shoulder. )

Don't. It's not polite to sneak up on people. ( a level, pointed comment, chicago-accented, hoarser than he'd usually sound (salt water). )

— network,
( callsign — SP586R )

( frankly, marc doesn't trust the radio but given it's all he's got, he's going to run with it. he's not ignored every message he's heard or seen on it so far, not really, he just hasn't — replied.

he hasn't heard any familiar voices, hasn't seen any familiar names. there's been, to this point, precisely nothing recognisable, which has left him with the question: is this about him or is this about moon knight? anyone who knows him as the latter, generally knows he's the former — he's done far too much stupid shit very publicly for his identity to be anywhere near close to 'secret'. and whilst it also means that anyone who knows him as 'spector' also knows he's 'moon knight', it doesn't mean that anyone who's got a problem with 'marc spector' also has a problem with 'moon knight'.

(you see?)

based on the apparent mix of people, marc — honestly — has no idea which of the two (if either) options it could be.

so— )

This is Mr. Knight. ( 'night'? 'knight'? he makes no attempt to clarify, but if you met him at any point handy to his arrival, you may notice this sounds like a less hoarse version of the man dressed in the (stunningly impractical) white suit. ) I have some experience with weird situations and challenging terrain. ( is he going to elaborate on that? no, of course not. ) I know some of you have been documenting supplies, but if there's anyone that needs physical assistance, please do reach out.

— wildcard

( wanna do something else? totes down for it! either give me a starter or hmu at spandex and we'll figure something out. happy for network threads to lead into exploration threads!

general content warnings for moon knight apply — tbh there are some that are unlikely to be touched on at all, and others that are simply unlikely in an introduction thread, but as a precursor and fair warning, MK deals with a lot of violence, religion and religious issues (relating to internal conflict, primarily), mental health and mental illness (DID, depression), ableism (internalised and otherwise), and in general, marc is a deeply unreliable narrator of his own experiences. to that end, i have an opt-out post located here! )

network; callsign JE573R

[royallyunappreciated]

Oh, Mr. Knight! Thanks goodness someone's finally spoken up. I've been struck wandering the beach for fear of the horrible creatures that might be lurking within the jungle. I'm not at all a fighter, you see? Just a humble politician cast upon these wretched shores!

arrival

[backsassin]

Sorry. Force of habit.

[ This said by a woman who stands a few meters away, garbed in strange, dull violet armor. Her eyes are fixed on the hand tucked into his coat pocket, her stance light and ready to run. Zam Wesell has already died once in the past few minutes. She's not looking to repeat the experience.

Held stiffly at her side is what remains of her right arm, severed at the elbow. The sleeve is singed black around the tear. ]

Not looking for trouble. Just answers.

Network, Callsign: YL078T

[doomcame]

Mind providing us with your resume, Mr. Knight? Now doesn't exactly seem like the time to be vague and formal.

[There are so many messages, so many others that seem to have been stranded somehow in this place alongside her. It's not as easy as she'd like to pick out the most useful. She also has "experience with weird situations and challenging terrain" but who knows what spin that might be to someone else.]

We all need to be sharing and working together.

network | callsign: HE412T

[timaeus]

[The response comes in the form of text despite the voice message. It's a comfort thing.]

Define "weird".

arrival.

[2199]

Suspect is armed-- and not accused of anything. He's just hard to miss; through the treeline, Moss thought the white of this stranger's suit was bleached skull. She saw a glyptodont lumber by some hours ago, and her mind became consumed with images of mastodons and giant sloths.

But, no, it's a man, wearing clothes that should be extinct, but like the coelacanth, stubbornly refuses.

"There's no reason to attack and nothing to fight over." Her voice carries the dull tone of exhausted conviction; if she's lying, she's lying the way someone does at a crime scene. This is for your own good. Why don't you calm down? "I'm guessing I'm as stranded as you."

Marcus Wright II Terminator Salvation: Final Battle

[anewhero]

=Arrival=
[ Great...Where the hell did, I end up now?! ]

Marcus has dragged himself through two deaths and the machine apocalypse. He grits his teeth and looks around, his black leather coat soaked to the literal bone. He didn't mind his brown shirt getting wet, but this? ... Fuck. Marcus is carrying a plasma rifle stolen from the confines of Skynet when the machine war was at its peak. Marcus had swum before even walked under water himself.

For unknown reasons, Marcus looks and speaks like a human for all purposes but a spot of skin open shows a glimmer of silver parts underneath. He's not fully human after all!

[ Marcus mentally curses under his breath and digs for something to cover up the metallic area, blood on the metal part. ]


==Network==
Callsign: ROO3STR

[Marcus takes some time listening to comments on the military like comm he's been given, hearing no familiar names of the Tech-Com Human Resistance, no talk of Skynet, or distant names of nobody familiar asking questions.]

My name is Marcus.. I come from the machine apocalypse. I'm assuming none of you know the name John Connor or Skynet, right? Like I said, I didn't expect anyone to know them.

I've seen some shit, and I can fix things. I know my way around a car or radio.

==Wildcard==
[Hit me up at darkred #2446 or redscribbles if you wish to rp with me! But General Warning about Marcus Wright. His past is riddled with prison mentions, death two times, death of a family member by a cop, blood etc, dark mentions. Terminator is a R rated series and can be dark.]

