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1.0 Test Drive Meme
1.0 Test Drive Meme
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Welcome to Well! Characters arrive the same way every month. Your character arrives with only a handful of memories, clad in old west style clothes of your choosing, with no items from home.
Anyone is free to play on the TDM, but you need an invite to apply. Feel free to use these prompts, and interact with the arrival or locations. NPCs are around, but only say a certain set of phrases. TDMs can be considered game canon.
Applications open on January 20th, and the game opens on February 1st. Invites are available for members of the mods' plurk lists.
Put on your dancing shoes
Content warning: Alcohol, intoxication, altered mental state
Something’s happening at the Cactus Pad Saloon. It’s lit up bright against the growing night, and music spills out onto the street. Seems like a fun time that you should check out. In fact, it’s hard not to check it out: the closer you get, the stronger the urge to join the fun. If you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ll feel even more compelled to come get a drink.
The bartender serves up anything you can think of: from whiskey to apple juice to blood, if that’s your preference. She doesn’t blink an eye, no matter what’s ordered. The funny thing is, no matter what you order, once you take a sip, the world feels a little easier to deal with, your worries seem to melt away. You’re flush with sudden confidence.
If you strike up a conversation with the person next to you, conversation flows like you’re talking to an old friend. You feel a sense of kinship, deep and meaningful, good or bad, that bonds you together.
The old record player is playing a fun ditty, and the longer you stick around, the more you’re tempted to join, or start, the dancing. Whether you’re a great dancer or you have two left feet, you find that you feel capable of dancing like no one’s watching. No one knows you here, after all. You barely know yourself, so why not draw a partner into the fray? A party’s better together!
If you end up staying there til closing time, the bartender kicks you out with a gruff “come back tomorrow,” leaving you to stumble home with your new best friend. What was their name again?
Something’s happening at the Cactus Pad Saloon. It’s lit up bright against the growing night, and music spills out onto the street. Seems like a fun time that you should check out. In fact, it’s hard not to check it out: the closer you get, the stronger the urge to join the fun. If you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ll feel even more compelled to come get a drink.
The bartender serves up anything you can think of: from whiskey to apple juice to blood, if that’s your preference. She doesn’t blink an eye, no matter what’s ordered. The funny thing is, no matter what you order, once you take a sip, the world feels a little easier to deal with, your worries seem to melt away. You’re flush with sudden confidence.
If you strike up a conversation with the person next to you, conversation flows like you’re talking to an old friend. You feel a sense of kinship, deep and meaningful, good or bad, that bonds you together.
The old record player is playing a fun ditty, and the longer you stick around, the more you’re tempted to join, or start, the dancing. Whether you’re a great dancer or you have two left feet, you find that you feel capable of dancing like no one’s watching. No one knows you here, after all. You barely know yourself, so why not draw a partner into the fray? A party’s better together!
If you end up staying there til closing time, the bartender kicks you out with a gruff “come back tomorrow,” leaving you to stumble home with your new best friend. What was their name again?
Sand trap
Content warning: Quick sand, potential drowning in sand
You step through a door into a room you didn’t mean to enter. You were trying to head into the saloon, or your hotel room, or the bathroom, and instead you’re here: in a small, tight, windowless room in a white-washed building. The air here is old, stale, and thick. Hazy gold light bounces off the walls, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from, since there’s no visible ceiling. The walls just stretch up and up into bright nothingness.
Someone else is there, too, coming through an identical door on the opposite wall. Both doors snap shut, and won’t open again, no matter how hard you try. They won’t even break.
This might not be so bad, except that a sound starts to fill the space: sand, trickling down the walls. It’s just a dusting to start. It comes sprinkling down above, seeping through the cracks in the door. The longer you stand there, the faster it comes: sand flows down the walls in massive torrents, building up on the floor, shifting and thick, trapping you in place.
The only way out is up. When you look again at the walls, you’ll notice it: about 10 feet up the wall hangs a flimsy rope ladder, half-hidden by the waterfall of sand. You’ll have to work together to even reach it, or maybe let the ever-growing pile of shifting, slippery sand lift you up? Be careful, because even if you manage to reach the rope, you both have to get out of here, and the longer you’re here, the faster and harder the sand falls. The ladder seems to go on forever, tens of feet up an endless wall. The better you work together, the closer the top seems. No matter how well you collaborate, they're at least 50 feet high.
