sixthiteration | Test Drive 20 (August & September)

→ 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

Happy anniversary, villagers! Buckle up!

HEAT WAVE - Poor you. All you were trying to do was get yourself a little something to eat from the kitchen at the inn. Maybe you cooked it up yourself (The inn does, after all, have an electric stove — FANCY!), or maybe you just grabbed some leftovers. By accident or on purpose, you ended up with way more RED SALT in there than you maybe should have, and this is no ordinary seasoning. Whether you like things eye-wateringly spicy or not, it's August, you're sweating buckets, and it's only getting worse.

SKUNK DRUNK - Isn't that just the way? You're out and about, minding your own business, and you get sprayed by a BROWN SKUNK. The good news? It doesn't stink like a normal skunk. The also possibly good news, depending on who you ask? You're now in for about 5 hours of being very, very friendly. (Just remember to keep the test drive PG!)

BRAIN CANDY - Whether you made it to the anniversary party or not, you've gotten your hands on a piece of leftover candy from the big bash. Careful, though, these treats are more than meets the eye: Whatever COLOR it was, you've now taken on the associated personality traits. (Not the power, just the traits.) At least it only lasts 10 minutes.

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
- Display names may be changed by characters on the fly, but anyone can tap to see someone's real full name

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ever since old clothes like he wore back home showed up, Vasquez has been avoiding the scrubs with his life. It's not the same without a gunbelt, and honestly, he finds himself going for it more than once, but the lasso will have to do. Of course, what it means is that he doesn't really do much about wearing the spares when he has to wash the shirt, which is where he is by the river, wringing it out when he sees someone in his peripheral view.

Hand going to the gunbelt (that's not there), he eyes the man warily as he approaches. "You okay, cabron?"

Bobo has not been lucky enough in his time there to get back his coat, but at least he's scrounged up a pair of dark slacks and long sleeved shirt. Sure they're both a bit short in the ankle and the wrist, but it's better than those god awful medical garments he found himself in.

Given the swagger in his gait though, he might as well be wearing boots and the heavy fur trimmed jacket he favors. Spying the man by the water, his direction changes slightly, moving closer with a sly smile. His gaze thought follows the motion, processing the mannerisms and the accent combined.

"Doin' just fine, compadre," he says, tones mocking even as he looks him over slowly despite the taunting of his words. Or perhaps, for a man like Bobo, putting the man off in the mood he's in just feels good. "You know how things are. Sometimes you just want to get out and in touch with nature." Yet he barks a laugh as he says it. "Why? Am I invadin'?"

Vasquez should know better than to be pulled in by someone who sounds like he comes from a time and a place near his. He knows he should think twice about the promise of bickering. And yet? Here he is, wanting every bit of it and more. He's an idiot like that, though.

"In my space? No," he says, hands up in the air as he slaps the wet shirt on his shoulder, stabilizing himself on a few rocks as he tugs it on, not caring about the wet when the weather is still warm enough. "You go out often and touch nature?" Vasquez challenges and by the emphasis on touch, he hopes there's no mistaking the meaning.

"I can fix that, you know. The not invading." And as if to prove that, he edges up another step closer. Watching with slightly narrowed eyes as wet fabric slid along the other man's torso, the tug and stretch of it as his tongue ran along his upper teeth. There's a cant to his head, chin lifted, almost as if he's scenting the air.

"Well, you know, a man's got to alleviate the stress of life somehow. Not like I've got all the options I had before about things to touch. Worst things that happened to mankind is ignorin' a man's needs."

That is something this place needed, in his mind. A bar, and maybe a brothel, but then Bobo is a man with specific needs. Or so he likes to portray. Even here. Especially now.

"What? You don't find a need to get out and get close with nature?"

Vasquez snorts at the offer, smirking at the man. He's too wet to find his cigarettes, but he's chewing on the inside of his lower lip to give his mouth something to do, refusing to let the stare break as he holds his ground. "Trust me, I know all about ignoring needs," he says, and that one, he can't even joke about.

It had been a miserable life, his. This and the other place had been much better. Stepping out of the stream, bit by bit, he works his way towards the other man. "It's not nature I like to be close with," he says over his shoulder as he passes the other man to head for his little bundle, digging out his smokes and matches. "I much prefer people. Never been a tree fucker," he says bluntly. "Though I think I've heard of desperate men sticking their dicks in holes in trees, just to feel something."

"Well yeah. This place seems to be good about making sure we're doing without what we should have." Bitter? Bitchy? A bit of both from a man that has done without, lived in Hell, but upset about the lack of certain modern amenities he's gotten used to.

He snorts though at that comment, eyes rolling as he shifts to brace himself though with his feet apart, easily balanced though trying not to look concerned. Not inherently aggressive, but so used to having to be on the ready at all times. "It's a turn of phrase, compadre. You understand what that means, right?"

Though his brow furrows, upper lip curling at that as he turns to watch him walking the other way. "What the hell kinda men have you known?" He winces at that, the very thought almost enough to break that easy mood that had him considering so many things. Except that. "Do people not know what splinters are where you come from?"

