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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

[Not just any green, either- it's that inhuman olive color. It looks positively fresh and it's missing the stains of being lived in and bled on but Hawkeye is nothing but an optimist and he knows that homely look will just come later. He recoils his hand and it reaches for an old (very old) copper cup that had been sitting on the counter. He sniffs. He drinks.

He's classy.

He also gesture nonsensically with his free hand again because] No, but you drank gas before. Just add laundry detergent. [The room is spinning but the doctor's got his sea legs. Shit's impressive, if he does say so himself.]

So, where's your sheik?

[ he just gives hawkeye a weary look, but somewhere under all the bruises and lineface is some bemusement. good luck detecting it though. ]

I left him on the last spaceship. [ frank just narrows his eyes and goes on watching the other man, not even trying to get his drink back. ]

[Oh, he won't. If he was sober he still wouldn't. Something about being resolved to no longer give a damn- look at where that's landed him. He just looks at Frank in turn, and then looks a little past him, and then he fiddles with the bottle in his hands.

And he leans a little more into the counter because

look, he's under no illusion that this decision to melt his brains isn't going to bite his ass tomorrow. Or simply 'later'. It'll be a welcome experience, even. Hawkeye bites the inside of his cheek a little, pondering.] Uh-huh. [And he drinks up and brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose (the way you do after slurping down a cold drink too fast).]

Y'know, that's what really gets me. I mean really gets me. [He's not bitter. Every other word gets a solid raise in volume.] That this is a space-ship and we're all floating around Christ-knows-where an' not anybody knows how we ever got t' this crummy place and I can't get home. It's in Maine. [For fuck's sake.] If I had had any intelligence then "home sweet home" would be a sign I'd've put up in Canada. [Take your stupid bottle back, guy. Hawk has found something clear on a shelf and it's his new poison.] You haven't-- no, really. If you knew a single thing about space-ships you wouldn't have chosen this one to roost in.

Tell your husband to take you back. It's not worth it.

[ everything this man does is loud, even when he isn't talking, gaps which are far and few between and yet make no difference. he does take his bottle back when hawkeye goes to find his own, but goes back to fiddling with the faded label and rolling the item between his hands rather than swigging from it right away. ] Maine, huh. [ it's idle. he's listening to every word, but most of it isn't anything he feels capable of replying to, his head lolling forward a bit as though it's too heavy for his neck suddenly. ]

Too late for that, unless you're holding out on us. [ also idle, since obviously not a one of them knows how they got here or how to get back. ]

[Maine. Right along the coast, nestled in the backwoods. And it was summer, so the sea salt would be in the air and the days would be just right for slipping into a coma, and not waking up until twenty hours after he'd laid down to sleep. In his own bed. In his own room. And maybe there'd be a few people who would want to visit and Hawkeye would tell his father to tell them to sod off, and he'd be expected to do nothing but breathe and sleep for-- a while. It's fair. Hawkeye figures. It's fair to want to go home and rest. But he isn't. And he won't. And he tries to sit on a bar stool and it takes him a second try to actually make sure he won't miss.

He brings the bottle to his lips but doesn't drink. He'll barf before he can down this bottle. Hopefully it won't be as he tries to chat with current company.]

Fella, I can't even fix a flat tire. What's wrong with your face?

[ it was winter when he left his own east coast home. snow covered every inch of the city, even the rooftops, blanketing it in a fresh newness that seemed annoyingly appropriate to the winding down of his own personal war. he snorts at hawkeye's question, leaning towards him a little over the bartop. ] You'd have to ask my momma, son. I know I'm about as ugly as they come, but she was a beauty. Go figure.

[He wants to cringe back, but can't. Give some kind of universal Chicken signal and hope the big guy isn't as intent on kicking his ass as his (very intimidating, mind you) gestures might imply. But it turns out Hawk is still in the clear and that means he listens earnestly and then fights the urge to roll his eyes because that won't end well and

well] B'fore I can, you'll have to tell me more about how beautiful her figure was. [The son of a bitch has the decency to look serious about it, too.]

[ jesus christ. it reminds him of conversations in the barracks. bullshit that didn't mean anything. that makes it hurt in a way even if he takes no offense to the words or their delivery. frank leans even an inch closer, and thinks about billy saying the same thing to him. he thinks about beating him bloody and leaving him in a pile of his own meat. but he hadn't killed him. that was too good for him. ]

...You sure you wanna hear about an old woman? She died a long time ago, too. [ though he's a relatively young man, his parents were a lot older than him from the jump. they had died when he was still in basic training. ]

[It doesn't help anything that the other guy is game for this, volleying the absurdity of the topic right back to Hawkeye as if he's some goddamn veteran. Hawkeye steels himself, holds his ground by means of propping an elbow stubbornly on the bartop.