When you’ve fought your way through the sand and reached the top of the ladder, you finally see it: the sand is coming in through the open windows of a steeple. You can’t see where it’s from, not really. You can’t see much of anything, but it’s clear: the only way out is, well, out. You have to jump, trusting that yourself and your companion will be safe.
Once free, you land together outside of one of the buildings or rooms you were trying to enter, like nothing happened at all. It’s a calm day, after all.
You step through a door into a room you didn’t mean to enter. You were trying to head into the saloon, or your hotel room, or the bathroom, and instead you’re here: in a small, tight, windowless room in a white-washed building. The air here is old, stale, and thick. Hazy gold light bounces off the walls, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from, since there’s no visible ceiling. The walls just stretch up and up into bright nothingness.
Someone else is there, too, coming through an identical door on the opposite wall. Both doors snap shut, and won’t open again, no matter how hard you try. They won’t even break.
This might not be so bad, except that a sound starts to fill the space: sand, trickling down the walls. It’s just a dusting to start. It comes sprinkling down above, seeping through the cracks in the door. The longer you stand there, the faster it comes: sand flows down the walls in massive torrents, building up on the floor, shifting and thick, trapping you in place.
The only way out is up. When you look again at the walls, you’ll notice it: about 10 feet up the wall hangs a flimsy rope ladder, half-hidden by the waterfall of sand. You’ll have to work together to even reach it, or maybe let the ever-growing pile of shifting, slippery sand lift you up? Be careful, because even if you manage to reach the rope, you both have to get out of here, and the longer you’re here, the faster and harder the sand falls. The ladder seems to go on forever, tens of feet up an endless wall. The better you work together, the closer the top seems. No matter how well you collaborate, they're at least 50 feet high.
When you’ve fought your way through the sand and reached the top of the ladder, you finally see it: the sand is coming in through the open windows of a steeple. You can’t see where it’s from, not really. You can’t see much of anything, but it’s clear: the only way out is, well, out. You have to jump, trusting that yourself and your companion will be safe.
Once free, you land together outside of one of the buildings or rooms you were trying to enter, like nothing happened at all. It’s a calm day, after all.
Memories of the living
Content warning: Cemetery, contemplating mortality
Dusk settles purple over Wellstone. Early stars are out, the moon is thin, and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the graveyard. You can resist, but the more days you do, the harder it gets. The graveyard is calling to you in a voice you can’t hear.
While it seems small before you enter, once you start walking through the crumbling graves, it seems to stretch endlessly. You pass elaborate dust-covered crypts carved with strange angels; bleached wooden crosses overgrown with cacti; a crumbling old well, long gone dry; worn-down headstones jut at odd angles. Some graves have old offerings on them, brightly colored beads or candles or framed photos, sun-bleached beyond recognition.
You may have been walking for five minutes or fifty, but when you look around, you can’t see to find the exit. You hear howling, and see the flicker of lights from behind the graves, but you can never find their source, no matter how much you look. No matter how long you spend in the graveyard, the sun never seems to sink lower in the sky. An oppressive sense of being watched grows to the point that you whip around, expecting to find someone there until—
You do. You find each other. Others drawn here to the graveyard, walking among the crumbling stones, will end up by the same headstones. Exploring together eases the watchful feeling just a little, but it won’t help you get out. No, you’re looking for something. The exit? No, you’re sure there’s something more important than that.
If you follow your impulses, you may just find it: a gravestone, weathered, old, with a familiar name on it: yours. Your date of birth can be visible, but the date of death is too weathered to read. You may find an offering there, something small and meaningful to you, a small shiny coin or some bright beads.
Once you find your grave, when you look up, you’ll see the exit. You’re really not that far from it, after all, the rusted iron arch barely a stone's throw feet away. Your companion won’t see it yet. You can make a dash for it, get out of this awful place, or help your companion find their own gravestone. When your companion finds their stone, they will also be able to see the exit. Exiting together will alleviate the impulse to come back to this place. Leaving alone will only draw you back, making it more difficult to find your grave again.
You can take the offerings left on your grave if you want, but the sense of being watched will only grow greater until you’re compelled to return them, and leave another offering of your own.
Dusk settles purple over Wellstone. Early stars are out, the moon is thin, and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the graveyard. You can resist, but the more days you do, the harder it gets. The graveyard is calling to you in a voice you can’t hear.
