sixthiteration | Test Drive 18

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→ Choose one of the scenarios below or make up your own. Feel free to try multiple scenarios.

→ Write LOGS or TEXT prompts, or both.

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1. It has to take place in the 6I universe.
2. It cannot be the character's arrival into the game.
3. Please only test new characters who do not have a version in the game. Our cast list is here.

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Prompts

Summer is here, villagers! Sunny skies, warm weather and plenty of weirdness are on the horizon. Don't forget your sunscreen!

THE MILK FOR FREE - Somehow, someway, you have been wrangled into milking one of the GROFFLES recently rounded up by your fellow villagers. Maybe you felt guilty for not helping, or maybe you owe someone scary money. Point is, it's just you, a bucket, and your green milk-giving friend. Just a tip: Groffles are good-natured, but you probably shouldn't squeeze too hard.

LIGHTNING ROD - Earlier today, you made your way into the upper foothills — Were you hunting? Maybe just roaming? — and you came into contact with a BLUE LILY. Maybe you thought it was so pretty you've carried it back to the village with you. If your house didn't have electricity before, it definitely does now!

MEET CUTE - It's a classic: You've gone down into the 6I INN'S dirt-walled root cellar off the kitchen. Maybe you needed supplies or were dropping off some fresh produce. Whatever the case, someone's followed you down for a similar reason... and the door has jammed shut behind them. Seriously, it's not budging. Enjoy getting to know your new best friend in the cozy light of the furnace!

WILDCARD - Choose your own adventure. Maybe play powers roulette.

Texts

All characters are fitted with a smart watch-like device on their left wrist, which they can use to send text messages to other villagers.

- Texts may only be 140 characters long
- No video or voice, text only
- No usernames, everyone is listed by their name

Please list your CHARACTER NAME, CANON & PROMPT in your SUBJECT LINE.

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01: Fishing

Dean's never been one for staying in a single place for very long; even once they settled in the bunker he scarcely went two weeks before hitting the road to do a job. Now that he's here he finds himself restless and bored. Cabin fever was strong with this one, so he does his best to find ways to break up the monotony. One of the ways he figures he can kill two birds with one stone and contribute at the same time is by catching some large mouth whatevers on one of the many stream inlets around the island.

Except once he settles in a chair, breeze blowing, gentle sun bearing down, utter silence around him, he literally bores himself to sleep. A fishing line tugs gently, propped up on a holder and demanding attention. Dean, on the other hand, is sprawled out in a fishing chair, legs extended, head lolled back, dead ass asleep and full-on snoring.

This place is a literal friggen' snoozefest.

02: chop chop

One thing they always need is firewood. Most of the stoves in the houses and inns run on wood burning, and not everyone in town is equipped to handle manual labor and not keel over in the process. Dean's one of the people who can, and he finds it a little cathartic to slam something sharp into something dull and split it in half. And so he does, over and over, driving an axe into a log with some intensely bottled up aggression. Chop. Chop. Chop-

Except he'd been going too hard, apparently, and the head of the ax flies off of the handle the next time he rears back. It hurtles through the air with deadly speed, impeding itself into a tree directly to the left of someone's head. Oops.

Edited 2018-06-01 22:32 (UTC)

Pausing on the precipice of danger and watching it rattle on without you was a large part of Kira's life, shortly before arriving. It's only recently that his gift for the right place and the right time reappeared, and it's intermittent at best. This one, he's putting down to luck.

Or the Observers just haven't finished growing another of him in their underground pods.

Still, his last near-miss was close enough to leave a mark, and he reflexively pushes his hair back along the scar--and the side of his head so nearly given a fresh shave. "Would you really kill a guy for looking," he asks, swallowing the moment's panic and pushing on instead. "This is as much entertainment as I get."

The voice behind him startles him; he hadn't quite pieced together what the hell happened to the head of the ax until he hears it. He whips around, mouth agape, a dawning look of disgruntlement spreading across his features when he takes in the scene: ax head in tree, human head next to ax head, ax head almost in human head.

"That was not intentional, one hundred percent accid-" He starts, then stops because the comprehension that he was just being ogled settles in next. The disgruntlement disappears in a second, replaced with a wide eyes floundering fish-look like he's not quite sure how to react. Because he's not. When it comes to being hit on or hitting on women, he's 100% a master of sailing that sea. Men, on the other hand- well, he's had an encounter or two that he keeps to himself and beyond that he's an utter novice.

