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!

[vestments]

( a slight delay, and then— ) You're asking for help from a hypothetical?

[royallyunappreciated]

But of course. It would be the pinnacle of foolishness to go charging off into the jungle and wait to call for help until a ferocious coeurl is pouncing at me. Better to be proactive, is it not?

[vestments]

I wouldn't call it the pinnacle, ( but touche. ) Does the politician have a name?

[royallyunappreciated]

Ah! Forgive me, Mr. Knight. Izunia. Ardyn Izunia. At your most humble service.

[And curious to see if that name raises any alarm bells.]

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.

[vestments]

( he hmms, a noise of mild and vague acknowledgement because in truth, marc would be much the same. she doesn't move and so though his hand lingers in his pocket for a few moments more, he pulls it back out, empty, and shifts his weight, moves himself to face the woman more properly.

cautious, he notes, whilst the armour's nothing familiar to him. his gaze flickers to her sleeve, to the singed material, then back to her face as she explains she's after answers. a quirk of his lips and— ) I don't have any of those. ( "sorry". the remark's punctuated by a loose gesture at himself, his still-drying clothes and overall everything. ) I wasn't planning on visiting the beach.

[backsassin]

[ Zam relaxes slightly when he pulls his empty hand out of his coat pocket. Good. Maybe he's not looking for trouble either, then. His remark gets a weary chuckle. ]

Yeah, me neither.

[ Zam might look dressed for the battlefield, but the man looks like he was just plucked from some formal event, wearing what looks like a sodden all-white suit. And then there's that mask on the sand beside him. Zam isn't sure what to make of that. Her own veil hangs heavily from one side of her helmet, still dripping sea-water. ]

I, uh—I think we might be dead. At least I am, anyway. [ Her remaining hand comes up to rub at her temples. ] Not really sure how it's supposed to work, but someone shot me and I woke up here. So 'dying hallucination' and 'afterlife' are the only two real theories I've got at the moment. [ A grimace, and then under her breath. ] That, or whoever saved my life's got a real sick sense of humor.

[ What does that make the man in front of her, then? A figment, a ghost—or someone she really shouldn't trust? She stares at him, trying to focus past her own disorientated thoughts. ]

What do you remember, before arriving here?

[vestments]

( he looks at her when she suggests they're dead, eyebrows knitting together less in doubt and more in consideration, a quiet weighing up of options. a breath of a pause as he brushes at his trousers in a futile attempt to remove some of the sand, and he offers— )

I've died before, ( three times, to be precise. ) It wasn't like this. ( even if dying hallucination is, all things considered, a valid shout. marc's death — the first one, in a desert not worlds away from something like this — hadn't been a barrel of laughs he was particularly interested in repeating ever, at any point in his life. he holds up a hand. a concession. ) But being saved by someone with a sick sense of humour sounds about right.

( but as for the question, he lets it sit between them for a moment, choosing instead to bend down and pluck the discarded radio from the sand. he turns it over in his hands — once — then drops it in a pocket. (or tries to. it doesn't fit comfortably.) )

—I was working. ( a beat, as if it occurs to him that his answer isn't much of an answer, not to someone that doesn't know him and, given her lack of response, her lack of recognition, she doesn't. ) Helping a neighbour. Not the kind that usually shoots me.

[backsassin]

[ Doesn't really count as dying before if it didn't stick,' Zam thinks, but doesn't say. She has to admit, none of this doesn't really tracks with what she's heard about the afterlife. There are no otherworldly spirits or psychopomps floating around, and she neither feels particularly peaceful nor particularly damned.

'Dying hallucination' is still on the table, though—even if the man in front of her doesn't really seem like a fantastical enough creature for that. ]

Okay, [ she says, taking a slow breath. ] Guess it doesn't matter if you aren't real, but... I'm going to assume you are. For my own sake.

[ It feels like wishful thinking to ignore her still-fresh memories of her death, but what else can she do? Lie down on the sand and give up? Either this is real and it matters... or it's not and it doesn't. For now, she just has to accept that she doesn't know. ]

My name's Zam. [ A wan smile. ] This is my first time dying, if it wasn't obvious already.

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.

[vestments]

( his intention hadn't been to be vague, but 'marc spector' and 'good at communication' are words that have never been spoken in the same sentence — nor, probably, the same paragraph, except perhaps in the vein of 'would be more tolerable if he was good at—. )

Military. ( marines, though he's not convinced the detail will be especially useful. ) Private contracting. ( enunciated in the manner of someone that doesn't particularly care for the euphemism but is aware that 'mercenary' isn't a job that's likely to win friends. ) Spent a lot of time in a lot of deserts. A lot of jungles, too.

Now, I'm a priest.

( by a definition of the word, anyway. )

[doomcame]

You might want to take a sabbatical. We're definitely going to need survival training over seminary training.

