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1.0 Test Drive Meme
1.0 Test Drive Meme
Premise & Arrival ֍ FAQ ֍ Apply ֍ Navigation
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.
no subject
He looks faintly stricken, and Kagari doesn't even really know why he should feel like this, but he knows what the clockwork man is saying is wrong. If he knew the truth, he wouldn't want to help Kagari, he'd keep his distance like everyone else.
(The truth? What the fuck's the truth? What does that mean--)
Kagari grits his teeth, feeling frustrated. This is what he wanted, right? To start off some wild adventure with a robot sidekick? Why does it make him feel so awful?]
You don't even know me, man. I don't even know me. What if I'm some ... crazy serial killer or something, then my well-being wouldn't be worth jack shit.
no subject
I do not.
I do not know myself. But I know that I want to help, and if that is all I've been left with, then I will hold onto it.
And...If you try killing, I think that I may be able to restrain you. [He shrugs. It's cocky, pre-programmed with swagger he doesn't think he has.] If you do not desire help, however, I will leave you be.
no subject
It makes an awful lot of sense, suddenly. What a shitty thing to be left with, he finds himself thinking, suddenly. He'll suffer, like that. With it comes a bloom of sudden protectiveness on his own side, ironically enough.]
Nah, you should keep an eye on me. [he manages to bring back his grin, though it's faint.] Y'know, in case I'm a serial killer.
[That feels more correct, somehow. The way of the world sliding back into place. The man's kindness feels more acceptable if they're not on the same level.]
C'mon, clockman, let's go on a dining adventure.
no subject
His first ever laugh, and he doesn't even realise.]
Order heard--
Mm. Let's go. [The blood doesn't seem to keep coming, and...There has to be something to drink in the dining room, anyway. So he motions loosely towards where the food smells are coming from, before trotting onward. Let no man keep him from chewing on stale biscuits!]
...If you are a serial killer, can I ask what the reasoning is behind killing in such a manner? I have never understood why, outside war, someone would do that sort of thing. It is cruel, unnecessary. If you can explain, then I will be even closer by your side, to watch you.
no subject
He shakes his head, if a little gingerly.]
I think I might have just been like, a shitty person? Like...I don't know how to explain it. There's always been something wrong with me, I'm pretty sure.
[But it's weird. As though he never knew how to explain it, actually. Just that it was true.]
no subject
Anyway. It's starting to hurt, like a ramping up static between his ears. Time to move on.]
Is there something wrong with you now?
Now is what matters. Now is the only thing that matters. Now is what kills you or makes you thrive, especially for humans. If we have nothing left to us, then you may change what you were, I believe.
[Dining room! Dining room...The sandwiches and various kinds of tea are already out, so he veers towards the jugs of iced tea first.] Here. This appears to be tea, albeit cold. Time to discover if you find it enjoyable or not.
no subject
[Casual, even though he doesn't think he wants to murder anyone. There's just ... a strange certainty without even trying to sort through the wreckage of his mind that he's intrinsically broken, somehow. Born wrong.]
I mean, there's gotta be a reason I don't remember, right? Maybe someone thought it'd be better if I just kinda...disappeared. Y'know?
[Who knows, maybe they were right. But he's still alive right now, and he doesn't regret that. Whoever it was should've erased him better. Spite is a useful emotion he's currently rediscovering, here.
He accepts the iced tea with a nod. There appear to be straws nearby, and though it's deeply unnecessary he sticks one into his cup and blows bubbles with it while he sips. At least he can be excused for not acting his age if he doesn't remember what it is, right.]
Anything but oats is cool, honestly.
[...why did he say that. what does he have against oats. it is a mystery dot jpg.]
Can you have any, clockdude?
no subject
[He fixes Kagari with a stare, even as he pours himself a glass of tea. He's not sure what's worse as a concept; one man, so direly in need of being 'erased' that others got dragged into it, or that they all don't remember for no apparent reason at all.
Ah well. Time to start unwinding the bandages over his mouth so he can actually drink. Kagari can say whatever he likes about what he feels about himself, but Dimos is only judging on what he knows of each person he meets.]
I do not believe it to be common, for oats to be served on sandwiches or in tea. You should be able to enjoy what is out right now. As for me, I cannot 'eat'.
But I am checking for poisons. I have not detected any before, that my database has records of...Thus far, the food and drink has been safe.
[It's so, so fucking ingrained in him, even if he can't remember why or how, that he's just. He's doing it.]
no subject
[It feels...familiar, somehow. Some kind of--fucked up kinship. It sounds right.
On the other hand, it doesn't sound quite right that this guy can't eat. Like it makes sense, and yet, sounds lazy on the part of the engineer, as though a mechanical stomach is the sort of thing that's eminently possible. He huffs a little, as though indignant on his behalf.]
Man, that sucks. We don't have to stick around, you know. Can't be fun hanging around watching everyone else eat.
[Both the iced tea and the straw are abandoned just like that as Kagari hops out of his chair. This calls for a different, non-dining adventure, clearly. Even without his memories, the instinct to be loyal to his own comes naturally, and he's already decided the clockwork man counts.]