While it seems small before you enter, once you start walking through the crumbling graves, it seems to stretch endlessly. You pass elaborate dust-covered crypts carved with strange angels; bleached wooden crosses overgrown with cacti; a crumbling old well, long gone dry; worn-down headstones jut at odd angles. Some graves have old offerings on them, brightly colored beads or candles or framed photos, sun-bleached beyond recognition.
You may have been walking for five minutes or fifty, but when you look around, you can’t see to find the exit. You hear howling, and see the flicker of lights from behind the graves, but you can never find their source, no matter how much you look. No matter how long you spend in the graveyard, the sun never seems to sink lower in the sky. An oppressive sense of being watched grows to the point that you whip around, expecting to find someone there until—
You do. You find each other. Others drawn here to the graveyard, walking among the crumbling stones, will end up by the same headstones. Exploring together eases the watchful feeling just a little, but it won’t help you get out. No, you’re looking for something. The exit? No, you’re sure there’s something more important than that.
If you follow your impulses, you may just find it: a gravestone, weathered, old, with a familiar name on it: yours. Your date of birth can be visible, but the date of death is too weathered to read. You may find an offering there, something small and meaningful to you, a small shiny coin or some bright beads.
Once you find your grave, when you look up, you’ll see the exit. You’re really not that far from it, after all, the rusted iron arch barely a stone's throw feet away. Your companion won’t see it yet. You can make a dash for it, get out of this awful place, or help your companion find their own gravestone. When your companion finds their stone, they will also be able to see the exit. Exiting together will alleviate the impulse to come back to this place. Leaving alone will only draw you back, making it more difficult to find your grave again.
You can take the offerings left on your grave if you want, but the sense of being watched will only grow greater until you’re compelled to return them, and leave another offering of your own.
dimos | nier re[in]carnation
memories of the living
shoes
[...]
[Ah, he was staring. He startles a little when Dimos speaks to him, looking down at his green tea.]
I-It tastes ...it tastes fine, I think...
why are we this way?
[He's not sure why. He's really not sure why he's suspicious. Or why he even cares. Why would he care about someone else? But something compels him to at least ask, to be concerned, to just...
Keep conversing.]
No is an acceptable answer. Something strikes me as peculiar, but I cannot say exactly what. I do not--
[Why does he care.] --You have been through plenty already. I do not wish for you to go through a bad brew.
honk honk goes the clown car
Y-Yes... it is fine-- [Here, he will take his own emptied glass of water and pour him a little. Sorry, Dimos, they are not acquainted well enough to where he will accept your backwash.]
Please do not be too concerned over me- ah. I-I am [...] ...w-what I mean is ... you should also be concerned over yourself, as well, right...?
we can fit so many more clowns, and yet, it's just us inside....
So he takes his Time Out Cup and nods slightly, before throwing back the green tea. ...It's...It's not something he's used to, in truth, but it matches what his database is telling him green tea should reasonably fall within. There's nothing pinging his sensors, and yet, it still just...Doesn't feel right.
He spits it back out, stares at it as if it's offended him.]
Stop. I will show concern over whoever I want.
[???????? ok.] ...This falls within acceptable parameters, and yet I cannot shake the feeling that it is still suspicious. Drink more if you wish, but do not wander off alone once you are done. You may get mugged or worse, and you are still healing, most likely. Such damage cannot fix itself so quickly in organic beings.
[At last, Mayoi gets fixed with that glassy green stare, and Dimos just...Grunts. He's confused, he's angry at being told what to do with his baby feelings that he can clearly feel, and he doesn't know where to direct said current feelings. So. Just a stare, for now.]
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[Anyway, Mayoi watches with fascination as he tests his tea out. He's mechanical, so is he like a computer...? Can he run diagnostics on something like tea by just drinking it? Neat...]
O-Okay. [That's fine. He's starting to get used to Dimos' forceful affection.]
I see. That is strange, though, isn't it...?
[He regards he drink and ...much more hesitantly takes another sip. Ah, now he is worried, too. He can't bring himself to drink much more. It's a shame because it felt like he was finally beginning to relax.]
Ah, no, I won't go anywhere without you. I ...I do not want to get much closer to the crowd, anyway.
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[The hum comes out perfectly dry, and definitely mechanical; a whirr over a real human's thought. But--
It is improper, isn't it? To keep foisting himself upon one person like this. Even if there's some sort of parallel that he knows further thought will reduce him to a latex-coated mess over. And he doesn't want to intimidate people from interacting with Mayoi, either. He always intimidates humans. That's a fact.
