test drive meme: april 2020

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Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

▶ Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

▶ All TDM threads can be considered game canon, and current players are welcome to either top-level on the TDM so prospective players can tag them, or use the prompts for logs or network posts on the communities. All threads on the TDM can be used for Activity Check.

▶ SPECIAL NOTE: We're only a month off from the 1 year anniversary of the first TDM, and we received this request for a fancy dress ball, so we thought it would be funny fun to run with it! This TDM will only have one prompt/event, as the monthly log with a bit more plot-related stuff will be going up on Friday May 1st.

a. an invitation.

There are ears everywhere in Anchor. A maintenance bot here, a surveillance AI there. SINI, restlessly pacing the dark digital hallways as she watches over the things that still matter to her. It doesn't take long for word to get out about Starscream's expedition plans. It takes an even shorter time for that news to circulate amongst Anchor's robo-population.

They know when you're unhappy. They always know.

It's why residents will start waking up one fine day to find gorgeous clothes laid out for them to wear and an invitation to a formal dinner taking place down at the plaza at Anchor’s base. The clothes aren't particularly specific to a character's gender, species, or culture - it's all about what the bots think your character would like best. Even if they're wildly off the mark, the clothes are still made to fit and fashioned beautifully. The invitations are marked "TOMORROW, STARTING AT 6PM LOCAL TIME." A smaller note underneath instructs attendees to see the tailor bot adjacent to the spa if they are unsatisfied with their assigned clothing, and also that the spa bots are on high alert, prepared to beautify anyone who wants some extra pampering and a dash of makeup.

Just be careful. Some of the makeover bots are really fond of glitter.

b. quite the spread.

True to the word of the invitation, the plaza is closed off under large white tents and guarded by bots who encouragingly steer you elsewhere should you try to get inside. They're nice, polite, all the things they've been programmed to be whether they like it or not, but there will be no sneaking by them into the party area.

At 6pm on the dot the day after the clothes arrive, characters will find music playing on all levels of Anchor, broadcast from the musical robots who have been practicing ever since that first tiny party almost a year ago.

Invitations will be taken by a bot in an impeccably tailored suit, and characters will be welcomed onto the red carpet that curves around the edge of the park and into the area cordoned off for festivities. The flashbulbs and cheering of bots that line the carpet echo through Anchor, broadcast along with the music until it sounds like the entire place is full of faintly electronic cheering. Each arrival is greeted with a fresh wave of enthusiasm, their image projected larger than life against the interior of Anchor's dome.

The sides of the tents have been rolled up, revealing the absolutely decadent set-up within.

Rows upon rows of buffet tables laid out with the most extravagant and strange dishes for residents to try. All of it delicious, though not all of it will appeal to every palate. There are sweet dishes, savory, spicy, whatever you can imagine. Appetizers of a hundred different kinds. Fruit plates formed into works of art, showing places and events from around Anchor. There are spun sugar reindire. Tiny plates of hors d'oeuvres that depict the faces of residents, both current and former. One particularly large dish is sculpted in the shape of what looks like an explosion emanating from Anchor's base, near where the locked and flooded rooms were found.

There's a cake near the middle of it all, frosting painting an image of a young, smiling man. Anyone who's seen him will, after a moment, recognize the whole and handsome features of a much younger Creepy Joe - the words on the cake say LET'S CELEBRATE OUR OLDEST LIVING RESIDENT!

While most of the food is at least recognizably from the general stores and from the agricultural level, there are other plants and garnishes that look entirely foreign. If asked where they came from, the bots will simply insist they're part of Anchor’s available resources.

There is also a full-service bar, but...not manned by the usual bartender (for anyone who might ask, the other bots will kindly inform them that the usual bartender is on sabbatical for stress). Instead there's a freshly-built bot serving drinks of all kinds, taking requests for old favorites and mixing up new cocktails based on guests' stated tastes.

The only thing not on the menu is a tequila sunrise.

There's a table full of hookahs and little treats that have various light, pleasant effects. These range from simple mood lifts to treats that will leave characters blissed out and relaxed.

c. dance, our residents, dance!

After people have finished arriving, the band picks up and guests' attention is directed upward toward Anchor's dome, where there's a truly magnificent light show being projected with musical accompaniment. It's spectacular, haunting and beautiful...and it shows more than just lights. It also shows celestial bodies in motion across the planet's dusk-red sky, meteor showers, strange northern lights. The show itself is almost an hour long, and ends with words unfurling across the apex of the dome.


