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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.
Ryan Akagi | Infinity Train
Ryan feels like he's been sleepwalking through the last hour or so.
He doesn't know what he was doing before he was standing at the reception desk, apparently checking into a hotel room. His head feels like it's full of static, but manages to give them a name after a too-long moment of searching for it amid all of the sudden and new sensory input. He spends a long time staring at the receptionist as he's checked in, trying to suss out what feels weird about him, only to realize it's a person behind the counter. He can't think of much, but one memory that floats to the surface is a place like this populated entirely by large bugs.
He's stopped paying attention to look down at his own decidedly not-bug hands. He's not supposed to be a bug, right? ...Yeah, definitely not. So maybe it's not that weird.
It's then that he realizes the Receptionist has been holding out a key and looping the same general welcome on repeat while Ryan just ignored him to stare at his own hands. Whoops. He takes the key and thanks the guy, and disappears up to his room.
Ryan stays up there for a solid hour just kind of looking at everything, touching things, exploring what was left for him. The closet's pretty cool, but it takes him a while to puzzle out what he wants to wear. Eventually he goes for a loose white button-down, blue jeans that have weirdly artful scratches in the knees, boots, and most importantly a red and black jacket with lots of fringe.
He looks at himself in the mirror when he's done and feels better for it - that looks like him in the mirror, even if he's having a hard time remembering much else. Time is spent making faces and different expressions, reuniting himself with his outward appearance.
After that, he's a little more grounded and decides to spend some time just hanging out in the lobby, seeing if anyone else mysteriously shows up (be they bug or human). Maybe it'll be someone he recognizes, or someone who recognizes him. He'll even flag people down once he spots them, fringe of his jacket fluttering like flags.]
Hey, uh. Did you just get here too? Like, out of nowhere?
[His instinct, now that he's settled, is to find others. Something feels deeply wrong about being alone that he can't put into words.]
B. PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES (The Cactus Pad Saloon)
[You know what's usually full of people? A saloon! Plus, it sounds pretty fun in there, and what else is he going to do, sulk by himself? Nah. Hard pass. Time to check out the saloon.
He doesn't remember his drink preferences, but he remembers how to be friendly and charming, so he tells the bartender to just give him whatever she recommends. It's familiar and not familiar at the same time, which is a little uncomfortable, but she gives him a whiskey sour and he sticks with that when he orders for the rest of the night.
Has he had alcohol before? He's definitely been in a saloon, so he wants to say probably, but whatever is in this drink (presumably whiskey and, you know. Whatever sour is) is really good. Ryan was already friendly before this, but he feels looser and more free. Warmer. And everyone else seems to be the same. He's totally happy to get up and dance with anyone and everyone, even trying to get more hesitant folks to join in. C'mon, dance with him! He has a decent sense of rhythm and won't step on your feet. He doesn't recognize any of the music, but that doesn't really matter much to him as long as he's having fun.
It's a good night, and a fun night. Getting to be social really recharges him.]
C. CLOSING TIME (The Cactus Pad Saloon + The Staywell) (cw: drunk)
[See, there's a reason amnesia and alcohol probably shouldn't mix.
You could say it's the possibility of a brain injury and like, that's probably right. But there's another problem. With no memory of drinking before this, Ryan has no memory of what his limits are either.
He's mercifully cut off after four or five drinks (was he supposed to be counting? Is that what you do when you drink???) by either the bartender herself or a kind soul who noticed him swaying just a little too much. When closing time hits it feels sudden to Ryan, and he gently whines to keep the party going, but doesn't put up much of a fight. Everyone else is leaving and being here alone would suck. So, he stumbles out with the rest. If you're near him, he will happily link his arm with yours (friendliness masquerading as a way to keep his balance) and laughs.]
That was-- that was sooooo much fun. Good party!
[After a little more giggling, he'll ask:]
Are y'...hotel? [Fuck. Let's try that again.] Are you going to the hotel? The Staytel?
[Staywell, but you know what? Close enough.]
C!
[It's not very becoming of-...]