At least his tone's softened back into that serene monotone when he speaks again, eyes lowered to his own glass of water and gloved fingertips idly playing over the countertop.] You should be protected, however. That is...The feeling I have.
You should be protected. Even if it isn't by me. You are very kind.
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[He thinks, that Dimos has said a very kind thing, but something about it makes his skin crawl. It's uncomfortable, it feels wrong. Those words shouldn't be meant for him, right? It's a disquieting feeling and it's churning a little in his gut.]
I am a filthy insect.
[The words spill out of him before he even realizes what happened. Like the thoughts sprang forth and he'd been powerless to do anything. They ring with something that feels true, and he feels even worse.]
I-I mean, [That was. strange to say, right? He shouldn't. Shouldn't turn down kind words. That's impolite...?] I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know if that's true- Should I be protected? I-I don't know, I don't know, I'm sorry. Ah-
[He grabs his glass and tries to down his words the best he can. Down it goes.]
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[????? Memories of being a bug, perhaps? But there's no blood to accompany it...Strange. So Dimos just reaches over to delicately pat Mayoi on the shoulder, both to try and make him drink without choking, and to soothe.]
Even if you are capable of protecting yourself, I will fight for you. Perhaps this is a better statement. But to say that you are a filthy insect is objectively incorrect; you appear clean, as well.
Please do not be sorry. I will remind you, if you ever feel like an insect again. This is what allies do.
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[With a small sigh, he settles back down again, shoulders relaxing somewhat as his mind clears. He'd said a strange thing, something that felt correct in his gut, but Dimos was trying to assuage his worries, even now. Even with how the thoughts churning in his head seem to be intent on fighting their way out, and even if they make him feel like they're true, Dimos' words give him a lot of peace.]
[It makes him want to believe Dimos instead of himself, even just for a bit.]
Do you think that I am human...? [That's genuine curiosity. Dimos was mechanical, so maybe he could actually tell such things. He finds himself wondering with the way being called that had given him some dissonance]
...Dimos-san, perhaps it is you, who is the one that is very kind. Thank you- I-I am not sure what came over me just now ...but, I feel better.
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Dimos stares at Mayoi a moment, before holding a hand out.] Give me your hand.
[So he can check his pulse, of course. Either that or he jams a finger past those razor sharp teeth to check if the inside of his mouth is wet, flush with blood, but that's a little Too Much, so he won't. At any rate, it's not that urgent, given that Mayoi's apparently calmed down...But checking his pulse won't hurt anyway, right??? Right.
But-- kind...Kind? No...No. That's not right. He knows kindness, truly. He couldn't exhibit it himself, but he knows how to recognise it. He knows it.] I simply do what may be difficult for others. You were having difficulty with something, and so I am providing assistance. This is not kindness, as I am aware of it.
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dancing shoes
Uh... fine. Fine? What, yours poison or something?
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Sorry, Yuri.]
I am suspicious of it. Something feels...Off. And yet I cannot identify exactly what. It is no poison or drug that I know of, and nothing tastes awry.
Yet, something is wrong. I do not like it. The way this water tastes, the way I feel. Were we meant to arrive alone? I am not meant to be alone, I am sure--
[A gentle trickle of something thick, bright red, far too viscous and ready to bubble to be blood, starts winding down from both nostrils, easily staining the bandages over his face. It's enough to make him stop talking and sharply turn away, just to remove his facial bandages and pick away the silicone as it drips. That's one way to stop him, he supposes.]
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He glances up again when the red starts oozing. That's weird. That's weird, right? He has no idea.
He pulls a bandana from his pocket and offers it to Dimos ]
Well, you came to the right place to not be alone. [ The bar, at least is poppin' ] Tough to say what we're meant to be. [ Since he can't remember much of anything... ]
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But he takes the bandana, because Yuri was kind enough to offer it. Tries to wipe away anything that's still wet, because that's what's done, and ends up only smearing a textured splotch onto said bandana. Sigh...Might as well just start tugging the thing out. It looks like dried PVA glue or something, heavily dyed; less grotesque than human injury, at least.]
Yes. If you want information, you go to bars. But I arrived alone. This...
