jackin | test drive

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test drive | 1

test drive

Welcome to the first test drive for Systemwide! We are excited to have you. All prospective players are welcome to tag in and test out their characters, be they unplugged or free born. We would like to offer a range of scenarios that can be expected during gameplay, which are also useable prompts for app samples, and of course, if something else about the setting strikes you, feel free to come up with your own!

Please put your character name and canon in your subject line, and indicate which prompt you are launching from.

simulation | maybe this is your first time. perhaps you've been here countless times. it's a room, as confined as a boxing ring, as expansive as a battle field, whatever you need it to be, whatever you're here to train for.
1.

Before you is a city of rooftops, empty of human life. This is a safe place, because while it may hurt you, at least it won't kill you. Perhaps you are practicing your influence over reality, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Are you successful, or are you failing to free your mind? Perhaps you're helping someone else overcome their fear of heights.

And of course, an operator can always load up some Agent-like training programs to make it interesting.

2.

Congratulations, you know kung-fu, or maybe some other system of combat, like crazy parkour archery, cartwheeling with guns, or sword fighting on horse back. Perhaps you're trying out something even more fantastic, a magical skill or a superpower.

Show me. Or a friend.
mission | whether on board a ship or with your mind sunk deep into a Matrix, you will have to join the battle eventually. sometimes things go terribly wrong. what are you gonna do about it?
3.

Something's gone wrong with this extraction.

There's a lot of information to process. Your target's been extracted, and that's the good news -- your ship, in reality, is heading to their location now -- but the bad news is your team has been scattered. You could be anywhere within this Matrix, deep in the jungle, or lost on a subway train, or staggering out of the crashing waves of a night time beach, and the operator needs a minute to figure out your exact location before they can direct you to a port out of here, or send another operative to collect you.

All you have to do is stay alive for that long. Easy, right?

4.

You were warned of this. You've been prepared in endless simulations, with a dozen cautionary tales, training sessions with the EMP. Still, it's nothing like you imagined, when the operator shouts: "Sentinel closing in at seven o' clock. It's gaining."

And then the shriek of metal.
reality | as much as many Matrixes are designed to be a comfort, you have to face the real world sometime. or maybe this is the world you have only ever known.
5.

Annual celebrations are rare to come by, but the anniversary of Neo's Truce is one that always draws in the crowd. The event takes place in a massive cavern in Zion known as the Temple, and there is music, and there is dancing [a little NSFW].

Everyone is there.

Where are you?

6.

The wind on your face, up here on the desolate surface, tastes bitter, different to what it feels like in a simulated reality. It's freezing cold and always dark, but sometimes, you need a reminder about what it is you're fighting for. Or maybe you're seeing the wasteland of Earth for the first time.

Either way, you shouldn't be out here for too long. The machines might find you.

wildcard | choose your own adventure.
7.

Perhaps you're riding with the Dothraki, or sitting under the Sorting Hat for the first time. Maybe the pleather bodysuit is pinching under your armpits as the traffic of the 90's roars by, or the Nova Empire's sprawling city glitters, towering above you. Maybe you're showing someone around the place you called home for your entire fictional life.

Or perhaps it's nothing as fantastical as that: the Council meeting droned on for two hours, and you're just happy to be home, even if it's a tiny enclosure with rust-edged furniture. Maybe someone's coming over for lunch, and there are real greens in the protein slurry today; maybe you're about to ask to join a crew.

There are infinite worlds to explore, but try to remember that only one of them is real.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Even after everything that's happened, Skye is still the social butterfly she's always been. Joking, smiling, laughing, witty repartee. She's right at home in the mass of pulsing bodies crammed together in the caves. And it makes her feel better too, to go back to that.

But even down here, she can't forget the ports in her arms and her chest and her back, can't help but miss the brush of dark hair against her shoulders because it's buzzed now—or, more accurately, it never grew out in the first place.

She tries to act normal anyway when she sees May, slipping off to the side and pulling the sleeve of her flimsy gray sweater back up her shoulder and giving a nod of acknowledgment. ]

Getting in touch with the party animal within? [ Impossible to imagine, but that's why it's a joke. Skye doesn't even need to add the wry, lopsided smile that she gives. ]

[ Rather than allow herself to be shooed out, Skye takes Tony's dismissal as invitation to see herself around. This is the part of the Matrix that she hadn't seen yet, and it feels leaps and bounds more familiar than anything she's been facing so far. It's not just the familiar oversized button-ups and jeans, or the blunt bangs and shoulder-length feathered hair being back. The lack of ports. It's the code, and actually being able to remember the things that she loved in her fake-life.