Arthur Lester | Malevolent (Podcast)

[lestercraft]

Arrival

The slosh of a wave against his face brings Arthur back to consciousness with a small, pained groan - and then another one sluices up his nose, making him cough and sputter in surprise as he jerks upright, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. It takes until he tries wiping his face with one hand, when he lifts a hand to wrench the wet sleeve of the yellow robe up to wipe his face that he realises.

His left hand. He's leaning on it- he can feel the sand beneath his knuckles, can feel his fingers tightening around something blocky and- and plastic?- against his palm. And when he shifts his foot, he stumbles when he realise he can feel all his toes.

But he still... he still can't see.

"J-John-?" His voice is a murmur, shocked more than anything, as he finally starts stumbling awkwardly away from the water. "John, where the fuck are we-?"

Then his foot catches on the hem of his sodden robes and he trips with a loud curse and faceplants back into the sand.


Network

[Callsign L35T3R clearly doesn't know what he's doing with the radio, and it takes him quite a few false starts to work out which button starts the call - and a bit longer still to realise he has to hold it.]

Er-- h-hello? Is- whoever else is out there, m-my name is- Arthur Lester. I don't- does anyone know where exactly we are? -anyone?

callsign: JE573R

[royallyunappreciated]

Oh, somewhere off the coast of Cleigne, I shouldn't wonder. Judging by the climate. Will the Infernian's heat ever know a chill wind? Hmm! You sound terribly distressed, young man. Are you injured?

[Isn't he helpful?]

Zam Wesell | Star Wars

[backsassin]

i. arrival

[ Zam Wesell had never put too much thought into an afterlife.

The way she looks at it, if one does exist, she’s probably karked. The Mabari had taught that Clawdites are sinners from birth and of the things she’d done with her life after the fact, very few seem likely to have placed her in the good graces of any kind and benevolent gods. Not to mention, she’s seen the light go out of enough eyes to doubt that there’s anything waiting on the other side at all.

Which is all to say, when she chokes out her last words in some grimey Coruscanti alleyway, cursing her partner of more than a decade, the last thing she expects is to open her eyes once more on a perfectly ordinary-looking stretch of white sandy beach.

She groans and sits up in the sand, neck still throbbing where the saberdart had pierced her skin. ]

Bastard, [ she hisses. ] Karking two-faced murishani bastard!

[ Turns out she had more cursing to do before Jango’s neurotoxin had cut her off. She sits there for several minutes, trying to compose herself and shivering despite the sunlight beating down on her back.

She’d really died, hadn’t she? She remembers Jango lining up the shot, her foolish hope that he was aiming at the Jedi not her—and then the sting in her neck like an insect’s bite, the rapid pounding of her heart, how quickly everything had gone dark. So how could she be here now, waking up on a tropical island on some unknown planet? Unless… this is just what comes after?

She tries to stand up and finds herself feeling peculiarly unbalanced. She glances down at herself—and screams.

Guess who just remembered that her entire forearm had been chopped off? ]

ii. network | callsign: KYD2I

[ The broadcast starts with a long, staticky sigh. Zam can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s talking to herself here, but she supposes that even that is better than being alone with her thoughts. ]

The way I figure it, there’s good odds that all of this is just a product of a dying brain pumped full of neurotoxin putting on one last show. So. If all of you are just different parts of my brain in the process of slowly dying: sorry, I guess. I may have made some mistakes.

[ Maybe a lot? Zam’s not really that great at reflection or regret, but she’s pretty sure she should not have put her life in the hands of a man who had told her on at least one occasion that he’d kill her if he had to. ]

But on the off-chance that I’m wrong: anyone care to share the last thing they remember before waking up here? I can’t be the only one who remembers dying, right?

Also, is anyone else’s body, uh… not quite the way they remember it?

[ Don’t get her wrong, if she has to be stuck in a certain form, the one she’s in right now would have probably been her first choice. But it’s still disconcerting not being able to change back. ]

callsign: JE573R

[royallyunappreciated]

[What a fascinating message.]

Oh, no, no! I can assure you, I'm almost certainly the product of a dying brain. Your sense of humor, perhaps? Did you have one of those?

Taissa Turner | Yellowjackets

[doomcame]

I. Arrival

Taissa startles back to consciousness with a gasp, her hands grasping around her for an item that she had thought she acquired in a dream. It's only sand that slips through her fingers. The manila folder is gone. Had she ever really gotten it?

The edges of reality are blurry but the sudden shift in sensations help bring her into the present. She's wet, soaked through her white sweater and Chinos. The warm beach stretches out beneath her to meet the sound of a tide. Streams of sunlight glare down at her.

"Where--" Her breathing is quick, panicked. She scrambles to her feet as she surveys her surroundings while trying to shade her eyes. This wasn't even the Jersey Shore. Her brows furrow. "What the Hell did you do this time, Tai?"

And how far had she gone? There was no sign of her purse, her keys, her phone. A few yards away there lay some sort of walkie-talkie in the sand. Several more and another figure begins to approach.

"Hello? I think I need some help..."


II. Network

[Messages coming from the walkie-talkie barely register in the state of Taissa's complete shock, a few snippets of voices playing one after another as she cycles through them hoping for some voice of authority representing organized aid. Coast Guard, maybe?]

Hello? Anybody? Who am I speaking to? This is Senator Taissa Turner. I seem to be lost and in need of assistance.

[She attempts to sound calm through her confusion. Loud and clear. She fears whatever darkness inside of her that brought her here more than being stranded, the gravity of the situation having not yet set in. How far could she have possibly gotten to on her own...? There must be a boat nearby somewhere that helped bring her here.]

