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singillppl2025-08-05 10:18 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2025-08-05 10:18 pm
Entry tags:
August 2025 Test Drive Meme
AUGUST 2025 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — and the current inhabitants, their fellow survivors.
PROMPT TWO — IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE: Interlopers take a walk through the woods, and discover who they are as a person in this Quiet Apocalypse.
PROMPT THREE — BEACHED: A threat emergences from the sands of The Coast, threatening to drown Interlopers in a tarry grave.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Mid-month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.
'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'
It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.
These are the words of the Darkwalker, you’ll soon come to find.
You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. This place has been ransacked, abandoned long ago. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you.
Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.
The sun is bright, enclosed in light fog. It is a strange kind of twilight.
You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.
You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.
Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilization...?
Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!
As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more.
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.
The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.
“Ah. Once more, you poor souls come.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you, Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”
The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful... and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.
There are canisters with hot herbal teas, mostly. But some coffee can be found. There’s also soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast for those who have battled the cold to come here.
Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks — aided by a handful of others in the Hall. Your fellow survivors, but those who have been here for some time now. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames.
He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but gesture to your fellow survivors. They will have better answers than him.
IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE
WHEN: The month of August.
WHERE: Everywhere…?
CONTENT WARNINGS: amnesia memory loss; skeletal remains of animals and humans; themes of honesty; themes of deep/thoughtful conversations/self-realisation; mention of eye-injury/body horror.
You do not remember falling asleep. You open your eyes to find yourself lying in the snowy undergrowth of a burned-out wood. The scent of charred trees hangs in the air, a little petrichor. The world is cold and empty and dead. The sky above you is a pale lavender-grey, a strange half-light gloom and a mist drifts around you. The stillness is not peaceful. Instead it feels like a sense of loss.
You do not remember your name. You do not know who you are.
There are only two things you do know: this is the ending of all things, and you must find out who you are.
When you look down, there are shapes in the snow and dead undergrowth. You reach for them, only to find the things you reach for— bones. Animal. Human. Scattered, half-bleached by the elements. You may be filled with horror, loud and jarring. You might be filled with sorrow. You might be filled with indignant and defiant rage. You might even be filled with something muted and quieter, something like resignation. Because, after all: this is the ending of all things.
You don’t recognise this place, nor do you know where you’re going but you still move forwards — picking any direction and hoping for the best. You trudge through the snow, looking for… answers. Even if you don’t know what those answers will be.
You find another, equally lost as you. Someone else who shares the same situation: not knowing they are and only knowing the same two things as you do. You walk for a while, trying to work it all out. But the woods are endless, and no matter which direction you head in, the burned and blackened trees never seem to thin.
Out of nowhere, a woman’s voice drifts through the trees: What kind of survivor are you?
The question settles on the air. You look at your companion, speechless for a moment. But if you take a little while, the words will come. The truth of yourself: what kind of survivor are you? And you’ll talk with your companion, talking about yourselves like it’s so new to you. You speak honestly. There are no lies here. You begin to remember a little more. A memory, an event, an instance. What kind of survivor you are. You will get your first answer.
Soon enough, another question will come: When you lost everything you knew and loved, how did you keep breathing?
Once again, the words will come. Between yourselves, you will answer and find the answer about yourself — speaking the words as if you are breathing life into your very existence. And more questions will come, giving you and your companion plenty to talk about.
The third question: Do you survive for yourself alone, revelling in the solitude? Or do you hunger for a connection, seeking out others?
The fourth: Do you settle into the silence, and embrace it? Or do you crawl into it whimpering and it crushes you?
The final question: Who are you and how will you face this Quiet Apocalypse?
You remember who you are now, don’t you? Your name. What kind of person you are, what shapes and guides you.
A woman stands before you in the woods. She is dressed in furs. She is gaunt, exhausted — her left side of her face is black and withered, her eye absent from the socket. Her other eye is blue and sad. She looks proud, and she smiles. This is Enola, the First Interloper.
“I see you.” she says softly.
With the blink of an eye, you are no longer in the woods but wherever you last remember being. Your companion is no longer with you, but you’ll find them again soon enough.
BEACHED
WHEN: The month of August
WHERE: Beaches/shorelines of The Coast, Silverpoint.
CONTENT WARNINGS:
The shorelines of the Northern Territories’ Coastal Region have been a boon to those who live there, thanks to the many opportunities for beachcombing and the occasional crates of random goods that will wash up on the shore from long-forgotten ships, along with regular fishing opportunities. However, in the month of August, there's a strange kind of emptiness to the beaches that even keeps some of the locals away. Interlopers who speak with Molly and Jace will be told that something about the beach creeps them out.
Jace in particular will mention that he has seen strange footprints in the sands made of tar. While he’ll point out where he’s seen them from a distance, he doesn't recommend Interlopers going to check it out. It’s bad vibes, and generally when that sort of thing goes down it’s best to stay away.
