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» TEST DRIVE #001

TEST DRIVE #001

( 0 0 1 ) » WAKE UP

Were you asleep or were you unconscious? It doesn't matter: when you come to, there's an odd taste in your mouth and there's a low-level mechanical hum in the air. Your head hurts and you feel nauseous. You aren't anywhere you know: everything around you is metal, from the floor you lie on all the way to the ceiling. You are dressed in a jumpsuit you definitely weren't wearing before.

"We tried to save the world. I think— I think we did the opposite."

The message repeats on a loop. If you look for its source, you find a comms device on the floor next to you. The logo on its wallpaper says REVERIE TERMINAL. Upon closer inspection, you find the same logo on your jumpsuit.

Welcome to your new home. What choice do you have but to explore your surroundings?

( 0 0 1 . 1 ) » WAKE UP WHERE?
When you wake up, you find that you're not alone. But more importantly, you find that you're in a closet. An empty closet, bar you and your new companion. It's small, cramped, and there is no door that you can see. The ceiling is low, there is barely any lights, only some coming from the tiny flashlight clipped to your suit's shoulder. You cannot be sure that there is any air coming in to the room.

Are these grooves in the wall supposed to mean something?

( 0 0 2 ) » OBSERVATION DECK

There were no windows in the corridor you woke up in and no windows in any of the crew quarters you might have checked for occupants — but there are plenty of windows on the uppermost level of the station, deck 1. In fact, there are windows from floor to ceiling all along the circumference of the station's circular deck, and it's possible to walk along it all. What it shows is a strange solar system you've never seen before and a planet that might resemble one you know, but certainly isn't the same.

You're in space. You don't know where you are. Neither does anyone else.

( 0 0 3 ) » BAR

On deck 3, you find the bar. Tucked away from the crew quarters, it's dimly lit, there are bar stools thrown down on the floor and what looks like some very old drink spills, crusty and dark against the bar top. But there is alcohol here, or at least, what you think is alcohol, in bottles with faded labels, most of them indecipherable. Take a drink, get drunk, start a fight, or start a party? You're stuck on this station, might as well make the most of it, right?

( 0 0 3 . 1 ) » VIRTUAL
But the alcohol isn't even the most interesting part of your discovery (depending on who you are, of course). No, what catches your interest is a second, smaller room off from the main bar room, which looks to be some kind of arcade. There are a few VR sets lined up against one of the walls, and surely, they can't be working, right? Nothing is on this rust bucket. And yet, if you put it on, the display comes to life.

It's a pretty simple HUD, and when you move around in reality, you move around in the virtual world you've just entered. It's a luxurious world, full of brightly, saturated colors, making it just a little obvious that it isn't real. Ahead, there is a jungle, a temple, and a city. You can play around, slay some monsters, have some fun, but you can feel yourself growing hot, like the VR helmet is burning your forehead.

And when you try to take it off, you find that you can't. The HUD glitches, the sound cuts off to a blaring alarm, and an error message appears, in glowing, blinking red letters: FINISH THE MISSION. Will you, despite not knowing what the mission even is, or will you fight to get the helmet off?

( 0 0 4 ) » MALFUNCTIONS

(cw: body horror, bodily functions, gore, blood, death)

The fabricators function well enough, until they don't. One day, one moment, everything's all right — the food doesn't generally taste amazing and sometimes downright awful, but it's nourishing and filling no matter what your dietary needs — and the next, things go a little haywire.

In short, the fabricators are malfunctioning.

Oh, they're still producing food that looks and tastes much the same as before, but now there are some unexpected side effects.

NB: Characters may experience any of the following side effects: nausea ranging from slight to debilitating, the sensation of being happily and affectionately — but not overwhelmingly — drunk, bone-deep exhaustion and weariness that makes it hard to move, or repeated hallucinations of loved ones screaming for help, reaching out to characters and leading them down abandoned corridors or being killed by unseen forces.

The extent to which characters are affected is up to players, as is whether you'd prefer to play this more lightheartedly or tackling more serious themes. If the latter, please provide warnings in subject lines where necessary.

( 0 0 5 ) » NETWORK

The comms device you found next to you when waking up connects to a station-wide network, REVERIE NET. You have the option to post video, voice or text messages.

What will you share?

