aftr_ooc | TEST DRIVE MEME ( 021 )

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*test drive meme

TEST DRIVE MEME ( 021 )

Test Drive Meme #21

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.

In conjunction with our monthly Test Drive Meme, Reserves are now open! Applications will open on March 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.

Come to Ink Of It
Mu is a strange land, and one that seems to take a conscious interest in the activities conducted upon the waking world. This month, its fixation takes an almost childish delight in emulating the ink-spattered wars and hazing that have occured on Ensō's shores - which is to say, Mu would absolutely enjoy a charming little game of Splatoon.

When you wake, it's in a labyrinth of soft, stonelike material that manages to be the rough consistency of foam. If you take the time to inspect it, you'll discover that it's as good at cushioning blows as it is serving as adequate cover...and it appears to have been shaped into plenty of buildings and barricades, threaded throughout the cavernous room in which you've found yourself. In fact, the whole place looks very much like a battlefield of some kind.

In case you didn't get the picture, the paint gun in your hands should give you an inkling. Colors may be up to personal preference, but the rules are simple - solo, in a team, or as a double agent, your goal is to paint the town red, or blue, or purple, until victory is tasted in the form of aesthetic domination.

Do keep in mind, however, that battle cries may be a double-edged sword in this scenario. Unless you wanted green teeth.

I AM THE SHADOW, THE TRUE

-looks at smudged writing on hand-

...SHELF

What's more trouble than the true manifestation of all your darkest fears, desires, and secrets? The manifestation of all of the above that's just - not very well-made. In order for a shadow, a true self, to appear, one really should know themself somewhat consciously. Of course, this also applies true to the world in which they're standing; an effort Mu is willing to make, but not quite hitting the mark.

And by "not quite hitting the mark," we mean egregiously.

"Shadows" are an off-brand simulation of what one might expect during a typical shadow event, though their attempts at acting like the character they should be are closer to emulating the opposite. Whether based upon a looser definition of canon, a fanon-style iteration of what your character might have been in worse hands, or simply going in a direction that veers into the territory of edgy Harry Potter OCs, your "Shadow" is here, and ready to be a nuisance.

Unlike ordinary Shadows, a "Shadow" cannot be accepted and dissipate as one would hope. Respite from these garish versions of who you really are will come only upon waking. So until then, enjoy attempting to explain just what, precisely, is dogging your every step, and probably refusing to shut up all the while. Though granted, if they share any of your powers - grossly magnified or otherwise - you might be grappling with them in far more ways than one.

A Bug's Eye View
The lush, verdant shores and the peaceful population of newly-arrived island of Cahypdo have been noticeably present on the minds of the islanders lately. Mu has shifted to reflect those thoughts, but as with many things Mu reflects, things have become a little...skewed. For, you see, the native inhabitants of Cahypdo are the Roaka, and as tree-people, they tower over much of the current inhabitants. They range from six to twelve feet in height, generally, but it seems that their heights have left a....very marked impression.

The Roaka certainly tower over you now, even more than before - but so does everything else. Wherever you find yourself in the verdant, fertile valley that houses much of Cahypdo's plantlife - whether it's rich jungles or well-tended farmland - you'll be met with the same undeniable height difference.

Trees are dizzying heights to be scaled the same way a mountain might. Blades of grass and colourful flowers you might once have trodden on without a second thought are like a forest unto themselves. And the fields of crops you might have known from the waking world, like sweetcorn, peas, and tomatoes? Even a single ear of corn or a solitary tomato is now a much, much larger obstacle.

Just pray you don't run into any of the native creatures here, as even ordinary beasts can become potential dangers when they're all the size of giants relative to you, and can stamp you to jelly without so much as a second glance. Snaplings might regard you as a tasty little snack, tigerlilies might think you make for a fun little toy, and worst of all, the native Cahypdo entities known as hydrac, warped hybrids of sharks and dragons, might very well decide that you'd be a fine addition to their hoards.

There's a lot to look out for, when you're this small and the world is this big.

