TEST DRIVE MEME #1

[inthenightmods]

TEST DRIVE MEME #1

Hello and welcome to the In the Night test drive meme for June! Thanks for your interest in our game! Reserves open on June 20, and applications open on June 22.

While you're here...

• Take a look at our rules and faq pages to familiarize yourself with the game.
  
• Note that we have a reserve/application cap of 20 apps per month (this has been waived for the first month!).
  
• TDM threads can become game canon if both players wish. If the situation isn't something that could happen in-game, you're free to chalk it up to some strange hallucination, a shared dream, or other mysterious circumstance.
  
• Note that this is not limited to new characters threading with characters already in-game. If current players wish to thread out the TDM prompts as canon events, they are welcome to do so.
  
• Though threads can become canon, they cannot count toward AC.
  
• If you plan to apply, please keep in mind that we do require at least one sample thread on the application to be from our TDM (though it doesn't need to be the current TDM).
  
• You're welcome to use the provided prompts or come up with something on your own, but we do ask that all threads take place in our game's setting.

Thank you again, and we hope you'll choose to join us!

log prompts

YOU'RE DEAD, JIM

You haven't been in Beacon long when you find yourself in Bonfire Square, staring into the flames and thinking about how you ended up here. Maybe it was an accident, a sudden freak thing that you never saw coming until you woke up on the ferry, or maybe it's a miracle you made it as long as you did. Maybe death was a relief. Maybe it was just your time. Whatever the case, you can't help but reflect on your final moments as you linger in the firelight.

But however you died, it's behind you now, and you're here, stuck in this little town with just a few buildings and a smattering of other people. You're going to be here a while, so you may as well get to know your neighbors, but... Would it be cathartic to commiserate about your deaths? Or is your time better spent stocking up at the general store? Then again, you've got plenty of time, so why not catch a drink or two (or three) at the Invincible? Pretend you're unaffected by your death, and, well. Fake it 'til you make it, perhaps.

Point is, you have options. You're dead, you died, and this is your "life" now. Better get used to it.

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

Currently, there's only one place to live (technically speaking) in Beacon: the Invincible, a tavern and inn located in Bonfire Square. Luckily, the place has working amenities (minus light), and the forest spirits don't charge anything for your stay. Unfortunately, it seems there may not be enough rooms for everyone. Guess you'll have to get cozy!

Maybe you'll try to pick a roommate from around town or in the bar downstairs, or maybe you'll just walk into the first room you see and choose that way. Want a room all to yourself? Get ready to fend off any potential intruders. And the fun doesn't end there.

The Invincible's rooms aren't all created equal. Some may have had their furniture stolen or become a dumping ground for unwanted pieces, resulting in a single bed, five dressers, and other equally distressing situations. Will someone sleep on the floor? Will you nail two beds together to form bunk beds? Maybe you just want to make this room into something more like home— potentially to your roommate's chagrin. Whatever you decide, this is where you're staying for now, so you might as well get comfortable.

network prompts

HACKER VOICE: I'M IN

In order to use the network, you have to register a username. Er, at least, that's how it's supposed to work. For some reason, new users have recently been able to bypass that requirement, allowing them to post anonymously. Time to troll strangers on the magical internet!

Eventually though, you'll need a username in order to use the tablet's other functions, like the direct messaging system. So hey, why not take advantage of the ability to source opinions, and workshop your potential usernames on the network? Share ideas, get feedback, steal ideas, critique others, and figure out what you want everyone to call you.

TURN ON YOUR LOCATION

When you wake up, you're in the woods. An iron shackle complete with a chain leashes you to a tree, and the only light you have is your lantern. You've never seen this area of the woods before. You certainly didn't go to sleep here.

Hm.

But, all is not lost. You find your phone in your pocket, as well as a scrap of paper covered back to front in cryptic scribbles. Are these clues to your location? They must be. You also spot a key dangling from a branch, though it's hanging from a tree you'll never be able to reach from here. Perhaps someone on the network will be able to lend you a hand...