[Hopefully that doesn't take much convincing. The last thing Taissa wants to do now or ever is to form a prayer circle. It sounds like he'd be invaluable in helping everyone navigate their way inland.]

[vestments]

My god has never been bothered by dirty hands.

( that is: no. )

A sabbatical won't be necessary. I can do my work and still be — helpful.

( is that more or less comforting? who knows! marc was aiming for 'more', but—. )

network | callsign: HE412T

[timaeus]

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

Define "weird".

[vestments]

( he would really rather not. )

Strange or unusual.

( there's a lot he could say — "I was part of a devil-killing death squad (sorry, can't remember the actual name)". "I've adopted a man-eating eldritch abomination as my house". "Died a couple of times. Came back."

but 'marc spector' and 'useful answers' do not usually go hand-in-hand. )

Vampire MLM. Ghosts. Time travel.

[timaeus]

[Honestly, none of those things are too weird by his standards, but he's also self-aware enough to know that his standards are batshit.]

Does MLM in this case mean "multi-level marketing" or "men loving men"?
Just trying to understand whether this particular brand of weird was a business thing or a personal life thing.

[vestments]

Multi-level Marketing.
It was a pyramid scheme. Cult. Whatever you want to call it.

( then— )

The other option wouldn't have been a problem.

( just, you know, to clarify. )

[timaeus]

Can't claim to know myself how problematic it would or wouldn't be.
The only vampire I know is more WLW.

[And they're not exactly close, but hey, his sorta-daughter seemed happy enough with her vampire girlfriend in the brief time he saw them.]

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."

[vestments]

There's no reason to attack, she says, and in this moment, she's not wrong. In general, though, Marc would disagree on the prudency to be prepared, to be ready, but he acquiesces. He pulls his hand back out of his pocket — empty — and waves it dismissively, not quite disinterestedly. He's heard that tone before — from Jean-Paul, here and there, Marlene once or twice; more often from Detective Flint, tired and fed-up, resigned to dealing with Moon Knight because of the results and not for the relationship. Certainly not for his sparkling wit and charming personality.

(But then, Marc had always felt similarly about Flint.)

It's the kind of tone that has Marc wishing he hadn't pulled his mask off, hadn't dumped it in near panic on the sand. The kind of tone that says this is someone for Moon Knight and not Marc Spector, but unfortunately—.

"I don't know who you are." Firm and pointed, an undercurrent of words don't mean much, but I'm not completely unreasonable. The remark's punctuated by a breath of a pause, a brief glance and a once-over, and then he gestures at the space between the two of them. "But I'd guess so. Neither of us look ready for a day at the beach."

[2199]

Moss is not a cop, not an FBI agent, but her bearing makes similarities inevitable. She speaks to this man, now, like he's someone she has to calm before he does something regrettable. Not yet a perp, just another scared human in the heady storm of causality.

"I don't know who you are either," she says calmly. "We're on even ground."

(They're not on uneven ground. She has a gun, and he has two legs. The prosthetic is largely unnoticeable save for the hard plastic hoof-shape that comes out of her pant leg where a foot should be.)

"Are you injured?" And, because she can't help herself, "do you remember what year it was, before you got here?"

[vestments]

Alas, if Marc were so determined to commit a regrettable action (and he has, more often than he'd like), mere words from a stranger are unlikely to change his mind. Fortunately for the two of them, he's not particularly wed to the idea of fighting someone he's just met unless he has to — and her response, though not particularly winsome, is better than being attacked or even threatened.

A quirk of his lips and he skips past her first response, notes it for later — not from Manhattan, then. No immediate familiarity with Moon Knight (perhaps, though as of right now, sans-mask, she might just assume he's just some guy in a white suit).

"2021," he answers first, brows pulling together in a tight frown, well-worn lines implying this is an expression he wears with some degree of regularity rather than a reflection of inherent displeasure. It's not the first question he'd have jumped to — where feels more prudent than when — but given past experiences, he can't entirely fault her. "Is time travel common enough for you that it's the first thing you ask?"

Then—

"Spector." Spectre? He doesn't clarify. "Uninjured."

[2199]

Moss has a well-trained poker face; if she's lying (and she isn't, just moving the goalposts of the truth-- that information is classified) it's very hard to tell. She says, with amiable seriousness, "I saw a living trilobite. The year seems important to note, don't you think?"

Still with that smoothness, that let's be friends calm employed by those professionally accustomed to the bizarre, the violent, the unsettling. As things go, this man-- Spector, like the musician-- and his suit are a comfortable sort of strange. Silver liquid doesn't pour from his mouth, and he's yet to try and tear off his own face.

(She hasn't noticed the mask; it's just another piece of detritus in the sand.)

"I won't say I'm glad you're here. I don't think anyone should be here." She finds a place to sit, a nearby rock, and equalizes her balance upon it so no more stress is placed upon her prosthetic. "But we're better off in groups."

Oh, and- "1997."