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Familiarity is just another word for memory and memory is chemical concentrate and a back-of-the-mouth sting. Black armor, like a blot of shadow, a slice of gold visor. There are too many last times he saw her, but the one that stands out the most is when he put a bullet in her leg with enough ferocity for her to lose her balance, an injury that proved the first domino in a long landslide that resulted in what would be, eventually, her death, of sorts.

His instincts move faster, though, so it's only after he's unleashed a flurry of yellow paint-pellets that his stomach lurches and he realizes who, exactly, she's shooting at.

There's not much he can think of to say, after that. Aside from the obvious, that is.

"Oh, shit."

Washington may not have wanted to face off against her but with that shot he sealed his fate—they're mortal enemies now, at least in the context of this course. Tex can see Washington where he stands, and she knows it's him. Whether the spot is more in the open or not, she brings her gun to a position where she can easily run with it, and rushes toward him. It may look like she's intending to run right into him, to bodily knock him down, but she grabs his shoulder as she gets alongside him and yanks. If this works out the way she means for it to, he'll be knocked off balance and in a good position for her to flip him onto his back.

He could never hope to go up against Agent Texas, outmatched as he is by her in almost any arena, just like the rest. It was only by leveling the playing field with the Meta by his side that he stood even of a fraction of a chance against her, and so he isn't surprised when she bull-rushes him, seizes him by his shoulder, and he ends up on his back with a grunt and a thud.

He rolls onto his side, struggling to get his legs under him. Putting distance between them is crucial - his C.Q.C. was always miserable, and he stands the best chance at middling range.

Tex doesn't waste any time, and though he manages to roll on his side she's already stepping on his abdomen to knock him back flat. She fires a short volley of paint balls and then releases him. The pattern of the paint, were it not for all the splatter, would look like an invert cross on his visor and chest.

With that she's off, dodging behind the first pillar she makes it to, in order to hide before he gets his bearings.

"Jesus, can you - "

It's just a dream. Just memory, spiderwebbing cracks through the fragile undercage of everything he fights to swallow back day to day. She doesn't speak. Just acts, moves with that brutal, don't-give-a-fuck ferocity, and he doesn't mind getting his ass kicked, necessarily, given how typical this is for him, but that doesn't mean it feels great.

"Can we take a minute?"

"That depends. Are you planning to try to escape?"

Now this is a Tex that Washington may not have interacted much with. She always had that gentle sense of humor, but she never really let it out much until the softening hand of the Blood Gulch days came around. She doesn't know about Epsilon Texas, but this is definitely a line that version of her wouldn't have delivered. This is a Tex that might have made a wry comment to Washington before tossing aside that jet pack in the Pelican where they found themselves during the Spiral mission.

This is also a Tex who harbors Washington no ill will, not after their encounter on the alien planet after the Moira had crashed. Some of that was the aliens' influence, she knows—they probably never would have had such a productive conversation about her and Church's deaths without it. But that doesn't mean she's going to set that aside.

So her tone is gently teasing when she speaks. No, she doesn't intend to let him off easy. She also happens to know that wouldn't be what he was seeking.

"I didn't know it was you."

So she's not about to thrash his ass for fun, drag him through the dirt, and stick his head into a pillar as payback. At least, not yet. Her tone hedges more toward playful, which kind of makes him squint up through his helmet a bit. Maybe something of his quizzical look will translate in the way he gets back to his feet, glancing at the pattern of ink sprayed down across his chest armor, and back up again.

It's proving difficult to unravel through what little context he has, when she's from.

"I didn't know you were so sentimental."

While Washington is glancing down at himself, Tex is circling back behind another pillar. She has him from 3 pillars away now, facing his side.

"Here's to old times, then."

And she fires another volley.

"Can you - are you serious, after - fuck! He flinches despite himself, and then, with an almost audible snap of pieces sliding back into alignment, ducks and crouches behind a pillar for cover. Get your head in the game. Stop thinking about something else.

"So we do have them. Old times."