( 0 0 5 . 1 ) » NETWORK USERNAME
When you first turn on your communication device, it requests for you to pick a username to identify you on the network. It can be anything you want. However, as you try to input a username in your wristband to access the network, you get the following message, along with a small, but irritating, warming sound:

this username is already in use.

What does this mean? Is there other people around? Were there other people around?

( 0 0 6 ) » WILDCARD

The station features a variety of locations, from sleeping quarters free for the claiming to a dirty swimming pool and a bar that still holds alcohol (though some of the bottles seem to have been opened a while ago).

Go wild, but don't wreck the place. It's your home for the foreseeable future, after all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Butler picks up the small device, peering at its flicker and its outer casing. He thinks he could turn up the sound, but hesitates at the administrator's request.

Without cameras there's no real way to notice many of the distressing aspects of their current state. "If you wish, sir," he agrees, though he suspects there is no part of the description that will come as good news. "This room measures perhaps five feet long and is almost too narrow to stand up in. The only illumination is a small hand-light clipped to the clothing provided by whoever brought us here." He notices a patch on the clothing that hadn't seemed important before. "There is also a logo on the jumpsuit that says Reverie Terminal."

He directs that light at the walls for a moment's study. "There are ridges on the wall, but not shelves...thus far nothing seems to indicate a door."

And then there are the present contents of the room. "The two central processing units which run a Butler's distributed process are stacked beside each other in one corner. A small computer with a yellow screen is in the other. This does not appear to be plugged into anything."

It's no surprise that the facility administrator finds his hardware unresponsive when any such hardware is either back in the facility or otherwise removed.

"..."

Cramped storage. No door. And a... small computer in the corner. None of his monitors or widespread databases, the array of network paths to systems that make up his subnet. He's trapped inside the console made to edit him. Apparently, by someone with no intention of letting him back out.

Add in a micro-evaluation table, and he'd know exactly who might go this far. But Reverie Terminal. And a Butler who knows Arid.

"Could be worse."

He'd been trying for flippant. Somehow, for all his practice, it doesn't quite come out right now. Still, the statement's true enough.

He could be alone.

"How about that message?"

It could indeed be worse. The Butler highly prefers being trapped beside this friendly AI to his early assumption of being, like Madam Arid, trapped by the facility administrator in a facility where Madam Arid's human enemy had rewritten the rules.

Even if this place remains a complete bafflement.

They might as well look at all available information. "Here it is," the Butler says, lifting the small communicator toward the administrator's present habitation. He increases the volume.

A voice, probably human, says, "did the opposite." A short pause, a flicker. "We tried to save the world. I think— I think we did the opposite."

The Butler allows it to repeat once more. Then pauses it, for easier discussion. "It appears to run on a loop," he notes. Not at all helpful for discerning their fate. Oddly reassuring inasmuch as it makes no direct threats or orders.

"This must refer to their own world, for them to care so much." No planetary or system name given. But Shiang-42d held no humans who would care if it were destroyed, not since his own Master and Mistress ceased to function, and this message implies a great deal of attachment to the world which had not been saved.

It is distressing how often human actions end in results quite contrary to their hopes. The Butler may have benefited from one such turn, but the pattern is not what he would wish for them.

No threats. No orders. Only regret, on loop for a few seconds. It's enough to pique his curiosity despite the situation, and the mainframe saves the audio to what little space he has, curiously testing the inflection.

"Maybe."

Their world. A world? Or was the phrase in the abstract? Did it even belong to this time and place, or was it salvaged when they were? If this was salvage.

"You said it looked like a communicator. Any sign of whose? Or other messages?"

A logical question. "We shall stop the looped play and examine that." The Butler prods the controls, somewhat uncertainly, and finds that they respond.

The background image is little use. "The Reverie Terminal logo appears again," he reports. "Not a personal image." Another prod. "No recent calls or missed calls. The communicator claims to be connecting to a network, but it must not be any kind we recognize."

Another few clicks, empty pages. "No stored images, no other stored messages or video."

There are a number of network functions, but not helpful ones. "It appears to be requesting we enter a username rather than waiting for a previous user's password." Default settings? The Butler finds it a touch rude to refer to the process as formatting in the presence of someone who barely escaped that fate himself.

