Test Drive 19

[sixthiteration]

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Test Drive

→ 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

July is going to be wet and wild, villagers. Keep an eye to the sky and hold onto your hats!

1. SAVING FACE - Look at you, trying to save that goat or dog or ZALPACA that's gotten stranded in a particularly nasty storm! You're a regular hero, trudging up that cliffside or swiming across that creek! Unfortunately, the sky didn't get the memo about your heroics, and it's just opened up even more. Finishing this job just got a heck of a lot worse. Good thing someone else just showed up to help both you and your animal pal. You hope. It's possible they're just there to laugh at you.


2. PANTS ON FIRE - You know what's great? When the storm breaks, the skies start to clear and everything looks sunny again. You know what's not? When the weather pushes the LYING MIST down from the mountainside while you're out trying to clean up. Hope you don't have any whoppers you're trying to keep secret!


3. SINK OR SWIM - The days when it's not storming are just beautiful, and the village river is running high. There are spots out of the current that are perfect for a cool dip or lounging on the shore, but take care you don't go out too far and get swept away. Oh, and watch out for the RAINBOW CRABS, those claws are sharp.


4. 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.

Comments

[freightcars]

They're frozen, the pair of them, as though waiting for the other to react the way any sane person might. To judge, to fight, to flee, except that the gravity of their shared life experience instead allows the moment to falter and eventually tick by, leaving them behind. His eyes drop, duck, flicker toward the pile of broken branches and dead limbs they've accumulated silently between the two of them. Other volunteers spread out yards away, out of earshot and paying them no mind.

He lets the bundle fall from his arms and clatter atop the pile; really just an excuse to try and wrap his head around his loss of brain to mouth filter. He doesn't know why he answered, and her question drives a spike into his brain. Short circuits his train of thought until only the truth swims through him, a pounding drum of urgency to share it.

So he looks up, brow knit, distant and uncertain.

"Because that's what I am." A soldier, then a weapon. A tool. It's the shortest and truest answer, the most concise and the most accurate.

And if he's laying it out there, he figures it's only fair to ask, "You?"

[tectus]

It's a small comfort that the people around them have no interest in their conversation, too busy with their own lives to notice two killers forcibly baring their innermost thoughts - but was it a comfort, really? Part of her can't believe that the work around them has just kept moving, wants to scream the confession at the top of her lungs. How can the world keep turning as if nothing has changed? As if something monumental hasn't just happened?

She at least recognises that the urge to shout her secrets to the whole community is rooted more in the strange need to spill her soul than a genuine desire to expose that part of herself. The lack of control is confronting at best, nauseating at worst, but at least this stranger can understand the weight of their conversation. Or, at least she has dirt on him too. Octavia prefers the former, even if her faith in humanity isn't very strong these days.

"Because it's what I've become" Her answer is as short and simple as Bucky's, but something about sharing even those few words feels like tension slowly being undone. It's not pleasant - more like knots being painfully worked out of muscles than a satisfying stretch - but it feels right, and there's no telling if it's coming from the sheer relief of exposing a festering wound or just the mysterious mechanisms behind the confessions. Either way, it's a conversation she probably should have started a long time ago. Maybe then it wouldn't have gone this far.

"It's war," she adds, the need to clarify and elaborate already pushing more words out. "Is that why you've got...."

She gestures vaguely at his arm - the metal one, if that really needs saying. Hardly tactful or sensitive, but it's direct. Surely by virtue of sharing their status as serial murderers they're already past tiptoeing around matters.

[freightcars]

He wonders that sometimes; for about a year he wondered every day how he could just get up and exist among people like he wasn't intimately familiar with the feeling of snuffing the life out of them. Killing in war is one thing; killing your own kind changes you, it breaks you in small ways that you can never take back, but at least in war you can justify it. For queen and country, for patriotism, for freedom. For the greater good.

He hasn't killed for the greater good in a long time. He's just fucking murdered. He thinks that alone should put some kind of target on his head, some kind of blinking line, some kind of tattoo or paint upon his skin. Something he can't take off. Something everyone should know because it's a disease he carries; it's contagious and harmful. It's as permanent as a missing limb, and twice as deep.

His eyes flicker to his left arm when she points it out, as though he's seeing it again for the first time. People normally gloss over it; they'll look but they won't speak, like it's a kind of taboo. He supposes it is. He flexes it absently, fingers twitching, and then flits his eyes back to her.

"Yeah." Because why else affix someone with a metal grip, a fully tactile unyielding tool like this? For baking?

It feels like they're standing on an island; like the rest of the world is an ocean away and taking a misstep will drop them into the sea. The copper tasting mist coasting by them only cements that feeling. His mouth twitches - he considers not asking, but ultimately does, "Just war?"

For no other reason? He thinks there are a few different kinds of killers, he thinks he's gotten good at seeing them.