And it's all around them, better than any hologram SHIELD had to animate its file storage. She reaches up, indiscriminately poking at the coding to try and get an idea for what she's looking at. She hasn't been awake long enough to spot-recognize the Matrix codes yet, not by far, but some of it does reek of familiarity from her old life. Her brow furrows. ]

What is this?

[ Training with Bucky Barnes reminds her of all the things that were never real, and gives her someone who seems to have equal difficulty accepting what is and what's not. Sometimes, she wonders if he's actually having an easier time with the real world than she is, but then they get here, and his arm's back and the insignia is HYDRA-red and she feels like she can ground herself in something.

And the fact that it maybe, just maybe, gives her a little more impetus to kick his ass in training, well. That's just a bonus.

Her heels spread further apart, feet settling just beneath her shoulders, which shrug and work on an axle like she's trying to loosen them up. Eyes search out every infinitesimal movement he makes while he springs upward. A heavy sigh drains out of her as he plummets back to the ground, boots driving in hard.

She shifts her weight, downright wobbles like a cat trying to brace itself for a jump to the top of a piece of furniture, and then she bends to a crouch, and vaults into the air. Limbs twist, her back bends, and her center of gravity turns up over her head. For a moment, her form looks perfect—and then she comes crashing back to the earth on her shoulder.

One hand slaps the asphalt, rolling out with a graceless grunt, and she remains there on her side, pressing one hand to her shoulder as she drops her head back, panting in a mess of dark hair that somewhere in her mind she know she doesn't actually have. ]

Mission: Sentinel Interruptus

[When he yanks the probe out, he isn't gentle, not by a long shot. There's no time for ceremony or apology, even as the bizarre sensation fades out, replaced by a flood of adrenaline. You all heard his voice within the Matrix, and his operator's headset is still camped firmly around his short-shorn head.] One's almost through the upper hull, staboard, [he says.] He's still jacked in.

[He nods at the operative beside you, still prone and wired up on the chair. It means a couple things. They're two hands short, and a few more seconds out from EMP. Maybe it also means they're going to have to suck it up and bake one of their own to save the ship and everyone else, but they have options until then, and that's what Horse means when he stoops down and forms a stirrup with his hands. You can go faster up the ladder when you skip as many rungs as Horse is tall. And their biggest turret is up there.]

I'll be right behind you.

Wildcard Simulation

The Agent program doesn't start until you get in the car, [he says, a tinny voice in your earpiece. Horse is entirely correct, of course, but

the restaurant is so lovely: the steak sumptuous, the plaza sprawling in sunlit elegance outside, mannequins striking poses from storefronts and elegant fonts presenting designer brands above them. There's a sparrow bouncing around optimistically on the balcony railing beside you. Mosaiced skies roam gently over the facades of skyscrapers a few blocks down at the speed of a warm autumn wind. It'd feel real, if his bass-deep voice weren't stupid questions like:]

What are you doing in there?

Wildcard Real

[There are enough people in Zion that not everybody knows everybody, but few enough that anybody's likely to know something about you. One of those things that some people know about Horse, and many other Natives of Zion, is that Irkallans elicit in them an insensate and single-minded rage, a reaction as visceral as dogs with cats. Or what, presumably, dogs and cats are supposed to behave like, based on the Machines' understanding programmed into thousands of Matrixes across the planet.

That's what makes the refugee envoy that docked six hours ago so tenuous. Deserters' deserters. They new boatload of Irkallans are supposed to be segregated with the thin but convenient excuse of quarantine-- for everybody's safety.

But it's not hard to guess that somebody made an exception, when the sound of footfalls from the entryway behind you are matched with a complete change in the air inside the tavern. There is instantaneous ugliness on Horse's face across from you; his shoulders bunch, his eyes lock on the doorway. The clatter of cups and talk dries up like it was scorched. The bartender, a dozen yards back, stops in the middle of drying a carafe.]

[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]

[ When she looks up at him, she's dragging one hand haphazardly over her mouth, wiping away the last ropy strands of bile to make it past her lips. The disturbance softens her because she recognizes him, even if only vaguely. A presence, more than a person.

Slowly, she reaches up to take the water from him with a look that's equal parts tired, grateful, and resigned. The presence of someone else reminds her just how trapped in this she is: she can't go back. Given what she left behind, she's not even sure she'd want to. Danger. Death.

While he makes himself at home in her presence, she sips from the canteen, swishing and swallowing. It's too thick to be normal water, but she doesn't question it. Maybe she just never knew what normal water tasted like. Maybe the Matrix— Better not get caught in that cycle. Skye shifts and turns to lower herself from a crouch to sit flat on the deck, resting her back against one of the railing poles and stretching out her legs.