I (and I'm sorry)

[sharktrash]

It's hardly surprising to find someone out of sorts on the beach, considering that was exactly how they all had woken up a couple weeks ago. Still, Squalo does a double-take where he's strolling across the beach (or it looks like he's doing that, though he's really looking what, if anything, the sea has washed out overnight), because nobody had told him this would be a repeated occurrence.

Well. It's either that, or it's whoever has trapped them here trying to get feet on the ground and perhaps spy on them. He'll find out soon enough.

For now, though, he strides forward with confident steps until he stops a couple meters away, grins lazily, and unhoists the very real hatchet from his shoulder to point it at the soaked woman.

Of all things, guess she's ran into an axe murderer, huh?

"Do you, now?" he asks, sounding just a little too cheerful and too loud, but at least it seems he's not interested in immediately resorting to violence. "What's in it for me?"

shannon moss | the gone world | ota.

[2199]

a. NETWORK.

[American, vaguely East Coast, female, an adult voice with a harsh cadence; she speaks in the dull tone of someone accustomed to terse military communication.]

Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie, calling in. This Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie. [Or, like, whatever her callsign is; let's just make this a placeholder.] Awaiting hail from unknown station, over.

[...]

Requesting information. Requesting verification from unknown station. Requesting location. Requesting year of departure. Requesting information in compliance with Protocol 172. I say again: verify year of departure.

In compliance with Protocol 172: Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie is one-niner-niner-seven. I repeat: year of departure is one-niner-niner-seven

Until further instruction, all rescue precautions will be assumed. Locating high ground, shade, clean water. Please respond if in need of assist.

Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie, requesting verification from unknown station. Requesting... Libra. Terra Firma. Quantum foam. Grey Dove... Courtney Gimm. Libra. Requesting Libra. Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie, over.

b. ON THE BEACH.

Shannon Moss makes her way across up beach at a slow, determined pace. She hasn't fallen yet. She won't. The prosthetic, a hard plastic nub sticking out under the cuff of her jeaned leg, barely takes purchase in the sand, and sinks low. She walks slowly, precariously, but she makes it further from the waterline, until the sand becomes packed enough to sustain her more easily.

Moss stands comfortably once she can stand. Wearing casual clothing, she's immediately pulled up her sleeves. Things were bleak and bleary, back home. Cold, but she could have dressed warmer. Should have. There was a cold, an eternal cold...

(1.) Something scurries in the brush. Moss pivots on her heel, and draws a government issue service weapon from her hip, a Smith and Wesson 4506. She does not speak into the dark between the trees. She waits.

It's a deer, an adolescent white tail, bounding onto the sand. It skitters briefly on soft wet earth before it stumbles away, and Moss watches it go.

"Fuck."

(2.) No, when she falls, it's not because of her leg. Even with two feet reaching down from two knees, the way she was in the darkness of 2199, she would have fallen to see this. A trilobite, a monster dead in a time before history or love or penicillin, lies dead in the sand. Some kind of tabby raccoon dragged it into the dirt, and Moss watched it die after she shooed the rodent away. This is an ancient beast. This is a tremendous underwater cockroach. This is something so forgotten by time that it only exists as mineral footprints, and it's died.

When Moss recognizes it, she falls to her knees. Tears do not fall, she does not wail or cry, but she doesn't try to get up. She does not move. She stares at the ground, and barely breathes.

c. LATER THAT NIGHT.

Just beforethe sun begins setting, a plume of smoke rises from the highpoint of a hill. Visible from multiple angles, it's easy to see and track. The smoke is dark and reaches high, but doesn't seem to be spreading.

Occasionally, the smoke stops briefly, before resuming. Those familiar with Morse Code may notice three short pauses, three long pauses, three short. SOS.

Those traveling toward the fire will find a Moss standing over a controlled burn bonfire in a large clearing. The ocean can be seen, the sun setting on a silver sea. The light of the fire combines to make the darkness bright and warm.

Moss keeps her distance, but doesn't stand warily. She walks slowly toward any newcomers. "How long have you been here?" She asks, "how many suns have you seen?"

d. WILDCARD.

[I'm up for basically anything; ask if unsure! PM this journal as needed.]

network | callsign: SC072B

[nervouslaughter]

[ The voice that comes over the walkie in response is also American, also female, but chipper and upbeat despite the circumstances, if a little unsure. Young adult -- early twenties or maybe late teens; not a child, but still young. ]

Hi, um, Alfa-Bravo-One-Two-Thee-Charlie! This is Cheyenne! What's, um, what's one-niner-niner seven?

[ A confused beat. ]

Uhhh, I think I am in need of... of assist? I don't know where I am. There's trees and a river. [ Very helpful, Cheyenne. ]

Cheyenne Thompson (nee Lee) | Superstore

[nervouslaughter]

arrival
POV: You awake near Cheyenne and when you do, she's already up! She's kneeling beside the ocean, hands cupped full of salt water, very obviously preparing to gently tip it into her mouth and drink.

Drink.

The sea water.

What do you do? Yell? Try to stop her? Just sit back, and watch the inevitable disaster unfold?

network
hey! <3 i hope some body can see dis lol
my real phone isnt working haha :(
i dont know how i got here?????? question mark?? but im on a island
not the first time i woke up some where and i didnt know how i got there lmao :p
but this is weird and im scared
lykk i kno i blacked out last nite but like idk if i can swim good enough to get to a real island haha lmao :p
unless i booked a plane in my sleep or a cruise or w/e
these old people saved by the bell phones totally suck btw
no emojis no memes i cant even get on tiktok wtaf!!!
anyway somebody pls rite me back pls
im scared lonely and i wanna go home :'(
these old school boomermojis are kinda cool tho!!! like check it :D :O XD X( :> :^) haha

[ A second text, a few minutes after the first. ]

i miss my baby

arrival

[lightnovelexperiences]

“Don’t.”

