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returnjourneymemes2021-12-10 12:00 pm
returnjourney) wrote in returnjourneymemes2021-12-10 12:00 pm
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TEST DRIVE 001
RETURN JOURNEY: TEST DRIVE 001
Welcome to the Return Journey's test drive meme! We appreciate your interest. Our TDM features a small sample of events your character might encounter in game, which you're free to embellish or improvise with your own ideas as desired. Don't worry if you haven't read everything yet; while we recommend skimming our FAQ for relevant questions, critical information should be contained or linked within the prompts themselves!
TDM threads can be used as samples for applications. Players can mutually keep threads as game canon after being accepted into the game, though threads featuring non-canon squalls or events may need to be adjusted.
We suggest putting your character's name, canon, and potential role (warden or inmate) as the subject. If you're not sure which role you want to choose, feel free to try your hand at both!
If you have any questions about the TDM, please ask here.
1. Welcome Aboard!
Welcome aboard the SFS Peregrine, a ship in the Admiralty's Transformative and Penal Reparation Fleet. It is presently circling the outer perimeter of the Oos Ring Galaxy.
Wardens have been approached personally by the Navarch with a job offer: Come aboard the SFS Peregrine to assist in the redemption of an inmate, and receive a miracle known as a windfall as payment. Even if you don't ask as many questions as you should, every warden will be treated to a short Warden Orientation video explaining their expected duties and conduct.
Inmates have died and been placed aboard the SFS Peregrine as candidates for reformation. You may have come willingly, offered a choice between death or redemption, or you may have been collected against your will. Inmates are also treated to an Inmate Orientation; you'll find you have less privileges than a warden, but more motivation for...latitude. Violence? Chaos? Bribery? Blackmail? Well, no one said the path to redemption was without a few bumps along the way.
Given staff shortages, some wardens may be asked for a favor. Rather than leaving directly for the Peregrine, you've been asked to pick up an inmate from the limbo between death and redemption. During this mission, wardens will have clearance to enter a snapshot of sorts, where the inmate died (so devoid of other living beings). You either have to talk them into willingly coming along...or bring their unconscious, fresh-from-death not-corpse with you in the Avro provided. Better hope they don't wake up on the way!
Inmates, in this case, you'll be presented with the choice of death or redemption from a warden rather than the Navarch. Or possibly not provided with a choice at all, if death has rendered you unconscious. Good luck when you awaken to find yourself in a small ship, with someone you've never met. Try not to cause any trouble.
2. Pairings
Pairings are a critical aspect of the dynamic between warden and inmate. While interactions between wardens and inmates are not restricted to those in pairings, this relationship is a bit more...inescapable. Inmates test the limits of a warden, whether they take a more typical or unusual approach to matters; likewise, wardens learn what makes an inmate tick (and hopefully cooperate). Chances are, your values will clash.
A pairing of any sort is as varied as the individuals involved in them. And today, courtesy of the Navarch's monthly announcement, you and your sorry partner have been paired. Temporary or permanent, with a warden for an inmate or an inmate for a warden, it's your first day together — out of at least a month, so good luck setting some ground rules and figuring out each other's breaking points.
3. Accidents and Sabotage
A. Lights Out
As everyone knows, when it's lights out in a prison...interesting things can happen.
Whether a natural fluctuation from traveling through heavy space debris or something more unnatural (maybe it was you), the power has gone out. While life support continues to function, it's pitch black and any areas usually locked to wardens are left with doors open. It's the perfect setting for a riot, breaking and entering, thievery...your general crimes, petty and otherwise. Wardens, of course, are expected to stymie these efforts, but that doesn't necessarily mean they'll succeed. What's a little chaos between friends?
Our apologies if you happen to be in an elevator when the power dies.
B. Invasive Species
Being in space, sometimes space things happen.
Somehow (and hopefully you or someone you know isn't responsible for that "somehow"), a greater lunar tetacocien has gotten on board. Quite a feat, since they're the size of a rhino, but they have an impressive ability to squeeze through anything large enough to fit their beak. Unfortunately venomous, carnivorous, and native to the starstuff of Oos, the creature needs to be rounded up before it destroys anything (or anyone) aboard the ship. Please do not attempt to eat; the flesh is toxic.
The multi-legged predator can be immobilized with shots from an energy weapon... Too bad inmates can't carry them. Time to improvise! Or steal one, if you're canny enough.
4. Squalls
Occasionally, the ship passes through squalls, the equivalent of cosmic turbulence that can mess with little things like, say...the fabric of reality. These are shipwide effects, though who they hit is variable. Sometimes you might fall victim; other times you might be the one standing by, exasperated, as you deal with those affected.