Will get me nowhere in the end. You do not seem put out; do you not feel ill at ease? You do not seem like a local; your vocal responses are more personalised to the situation. Are you...also staying? At the establishment?
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If Dimos tries to give the bandana back, he'll wave it off. He has plenty back in his room. ]
The establishment? You mean the hotel? Yeah, I got a room there when I turned up.
[ He shrugs a shoulder and looks around the room, full of people who at least appear to be having a good time ]
I dunno what to tell you. So far as I can tell, there's nothing I can do about this right now, so why not enjoy it until I can figure out a way to get out of here? Booze, music, people, it's better'n the quiet outside.
You don't like it. [ It's not exactly a question, but an offer if he wants to elaborate ]
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An alarming amount of sense, considering that, even with no memories, he's innately programmed to just...Be aware and wary at all times of his surrounds. Dimos flicks a piece of silicone to the floor, making a low humming sound as he really chews it over, before hesitantly speaking up again a few seconds later.]
I have also encountered...No. I have reason to believe, now, that worrying may...May not be beneficial to one's health, if done to the extreme. So you are likely wiser than you know.
[He's already been electroshocked for trying to think about why he's so averse to being alone, and now this...It feels like a rebuke, a slap on the wrist to make sure that he knows what he's doing is wrong.]
At any rate, it is better I worry than you. You require more of the amenities provided than I ever will, being organic. To turn them down would be folly when they could so easily be taken away again. But if you are concerned at any point in the future, I will provide what counsel I am able to.
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What d'you mean, I'm "organic"? [ Is it an insult? Should he be insulted? He has no idea ]
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Is...Is 'organic' not clear enough? Hm.]
Do you breathe? Do you have flesh and blood? If so, you are organic. I am a clockwork man, so differentiating is important, I have found.
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That's pretty cool. So if you got stabbed, you'd be okay? Then... why are you bleeding?
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Programming. Weird shit.]
It is a field repair measure, to patch skin where it may be damaged. A thin substance that fills gaps and dries rapidly, without sacrificing the flexibility of the original.
[A beat. He looks back at his water, dry 'blood' falling out of his hand and onto the floor.]
I do not want to talk about myself. I do not know how I knew that, and it may lead to further injury. What are your plans for the future, here? To wait? To search for an answer? To find your past self, or forge anew?
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memories
No revelation comes. All she has, still, is Ruby.
She turns to look up at the stranger, and even though he doesn't look like anyone she's ever seen before, maybe that doesn't matter. Everything's been so strange, lately. ]
Yeah. Me, too.
I think I'm looking for...answers? I dunno. Who isn't, right? [ A huff of a laugh, a touch desperate. ] I just can't shake the feeling I'm not supposed to be here.
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[He shrugs, with cocky posturing that might belong on a man with tickets on himself, but Dimos lacks any and all paperwork. He also lacks any real question to be answered, so perhaps...squatting down to also look better at the headstone might behoove him.]
...Do you know this person? I have not recognised any of the names I have seen so far, but then, I do not think I know anyone in the first place.
...I do not think I should be alone, either. Things do not feel right for me. You are not alone in thinking this.
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Yeah. That's my name. [ Oh, shit, this is a weird way to introduce yourself to people, isn't it? But they're also clustered around a grave, so maybe weird is just a continuum these days. ] I'm Ruby. Nice to meet you. Wish it was under better circumstances.
[ Below the name, placed right next to the gravestone, is a small, single bullet. Ruby does not touch it, and she makes a point to not even look at it. ]
But yeah, sure. Sticking together. Not a bad plan, in the fucked-up mystery desert. [ A sigh. ] You found a way outta here, yet?
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[Even he knows that Ruby's not the most uncommon name there is, after all. But then there's the bullet, and although Dimos' first instinct is to grab it, to take it, he...
He doesn't have anything to put it in.
Or any idea that he once had a pistol strapped to his thigh in the first place. It's probably gauche to grab it, if she's avoiding looking at it...And following his urges had gotten him stuck here in the first place, so he'll leave it alone for now.]
I am Dimos. You are not dead, so the circumstances are well enough, aren't they?
Especially if we are not alone. Two is better than one, always; I will have your back, Ruby. [A pointed avoidance of that last question, both because he doesn't like acknowledging failure and...Because he doesn't want to leave just yet. Whatever had called him here in the first place...It's still tugging gently at him.] ...Do you want to linger here? You seem uneasy.