jackin | test drive

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test drive | 2

test drive

Welcome to our bimonthly Systemwide test drive. Please feel free to use this venue to test out any prospective character you may have, whether they're unplugged or free born. Comment below responding to one of our scenarios, or invent your own, and make sure to tag around. Note that any test drive tag can be used as an in game sample for application. Reserves are open, and applications will open on April 25.

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

the matrix | the air feels real, but you know it's not because you have been told as much. due to the fractures of the matrix, you could be standing in a landscape familiar to you, or one that's intensely alien. this could be your first time, or your thousandth time. this could be the real deal, or just a simulation. either way, all you are experiencing now is coding.

This is a familiar battle to you, with familiar demons. An extraction mission gone arwy, or simple spying and recon -- either way, Agents -- either of the suit and tie kind, or something more monstrous -- have detected your presence, and you're going to have to fend them off while looking for an escape route (in the form of a pay phone, or an invisible backdoor of your imagination). But this time, you're among friends in the form of your crew.

Alternatively, you're out of your depth, in an alien landscape, but you're better, faster, stronger than you've ever been before. Or at least, maybe someone on your team knows what they're doing. Either way, you are advised to run.

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.

A new recruit has opened their eyes. What was your involvement? Perhaps you're simply staying out of the way, and you're seeing the expanses of the human field towers for the first horrifying time since you were blind and helpless yourself. Perhaps you're acting as guardian angel, holding the unconscious quarry's hand, or tending to their medical charts.

Perhaps you're the new recruit, feeling the metal floor of the hovercraft beneath your feet, stepping out to explore this new world while still aching muscles protest from all this new strain. You almost don't believe that this has happened, but nothing has ever felt so real before now.

wildcard | choose your own adventure.

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 you're just practicing in the simulation stations.

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. Perhaps you're participating in key events, whether it's something to celebrate, or something sad.

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

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"Oh, it's French today?" Ezio returns glibly in French, and leans against the wall beside Arno's closed door. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, cabbage?"

Arno amazes him. To be fair, most things in reality still do; the low hum of a ship's engines, how information that would fill the world's largest library can be stored on a slip of metal no bigger than his thumbnail; even the easy access to clean, running water, hot water at that if he so pleased...the list goes on. This young man in particular, so much like his own self...another Assassin, from a completely different Matrix full of Assassins; the mind boggled. And they knew Ezio too! Or at least knew of him, taught his teachings, carried on the legacy that seemed to have crossed any sort of divide between the worlds. It was all very flattering if he could admit that to himself, though he never expected accolades or worshipful praise.

That...had been a little problematic. No, not a little-- hugely so, when it served to cause divides in the Brotherhood, when it meant Assassins killing Assassins out of some misguided interpretation of his work. Pierre Bellec is long dead now, but Ezio would gladly have shaken him until his teeth rattled.

But he's left that behind him. Now he's just another Matrix-born extract in the resistance against the machines, and he's got to get the new kid up and running.

Edited (eh, better) 2015-04-19 19:01 (UTC)

reality.
[ It's been about four weeks since Grey woke up. No, unplugged it was supposed to be. Or maybe it was almost four weeks. He was finding it as hard as ever to keep track of time, even though he wasn't on the train anymore. No. Even though this was real life and not a trick. The train wasn't real. Grey was still getting used to it.

At least that's what he was supposed to be doing. For the past few days, or maybe a week, or maybe longer, he'd been spending most of his time in a training room with some excercise equipment. He wasn't prepared for how useless he felt here, or how much he hated that. Things that used to be second nature to him on the train were not almost impossible now. And if he couldn't fight, or protect anyone, then what good was he?

Also. Grey had to admit he liked that the excercise rooms were enclosed with four solid walls. The city was so big, and so open, and so unsettling. When he was here he didn't have to think about that for a while. So his hands gripped a horizontal bar that was fixed above his head and dis pull-ups. Or he tried. Every time he managed only a few before his arms gave out and he ended up on the floor again. Shaking his head in frustration, he straightened his shirt, pulling the sleeves down over his wrists He didn't like looking as his skin now that it was so... blank.

Another reminder of everything he could no longer do. Wiping the sweat from his hands onto his pants, Grey reached up for the bar again. He needed to do this.]