(In other words, it's up to player discretion. And feel free to make up your own squalls!)
A. Truth Bomb
One week, those affected cannot tell a lie. Wardens and inmates alike can only speak the truth, though it varies whether they blurt out a response to any question asked or can keep mum.
B. Stuck Together
Another week, you're stuck together. Travel any farther than two meters from your buddy and you'll experience intense physical pain. There isn't anything visible to this connection; it isn't something you can sever (not that this means you can't try). So have fun with your group activities and try not to kill each other.
5. The Peregrine
The Peregrine's layout and protocols have been designed with its intended passengers in mind, who are primarily Earth humanoids and inclined towards certain social and cultural practices. If you're wondering why you are on a ship of Earth humanoids despite not being one yourself, please understand that all ships in the Admiralty have a population capacity. At times it may be necessary to assign other species to a ship of this type, based on availability.
As a warden, you have full run of the ship map. Inmates...less so, but that's nothing a little creativity can't fix, right? Just remember, if a warden catches an inmate somewhere that inmate shouldn't be, it falls on the warden to handle the matter. And if the warden turns a blind eye...well, let's hope neither of you get caught. While it won't result in anything as extreme as a demotion, wardens can expect to get a stern dressing down; inmates, meanwhile, will be reprimanded by the warden who found them.
6. Networking
Now that you've powered on your CommLink for the first time and sat through the short tutorial and appropriate orientation, you're ready to explore the wonders of messaging. Video, audio, or text, the world is your oyster and you surely have opinions on it.
There is no anonymous option and IDs must be some variation of your name. (IC, characters will have to try their luck and see what the communicator will or won't accept when they register; OOC, it's up to players to decide what name to use if the character has multiple names or aliases.)
Wardens have access to a group network filter, something that inmates lack, and can track inmates throughout the ship with their CommLink. Inmates, best avoid getting your device confiscated or monitored.
7. Wildcard
If it's in our game pages, you can use it as a prompt! The sky's the limit.
no subject
Illarion bolts off the bunk after Volk.
cw a bit of self harm & blood
"YOUPROMISEDIHADTHIRTYSECONDS! LIAR."
He skids around the corner out of the dormitories, keeps running.
Okay, THINK Volk, use your BRAIN. What do you have to work with?
For the first time in a month, Volk tries to cast. He bites the inside of his cheek, spits blood onto the back of his hand, and draws a shape in red as he runs. Anything will work. Blowflies, sure. The undead probably hate that.
You never, never, never cast a spell that uses organic tissue as a reagent on top of someone's skin, his instructors had told him. This is going to hurt like a bitch.
Even sprinting as fast as he can with terror making his heart kick like a rabbit - wrist bent, palm vertical, open like a cat's cradle - he can do it one-handed. He's sure he can. He's positive.
The lines don't form.
Why can't he - ?
no subject
But Volkhov hadn't, and here they are, having the most fun Illarion's had in months. A chase at least feels like something, something all-consuming and fascinating and sweet. A kill feels better still, but--
Information. He needs information from this one, he reminds himself, no matter how chase-hunt-kill hammers in him and demands satisfaction.
He's at the corner seconds after Volk, propels himself around it with a hand on the wall. Beyond the blinding mass of it the shrike's got full perception of what his quarry's doing with his hands--gesturing a spell. Court-gift? Magecraft? The instinct to brace flits through the back of Illarion's head.
He ignores it. Anything that can bind him can silence whatever this kid's got.
At six strides behind--around the instant Volk's spell fails--Illarion leaps for the tackle.
no subject
It's probably even easier than Illarion had guessed. Without the weights he's sewn into the coat, Volk is under a hundred pounds. It's not being skinny, (though he is skinny in a kind of shitty rat-mustache just-bought-his-first-car teenager way) he's light enough that it should be physically impossible unless he's missing like, some major organs and bones in there.
Volk does his best to claw his way out of the grapple, swearing in both languages. Every instinct he has says to hit this guy in the eyes, in the balls, in the throat, anything that'll give him a second to run. And he wants to. He wants to very badly.
He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't hit him. Doesn't. Doesn't. He's going to die either way and that's not the kind of person he wants to die as.
Instead, he thinks: My family will never know what happened to me. As far as they'll know, I just disappeared.
cw: casual vivisection thoughts
And he's not fighting, damn him, he's squirming but not struggling like he wants to live. (He's undead, too--but he's got a pulse, drumming loud enough to hear--he's breathing, but he's not striking back. For all the good it would do him but--he's not even trying.)