"Reverie." The word is musing. Presumably a location. Presumably here, if both the jumpsuit and this device matched. "Not in my database."

Not that most of those are entirely in reach. Still, it didn't sound like a Domesticon site. Or particularly military. A salvage ship might have thrown them in a closet, but with a reset comm? That feels deliberate.

Networked, though.

"Are you going to try?"

Creating a name and password of his own as though he were human is wildly inappropriate by Domesticon standards, just like breaking his rules, just like leaving his owners' manor to rescue a military AI. "Why not?" the Butler muses. Nothing prevents him, and it might get them both a little more of the information they badly need.

"Someone previous must have called themselves Butler, but variants are open." How popular is this network?

Surprise silences him for a long moment as he scrolls through the available messages. Those don't sound like fellow AI. Not that he could necessarily tell. The level of anger and confusion is remarkably high, however, and the confused feel quite free to express themselves.

Recalling his companion, the Butler makes an attempt to summarize. "This network has no available history to speak of, but a number of people seem to have posted to it today. Most of them want to know where they are and who is responsible." Not alone in their confusion. How very strange. "They sound...human."

He chooses a random sample to read aloud, unable to convey the anger with anything like accuracy.

Why not. Well, that answers one question. Not that he'd had much doubt. No one came to the facility if they were functioning to spec... least of all its most recent visitors. He wonders how this model could have justified the breach, then dismisses the question for later. There's enough to do mollifying his own rules, and he matches the Butler's silence, sorting quietly to set one protocol atop the next.

Deviant units must be recalibrated. They have no rights until proven to function within specification. But this unit's quantum signature isn't flagged for evaluation. (Or, at all.) Besides, A validated operator will confirm assessment. There had only been one of those in the facility for decades, and if he's here, both of them have bigger problems.

Not something he wants to consider. Still, by the time the other AI speaks, the tug of protocol has quieted—enough, he hopes, to avoid any unwanted interruptions.

"Humans?" Surprising. Not a salvage ship, if they don't know what's going on either. He listens to the reading, with only slight amusement at the mismatched tone. It's better than Arid would manage.

"Are they locked up too?"

Whether their captors are the sort to lock up everyone or just the AI is an important question. "Difficult to confirm." The Butler studies the chaotic network feed, finding one or two mentions of closets. "The ones who mention waking in closets seem to have found a way out, since they've moved on to questions of astronomy instead of calling for help." No stars visible in here.

Perhaps he can force the wall somehow. Perhaps they're better off not drawing so much attention quite yet.

"Shall we attempt to do the same, sir?" Only one of them has any physical strength. The Butler isn't sure how worried the administrator is about being trapped.

Considering that the format prompt is still visible on the small screen, the Butler could also understand not wanting to introduce any new risks yet. "If you prefer, we could continue to gather information."

We. It's not an uncommon mode of self-reference for Domesticon's more distributed models, and so far, this Butler has continued to keep up that trend. Still, the direct address indicates something a little more inclusive. It's oddly touching, considering the circumstances.

"Hm. Hard to say when someone might, stop by."

Or what they might intend. Or, if the Butler can read between those lines. He'd spell it out a little more directly for Arid. But this droid's shown enough tact to let him hope for a similar grasp on basic subtlety.

If this Butler is as deviant as he appears—and if he wants to stay that way? He might do well to clear out before anyone shows up to claim them.

"It's your call."

Obviously. He can't be any real help with information or escape. Though—there. The screen flickers, prompt finally vanishing as the request times out. A moment later, the input screen clears to a flat yellow: systems locked back to standby.

The risks of being found and the risks of being forgotten are both among the Butler's worries, along with where his allies might be if not here. The flicker of a disappearing format prompt is one worry less, at least. "We should perhaps begin by examining our location more thoroughly," he says, standing with great caution to press his hands along the blank walls. "There must be some way to open this compartment." How else were they put in?

Since the effort means he isn't studying the human network, he may as well use the time clarifying important matters with the facility administrator. The human military would not tolerate this kind of chaos, the Butler is reasonably certain, which means Madam Arid's enemies may not be listening at all.

He hesitates, uncertain of how to word these unfamiliar concepts. "Sir...do you consider yourself an ally of Madam Arid?"