[...Ah, another weird gap. He thought he might have grabbed it just then, but he loses it. Instead he decides maybe he will try to look after this person. Maybe it will help. It's a selfish thing, he also notes. He's selfish, he thinks. Inherently very selfish. But ...it seems right, too.]
[And then Ryan grabs his arm and he squeaks in surprise.]
I-I-! Um! Ah... [Oh god talking to people is a nightmare. He's learned that, too.]
Y-Yes ...that is where I am going. Please- hold... hold onto me tightly and I will lead us there...
[Ryan has stumbled onto a dark-clad person dressed a little strangely. But his voice is an low, melodic thing, soothing. And his step is actually very steady.
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But good, perfect. He's going there too. Ryan does as he's told, clinging to him a little closer and nodding. He can do that.]
'Kay. [Barely a beat passes before he blurts out the first thought that hits his brain.] You...your voice's nice.
[It's cozy in a way that feels homey, the same way that good music apparently does. Maybe that's it. Maybe it reminds him of music just beyond the edge of his memory.]
...are you new too?
[Walking and talking and holding onto him is very hard all at once, but he's decided he likes hearing this guy talk, and prompts him for more.]
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[He sighs a little when Ryan seems to be fine, at least, just drunk. Ah, he can smell the alcohol. That's not a surprise, though. What is a surprise, is that unsolicited compliment. He startles again, stammering.]
N-Nooo... it's. It's ...really not something worth noting...
[Those words tumble out of him before he understands why. Like an impulse, he blurts it out. divert the attention, divert the attention is the feeling in the back of his mind. Keep his head low or else-- or else--]
[...and it's gone again, like before.]
[It seemed a lot like he just spaced out and didn't hear Ryan, but after a moment he snaps to.]
Ah- yes. I ...I found myself here a little earlier. Is ...is that the case for most of us...?
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[Ryan sort of pauses in his tracks (probably forcing Mayoi to pause too), as if he needs to stop moving in order to think properly. Even then, he still feels like he's bobbing around in a current.]
I don't. So, like. I dunnooo how I got here? ...but I didn't before either. It's not 'cause of, y'know. 'Cause of...
[He uses his free hand to gesture in a sloppy circle in front of his face. In other words, it's not because he's drunk. He just didn't know how he got here and also got drunk on top of it.]
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…Not because of how much you’ve had to drink. [Mayoi finishes that easily for him, with a thoughtful little hum.]
[After a moment, he very gently nudges Ryan so they can continue walking.]
I …I only remember checking in before. So …I must not be from here, I think.
[That’s how it worked, right?]
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1/3 i think
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done.
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B
(The worst part is that she can't remember what she's supposed to be worried about. But surely it's not this kid.)
Ruby's a tough woman, and she's not entirely on the beat all the time, but she follows the dance well enough. ]
You're pretty good at this, kid. You practice or something?
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Oh, uh. Not really? Just started, y'know. Moving to the music~
[He wiggles his arms in a very exaggerated goofy sort of way, to distract from the fact that he doesn't have a real answer to that question. Has he practiced? Who knows!]
What about you? Have you done much dancing before?
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Not much. But I've been to plenty of bars. I think.
[ Ruby shouldn't keep talking. She also shouldn't try to imitate the dancers around her, with those little kicks in time to the music. And yet: ]
Honestly, I don't remember shit. Must've partied too hard last night. [ Or something. ]
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Yeah. I... [Has he been to bars? He doesn't think so. At the very least, he doesn't remember.] ...I've been somewhere like this before? There wasn't a lot of dancing going on at that saloon though.
[But then she admits she doesn't remember and provides a sort of reasonable explanation. Is that what happened to him too?]
Must've been a good party if you came back for seconds!
[Which also tracks. After all, this party's pretty fun! Good drink, good company. What's not to like?]
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(Maybe none of those old memories matter, Ruby thinks, and then she doesn't, because that's a shitty place to go when you're trying to enjoy a party.) ]
If there's one thing this town can do, it's throw a party, I guess. Yeah, the bartender knows like five sentences, max, but who cares.
