Test Drive Meme #1 (cw vehicular crash, moderate injury)

[spoofer]

Test Drive Meme #1

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

You don't need an invite to test
but please remember we're currently invite-only

CRASH LANDING

Exit one dimension, enter the next. It was chaos: pressure against your ears, light bending in an impossible, unimaginable way. The very molecules of your body vibrating against one another. If you have windows, the view outside makes no sense. Even if not, your hands, your face, your feet seem like an uncertain thing. It's the feel of reality itself tearing apart, reshaping, reconnecting, thread by thread.

And suddenly, there's a beach— or ocean, whichever you land in. Smoke. Fire. Salt water churning up, fizzing around.

Maybe you crash, in a ship wrecking into sand. Maybe you merely stumble out of a portal, a ragged wormhole in space. Or maybe you fall off the back of an incredible steed, some creature that carried you into this place. Either way, there's pandemonium around you. Incredibly, severe injuries are far and few between— nobody's screaming about the dead. But you might have to help pull someone free of wreckage, or move quickly to salvage burning belongings from the landing craft. Maybe it's the crafts themselves, that you're trying to salvage.

Likely, you don't know them, these other strangers who arrived here^[1]. Maybe you don't trust them— you just came out of a dying world, after all. But you all have one thing in common: you're here now.

When you get a second to breathe, maybe you'll see it. The brilliant green forest across the sand. Beyond that, the glint of a faraway city.

INTO THE WOODS

Your first night at Xistentia does not feature five-star accommodations, but as the sun begins to set, the forest offers everything you need to survive. By now, you may even have met your daemon, who'll help guide you through this. There is fallen wood to make fires for warmth and cooking, any number of rabbits, deer, and fish if that's what you're into eating. Those very same animals also provide guidance as to what vegetation is edible, including a variety of vine mushrooms, fruits, and flowers. If you're the kind of creature that mostly eats other sentient creatures, well. Technically, there are a lot of those hanging out too^[2]! Now and then, you'll see tiny, winged humanoid creatures the height of a finger dart in and out of view.

A resourceful group, the multiversal refugees have determined ways to create shelters, using wreckage, supplies, and basic survival knowhow. There aren't enough blankets to go around, but the weather is mild and the fires seem to keep out any aggressive creatures.


Things get quiet. This could be a good time to meet the others under less fraught circumstances. Maybe you'll see some familiar faces and reunite with others who fled from your dying world; maybe you'll meet someone new.

Try not to seek out and fight any Rock Trolls. It's still early.

ENTER THE CITY

The city is beautiful, even with the vines covering everything, the streams running down half the streets, the massive white deer leaping off under the highway overpasses. The architecture of the skyscrapers is incredible to look at, modern and sweeping. It's clear that terraced gardens were part of the building design, and some of the greenery that lines the street had been part of the original city plan. This is a city of great potential.

And it knows you're here. As you walk by, beacons like streetlamps begin to emit a gentle glow, registering your presence. No doors are locked, though you might find yourself chasing out nests of silver-winged birds and bug-eyed rabbits.

Here, you can claim empty shops or the clothing and other sales items inside of them. Apartment complexes aren't difficult to find in a range of sizes; nor are standalone homes, brownstones, loft studios. Penthouses may not feel like penthouses when there's a thin layer of dust growing on everything and a flower growing out of the sink, but you know what? Maybe that little bud is gonna be your first roommate.

It's the strangest thing. After a few days, the lights begin to work and the water begins to run, fully operational within the unseen sewer system. At some point, the keys to your house or residence are going to turn up. Your daemon will help you find what you need. F.A.TE.S. welcomes you.

NETWORK

By now you've settled in. You have some time to explore the city, the woods, and your new kit.

Chances are pretty good that your daemon is not a phone or a computer or a wax-sealed piece of parchment or a Howler, nothing with a convenient camera or a keyboard; it probably isn't even a pocket sized. Likelier, it stares at you with eyes that contain the lenses-- or powers-- of a camera, and some part of its body projects a holographic keyboard into the air. For those of us who are not accustomed to manipulating intangible light prisms, it's about as intuitive to type on as shaping a cloud with your fingers.