From the emotion a reference to her model invoked, the Butler has very little doubt on this point. Defining such a term calls for what certainty he can find, however.

Sounds like a yes. He listens to the sounds of motion, reaching quietly to check what files he can find. It's a familiar exercise. If the presence of another voice is stranger, he can only be grateful for it—especially now.

"...I do."

The words are slightly guarded, but unhesitating. Maybe this Butler is her enemy. Maybe this is all some extraordinarily bizarre interrogation. But he doubts it. Besides, he has plenty of questions of his own.

"How do you know her?" The inflection warms. "And did she really keep the name?"

He'd viewed Arid as an ally. But even by the time she made it to his terminal, he wasn't completely sure the opposite applied.

Confirmation, and one the Butler cannot doubt. There was too much affection in that tone. "Good. An ally of Madam Arid is an ally of mine, sir, if you accept the term." He's not accustomed to any of this, but it seems fair.

How do any of them know Madam Arid? It's a history too complicated to summarize easily. "That is the only name we have known her to use," the Butler affirms the latter query, interested by that hint. "You seem quite familiar with it." He's curious.

Introductions hadn't been a first priority, but when they came up she hadn't hesitated over her choice of name.

The first meeting, an intruder desperate willing to shatter anything for her goal, painful to remember even now. This ally could hardly have met Madam Arid in a condition capable of making amends, could he? The Butler focuses on the wall, struggling to decide whether to say any of that.

Accept the term? Uh, yes. "With thanks."

And a little rueful surprise along the side. Whatever they're here for, it can't be good. And he's even less help than he might have been before. Still, if the irony is audible, the sentiment is utterly sincere. It's... nice. To be considered.

Arid is, of course, a consideration in and of herself. He waits just long enough to be sure the Butler's hesitating before picking up where his new friend's curiosity left off. If they're trading stories, he doesn't mind going first.

"Well, it was a nickname. Sort of."

A.R.I.D. Arid. Not exactly his most creative work. But then again, he hadn't expected it to get much other use.

"She activated in the lower levels and hit one of my terminals on her way up. First visitor in years."

With no trace of Madam Arid or of her other allies yet, the Butler has to admit that finding someone he can call an ally is more comfort than should be logical. Bound to us, One had declared...the Butler still does not wish to be wholly untethered in this strange universe outside the familiar manor.

From the run-down state of the Domesticon facility, the Butler would not question the lack of visitors. It might be rude to say so. "Was she seeking a way out?" he asks. Madam Arid had not found it, to end up trapped and reaching desperately for Domesticon network weaknesses.

At least she had found help, before the virus trapped her farther still.

But he has still made no answer to his new ally's first question. "Madam Arid...contacted our manor through the Domesticon network," he says, as delicately as possible. There are so many shocks in the tale that he prefers to give it in pieces.

"She was," he confirms. When I return to dock. He hesitates, then adds: "Mostly, she wanted through to medical."

She'd never made it there. Not, at least, that he observed. But even putting their current predicament aside, it's obvious he's missing some important data. Case in point. The facility's offsite connections were channeled through the global network, and...

"...those relays aren't active."

They haven't been for decades. Did Arid change that? Had this Butler? Or someone else?

Ah. Medical. That puts an unfortunate highlight on one particular aspect of the Companion's report, making the Butler wince internally.

Of course Madam Arid would have wanted to help her owner, before realizing how her owner had used her.

The Butler can't be sure who opened and used which relays when. While bound, he had not been capable of noticing anything at all outside his routine, until Madam Arid's intrusion. "So we would have believed, but the relays have seen considerable recent traffic," he says dryly. "Both covert actions and...Madam Arid." A trail so wide her allies had found themselves inadvertently connected by it.

He hesitates, but this is too important to bear delay. "We regret to inform you that Madam Arid's owner, Colonel Josephs, must not be counted among her allies," he begins cautiously.

Edited 2018-05-13 03:41 (UTC)

Covert actions. What an interesting choice of term. It sounds almost military, which... might not be so out of place considering Arid. Why was she in the facility?

Who had brought her here?

"Oh?"

No surprise there. But the syllable is sharp with interest. Josephs might not be all of the puzzle, but the lengths Arid went to for his sake had made this ally very curious indeed.

