TEST DRIVE MEME ( 001 )

[lifeaftr_mods]

Test Drive Meme #1

Hello, and welcome to our very first test drive! We’re pleased that you’re expressing an interest in the game. Here, you can test the waters, gauge how your character may fare in the world of LifeAftr, and even gain some in-game incentives, if you so choose.

Remember that Reserves will open on July 17th and that Applications will open on July 24th, in preparation for the game’s official opening on August 3rd!

But first, two important notes!

1. The island of Mu exists apart from the real world and possesses a dream-like quality that characters are innately aware of from the moment they appear on its shores. No need to panic or fret. Dreams are odd things, after all - and anything can happen in them. Why would anyone question where their mind chooses to wander in its sleep?

2. Due to the nature of Mu, threads in our test drive can not only be accepted as thread samples in your application, but can be accepted as game canon as well. In fact, certain choices your character makes in Mu have the potential to bear in-game consequences.

Shipwrecked
The white sand of the beach ridges the island’s edge, even if the clear water soon becomes murky the further out you look across the horizon until the turquoise gleam of the tide disappears in a coil of surrounding fog. Indeed, your best prospects may very well be to strike out among the trees or the crags looming out over the foam-capped waves. There’s lumber to be found and made from the palm-like trees, potentially fruit or edible tubers of some kind if you forage about some. The further you travel, however, the more of your surroundings will reveal themselves in a steady unspooling of curiosities.

One corner of Mu’s current construct drops away into a sheer cliff, initially too dangerous to brave for all but the more daredevilish, but if one starts to scan the sharp rocks below, you might catch sight of what appears to be sodden planks of wood - a wreckage tossed up against the rocks. And a little further...a bobbing, shattered wreck of a lifeboat’s remains, potentially bearing supplies that might yet be salvageable.

Fashion what you can from the wood and stone around you or scavenge from the ruin of the land, if you like. But you can’t simply stand around and wait forever. It’s going to get dark sometime - and if a creature of unknown terror doesn’t catch you, the elements surely will.

Storytime

There’s a sense of camaraderie in this cove, you think. As the sun hangs low over the horizon, the world cast into orange hues, long shadows dispersed by roaring fires that dot across the beach.

That’s right, folks: it’s storytime.

There’s no one to preside over this meeting of the minds in Mu. Call it a vague recreation of things to come, if you like, some vaguely fatidic dreamlike state where you may find yourself drawn to the heat and company that awaits you by the fire. And from there, compelled to default to that old instinct that most of intelligent civilization has revered since they were advanced enough to paint geometric shapes on cave walls.

You tell a story.

Perhaps it’s a tragedy, a tale of woe and of personal loss. Perhaps it’s the sort of thing you’d break out after a few rounds of your alcoholic beverage of choice, clapping hands to your knees as you try to bite back your mirth long enough to spill the punchline. Perhaps it’s an adventure of some sort, some unbelievable rendition of your past exploits. The only common thread to be had, as those gathered around the fire share their tales, is the fundamental rule of a ritualistic sharing of stories such as this: its truth.

But how one chooses to define "truth" is, in its own way, another story entirely...

Dance, Sucker, Dance!
The beat of your heart in your chest is difficult to ignore. It judders with a pulsing, rhythmic quality. If you’re one of those that lacks a heart, the beat is still omnipresent and all-encompassing, until your entire body is unwittingly bobbing in time to a metronomic tune that seems ingrained into your very soul. It’s inescapable. You can’t seem to move unless it’s in time to the rhythm that’s now singing in every atom of your being.

But rest assured, you’re not alone in this musical curse. Everything, from the swaying trees to the waves against the beach, jumps in time to the music. And so do the monsters approaching you, that - wait a minute.

Monsters?

Oh, yes. Did we mention those?


It seems you’ve encountered the wrath of the Boogieman, who curses you to only dance to his infernal beat. If you wish to best him, you’ll have to either evade or destroy the blobs of greenish slime that serve as his minions, all in time to the hard beat of the tune in your head. Clear the radius of his curse or risk an open confrontation, if you dare. Don’t worry if you look foolish; chances are anyone else caught in the Boogieman’s thrall feels just the same.