He kind of hopes he doesn't end up with a bottle being cracked over his head, y'know? At the same time he's pretty sure he's too wasted to give a shit and this

this stupidity is normal. He should say he's sorry about his mother passing, he should say he gets it, though maybe he doesn't.] Just tell me about when she was breathing, then. I love older women. Ask Janet, I was-- it was-- my first apartment, right? I was barely 18. Androscoggin. Above a corner store, real winner of a place. I named the ra-- anyway, I can't say I have anything bad to say about that whole experience. Did she have a cute nose, too?

[ man this guy is a total trip. frank ends up smiling despite himself. ]

Sounds like good times. [ his voice sounds warm though maybe that's just the amount of booze he's put away. frank pushes the bottle away, his elbow brushing hawkeye's now as he speaks closely to the other man's face. ]

What, this? [ he points to his purpled face with his free hand, a hint of a smile still clinging on. ] It's been broke so many times it's crookeder than a politician. Maybe it looked like hers. Once. Who could say.

[You know the signs at the... at the zoo? At the campgrounds? The kind that say Don't Feed The Bears and then tell you that it's bad for their health, for their entire relationship with their purpose on the Earth?

Hawkeye's pretty sure he needs to carry around a sign like that.

Frank smiles and Hawkeye drinks-- spills a few drops because of numb lips but who the hell cares. He uses the excuse to slip his elbow back a millimeter, because this isn't Trapper or Beej or-- Toby, or anybody he knows, y'know? But he's grinning, all confidence and ready to eat shit because]

Guy, I dunno if you know this, but you can't jus' go around telling strangers your mother ain't straight.

[ even drunk, he notices hawkeye pulling back. he's not exactly a stranger to being too intense for people. so he pulls back too, sitting up straighter. but the joke catches him entirely off guard and he laughs. a loud and blissfully carefree sound. sometimes he forgets that interactions can be this simple. trading stories and jokes like he's a real person for christsakes. ]

You're not right, man. What's your name?

[And he wins. Just like that, Hawkeye has won the fight and he has something to his name in this space-ship and this hellscape. It's enough to make him wonder if he oughta relax with his plan to black out, but he's too gone now to make any good of it. He got a laugh and he hopes it's a stupid, trivial little victory for Shit Brickhouse, too.

The doctor ducks his head as the grin erupts and turns sincere, as it lets a satisfied noise of a laugh escape and as the grin dies like embers on a campfire die.

So he knows he's not right. Big deal. He scratches idly at the crook of his left elbow and can't feel guilty for being insane, and so it's all right. He's feeling damn proud despite the-- the fact he can't really meet the fella's gaze, not for a moment longer, anyway. He shrugs.] Hawkeye. Now if y'really wanted to impress me you'd tell me something I don't know.

[Like a name, perchance.]

[ it's definitely the same for frank. nothing here makes sense, but if they can laugh they're still here, right? they're still alive and able to do something - even if that something is just breathing until they aren't anymore. he's familiar with those kinds of places, space notwithstanding. ]

You said Maine? I'm from New York. [ which hawkeye probably could have guessed, but there it is. it still doesn't come naturally to volunteer his name, though he doesn't have any reason to keep it from anyone here. ]

[He stares for a while. Partly because he's too tired to move anything anymore, the alcohol doing its job against years of building up an incredible tolerance, partly because Pierce can't believe (but he does [it's surprisingly believable]) that this stupid son of a gun didn't offer up a name.

The nerve.

But that's New York for you: all grit and tough skin, and you have to dig to find the charm, and beyond all of that there's no scientific evidence that anyone from there has a brain.] Like... the city?

[ he rolls his eyes as he slumps against the bar again, this time careful not to invade hawkeye's space. ]

Hell's Kitchen, yeah. When I wasn't overseas.

[Hawkeye's quick to smirk- a short-lived gesture of satisfaction. Took the guy long enough. But then he starts trying to envision Hell's Kitchen. Sounded about as nice as summertime in Korea. And he can't know if he doesn't know the district or if he just can't care to remember it. He hums.]

Foreign bank accounts needed tending to?

["Overseas" is what it is, and it isn't a phrase men used when visiting Europe on vacation. The World Wars had made sure of that. Funny that Hawkeye can't care beyond assuming this was the usual.

Even in space. Overseas wasn't Korea, because it was past tense. So.] France?

[ he tips his head, but doesn't answer what he assumes is a rhetorical question asked for effect. france though gets an eyebrow lift. if only. ]

Try a little further East. [ or a lot. he shakes his head, he's not really going to make the guy guess but he's due for another drink followed by another shiver. ] Iraq. Afghanistan.

Edited 2018-04-28 03:35 (UTC)

[His brows furrow, his head hurts. His tongue feels heavier by the moment and he can't stop staring.

So he drinks, bottle up and it's like trying to swallow cement-- his throat's beginning to actively protest and it takes effort to keep the alcohol in and down but it's worth the abuse. Hawkeye winces and reminds himself to breathe through his nose and he

just kind of glances to one side, hoping for-- something (he's not sure what). Then he's back trying to unpuzzle Brick Shithouse and he's not gaining any ground. And suddenly he doesn't want to ask, but] The hell're you doing there? [There's not much news from that side of the world, not that he's read or heard. Not that he cares what the answer would be. He doesn't care.