"English, not my first language," he blithely replies, like he's so innocent about all this and it's not his fault he went straight to innuendo instead of acting like he actually knew about it (even though he definitely did). "And the men I know are the kind of men who drink too much and who don't have enough women in town."

For him, he just expanded his horizons about who he would sleep with, but not every man is so comfortable in letting someone else be on top or with them in bed. "It's not a civilized place, the West, sometimes."

"Really?" He looks at him, stunned, faking wide eyed confusion in that moment. Holding the expression for a long moment before he snorts. If he keeps rolling his eyes like that, he's going to hurt himself. Maybe sprain something.

"Yeah, I mean, you've kinda got an accent. In case you haven't noticed. I'm kinda familiar with it." He sounds more like many Bobo's known in Purgatory though he's never thought before about how things can change, even in those subtle ways.

In ways like that.

"Only times anyone talks about the West like that, like an entirely other world, was a long time ago. What year was it when you woke up drowning here?"

Vasquez doesn't react at all to the teasing, because yes, he knows he's very obvious, but he also isn't about to play along. At least, not that easily, but maybe later. "Are you?" he asks, curious about that, because he doesn't even know where this man comes from.

"I'll tell you when I'm from, you tell me where," he bargains, even if he's already planning to give his part of the answer. "1879. I think. I was in hiding for most of it," he says blithely, like being a wanted man isn't a problem to announce anymore.

Strolling closer once more, Bobo considers that. Both the man and the information that holds for him. "Well, you don't look like Doc so I'll assume not at the bottom of a well," he smirks, pausing close to invading personal space.

"There were a few men with accents like yours before things went to Hell. Literally. It was 1881 that year, during the winter. When I died," he says, speaking of it casually as if it means nothing. "It was 2017 when I found myself here. I admit, going back to life like this is kinda culture shock, but I think I can survive. Probably better than most."

"Cabin," he answers, "but I got here at the bottom of a fountain, so isn't it a little bit the same?" That said, he assumes it's just some doctor in his village, he hasn't met anyone here who goes by the name, so he doesn't mention anything more of it.

He inhales sharply and looks at him, finding it strange to have someone so close to him, in years. "Died how? Battle?" he wonders, thinking of all the new graves in Rose Creek thanks to the standoff against Bogue. "And where's Purgatory? Other than on the way to Hell," he quips.

He amuses himself with his own damn jokes, but parts of this are turning fairly series. At least in his mind, if only because he's got choices. Tell the truth, talk about things he's denied for over a hundred and fifty years and not talked about? Lie as he's done for a long time and pretend the man he once was never lived?

"I was shot. By someone I put my trust in. He left me to die, cursed, because I wasn't the man he wanted, but I was the man that gave his life. But that was a very long time ago. I remember it though. Like it was yesterday."

Because focusing on that is better than the thoughts of Hell.

"As for the town of Purgatory, it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. It's part of the Ghost River Triangle."

That's not something that Vasquez has ever had to deal with, but maybe because he gives his trust to no one. He looks out for himself and that's the only way he gets through his life, but it does make you wonder what kind of life. Maybe, before, he could've had something more, something deeper, but it's gone now.

"Never heard of the Ghost River Triangle, but your luck sounds shitty, amigo," Vasquez admits, reaching over to dig out two cigarettes, offering one to the other man, just in case he wants it. "I think now we're in the middle of nowhere, but it hasn't got a fancy name."

The oddly coiffed and often dangerous man that Bobo is now is a persona forged literally in the fires of Hell. All due to the lessons learned in the mistakes of putting your trust in another. Even if he makes the mistake time and again, a heart born to trust living in a world where everyone is out to betray you by their very nature. By his own nature.

"Count yourself lucky then," he says, giving a nod and taking one of them. "Thanks," he adds, though there is a moment of uncertainty being unused to anyone making that sort of gesture toward him.

There's a lingering ache from the skunk, the spray clinging to his clothes. It shows in the way he shifts closer, gaze shifting along lines of the other man's form. But his mind is caught up in the knowledge there's someone here that is closer to the world he knew as a man without being a demon like he is.

"Where were you at? You know, hiding." There's less heat to the twist of his words, not able to help himself though.

Vasquez lifts his head, just barely, in order to acknowledge the thanks he gets. It's not something he wants to talk too much about, but he appreciates that a man from about his time is willing to talk about these things with him.

He notices the other man being closer, but he doesn't mind. After all, he's used to finding things where he can, not wanting to stray too far. "In a cabin in the mountains of California," he says, since that hiding place is burnt. "I was found by a bounty hunter who made me an offer that I couldn't refuse, because the alternative, it was death."

Bobo toys with the cigarette as he considers that, arching a brow. "You know that begs the question, compadre, just what you had someone hunting you down for?" Not that he will outright ask. It's just not something you ask a man to do. Pushing him to talk about it though? That's something else, entirely.

"Let me tell you though, there's worse alternatives than death."

"I killed a ranger," he says. "He deserved it," is what he adds soon after because Vasquez will never be convinced that the man hadn't deserved the two gunshots that Vasquez put through him. He knows that he robbed and stole, but if people won't pay him enough or respect him, then he does what he has to do.