He coughs a little, chokes, huffs an awkward laugh, scratches at the back of his neck, "I didn't- uh- no, that's not... why- that just... not-"

"I lied," he says, tilting his head very much away from the hunk of metal still quivering at his ear. "Watching you flounder is as much entertainment as I get."

A joke at the guy's expense, sure, but whatever keeps his heart out of his throat and his stupid, impossible life from flashing before his eyes. He does not want the see the badger incident for a third time, or that long night at Angie's, which should remain a blur of sequins, cold cream, and tequila.

At least between the two of them, he hasn't embarrassed himself yet. That might change: turning to yank on the ax head isn't really making him look capable. Looking back over his shoulder, he beseeches the fish-man: "We don't really have a lot of those to go around."

At the very least Kira giving him shit seems to break his floundering, and he levels the other man with a solid, well-practiced bitch face. Listen here you little bastard. Don't make him stalk away saltily or something.

Regardless, he's not going to leave the other half of the damn tool balls-deep in a tree. He ambles forward, bitch face still resting, and shoves the handle of the ax back into the empty hole. Uses it as a lever and manages to pry it out with a certain amount of force. Once it's out, he removes the head again and inspects it distastefully.

"Guess asking for some gorilla glue'd be out of the question, huh?" It's an absent mutter, because it's easy to talk vaguely to himself than it is to acknowledge the guy fucking with his feelies.

"I don't know, the powers that be like to send us presents once in awhile. If you want to waste yours on glue, I won't stop you."

Up close and from the front, he's more than a pair of arms and decently broad shoulders: Kira tilts his head to look, but not touch, deciding his life has gone on exactly long enough to touch his tongue to one incisor and keep ribbing the guy with a now complete ax.

"Well, that's definitely the jaw-line of a man raised to prefer his compliments attached to a pair of tits," he says, arms finding a place to rest in a cross over his very flat chest. "Maybe I'll ask for a box of those, if you'd spare the glue."

Which is about as far as it really needs to go. He drops his weight back, leaned against the tree to exacerbate the difference in their heights and let go of his attitude. "I'm just fucking with you," he promises. "It's that or read War of the Worlds twenty times."

"My jaw-line gets around," He snaps, it's out of his mouth before he can over-analyze it or freak himself out about it. It's probably the closest he'll come to acknowledging that one time Phil sucked his face in a kitchen over a slice of valentine's gay cake, or that time him and Cas did... whatever they did in a couple worlds away. He doesn't usually like to admit it, he's about as uncomfortable with his own experiences as a human being can possibly be and still functionally exist, but that smug ass attitude jerks the retort right out of him before he can help it. He even points the handle of the ax at the stranger accusingly.

Just fucking with him, huh? Whatever, pal, let him just be a grumpy asshole over near the woodpile. He's going to be spitefully snatching up logs and tossing them haphazardly into the stack, maybe a little more enthusiastically than strictly necessary.

Kira's smile is genuine, sudden, the tip of his tongue resting under the curve of his top row of teeth. It retreats, open smile slowly closing to a curve of lips and one eye crinkling deeper than the other. "See," he says, watching the guy stalk off to his wood pile, "it's more fun when you participate."

His own discomfort sits in a lack of experience: nothing going on, nothing much to feel, nothing very intensely felt around him. He's at least had time to get used to the latter, the way this place strips them all down to very bare, very human essentials. He doesn't need to needle people to know them, to mentally mark where his self ends and their emotions begin, but he's bored, and bad habits are in short supply, and--

You can still get a feel for a person, given a little low-stakes adversity. "What do you and your jaw-line go by," he asks, still leaning, still watching.

Maybe it's the needling or the unflinching, unflappable nature of the guy that may or may not be hitting on him, but there's something decidedly Crowley-esque about this kid. Whether that's familiar enough to be comforting or annoying enough to be frustrating he isn't quite sure yet. He's still deciding.

He's also not sure if this guy's asking his name to be friendly or make a move on him, so he glances up long enough to look Kira up and down.

"Never gonna happen," Is his flat warning, given instead of his name just so they're on the same page. He doesn't even stop stacking when he fires it off. Not that Kira's a bad looking guy, but even if he were inclined to pursue something with another dude again he has a very specific type. Codependent dark haired authority types like soldiers or cops, sad broken down loners with parent issues. Smartass squirly kids don't really make his radar.