HAPPY ∞ +1 ANNIVERSARY ANCHOR #3, THE LONGEST RUNNING COLONY.

STAY HERE, STAY HAPPY!


The show fades away and the music picks up again, encouraging guests to dance.

Go on, dance.

It’s a party after all.

d. the network.

Need to get hold of someone, call for help, ask the city at large a question? Need to ask a friend to back you up to take out the toothy voids? Maybe you need to hold your sat phone up to whatever crazy thing you're seeing and send out a recording to double-check if your eyes are deceiving you and what you're looking at is real?

Whatever the reason, the network is going strong, so feel free to include a post to it in your top-levels.

Navigation.

Comments

[aintyourbro]

"It's at the base of Mt. Nibel, but I don't know anything about spirits. Can't say I've heard of the Ring Islands, either."

This chat was probably just going to create more questions than it was going to answer, but y'know, that's fine. This is fine.

Re: 3

[kaballin]

He is still a fancy lad! And he can clean up, he's just lazy and apparently a fire goblin when left alone. He stands back, pulling the mask down so he can eat the fancy cheesecake thing he has on a plate that looks like a child's toy in his meaty hands.

"Missed a spot." He gestures with a fork at some tiny ember still burning. And in good news it's only a part of the dessert table, though some of it now has a delightful frosting like coating of fire extinguisher which is probably not delicious. Good thing he grabbed something for himself first.

[kaballin]

Wow take it slow there. Maybe they should garden in separate corners of the estate first.

"You know you don't have to do anything here. Could dress however the hell you want. Probably no one here knows who you are or even where you're from, no one would care." He shrugs, dumping his now empty plate on a table and making it someone else's problem. Guess it's about that time now and he secures the mask back to the lower half of his face, something metal with red lights and tubes that disappear over his shoulders down his back.

"But feel free to tell me all about this position of yours."

[arcadedragon]

Did he pass a test and find the proper fork? He breathes a sigh of relief and starts to eat. "I've never been to an event with so many plates? I do not know what they're all for. Am I supposed to eat this much?"

Because he definitely can, he's basically a never ending pit, cramming in calories to power all those metal appendages. But he's not sure what he's actually supposed to do here. And it feels odd that in a place with so many different people they hadn't included some sort of instruction manual.

"The food is good, so that's a good start!" And he hasn't dropped dead yet, so that's also good.

[arcadedragon]

"Is it sake?" Because that certainly looks like filtered sake Hanzo. Genji is less than impressed. "You should try something new! It is a party, that is what they are for."

He folds his metal legs beneath him, sipping his drink and making sure to hold it in his left hand. There's a good chance he may accidentally crush the glass in his other.

"It is nice that this happened, it was kind of getting depressing here. Everyone stressed and unhappy." He's probably talking about himself more than the rest of the residents.

[numerouno]

"There's a time and a place for that, babe," Scaramouche replies, a sly smile flitting across his face before it brightens into something content. "We're here to have a ball, so let's get on with it. Give me your name."

He might have an idea.

1.

[hypothermic]

"Subtle. Real subtle." A cool voice from over Kabal's shoulder, Len sliding in beside him with an icy grace.

The average party-goer might be too easy a mark to notice Kabal pocketing one piece of silverware after another. To a master (anal retentive) thief like Len, Kabal's might as well be pocketing utensils with a giant red foam hand, 'AMATEUR' flashing in neon over his head.

Idiot.

This is the first Len's spoken to his not-date since they left the red carpet and grabbed their first drinks.

Coming here was a mistake. Len should've known better, and that makes him equally idiotic, or worse. He's never liked parties. He was a wallflower a kid, and a particularly vicious lone wolf as an adult.

Len doesn't do sloppy or drunk. He's better than that. Superior. Cool and in control at the best and (usually) worst of times. Watching people make fools of themselves from a safe distance, because he'd prefer to keep roaming hands off his ass and combat boots puke-free.

Shit always goes down the same way. Len shows up with someone, well, his only someone, and within ten minutes they're getting shitfaced with the rest of the crowd while Len finds a seat in the fringes and sips the same drink he'll be nursing all night, because he'll be driving himself home when said someone leaves the party with an equally shitfaced companion after setting some person/place/thing on fire.

