sixthiteration | Test Drive 21 (October & November)

→ 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

STAYING POWER - Go down to the bunker, they said. You can get yourself amazing powers from the vending machine, they said. Well, you've done that, and you've made your choice, but one thing nobody told you was that unless it's a power you're familiar with, you might be on a teensy bit of a learning curve when it comes to keeping it under control. You have a week to figure it out without killing anyone; have fun!

FORGIVE AND... - You poor thing, you've gotten into some dust moths. Not that you can remember that, because depending on how big that swarm was and how quickly you got out of it, you might not remember much at all. Better hope somebody's got some Forget Me Nots on hand.

HIT & RUN - Life in the village can be pretty sleepy... until suddenly, it's not. Were you being a troublemaker? Were you disturbing the local wildlife? Because it's now disturbing you, chasing you down the street in front of everyone. Maybe it's a herd of chupapaca or a swarm of fireflies. Or maybe you went old school and it's just a really pissed off badger. Godspeed and good luck.

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.

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Maybe it's a new twist on this place, to take memories and lead people without an idea of what's happening. Seems it might make more sense than so many spending their time trying to figure out who, why, and what? Though he imagines it might mean a lot more time reminding them what an axe is.

He supposes dead victims don't suit as well as living ones.

Which means he's run into something here that causes this, hopefully, momentary lapse in memories.

"Takes a bit more than that to damage me," he says, waving a hand. "So long as the jacket's fine, and I'm not limping, I'm sure I'll be fine." And not feel the need for retribution. At least not until he figures out how this man handled him so well.

"So way I see it, you wandered out a bit, probably ate some mystical mushrooms or the like, and now you're stranded. I mean, logically with this place, you should get them back eventually. Unless you've done yourself severe damage, in which case..."

He shrugs, not sure what he could do. "Oh! There's a clinic. Might be able to help." He doesn't sound at all convinced of that though.

Clinic.

He had to consider the word. For some reason, the mere idea had him cringing, had his stomach clenching, but he couldn't remember why. The fact that this man (he was oddly familiar in a way, something about how he moved) didn't seem convinced either only made it worse. He shook his head. "I'll find my way without the... clinic."

The distrust went deep. He'd have to think about why when--

If. He could remember again.

"I'll have to hope my memories return," he half-muttered. "I've no patience for the Hospitaliers." And then he was lifting his hand as if to tug at something about his head, and muttering another curse when his hand found nothing.

It's cruel but Jacob laughs at that, nodding eagerly. "Know the feeling. Keep imagining they're coming at me with leeches and blood letting, and I think my blood's just fine where it's at." Which is why it's going to take a lot to get him into a hospital of any sort. Like being unconscious.

"So that leaves us with keeping you from hurting yourself and others until you figure it out," he says, though he looks slightly uncertain about that. But leaving him to his own devices doesn't seem helpful to anyone involved.

Though that gesture makes him frown, head canting. "Before the trees, you don't remember anything?"

Even as he asks he moves his hand, lifting it to draw his hood up and over his face. Mirroring the way the other man moved. "Remember anything?"

And even as he asks, he feints for him. No weapon in his hand, but acting as if he is about to stab him in the gut.

At the feint, instinct took over once more. He grabbed the arm, yanking it aside, turning, and making a quick, sharp motion with his left hand. Not a punch. It didn't connect like a punch. It was to the side of Jacob's neck, fingers curled as if to hit, but stopping to touch and--

And he was missing a finger.

In the span of less than a heartbeat, more than one realisation struck. One was that his acquaintance had done it to try to spark memories. And another was that it seemed they had more in common than he'd thought, because...

He let go, not even breathing hard. As if this was something that happened every day. And voice feeling distant, even to him, he said, "I remember hoods. Many-- Many, white hoods and thick leather armour..." He motioned around his own waist. But as quickly as detail came, it was gone. Or-- not gone, but... just out of reach.

Jacob doesn't react when the other man reacts exactly as he thought he might, letting that hand that should be holding a blade come close to his throat without so much as blinking. It's a chance, and a huge one, but he is self confident enough to believe that if he had been hiding a knife, Jacob will be quick enough to avoid it.

"Right. Okay then. Good to know you, Nameless One," he teases, though the expression in his eyes is much more serious than his words. Not after the way he moves, and the missing ring finger. Well. Definitely not what Frye is expecting. He's heard stories of this place and how it plays with time, but now he truly has to wonder what is going on here.

"I'm Jacob and I guess I'm going to watch over you until you figure out who you are. Not going to leave you to kill some people without thinking about it."

Which isn't entirely joking then, worrying about what might happen if he does get armed before he remembers.

He looks over what he's wearing, considering. "You can't have been here long. Come on. Let's get to the store room and see what we can work out for you. Something with a hood," he says, touching his makeshift one once more. "Drove me nuts not having it, I admit."

He could hear the part of those words that was humour - but he could hear the seriousness as well. He'd already known he was a danger. Jacob had just proven it. The idea of being watched over raised his hackles but he knew the necessity. He didn't want to kill someone for no reason other than his own nerves and his own reactions.