Her voice is gentle but insistent, and it comes from a woman six feet tall - counting the vulpine ears. She’s dressed in what looks for all the world like a video game rendition of a Shaolin monk’s robes.

“There’s so much salt in seawater that you’ll end up even more dehydrated. Save yourself the pain, get some coconut water instead,” she says, jerking a thumb towards a pair of trees.

The Cat | Tamora Pierce's Tortall

[absentconstellation]

Action

It's getting late on the island, the time when most people are settling in to sleep. There isn't always a camp, per se, and there certainly isn't always a fire, but there is always a person.

Before that person can lie down and shut their eyes, they are approached by a cat. They might not have seen it approach, but it isn't very large. It's a black house cat, on the smaller side. He walks up to the stranger as if it's perfectly natural, coming to a stop in front of them and sitting down. His tail curls neatly around his legs, and he looks up at the person with wide, purple eyes.

He lets out a single, demanding meow. You may pet him now.

Audio
callsign: ME000W

[ This is his first time on the walkie talkies. It took him a long time to find his after he left it on the beach. He didn't really have anything better to do. He doesn't really have anything better to do now than ask the following: ]

What stories do your homes tell of the stars?

Action

[salamanca]

Lalo is laying on his side, listening to the soft crackle of the fire, when he rolls onto his other side and is mildly startled by the sight of a small animal. Of course, he's not startled for long. He smiles a little, and still laying on his side, extends out a hand and starts making soft kissy noises while the cat sits down in front of him. He likes dogs, but he likes cats too. Demanding and imperious, they know their worth. He respects that.

"Hey, there, kitty, kitty," he coos. When he finally gets permission in the form of a chirpy meow, he reaches out to gently run two fingers along the soft hollow of the animal's cheek.

"What's your name? You a boy or girl, eh?" he asks it, not expecting a response. It's not like cats can talk, after all. But Lalo likes to talk, even if the conversation is one-sided.

fox mulder | the x-files

[bigfootfetish]

I. toto, i've a feeling -

For once, he's not in a suit. Not that it makes much difference, since he's dressed more for a round of golf than for an immersive remake of Robinson Crusoe - but a pink Lacoste polo, chinos, and a sweater still knotted around his shoulders is still an improvement. Especially since he feels like he took a dip in the pool, fully clothed.

Blinking groggily against the sunlight, he sits up and glances around him. Not a land development. Not a place he recognizes in the slightest. If there's a wormhole between the Falls of Arcadia and Bali, you'd think they'd play that up in the brochures.

At least he's not alone. Hauling himself up, brushing sand off his damp arms, he starts walking over to the only other person on the beach. "You all right?"

II. XF122S [audio].

Mayday. Mayday. This is Fox Mulder making a distress call from...somewhere tropical. I require immediate assistance. Over.

[ For a distress call, it's delivered in a remarkably even tone. And it's going to repeat until someone answers. ]

III. the blue lagoon.

After the shock wears off and it becomes clear he's not going to be rescued, the premise of being on a deserted island starts to appeal to Mulder's inner ten-year-old. It's straight out of The Swiss Family Robinson or Gilligan's Island, aside from the fact that it turns out it's a hell of a lot harder to build radios out of coconuts than the Professor and Mary Anne made it look.

He takes off the sweater right away - it's too damned hot for WASPiness - and eventually gets out of the polo shirt as well. Time to build a fire, jury-rig a fishing pole, try to catch some crabs to eat, whatever. The current plan is to stick around on the beach, rather than try his luck in the thick jungle that comes up to it.

i.

[pigsfeet]

Would you get a load of this guy. Daryl does not look like he came out of a clothes catalogue for the idle rich. He looks like a man who's been living rough for a while. Only the sheen of water, as though he's also soaked, would let someone on to the fact that he's new here.

He's got a crossbow he's reloading in the sand, facing a tropical line of trees not far off. He looks the other man over, particularly the exposed skin of his arms, the state of his shirt. Seems clean. Maybe a little too clean.

"M'fine," he murmurs, accent thick and deep and southern. "You okay?"

beth greene | the walking dead

[littlemissfutility]

action.

Beth's in the middle of the woods. Not unusual. In the middle of woods where everything's humid and the trees stretch so high that you can barely see the sky - that's different. She's sweating and hungry and worst of all, thirsty. That's what'll be the problem, the thirst.

Two days, she tells herself. She has two days to find something to drink, or she'll die. There's nothing here around her, unless one of these plants is secretly full of standing water. If you stay here, you'll die. And you don't get to do that.

(Secretly, she's afraid she already has.)

Moving through the thick undergrowth, with its snarls of thorny vines, sucks. But her cowgirl boots catch most of the damage, and she's pretty quiet. Daryl'd be proud, if he were around. When she hears a rustling in the trees, her stomach drops. It's not an animal; it might not even be a walker, the way it seems to pause instead of dragging itself continually through the greenery. Something's there, and she doesn't have a single weapon on her, besides a big dried-out tree branch she picked up a while ago. She freezes, eyes on the place the sound came from, and waits.

audio.

[ Callsign EJ363X belongs to a teenage girl with a light touch of a southern accent. ]

Where you're from...was it like this?

audio.