Having watched Kabal from across the room, throwing back drinks and making the rounds while seemingly eye-fucking any quasi-sentient being with a heartbeat, everywhere but near him, tonight hasn't been any different. Right down to the arson.

Where does he find these losers?

"This is how it's done." A crystal champagne glass disappears into thin air at the blink of an eye. Len's hands move so quickly they're a blur to sober eyes. Drunks don't stand a chance.

Speaking of.

He lifts one of those fast, long-fingered hands. Holding the knife Kabal had previously pocketed.

"You steal worse than a thirteen-year-old copping a chocolate bar from Walmart for the first time." Len's dressed sharp in his blue silk suit, Japanesque in fashion, but his tongue and eyes are sharper. With every intention of cutting his victim to the quick.

[seaboard]

Yes, quite right, definitely should also put some hedgerows in between and be chaperoned at all times.

"I..." she doesn't look quite at ease with that idea. Not doing anything. For one thing, she can't believe it. There was no part of her life that was not dictated since her Brother's death. But that, and she is quite distracted in watching him... reassemble himself? Oh, the poor man. He must be in so much pain. How did she think something so mean about him? She ought to apologize.

"... I am Gilia St. Loe." Said Sinlow, a soft word. "I am Second-Child, First Daughter of the Isle of St. Loe."

[hypothermic]

Len's diva-tastic-extra-as hell-fresh-to-death Balmain suit.

This isn't the same suit, but the man knows how to pull off blue from head to toe and capes.

[seaboard]

She has never left her island. Not before this week, at least. But it is filled out rather vaguely, she knows every important Isle and all the ones in the middle of less import. The Fire-Soldiers. The Light-Struck. All their spirits, all the great spirit pacts.

But if she has wisdom it's in the fact she can't say she knows everything there is to know. She has, after all, more immediate concerns most often. The supplies of stock coming in, the harvest, the shearing season. How many families need to be fed.

"You do not know your spirits? Have those of your land not pleaded yet?"

[kaballin]

So Kabal may have drunk a little more than he intended because he's actually having a good time? Who knew all it took was good food and some drink and yes, mentally undressing everyone within a ten foot radius. Of course now that he's cheerful someone has to come over and be a buzzkill.

And leave it to the only person who's opinion he might give a fuck about to be the one to do it.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "I'm not trying to be stealthy. I'm trying to get caught so I can knife someone."

Which seems obvious to him, Kabal's never been covert about anything in his whole life, he's not about to start now. He was pretty damn obvious when he was posing as a double agent with the NYPD, they'd just been too dumb to question him. In any case, he doesn't really need a reason to stab someone, but it's nice to have. So he feels a little more justified watching them bleed out. The thrill of the kill or whatever.

"Aight I'll bite. Where you keeping that, because that outfit doesn't leave much to the imagination."

[kaballin]

"That's a mouthful." And has nothing about said positioning. Unless it does, he doesn't speak prep school.

"Names Kabal." Or it is now anyway. He eyes that thing on her head again, wondering where the fuck she keeps it. Does she have a closet of weird head garments? Is said closet currently unguarded?

"So which one of those words am I supposed to call you, because that's a lot."

[hypothermic]

"I don't steal and tell." Not when he's in a bad mood, anyway. Len looks away. With a flick of his wrist he disappears a serving spoon. If Kabal watches closely, he can see a slight glint inside the cuff of his sleeve. Len isn't magic. There are perks to a flashy outfit with multiple layers. You're wearing a layer of misdirection.

It's a lot harder to thieve in a tank-top and hot pants.

Not that Len would be caught dead in either. He may be trailer trash, but he's not trashy. If his actual piece of garbage father could see him in this blue designer number, he'd turn in his shallow grave.

Superior. Second to none. That's who and what Len is. A head above the rest, in spite of Lewis Snart's efforts to grind him beneath his heel.

"And I'm not sure I could break it down into the kinda itty-bitty words you'd understand." He wants to see pain in Kabal's eyes, and add him to the long list of people who crossed him and lived to regret it. Payback for being slighted, and because Len likes to hurt people. It's the easiest way to forget his own discomfort.

Instead, all he sees is the man he's been screwing for the past few weeks, and he looks good. Really good. Walking shoulder to shoulder down that carpet, Len felt a different kind of confidence. Something more warm than cold, like he hasn't felt since Mick became Chronos and decided he'd like Len better as a corpse.

