TEST DRIVE MEME ( 015 )

[lifeaftr_mods]

Test Drive Meme #15

Hello, and welcome to LifeAftr! 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 September 17th, and Applications on September 24th!

Two important notes:

1. LifeAftr's test drives take place on the island of Mu, which 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, largely in the form of test drive reward items.

Drawn to You
The forest is dark, silent but for the snap-buzz of cricket song. Nearby, the soft babble of running water threads its way between the rough-barked trunks, though the origin of said water is difficult, at first, to pinpoint.

Granted, you probably aren't paying much attention to the forest, or the water, or the darkness. You're probably more concerned about the creatures flitting to and fro in sparse groups, most of them quite small. They tend to vary in appearance - some look to be totally benign, while others considerably less so - but all belong to the same species.

Scribblets are wily beasts, dream-haunters by nature, and they seem to revel in the idle torment they inflict upon those who cross their paths. You, dear travelers, are no exception. And while they are quite easily crushed into dust once caught, they are exceedingly slippery, agile creatures that are most difficult to pin down. If you're not careful enough, the scribblets will fasten a peculiar tether to you. It looks very much like it is made of the same materials they, resembling a sketchy line of crayon, drawn into the third dimension. Their intent, tonight, is to tie you to something that will make your life difficult - binding you to a tree trunk or to a branch far above the ground, tying your hands together...or even tying you to someone else. These bonds will only grow progressively denser and heavier the more you struggle against them.

Fortunately, the solution here is very simple. Like any drawing, it can be washed away if you find water. You'd simply better hope that you're able to collaborate with whoever you must in order to access said water, whether it's working alongside whoever you might be tied to, or convincing someone to lend you a hand.

You'd better hope the scribblets don't go after them either, by the way.

Quarantine Breached
Whatever this place once was, nature has long since claimed it for its own. A darkened, secluded laboratory now nearly swallowed by thick snarls of overgrowth is probably not your ideal vacation spot, particularly since there's a dearth of any decent lighting sources here. Drenched in shadow as this place was, it might have been helpful if you had thought to bring a light.

Fortunately, that problem is soon to be solved! Twin smoldering points of light abruptly ignite several yards away from you, paired with the pitched mechanical hum of engaging circuits. Another pair of lights immediately spritzes to life just beside it, and another pair, and another...and another...and...

Well, there seems to be a lot of them, doesn't there? "Attention," chimes a pitched, automated voice, doubtless issuing from one of the many automatons that have begun to stir awake, one by one. "Potential host sighted. Quarantine breached."

You must understand, traveler: the island of Umui was nothing like this. The guardian units there were conscious nurse-bots, charged with caring for the sick and dying populace of a hospice island. Most did so with as much care as they were capable. But in the initial days of Umui's exploration, a great deal of explorers' anxieties revolved around these fallen automatons, and what possible purpose they may have served.

We invite you to imagine a scenario in which this went horribly wrong.

Consider these automatons to be shadowy, overzealous mirrors of their long-dead, real-world equivalents. They have learned to become hyper-devoted to their task of keeping their patients safe; so devoted, it seems, that nothing will stop them from fulfilling those obligations. They intend to catch and sedate you so that you can be...returned...to a place of safety.

Unfortunately, this place of safety probably entails an inescapable four-walled room or a hospital bed, and it's doubtful, to say in the least, that enough of their programming remains for them to remember to care for and feed you once you've been returned to whatever passes for a quarantine zone. In a decrepit, dilapidated building like this, it's probably not pleasant.

Our advice is to simply not get caught. If this means doing some inevitable destruction to all this complex hardware in the process, well...at least there's no chance you'll be billed for damages.

The New Farm Simulator Looks Great!
It is possible that you vaguely recall being asked to take watch this evening. By whom? Oh, please, that doesn't matter! With the pleasant hum of crickets in the air, and a backdrop of paddocks and grain fields around you, there are plenty of worse ways to spend your evening than this. All you have to do is keep an eye on passive livestock. The farmer's life is a simple one, where your biggest problem is trying not to fall asleep before your shift is over.

In theory, anyway. While the scenery of the quiet countryside may be ideal, the state of the farm's buildings and and fences is far from it. For the curious creatures such as popo, there really isn't much to keep them in one place for long, wide stretches of fenceline ruined by fallen sections. Meaning that these massive, shaggy creatures can simply step over the crushed regions and start plowing their way contentedly in the direction of the fields of grain - fields that were certainly not intended to end up in some silly beast's stomach.

For others, sweet grains aren't as appealing as that sweet, sweet taste of freedom. A word of advice: once the popo are over those hills, you won't be seeing them again. And they might not be terribly fast on their own, but in a herd, they can get to be as dangerous as a stampede.

Hope you weren't expecting an easy night, because in LifeAftr, there's no CJB cheats menu to save you.

---

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

Comments

[counterblows]

I'll keep that in mind. Don't -

["Don't touch me" is what he intends to try for. It doesn't really work out. He ends up needing to lean on her for leverage anyway, boosting himself to his feet, and by the time another scribblet latches onto his foot, he can burst-fire its head clean from its body and watch it squirm lifelessly into the dirt.]

Don't wait for me - just move.

[ourcurrency]

[She's gonna ignore that. Whatever her other flaws, she's no coward, and she's not going to leave a man behind.]

Can you walk?

[counterblows]

Yes, I can walk. But I can't keep our six clear and keep you from getting hit again at the same time, so just -

[Another strand of...stuff...slaps across one shoulder guard. He lets loose another spray of bullets.]