But here's your network access. Accessible to all your fellow travelers in XISTENTIA.

Misfires, typos, and blurry video footage are likely. Time to feel like a Luddite!

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

hells yeah

Footnotes

1. Some of these can be nameless, plot-device NPCs to facilitate interactions! But even in this case, please avoid gore in describing their current state of being. Anyone dead or catastrophically injured will have disappeared by the time your characters make it to Xistentia. There are no corpses or dying here.
   
   
2. But like OOCly ask permission ofc.

Comments

Niall Lynch | The Raven Cycle

[pygmalionist]

the crash

[Amid the chaos and destruction, there stands a very tall man and a very small woman. The man, Niall Lynch, is wildly handsome in a dark and strange sort of way. The woman has a burlap sack over her head, tied at her delicate throat. He's dressed head-to-toe in black, and she in a green gown that appears vaguely medieval in style. He's too tall for her to rest her chin on his shoulder, but she's trying. It's a task made more difficult by the ropes that keep her hands tied behind her back, throwing her off-balance.]

Muiread.

[He's speaking to the woman, though he only tilts his head just slightly in her direction. His accent is Northern Irish, plainly Belfast to a local.]

If you really want to make yourself useful, find my son.

[And by that he means the only son worth finding.]

the forest

[Others may not have five-star accommodations, but this particular scoundrel has somehow found himself a bed. Not a sleeping bag or a cot, but a massive canopy bed fit for a king, draped with velvet curtains and ermine blankets to keep away the chill of night. He's placed it at the center of a small clearing, where the moonlight can illuminate it like a stage set.

Niall's still awake, so the drapes are open, leaving him in plain sight as he sits at the foot of the mattress and pens something in a small leather-bound journal. His daemon, Muiread, sits on the forest floor in front of him, her wrists tied to the bedpost to keep her from attempting to join him. Niall rarely glances at her, dividing his attention between his book and the bottle of whiskey beside him.]

wildcard

( Hit me. )

[dreamkid]

[ Matthew angelic curls and face alone are enough to score him a blanket and a spot near a fire, his innocence and good manners were just icing on the cake, but even so for once in his life sleep isn't coming to him easily. Maybe it's the excitement (a mild word for it, to say the least) of the day, or the roots poking into his back, or the random bursts of chattiness from his daemon.

Whatever the reason, he's not sleeping, but instead meandering around with the blanket wrapped around him like a cloak and an overly large butterfly clinging to his shoulder, and that's how he stumbles into the clearing.

Whoa, that's a nice bed there. He only knows one person who could magic a bed out of thin air like that; a smile stretches across his face and he starts jogging forward eagerly. ]

Ro--

[ No, it's not Ronan. He realizes it right away, the second he catches a better glimpse of the person seated on the mattress, and abruptly stops. ]

No way, [ he breathes, stunned. Even Matthew, sweet, stupid Matthew, has the split second thought: it's a trick. But that's not enough to keep him still, he starts back towards the center of the clearing almost immediately, picking up his pace. ]

Dad? [ Uncertain at first, and then-- ] Dad!

[pygmalionist]

Matthew.

[A brilliant smile flashes across Niall's face as he turns toward his youngest son, and he pushes aside both the notebook and the whiskey to make room for Matthew to join him. Though Matthew isn't Ronan, he's the next best thing: evidence that Ronan must be here somewhere.]

Have you been wandering all on your own?

[dreamkid]

[ (Love you too, Dad.)

(And he really does, of course.)

Matthew stares at Niall with a wide-eyed, dumbfounded look on his face, but climbs onto the bed without hesitation, pressing close to his father's side. It's really him, or at least he's really real, and not just some weird figment of Matthew's imagination.

Matthew doesn't have enough imagination for this anyway. ]

Dad, [ he says again, a bit stupidly, failing to answer the question, and presses his curly head against his father's shoulder. Before Niall was killed (over a year ago, now; the last time he saw his father he was fourteen), Matthew had always been more tactile with his mother and brothers, but these are special circumstances. It feels like a dream, he thinks. ]

It's really you, isn't it?