"Hiding, I think this is worse than death. Trapped in the same place, no people, no touch, no food..." He shakes his head as he shifts onto stable ground to lean against a tree and smoke.

"Everyone thinks the man they killed deserved it. Except maybe me. Not who I killed, but being killed," he says, but there's no judgment in his tones. Certainly more curious than concerned about killing a ranger. "Course, killing rangers so they know you did it? Kinda fucks only you over. Why not just kill them too?"

Asking that honestly, taking in the way that he moved away casually. "Not feeling trapped now, are you?" He might mean in this place. He might mean by him. Either way, that twisted little smirk is back. "Not going to argue the sentiment though. Spent over a hundred years trapped in the same damn town, just looking for a way out. Found this place instead, so guess I should've been more specific."

"One ranger," Vasquez thinks it's important to make that clear. "And he deserved it, promise. The others? They didn't," he clarifies, which is why they got to live even if they were coming after him. He doesn't like to kill that much, but sometimes it's needed to keep himself alive.

"No one wants me dead here, leaves me to smoke and drink and do what I like in peace," he admits. "It's bigger than most of the land I travelled and I never had nobody before," he says bluntly. "Yeah, this is better. What about you? Better or worse?"

Bobo's nose wrinkles, making a face because it's been too many years since he cared about who deserved what. After all, he didn't deserve to be cursed, but there he was. "Most don't get what they deserve one way or another, and if you hadn't come here then what? Stay in a cabin until you die of boredom?"

He shakes his head, not even sure what to think of that choice and fearing it might have actually been his choice.

"I'm still trapped. That said, so far there's no one here with a gun that can kill m..." The words trail off and all of the skunk residue and his own selfish desires kind of fade to the background. "Fuck. I hadn't thought about that. The rest of it's all gone... Well fuck."

Because he's not used to living worrying about dying if there's not an Earp and a gun around.

"Kinda fifty fifty now. Was going to agree with you."

"They let me out to fight against a bad man," he says, joking, but it's true. Rose Creek had been like a temporary reprieve that he'd never thought he'd get, but he'd managed to kill at least ten of Bogue's men and help those people, all while earning the favour of a bounty hunter.

Not bad, for a day's work.

He stares at the man curiously and wonders why he doesn't think that a gun can't kill him, because a good gun can kill anyone. "No guns here," he says, with a tone that says he already misses his. "What's your name?" he asks, then, because all this time, he's been sharing his history, and he doesn't even know his name.

"And what after that? When he's dead? I've heard things like that, and it never gets you where you want to be." He'd helped kill a bad man once. It had taken everything from him.

Bobo's head cants, frowning because for a moment, those words don't seem right to him. How can they when even in Purgatory now, there is still more guns than cars it seems. "None? At all?" He makes a sound, disgust etching his face. "Gonna tell me no blades either?"

He smirks then, because he hadn't given it though he'd considered it. Mostly because he had a choice here. No one knew the demon he had been, and he could recreate himself as Robert Svane without a second thought. Except that isn't the man he is.

"Bobo. Bobo Del Rey."

"I didn't pull the trigger to kill him, just his lackies. They killed one of mine," Vasquez says, eyes burning with the fierce defiance he'd felt when McCann had opened fire and hit Faraday. No one touched his people, especially ones that he'd brought into his circle the way he'd opened up for Faraday.

He's still hoping no one noticed the way he called him guerito, hoping no one knew how far down he'd connected. He shifts and digs out his lasso, holding it up. "Some weapons, just not the ones I prefer. You can have knives," he allows. "Mostly kitchen knives, so either you can cut a man's throat or make dinner," he jokes.

Gesturing to himself, he keeps a steady gaze on the other man. "Vasquez." No first name, not yet. That's heavy currency. "Del Rey? You don't look Mexican."

Bobo makes a face, giving a nod. "Worth killing them then, and wouldn't have to pull a trigger. Plenty of other ways to kill a man," he says with a chuckle, just pushing buttons now. "If they killed yours, can't imagine anyone but the law would fault you for killing all of them. Even some of them might not."

Given some law men he's known, killing was never really an issue.

He laughs at that though, appreciating the humor. "Can just plan to do both. Wipe it off between," he notes. "But can adapt one of those. Or make a better one for use if needed." He hasn't checked to see if there's any kind of a forge there, and while he's never used one himself, he knows the basics.

"I don't look like a Bobo either," he says. "It's a taken name, that I've had too long to go by anything else."

"It means 'of the king'," he supplies, as if the other man doesn't actually know what it is. Del Rey, he could say it a million times, and it's a better name than Vasquez, but then, he didn't pick that one. He hooks his lasso onto his belt as he thinks about all the way he's killed men, but usually, it's with a gun.

He's good with it, the fastest spinner in a long time, but again, no guns here to work with.

"Here, it's new. If you want to be called something else, I can call you whatever you like," he adds, and yes, there might just be a hint of flirtation in that, but best to keep his options open, that's all.

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