[ourcurrency]

I'm a war journalist. I can handle myself. Just move so we can both get out of this.

[counterblows]

Oh, of course. You're a war journalist. Obviously. Thanks, I could absolutely tell.

[He rolls onto his side, and then onto his feet. Several leaves have seemingly glued themselves to his armor thanks to the crayon-like stuff, but at least he's not tied up.]

[ourcurrency]

Yeah, the social column writers don't wear as much armor. Usually.

[A beat. Has she actually introduced herself? It's weird because she already knows him, but he clearly doesn't know her.

She starts to move.]

Dylan Andrews. I've written about the Reds and Blues for Interstellar Daily.

[counterblows]

You've - sorry, what?

[That actually arrests him for a second, which turns out to be a bad mistake. One of the scribblets gets a loop of drawing-stuff around his neck and pulls taut. It doesn't run the risk of strangling him, but it yanks him sharply backwards and nearly floors him again.]

[ourcurrency]

[Goddammit. She turns to shoot the scribblet that's snagged him. She's going to run out of ammunition way too soon at this point.]

Never mind, saving more revelations til we're not running for our lives.

[counterblows]

What do you mean you've written about them?

[It's really quite incredible. He can manage that quintessential "Blue Team Leader Squawk of Outrage" even while riddling one of the scribblets with bullets in a belated retaliatory effort. It's a talent.]

[ourcurrency]

So that's a no on waiting til we're out of danger.

[Sigh, that's what she gets for insisting she stay with him and then telling him how she knows him. How deep exactly does his memory loss go?]

"Colorful Space Marines Stop Corruption." Sound familiar?

[counterblows]

That was you?

[Jesus christ. What are the fucking odds. He gets another loop of scribble-stuff to the visor, and the hydrophobic finish doesn't even wick it away.]

All right, that's it. [He unclips a grenade from its mag-strip and thumbs the pin.] We're getting these things off us.

[ourcurrency]

That was me.

[And now he's got a grenade. She ducks down to give him all the room he needs.]

[counterblows]

Fire in the hole.

[It's as deadpan as you can possibly get while lobbing a grenade, and that's all the warning she gets. He tosses it and starts running.]

Move.

[ourcurrency]

[She doesn't need telling twice. She charges after him.]

[counterblows]

[They get some scribblets in pursuit, but he manages to pick them off with well-aimed shots to their roughly-defined legs and abdominal regions. Sprays of bullets cleave them apart in shreds of black-crayon drawing.]

[The rest are lost in the explosion, which works just fine by him.]

[In the meantime, he's bolting, putting enough distance between himself and the crayola carnage to shoot her a look that he hopes translates through his helmet.]

All right. You feel like explaining a few things?

[ourcurrency]

[She’s quiet for a moment. Not because she won’t talk, but because she doesn’t entirely know where to start.

Establishing a baseline. That’s got to be the first step.]

What do you remember?

[counterblows]

[Is she aware of how bitingly, painfully, cruelly ironic a question like that is when directed to someone like him? What do you remember? What doesn't he remember? He spent too much of his time remembering, too many days lost in a fit of remembering.]

[Wash snorts. Sharp, bitter.]

You mean the last thing I remember? Because that's a bit of a broad question.

[ourcurrency]

[There's no way around it. Besides, Dylan's a journalist. She can only attempt to play coy for so long.]

You were... very seriously injured. I'm not sure the extent of the damage, but it appears to have caused some memory loss, since you don't remember me. I'm trying to establish how far it goes.

[counterblows]

Seriously injured?

[Do you remember? A shot-drop of adrenaline, a snake of ice slid down his spine. Wouldn't know if that was the case, would he? It's easy to dismiss it out of hand. It's easy to say that they're just from different points in time, but how would you really know? How does one compare two subjective experiences?]

[How do you lose your memory of one person, entirely?]

[Breathe through it. Breathe.]

How?

[ourcurrency]

...bullet wound, through the throat.

[Her voice is soft, but steady. She doesn't know how he's up and fine, and she can tell he's panicking. She just... doesn't know what else to do. He wants answers. She has them. This is what she does.]

While we were fighting the Blues and Reds.

[counterblows]

[To the throat.]

[Nine rounds, in quick succession. Blowing out his esophagus, lodging lead in his throat. He should have died, and he did, in a way, after that, but - don't lose yourself, agent, in the bleed of that memory. Not when there's a hell of a lot more to unpack here.]

Fighting the - in what universe do you expect me to believe that?

[ourcurrency]

The one where it's true.

[But she's pretty sure she knows where the confusion is coming from, especially if he's got memories missing.]

I said Blues and Reds, not Reds and Blues.

[counterblows]

What's the difference?

[She has not yet activated the falsetto screech representative of all Blue Team leaders, but Wash is most certainly getting there.]

[ourcurrency]

The Blues and Reds are a different crew that predates the Reds and Blues you know. It was a prototype for perfect stalemate. Their personalities and even names bore extremely strong resemblance to your crew's. And like your crew, they ended up working together.

[A beat. Then she adds:]

Unfortunately, what they were working together to do was completely eradicate every remaining Freelancer in the most absurdly supervillainy way possible. Before I came here, we were trying to stop them from using some sort of time machine doomsday device to destroy the Earth.

[counterblows]

[And time it, folks: outburst in three...two...]




What?

["Incredulous" doesn't even begin to cover it.]

I'm not sure if I should be offended that you expect me to believe any of that.