Oh yeah, I'm Kagari, by the way. [A beat] Kagari Shuusei is the whole thing, I think, but I feel like I used the surname more? Or maybe it's just people preferred calling me by it. Either way works.
no subject
Is not fun, no. I do not enjoy it. Watching others do things that I cannot. I believe it is jealousy.
[His eyes dim for a moment as he rubs his index fingers over the glass in thought about exactly why that is, but-- the order's been given, and Kagari's on the move. For how little they've known each other, Dimos can at least tell that being lonely isn't beneficial to either one of them, and...
Well.
Kagari: designated One Of His, now. So the clockwork man discards his tea, to grow warm and sweat onto the tablecloth, and turns on his heel.] If it makes you feel more at ease, then I will only use your surname. Kagari, I am Dimos. This is-- it is not only my name, but it is the only name I have. It will do.
...Where do you wish to go, if not to recuperate here? You should at least drink, to replenish your lost blood.
no subject
Kagari freezes and shakes his head hard, immediately, almost recoiling as if he's accidentally stepped into a minefield. In a sense, he has -- he realizes with almost terrifying clarity that jealousy is an emotion that runs as close to the core of him as anything, and it is dangerous to tread too close to it.
Instead, he quashes it forcibly and presses on:]
Eh, I can drink stuff anytime. If we're gonna go on an adventure, we gotta find something we can both do. What do you think's fun, Di-kun?
no subject
ok he could, but he doesn't want to. And besides, Kagari's brought up a much more interesting quandary for him to mull over: what does he enjoy? What does he like?]
...I don't know.
I don't know if I think that anything is enjoyable. Do not prioritise my enjoyment of anything until we know that I am capable of feeling it; it will not do to bank on something that may be impossible. Exploration may be beneficial to us instead.
no subject
Come on, dude, everyone enjoys something. [He feels very sure of this, despite having no basis for it.] We just gotta figure out what it is for you.
[...unfortunately, he's coming up blank on potential activities to do. He scratches at his cheek thoughtfully as though that might trigger something, and then huffs when that fails.]
...I guess we can start with exploring and see if anything exciting shows up on the way.
no subject
[More like...He thinks there's an answer, but it's fearsome to say. Who the fuck says that they 'enjoy' fighting? Or that they enjoy fighting, but can't recall what kind? No, nope. Better to avoid that. And exploration just seems natural, seems right, so why not?]
Perhaps leaving the premises altogether would help us both. Fresh air, new surroundings. I have not yet investigated the town proper, at any rate. To know what amenities we have can only be a good thing, correct?
[aka we're going to look at rocks at the general store, motherfucker.]
no subject
Sure, that works. If we don't find anything useful, we can always come back.
[He is HERE for the rocks, okay. Especially the shiny ones. He definitely picked up one of those little baggies you can use to gather up a bunch of shiny gemstones from an assortment. "Charged to the room" just sounds like an excellent excuse to buy whatever and deal with the consequences later!!!
Sometime while browsing the shop, Kagari wanders up to Dimos with a tin of novelty stickers advertised as being gentle on surfaces.]
Y'know...the bandages are a cool generic look, but you could really personalize with these.
no subject
He'll..........
think about the Truck Nutz later.
Much later.]
'Generic'? I had not thought about the appearance, just that they must be better than showing off my patch fixes. I suppose it does not have any unique flair.
[Let him look at these stickers. He delicately opens the tin and plucks one out, just to examine it, but uh.
hm.] Where do you apply body stickers? I would not have the first idea, in truth...Should I use them to cover my patches instead?
no subject
He thinks on the man's question for a moment, then:]
Wherever you think looks cool! Maybe that one on your hat so it's like, "I heard you like hats so I put a hat on your hat".
[tfw u don't remember shit or fuck about your life but you DO remember memes. #priorities, clearly.]
Oh shit, but you gotta put this one somewhere on your back. It'd be hysterical.
[Like a reverse 'kick me' sign!]
no subject
Which is to say that he stares at the stickers. Thinks about the felt of his hat. Then gets to work putting Cowbugs on his hat. Right at the front, because why not put it where you can see it, right?]
Is there humour in having an image of a hat on my hat? I suppose it might qualify. I only wish I could tell, myself.
[Free hugs........Hm. Hold up. He peels the backing off of that one too, and then
gently presses it against Kagari's forehead instead.] ...I think that this is humorous, however. No-- I know.
1/2
He even tries to squint up at it, like the human version of a dog chasing its own tail. You've bluescreened him, Dimos.]
no subject
I can't believe you put a sticker on my face!
[he has been punked, PUNKED!! kagari is delighted his new robot friend has a sense of humor. he'll get u back for this, sir.]
no subject
Initiative is important, in warfare. You will do well to learn this, and quickly.
[With inhuman speed, Dimos reaches into the tin and peels the backing off of this bad boy. It's going on Kagari's chest, pride of place. And Dimos' face twitches again.]
no subject
He grabs the next couple stickers out of the tin. They go on the back of Dimos' palms. Yeeclaw, motherfucker.]
Duly noted.