Remembering hard-lock electrolyzing foam paint and three on one and how little of a chance he stands against her - what else is there to go up against?

That earns a pause.

"Depends," she says.

She's familiar by now with the way these world-hopping universes pull people from different places, after all.

"Does the name Moira mean anything to you?"

Next to the pillar is a half-constructed wall, and she scales the blocks that trail off like a set of stairs. She can just see Washington now, hiding where he is. She crouches there on the wall and works on reloading.

It's not advisable, shouting out like this. It's a dead giveaway for his position, but what's she gonna do, anyway? Coat him with yet more paint? He's already lost, and definitely not in this for the competition.

Now it's an intel-gathering effort, more than anything else. He starts moving adjacent to his first position, ducking from pillar to pillar.

"Can't say it does."

Well, that's good in some ways and bad in others. But she figures it won't take too long or too much effort to get them where they had been—she had been the one harboring most of the animosity before the planet, after all.

She sees him move and she decides to continue along the length of the wall, turning a corner when it meets another. She's actually getting further away from him, but it doesn't really bother her. After all, she's tagged him plenty of times already.

"Oh, well," she replies to his response. "We'll always have the EMP, at least."

As if they had taken a vacation together.

A sharp lurch in his guts, a sickening jag that lights up the back of his spine like heated steel, and his throat contracts in a hard swallow.

"So that's...that's when you're from."

As if shit with Church wasn't complicated, wasn't mangled and fucked up and twisted around all enough. Now there's this on top of everything else. The fact that she remembers, and she says it offhand and that arguably makes it all worse.

Washington sounds upset. Tex is actually surprised at just how upset he sounds.

No wonder the name of the Moira didn't ring a bell.

"I'm not angry, you know," she says. "I gave up being angry about that a long time ago."

She leaps down from the top of the wall and winds her way in his direction. As long as he doesn't take that time to move, she'll end up popping out from behind his pillar to stand beside him.

"I'm not from that place anymore," she adds. She clips the weapon to her mag strip and proceeds to unseal her helmet.

When Tex had first awakened on the Moira she had been in a human body, one that had apparently been cloned from another new arrival to the ship. So when she removes her helmet, the sight Washington will see is a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman , someone who is fully human.

"A lot has changed."

"You gave up - " The words are sharp and strangled, hitching upward with the spiking pitch and volume that he can't fully mangle back into something he can control. Trying to sort memories of her, his memories of her, with the memories that don't belong to him, and that only worsens when she unseals her helmet and there's a tumbling line of gold and bright blue eyes and either that's a damn good replica or she's somehow ended up human.

Distantly, he's aware that this isn't right. That, tactically, this is suicide and he's standing in front of her unimpeded and unprotected, but this isn't a combat scenario it's a dream it's a paintball field it doesn't matter but he's always hated feeling exposed the way he does now.

"Is that..." He can't finish the thought. Aborts it with a shake of his head. Get it together, Agent. "How are you not angry?"

"We talked about it," she says. "You don't remember that, because that was another you that was on the Moira with me, but I do."

She plops her helmet back on and shrugs with one shoulder, cocking her hip.

"I can give you the thrashing I gave him, though, if you think you deserve it."

She punctuates that with a crack of her knuckles, hands together in front of her. She looks every inch ready for a fight. It wouldn't be bad actually. Might as well, if he doesn't intend to be forgiven.

She keeps saying it, Moira, like it's a concept he should know. Something he should be familiar with. Makes everything about this feel even more off-kilter than it did to begin with, a building ache like a migraine spawned from sheer dissociation.

He holds up one hand - intended to forestall that promised thrashing, but coming across more like an attempt to ward her off.

"Start from the beginning. What's the Moira?"

"A place like this. A dimension where we don't belong. But it was a ship. Something like the Invention, but all the tech was different."

She drops her hands to her sides then to make it clear she's not planning to pounce.

"There was a version of you there. We talked through everything that happened. Not until after I cracked a couple of his ribs, but we did talk."