[ Impossible, of course, but what does that word even mean anymore? ]

[pygmalionist]

[Naturally, Niall assumes all the fuss is just about the whole end of the world thing. It would be reasonable for Matthew, simple as he is, to be frightened by the circumstances. Especially if he's gone without Ronan or Declan's guidance.]

There, there. It's me, alright.

[He presses a hand on top of Matthew's head, mussing up his golden curls and cradling him in a warm embrace.]

And what about you? I hardly recognized you, you've grown so much. You must be catching up to Ronan now.

[dreamkid]

[ When Niall ruffles his curls, Matthew shudders slightly and wraps his arms around his father, clinging to him. The butterfly flutters off his shoulder to land on one of the bedposts instead; he ignores his own daemon as well as Niall's, shutting his eyes and letting out all of his breath. ]

I guess. Ronan's gotten bigger, too.

[ Ronan... Ronan should be here, Ronan should be the one to know. ]

How did you get here? How're you--

[ Alive. It feels too weird to say it, when his dad is here, as alive as he ever was, like his murder and everything that happened after was just some big misunderstanding that he can smooth over with a smile and a few good jokes. ]

We missed you.

[pygmalionist]

[Niall marvels at the range of emotion Matthew's displaying. When he was younger, of course, Matthew presented a decent though immature range of responses: wonder in his eyes, tears of pain or frustration, boundless joy... This, however, Niall recognizes as a complex fear response. Matthew is learning something difficult about the universe.

How beautiful. Niall kisses his hair.]

I think we all more or less arrived the same way. How long has it been?

[dreamkid]

[ Matthew has faced a handful of difficult things from the universe by now. At this exact moment, he's turning over his dad's answer in his mind and wondering if it means they're both dead, so that probably counts as "difficult".

But at least he's not alone. That counts for something, too. ]

A year, [ he says, almost reluctantly. ] And a few months.

[pygmalionist]

[Niall takes a moment to consider that answer. He's been away from Aurora and the boys for months at a time, but never over a year. No matter what was going on, he couldn't bear to be away from them for so long. When combined with the reaction, Niall suddenly realizes that this thing Matthew's displaying is grief.]

Oh, sweet boy...

[His arm tightens subtly around Matthew.]

Have I gone and died? Ah, what a bastard.

[dreamkid]

[ "What a bastard" sounds like something Declan would say. Probably has said, in Matthew's presence.

Don't cry in front of Dad, he tells himself, but he doesn't cry easily anymore so it doesn't take an entirely Herculean effort. ]

You did, [ he answers, seeing no way to be untruthful about it. ] You got in over your head, [ comes the careful explanation, the same one he was given and has been implied to him a number of times when Declan grew especially frustrated (often) or when Ronan told him everything on the Fourth of July. ]

With the dreaming.

[ His head lifts, he looks at his father. A man who seemed so immortal until he wasn't, who died and left them with no home and a broken family. Matthew could ask him so many question. Why did he make them leave the Barns? Why wasn't he more careful?

But even though he knows more about his father's flaws now than he ever did when the man was alive, Matthew still loves him too much to place blame. ]

Ronan figured out how to wake Mom up.

[pygmalionist]

[The world turns as if gravity's shifted, and Niall's grateful they're already sitting down. He doesn't think to avoid crying in front of Matthew because there's no threat of tears at all.

Muiread had explained, to some degree, time and universal discrepancies. There's no question of how this could be, that he's alive yet not alive. But it's puzzling, all the same. Mortality is just such a strange thing to confront when he feels so immortal. It must be similar to the way ordinary people feel when confronted with magic: Something obvious and tangible, yet impossible to believe in.

With the dreaming. Ah, his boys. So much they've discovered. Niall meets Matthew's eyes, fingers combing through blonde curls again.]

Of course he did.

[Niall says this with a swell of pride, and only the happy thought of Ronan's genius brings the prickle of tears to Niall's eyes. Ronan will perform a thousand miracles by the time he's Niall's age. He's a masterpiece.]