Even stretching them still feels uncomfortable, like they're deliberately resisting any position that isn't curled up against her body. ]

You mean it's not all like this?

[ It’s a lesson, and the Winter Soldier had paid attention. His initial narrow-eyed uncertainty for the metal exoskeleton had begrudgingly given way to appreciation for the benefit of having more weapons strapped to your person. It didn’t slow him down much. He was getting used to the extra weight.

None of that has kept him from getting thrown full speed into the wall a dozen times.

He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t say much, period, and he keeps getting up, keeps throwing himself into the training. But that last Again brings a flex to his jaw. Cool, steady eyes follow Cage over his face mask.

You want him to kill it?

When the next spinning metal deathtrap comes for him, he jumps. Steel fingers reach out to lock on the bot's shaft, sparks flying off the beam as the weight of power suit and pilot sends him spiraling around it. With a clench of his fist and a shriek of twisting metal, he rips back the plating and yanks the power cords clean out.

Like that? ]

Do you know what the definition of insanity is? [ She throws her hands up, shifting her weight and looking from him back at the machine. Like she's sizing it up to try and wrestle with it or … ride it. One or the other. Reaching forward, she tugs at the edges of her gloves, adjusting them on her hands, rolling tension out of her shoulders and trying to decide what exactly she's gonna go for here. Her eyes dart back to Cage, narrow and incredulous all at once. ] What you're doing. Right now!

Oh, god …

[ For a moment, she's sure she's going to puke, and in the next moment, she has to wonder if that's where they got this stuff in the first place. That, in turn, only makes her feel worse, and she ollies off the bench faster than you can say protein shake.

Raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, she takes a step back. ]

I'm not doing it. If they wanna eat rehydrated boogers, they can do that, but I am not putting that anywhere near my mouth.

A | WILDCARD SIMULATION

[ This isn't what he's supposed to be doing. It's only a matter of time until someone shows up and tells him they have work to do, drags him out, and when that happens the scene will change; engines will roar overhead, lights will blare over the grassy hilltop, and then they'll have a legitimate training scenario. Something that requires reaction, not explanation.

Until then, it's just a quiet, green slope, slate beneath the night sky. Light pools beneath a few dim streetlamps a few yards off, closer to the building. It spills out from the glass door of the hospital, too, quiet and uninterrupted.

Not for him. There's music streaming through the headphones Peter's wearing, sound vague and tinny to anyone who approaches him where he's seated, sprawled out on the grass. The way he's tapping out a rhythm on his leg makes it look like he's distracted, nonchalant, but the way he watches the hospital door like he's expecting someone to walk out of it says otherwise. ]

B | REALITY

This music is terrible.

[ And super loud, which is why that's more or less shouted into your ear. Peter isn't even looking at whoever he's decided to submit his review to, gaze wandering over the sweaty excuse for a dance party that's writhing over the floors below. The level — balcony, sort of — he's currently standing on is crowded, too, and there are spots of movement that qualify as more dancing; but there's comparative quiet, and some actual sitting down and relaxing. ]

You wanna get some air? [ Well. Air, with air quotes, which he adds on the second go. ] You know, air.

[ Or whatever passes for it on this sorry excuse for a planet. It's an open invitation, apparently, and if you happen to be standing next to him, you qualify. ]

The ocean's not blue.

[ You know, granted. A glance up indicates the sky, its soft textures of black cloud, defined by the electrical storms that bloom within them. That's the colour of the ocean.

Bruce does not settle next to her -- he keeps a moderate distance so that she isn't craning her neck to look up at him, though, bundling his arms around his person as he shifts his weight back onto his heels. ]

But it's still there. Wet, the whole thing. How's dealing going?

[ Usually, the person shouting in ears at a rave is the Creep Guy who needs a lesson in personal space, but today it's apparently the Downer. Skye keeps her body undulating along with the rhythm of the music, but cuts Quill a look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. A brief once-over, and she at least decides to offer him an answer instead of just herding him out the door all bye, Felicia. ]

What—is this, like, your first rave? [ Dropping her hands to her sides, she straightens her legs out, tipping her head to the side. Then again, some people are thinking they're coming out of the Dark Ages, so maybe she shouldn't judge by appearances. She nods behind him for the nearest exit from the main cave area, squeezing out after him. ] So what's your idea of good music? Barry Manilow?

[ Peter would take it incredibly personally if anyone called him a downer, ever, but luckily she plays along with minimal sass. The next room over is quieter yet, cut off by stone and dirt from the rest of it, but it's far from tranquil. The music runs through the sediment and emanates with a dull, constant pulse that makes everything else between the walls sound muted. ]

Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little—

[ Not that muted, though. Too loud. He stops, adjusts for a slightly more inside voice. ]

There's nothing wrong with a little Manilow.