[strewth]

[American, he thinks, and he can identify that he's southern. Experience has taught him to blithely assume she's from Louisiana. Everybody's fucking from Louisiana, it's like a curse.]

[He, of course, sounds like a chain-smoking Beatle.]

Nah, luv; this here's a place for off-shore bank accounts, not people.

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror (AMC)

[friendsfordinner]

arrival
Guess who still has scurvy!

When Hickey washes up on the island, he just...kind of doesn't move for a moment. He's better off than some of the other guys, but he still hurts. Everything still hurts a bit. Nothing like Billy or some of the other men, but there's no escaping the scurvy and lead poisoning that still lingers in his system.

But there's the sun out. A breeze. He can feel heat for the first time in ages. Idly, Hickey wonders if he's dead, if this is heaven and heaven is the tropical island that he so desperately wanted. But for the moment, partially due to the fact that he's tired and still hurting and aching, partially due to the fact that he is going to enjoy the moment, Hickey just....sprawls out on the beach.

Nah. He's sunbathing right now. There's a pasty Irish man just tanning himself and enjoying the sun for the moment.

network
( un: CN184L )
[ Who has two thumbs and is from a time before radio was standardized? This guy! There's a paaaaaaaause as Hickey presses the button, listens to the radio for a while, frowns, then asks the network as a whole, ]

The hell's this thing anyway?

exploring
There's food here.

There's actual food here.

For someone who was starving, who had resorted to the ultimate unspeakable taboo, the fact that there's some good fucking food here is phenomenal. He's never going back. He doesn't know how he got here but whatever brought him here could take him back and like fuck that's never going to happen. There's plants! Animals! Food as far as the eye can see! It's absolutely brilliant.

So to nobody's surprise, when Hickey manages to catch a fish, he immediately starts to gut it. He slices the belly open and starts to go at the fish, fingers digging into the raw flesh, the intestines, the guts, anything that looks fresh is getting eaten.

Granted, he has no idea if the fish is even edible to begin with. And he definitely does not look good what with blood from the creature matting his face and beard. But Hickey isn't one for thinking ahead. He's hungry. There's food. He's eating. So don't mind this feral, scraggly looking man just going to town on a raw fish.

cs: LO431Y; voice

[lonelynotforsaken]

Oh! Um... It's a radio. Do you... d-do you know what that is?

Albert Heinrich/004 | Cyborg 009

[silberfuchs]

I. ARRIVAL
Albert opens his eyes and immediately closes them again, throwing his arm up abruptly to block the light. Groping around, he futilely tries to find his sunglasses before stopping when it dawns on him that he shouldn't actually need them this badly, not since 1963.

Slowly, he sits up, squinting towards the horizon and noting that it takes a lot more effort to do so. He's heavy, heavier even than his drenched motorcycle jacket would feel. He brings one hand to his face briefly, then away again, testing his vision again, noting the measurement lines that are normally ever-present have vanished entirely.

In fact, he gets nothing at all from his heads up display; odd, considering he can still see. Usually if the HUD is out his vision goes with it, so it can't be that unless something is wrong that's never been wrong, and that's hard to believe considering the injuries and malfunctions he's had over the years. He feels heavy too, his hydraulics working but he can tell they're working, something that after his upgrade in the late 80's he'd ceased to notice. He moved without pain for the first time in years after that, but now there's the general buzz of soreness already creeping at the edges of his prosthetics even just sitting here. He frowns, disconcerted, and attempts experimentally to flick his knife from his arm with the mental reflex he's always used to deploy it. Nothing happens.

Scheiße.

Grunting, Albert gropes around again in the sand for his glasses and finds the walkie-talkie instead. It seems to be an older model, but he likes those better. Physical buttons respond to his fingers far easier than the touch-screens they've started putting out do. He doesn't need special gloves to operate them, for one. But where did it come from? And does it have GPS?

He's gotten to his feet by the time anyone comes around, plodding his heavy way along the tree line where the ground shifts less under his weight. He's left a clear line of footprints deeply in the sand that can be easily followed to where he's plunked himself down on a fallen tree in the shade. He's nose deep in the walkie-talkie, clearly attempting to reach out and see who else is here.

With his luck? It's either other cyborgs or mad scientists.

Or God. Could be God.


II. NETWORK
BG004H:
"This is Cyborg004; is anyone monitoring this channel? Over." Brisk, concise. Very military. And in German, for those who can sort out the language from the automatic translation.

un: jk002n

[metalicarus]

Jet has often taken to listening to the radio or his companion's radios, for whoever decides to speak up next. Especially with some maniac shooting people with their own guns, but the voicer that comes through in the silence of their path has Jet nearly dropping the damn thing in his haste to grab it.

It can't be. It's been over a week. Had they finally found him? The possibility Albert was also washed up here didn't even cross his mind as he presses the button to respond.

"Heinrich. God's sake." He should probably say something about the relief or joy hearing one of his closest friends puts in him, but instead- "took you long enough."

The Disreputable Dog | Old Kingdom

[standformyself]

I. ARRIVAL
She is a medium sized looking black and tan mutt, a maroon coloured collar around her neck, although said collar is completely still. It usually isn't. One that seems more than a little confused. Not because she is wet, as she had been romping around in death before her arrival, but for a variety of other reasons, but this is certainly not before the first gate. No, there is no sand or pleasant weather. Death is death, where one must be careful lest you get dragged by the waters all the way to the final gate, or meet something quite unpleasant.

