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

[aluminumandash]

[ He resents having to stop, having to listen to himself gulp down air. His hands make fists in the sand. The pain in his leg recedes; he has a wild urge to chew the inside of his mouth, bring some of the sharpness back. What passes for clarity.

Up close sweat's already trickling from his hairline, beading on his lip. He's rolled his sleeves up partway, affording a glimpse of a tattoo on his right arm. His body's wire-taut, his bad leg like a frayed end.

A gun is holstered at his hip. He hasn't moved for it. ] Who the fuck're you? [ He spits, going to work on the question before it's out of his mouth. American. Not Southern. Not sunburned, not yet. He eyes her shoes, looks past her as if he can retrace her steps all the way back to wherever she came from.

Spying her walkie, he takes its twin from his belt and tosses it at her feet. Something defiant in it. ]

[shipman]

[Under her gaze, he's just shy of being a carcass to scavenge. Definitely not local, definitely in decent shape, leg aside. The tattoo isn't a familiar bundle of slashes so all she affords it is the fleeting thought that it just doesn't make fucking sense, anatomically –– the soft parts are usually the first to go. The badge says he's got authority, or thinks he does, but that doesn't matter. Not out here.

What she's really caught up on is the gun, but her gaze snaps off it quick, to the walkie now at her feet. Same as hers, still abandoned in the sand behind her. The look she gives him is plain, unimpressed.]

I have my own, thanks. [Sarcasm doesn't suit her soft voice, but it's there anyway, and easy to reach for.] I'm Shauna. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you.

[She's already creeping closer, lowering herself like she's approaching a wild animal.]

[aluminumandash]

[ He breathes in, and out. His eyes linger on the pair of walkies, his expression shuttered. If the sarcasm registers, he gives no sign. ] Don't know as you'll have a choice. Cohle. [ His speech is pared down, words clipped off before they start to strain. ] Leg's fucked. Leave it be.

[ Despite his drawn and pale face, his ragged breathing, Rust doesn't so much as flinch at her approach. He stares her down, sunlight screaming in his eyes, thoughts clawing at his head.

She doesn't look hurt. Or afraid.

He nods past her to the walkies. Urgency surges in his voice, as if this is what matters. ] You hear someone over it? Tell 'em where you're at?

[shipman]

[She shifts to crouch on one knee, hovering over him like he's some child fallen from his bike. He looks like shit, but it's not pulverized sinew and tendon trailing from his knee like streamers. This won't kill him.

The rest of the wilderness, no guarantees.

Her voice is politely skeptical, her expression plain. Not without judgement.]

You're not looking so hot, so I don't think leaving it is going to be an option for long.

[But it could be worse.

It takes some effort to will herself not to glance at the gun again, strategy grinding up against the primal need to just have the safety it'd offer. She gropes for the radio without taking her eyes off his face, and she draws it to herself with her finger already hovering on the button.]

I haven't tried it yet. [It's not a confession.] I don't even know where–– um. Just where do you think we are, Cole?

[aluminumandash]

[ It's too close. The coke—the coke thrumming in his blood—doesn't like being crowded, the feel of her breath mingling with his. He's gripped by the certainty that she'll loosen his already-loose tie, press a hand to his forehead. He studies her hands until it goes away.

But when she looks poised to press the button, bring the walkie to crackling life and draw the attention of whoever's monitoring, desperation edges into his features. Flares in his gaze. He lurches forward, leading with his shoulders, and grabs for her hand.

Comes up short, eyes briefly wide from the fresh shock of pain. He moans, to his own disgust, fumbles for his voice. ]

Well ma'am, I'm flat on my ass. [ It comes out a murmur, monotone. In that same toneless drawl: ] Go ahead and switch it off. Where'd you find it?

[shipman]

[Shauna rears back when he lurches forward, wobbling on her one heel like she might just pitch over in the sand. She doesn't, but her eyebrows do fly up in surprise, and she comes back with a hand floating above his chest, ready to pin him down if he tries it again.]

Don't do that, you're going to hurt yourself. It was in my hand when I woke up.

