sixthiteration | Test Drive (December & January)

→ 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 NETWORK 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

SNOW BLIND - It's snowing, a lot, and pristine landscape though it might create, it also brings plenty of problems, especially when you live in an Edwardian-style village with a serious lack of snow shovels. It's currently blizzard conditions and visibility is nil — Maybe you gave in and ducked into the nearest house for temporary shelter, and discover someone else had the same idea (or just lives there, oops). Maybe you're stubborn enough to still be out in it, struggling against the wind and snow. Or maybe you've tromped into the South Village Inn like a human popsicle, and are just hoping you don't lose any fingers before you make it to the fireplace.

JUMPED-UP - Winter's here, which means it's the perfect time for an expedition to warmer, southern climes. You've joined a group following the river all the way down to the far southern beach, for fun and for science. On this latest break in your journey, you've spotted a large, jewel-colored feather and picked it up, maybe as a specimen to bring back or just a feather for your cap. Turns out it's an archaeopteryx feather, and you're now, well... let's call it a little gravity-challenged. Not a bad benefit once you figure out how to control it.

COLD CALL - The snow has slacked off, leaving behind a winter wonderland. Sure, there's plenty to do, but after being cooped up inside for days, most people won't blame you for a morale-booster — That is, unless your way of starting a snowball fight is to pop up and throw them at unsuspecting passers-by. Making a snow man or snow angels might come with a little less retribution, but you do you.

WILDCARD - Choose your own adventure. Maybe play powers roulette.

Network

All characters are fitted with a smart watch-like device on their left wrist, which they can use to send text and video messages to other villagers.

- Text and/or video, any length
- 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

The Meta moves towards him, and Wash instinctively moves backwards. it hasn't been that long since they were fighting in the snow, just like this, and even when they'd been working together, Wash had watched his back. The difference in movement doesn't register, the expression either, and he's fallen into a combat stance before he even realises it.

He isn't armed. Why the fuck isn't he armed? He'd let this place lull him into a false sense of security, even briefly and that was unacceptable.

He's ready to snap, to bolt at a moment's notice, but then the Meta... speaks. He recognised the growling of course. He always has. But there's something different about the way he talks now. Like... the Meta hadn't sworn, hadn't cared about cold or heat or hunger.

"...There's three feet of snow. What did you expect?"

Snow or no snow, it's impossible to miss the way that Wash readies himself for an attack. Maine draws up a few paces short of his friend. Gives him a curious look, then does the only thing that makes any sense to him: he looks over his shoulder, trying to spot the source of Wash's wariness.

It doesn't occur to Maine that he's the reason Wash is on guard. Nor does he take even the most rudimentary of precautions against Wash as he turns to look for the potential threat. Wash would never attack him outside of a training scenario. And, even if Wash may have been a bit ... rattled by Maine's training session with Wyoming and Texas, there's no way Wash would think of him as a threat.

So the massive man turns, looking over first one shoulder and then the other. Scans their surroundings as best he can with no equipment and shitty visibility. Finding nothing, he looks back to Wash, one eyebrow quirked as he cants his head in question: "you good?"

And then, in answer to Wash's question, he speaks. His voice is deep and rough and hardly pleasant, but it's unmistakably his voice.

"Better clothes."

That's said with a flick to the bill of his cap. Because seriously? A baseball hat? His shaved head is fucking freezing.

The gesture is so strange, so human, that Wash falters for a moment, and he ends up staring over the Meta's shoulder in case there's someone there too. There's no-one, not unless they're dressed like a polar bear. It throws him.

When the Meta looks back, the expression is... it looks so much like Maine. He's not sure what to do with that. He hadn't really spent much time watching the Meta when it had its helmet off.

And then he speaks and... fuck. That's not the Meta. That's words, not growls. That's- "Maine?"

As his name comes out as a question, any confusion on Maine's end is immediately pushed aside by concern. There's no reason his name should be a question. No reason at all.

The massive Freelancer isn't a person who's easy to mistake for anyone else. He's just too big. Even if they never see his face, people remember his sheer size. And Wash knows him. Knows his face; knows his voice; knows his grunts, growls, and the ins and outs of his body language. Who the hell else could Wash think he was?