Mu isn’t pulling any punches to start with. It is a flighty creation, after all, and seems to revel in displacing people into new and uncomfortable situations.

---

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

the drifter | hyper light drifter

[hyperlit]

survival of the flightiest;

[The illness had swarmed up their lungs, choking them in a liquid stranglehold, and they’d fallen agains the wall with a pinkish smear spoiling the rock at their back. Everything had dimmed and faded, the rotten pink of the voided world fading to water, pure and clear. The Immortal Cell disassembled, the world finally skewed back into some semblance of balance, and as for the awful hacking cough that coiled in their stomach?

It still plagues them when dark eyes flick open on the sandy shore of an unrecognizable beach. The tenuous reality of the place, the dreamlike cast to their surroundings, seems to hardly bother them at all; this may very well be another hallucinatory scenario, conjured either by the black jackal or the great oily black hulk of Judgment, but regardless, they’ve no choice but to press through it and end up where they may on the other side. And so they pick themself up slowly, steadily, taking only a moment to reassert their balance before they set off, trotting across the stretch of white sand at a brisk pace. The reddish cloth of their cloak flaps about their heels as they start to scale the rocky crags at the island’s edge, eyeing the skeletal remnants of the wrecked boat bobbing in the seafoam. Carefully, carefully, the Drifter begins to slide down to the very edge of the cliff, one claw-like, gloved hand catching at the rock for purchase.

They’re poised at the end when the spasm seizes them, clipping at their lungs and staggering their breath. The Drifter doubles over abruptly, shoulders convulsing. A wet spatter of something the consistency of blood sprays across the black rock, painting it violent pink. The fluid hums faintly as it makes contact with the stone, dissolving in a fizzle of black sparks not long after it puddles there.

They’re losing their balance. If this goes on, they may very well plummet into the sea.

And they don’t very well agree with water.]

dance for your life;

The thumping pulse of a foreign beat is an unfamiliar sensation, even for a drifter well-accustomed to the stranger creatures of the world. No citizen or beast has ever impeded their capacity to dash before, hampering their movements to precise steps across checkered ground to match a pulsing, ethereal beat.

The nice thing is that they still have a sword, and they can still use it. The hard light blade solidifies in a streak of cyan in their hands, and they cleave the first of the slimes cleanly in two with one swift arc. When another two wobble up to take the first’s place, they receive the same fate, curt and direct. The mantle about their face makes it difficult to discern their emotion, but the twin points of black of their eyes are locked in grim resolve.

The Boogieman has set himself up as a foe to be struck down, and they will address him accordingly. One of the slimes goes down in a chopping blur of bright blue, and then another, and then another.

They will fall. Every last one of them.

Survival- THIS BITCH EMPTY

[achievementhunter]

[They imagine that this is the end. A final dream; a last... something before true oblivion. It's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be irritated at. Why their mind would choose to dream up such a bright, sunny space, full of flowers-

They can't imagine why, really. It's already far too late.

Slowly, they make their way across the sandy dunes, up to the cliff-sides where the flowers are most prominent. None of them yellow, they note absently. No. There's nothing yellow here.

There is, however, someone who is not part of the calm, verge of death metaphor Chara is hinging on. Unless they represent the agony Chara isn't feeling right now, though why their mind would choose to represent that in a person radically different from themself is another question entirely. To see themself suffer in comparison to this would be-

Something they would not interfere with. A hand catches The Drifter's cloak, yanking decisively. With how off-balance they already are, that much should do the trick.]

Y E E T

[hyperlit]

[It will pass. It always passes. The worst of it sloshes at their insides wetly, at the worst possible time for such a thing to be transpiring. A hand catches at their cloak, and the Drifter reacts impulsively: the red hilt of their sword leaping to their hand in and instant, the hard blue light of the blade materializing in a high-pitched gleam.

Their vision trembles, split through with invisible static. The thing clinging to them - is unlike any creature they've encountered thus far, they should say. Not blue-skinned, like the Drifter themself, and not hostile. If they were, it would not take very much at all to press them over the cliff's edge and send them toppling.

The Drifter spills forward, grappling at the stone underfoot with one gauntleted hand. The companion sprite hovers at their shoulder, mutely, unable to assist without a command, but even if the sickness still heaves at their lungs and sends bright pink trickling between fingertips clasped at their mantled mouth, at least they are no longer at the edge.