What he'd been able to smooth over only eased more when Jacob mentioned getting a hood and the small nod he'd been about to give became a larger one. "In that, I can see we'll be similar. Being without something covering my head has put me on edge more than I'd thought. It doesn't feel right, but that is one thing among many."

The air was too cool, too damp. The surroundings too green. The language seemed off to his ears. And that thought made him pause. "I've spoken two languages. This one, and another that came more naturally. Do you know what the other might be?"

Despite the seriousness of his demeanor, there is little in Jacob that keeps the humor from his tone. It's just part of who he is.

That said, he's not comfortable at all with this. Both in thinking on time, as well as what it might say to have two of them dispatched to this tiny village. There has to be a reason why, after all.

"Well at the very least we can find a cap, or what someone told me is called a hoodie," he says, nose wrinkling. "Apparently creativity dies in the future, is all I can assume."

Giving a nod and turning for the Inn, he glances at the other man. "Given your look, and things," he says, gaze darting to his hand. "I will assume Arabic? Perhaps Hebrew?"

When Jacob looked to his hand, so did he. Specifically at his missing finger. It didn't seem to hamper him. More than that, without a glove on (did he wear gloves? It felt as if he did), he could see that the wound wasn't messy. However it was that this finger had been removed, it hadn't been accidental. There were small scars that seemed to be stitches, others that seemed to be from burns. Cauterisation, then. This was deliberately inflicted.

More pieces fell into place. Arabic. And Jacob seemed to have some insight into it. The fact that he'd known how to provoke him, that a hood was important - they were linked somehow, yet Jacob didn't know him personally or he would've called him by name by now--

Unless they were enemies.

A thread of suspicion crept into his mind. He would keep that wariness, he decided, but for now, he had no better option. His body had already proven itself capable. If it came to it, he didn't doubt his ability to survive, even if his newfound guide was an enemy. But he wouldn't treat him as such until the proof was undeniable instead of merely a suspicion.

What he would say, though, is, "You know more about me than you've yet said."

He was certain of that, but he kept any accusation out of his tone. There was no accusation to make. Fact was fact.

Jacob finds himself caught between truths that seem obvious, and revelations he's not willing to make in case the obvious is not quite what it seems. Everything about this man screams Assassin but if Jacob is somehow wrong...

"I may," he admits, smiling tightly at the other man. "I suspect we share an education," he finally allows, feeling that is safe enough. "The things you talk of sound familiar, and I see signs of familiarity, but your face? Not as familiar."

Which is playing coy in many ways, but not leaving him to his own devices. He turns, though not entirely putting his back to the man with a jerk of his head.

"Come this way. Ask your questions and I'll answer what I can."

Share an education. Given the obvious differences in their backgrounds, that meant something other than books and classrooms. But given the similarity with which they moved, he decided that meant training. They were both fighters of some sort, then.

His expressions hinted at a deeper truth, and one he was loathe to admit. Somehow, he understood that - as if some things were better kept quiet than spoken of in the open. That settled something inside him. If this man had found an enemy this way, something inside his own mind told him that he would already be dead instead of led along.

"We are fighters for some sort of common cause," he surmised. "Though not from the same place. I am comfortable thinking myself Arabic. You are..." For a moment, his eyes narrowed before he finished, "English. Your skin. But not noble. Your accent. You do not carry yourself like a--"

A flash of memory came at once. Armour, flags, the plea of a beggar woman drowned out by the sound of metal on metal. And over it all, a red cross on white--

"You are not a Knight. Not a Templar."

Already in this place Jacob has been learning that there is a discrepancy in how time works. Just the technology in this place is enough to reveal that. This though, if he's right about this man, then it would seem he isn't the only one taken from a time older than this place... and at least two from the Brotherhood? That worries him more than the time travel. How and why is a heavy worry in the back of his thoughts.

Trying not to let that show though, listening as he starts to put pieces together. He nods, smirking a bit. 'I'm comfortable thinking you're Arabic as well, if that helps." Kind of being a smart ass, though he makes a face at the accusation that he's not noble, not that he denies it but then that next statement and his makes a face, nose wrinkling.

"Bite your tongue," he says, rolling his eyes. "No. I am definitely not a Templar, but congratulations. Sounds as if you're starting to remember. If I ask you what year it is, do you think you have a clue?"

He began to answer, and then stopped himself before changing it to, "As the English count it, the Year of Their Lord, 1191." More came back to him the more he thought, the more he considered. The more he could see the flags on the battleground, the British king--

"King Richard and his Crusaders fight Salah ad-Din and his Saracens with the people caught in the middle. The Templars fight both sides from within. I..." He had almost grasped it. He had almost known, but it skittered away like an insect on still water, leaving him to frown. "I... feel I fought them both. But I find nothing specific there. But I have more distaste toward Salah ad-Din than Richard."

Why? If anything, the name felt it should be more like than dislike. Richard was a name that sat oddly on his tongue, while Salah ad-Din rolled from it with ease. What had this Salah ad-Din done that had garnered at least a flicker of anger while Richard... what was it? Grudging respect? Hm.