Maine nods in answer and leans down to peer at Wash, dark eyes intense beneath the bill of his hat. Maybe Wash is getting delirious or something. Out in the cold too long. It's the only explanation that makes any sense to Maine.

With a jerk of his chin, Maine indicates the inn just ahead. Then, to ensure that his possibly-sick friend understands, he adds, "Inside."

What the fuck? How is this even possible? It's one thing to hear what people are saying, but it's completely different to see it in action. The Meta was dead. Maine had died god knew when. But the way he speaks, the way he moves... it's not the Meta, and he doesn't understand how this can be possible.

He still flinches back just a little when Maine leans in, because having the Meta that close didn't usually bode well for anyone.

He looks like Maine, the way he scrutinises Wash's face.

Wash steps away from him and nods. "Yeah, good idea." He hopes.

Again, Maine doesn't think that the other man's wariness is because of him. His concern continues to climb as Wash flinches and steps away. It's like Wash is afraid he's about to be attacked. Like he doesn't feel safe, even with Maine right beside him.

The massive man nods and straightens. Normally, he'd fall in place behind Wash to better watch his teammate's back. But between Wash's apparent disorientation and the snow still whipping around them, Maine decides to take point.

After one last scan of their surroundings, Maine gestures for Wash to follow and starts towards the inn. If he doesn't hear Wash behind him, he'll glance back. Otherwise, his eyes remain forward; he trusts Wash to have his back.

Driven by his concern, Maine moves more quickly than before — though not so fast that Wash might fall behind. With Maine's bulk blocking the wind, the walk will likely be easier for Wash than it was before. When they get to the inn, Maine will step inside first and scan his surroundings before moving aside to let Wash through.

Sorry, Wash. Maine's concern is manifesting itself in wanting to defend his friend from any possible threat.

His shoulders slump in relief when Maine goes ahead, and he feels immediately guilty for feeling that way, and angry too. Angry that he's in this position and seeing everything he knew be turned upside down. He wouldn't want the Meta at his back. But Maine had always had his back. Those two feelings struggle inside him, leave his stomach churning.

He waits for a moment until Maine has got a few steps ahead of him. Thinks about running, about hiding somewhere, like a coward, until he can deal with this, or figure out a way to avoid the problem.

They reach the inn and he waits outside as Maine blocks the doorway. What's he- checking for enemies. Obviously. He steps past him when he finally moves, and goes to find a table, moving quickly and putting his back to the wall.

The other Freelancer's quick movements and choice of seating doesn't escape Maine's notice. His jaw tightens, anger beginning to mix with his concern. It's not directed at Wash: it's directed at whoever — or whatever — spooked him so badly. Maine follows without hesitation, deliberately choosing a seat that places his bulk between Wash and the most likely point of attack. If someone wants to fuck with Wash, they're going to have to go through Maine first.

Once he's seated, the big man takes off his snow-covered hat, pulls off the pant leg he's been using as a scarf, and removes the spare socks he's had on his hands. Then, for the first time without snow interfering with his vision, Maine looks at his friend's face.

The tension in Maine's jaw vanishes as his lips part. It's not slack-jawed shock — save for anger, Maine rarely shows any emotion so blatantly — but his surprise is unmistakable. Dark eyes search Wash's face, taking in how rough he looks without understanding its cause.

"Look like shit."

Maine's never been a delicate man. Not in actions or in words. But his concern is as plain as his surprise.

And, without his hat in the way, it's equally plain that Maine lacks the scars he gained during the fight on the highway. There are none on his face from where his visor shattered. More significantly, there's not a single mark on his neck. He hasn't experienced that fight, or lived through its consequences.

Edited (whoops forgot a part) 2018-12-16 20:26 (UTC)

The warmth seems to burn after the biting cold outside, scalding his skin as he pulls off layers so that he doesn't overheat now that he's near to the fire. He's looking everywhere but at Maine. Stupid really. If it's the Meta, he shouldn't risk taking his eyes off it, and if it's Maine... if it's really his friend, then it shouldn't be a problem.

He knows Maine is looking at him. Doesn't really want to know what he sees, though he snorts softly when Maine speaks.