It is a bark. Loud. Sharp. Not aggressive though, but almost as if she is testing something. And yet not doing what it is supposed to. There is another. Then another. Perhaps that is what draws your attention. If a dog can look quizzical, she certainly does. It's a lower woof instead, head cocking to one side, listening. It still doesn't seem to be right, whatever it is, so she tried again. There is nothing mean or hostile in her actions, and she barks a few more times before sitting down on her haunches. It's almost a look of concentration now, as if she might be willing herself to do something, but there she is, a dog sitting on the beach, staring down at her paws.

III. EXPLORING
It is most inconvenient, as it seems that she is even less than she had previously been. Not that it has stopped the Dog in the slightest. She'd been bound to a soap stone statue for years beyond count, and at least she can move and bark and eat. Will she actually need to eat? It's not like she's really needed to do anything before. She'd done them because she could do them and not because she needed to do them. Then again, that summed the Dog up perfectly. She had to live up to the Disreputable part of her name, after all.

It might pose a challenge for reading, she thinks, as she trots through the sand. She can't exactly alter her body shape at the moment. No more getting thinner. No more growing wings- which had been quite fun. No more growing her legs longer so that her body didn't drag in the water. Yet they are small thoughts, trivial thoughts, for one such as her. She frolics along the beach, nipping at waves as they come in, dancing away as the water touches her toes. Anyone that she does witness, she alters her course, slowly making her way towards them with tail wagging and tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

Later, she does approach the edge of the jungle, head tilted up as she sniffs. So many new scents for her nose. It is a pity she couldn't share it with her mistress, but Lirael has her own life to live now. Head dropping, she does give a little whuffle on the grass, slowly stepping forward as she follows a particularly intriguing scent deeper in.

ooc; will match writing style if you prefer something different.

III

[lonelynotforsaken]

There is a dog on the beach. Martin blinks owlishly as he shifts his makeshift bag over his shoulder. He's finally managed to make his way back to the beach from the deeper jungle while searching for fruit, and there's... a dog. She notices him noticing her, and she... she starts coming toward him, tail wagging.

Martin's whole demeanor melts as he drops to one knee and beckons the dog. When he speaks it's in the babying tones that some people use for animals. Martin is a large, heavyset man who looks like he's been through the wringer recently. Clothes torn in places and stained, hair unkempt and face unshaved. He's wearing a look of excitement, though. It's a dog. A real, normal-looking dog! "Hey! Hey, there! Who are you, little one? Where did you come from?"

Maddy Perez | Euphoria

[somethingintangible]

I. ARRIVAL
Maddy stands by the ocean, where the warm sand starts to melt into something damp and sticky and moldable as frothy, gentle waves lap onto its edge. One quick glance at her reveals that she's clearly not dressed for any of this in her tight bodycon dress. She's barefoot too, with a only a little wristlet in the sand beside her.

Right now, she's standing with her bare feet leaving behind a deep indent in the wet found. Both hands are pressed gently to her eyebrows as she squints off into the distance, as the ominous black bar on the horizon line. She lowers her hands and looks down, mouth quietly to herself, "What the fuck?" but not giving the words a voice. Yet.

It's only the movement or the sound of someone nearby that re-directs her attention, and she gives a half-squeak, half-yell in surprise at the realization that she's not alone, and someone she's never seen before is sprawled out beside her.

Maybe you're already conscious enough to catch the squeak. Or maybe you wake up to a teenager with a long dark ponytail falling over one shoulder hovering over you.

"Hey, uh, you okay?" Maddy says. She'll give you a gentle shake if she has to, or maybe you'll come to with her trying to take your pulse, to make sure she doesn't have to perform CPR. She didn't always used to know how to do that! Good thing those classes she took before she started baby-sitting.

II. NETWORK | CALLSIGN: ZY987X | VOICE
[ The voice that comes over the network is a young woman's - late teens or early twenties. A little deep, throaty, but still obviously belonging to someone quite young and female.

It's shaky though, like the person on the other end of the radio is really struggling. Maybe like she's even been crying, although it's hard to tell. This is also clearly someone who has never actually used a walkie talkie before, as the message periodically cuts in and out. Maddy was mostly able to figure it out by playing with it, but she's not used to having to keep pressing the button down. You don't do that with touch screens! ]

Hey! My name is [ crackling radio static; garbled ] - my address is [ crackling ] and I got to East Highland High School. I don't know how I got here, if anyone can help me, please - [ garbled and crackling again ]

Hello? Hello??? Is anybody out there? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't know to work this stupid thing! If somebody can hear me, please say something. [ A short pause, then a smaller, almost pleading little: ] Please?

III. EXPLORATION
It's a few days later. You come across a small campsite on the outskirts of the jungle. It looks like there's a fire pit and a lean-to, as well as some scattered trash and a silver pot by the fire, with slightly rusted handles. The lean-to is haphazardly built and unsturdy, as if the person who made it didn't really know what they were doing and just sort of stacked branches together until they had a little teepee-like structure for shade.

Hanging from one of the trees is what looks like a basket of fruit. There might be a few other things around if you care to peek!

However, start picking around the campsite, and you'll hear a rustling from the jungle as a face peeks out from behind some of the leaves and branches.

A pissed off-looking face.

"Hey," Maddy calls out, angry but with a slight quiver in her voice. "What do you think you're doing? Stop going through my shit or I will fucking fight you!"