[Waking up feels like the wrong way to describe it, but it's no different from opening her eyes to an oxygen mask being placed on her face, anyway. The walkie sits in her hand like a grenade, and she does not make any move to turn it off. The veneer of patience is rattle-can thin, uncured:]

We could be anywhere, and you don't want to call and ask?

[aluminumandash]

Think about it. [ He says, bringing his hands to his throat, undoing the tie with no particular haste. ] You show up outta nowhere, it's in your hand? I break my fucking leg and it's in reach? You gonna tell me that's coincidence? [ Rust shakes his head, voice rising and falling now that he's caught in the current of an idea. ]

Nah. Somebody put it there. And why put it there unless they want us to use it. [ His gaze shifts, sharp. ] Where'd you come from, up the beach? Any tracks?

[shipman]

[It does sound fishy, and it’s fishy in a way that digs sharp little claws into the softest parts of her. Her breath catches in his throat as she thinks about it, and in that heartbeat, the worst assumptions come up. The cult is behind this. The stalkers are behind this. The rabid freaks obsessed with them want a chance to see, live, how it’s done.

But that’s crazy.

Shauna gives a noncommittal hum with a wound-tight shrug of her shoulders.]

I don’t know what you think is going on here, but who would even do this?

[She looks away briefly, uncomfortable, easily suspicious:]

Why would you even ask that? Why is that your first concern?

[aluminumandash]

[ He watches her change in front of him, the line of her mouth and the loose skin at her throat. Her gaze off somewhere. She doesn't crack, but in that instant it's visible—the effort not to. What's holding her together?

His eyes stay with her, waiting. They don't narrow—they ease off ever so slightly. He blows out a long, slow breath. ] What'd you see, Shauna?

[shipman]

[Nothing. She’d seen nothing and that’s the truth, but it’s a frightening truth because it has no answers: where would a hidden camera be? How could she be here, unharmed, in the blink of an eye? How inexplicable, how crazy.

She blows over the question, tempo speeding up, her eyes landing back on him with a blown-wide fear.]

Your leg is completely busted and you’re worried about someone watching us? Who does that?

[He is, and he’s the only witness to this. He could be faking it, some Yellowjackets junkie with a hard-on for a front row seat. Her hand roves down, hovering over his thigh, prepared to reach lower. If she grabbed the break, would it even be there? Would it hurt?]

[aluminumandash]

[ He hadn't said watching. But maybe that's what anyone would think, any human with cherished notions of divine accountancy. Show up somewhere utterly foreign, invent something to look down on you. So she has a guilty conscience: so that's everyone.

Doesn't change the fact that her demeanor's taken a swerve. He follows her hand with his eyes, the rest of his body still. His voice low. ] What you want from me? Tears?

[shipman]

[It feels like he’s mocking her, like a sobbing man would be any better than a paranoid one, and it puts a flicker of hostility in her posture. There’s no concern that she might be wrong. She’s been wrong, and what’s another go at it?]

I want to know this is real. [Is this happening? Of course it’s happening. But the idea that it’s all happening again has her bent sideways, and so the question is about everything at once.] If this is all just an act, tell me now, because I will find out.

[aluminumandash]

[ For a restless moment Rust eyes her. Something flickers over his face; he bites down on a laugh, nostrils flaring. ] You think this is all about you? [ Incredulity leaks into his voice, twines with a thick strain of contempt. He leans back, bending his elbows, as if he needs the distance to take in the full scope of her ego.

Dismissively: ] Shit, lady. I don't wanna hurt your feelings. [ His gaze drops off her. He feels in his pocket, breath leaving in a hiss, and pulls out a knife. It's nothing special, anonymous almost: black-and-silver handle, blade about three inches when he unfolds it with a click.

He plucks at his pant leg, gathering what loose cloth he can—not much more than a pinch at the knee—and slipping the blade in, slicing vertically down the pant leg. Workmanlike. When he can't reach any longer he closes up the knife and tears.

