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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A.)
Known around for being very much a team player when it comes to community upkeep, it's really no surprise to see John Blake hanging around the greenhouse on any given day. His dark hair is always neat and combed, his equally dark eyes are always sharp, and being of average height, he really doesn't cut much of an intimidating figure. But brush past him too closely and it's obvious he's a solid guy that hasn't shirked away from hard labor in some time.

He's usually seen providing some form of manual labor - digging or building or moving earth - but once in a while he pops by with some collection of flora plucked from the surrounding area, intent on doing his part to provide some basic stock for the near future.

This time it's tubers, the collection tucked into a very simply woven basket. It's not a significant amount of food, but it's out and on display, available for anyone looking to do a little gardening of their own, or whoever else might need to fill out their dinners for the evening.

"Take what you want," he says in passing. "Gonna be lookin' for goldbell next, if you've got any leads."

B.)
For having such a familiar atmosphere, there are at least a few reminders that this is not planet Earth (at least not as Blake had last known it). For hours at a time he can fool himself — hours where he absently eats or works so deeply on a project he doesn't bother lifting his head. It's like walking into a room and acclimating to a smell: try as you might, after an notably short amount of time, you find yourself used to something that felt so out of place just moments before. It breeds a sense of confidence — an idea that John's got everything handled (at least as best as a man from a technologically advanced background can without such accessible conveniences).

Whether he's purposefully and profusely overlooked it that day or not, the reminder does comes up, and when it does, it's usually in the form of something relatively innocuous. (Was that a mouse? No, just something that looks like one.) And when it's not? Well...

"Think I ate somethin' I—" He makes an unpleasant noise, hand outstretching to brace him on a wall as his body tries to right some kind of powerful wrong. "Think I ate somethin' I shouldn't've—" John professes, and while it's unlikely he's actually poisoned himself with something his transplanted ass should not be digesting, it is the first thing that tends to come to mind in situations like this.

Out and about in evening and as he is, half-stumbling his way home, it wouldn't be hard to mistake him for a drunk.

C.)
Wildcard! Anything goes~

Bucky tends to keep to himself; he's not exactly the Avengers and looking for causes to champion or people to rescue is a little more outgoing than his typical motivation. He's not exactly an asshole, though, and seeing some guy stumbling around the town when he knows for a fact alcohol is hard to come by? Ignoring it seems like an asshole move. And so he approaches, cautiously but with some obvious notes of concern hovering over his expression.

"You alright?" He calls from some feet away, hands braced awkwardly at his sides like he's torn between reaching out to steady the guy and folding in on himself somehow simultaneously. "You- uh- you need a hand or something?"

Blake isn't usually one to take help, especially so readily, but considering he's feeling pretty darn crummy in this very moment, he can't find too much room for his pride. He nods briefly, sucking in a pull of air that helps a bit, but only in staving off whatever feels like it wants to claw its way back up. He isn't really thinking about all the many things that could cause this feeling — things he'd encountered on Earth just the same.

"How can— can we just—" What assistance he really needs, Blake can't seem to fully formulate into words until he has a better grasp on steady ground. "Water? Maybe?" He winces as his stomach continues to protest. It's all he can think to do in the moment.

Steve was a sickly kid, and his mom wasn't much better off toward the end. From time to time the pair of them would wind up with a flu so strong it knocked them both on their asses, and Bucky was there to help clean up some of the mess. This stranger looks a little like Steve did the last time Bucky remembers him having the flu- all pale-faced and clammy, glassy eyed and breathing heavy, a lump in his throat. It's enough of a visible ailment to push all the right sympathy buttons, and Bucky nods in understanding, reaching out to settle a steady mechanical hand on the man's upper arm.

"Yeah, okay. Just- here, sit down a sec, I'll get you something," Something or someone, maybe a doctor if they've got one squirreled away somewhere, or maybe Peggy would know what to do. Maybe Sam, who knows so much about science and genetics. Doesn't quite a doctor make, but a big, round rock would probably make a better caretaker than himself. Nevertheless he's what Blake's stuck with, and he does his best to guide the man to the nearest porch. Peggy's porch, as it so happens, though the woman's not in at the moment.

Having that solid connection to reality is enough to give John the jolt he needs to move without losing everything he's eaten in the past few hours (days?). True enough, he's paler than usual — which is already pretty naturally pale — and clammy like there's no get-out, but otherwise he is pretty capable when his guts aren't twisting themselves up like a pretzel.

"Ah, god— it's all— I-I'm good. I'm good here..." He presses a hand to his temple, a feeble attempt to stop the world from spinning, but with his heart hammering away like it wants to leap out of his chest, even something as simple as that feels like it's taking his breath away. He nods to Barnes — a near futile indication he'll be all right in the meantime — but it's all he has before he turns back in on himself, cradling his midsection over his legs, leaned over like he compelled to compress himself.