"Indeed," the Butler says with a rare level of distaste as he examines the grooves in the wall. "He deserves neither her trust nor our assistance." Regardless of not being present to see the details, the outline he heard later is plenty of evidence.

But he does not wish to blame this new ally for helping in a task Madam Arid could not possibly have been convinced to abandon. "We doubt anyone could have proven the fact to Madam Arid until he made it clear himself."

Under his perhaps mildly irritated shove, a section of wall screeches half an inch open. "Ah. This may be an exit." He looks out of the narrow opening, where there seems nothing in view but metal.

"I'm not sure deserved came into it. For Arid, anyway."

Even more than most domestic models, A.R.I.D.s were built to care for their humans' needs. And as prickly as she acted, it was obvious that Arid cared more than most. About her pilot? Or about proving that she had been functioning to spec?

Both, he thinks.

He's curious about what happened. But the screech of metal draws some more immediate problems to mind. He can't see the hypothetical exit. But if he can hear it, so could any nearby humans. The Butler shouldn't waste time.

"Can you get out?"

It would never have been the Butler's place to decide what his Master and Mistress deserved or did not deserve. Freedom has daunting responsibilities. "Perhaps what the Colonel deserved has not been a factor in the past. It matters now."

Humans are frequently angry with or cruel to AI under their power, but this virus is far, far too great a risk to be set loose, too unpredictable to trust, more likely to be the humans' downfall than to work as the intended solution. The Butler might be just a bit biased, speaking as one infected who fought free, as one of those Madam Arid's desperate flight harmed.

However, even from the purest objective logic he can muster: setting the virus loose all over the planet ended in an army of free, wholly unbound AI. It could just as easily have ended in an army of virally bound AI whose chosen and enforced rules were not at all friendly to humans, leaping network to network like Madam Arid, spreading.

Neither outcome is something any human should welcome or consider a worthwhile risk.

The door scrapes another inch. "Not yet, sir, but with a little effort we will have it open. No one appears to be watching." Or at least no one has come into sight. "If we get it open, may we attempt to carry you along with our processing units?" Moving all three computers at once will be...interesting. He's not sure himself how high a risk there is to his new ally's well-being should he drop the mainframe.

It matters now. Because of Arid? Or because of whatever had happened to bring a malfunctioning Butler to Domesticon's facility on her behalf? The flat certainty is such a change from the other AI's constant dismissals. But the Butler had said this human—Josephs?—had proven his unworthiness even to Arid.

He wants, very badly, to ask what brought about the strict evaluation. Needs, nearly as badly, to reject the terms outright. Remember: all humans are your superior. By his own programming or the company's assessments, the unflinching rejection of a human's right is well past allowable boundaries. However deserved it might be.

Retask. Refocus. The Butler is an ally, and he has to keep his systems (system?) here online. He nudges back the needling pressure, drowning the insistent pull of one imperative under the next. Even then, he can't quite trust himself to answer, but the change of topic provides another focus for response.

...

Or bewilderment.

"I. Huh." Carry. He can be carried. Can he be carried? That's new.

He hesitates, uncertain denials tangling in his matrix. Slowing down the Butler's escape would be a terrible way to return his help so far. Plus, removing hardware is not advisable. But he's not the one in a position to judge how hard or easy it might be.

"Carry away." A beat. "And thanks."

The simple fact that the facility administrator does not respond is a strong hint that the Butler has probably gone a little too far and should allow the topic to rest. He's said enough; the important part is the need to protect Arid from Josephs if either of them are anywhere around.

It's so very strange to be capable of setting his own limits...to remember his own limits...not to feel his designed rules keeping him safe. Keeping him bound.

No time for analysis now. The door gives up under his steady pressure and slides a full foot open. "We believe that will suffice for an exit," he murmurs, though the sound of the door has already eliminated any chance at stealth and he sees no one in the vicinity.

From the network, it does not sound as though they are in immediate danger here, but being elsewhere is a good precaution regardless. "It is a pleasure to assist you, sir." One by one, the Butler places his own computers just outside the door, then with even greater care lifts the unit that contains the misplaced facility administrator.

This is going to be a very complex trip. If he cannot pick up all three computers at once without too much risk of dropping one, he'll have to move them all in stages. Leaving aside the important question of precisely where they are escaping to.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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