She moves towards you, glaring angrily, but the effect is slightly ruined by the way she shakes just slightly in place. She's clearly on edge and scared, despite the anger. Maddy has every intention of going through with her threat to 'fight' someone, but the effect of looking at her - small, young, not dressed for this - against the backdrop of large, dense jungle has the impact of watching a small terrier advance on a Great Dane.

ii.

[pigsfeet]

[Well, that sure is a kid. Gotta call back, even if he's been ignoring the walkies until now.]

[Daryl's voice is thick with a southern accent, grumbly, gruff.]

I hear ya. Calm- calm down.

[Take a deep breath. Get calm. Is that advice for him or her? He doesn't say it.]

You near a river? Something tall?

Jade Harley | Homestuck

[cuteandquarky]

i.

Jade wakes to the sound of waves crashing upon the shore; the feeling of sand pressing between her fingers, sticking to her cheek. At first, she hardly reacts. She must be back on her island. She must have fallen asleep again. That happens sometimes!

Her brow furrows as she starts to wake up more. No... wait a second. That's not right. Her island doesn't exist anymore; it hasn't existed for three years. She and her friends played the game and-

Jade sits bolt upright. Her dark hair is an uncontrolled, sandy nest behind her, and her dog ears twitch and swivel as she takes in the sights and sounds around her. At first glance, this looks a lot like her island, but it's missing several notable landmarks. She must be somewhere else, then... maybe the new session?

As Jade scans the beach, she sees another person, and she perks up, a huge smile crossing her face as her fluffy white dog tail starts to wag behind her. The novelty of seeing somebody new overwhelms any anxiety over where she is.

"Hello over there! My name is Jade! Is this your island?"

ii.

"Hello? Is anybody there?"

The voice of a teenage girl can be heard over the radio. She's speaking a little louder than she needs to in order for the radio to pick her up, like she's never really learned about how to modulate the volume of her own voice for other people before.

"I don't know why I ended up here, but... I'm hoping that if I made it here, maybe my friends did too. Have you seen a boy with sunglasses or a girl with black lipstick? Oh, or anybody who has gray skin and orange horns? I'd like to find them again, if I could..."

JADE!!! (also ii)

[timaeus]

Wait. Dirk recognizes that voice. Isn't that...

Huh.

Well, of all the people to show up here, Dirk has perhaps the least amount of idea what to do with this one. His interactions with teen Grandma English had been limited to standing there when she popped up randomly and said some shit about having kissed Dave, and maybe a quick wave during the lilypad endgame reunion.

And, y'know, that time she was feral and zapped him off to the ass end of paradox space. But mind control and all that. Can't really hold it against her.

He almost responds with voice in return, but the awkwardness wins out. He pauses, and types out a message instead. The callsign attached to the text is HE412T.

There is in fact an incredibly rad guy with shades here.
But probably not the one you were hoping for.
Sorry to disappoint.

daryl dixon | twd | ota.

[pigsfeet]

a. WE COMING IN THIS GAME LIKE SOME SURVIVORS.

You're walking along, minding your own business, when- shit. Your foot gives out beneath you. A patch of ground, indistinct and uninteresting, reveals itself to be a small hole covered by foliage. It's the perfect shape for a human foot to fall right through.

Luckily for you, there's no jagged rocks or metal at the bottom of the hole. But there are sticks, sharpened and tilted downward, along the sides. A foot going in the hole, easy, but getting out will take some delicate maneuvering if you don't want to get mauled.

And you might not have time. From the nearest line of trees, a man appears (sans dog), his crossbow cocked toward your head. "Get down," he says. "One knee."

b. AND WE LEAVING THIS GAME LIKE SOME SURVIVORS.

Or maybe you're the lucky one, and catch him unawares. A sound from the trees, a high keen, maybe human, clearly muffled. Searching for it will reveal the same man, in the same clothes, dirty and battered, patching a wound in his arm. It looks like a deep cut, messy, and Daryl is entirely focused on it until someone wanders near enough for him to hear. He looks up with a flat expression, maybe even angry. He doesn't speak, he doesn't move, he just tenses, waiting for the inevitable fight.

c. WILDCARD.

[im down for whatever, mix and match prompts as needed or feel free to come up with your own. pm this journal if you have any questions!]

a.

[materdei]

Scully's sucks in a hard breath when she's caught by the trap. Her first instinct - just about anyone's probably - is to try to pull her foot out, but it doesn't take more than a preliminary yank to realize that won't work. There are branches poking into her leg, sharp enough to make any further movement a risk.

And once it's clear that her captor's armed, she knows she needs to be cautious.

Her service weapon's in one hand as she kneels down, ready to fire if she needs to. In a slow, clear voice, she says, "I'm not going to do anything to cause you harm. I'm just passing through."

Martha Jones | Doctor Who

[treadstheground]

Arrival

There was a time that finding herself in the ocean when she had been nowhere near the seaside would have been alarming. Now, it was simply one of those things that happened sometimes.

She glances around, half expecting to find a familiar blue box. But the Doctor is far from the only reason to end up somewhere strange. If he's not here, she'll just have to figure it out herself.

"Hello?" she calls out. Hopefully whoever's around will understand her even if there's no TARDIS in range to translate.

Network

Hello. My name is Martha Jones. Is there anyone who requires medical attention?

[A mysterious place like this, it seems likely that her services will be required]

Network | VL121R | audio

[meadqueen]

Martha Jones, you've just arrived? Are you a healer?

ren amamiya | persona 5

[1797]

1 | EXPLORING —

A: [There's a boy inland and uphill, hand wrapped in a vine as he peers over the edge of a sinkhole. His face is bruised; more run dark circles around his wrists and knuckles. His school uniform—jacket tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up—is crusted with salt.