"Get your— get your head together," he mutters to himself as if that can really stave off any panic he's feeling over this potentially fatal (but probably not) mistake.

Bucky can definitely sympathize with that throbbing feeling as the world tilts on its axis, and he hovers just a second after Blake's settled to make sure he's not going to keel over or something.

"I'll, um-" He starts, stops himself before he even finishes the sentence, and takes the steps two at a time to get into the house. Grabs a glass of water from the tap, wets a cloth while he's at it, and heads back out again. Drops down into something of a squat off to Blake's side, holding either object aloft, waiting for permission. Foisting something on a man about to puke isn't exactly a wise move (nor is settling in beside him, hence the squat). "Here-"

It's convenient to find a savior that's willing to keep a little distance, because as it stands, Blake's not feeling like he wants anyone within yakking range. Instead, he grasps a shaky hand around the water glass and slurps at it. It comes back up, of course, but it's only water, at least, and the rest of what Blake's keeping down stays for the moment.

"Ugh, this is—" Awful. Just awful. And if he didn't know better, he could swear his lips are starting to get numb. "Shit, I'm sorry you gotta—" *hurp* "—you gotta see this..." It's not John's favorite way to get to know a person, not by a long shot.

He jerks backward as all that water comes straight back up with a retching noise, water spewing all over Peggy's grass and stairs. It's a good thing Bucky has something of an iron stomach, because he doesn't have much of a physical reaction aside from surprise. He thinks if it were Steve or Peggy helping this guy, they'd be patting his back or something right now. Bucky's not a touchie feely person, though, and it's all he can really do to hold out the cool, damp rag.

He dismisses the concern with a shake of the head, not that Blake can see it.

"I know a nurse, I can get her?" He offers uncertainly, then adds- "They got these... healing springs, too, I can take you to, or..."

With the right kind of moth, maybe John can make all of this go away, because it sure is a lame thing to meet someone and immediately throw up on himself. It's not the first time, but does anyone ever get used to that? And while he doesn't imagine anyone would hold it against him — particularly not a stranger kind enough to stop and help — it feels silly to be so beholden to something so clearly outside of his control.

Finally grabbing the cool cloth, he presses it to his face and then takes in another deep breath, nodding slowly. Whatever choices he's been given must sound better than whatever's going on with him right now.

"There's a— a tea, right?" He knows there's something like that. If he can keep it down.

The question brings him pause; admittedly he's not exactly an expert on the island, having been there less than a couple months. He knows about the puffplants, he knows about the groffles, he knows about springs that heal you and dogs with antlers, but as for the remedies and medicines available to them? He's something of a novice. He does think it sounds familiar, though, some kind of concoction made of tea useful for headaches or maybe it was stomach aches.

So he nods slowly, uncertainly. "Um- yeah, maybe, I can- I'd have to leave you to find some. Can you manage? Do I need to send someone here?"

Blake's no expert — everything he's learned since arriving has been received during an oh hey moment, or overheard even. Which is why he knows there's a tea, but doesn't exactly know more of the specifics surrounding it, not even where one might find it, other than asking around.

"Well, no, wait..."

Wiping the sheen from his forehead on to his sleeve, he thinks on it a moment, head shaking back and forth. What a shitty thing to have to deal with — for the both of them — and damn if he doesn't feel utterly helpless. It's definitely not the sort of situation John's used to being in. But you know what? That's okay. He's always been an adaptable guy and like hell is he going to sit by and let whatever this is just happen.

He girds his loins, so to speak, and pushes up to his feet. "The springs," he says, voice sounding a bit dopey around his numbing lips. "Let's go."

Yeah, probably a safer decision than hunting down Claire or Peggy to find a tea that may or may not even be in stock. He only nods and, without asking for permission, hops off the porch before Blake to sidle up under his arm. He's not good for much, but half-carrying a wounded man is a particular specialty for Bucky Barnes. Someone give him a medal.

Arm-in-arm they walk, with Bucky insisting through sheer body language that he do most of the work. It's a little bit of a trek, and the less Blake has to actually do the less likely Bucky is to wind up with vomit on his pants. They only have so much denim here, after all.

He stops only once they round the spring, stacked black stones and silt surround a steaming pool. Bucky lowers him gently onto the edge of the water. "Not that I'm interested in getting in your pants or anything, but you need help getting them off?"

Or go in fully clothed for all he cares, just don't keel over on him.

There is a part of Blake that has to bite back whatever urge he has to make a comment. Under other circumstances he could act surprised, crack a joke, whatever, but honestly it's not going to be a good look on him at the moment. Probably because it'd clash with the vomit.