The companion beeps as it projects a small, transparent screen. The words appear across in flickering script - at first something blocky and geometric, before solidifying into something more distinct and recognizable and universal:]

thank you.

[achievementhunter]

Think nothing of it.

[A simple response. They make no mention of the curious manner in which they choose to communicate, eyeing off their companion as a simple curiosity, but nothing more. It reminds them of something they'd seen in the castle- perhaps, that is precisely what their mind has based it off.

They like it better this way. Without the audio. The next thing to catch their eye is that sword...though Chara doesn't seem inclined to lean away from that either. Difficult to be afraid, in this space. In dreams, nothing hurts.

Even if it did, it wouldn't really be the sword hurting them, would it?]

I would suggest, if you are currently incapable of keeping your footing, that a cliff may not be the best location to meander towards.

The results could be unfortunate.

[hyperlit]

[Another moment, as they digest the child's words. While a child might be disconcertingly ordinary to anyone of the human persuasion, the Drifter has yet to encounter anything of the sort, and Chara receives the full force of their dark-eyed, curious gaze.

They break off, a dribble of bring pink spilling down along the mantle over their mouth and the lower half of their face. Another moment as their shoulders tremble in the last of the spasms juddering through their beleaguered organs, and then they input to the sprite anew:]

bad timing.
it was fortunate you were passing by.

[achievementhunter]

[The response they've garnered from others through the ages has almost provided a comedic litany of variety. There were those who were perceptive, those who were not- even those who appeared intelligent, only to prove at a later time that they had no inkling, realistically, of what their gaze had laid upon.

Are you the first, or the last?

If there was enough time, perhaps they would find out. As it stands, Chara doesn't expect to. It's almost a pity.]

Quite. Shall I escort you elsewhere, perhaps? There is plenty to investigate on more solid ground.

[hyperlit]

[To inquire as to someone's race or species is typically rude, but they've expressed no hostility to the Drifter despite the blue tint of their skin. That's enough for them.

The Drifter glances back out across the water, scrutinizing the sea-borne wreck as it bobs there. Doubtless the resources are there, and it would be negligent to abandon them.]

supplies?

[Supplies to investigate on solid ground, or are they likely to stumble across nothing else?]

Survival

[prettypurpleparlor]

[Muffet's not sure how she got here and not happy about it, but this person definitely looks like they've got worse problems than she does right now.]

[She's not sure if just grabbing this stranger would be safe- she might risk inuring them worse if she's misjudged the problem, or they might lash out in fear and pain. But it's clearly not right to just walk on by, so... She twists her hands in a strange, delicate little motion, and what appears to be a spider's web made of gleaming purple light appears below the Drifter.]

[Her voice pitched to carry to them, she calls out:]

If you let go, I can catch you and set you down here.

[True to Muffet's word, if the Drifter lets themself drop down into the web, they'll be pulled gently but inexorably along towards the beach, and then deposited carefully on the sands. That is... if they're willing to let go in the first place.]

[hyperlit]

[Gleaming, bright-spun threads of purple spiderweb across the empty air in a steady inflorescence. The pressure in the Drifter's chest is unrelenting, one hand fisted across the fabric of their front, their heart burning as it thrashes violently in their chest. The words carry from atop the cliff -

If you let go, I can catch you and set you down here.

The question then boils down to one of trust. There is only one person in their life who can claim to have carried that mantle, to have borne their trust, tacitly given without regret. They clutch at the threads of their cloak, wishing the furred collar of the other's pale pink were draped around them instead, as though the shreds of their friend could have offered counsel.

The pitted, foam-capped sea splashes beneath them, and their grip begins to tremble the longer they spasm with each wracking, wordless cough. For a fraction of a second, the water looks an inky black, a pink rhombus glowering at them with its sickly, taunting light.

And they blink, and the apparition is gone.

The Drifter closes their eyes. They are faced with a choice, when their life has seldom offered anything of the sort. They chose not whether they would trust the fellow drifter who saved their life, nor what would come of the illness eating them from the inside out. They chose only to do something about it before they succumbed; if there was even the slightest, faintest chance of survival, they would endure because they had to.