He would move mountains for either of you. I never had any doubt.

forest; oh my god Muiread

[pillz]

[the ground is softish and loamy and keeps sucking funny footprint shapes off the bottoms of his shoes, but he keeps walking anyway, flashlight in hand. long after he finished pissing against a tree. his dog daemon is silent behind him. kavinsky hadn't been able to sleep because the air is so fresh it's hurting his lungs, and murphy and aric on either side of him kept waking him as they changed watch or positions. none of them trust this world, but the two other men, at least, don't particularly distrust trees and grass and the absence of electric light more than anything else.

he had thought about dreaming himself a car, but there are too many fucking trees in the way, anyhow.

(what he's really afraid of, probably, is the dreams. what they might be, in the wake of eudio's towers crumbling, the floor of his home tilting beneath his feet, the groan of reinforced concretes like a wail of pain that covered the whole city.) (but that's neither here nor there.) (he'll deny it's here, is the fucking point.)] What the fuck is your problem? [is his question for the stupid fucking dog, or at least the robot wearing the skin of his stupid fucking dog. she'd started to mumble at him.

he notices only then. the bed in the clearing. the chick tied to the bedpost, murk beyond that.

]

Yo, [he yells at the bait.] What the fuck?

[pygmalionist]

[Muiread swivels in the direction of Kavinsky's voice - as best she can while restrained - before she sits up higher on her knees and addresses her master. With the sack on her head, whatever she babbles is unintelligible.

Niall doesn't need the warning, anyway. He heard Kavinsky as clearly as she did. He leans over and peers out at the woods past the canopy's curtains. The light's dim, but enough for him to catch the boy's silhouette.]

What's that, lad?

[pillz]

[the pistol winks in kavinsky's hand, but the muzzle is still down at an angle, pointing more at the mattress than at any of its occupants. he's seen stranger things. he's been stranger things. but still, he has enough of a bead on normal to be watching for signs of greater danger than ordinary people, who are, on average, shitty enough.] You look like you're trying to rob somebody using chained-up vagina as bait, man.

Where the fuck you from? [lad? who the fuck says 'lad?' his finger skids around the trigger. he doesn't look at the blindfolded woman hardly at all, really.] Aside from some weird fucking country. [kavinsky is basically why people hate americans.]

[pygmalionist]

[Niall barks out a laugh at the accusation. Yes, he supposes it does look like some kind of trap. He hadn't really put much thought into what someone might think if they happened upon him like this, though the idea is more amusing than anything else.]

I'm from Melbourne. Don't you recognize a fucking Australian when you see one?

[...he says with his extremely Irish accent.]

forest

[fiachdubh]

[ Wandering through the forest used to be Ronan's favorite thing - walking for hours through Cabeswater while no time at all passed outside, jumping from one season to the next, talking to trees.

But here, it's oppressive; like there's violence waiting in these woods, and Ronan straightens himself up, waits for it to come at him with his fists closed and his muscles tense.

He doesn't expect to stumble upon a bed. A massive, ridiculously opulent bed, the kind Ronan hates and would never accept in his own space. The kind that looks to be taken straight from a dream. Ronan stops.

Sitting by it, is Niall Lynch. Ronan's heart stops.

Not even Cabeswater had been this cruel, to show him images of his father. Ronan tilts his head up, lips parted open as he looks at the canopy, and grunts: ]

Fuck you. Fuck you!

[ The second is louder, but Ronan doesn't care. He wants the vision to disappear, closes his eyes to it. His father is dead. He went too far, crossed too many people, and Ronan had seen his body, lifeless, bloody, distorted and disjointed and disgusting. He can see it now, the image burning in his eyes. This has to be an hallucination. Maybe he's just too dehydrated, or suffering from heatstroke.

He falls to his knees, pushing his fists into his eyes to keep from crying as he lets out a muffled, anguished noise. ]

[pygmalionist]

[There he is! The most beloved son. Niall recognizes him by all the yelling and sets aside his work to hop down off the bed. Muiread stirs and jerks against her ropes, attempting to follow him, but Niall leaves her behind as he ambles over to where Ronan's engaged himself in grief-soaked dramatics. As one does.]

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights...

[When he gets close, he doesn't stop, but circles around Ronan in examination, searching for anything other than emotion which might be wounding him. Still reciting:]

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd — see here it is...