"No, this is—" He shakes his head and starts to carefully pull himself into the spring water. "This is 'bout what I'm ready to call swimwear here." No offense, but pale and clammy and ready to spew again any second is not the first impression he appreciates giving anyone. Nor is it what he wants to flash back to every time he runs into this guy in the near future.

"Thanks for takin' the time, know it wasn't prob'ly—" He lifts the back of his hand up to stop himself talking, pressed against his mouth with a single digit point out to show he needs a second to get over the wave of nausea hitting him. There's no telling at this point if the springs are meant to work over time or if he isn't affected at all, but for this very moment, he feels like he might empty his stomach into a black hole, pulling out more than what's been put in if he's not careful. Could this be the very first case of a man throwing up his own skeleton? Stay turned to find out!

In Bucky's experience it's sort of a mix between instant relief and slow healing, but he's always used it for the muscle aches and pains around his prosthetic. That's the sort of thing a regular hot spring would help initially anyway, so he can't say for sure whether Blake's going to vomit into it and taint the whole thing or not. All he can really do is spare a sympathetic grimace and, after a beat, a sort of useless shrug.

"Try drinking it?" He suggests, because why the hell not, what's the worse that could happen? A little gross tasting bathwater never hurt anyone.

"That's a terrible idea," Blake says, his face screwed into the most unpleasant expression. Drinking a tea made of spring water and every injured idiot in a mile radius only makes the former cop want to retch twice as hard. "Isn't that how people get giardia?" Which, now that he thinks about it, isn't exactly far off from the symptoms he's already feeling.

"You have food in town? Earlier today?" It's got Blake wondering if maybe this whole ordeal isn't related to food rather than his trek through a foreign flora.

"If you get it, it'd probably heal off just as fast?" He speculates. But again, he's about as much of an expert on this as he is astrophysics or healthy coping mechanisms. He moves circles a particularly large rock and pops a squat to observe his accidentally acquired patient. Settles his elbows on his knees, bends forward, clasps his hands.

"Helped make it," He answers with a nod. "Might not be the best chef but I'm pretty sure I'm above food poisoning."

Although, granted he wasn't exactly sure what type of meat was in it, but that's sort of just the nature of the location. The things they treat as cows aren't like any damn cows he's seen back home. He's had just enough exposure to green milk to tentatively accept it as safe. "You eat anything else? Drink anything? Piss anyone off?"

John eyes the other man, not so sure he can believe food standards here would be anything close to what he'd been used to in the past. No offense, Bucky, but when they're spending all their time trying to scramble for their lives, it's hard to imagine the health inspector rolling through the kitchens.

"Today? No." On all accounts. "But I'm pretty used to not makin' friends," he notes, not interested in lying, either. Would he expect someone would be inspired to poison him directly? No. But anyone who might know a bit more about him would certainly say he's at risk.

He leans down a little and scoops up some water that he readily pats against his face. Already he's feeling less and less clammy and overwrought by sickness.

Gaius has in many ways, been raised to contribute to the community. But the ways he contributes in this place are very different from those his mother anticipated for him. He'd been educated to be a leader of the city of Rome, to sway the opinions of a crowd with the power of his voice and his words, to find his purpose in the service of the city of Rome. He's adjusted, since he arrived here, forcing himself to do some of the things that he would once have relegated to others, as unworthy of the son of a man who'd been twice consul.

He's found his purpose in managing the storehouse, so now that there is a dedicated place for gardening and many of the things being grown are edible, it's natural for his interest to extend there. Besides, gardens are part of Rome's agricultural and domestic life, though they are very different to these gardens. That's why Gaius is there when John stops by to drop off more tubers. He turns at the sound of the voice, and nods his understanding.

"I believe they grow in the high areas, beneath the mountains," he says, in good but heavily-accented English.

John had heard the flowers were near the mountains, but the added benefit of knowing they tend to prefer higher areas should help to narrow down the direction he goes. If he's smart about it, he'll take a friend that's not afraid of a little free-climbing action.

He nods at Gaius. "Thanks. Anything else out there I oughta know 'bout?" he asks.

It seems like every time he turns around, someone's giving some kind of warning or another, about insects and mammals, plants and terrain — it' s almost as if there's nowhere Blake can go that he won't have to have his guard up a bit. Even near the greenhouse, there's still a chance he could find himself brushed by— something and then he'd be down for the count. It's not something he likes to forget, so he reminds himself as often as possible (as if this planet weren't already willing to do the same).

"You know, magic bugs, poisonous vines — that kinda stuff."

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Test Drive 18

John Blake | The Dark Knight Rises

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