[ Says Ruby, in the tone of a tightly wound person who cares quite a bit. ]
So, you've been to other saloons, huh? What's your name?
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B.
Thankfully the cat sized hat and bandana help her stand out a little.]
Wow, kid! You've got it.
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A talking cat!!!]
Thanks! You really think so?
[There is so much joy in his heart from getting to hang out with a talking cat. This might be the best thing that's ever happened to him. It's the best thing he can remember happening to him at least.]
Love the getup by the way. It totally suits you!
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[She sounds very assured of this. He does have it, whatever it might be.
She is thrilled to receive a compliment of her own, weaving herself about his legs to rub herself on him in a way that threatens to knock that hat off completely.]
Thanks! So does yours. I'd dance on the ceiling if I had wings.
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Hm...I can't give you wings, but if you wanna be a little higher I can pick you up?
[It's entirely her call, but he crouches down and holds his arms out, if she wants that.]
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It seems like she wants it all, though. With a mouth full of leather and barely giving Ryan a chance to react, she has a demand:]
Carry me then.
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C
He is making a firm b-line toward the hotel when he feels an arm wrap around his. He looks over with a tired, but pleasant smile.]
Yeah. I'm at the Staytel too.
[And a light roll of his eyes.]
Let's get you back there.
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Thanks, man. You...y'reeeeally seem like you know where you're going, y'know?
[Ryan for sure does not, but he stays clinging to Clark and assumes he's right about that. Probably.]
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He's not upset or anything. He's just realizing this is probably his fate.]
Yeah. I mean. You could say I've walk around the town once or twice.
[Is it a joke? Is he being serious?
Okay. He has done a few laps around town to get a sense of where everything is. It's responsible.]
It's really helping us out now, isn't it?
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Yeeeep! You're like...you're basically an expert!
[This is indeed his fate, because Ryan certainly isn't going anywhere on his own. However, he does lean in conspiratorially and stage whisper like it's some big secret.]
Psssst. Psst. By the waaaaay were there any like. Any...big bugs? Like us-sized. People-size. When you were walk around...
[Good luck figuring out that one, Clark.]
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That's me- Clark Kent. Designated carrier.
[His tone is half resigned, half amused. He doesn't mind that much.
The sudden lean in and stage whisper gets him curious. But he masks it with plain old confusion.]
Big bugs...?
You mean like aliens or something?
Nah. can't say that I have.
[Then a pause.]
...Have you?
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C
[ Flynn, actually, was planning on heading to the diner because he is suddenly starving, but that doesn't seem like such a good idea when this guy can barely string his words together. He links their arms a little more firmly, tucking Ryan's into his like he's some kind of fancy princess so he can take more of his weight. ]
Do you remember your room number? It's alright if you don't; you can just sleep this off in my room.
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Suddenly standing is a lot easier with someone supporting him, but he doesn't risk letting go either. But he's okay with that. This is kind of cozy.]
Uh...
[Room number, room number....roomber...]
...Nooooo. But! I've gotta key!
[This is the point where Ryan starts becoming a wiggly drunk, because he doesn't want to let go but he's also trying to search all his pockets while still clinging to Flynn. Good luck with that.]
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[ How is he supposed to deal with sudden wiggles, especially when Ryan's searching fingers accidentally brush his side and it makes him jolt and yelp with startled, ticklish laughter, almost jerking away. ]
No, no, that's alright, you can find it later! Let's just focus on getting you back— haha— please—
[ Ryan please you are making this so hard and Flynn is laughing so much, trying to keep them both upright. ]
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Don't-- [Pfft.] --don't laugh at meeeeeee!
[It's more of a playful whine than anything, because he's giggling himself. He knows how silly this whole thing is, deep down.]
Okay, okay. Later....but I didn't lose it.
[It's the truth. He can kind of feel it in his pocket, poking his leg. He just can't grab it. For now, he'll just let Flynn escort him to...well, wherever. He definitely said, but Ryan's forgotten.]
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