Illarion flips Volk onto his stomach, dragging an arm up behind the human's back. Straddles Volk's hips, pins his legs with greater weight.
"Talk," he snarls, inches from an ear.
(There's something wrong here. He's not in Locusts' Court anymore. He could walk away.
Days into actual freedom and he's already got a terrified civilian on the ground. He's already considering tearing some hapless innocent open to count the missing organs.)
no subject
Except, well - Illarion puts his face close to Volk's and Volk turns his head and blasts him with a snarling wall of sound.
"TALK?! I tried to have a fucking conversation with you and you announced you were a lunatic that was going to kill me if I didn't tell you what's going on with me. Like it's any of your FUCKING business! Like every living thing here isn't already waiting to make my life a fucking nightmare, now the dead ones do too. How original!"
This is where ALL the adrenaline is going. The whites of his eyes are so bloodshot that they're shades of pink and red. The thorn-shape of his vowels has gone out; his Orcish is all rose when he's well and truly ticked off.
"Did they RATTLE YOUR FUCKING BRAIN on the way in like a SHAKEN BABY?? Somebody HAD to have told you you look like Dukh before this. What the fuck kind of substance fumes were you exposed to? You've been on the fucking internet too long if you think a Locust Knight is a cool way to get people afraid of you, there was a war already and your team FUCKING lost! Are you so scared of me you have to pin me down? That's god-damn pathetic."
The last part he roars so loud he sees stars. It's hard to get air when someone's sitting on you. This hurts. It's scary. His eyes are watering, he's not sure if it's pain or just stress. His hearing is filling with hallucinatory whines, microphone feedback and buzzing.
no subject
He sits up higher, tipping his head away from the auditory onslaught with a wrinkling of lips back from his fangs. Like a jay shrieking at a bigger bird--it's a rare man who'd go for words over blows when the opportunity for both presented itself, and the former's even more likely to be useless.
He admires it even as he wants (longs) to turn Volk's face to the floor and lean in until the screaming stops. It would be easy; it would be a waste. (It would be wrong.) The last bellow gets an actual wince out of him, slow-motion; he closes his eyes until the ringing in his ears stops. That's surely alerted anything that might be listening; if he wants a kill out of this he's going to lose his opportunity, soon enough.
But: your team FUCKING lost. Half of what Volkhov's said is useless, a quarter's incomprehensible nonsense (net inter to what,) but that sticks.
"We lost?" There's so little inflection on the words and they're so quiet, Volk likely won't hear them. Even Illarion can realize that after a few seconds' thought. He sits up further, shifting his weight off the smaller man's chest. Still in some semblance of control but not as stifling.
Louder, then: "We lost?" No, actually, they haven't yet. "We lose?"
no subject
"YOU ALWAYS LOSE." His voice knaps down to a sharp, icy edge. "Get. Off of me. Now."
no subject
Illarion lifts a hand like he'd cuff Volk. Doesn't bring it down.
"When." Pause. "When are the Unearthed stopped."
no subject
The cut inside of his cheek is flecking red onto the metal grating his cheek is mashed against whenever he speaks too loudly. Gross.
"You think you can wait until after you find out if you, in your opinion, decide I deserve it to really hurt me? WELL, GUESS WHAT."
no subject
He can spare this one.
He sets his hand down on Volk's head. Carefully.
"Gods rend you, boy, but if you bait me into killing you over a misunderstanding we're the two stupidest fatherfuckers on this boat." It's nearly under his breath. Then, louder: "What?"
cw withdrawal mention, unreality
KILL ME OR LET ME GO HOME.
KILL ME OR LET ME GO HOME.
Volk seethes under the press against his head. It's this, it's the wardens, it's how much harder it is to keep a secret. It's the lying. It's the disapproval from above, like he's a misbehaving child.
It's the nicotine withdrawal, like a starving hunger that sits in his chest instead of his stomach, that has his fingernails bitten down until the beds are red and swollen. It's the hallucinations, which are looping blackly in his vision. The grid patterns of the floor are distorting into grinning dog faces, and the soldier above him wavers between dead and alive and bleeding-out-dying. Can't have medication without begging for it.
"THIS ALREADY FUCKING HURTS!"
no subject
You added to it wherever you went because what else could you do? Death and resurrection and Eyes' puppet-strings robbed you of choice, rewarded casual cruelty. Language degraded to violence, vituperation, coercion.