Like many of the other options exposed to them, the choice is not really one at all. The manner in which they die seldom is.

The Drifer's eyes open, pitch-black and flinted with resolve.


And they drop into the web below.]

[prettypurpleparlor]

[The threads catch and hold them up without apparent strain, and they will find themselves carried down to the beach at a steady, measured pace as Muffet carefully reels them in until they're resting gently on the sand- at which point, the web dissipates as quietly as it formed, leaving safely on the ground.]

[She smiles approvingly.]

There we go. Do you want a hand up, or would you rather sit and rest for a while?

[hyperlit]

[They wait for the closing of water above their head, for the world to go askew and off-kilter, to fade in a glittering burn of photobleached pink and static.

But the threads catch around their hands, their middle, and they hang there, suspended, for a moment, staring at the wrenching waters beneath.

And then they're being gently propelled back to the beach, settled across the sand.

The Drifter manages to lift one hand, partway. The companion sprite at their shoulder hovers a foot or so behind them, chiming softly as a projection screen flickers words on the holographic HUD:]

one

[There was meant to be more, but the Drifter has doubled over again, yet more bright pink blood spraying out onto the sand.]

[prettypurpleparlor]

[Oh damn, that does not look good. Would green magic even work properly on whatever this is? No way for her to be sure, so she'll just have to ask and hope that they're not too unwell to answer.]

Are you sick, or injured? I can try to heal you, if you want.

[hyperlit]

[Injured? Not today. Not yet. Sick?



Ha.

Maybe they would laugh. But there would be little point in exerting that kind of effort in something that would simply jar their shredded vocal cords, incapable of making the sound necessary for speech. So the sprite chimes again:]

no cure.

Survival

[yallstupid]

[Now, Guzma may be seen as a punk, a hooligan, a generally bad guy, but even he has a moral code. So, when some person all but pukes up strawberry pudding and sways like they're going to fall off a cliff, he has enough of a conscience to step forward and grab first at the cape - just something to hold onto in case the worst does happen - then look for an arm or limb of some sort to steady the poor...g...uy?? Thing??? Person????]

Yo, take it easy, bro... Y'ain't going down there like that - c'mon, sit down a while.

[He eyes the person quizzically, one brow screwing up as he tries to make sense of what it even is. It's not human, that's for sure, and if it's a pokemon, it's the most bizarre looking one he's seen, but he's sure that's not the case either. Which is problematic - Guzma isn't a doctor, but he knows how to fix up a human or a pokemon well enough. Anything else is well beyond his knowledge.]

[hyperlit]

[Someone's trying to help them. That in and of itself is an anomaly - who would, or would have reason to? The fact that the skin tone of the one offering help is unfamiliar, their visage devoid of fur or scales or feathers, is a product of secondary puzzlement.

The companion sprite whizzes up to hover at their shoulder, lighting up as it chimes, projecting words across a holographic screen.]

who?

[yallstupid]

[Preoccupied with the person he's helping, and puzzling about what he can even do for something he's not skilled in, Guzma snaps his head up and leans back at the little creature, only calming down when he sees he's not actually being threatened. He stares first, squinting his eyes to try and put together what that thing might be...

Until it speaks. No, it...asks? Ah, it's asking him who he is. He peers between the larger...thing, then the bug-like device. It's some sort of machine, that he can figure out, and the tech is on a level par with Aether. Maybe more advanced even than that.]

Oh, uh--Guzma. My, uh...m'name's Guzma. [Can that thing understand him? Or it is just translating? Lord, he's so confused by the things and people in this place, and it hasn't even been a full day yet.]

[hyperlit]

[Guzma. The Drifter apparently considers that to be as sincere a guarantee of trust as any, and reaches out with one hand, palm up, if he'll let them grasp it. The fear of this being some sort of cruel joke, prompted by him tearing away and leaving them floundering, as always teases the edge of their awareness, but he's also the first person to respond to them with something more earnest than a hurried grunt or two.]

why did you help?

[yallstupid]

[The offered hand is taken, though it's a bit awkward. Still, Guzma crouches down some to place that arm about his shoulders to give Drifter a bit more support. They're still hilariously close to the edge of the cliff, and he's not about to take any chances here and now. Guzma leads Drifter toward more stable ground, frowning when his kindness is questioned.]

