sixthiteration | Test Drive 18

→ Holds and applications are always open. Holds are required for all applications.

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

→ Write LOGS or TEXT prompts, or both.

→ THERE ARE ONLY THREE RULES FOR THE TDM:

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.

→ TDM threads cannot be used to meet AC, but if the character is accepted into the game and both players agree, you may keep the CR.

→ Character want ads are here.

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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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.

Oh sure, they've both got enough theories to fill up a theory bucket and plant little theory trees that spawn edible theory fruit, but that doesn't mean a single god damn one of them is right. Far as he can tell there's no dedicated rhyme or reason where they end up, or what the common denominator is, or why it's always the two of them and nobody else. Nobody from their respective homes, nobody else from the mansion, nobody else from the ship. He guesses if there's a deeper meaning to it, maybe it has to do with just the two of them somehow.

But again, bucket, tree, fruit, bullshit.

He huffs a little laugh, it's not humorless but not exactly akin to the guffawing from earlier. Shrugs lazily in his slumped position. "Not exactly a lot of road here. At least I had my car back there. Unless you're planning on driving a fish, it doesn't quite hit the nail on the head."

Although this place was bigger, he guesses, than the last places. Maybe they'll have a road eventually, something more substantial than the dirt paths reinforced with lumber. Maybe they'll reinvent the chevy.

"Maybe if I was Aquaman, sure," he jokes, far too amused by his own antics than he should be.

It's strange, though, how suddenly opportunity is stretching well out ahead of them, perhaps more so than ever before. Here, they have a chance to make a difference, and by now they've learned so much more about themsleves, there's little hesitation between being approached by a problem and knowing how to address it (or, at least, knowing how they'll each react to it, if nothing else). There certainly aren't as many surprises as before. And really, John had felt pretty together at 29, but now he wonders how that person who he used to be ever made it as far as he had. However old he's become during all of this - 34? 35? (he'll say 34 for vanity's sake) - being mired so deeply during those few years has certainly ushered John Blake into a different era of his life. He's convinced it's the same for Dean, although he doesn't bother to confirm it with the other man.

They've been polished in the same way, rough edges smoothed down like the river stones Blake had struggled over earlier. They've been shaped into some semblance of functionality and order, into people who can sit by and know the importance of a task while not being whisked away by the potential implications of failure.

And all it took was a mixture of readily predictable trauma and too much stubbornness to give in to it.

John glances over, eyeing his friend from behind the safety of those sunglasses, flushed by the ease of this moment as much as a morning of sun exposure. He's struck by how much things can change - so many things - and somehow everything can feel exactly the same as it always has.

"As that display of piscine prowess earlier suggests, I'm definitely not Aquaman." A grin springs up. "But at least I don't have to feel bad about eating my friends."

He snorts at the joke as well, because apparently Aquaman was such a goddamn joke even the people supposedly from the same universe as him mock him. Truth be told he's reasonably certain Aquaman is just a comic book character in Blake's world, but the tinge of ironic possibility is a laugh in and of itself.

Blake's right, he's sure as hell no Aquaman, thank god. If he was as bad at catching criminals as he is at catching fish the world would be all the worse off giving him that power. His mind spirals a little down this dumb road they're taking, and he muses aloud, "I wonder if Aquaman is the villain to the fish."

You know, controlling their mind, bossing them around, using them, eventually eating them. He's Hannibal Lecter of the aquarium world. Fortunately for the both of them Dean gets a bite shortly after the speculation, and shifts quickly to his feet to grab the pole. With a look of moderate concentration he jerks the line to set the hook, and begins to reel it in.

The flurry of movement draws Blake's attention, but he's not rushing to his feet now that he's started to dry out a bit, instead satisfied to drop back fully on the shore and prop his head with his arms up behind his head.

"You're the only 'villain to the fish' that matters right now. Don't let this be the one that got away." Blake thinks he so much funnier than ever before, and that's entirely Dean's fault for encouraging him to have a sense of humor. Once upon a time he wouldn't have even risked such a poor presentation, but as it stands, he figures the other guy has to give him a pass.

"Yeah, yeah," is the most Blake's gonna get out of him at the moment. It's completely and totally dismissive, because Blake's not the only one that regrets his newly developed sense of humor sometimes. Your jokes are lame, Robert, and so's your face.

Within no time Dean's sporting whatever this place's equivalent of a salmon is, hanging safely from his line as he shoots Blake a triumphant look. One that got away his ass, thank you very much. "Think it's the same one you lost, Robbie. Interested in some vengeance?"

"Calling it vengeance is a little dramatic even for this crowd," he remarks. But John did make a deal and he's not about to go back on that, even if this timetable hadn't yet accounted for the napping portion of the so-called lesson. On another day he'll ask to come back - make a proper try at it - but for now he's content with this tradeoff, particularly since he's hungry now and it's not going to be an instant dinner.

He brushes himself off on the way up from the ground, and then grabbing up Winchester's makeshift bucket, he drags it through the water before presenting the partially filled container out for hunter and his prize.

"Maybe we outghta consider makin' a little fish trap. Know it takes the fun outta it for you, but it'd speed up production, so to speak."

Fish trap is far from a bad idea; they both tend to act like Dean's some sort of bastion for rustic living and tend to forget that Blake ought to be the brains of the operation. It's clear the idea catches him by surprise, and he seems to ponder over it for a minute. On the one hand, fishing's one of the only pass-times he has left to ease the boredom, but on the other it'd be nice not to have to rely on it for a steady meal.

"Any ideas on how to slap one together, Survivorman?" He asks, folding his tackle box in on itself and threading his fishing hook through one of the eyelets of the rod to keep it from swinging in the breeze.

It's good to know he's not useless. As it stands, Blake's always been a clever little shit, but he's definitely not the type to take the easy way out. On the other hand, if it were just him relying on the fish, he'd probably learn how to be an angler, but since there are many more mouths to feed than just his own, John's bent on thinking smarter, not harder.

"Might have a few," he croons, amused as the way Dean seems to take so easily to the idea. For a guy that might be out a decent hobby, he sure does seem to understand that some things are better left to automation. "And while we're at it, dunno why we couldn't make somethin' hydroelectric happen." Using water as a source of power can happen in so many ways if only someone around knows the engineering principles needed to make it work.

"We can talk 'bout it over dinner," John says, cheeky and pleased that all this was not for nothing.

And that's when Dean does scoff. Hydroelectricity is something of a lofty goal; don't get him wrong, Dean's got a pretty good set of skills when it comes to electrical work and wiring. He's laid ground and fixed circuit breakers, but developing a generator that converts current into current dips into engineering way over his head.

"Yeah, about that," Is his wry and incredulous response. They'll talk about it over dinner, sure, and Dean will remain completely unconvinced it's possible. Either way, he saddles up with tackle box in one hand and fishing pole in the other. Figures he'll leave the chair instead of dragging it back again tomorrow. "Cook on, Martha."

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Test Drive 18

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