"That's a bit long," he says, similarly offering no real reaction. "Guess I'll settle for a hey you if I'm in desperate need of your attention." More for the sake of rampaging badgers coming down the avenue, than what the guy might think.

He lets the wood-stacking go on a bit longer, even tilts his head to give a second look to that deep cut in the tree. Could have been his head. Could have been the end of all of this.

He'd been very much at terms with that, once. Had ten years to stare down the barrel of it. Now he isn't sure what it even means: would they just grow another him, fill it with the same memories of a place that probably doesn't exist, any longer? This is why he can't be left to boredom--too much to think about. "You can unclench," he says, once the wood has been stacked. "I'm just being a shithead; short, sandy, and selectively bi-curious isn't my type."

Of all the things that have come out of Kira's mouth so far, short is what he deems most offensive. It does actually cause him to look up from the stacking, incredulous.

"I'm 6'1"," Is his defensive retort, and the you bitch is implied. The only person that considers him short is god damn Sam Winchester who's made of legos and hate at whopping 12 foot 46. And here he was about to share his name. You're officially dead to him, Kira. RIP.

Being that he grew up very much a city boy, the idea of going out into the world to hunt and forage has taken some getting used to. And some practice. A lot of practice.

Sun-pinkened skin pops out under his sunglasses, and the splatters of water riding up past the rolled legs of his slacks betrays just how much practice. It's been what feels like days with little to no progress. In reality, it's only been an hour or two, but considering that's just about enough time to get into a nice restaurant, have a decent meal, and ruminate the rest of the evening over drinks, he's not feeling particularly inspired by the process.

Grunting as he struggles over the slimy rocks, shin-deep in timid rapids, John Blake performs a less than majestic impersonation of a black bear out on the hunt for coho salmon. He'd seen this on television once or twice - read about it in plenty of books - but damn if he wouldn't rather walk into a grocery store for something frozen. Fish sticks, anyone?

Splashing down, he plunges his hands toward the water and what he comes up with is a... fish! An actual fish! It starts flapping away, body screwing around in the former cop's hands out of retaliation, but having fingers and well over a hundred pounds on the other guy, John manages to keep his grip on what is surely considered the most meager fish in the county. No matter, though, because he caught that damn fish and he's keeping it. Or so he thinks.

In a moment of absolute triumph, he lifts both arms (and the fish) into the air, thereby tugging mightily at the nearly invisible line attached to Dean Winchester's unattended fishing pole. It's only at the last moment, just as the fish spits the hook, that he realizes what's happened: he's just caught another man's fish.

Slipping it's bonds, the small bass slaps the sunglasses right off John's face on it's way to freedom, adding insult to injury. And just like that, Blake's literally on the hook.

So deep in his concentration Blake might not notice the moment the snoring stops; it coincides pretty predictably with the sound of frantic splashing around and grunting. He starts awake and he can't even be upset at the abrupt end to his catnap, because for a second God truly does exist in Dean Winchester's life. He gets to behold the entire rollercoaster, from struggle to triumph to defeat to embarrassment.

The kicker, the thing that really makes it, is the foisting of the fish into the air like that guy at the end of the Breakfast Club or something. At some point during the whole affair Dean rises, ambling forward, arms crossing in keen interest, not interrupting, just watching the whole thing play out.

This is literally the greatest thing he's ever born witness to. Blake's sunglasses float down river, there's a fishing hook hanging dangerously close to what may become Blake's unintentional nipple piercing, and a look of utter betrayal Dean can read written on his usually stoic face.

A noise comes out of Dean's throat and chest that's almost hard to describe, like a snorting chainsaw trying to fire up, and it's at odds with a face he admirably manages to keep straight for all of about four seconds. And then the laughter rips out of his chest like a shotgun. He throws his head back, just sobbing laughter at Blake's expense, too far gone to even try and pull the laughing with you angle. Nope, he's just god damn cackling, doubling over, dying.

It's not one of his better moments, no, and while John's gotten pretty decent at rolling with the punches, he hadn't expected to come out here to no success and to find himself the butt of some cosmic joke.

"Sure, laugh it up, Paul Bunyan," he calls out, tone approaching that level of bitchiness he only gets around people who won't take it the wrong way. He just can't stop himself from jabbing back as he discards the hook, himself worried it might forcibly make itself some kind of body jewelry. Trudging after his sunglasses, he continues, "But at least I wasn't caught taking my fifth geriatric break of the day."