[ curtis couldn't really believe that they'd managed to unplug grey. no matter that it had been one of his goals when he himself was unplugged, he hadn't really thought they could do it -- there were billions of people in the machine farms, and looking for three people was like looking for one specific needle in a stack of other needles. and yet... here grey was. it was strange seeing him without his tattoos, or gilliam at his side. curtis was keeping his suspicion that gilliam was an agent to himself -- telling grey would just hurt him, or drive a wedge between them, and that was the last thing curtis wanted. they were from the same matrix, the only really familiar people here. they had to stick together.

the two of them spent most of their time together in the gym, and curtis was doing his best to help grey, but it was clear that grey was getting frustrated with his body's limitations. it wasn't as though curtis hadn't been there himself, back when he was first unplugged, so he knew how grey felt, he just... didn't know what to say to make him feel less shitty. he hadn't ever really spoken to grey much on the train, mostly just saw him as gilliam's guard dog and not much more, so curtis didn't know how to talk to him. he was doing his best, but he had to wonder if he was just making things worse.

the next time grey fell to the floor after doing a few pull-ups, curtis came over to him and crouched down next to him. for a while he was silent, trying to think of what to say, and then he gave grey a small, lopsided smile. ]

You know, when I was first unplugged, I could barely manage one push-up before I collapsed.

[ Grey grit his teeth. He wanted to punch the floor, but even his fingers hurt. It didn't seem fair, mostly because Grey remembered this. He'd already done this part. When he was a kid and still weak and growing, he'd been in a constant state of strength training. Agility. Speed. And now he was starting all over. This was his first time using his muscles this way, he tried to remind himself, but it felt like starting over.

It was different for Curtis. Grey leaned up on his hands, breathing hard and just glaring at him. Grey wans't angry. Not at Curtis. He was grateful for Curtis trying to help him, though sometimes he wondered why. Maybe he thought he owed it to Gilliam to look out for Grey, or maybe it's because they were from the same Matrix. But Curtis had never really paid attention to him then and Grey didn't understand why he would now. Except that he was probably waiting for Grey to be useful again.

Grey understood that he was tryng to be encouraging or something, but it wasn't the same. Curtis had been strong in the Matrix, everyone knew that, but it wasn't what made him important. He was smart, good at planning, at understanding people and ideas. Curtis could beat most anyone on the train, but they trusted him not to. And for everyone he couldn't, that's what Grey was for.

For some reason Grey wanted to hit him. He settled for sitting on the floor. Shaking his head. And looking at Curtis with something between exhaustion and exasperation. ]

[ To Grey, on the other hand, this was a marked improvement on what he was used to eating. Or at least it was a decent alternative. Even the spoon was a novelty. Grey wondered if front-enders used to eat with spoon. It felt fancy and very unnecessary. He could picture Mason eating with a spoon, if Mason even existed. So this. Grey could easily get used to this.

He gripped the spoon with his fist, and was halfway through his portion when he noticed a man nearby wasn't eating. Grey frowned. Maybe he was sick? That's what it usually- that's what it used to mean when someone wouldn't eat. It was none of Grey's business, he knew that. Most things weren't.

So he turned back to his bowl with every intention of finishing his meal. Too bad he forgot about the spoon. Accidentally knocking it with his arm, it flung through the air as Grey cringed and watched helplessly. Yeah. So unnecessary. ]

[The rope's too far out, swinging dangerously in the wind, and was no part of this mission gonna be easy?]

This is not a good idea.

[Korben mutters to himself, but he's already climbing up onto the balcony railing, crouched down and holding on for a moment before he reluctantly (and slowly) pulls himself up to stand. It's precarious. He wobbles, heavy boots slipping on the railing before he windmills an arm, regains some measure of balance.

It's all he has time for before the door in the apartment behind him bursts open.

He leaps, more faith than judgement in the outstretch of his arm. For a split second, a heartbeat, he thinks it won't be enough. Then his palm is scraping fibre, rope snapping taut as it takes his weight.

Relief is short-lived. He's hanging from the bottom of a rope under a helicopter, and the balcony is filling with agents who look about ready to make the same jump.

Move, he thinks, both at himself and as a useless attempt at telepathic communication with his rescuer in the pilot's seat above. Twisting in the air, trying not to think about the street far below his boots, he makes a grab at the rope with his other hand, starting to haul himself up.]

[ Teatime's free hand shot up to snatch the utensil from midair-- but this was not the reality he was used to. His reflexes were slower, his muscles less toned, and he lacked the scrying stone that made it so that he didn't have to look to see. His fingertips bumped metal and the spoon bounced upward enthusiastically. He was rewarded with a small shower of food-mush over his wrist and sleeve. His lip curled in disgust.