[ He gives her a curious look as he speaks, but he hasn't actually stopped — he's still navigating through the tunnels, looking for any stairs he can get to. Saying he's got this place mapped out in his head would be a serious overstatement. ]

Something like that. [Glancing over at Skye, May still seems more interested in the crowd for now. It's not that she doesn't care about Skye- far from it. It's them she's worried about, what they might do, how this whole celebration might make them act.]

Seems like you're enjoying yourself.

[ He grins. It's a bright, white grin, a movie star grin, a practiced grin, but one of impulse too. Funny she asks. It lasts a second, before he agrees; ]

You could say I'm familiar.

[ The switch is thrown again. Behind her, one of the mechanical stars swoops on by in a wide circle, barely avoiding collision with another. The one she's sizing up starts to life, spinning a short circle, its lights blinking, its claws extending -- as if it's staring back at her.

In the same motion, Cage steps over the line, and onto the training ground. He is not a huge guy, on the compact side of things, but there's a confidence at his core. He's equipped with a sidearm, but little else. Perhaps his role as trainer gives him some immunity. ]

You have a distinct advantage that you didn't have before. Everything around you -- gravity, friction, these machines -- are following orders. You're making decisions.

Decide to be better. Than these things, than gravity.

[ Like that. Jeeze. ]

Okay.

[ Upon critical injury, the machine withdraws at a slide, sparking, swinging, and Cage steps out onto the field, the hydraulic of his power suit a hum between the clank of metal boots striking the floor. He probably won't ever be as fluid in these things as the likes of the Full Metal Bitch, god knows, but he wears it like he's worn it so many times before.

Behind him, one of the machines passes by, almost silent save for how it cuts through the air. There are three more, and they circle like predators. ]

New game. It's called have my back. You heard of it?

[ Hopefully it has, because by miracle of coincidence (or the key stroke of an operator with a sense of humour), one of the spinning monstrousity suddenly zooms for Cage, coming at his blind spot. ]

Wildcard Simulation 1 (X-Men Cinematic Universe)

[It's fairly obvious when Sirius Black figures out what his mutation is. In the middle of the street, he entirely stops paying attention to the girls in bell-bottoms and the blokes with big hair and the squashed-looking American cars and how tight and structured all the Muggles clothes. He falls sharply silent, his head turning steadily on its axis as his feet keep moving, his attention fixed, unmistakably, upon the big yellow dog leashed to the parking meter there.

His face changes a little. His fingers start to open, telegraph a reach, almost, for the little furry face, the friendly tilt of ears, the nose coming to meet his palm.

--but then he pulls back, nonchalance settling firmly into place. He looks nearly like he did as a free man, none of Azkaban's cold and hungry years having left a shadow or a tincture to his square jaw. Not here.] What've you got then? [he asks, looking up. His hand goes in his pocket.]

Real Party

[He's supposed to like a party. 'Party.'

There are any number of excuses that might suit: it's not very British, this mad knot of bodies. It certainly isn't very wizardly, the organic intensity of it, music beating through like the air itself has a heartbeat, sweating with the passion of every person contained therein. He's been to London, he's seen how dense the Ministry is, and the Quidditch games would in the greatest championships, attract turnout that was physically impossible for the arenas to hold. You know, were it not for magic.

But magic isn't real. Just as mutation is not real, and Azkaban wasn't real, and the disparate pieces of his life were not real, from the wand that chose him to the peculiar matter of thestrels. This sequence of thoughts is completely irrelevant to anything, but it's still what he thinks about as he stumbles around a table, upends himself over a recently-emptied keg and vomits inside its reverberating hull.

Five minutes later, he's well beyond the crowd. The stone is cold on his shoulder. He tries to compose himself, but they don't produce mirrors here with either magic or mechanical manufacturing processes, so his efforts are a little unbalanced. His hair smears black across his forehead; his eyes blink green.]

[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]

Edited (oops) 2015-01-25 04:22 (UTC)

Sure, if you're, like, sixty.

[ As they move, Skye's eyes scan the tunnels in a telling way: she's still new to this. New enough that her hair's still barely beyond a buzzcut, skin prickling now that they're putting distance between themselves and the pulsing heat coming off the bodies of a cavern full of dancers. Sweat sticks to her, cooling her off more quickly. ]

[The thing is, they spent all this time after they pulled her out explaining that what she was used to wasn't real. Back home - because there's still a part of her that thinks of it as home - she could have done it. Soared across in a crackle of blue light, nobody to tell her otherwise. But now, after extraction and all the hard lessons that come with that, she hesitates. Wraps the delay up in sneering down at the small hand folding into hers and makes a sound like there's something bitter stuck in the back of her throat.]