Why did--tch, c'mon! I may be a bad guy, but I ain't gonna let someone kick the bucket on my watch, alright?! The heck kind question even is that?! [He's flustered, it's why he's upset - he's not known to be a good person, and he told that cheeky brat on the beach he wasn't going to change his ways, but...here he is, saving someone's hide. Someone he doesn't even know. Someone he can't even pinpoint being human.] I don't need a reason - I just...I just acted, okay?!

[hyperlit]

[He doesn't need a reason, but should not anyone? There had been one living creature in all the world, maybe two, who had expressed to the Drifter some manner of kindness, and they'd simply assumed that would be the most the world would impart. They'd used their token. They'd fulfilled their quota.

But the world does not function in predictable ways. That was their error.]

thank you.

[The first saptient creature that has not simply fled at the mere sight of them, and all they can do is critique him for bothering to do so? Another error on their part.]

Survival

[fortunefavored]

[listen, Newt's gotten to the point where he's met and conversed with everything from a talking unicorn/pegasus (alicorn??? he can't remember) to aliens of all shapes and sizes to a talking, living, pun-making skeleton. So appearances no longer have much of an impact on Newt. So it isn't the Drifter's appearance that throws Newt off. Rather, it's the spatter of bright pink blood that splashes onto the rocks. That's WAY more disconcerting.

Newt had wandered towards the edge out of curiosity as he watched them start to descend, but as soon as that whole coughing business happens, he's letting out a load--] Woah, woah, holy shit, dude! [--and dropping straight to his knees, reaching down to grasp their wrist] What the hell do you think you're doing?!

[hyperlit]

[The Drifter doesn't glare, exactly; the black pits of their eyes and general stony demeanor is sufficient in putting people off without trying. Every citizen, with few exceptions, could and would offer little more than a feeble croak of greeting before scuttering away, retreating from the blue-skinned Drifter with the poison in their lungs.

The mantle about the lower half of their face is not particularly conducive to maintaining air flow in the event of respiratory collapse, but the Drifter doesn't seem to mind, or care. They can utter little more than the series of low, rasping coughs that sound like static, like gravel being raked across glass, as they catch the offered hand about their wrist obligingly.

They're being offered help, strange as it may seem. The creature venturing to aid them is of an unfamiliar pallor, pale-skinned and rambling, but there's no reason to deny aid when it is being freely given.

Their...friend - they would have wished the same of them.

(The pang in their heart does not entirely have to do with illness, but it is easily ignored and neglected.)

It is not until they've regained their footing, standing on more solid ground, that the companion sprite hovering at their shoulder chimes inquisitively, little bigger than a handsbreadth in length, the light at its center humming green as it projects a text-based HUD.]

i miscalculated.

[fortunefavored]

[Newt can't help but frown at the cough when he hears it, but it isn't until the Drifter is up on solid ground and, er....talking to him, in a sense, that Newt raises an eyebrow, hands on his hips, actually getting a good look at them, tilting up his head and squinting a bit at the HUD]

Uuuuh...yeah, dude, ya think? That's definitely an understatement.

[hyperlit]

[A moment, as the Drifter adjusts, stops stooping over quite so heavily, and eyes their savior. No feathers. No scales. A very...interesting variant of skin color - much more faded than they're used to.

Curious.

Their eyes crease faintly, perhaps giving off the impression that they're pursing whatever passes for their lips beneath their mantle.

Then:]

:|

[fortunefavored]

[laskdhfs Newt...can't help it. He stares at that text face a moment before he just...laughs. He can't help it. That was adorable.]

Don't give me that face! You did it to yourself; I'm just pointing it out. [he grins, widely] So, like, you okay? [he leans over the side of the cliff a bit to peer at the spatter of pink slowly dripping down the side] Because unless you go expelling pink goo like that on the regular--which, hey, if you do and it's healthy for your species or whatever, no judgement--you don't look so good.

[hyperlit]

[The Drifter can't fully process that for several long moments, scrutinizing him quizzically. That sort of reaction is a first on several levels, to the point where they simply don't have it in them to be offended.

They rub at the smear of pink across the front of their mantle, pulling it a bit more securely over their mouth.]

no cure.