Maybe Volkhov's undead after all. Maybe he knows without being anyone's creature.
Illarion rolls off of Volk, settles into the hunkering crouch most comfortable for a shrike with his back to the other man. Locks his hands together before him and rounds his shoulders, his chin tucked toward his chest.
"Go."
no subject
He gives not-Dukh a good ten yards before he turns around and spreads his arms.
This guy still knows that Volk is ... is something. Something he-doesn't-know-what-either. His mouth still tastes like blood, and he didn't even get to be badass and cast out of his own skin or anything.
"Could we fucking conduct this like people? Huh??"
Very high-pitched. Very still mad.
no subject
Illarion digs his hands into his hair instead, thinking very hard on anything he can grasp other than the nearby smell of blood. Had they mentioned confinement as a punishment for inmates fighting each other? Would they execute him for one murder? How much of a bodycount would he need?
You always lose.
"I am not people. I am not a good person. I am not pretending to be one." The replies he didn't give while he'd had the upper hand and some semblance of control of the situation. He's knows he's none of those things; this isn't the first time he's proven it.
"Why is it so hard to tell me what I asked." Other than it coming with the threat of death behind it. Violence is the language he remembers; all the others he'd known while alive feel inaccessible, impossible, pyre goods for who he'd been.
no subject
That's very sarcastically delivered, but not an untrue premise.
"Locusts has been dead for ... I don't know, a couple years short of a hundred. Ninety-two??"
Ugh, History wasn't his best subject. Interregnums are counted additionally, and he knows in the middle there were two Monarchs that each took a chunk out of the count, and Locusts was defeated at the END of the war, which BEGAN in Eyes 88 (at the time known as Souls 18) -
Ninety two is close enough, fuck it.
no subject
(Or horror. Another of his Princes, gone.)
"And Eyes?"
no subject
This is delivered in a slow, dawning realization of a tone.
But, probably not the one Illarion is hoping for. Another one. Another completely delusional person. It can't be a coincidence. They're here together for a reason. They're all -
Volk's expression goes pinched and strange, and he looks away.
"Look, it's fine. I'm sure there's a lot to catch up on. I,"
He covers his mouth with his hand, stressed. He needs to get the fuck out of here, he needs air, he really needs to vape - "...should go."
no subject
Eyes dead. Locusts dead. The war ended. The war ended and the world went on and the Unearthed--what?
They'd been taken back, after everything they'd done, all that had happened to them?
He has so many more questions but that's a tone and a posture he recognizes. One, then.
"Dukh. What's the name his mother gave him?"
Outsiders called it a shrike's true name and there were books of them in distribution--had been, for centuries--for all they'd tried to prevent it. (But all their names were true, to the one who'd bestowed them.)
No reason that should've changed, in a century more.
no subject
Oh god. Shrikes have too many names. The older they are the more names they get, and Dukh had centuries to pick up nicknames from every god damn lover and Prince and dog groomer and yoga instructor and General and Commander he ever interacted with-
No. Okay. No. He's got this. Dukh was an important figure that was close to the Prince of Sacrifices, the memory is in there, he did extremely thorough research, he just crammed it and did it late at night and relied a lot on his consultant team to check him if he screwed up a date. It's -
"I have to go. I do. It's either Мавриел or Иларион, one succeeded the other - I think Illarion."
He scrubs both hands over his face, under his glasses.
no subject
He had, truly, expected "Dukh" was his son because he is dead, true-dead, once he's found a way free of here. He won't see the end of the war, won't be alive in a century to witness what becomes of the undead.
Getting his own name back (the first time he's heard it in--six, eight months? Longer? Much longer,) would be a shock if he could still be shocked. Maybe he can be shocked, for how many seconds it feels right to consider this revelation.
"Not mistaken. Off by a century." Off by a century. He's not dead, he's not in Navia, he's--
"Go. Tell the Wardens who attacked you if they ask." He didn't die. He's not dead. (He nearly killed a man over a misunderstanding.)
no subject
The fuck does that mean. He presses his mouth shut, shakes his head. Nope. No. Whatever elaborate yarn he's about to get subjected to, he's heard enough.
"Be your own messenger, if you want to get caught that bad. I'm -"
He has to go knock himself out so he doesn't have a meltdown. He starts to walk away, realizes he doesn't have his coat, and forces himself to double back.
It is taking a lot of willpower not to run. It's taking a lot of willpower not to wish this guy had just killed him. Actually, no, screw the willpower. He does wish that.
There are things worse than dying. Both of them get to be in their own special versions, Volk supposes.