Although, after all of this slipping around on the riverbed, Blake could truthfully find a place in the sun and sleep until dusk himself.

Blake can spit out all the ire he likes, it doesn't so much as put a dent in the rolling laughter coming out of Dean's mouth. If anything it might only prolong it a little, and he has to prop himself up with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Old man jokes don't even dent the moment, pal, they just really don't. After the laughter finally fades away, he's got to rub the tears out of his eyes with the back of his thumb, a few stray chuckles easing their way out.

"That was good," he replies without apology, almost talking to himself more than Blake. "That was- woo- I haven't laughed like that in a minute. Damn, that was... that was good stuff."

He shakes his head, still caught up in traces of amusement, and strides forward to start reeling in his line. "What the hell you doing out there anyway, Bear Grylls? You seriously trying to catch a goddamn fish bare-handed?"

Maybe he'll have a future in comedy if he can learn to laugh at himself, but given the circumstances, grumpiness is what prevails. Swiping his sunglasses off the rocks, he drops them on to his face without drying them off, already dampened to the point where he can't bring himself to care.

"Worked, didn't it?" he asks as he pushes his way back to the shore. "Wasn't exactly picking up a pole on my way out here, but considerin' I can't tell one mushroom from the next, easily-identifiable-as-fish sounded like the best alternative." He rubs a hand over his abdomen, his stomach doing a better impression of a bear's growl than Blake had done earlier.

"Think I'd kill a guy for a Pop Tart right now."

He can't help the smirk on his lips as he watches Blake's one and only pair of sunglasses drip a steady stream of water down is cheeks. They're like the sad, salty tears of a man who just can't quite cope outside of a mansion, a spaceship, or a city. This place is definitely more geared toward Dean's comfort zone, but even he's having a hard time dealing with the monotony.

"Worked because you caught a fish that already gave up the will to live," He scoffs, ducking down to grab another hook from the tackle box and string it. "How 'bout you get the hell out of the water and I teach you how to take a nap and catch dinner at the same time, huh?"

"Oh, yeah, can't wait for you to give me that 'campin' for dummies' rundown you've already got queued up." It's pretty often that Dean's got a leg up on John - they'd grown up in drastically different environments, one far more intense than the other - and it's taken a lot of humble pie for Blake to recognize how much he's been able to benefit because of those differences. Winchester usually has an answer, even if it typically comes with some snarky ass comment.

Working his way on to dry land, John stops in front of Dean, head tipping to look at the other man over his eyewear.

"Unless you wanna show a little mercy, skip the speech, just catch me a coupla fish." He pushes his sunglasses up with a thin grin and takes a seat on a dry spot. "Fully repaid by the grace of my excellent presence, of course."

For what it's worth, no amount of life experiences makes up for the fact that Robin worked with and was likely to become the next goddamn Batman in Dean's mind, so they're even steven as far as he's concerned. Granted, he'll never ask the other man to step up and chop off the head of a vampire, but the respect is what matters really.

He shakes his head in disappointment; sometimes Blake was way too much like Sam for his own good. For a period of about three weeks Sam had been interested in fishing, but he grew bored of it really quickly and never wanted to go again. He's been on the receiving end of his fair share of pleading looks to skip fishing trips, evidently he's still gonna have to hunt for the prime fishing partner. Tragic, really.

"Suit yourself," he replies absently, eyes glued to the hook in his hand, baiting it with intense concentration. Once it's appropriately wormed he steps back up to the edge of the water. Shoots a glance over his shoulder to make sure Blake's not in firing range, and throws a solid cast. The river carries his line downstream a bit, but once he locks the reel the line goes taut. Satisfied, he settles the hook in the holster again. "Just so we're clear, you know that saying about giving a man a fish, right? Feed him for a day or whatever?"

There's a huffing exhale that's indicative of Blake's more relaxed side starting to peek back out. In different company it might read as dismissive, but in this setting it's something entirely different, something much more easily described as him obviously feeling more at home. It's about the company - it's always about that with John, though he's not one to easily admit it.

"Yeah, but I'm willin' to bet the person that made up that piece of wisdom didn't have a friend that's already lived The Deadliest Catch. In all senses of the phrase." Just sayin'.

And it's not like Blake doesn't have other skills to offer. "You catch, I cook." He gestures vaguely at Dean's seat, beckoning the fisherman back to his previous position at the waterside. "Not a bad deal and you know it."