That only pisses Len off more. He doesn't know who he's angrier at. The mercenary for disappointing him, or himself for having unrealistic expectations. For expecting anything from another man who thinks with his dick on a good day and his fists on a bad day.

The honeymoon is over, and it's back to reality.

Partnerships are for suckers.

"How about you leave the stealing to the professionals, and go back to schmoozing with that chick and her awful weave-- if she's out of your league, you can always break more stuff until they throw you out." A dismissive wave of his gloved hand, dancing someone's ring over his knuckles. Len can't remember the mark. He was distracted watching for the man who isn't here, and the one that is.

[kaballin]

"Oh aren't we high and mighty. Just takes a good pair of clothes to turn you into a twat." He rolls his eyes. It's a shame because Len does look nice, and Kabal is enjoying looking. Not to mention he wanted to touch the plush sort of velour that Len kept smacking his hands away from earlier. He'd consoled himself with anticipation of seeing it on the floor later but apparently Len's too good for him now.

He should have expected as much. That's what he gets for trying to think with parts other than his dick and his fists. Lesson learned.

With a disgruntled sound he pulls the mask down so he can throw back some more of the whiskey right out of the decanter. No reason to stay sober if he's not going to have any reason to be. "Guess looking good don't make you any smarter. She probably has to go to confession for talking to me for more than ten seconds."

He gives Len another glance, a final look at what he apparently didn't get anymore. Well that sucks. He'd been enjoying whatever their little partnership was turning into.

"Like to see them try and throw me anywhere."

[hypothermic]

"I wear the clothes. They don't wear me." Hands on his hips, shifting his weight just so from one foot to the other. Showing off exactly what his not-date isn't getting. Kabal is taller, but Len's always had a special ability to look down his nose at any thug regardless of height.

"I can make an orange jumpsuit look good." Len swans around like he's wearing vintage Givenchy when in a torn sweater and blood-splattered jeans. He hadn't dressed up special for this party, and doesn't now feel uncomfortable in his own skin, like it was a complete waste of time to make an effort.

If the outfit ends up in the trash tomorrow, it's because Len's already gotten bored of it.

"I'm sure you'll find more where she came from. I can see approximately fifteen living, breathing women who look drunk enough to hook up with you from here... if they lose their contact lenses." A glance around the room, eyes scanning over the other guests like a jeweler searching for a diamond in the rough.

He spots a random girl, and there's nothing special about her. Minus the fact Kabal was more interested in her company than his. She could be an angel for all Len knows. Or cares.

Petty is his middle name. The 'Bitch' is silent.

"That one looks easy. Want me to be your wing-man? I'll tell her you can count all ten fingers and don't have the clap. She'll be super impressed."

If looks could kill, said girl would already have a chalk outline. She looks like Mick's type. Young. Fresh. Female. Not Len, the resident boss/nag/brother from another screwed up mother.

[kaballin]

"I'm not trying to fuck any of them." Said with the same condescending tone he'd use on a dog that soiled the carpet. "And what kind of shitty wingman is hotter than everyone else here? You're terrible at this."

At least his snarl is visible before he hikes the mask back up. He's in the perfect state of being almost too drunk to give a fuck, and just sober enough to care leaving him in some sort of testy equilibrium. The amount of times he's been legitimately mad in his life he could count on those ten fingers, and this isn't even close.

But he's definitely annoyed.

"You're the one that wanted to come to this." Because the mature thing to do is turn this around and make it Len's fault. Not that he's even really sure what this is. Kano had once said that rich people act like idiots because it seeps into their fancy clothes and houses. Maybe he was right, seeing how Len seems to have done some sort of one-eighty since they got here.

And thinking that Kano was right about anything, puts him in an even fouler mood. One where he's probably going to say some things he's bound to regret.

"I don't need your help to get laid. Pity-fuck when we first met notwithstanding. If that's what I was going for I'd already be back at our place with one of them and...." Oh.

Oh.

Len might actually be able to see the meaty gears of his charcoal brain working hard to slot into place so he finally fucking understands whats going on here. Only half of his face is visible but his eyes narrow in that alcohol induced way where he's trying to solve the mysteries of the universe by simply staring it into submission.

"Are you jealous?" He gives a drunken gesture encompassing those fifteen living, breathing women he'd been talking about earlier. "Of them?"