Thank fuck he's heard of...hubs like this before now. The explanation is less confusing after C.T. After everything.

He takes a step back despite himself. Not that he doesn't trust that she's not about to drag his ass through the dirt, considering how little putting the physical distance between them will help any, but it makes him feel better.

Inasmuch as anything can make him feel better from this.

"Was he asking for it?" Loaded question. Washington is, by his nature, by the context of what he's done to her and to Church and to both of them, always asking for it.

She smirks to herself. He doesn't trust her words. Smart man. There's no reason he should.

"Oh hell yes," she says. "I believe his exact words were, 'So you were just waiting until no one was around to intervene?' Which I had been. Very perceptive of him, really."

She steps toward him, keeping enough distance to allow him to feel safe from being beaten, but nearing enough to keep him on edge.

"But later, we talked about what the consequences were for him. Of deleting me and Church. And we forgave each other for all the shit we'd been putting each other through since he'd arrived on the ship. Including me beating him to hell and back."

A slight shrug.

"I'm not an asshole, you know. I'm not going to treat you like shit for something I already understand about and forgave you for."

"You forgave another version of me. I'm not even..." How does he deserve that? Confusion is standard but the mire of emotions that explanation has dredged up doesn't service itself to anything except for the most straightforward and immediate and familiar out it knows how to take.

A vindictive, acidic cling of something he recognizes as steel-toned hatred swells up at the back of his throat, pointless and petty and wholly discharged in the direction of his quantum clone, separated by dimensions, because metabolizing shit into anger is still the easiest thing in the world. Fuck him, for leaving them both to this shit.

It's senseless, but it lightens the weight of things. Marginally.

"I'm not him. Does that change anything?"

She sighs lightly and crosses her arms, shifting her weight back on to one foot. What is it with agents Washington and their stubbornness?

"You're not ready to be forgiven," she fills in. "Nope, you're right, you're not him."

Her words were true, she's not an asshole. But she's not the most altruistic either. If he doesn't want to be forgiven? Fine. She extended her hand. He's the one who refused to take it.

Her head shakes slightly.

"I forgave him because he explained his reasoning, and what the consequences were for him. And you know, circumstances were such that I apologized too. Because I brought the Invention down and didn't come back to look for him—for you. But you know. Whatever."

She activates her cloaking.

"Just remember that this is what you wanted."

"Woah, I didn't say that."

Does he deserve to say otherwise? Does he deserve to just brush this shit off, accept that some other version of him went through some kind of important growth that she was privy to, and ride off of that?

He knows he doesn't. And he'd prefer, in general, if he didn't get the shit kicked out of him, but is he about to say he doesn't deserve it?

He knows what he deserves.

For what little it's worth, at least he'll make her work for it. So he starts to run.

"Damn it, Tex."

Upon activating her cloak she had ducked behind the neighboring pillar. Now, with him running off in some random direction, she is ready to begin stalking his path. She doesn't really intend to beat him up, but she sure would like to beat him in this round of paintball now.

She's back to the silent-and-deadly mode she had been in when this round started. Using her cloak is definitely cheating, so she clicks it off after she's out of his sight. Soon enough she's moved to a spot where she once again has a good view of him, and she fires. Excellent, a headshot. She has her times when she would brag about that, but not today. Not anymore.

He almost expects it to be a real bullet.

It's a pretty dumb instinct, in retrospect. They're armed with nothing more potent than paintballs, but the impact splatting against the back of his helmet is more of a shock because it doesn't drop him in a second. He ducks down behind a low wall, one hand to the back of his head. His gloves come away wet with paint.

Son of a bitch.

"Is that what we're doing. Really." And she's cloaked too, which is cheating. When was the last time he fought anyone and the stakes weren't life or death? When was the last time this sort of thing was done for fun and sport, and not because his life literally depended on it?

He doesn't know how to adjust, so he doesn't. Just snaps his paint-gun free from its mag-strip and starts moving, braced for the sound of more fire.

i.

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