[Satisfied that Ronan's alright, he halts directly in front of his son and offers his hand.]

I hold it towards you.

[And, lightly remarking as an aside:]

You cut your hair.

[fiachdubh]

[ Ronan isn't crying - not completely. His eyes feel like they're burning, but tears are not falling into his hands. The voice is so unmistakably his dad's, but it's so impossible that Ronan grits his teeth, squares his shoulders in fury, rising in him like a tidal wave. ]

Don't you fucking dare - [ He looks up suddenly, eyes on this image of his father's that can't be real, like so many dreams he's had. He looks ready to strike, now, a tiger waiting for the moment to pounce. ] Fucking Keats?

[ He pushes himself off of his knees, standing with his whole body coiled as a spring, muscles tense with grief. ]

Why are you here?

[pygmalionist]

Well done.

[On identifying the poem, that is. It's nice to see that Ronan's mind hasn't wasted away at Aglionby. Niall takes a step back to allow Ronan some space - physical and mental - while he processes this turn of events.]

I'm here to save the world, aren't I? Not all on my own, obviously. Here you are, as well.

[fiachdubh]

[ The praise makes something inside Ronan glow warmly, even as he tries to shake off every single feeling that's clinging to his mind. He wants to be numb, to assess the current situation without his heart clogging up his every thought. He looks at his father - the image of his father, healthy and smirking. They share the same nose, the same sharp eyes. Ronan sniffles loudly. ]

You're dead. [ He says the words as coldly as he can, his voice unwavering as he does. He's betrayed by the way he's feeling breathless, lungs contracted by the tension tightening his body. ]

You've been dead for years. And I swear to God if you patronize me, I will punch you.

[ This is his father, and saying the words hurt. He wants to fold himself in the space between his father's arms and cry with relief that he's here. But he can't allow himself to believe this is real. It cannot be. Ronan's seen too many tricks now to trust what his eyes are showing him. ]

[pygmalionist]

Oh, fuck off, Ronan.

[Which is Irish for "I love you", and precisely the tone Niall takes when he says it. Though the words swell with adoration, there's not a hint of patronization. Ronan's not a child to be coddled.]

Are you going to let a little thing like time dictate your reality? Your past, my future, and the great big collision of quantum particles at the place where the end is and always has been. Now hit me and get it out of your system. I hope you've kept up with your training.

[fiachdubh]

[ Time is not a straight line. Time is circular, Gansey is a teenager and an old man at the same time, they've found things from the future and from the past in Cabeswater. Ronan lived with a dead boy for a long time.

Could it be real?

He holds his chin high, straightens his shoulders. His hands are closed into fists by his sides - thumb out, Gansey, but he doesn't move. There's a flickering of hope through the debris in his mind, and it's keeping him in place, helps him feel the love in Niall Lynch's words. ]

I don't want to hit you. [ It's part respect, part terror, part love, undying and sure to make Ronan insane. ]

So, you're not a figment of my imagination.

[pygmalionist]

[Niall puts his thumb to his chin like a painter assessing his canvas. Ronan's more of a fighter now than ever. Niall can see it even though Ronan refuses to come at him. A punch or two really would help, he thinks, but he can understand why a boy might hesitate to pummel his deceased father (though Niall doesn't share the sentiment with regards to his own dear pa).]

Not as far as I can tell.

[Wouldn't it be interesting if he was a dream of Ronan's, though? That would be Niall's preferred method of resurrection, if he could have his pick.]

[fiachdubh]

[ Every time he thinks maybe he should do it, punch his father, right now, make sure, his imagination supplies him with an image of his dead body, bloody and disjointed, broken beyond repair. Like a single punch could throw him right back to that state.

He can't do it. He feels like a coward, but he doesn't run away - he's never been one to run away. He keeps his eyes on his father's, nostrils flared as he struggles to breathe.

He wishes Adam was here. What would his father think of him and Adam?

He points his chin to the bed behind them. ]

You dreamed this?

[pygmalionist]

[Niall turns to regard the bed, eyebrows lifting.]

I certainly didn't just stumble upon it here in the bloody woods, did I?

[Jokes aside, he understands the question under the question.]

You haven't lost it just because you're far from home.