He's just eying Frank Castle as if he doesn't want to know the damn answer, is all.

Nobody uses that voice to say they've gone "overseas" to vacation. They just. Don't.]

[ hawkeye baffles him just as much as he seems to confuse him, and for a moment frank just narrows his eyes and stares, his fingers gripping his bottle a little too hard. he's not sure if it's a specific ask, but something about the liquor in his system makes him long for honesty he knows he shouldn't impart. ]

Most of it was classified. [ and for good goddamn reason. he takes a rattling breath and suddenly wants some water. ] Doesn't matter here anyway.

[And he remembers Flagg, because who wouldn't remember that rat, and he remembers passwords and got yas asking about World Series and film stars, court martials and threats to hang. And he doesn't care about that answer of nothing, he's just

both glad and hating himself for having heard it, because he sits up straighter (though he shouldn't- and he doesn't, really, he can't) and he pulls back into his own space yet again and he tries to not look guilty or wary, he swears it. He does try.] Oh. [And so and so and

and, uh.] 'm gonna get drunk. [Loud enough for mics to hear, with all the sincere intent to do good on that resolution. The guy can join him or not, but. Well. Hawkeye's done with questions. He's exhausted and the fella needs to not kill him and. And so. Yeah.] Best cure to a hangover's to just never stop drinking.

[ he just nods. oh indeed. it's not like frank wants to talk about it. state-sanctioned murder to cover up a heroin trafficking ring in kandahar. secrets deep enough to get his entire family slaughtered. all while the fucking secretary of state pinned a medal to his chest. he was a war hero, and then he was the punisher. and now he's in space with a guy who doesn't know about the iraq war. ]

Sounds good. [ more grunt than speech, but he's just going to chug that whiskey now. no point in pretense anymore. ]

[His fingers fidget with the neck of his bottle as Frank works on his. The jokes about lesbian mothers and cute body parts are dead and he won't disrupt their peace, not if the other fella won't.

There is, though, a lukewarm disturbance in his gut... but Hawk figures he'll be okay.

He's done okay so far, even if it's a little hard to breathe and it, for once, isn't because of the old, stale air.] Crabapple Cove, we're on... we're right on the bay. Penosbscot Bay, y'know? [It's easy on his tongue and his memory- every line practically memorized off the script and

if he brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose again, as a guise to keep his voice steady and eyes dry, no-one's going to give a shit because they're going to get drunk anyway. And the point of getting drunk is to not remember.

And please, Christ, let him never get sober.] Everyone-- everyone's a fisher basically. It's a small town, th' kind where everyone knows everyone and we've got one... yeah, one schoolhouse. One post office. One pharmacy. One lighthouse. And you can always smell the pine or... uh, blueberry pies. [He's done with questions, but talking? He'll never be done talking.] It's like that. I would've had t-- to fly back to Portland. I think.

Edited 2018-04-28 19:04 (UTC)

[ hawkeye talks as frank blankly stares ahead at the bottles on the wall. he's listening, memorizing each word because he doesn't know how to do anything else. the place sounds familiar though he's sure he's never been. it sounds like any new england town, quaint and quintessential. like his house in the suburbs had been before he'd burnt it to the ground.

the words wash over him pleasantly though, and he uses them as a backdrop for his drinking. he doesn't want to ask questions or necessarily contribute but it's as companionable a silence (on his end) as they come really. he closes his eyes and it's like he can smell blueberry pie too. did maria make it? she was more of a cake baker, maybe his mom or his grandmother had. for a holiday maybe. which then inspires a random blurt of his own before he can fuse his flapping jaw-- ]

It's Christmas. [ he clenches his jaw, staring down at the bottle now. ] I mean, it was supposed to be.

[Panic is the word.

It's sharp, it's quick, it's like any regular flash flood he's encountered where suddenly everything in the world around him is too much and he's doing too little to make it out without a lungful of water. Without drowning. There's no bodies and there's no blood and he's focusing too hard on remembering how to breathe, otherwise he might just upchuck.

He remembers the feeling, is the thing. You know?] It's August. [And the feeling is out with those two words, and he can hear himself saying through grit teeth that he's fine again, in a gray room with gray walls and... and no booze. Because it was torture, you know? To not know what you're saying?

But Hawkeye's convinced anyway, convinced still, and he kind of wants to-- he doesn't know. Sleep? He scratches at the crook of his left elbow. It'll probably mark. He furrows his brows again and can't fathom an idea outside of one of them being wrong about this. Y'know?] It's August. It was the t-- it was summer, I mean, I know that. That's when the fleas are playin' circus on you the worst. I ate like fou- five flies on the way to the chopper pad, I... [He what?] What? Say it again, I don't think I heard you right. Chris'mas?

they both yell "ow!" bc the bar was set so low...

:')

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