But he can't exactly stop anyone who wants to go see what the fuss is about.
Interlopers who go to explore the beaches will feel overcome with the strange sensation of hollowness; like something has clawed away at you from the inside. Some may describe it as a sense of sorrow or grief. Others might describe it as a strange kind of inner-disconnection. Some may describe it as a kind of stillness, the kind that comes after death, or standing in an empty room after someone has just left it.
The feeling is small at first but the longer an Interloper spends time on the beach, the bigger that feeling grows.
Interlopers who followed the footprints of tar in the sand after an extended period of time on the beach will notice that the footprints will actually be actively moving. You will see them being made in real time. Soon enough, the footprints will start to turn and walk towards the Interloper. They never hurry, but make a beeline at a steady pace — easy enough to outrun, but will catch the Interloper if they’re not careful enough. If the footprints catch up to them, they'll soon find out just exactly what is lurking within the sands.
Figures burst forth from the tar, writhing and scrambling towards you. A mass of several of them, a mob. The beings look human, but are twisted and distorted, and appear to be entirely made out of the tar. Their eyes are green and smoking, their hands are sharp and clawed. However, they’re extremely solid, as if they are a person after all. They hiss and shriek, trying to grab at you in hopes of pulling you down into the tar that pools and floods around them.
You can shake off one or two of them but let enough of them swamp you, and you’ll be dragged down into a tarry grave — never to be seen again.
The beings can be fought off — guns and bows can keep them back but won’t hurt them. Flames work well on them, too. If they manage to claw at you and draw blood, the blood itself will actually be harmful to them and they’ll cower away from even a few drops. Fighting them off will have them retreating back into the sands, leaving nothing but a pool of tar behind.
Leaving is also absolutely an option, if you can get off the sand itself and back onto land. The beings will not follow and seem to be stuck completely on the beaches.
But the experience will leave you feeling emotionally raw in the days that follow. Interlopers will be left feeling hollow, but spending time around others will have the feeling fading and you’ll feel like your usual self again.
FAQs
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. Interlopers are compelled to speak about themselves honestly — describing who they are as a person, using the questions provided. They can talk about canon experiences or simply share their own thoughts about themselves concerning the question.
2. While they will find bones, there is nothing else living in these woods. There will be nothing they will be able to glean from the bones.
1. While the claws are sharp enough to cut an Interloper, the beings aren't aiming to maim — they're simply trying to grab hold of the person to drag them down into the tar.
no subject
Here. [ It's a plain black hoodie, thick and warm. Smells not so faintly of iron, dark stains invisible in this low light. But if you squint, catch the fabric at the right angle... For good measure he also throws in the black scarf, also stained, but it's more of a fine spray than the signs of taken hits. Needs it less, not as far into hypothermia as he suspects this guy must be. His jacket also zips all the way, has a hood attached for head and neck coverage. ] Stay behind me. I'll open up a path so you don't get your feet more wet. Help you dry off a bit.
Name's V. [ Doesn't expect to get one in return.
Onwards. ]
no subject
He's swift to put the clothes on, reveling in the warmth leftover in them from being up against V not thirty seconds ago. The hoodie goes on first, then he puts his jean jacket back on, and finally the scarf The fact he suspects there might have been death involved when V was wearing them not too long ago doesn't bother him one bit. He's not squeamish, especially when he's concerned with the pragmatic desire to stay alive.]
That's not a name, that's an initial.
[Dex says bluntly. As far as filters go, whatever ones he usually possesses have been completely blunted after wandering around in the snow for so long, his usual feigned social skills flattened out with how the only task at hand he has is to survive for the next few hours.
There's a short pause before he offers his own in return, feeling he needs to give out something since V is going out of his way to help him.]
Dex.
no subject
Yeah, it is. Answer my riddles three and maybe... [ The rapport isn't there yet. Dex is free to throw names that start with V, gauge his reaction. He could be called Victor for all he cares. ] ...maybe.
[ Will the surprises ever cease? Bit of an unfortunate coincidence, however. ] I knew a Dex. Shot me in the head too. [ But if Vincent's bitter about it he doesn't show it. Hell, his smile is positively manic. ] Maybe a third Dexter will show up and shoot me in the balls. Keep me guessin'.
[ He's your problem now, current Dexter. Because Vincent is going to offer unwarranted commentary throughout this journey. It's what he does—or, more accurately, what something else did that has now passed down to him as if an inheritance. Or a communicable disease. Yeah, that fits the former sentient tumor lodged in his brain.
At least they're making progress. Vincent appears particularly skilled at mowing his way through the snow, clearing a path for others. His cultural and occupational heritage. ]
no subject
I assume it wasn't with a gun.
[Or V wouldn't be talking with him right now. He shuffles after him as they draw closer now to what Dex can make out is a small town. It looks inhabited too, even if it is covered in snow like everything else in this hellscape. He gives a brisk shake and keeps stoically walking on.]