Sure. Then what? Pajama party? Braid each other's fuckin' hair?

[The way she so firmly bounces the hell outta the situation catches him off guard, and he actually tears his eyes away from the vomit soup to shoot her a surprised look. Man, that is a level of done even he finds impressive.

Kinda makes him rethink the whole thing to be honest, so he glances back down, poking at it a little more with the fork.

Rehydrated boogers has him gagging and glancing away, because it's probably an even more accurate description for it, and that's...

Alright, this is not doing them any favors. He clears his throat. Shakes his shoulders out.]

I'm gonna do it.

[He declares finally, like he's amping himself up. He pops his neck like he's getting ready for a fight. Shakes his head.]

I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna try it.

[He repeats firmly, because this is all they've got. This is the food for, like, ever, and Dean's got a long standing relationship with food. That relationship can't be ending, can it? No way, he's so not ready for that breakup, so he shoves his fork into a big ol' fat lump of goo and breathes out slowly, bracing himself.

Alright. Here we go. Come on, baby, don't let him down.]

[ Peter gives him a friendly slap on the back that's as much about the friendly as it is halting that backpedal mid-step. ]

Come on, man, it's just like riding a bike. Or maybe it's like falling off a bike. Either way, easy.

[ Once you get over the theoretical certain death. ]

Would it help if we got something really scary to chase you? What's your poison? It's clowns, right? It's always clowns.

Or if you're, like, totally cool.

[ Manilow's a classic. Not that he knows that, technically, but give it time. He hops up a flight of uneven stairs while he speaks, and it's been long enough that it doesn't wind him — still, he goes quiet for a second, waiting until he hits the next flat plateau to turn around and look at her, walking backwards as he continues. ]

You're Skye, right? I heard you're some kind of petite, lady James Bond.

[ The grapevine. Super inefficient. ]

[She doesn't much like sleep. There's a learning curve, she's told, a trick to separating what you thought was real from what is, and until she's mastered that, sleep - and the dreams that come with it - is something she accepts only reluctantly.

This stranger isn't really any more interesting than not-sleeping, as far as she can she, and her eyes barely flick over him.]

They'd be right. Maybe you come see me in a month or so, when it won't knock you flat on that pasty ass of yours.

[ It takes a moment after her eyes drift up for it to really process. Ocean's not blue, but why is he looking at— Oh. Lightning casts slightly lighter grays over the coal clouds as it cracks through them, and it sinks in. Black sky, black water. A nod follows, and she caps the canteen, holding it in her lap. ]

Last thing I remember before waking up here, I was zip-lining down into an underground temple. Suddenly, I'm trying to learn to walk again, except I know how, and my body just won't do it. I feel useless.

[The good news is that firm don't run away bro-slap accomplishes at least half of what Peter's aiming for, so. You know. It's not quite up to Meatloaf standards, but at least there's that.

Evidently it's not up to Dean's standards either, because he pulls an almost comically incredulous face at the metaphor.]

Yeah, no, I remember the last time I was chased by a clown and fell off my bike two miles to the ground. Yeah, no, that was good times.

[He responds, like Peter's out of his goddamn mind.

He holds his hands up.]

How about we just- I don't know- go back to that... karate chopping simulator one, that one was a lot less... worst thing ever.

[Tony turns around his upper-body first, like a puppet catching awkwardly on his strings. His eyes find the young woman pretty easily, considering she's the only other thing in here that isn't comprised of dozens of strings of programming language and holographic representations. In a moment, his foot springs out to start him striding toward her.] Don't change-- [he starts to say, before apparently observing that she isn't in fact trying to change anything. She's only looking.

Moreover, she knows how to only look.] A little something I made before, [he says.] Back in the Old World. You know, the simulation that came before the Rise of the Machines. [He makes a quizzical gesture with both his hands, careless the way he behaves when he's still wary. But genuinely careless in that hE DOESN'T REALLY BElieve that any program he might make could conceivably turn against humankind. That's ridiculous. There would never be a movie about that.]

You're a programmer. [It isn't a question, but it does lack recognition.]

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Page 2 of 24

test drive | 1

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wildcard simulation

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Horse | Native OC | Mission & Sim & Real

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peter quill | mcu

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B

why not madonna

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Sirius Black | Simulations & Real (cw indications of past trauma)

because madonna is too close to rave sounding ok

1!

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simulation;

oh ok

reality

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