Jacob's brows lift at that. Not that he's entirely surprised, but he isn't sure that he expected to hear it. Listening and nodding slowly as he speaks on about what he remembers, and the Templars. Seeing him catching onto the strings of his memory and then losing them.

In fairness, Jacob feels sympathy for the man. He couldn't imagine knowing he was missing parts of who he is and being unable to hold on to them even as he caught glimpses of them. It would almost be better to have no idea at all that anything is missing.

"And your training? What do you remember of that? Of why you were fighting them?" It's that training that should remind him of who he is, and Jacob hopes with that his memory will return. "I wonder what they've done to you that you don't remember who you are."

Because they definitely need to be wary of that, and how they might use it against any of them in the future.

"Because I had to." The answer slipped free before he thought, and that, he realised, may have been the answer. If he thinks, it's harder to remember. If he speaks, it simply... happens. "They had--

"No. They wanted something. An object. And I..."

Malik--

A name. Was it his? Malik and-- Kadar, no, the names weren't his. He could hear a scolding voice, and another so painfully eager. His heart rose into his throat. "Kadar is dead," came the words, slipping free once more, rough in his throat. "Kadar is dead and Malik wounded because of me. Because of the--"

And then his eyes went wide, one piece of knowledge, one defining bolt of horror going through him as he began to look around frantically because, "The Apple! If I am here, the Apple is unguarded!"

Shifting his weight back onto one heel, Jacob folds his arms over his chest. Listening, nodding as he speaks, though he is really hoping for things that are more... No, less dead people that won't be here, and that he can't do anything about.

Hell, people that are long dead, and gone, and Jacob's already been ignoring that in this place. His life is long over. Should he ever find a wife and have kids, their lives may well be over too. It's worse thinking that he is in this place, and Evie is gone. Long gone.

But then thee's a definite distraction from those depressing thoughts. Much worse thoughts.

"You had a piece of Eden and..." He goes silent, just staring at the other man. "No. It has to be here. Somewhere. Did you have it with you before here?" Which is asking a lot given he can't even remember his name.

"It is within Masyaf--" And he was sure of that. As sure as he was that his heart still beat. He could see it in his hands, glowing and golden, and then on a pedestal and...

And then what?

His brows drew together, teeth grit as he worked against his own advice, straining to remember. Whispers came to him. Maria. Darim. Niccolo. The Mongols...

"I--

"I emptied Masyaf to keep them away from the Apple. But I stayed. The door... they cannot get through it without the keys. But they are brutes and will do all they can until the keys are theirs or until they all die."

Jacob listens, and he stares. Certainly he speaks of times and places that are not Jacob's own but the more they go, the clearer it becomes. About what he has been through, what he has devoted himself to. It sobers Jacob a little, more than being grabbed had done.

"They say..." Damn, he really has no way of telling him this. "They say there is no way to fight your way back. They may send you, but you can't get out of here by your choice," he says, tensing as he makes that admission.

He holds up both hands in placation. "No shooting the messenger. It's worth still trying, but it will be a hard battle. Perhaps one we can't win."

Oddly, these words were the ones that placed a blanket of calm over his shoulders, his chin raising with a deep confidence that came from his soul as much as his mind. True enough that he wore no hood, carried no blade, but in that moment it could be no plainer that he was not a man who needed them. Years of training, decades of adversity. Both had given him complete certainty in himself, in his abilities, and in his devotion to this cause. His eyes gleamed yellow and he looked to Jacob's, unflinching.

"I am used to hard battles," he said. And then, voice quieter but heavy with steel, he went on: "The name of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad has been known and respected for years. A world apart, it will be again. We are Assassins. And we will keep the worlds free."

Oh but Jacob's smile is huge at that, lit up as he sees it come together, the haze lift and his eyes sharpen. Straightening in that moment, giving a tug on his makeshift jacket and certainly presenting himself as the man he knows he is.

Hearing those words, the truth in them as well as seeing that the connection has truly been made.

"That we will. Which means finding the way to freedom in this world. And look, a name and everything." He pauses then, head canting. "I'm going to take it you are remembering it all though. Good. I won't have to try shock therapy next." Which would have likely led to another fight that he doesn't want to have against another assassin.

"And if we must be here doing this, at least we're not alone." Because he's not used to being alone in this. He's always had another assassin alongside him, and he's glad for that here as well, even if he acutely misses Evie.

"The two of us must have been chosen for a reason and time will tell us that reason," he agreed. "But for now, it would behoove us to investigate. Though..."

Altaïr would make one allowance: "Possibly after I've regained more of my memory. I remember things that happened before here, but not how I came to be here, or what's happened since. Perhaps it's here that my memories were lost, rather than in Masyaf."

"Let's go to the Inn then," he says, stepping back and gesturing grandly. "Come on then. At least there's food, and if I'm lucky someone will have a bottle of something that I can borrow a glass or two from," he says, sounding secure in that so perhaps it's something he's done before.

"Shall we?"

"We shall." A fellow Assassin - somehow, despite the clothing. But the hood, the mannerisms... Moment by moment, he felt his guard easing. And that, he knew, was no small feat. He would give the man a degree of trust - for the better.

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Test Drive 21 (October & November)

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