The second attempt-- this time with his dominant hand, and his eyes tracking properly-- was successful. He contemplated the scuffed spoon briefly before turning his gaze on its owner, calculating. It wouldn't do to jam the utensil into the boy's eye, so he sifted through other possibilities until something more socially acceptable popped up. ]

Dropped this. [ He chirped with a smile. He offered the spoon handle-first as though he were passing a knife. ]

REALITY

[ Maybe it's your first day in the real world, maybe it's your second week. Either way, you're still fresh, weak — figuring out how to cope. The sound of an electronic whirring registers in your ears before the warmth of a handprint presses against your shoulder firmly. ]

Can you hear me?

[ "Soothing" isn't exactly the right word, but the voice is smooth and even. A little rough around the edges, maybe, with just a hint of curtness. Not overwhelmingly concerned, to say the least. ]

MATRIX

[ It's the kind of silence that becomes overwhelming, given time. The white walls are mostly clean, lit by a soft blue light without any obvious source. Fairly standard space station material, if you're familiar with science fiction.

Utilitarian piping and panels are all that same off-white, running the length of the hallway that opens up onto a small octagonal room. There are monitors at the front, but they're quiet, too. The only sounds are your footsteps and the growing throb of your own blood flow in your ears, but that's all broken by the sound of a sharp hiss from one side of the room. ]

Shhh.

[ The woman's sitting in front of one of the consoles, leaning forward onto her elbows, chin propped up in one hand. She looks like someone parked in front of a television set, though there's no obvious source of entertainment. Either way, she doesn't bother turning around to face you. ]

[ Jack Benjamin doesn't shh.

Two years unplugged may have roughened a few of his sleeker edges in the Real, but in here his residual self-image isn't at the mercy of a narrow fabric selection and cultural aversion to excess. If years at war in his own matrix hadn't made sliding into a suit again any more difficult, nothing will; today's is dark and clean-cut, modern enough not to clash with their surroundings while still very much a suit. (Tradition and expectation have their uses, after all.)

As he rounds the room, however, he neatly undermines any illusions of maturity with an exaggerated cluck of disappointment. ]

And I thought reality was boring.

[ It's the mature gesture that finally drags Alex out of herself. Her chair gives a low whine as she leans her weight against the back, spinning it on its stand with a smooth push away from the desk.

Her expression's neutral, eyes unabashedly tracking over the man and taking in the details. Slick suit, slick demeanor. Slick everything. If she's impressed, she acts otherwise. ]

Suppose it depends on your definition of boring. You have a job?

[ There's a lilt of an accent there, northern English, maybe. Her tone remains impersonal, if not unfriendly; it sounds like an interview question, if anything. ]

[ Plenty of people don't like him. Which is funny, really, not because everybody doesn't rub somebody the wrong way, or because politicians in particular don't excel at making enemies, but because there is in fact a tiny nugget of genuineness beneath his carefully crafted exterior, and he's already good enough at becoming the kind of person people like, that it's not so difficult to capitalize on that center, if he puts any effort into it at all.

But he doesn't, always. Like now, when he seems content to come off as some asshole interrupting your day for no reason at all. ]

Sometimes Aries lets me shine her shoes. [ he answers with a faux-modest shrug. ] Why, are you hiring?

( it's been a little less than a week since she was unplugged; long enough that she's alert and tense before alex's hand finds her shoulder, but not long enough for her to be able to do anything about that awareness, and the frustration of that is palpable as she says, hoarsely, )

What?

( --which is not especially gracious. )

No.

[ A quick answer, accompanied by a very slight lift of her brows. Also, not completely true; she's always hiring, in the sense of training operators.

But here, now, she's off duty. Sitting alone in this incredibly dull room is what taking a break looks like. It's obvious that she's at home here, all nonchalance despite the interruption. She watches him for another quiet moment before continuing, gaze sliding back to the screen that's now on her right. ]

I was going to suggest you find one, but not everyone takes satisfaction in hard work.

[ Based on his demeanor, she doubts work would make him any less bored. Not the kind of work you find in the real world, anyway. ]

[ Not especially gracious, no, but that's hardly new. Better than kicking and screaming. Alex's expression remains neutral, hand steady on the woman's shoulder. The last thing she needs is another newly unplugged jumping off the table before they've got their legs under them. ]

Apparently you can.