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Comments

chinhands!!!!

[nonscriptum]

[ The Southern he can handle. It gets him smiling, at any rate, reminded of the people he works with back home, at his old job. His old life. Jameson Marine Salvage won't be making much headway without their point man, Nate realizes with some dismay, and wonders if he'll ever get to dive again. The harbor here is dark, and deep, and ominous.

Nate slips under the hanging flap of the tent, open to the night air as it is, and takes in the surroundings. A little light is cast from the lamp at his belt, more from the lantern hanging against a signal mirror that looks like the one Sully taught him how to use when he was a kid. It's old, by contemporary standards. Lines up with what the guy is wearing, at any rate. ]

I don't.

[ Nate says with no small amount of regret, wishing he could at least identify the North Star. Pursing his lips he crouches next to the stool, picking a cracker up and fiddling with it. ]

I'm Nate, by the way. Drake.

[preseance]

( there's a sense of the fella bein' on edge some. maybe it's the fuss over the cracker, maybe it's the lamentation about the night sky. seems that there's a tension in him that ain't far off from the front line, like a soldier waitin' for a shellin'. )

Eugene Hicks. S'a right pleasure, Nate. ( he's diligent about sirrin' most men up and above his age, but nate don't strike him as the sort to appreciate it. you learn to read a room. instead, he gets a respectful nod. ) An' since it seems the prevailing question, 1945. Late of Conecuh, Alabama.

( he cottons on quick. folks are desperate for a fixed point. some reference. to know they ain't alone, to grasp at anythin' what's familiar. he's guilty of it too. just the hearin' of an american accent soothes the soul. )

[nonscriptum]

[ Eugene is young. It isn't that he acts it, but really looks it, a boyishness to his face that suggests he might be a couple decades Nate's junior. There's a disconcerting number of people around that age here, which makes Nate grateful he lived past it but viscerally upset they didn't. ]

2015. Boston, originally. But I've been living in New Orleans.

[ He is on-edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop in Beacon the way it did in the world that took him before all this. Nate has seen more action than most military personnel and certainly wouldn't want it for other people, but it has a way of digging itself under a man's skin and staying, influencing habits and patterns.

He was a fighter before he was a thief, and a thief long before he was a gainful member of society. Nate quirks a little smile at him, eyes flicking briefly to the uniform before settling on Hicks' face. ]

Where'd you serve, soldier?

[preseance]

( 2015. not just a new decade, but a whole new millennia. gene's been stowin' his curiosity by and large, ain't asked much of folk what ain't from his own time an' place, but. just tryin' to fathom it. what the world might hold. reggie read every dime novel he could get his hands on. the future was a bright place by his yardstick. gene ought to ask if they've got floatin' cars yet, but he refrains in light of that question.

he gives it a moment's thought, tryin' to suss out how he ought to explain it. he can't expect a fella from some eighty years on to know the specifics. the past and the knowledge thereof just don't work like that, an' he has cause to know why. he's a man what talks to the dead, history given life and breath. he's whiled away time with soldiers from rome along the roads of italy, he's talked with gauls and picts and been amazed each time at what's been lost. sometimes in just decades. he's guessin' that the average fella from nate's time might have at best a general idea of what happened in a given year, but. maybe nothin' else beyond that.

it doesn't trouble him none. life's for the living, and history stays where it belongs. all that matters is that the fighting weren't in vain. )

Started out in North Africa. Then on through to Sicily, Operation Husky if you know it. Mostly in an' outta Europe for the rest of it. Belgium lastly.

( st vith. where he died. )

[nonscriptum]

[ Eugene might be relieved to know that Nate also talks to the dead, in a manner of speaking. Usually at them. Usually while rummaging around in the remains of a civilization they destroyed with their own hubris, by their own collective hand. Maybe three-hundred years from now someone will find his skeleton on the lost pirate colony of Libertalia, with the sketchbook he left behind. ]

I know it.