Maine speaks. Fuck, that's weird. He'd gotten too used to him not being able to, to the growled words becoming just growls. First the injury, then Sigma, then the Meta. He chances a glance when Maine pulls off the makeshift scarf, pausing to stare at bare skin, rather than scar tissue.

He drags a hand through his hair, squeezing away the dampness that's formed at the ends to give himself something to do. "This is how I normally look."

What Maine sees isn't normal. Not to him. He remembers Wash as a rookie: eager, awkward, and made of fire and steel beneath all that naiveté. The man sitting in front of him looks like he's been bludgeoned by life. Like he's half-ready to crawl out of his own skin.

Shit, Wash won't even make eye contact. What the fuck happened?

Maine grunts an objection: it's not how Wash normally looks. He sees the other man staring at his throat. Wonders why Wash is looking there, of all places. He tilts his head and lowers it slightly, trying to catch Wash's eye. Trying to read his friend's expression so he can figure out what the fuck is wrong.

Because there is something wrong. That much is obvious. But, without a clear enemy to take out, Maine's not sure what to do. He doesn't know what he needs to protect Wash from.

Another person might ask questions. 'How are you? What's wrong?' Things like that. Maine finds that they tend to stick on his tongue. He's never been good at emotional shit. Never been good at talking, either. Taking action is much easier.

He feels ready to crawl out of his skin. He's tired, body and soul in a way that he's pretty sure isn't going to go away. This is just how he is now. His expression is carefully flat if Maine gets a look, and mostly his gaze is fixed on the top of the table just in front of Maine. Easy enough to see movement then, without needing to look at him and figure out what's going on.

What can he even say? If this is Maine, Maine before everything went wrong, then... what happens now? He's not the same person he was then. Freelancer is gone. The war is over. And Wash is a fugitive hiding with a group of idiots who should probably want him dead.

"You're right. I normally look worse."

Unlike Wash, Maine isn't keeping his face blank. That aloofness is something Maine reserves for people he doesn't know — or the times he has to purge himself of unpleasant emotions. For Maine, there's no reason to hide what he's feeling from Wash. He trusts Wash. Likes him. Warmed up to him almost immediately. Wash is his friend, and fuck knows Maine doesn't make those easily.

That friendship is why Maine is sitting across from Wash, peering at his face and trying to puzzle out his emotions. It's why, after seeing no sign of danger, Maine didn't growl for his teammate to get ahold of himself. It's why he's trying, period, instead of ignoring the other man's plight.

There's not a lot of people that Maine cares about. But shit, he cares about Wash.

In spite of everything, his friend's declaration earns a snort of amusement from Maine. He cocks an eyebrow as the corner of his lips twitches up, then hums a disbelieving note: "possible?"

Much easier to tease than to dwell on why Wash won't look him in the eye. Easier to try and provoke a reaction than to ask why his friend's expression is so blank.

Edited (words!!) 2018-12-17 19:13 (UTC)

That earns Maine a faint smile, tired and drawn as it is. It feels unnatural. He hasn't had much to smile about in a long time. Maybe he just doesn't remember how it's supposed to work, or how feelings are supposed to function, when there's anything beyond rage and hate and spite.

He doesn't know what to do.

"When did you get here?"

Small and strained as it is, that smile is better than nothing. Much better than the blank face Wash had been wearing. Maine considers it a victory. Feels a fraction of the tension ease from his shoulders, though he's far from relaxing entirely.

Until he's confident that Wash is safe, Maine's guard will stay up. He doesn't mind. It's necessary.

To Wash's question, Maine answers, "Few days."

Long enough to gain his bearings and quell his initial surge of fury. To begin thinking about his predicament instead of trying to fight his way out. Not long enough to grow comfortable or to truly accept the situation.

With a little jerk of his chin, he turns the question back to Wash: "you?"

A few days. That tallies, and Wash hasn't exactly been making himself known widely. He's spent more time scouting around, figuring out how this place works. he hasn't learnt much honestly. Except that it's weird.

"The same. Not long."

He thinks for a moment, stifling the urge to chew on his lip. It doesn't matter so much when he's wearing a helmet, but here without it, he feels very exposed.

"Hey Maine... what's the last thing you remember?"

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Test Drive (December & January)

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