[ Which isn't particularly sympathetic, either, just an idle note spoken out loud. There's a very slight hint of amusement in it that doesn't reach her features. ]

My name is Alex. Can you tell me my name?

[ His face scrunches in a You sound like my father and that's terrible sort of look, if looks could be quite that specific, or at least some kind of mild but animated revulsion. Alex pls. ]

Even you need more than that. [ With a pointed slide of his eyes to her many quiet little monitors - which she may not even actually see, as she's apparently and justifiably more interested in said monitors than his face, but nonetheless. Indulgence takes many forms, after all, some less flashy than others. ]

She has a request of you. [ Aries, presumably. ]

I'm used to less.

[ A simple statement, no pity or intrigue implied by it. As for that not-so-flashy indulgence, it appears to hold her interest; she doesn't look back to Jack, and the only sign of curiosity is the slight lift of her voice. ]

Oh?

[ She's curious. It's just that deadpan's kind of a default mode, and even her curiosity tends to come out muted. ]

( enfys is inclined to say 'yes' and then roll over (or try to) and go back to sleep, but that way probably only lies more forceful bothering. which she'll avoid, thanks, when she's in no position to actually prevent it. the dryness that lingers in her rough, unused voice maybe speaks to the impulse she suppressed, anyway, )

Your name is Alex.

( she is familiar with coming around to people testing her cognition, anyway. or she thought she was. )

[ Truth be told, he does wonder if she could sound any less enthusiastic, but giving voice to that curiosity skirts a little closer to earning Aries's eventual ire than he cares to just now. This is business, and his demeanor adjusts accordingly, however minutely. ]

One of the recently unplugged seems a good fit for you.

[ Or, she seems a good fit for however it is the Councillor would prefer this individual handled - quietly, perhaps, given the unofficial and at least superficially casual nature of the request, although there is a careful, weighted stare to accompany it, in the reflection of the nearest pane of glass. ]

If you can find the room in your busy schedule.

[ Of staring at nothing. ]

Good.

[ Gold star. Said with the passivity of a nurse making a checklist, something she's done far too many times before. She finally eases off the pressure on the woman's shoulder, but she doesn't back away from the table. ]

And your name?

[ It crosses her mind that this is all a waste of time. Waking people up, showing them the ropes. But saying as much would probably lack tact, so instead she says: ]

Come here.

[ Yes, she'll take the newbie, of course. Alex doesn't actually feel the need to say as much, because following Aries's advice seems like the obvious move. She sits back further in her chair as she speaks, making room for him to easily look over her shoulder as she reaches out and hits the flat keyboard in front of her.

The screen flicks on. A series of graphs, all in motion, charting what seem to be sounds. Her hand moves to her ear a moment later, removing a wire-thin ear bud from where it's been hidden beneath her hair.

Still not bothering to look at him, for the record. She's just assuming he'll follow suit. ]

( there's a twitch, like if she were in better shape she'd be rolling her shoulder in a circle now it's free, but it doesn't quite get that far. she exhales, shifting her head against the pillow underneath it - the bareness of it is bizarre, after so many years wearing it so long. she's more conscious of it than she'd ever imagined she'd be, feels more vulnerable.

the flicker of irritation across her face - unused muscles unaccustomed to guarding expressions - has more to do with that vulnerability than the question. )

Enfys. E-N-F-Y-S. Llewelyn. Born July 26th, 1975. My favourite colour is red and I like long--

( a brief coughing fit interrupts. )

--walks on the beach.

[ Ah, humor. That's good. ]

Good luck finding one of those.

[ She leans away for a moment, retrieving something off a nearby tray. When she next speaks, it's accompanied by the touch of her hand sliding around to the back of Enfys's neck — like one would cradle a baby, basically. ]

Sit forward, slowly. Drink this.

[ This being the small cup of water she's got in her other hand, which she'll offer up as soon as Enfys seems to have her bearings enough to take it. ]

( reality doesn't have much to recommend it, so far. nor does consciousness, or sitting up, but since all three of these things are happening to her - enfys does her best, gamely trying to be an active participant in the sitting up process. she's not thrilled about it.

or about how much thought has to go into getting her hands to respond to her - or the fact she has to use both, when she lifts them up to the cup. this is actually bullshit, she reflects, and-- well, it won't always be. it's the same body, if...not exactly the same, as it turns out, so this is temporary. this is just the first part.

she just has to get through this part, is all. )

I'm guessing they don't pay you enough.