[ He smiles encouragingly, though his grasp on more contemporary history tends to be a somewhat rusty by comparison. Nate's personal experience with Nazis is by and large exclusive to kicking their mummified corpses around South American jungles. ]

Saying I'm a historian is maybe too generous, but, uh... [ What does he tell this nice kid? That he's Sir Francis Drake's fake ancestor? ] I travel a lot. I've seen a lot of ancient cities.

[ There's a quiet moment that hangs between them as he chips tiny crumbs off the biscuit, forever fidgeting, restless. ]

Where's your favorite place you've been?

[preseance]

( the man likely expects some place far-flung an' exotic-like. a lake in holland, maybe, overlookin' some idyllic mountain range. that little bombed out church in france that still had one glittering pane of stained glass still standin' as a testament to its existence. he could talk about the wild beauty of north ireland where they did a hundred night jumps out onto the moors an' all the pubs they frequented.

he could speak on casablanca, the white city, an' its rocky cliffs and shores overlookin' the sea. or the first time he saw the ports in new york, an' lady liberty tall and proud. she was the finest send-off the monterey could've had, a stark reminder standin' there awash in fierce pride to remind them all why they were goin' off to war.

he's been so many places. seen wonders aplenty. but they ain't what he reaches for in dark moments. )

My hometown. Little place called Agathine. Can't hardly find it on a map. Coal minin' town, and the rest in the cotton business. Coal dust on everythin' for ten square miles. Whole county smells like peaches in August. But it's so damn hot in the summers you gotta spend half your time in a watering hole, and the damn leaches are fit to suck you dry.

( he never much minded. little devils gotta eat too, he supposes. )

[nonscriptum]

[ Honestly, Nate isn't all that surprised. In his personal experience there are two types of small-town boys: the ones that are eager to escape and carve a life elsewhere, or the ones who are most comfortable at home. Eugene strikes him as the kind of Southern boy who likes the reliability of home, the distinctive sense memories attached to it.

Nate doesn't remember much about Boston outside of the cold winters, the equally-cold administration of the Catholic orphanage. Home was never a brick and mortar establishment in which he could hang his hat, or more accurately, dump his duffel bag.

Still, he appreciates the memories, the kind of sun-drenched recollections he knows well. The smell of passiflora in the summer heat, the lazy buzzing of insects. Nate smiles to himself. ]

Sounds nice. I know a couple places like that.

[ He finally seems to settle a little, easing himself back onto the soft earth and exhaling slowly. Nate rubs a hand over the back of his neck, chewing his lip. ]

...How old are you, Eugene?

[preseance]

( he knows it's a question that precipitates pity. he knows, because he feels just the same. every ghost of every child he's ever met, that sorrow for a life unlived touches the soul. this fella strikes him as one who feels a lot, an' deeply besides, an' there ain't no way he'd ask the question unless there was some measure of sympathy hard on its heels.

he knows he's young. he feels that way about all those apparitions he came across along the somme. he can see both sides all the more clearly for the ghosts. he can look around at the men of his company an' see that they're soldiers an' also that they're boys. queer thing, that.

he may not have been done all he'd wanted to do, but he ain't troubled by death. gene never could'a stayed outta the war. that's the man his mama raised an' his pa looked on so proud. doin' anything else but go would'a been a disservice to them both.

a muscle tightens along his jaw. his hands are still and calm. he's braced, in his own way, for that look he knows he's bound to get. he ain't talked to nate but ten minutes, an' yet he knows — like calls to like. nate's a man what cares, well an' deeply, an' gene don't think him ignorant to the hurt that comes along with doin' so. )

Would'a been twenty-one in about a week. But I'd just as soon y'not make a fuss about it, fella. I'm at peace on the notion of dyin'.