Saying as much allows John to avoid what he feels is an inevitable but what if I'm not here to feed your skinny ass conversation. They've had it too many times, in too many places, back and forth. And every time they're just scrambling to avoid admitting the truth: tomorrow might never come.

So, here he is enjoying today, even if it's just a fleeting feeling, borrowed and applied liberally while he's the person in question. Change the players and John will surely change his mind, finding every reason to tell Dean exactly why he needs to know how to take care of himself. Classic Blake, but then again, he wouldn't be nearly the man he is if not for that stubborn and protective streak.

Blake's not wrong, his cooking's just incentive enough to spare him any further lecturing on the subject. Dean's not half bad himself, he can make scrambled eggs and spaghettios that'll knock your socks off- not together, obviously. Blake's is on a whole 'nother level, though, and all of a sudden he's jonesing for dinner. Too bad you can't rush a fish onto a hook.

They both know, though, what he's thinking. Something about Blake being able to provide for himself, something about how if it was Dean trying not to learn a valuable survival skill from Blake he'd be in a god damn tizzy about it. Throwing a fit, nagging him to get his shit together, generally mother henning him and giving just as good as he so often gets.

But today is a peaceful day and, of all the places they've been together and situations they've seen, this is one of the tamer ones. Less brutal than the mansion, less dark than the ship, this place is practically a vacation cabin in the woods minus the creepy Jason Voorhees implications that might otherwise come with it. So far, at least, though they've not been there long. If this is the place they settle, if their cursed lot in life is to be safe and together and bored? Well, maybe Dean can skip a speech or two.

He settles back into his chair as requested, long legs sprawling out as he manspreads. They fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rushing of the river and the occasional jumping of fish. It's serene, and he chances a glance at his now long-time friend.

"It's a trip, right?" He says, meaning this whole place, this... everything.

John ponders a moment, quiet even after the question's posed. At times like these he has to make peace with certain facts, one of which being that they've been friends long enough now that he does occasionally earn a pass. It's a weird feeling, but not something that makes him uncomfortable, just something that tends to sneak up on him at random. It's unexpected, which he finds is an experience less and less common in his every day life.

"It's not nothing," he finally replies, hitting a little hard on the nonchalance. Does he have theories and questions and worries? Heck yes. But he's much more concerned about what speaking them could mean. It's a hell of a thing to always question reality.

Honestly, if not for how very unique Dean happens to be, he'd worry more. But there's some things that can't be faked - not in a million years - and this moment is solid proof of that.

"But what kind?" Blake grins a little, leaning back to prop on his elbows, basking in nature in a way that should feel more unnatural than it does. "Road trip?" How close had they ever come to that before? Never quite close enough.

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There was the sound of something cutting through the air, that was the only warning Circe before the axe head buried itself in the tree beside her. Her body went suddenly limp, the basket in her arms falling to the ground. Her wide eyes trailed between the tree to the man that had lost his tool. It was easy to guess how this happened, but it didn't remove the adrenaline and fear that twisted in her heart.

Yet another reminder of mortality. Wouldn't that have been a joke to her family? Death because a mortal lost his axe head and hit her with it?

She knelt, collecting her fallen herb and plants, quickly putting them back in her basket. "It is better to chop down the tree first before you try cutting it for firewood." It was the best she could manage, though there was a quiver in her voice, much to her shame.

There's a loud, solid, dull thwack as the ax head imbeds itself into a tree, but it's the sound that follows afterward which startles him around: the sound of a basket dropping and things rolling askew from it. He whirls, eyes wide, caught frozen for a second in an utter oh shit moment. It only lasts a second though before he springs into action, dropping to help her scoop her belongings back into the container.

"I am so friggin' sorry," He scrambles earnestly, apologetically. "That- I don't know what the hell that was, it just- came right the hell off, didn't it?"

He spoke in terms she didn't recognize, but the alarm was genuine, easing her initial nerves and shock. It was a twist of fate, not intentional, she told herself. Though she knew how harsh the fates could be.

A few of the flowers were damaged and no use to her now, so instead of putting them back in her basket, she simply left them on the ground. His frantic efforts allowed her a moment to regard him and calm herself again. "No harm done." Thankfully. How fragile mortals were. That axe would normally cut her skin, which would instantly he heal itself again. But now, her body would crumple and collapse, as though it were nothing more than a ceramic bowl.

"You must have been focused on your work." Chopping in anger? "We know now it needs to be repaired at least?"

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Test Drive 18

Dean Winchester | Supernatural

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