Underneath the leg is swollen like a waterlogged piece of wood. Past the knee it veers at a nauseating angle, bruised-looking, but nothing's broken the skin. ]

[shipman]

It’s not— [She stops herself, not sure how she’d possibly explain. She doesn’t need to. She just sits there, eyeing the knife, eyeing his work, and when she’s sure he’s busy with his pants, eyeing the gun.

Any deranged fantasy about big-budget true crime enthusiasts drops from a boil to a simmer. No special effects make-up would look that good — or whatever the operating word should be, when someone’s fucked beyond belief.

It’s so fun feeling like an idiot, just great, but there’s a little sympathy on her face when she pulls her eyes off his leg to his face again.]

Sorry, I just… watch too many movies, I guess. But if you don’t want me to call, what do you want me to do? You’re not really going to survive out here alone like this.

[aluminumandash]

[ She takes it better than he'd expect. Better than Marty would, doesn't march off somewhere to pout. And the leg—when he glances up, she's not slack-jawed, not frozen. He can bear the pity in her eyes.

She could look away, walk away. She doesn't. She tells him he's gonna die, which gets an appreciative huff. ] Help me into the shade. [ He says, finishing up with the pant leg and ripping it free. ] Ever broken anything?

[shipman]

[She gets up and rounds him, bending over behind him so she can hook her hands under his armpits. This feels fruitless, but if there's no one else around, she might as well try.]

No, but I've seen it happen. A friend of mine broke her tibia. You know, the shin bone? She hit the ground and just... [A pause, a place for a gesture to be, but her hands are occupied, so she settles for just a cluck of her tongue.] The bone went right through the muscle.

[Her gaze lands right on that gun, and with her head above his, she doesn't bother to hide it.]

Could be worse, right?

[aluminumandash]

Oh, it comes with a moral. [ He murmurs, gathering his discarded jacket, the brick of coke inside. His tie and the stripped-off pant leg are lumped on top, the whole thing tucked football-style into the crook of his arm.

Rust draws his good leg—the left—toward him, bending it at the knee. Repeats the movement a time or two. Evenly: ] Grab my belt with your left hand. Right's good there. Take your time.

[shipman]

[She rolls her eyes over him –– he thinks she doesn't know how to move a body? (He's right, in a way.)]

What do you want me to say, "poor you?" That this is the worst thing that could have happened? Jeez.

[But she moves over, hooking her fingers into his belt without preamble.]

[aluminumandash]

[ Rust lets out a noise between a laugh and a scoff. Her hand shifts and he wills himself to relax, steadies his breathing. No getting around the fact that this is going to fucking hurt. ] Count of three. We wanna get my good leg under me quick as possible, make this easier on the both of us.

[ He counts up rapidly, pushing up with his left leg—scrabbling in the sand before he gets his footing. Leaning against her while trying not to upset her balance, send them sprawling. ]

[shipman]

[A pithy reply exists on the edge of her mouth, but she just readies herself, both for the exertion and the twinge of sympathetic pain that will break through her deadened heart. Twenty-five years and she still remembers what Ben lived like, in those early days. Pathetically draped in the mud like a wounded animal, ready to die.

She holds her balance decently, teeth grit and expression screwed up in concentration with a two-handed heft from his hips and his arm.]

That's not so bad!

[Now so move.]

[aluminumandash]

[ His first step's more of a hop, then he lurches his weight to the left. Right arm reaching back to wrap around her side, claw at the back of her shirt. Teeth gritted: ] Don't—be an asshole.

[ For a single moment it doesn't hurt any worse, and instead of relief he's untethered, like he could grind down through his jaw and find euphoria waiting. Then he shifts and pain staggers him—literally and not. It feels like his leg and brain both are being fed to a fire.

Rust groans, curses in spurts. Breathes like a dog. When she moves too fast or he lands on the leg wrong his hand clutches at her. As they near the tree—good a place to set down as any—he scrapes together his voice. ] No point to individuating pain. [ He's on the other side of it now; it's something that has happened to him. His forehead's slick with sweat. His eyelids droop, flutter. ] Like, like wringing drops from the ocean.