The pit he's standing over is wide, enough to make for a dangerous jump; he misses his grappling hook, though he knows he doesn't have the same level of acrobatic ability in the real world.

(If this is the real world.)

He slides his glasses further up his nose and takes a few steps back.]

Only way across is to jump. [It's alarmingly casual.]

B: [The bay glitters and Ren hunches over a bundle of thin vines he's torn off trees, hoping it isn't anything that will give him a rash. He threads it together, knotting it once and then twice, before attaching it to a makeshift fishing pole.

It isn't survival knowledge—he hasn't a lick of that—rather, it's dogged determination fueled by hunger. Also, he likes to fish.

He ties the other end around a clumsy excuse for a hook, before he moves back into the forest, pole and vines looped loosely through his fingers. When he notices someone else standing in the shade, he pauses, eyes flicking to their feet before up to their face. It's a little conflicted.]

You're standing on a pretty nice rock. [Medium-sized. Liftable.]

2 | NETWORK —

[Callsign: JR005X.]

   _\\_  o o
\\/   c \ o
//\_____o

network | callsign: HE412T

[timaeus]

Is that supposed to be a fish or a submarine?

Deedee Yeowoo | Isekai/Online

[lightnovelexperiences]

1: Arrival

Deedee really shouldn’t have deja vu about waking up on an unfamiliar shore, but she’s inevitably reminded of her stint at the Shores of Awakening a month ago.

Getting up isn’t too hard, but when she tries her usual scouting technique - charging her legs with Breath to leap like she’s got wires on her girdle - she can only hit a slam dunk, not a midair dragon.

That’s a sign that she’s neither in Kansas or on Mundus, even if she still looks like six feet of foxgirl monk. If this situation is anywhere near as dangerous as the Shores were, she needs to know how hard she got nerfed, fast.

Which is how a stranger might come across an amazonian, vulpine woman doing martial arts kata and occasionally frowning when her ki-ai and twin palms fails to produce a fireball.

2 - NETWORK
This is YM-2299, Deedee Yeowoo, reporting from a shoreline near what appears to be a river heading out to sea from a forest.

If anyone has abilities that were stripped from them on arrival, please advise.

3 - Exploration
She’s half expecting owlbears, seedlings, and redcaps in the woods. The boar isn’t much of an improvement, and without her glaive or wind magic she’s not even going to TRY to baconate it.

But gathering things she knows are edible? That she can do. She doesn’t know enough about mushrooms to even try them, but chestnuts and berries are safe enough.

Soon she has a fire pit set up out of rocks and is doing her damndest to get some sparks in some tinder, so she can have and share food…

Re: Deedee Yeowoo | Isekai/Online

[deranged_practicality]

Isabella had been gathering her own food, but also searching for some sign of habitation. Hearing someone caused her to pause, before deciding that she had no reason to assume someone was hostile. Deedee could probably hear her approach.

Cue a woman who is in her late thirties, with one arm with an impromptu splint and the other trying to wrangle a bundle of extra clothing. The clothes she was wearing had been the innermost layer, and still was more designed to trap warmth as opposed to letting the skin breathe. The styles were 19th century European, albeit with trousers rather than skirts.

"Oh, what a relief, someone else." Isabella's accent would sound English to someone from Earth. At the moment she wasn't noticing that her companion didn't exactly look human; Isabella's naturalist training was trying to signal that the 'ears' she saw were not just a decorative hair ornament, but Isabella was also exhausted, in pain and had never met a person who wasn't a human (as her canonpoint is just before that changes).

Isabella Trent | Memoires of Lady Trent

[deranged_practicality]

Arrival

The only reason Lady Isabella Trent was certain she was not dead was that, if she was, she’d have expected her first husband to have met her on the beach. Given she had been transported from the Mrtyahaima peaks after being caught in an avalanche, she was working under the idea that she was hallucinating and near death.

On the other hand, she knew her body should be trapped while she now could move freely, and was quickly overheating in her full set of gear. Cue Isabella stripping to her undergarments, trying not to jostle an arm that looked broken; if she was actually trapped under a massive amount of snow, she was only imagining moving, and if she wasn’t, then the heat was probably real enough to kill her.

As she’s doing this, she might notice she’s not actually alone, and pause. “Well?” she asked. The ghost of her mother would be scandalized by Isabella shedding layers of clothing in front of a stranger; Isabella was far too practical to care unless it became an issue.

Exploring

With her arm splinted, her extra clothing stowed somewhere accessible and her attempts to fashion hot-weather gear from cold-weather gear, Isabella was out to explore. “This has some resemblance to the Broken Sea. If that is the case, we can find yams or taro or coconuts. I’ve never had to forage for those.” Climbing was going to be a problem for some time.

Arrival

[clowngirl]

The other woman on the beach is drenched from having washed onto the shore next to Isabella, though the sight of the cold weather gear and what lies underneath has momentarily distracted her from trying to wring out her shirt. She only seems to realize she's staring once Isabella makes note of it.

"Oh! My bad, I was just tryin' to figure out this whole--" The blonde lifts up a hand and makes a quick circular gesture towards Isabella's clothing. "--y'know, get-up you got goin' on there."

She sounds genuinely curious, and far too upbeat for someone who has literally no idea where she is or how she got there. In stark contrast, she's also dressed skimpily compared to Isabella, in a simple pair of jean short-shorts and a red tank top.