( she doesn't imagine everyone's as cooperative. )

[babydoll's already on the run herself, but to her, this is nothing. glass shatters in front of her from above and she halts her run, looking at where the glass came from. which is where korben comes into play. they don't know each other, or at least-- never got to know each other. she's not exactly easy to miss in zion, but maybe their paths never crossed, or they never had an excuse to talk to each other. she hardly recognizes him, all she recognizes is the possibility of an ally.

she pauses long enough to watch him drop to the ground before she catches up to him. she sticks out, a gun in her holster and a sword being slipped back into its sheath as she makes her way over. she's small, but quick. he may have longer strides, but she's determined, and she's certain that he's trying to find a phone as fast as she is.]

If you don't know how to hotwire a car, I do.

(( cw: implied cannibalism. possibility of lingering descriptions of violence in narrative depending on the thread and cr. the character is a serial killer, pm me if you want to play but avoid certain topics. feel free to handwave cr, pick an earlier point in the narrative, or write a different starter. ))

I.
[ Hannibal Lecter always knew that God had a sense of humor, but he lacked strict confirmation until six years ago, when the truth of the Matrix was revealed to him. That humanity could be harvested like crops to feed their own invention was not the great joke, of course, nor was the absurdity of clinging to a hard truth like a mollusk clings to the bottom of the boat rather than accepting a life of dreams. It was — his own role, his own truth, the humiliation of the sight of thousands of pods like the kernels of a cob of corn and his own abject crawling from the muck.

Perhaps the unremarkable life that followed could be considered a sign of a man whom, confronted with his own mortality, resolved to turn to the next blank page, a new leaf over, as it were. Certainly Doctor Roman Fell demonstrated no interest in Zionite politics or the Zion Defense Grid, the two clear ladders of ambition set before the newly unplugged. He read diligently, and exercised his frail body, spoke to others mostly of language and the arts, and visited the catacombs. Then one day he left for Etham, claiming a desire to devote himself spiritually.

There are limited places in this new world, everything huddled together, and Hannibal visited each outpost in turn, spending a small measure of time learning the culture, making contacts, collecting resources. If perhaps he carried less prosaic goods in his briefcases than simply his clothes, surely there was no harm in a little personal purchasing, to be redistributed as "gifts" to friends. Smuggling was the practice of Irkalian pirates, not polite middle-aged gentlemen in a fading three-piece suit.

It is only today that he has stepped off a hovercraft back into Zion, churned along with the other refugees from the ravaged outpost of Olympus, where the roof of the church has finally fallen on its worshippers. Despite his best efforts, being swept up in the conflict has left him slightly less presentable than he would like, and there is blood under his nails that he desires to wash off as soon as possible. It is with relief that he is waved through processing, so much easier without papers and passports and fingerprints to concern oneself with, and soon he is knocking on the door of an aquaintance he once made, or at least, the door of where they used to live, years ago. ]

II.
Good evening, Zion.

I have decided to offer my psychiatric services in private practice. Within the Matrix I was highly qualified and maintained a select list of regular patients who visited my offices: here, I will offer home visits until my own space can be established and furnished. There will be no bias between those who have or have not been unplugged from the Matrix, however my counseling focuses on overcoming psychological distress — should your interest in therapy stem from a desire to adapt more adequately to the loss of your previous life, I advise you first try the clinicians of the Zion Defense Grid who specialize in assisting the newly extracted. My rates are negotiable.

My sincerest apologies that my first opportunity to utilize the network so kindly provided for us has resulted only in advertisement. If you would prefer a more personal dialogue, I am also interested in discussion of the recent appearance of the Oracle, and her prediction of the strife we are still, as a community, attempting to recover from. Do you believe the issuance of a warning before an attack it represents further schism between the machines? Did anyone speak with her directly?

Finally, I am looking to hire a temporary guide. I have never in the past spent much time in Zion, and would appreciate someone with better knowledge of its levels and functions to show me around.

My sincerest thanks,

Doctor R. Fell.

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test drive | 2

lol late whoops story of our lives

Grey | Snowpiercer

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reality!

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alex bradshaw | oc

matrix

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ay ay ay | matrix

dr "roman fell" | nbc's hannibal | contains no S3 spoilers