Holy shit.

"You've gotta be fucking with me."

[numerouno]

Scaramouche fails to notice the man's eyes trailing him up and, well, up. He's checking out the bar's selection of cocktails, tapping a finger on his chin as he does so. He hears the next part, however; his optics widen, an absent-minded smile playing on his strange metal lips, and he speaks without looking at who he's talking to.

"Who knew they had it in them!?" He shakes his head. "Not me, babe."

[seaboard]

It definitely does, and it is definitely prep school.

Er, kind of.

They're the weird horror puritan kids at prep school. But it does draw her quiet as she seems to be thinking a great deal, frowning a little bit, pursing her lips together and the beads swaying as she considers with the studious tilt lean forward of her head.

"Oh - well, I suppose. In a formal setting, you are to call me Daughter-Sea." So there is another name for her. "Only my family, I suppose calls me First-Daughter." So where does that leave her, as she goes through each name she has been given and for each place and how it is appropriate. "Our greater family call me Second-Child, for that is my official position. But... but I suppose as I have no family here, and the Father-Sea is far, far from us," which is to say, there is no ocean, not just their ocean, but any at all, and she grieves for it, deeply and wholly, she grieves for it - "then I suppose... I suppose I am naught but Gilia of the Isle St. Loe."

[nothinglikefather]

He's not entirely sure what to make of babe - whether it's a thoughtless term of endearment in the same way he uses mate, or whether it's mocking he's nit entirely sure, but there's a tiny deeply buried part of him that likes it.

"As long as they keep the good booze flowing." Jacob says, because that bar has held a lot of his attention so far this evening too. "They can throw a party like this every other week if they like."

Just as long as he never has to drink another tequila sunset as long as he lives.

[borntohurt]

A soft hum of consideration. "Maybe so. Think you look just fine as is."

Better than, if the slightly crinkled smile he gives Jacob is anything to go by. He's always had a look of roguish handsomeness to him, something Charles hadn't necessarily thought to appreciate before they'd gotten together. Now? He finds himself reflecting on it a little more.

Jacob looks sharp, a heartbreaker in any social setting. The party's just an excuse to show off just how good they can all look, but Charles's attention solidly focused on him, and no one besides.

[borntohurt]

A worry not unfounded. They've certainly gotten up to mischief before, though he doubts they'll leave the party to get up to anything too adventurous.

"As am I. Though I'm sure they'd like it if we had a good time as well." He lifts an eyebrow faintly. "I'm not that great at dancing, but I did see a place to sit over there by the hookahs. If you'd join me."

Much as he loves Jacob and Angel, Connor was the first person he encountered outside of his own world that made him feel...well. Not alone. He treasures that time with him as much as any other. Now seems as good a time as any to observe the party and maybe, if they got really wild with it, relax.

[borntohurt]

"Well enough. I'm still not really used to this sort of thing," he murmurs, gesturing at himself and the party as a whole. It's not the most grand affair he's been to, but it's the first he's been outfitted for.

And he feels a little out of place, though that's not enough to stop him from trying to enjoy watching everyone having their fun. He's perfectly content to watch from the sidelines. It's nice and quiet, there.

[circumitus]

Surprisingly Rey loves to dress up, so it won't take much convincing to get her to put this pretty olive green dress on.

Footwear, on the other hand, is a different story. She'll still be rocking them combat boots, though.

[nothinglikefather]

Jacob can't help being flattered. They've always been few and far between, and he's always hungry for them. From Charles more than anyone else, because he trusts them to be true, to be offered freely and with no other motive than to speak the truth as he sees it.

He lowers he eyes just for a heartbeat as if it will hide the pleasure that the compliment brings. It doesn't. There's very little that could diminish that smile.

"You aren't so bad yourself. That blue suits you. It really suits you." Charles is handsome all the time, whatever he chooses to wear, whatever form he's in. But something about that colour is perfect in him, and Jacob's hands move to smooth over his shoulders as they dance.

B.i

[abheirrant]

If you're leaving, then so am I.

[Carlisle steps up behind Poison, looking even less comfortable with the idea of any and all attention that might be thrown his way. He futzes with one of the buttons on his vest before adjusting his scarf, making sure it covers every inch of skin that could reveal his true nature. Despite the hat in his hands, he still has his crown on, the veil tucked into the scarf around his neck.]