That's a usual guess. But Dexter's not what my full name is.
[Most people usually got their nickname from their first or middle name, not something plucked out of the middle of their last name like Dex had. But it had just shaken out that way. Another thing that's a little off about him. Maybe, like V, if he gets more comfortable with the other man he'll reveal a more of himself. Dex often just gives people the barest details about himself, little bits and pieces that still never add up to a full picture. It's easier that way, not letting people get too close. Holding them at arm's length is how his whole life has gone thus far and Dex isn't about to change his ways anytime soon.]
no subject
[ Explains a lot, doesn't it? Explains everything. The start of it all, the single event that sent his life spiraling, ramifications Vincent is sure he'll never fully map out. Dexter DeShawn was a lot of things, many of them not good. But the man did have an eye for talent. And for that, Vincent will be eternally grateful. ]
'Course not. Most people have last names. [ Surely not what Dex meant but how Vincent took it. ] I got one too. Two, technically. [ Spanish naming system, father's and mother's. But Vicente Alejandro Tanaka Fernandez doesn't even sound like words anymore. That's some other guy, a kid, a lifetime ago, when the fucking forces of entropy weren't barking at his door, hungry for his blood and, in answer, the Grim Reaper of Konpeki Plaza, V, decided to hell with it all.
Total corpo death. ] Maybe after we braid each other's hair and talk about boys we can get to our backstories. For that though, need a shit ton of tequila, a nice blankie, and a little respect. [ Which can only be had with rapport. And, unfortunately, Dex is starting a bit lower than most thanks to that stunt with the stones. It's only fair. Vik and Misty didn't attack him. Johnny did, beat the back of his head against his apartment's window mere hours after getting shot in the forehead. But hey, can't hold that against the rockerboy. He also more than made up for it since. ]
no subject
[What else can he take away from the idea this guy survived being shot at point blank range? Either he's incredibly lucky, he's delusional, or he's lying out of his ass. In any case, Dex's curiosity is peaked. Maybe this guy isn't worth forgetting about the minute he's out of sight once they reach the town.
He glares at V's back for a moment before he speaks. They can't get to Milton fast enough for his liking.]
Sweetheart, we've only just met each other. Not looking to move to first base that quick just yet.
[The more irritated Dex becomes, the more that acerbic kind of sarcasm starts to rise to the surface. Another defense mechanism. If he pisses people off enough, they want to stay away from him willingly, and then he doesn't have to deal with them anymore.]
no subject
Don't worry. Get the feelin' you ain't the type to thaw that easily. [ No, Dex seems like a project, not meant derogatorily but rather as an observation of has-been-through-some-shit. Many such cases with military men, yet can't fall into the trap of thinking they're all the same. Trauma breaks everyone differently, specifically.
Dex can snap as much as he'd like. This is nothing in comparison to the gauntlet Johnny put him through. Vincent also refuses to have his death on his conscience. If he stopped helping people because they got a bit pissy (or okay, plenty pissy, murderously pissy) then he'd never help anyone. ] We're close. [ Sees the lights more clearly now. Some sort of town? There's roads now, largely cleared of snow. ] Oh, thank God. Miss ya, Cali.
no subject
[Without V, he'd still be struggling around in the woods half-frozen to death. Of course, Dex too is also good at survival. But to make it in a place like this, he knows one can't be solitary all the time. While he's not good at seeing individuals, Dex is fantastic in a group setting, seeing them all as a giant mass that he's set to watch over with the particular set of rules he's set down for himself to follow.
Dex gives a hard glance at V.]
Or at all.
[He's sure that usage of the word 'thaw' is deliberate given their current surroundings but he's not about to point out. No, now that they're not about to freeze to death, he's back in observation mode. Figuring out the details of V as if he's a puzzle to solve or a particularly interesting character in a video game that Dex happens to be playing. That's about the level he always sees people in the world around him as: no one is actually real, little more than a herd of cows, with only a few standing out here and there.
Dex is glad when they finally get to what looks like the main road that goes in and out of the small town. A quick glance tells him most of the buildings are probably uninhabited. A few have smoke curling from their chimneys and other signs of life. But the place that looks there would be the most people found is the large building right in the middle there. Maybe some sort of city hall, if a place this small could be said to have one of those, or one of those centers where people got together to celebrate Great-Uncle Fred's 95th birthday or a place to host someone's third baby shower. He adjusts his walking so the path will take him right to there.]
no subject
Isn't a problem until people make it his problem. Dex so far is smarter than your average fascist, understands the value of teamwork in a survival situation such as this. His focus on Vincent strikes him as nothing more than a predatory need to size him up, assign him as either enemy or ally for now. Hypervigilance is common to men in uniform. Vincent would be lying if he doesn't suffer from it here and there. Dex's, however, is clearly more deeply seated than his.
Bad shit when down there, definitely. ] Your choice. [ He says matter-of-factual, making a beeline for that community center. If Dex doesn't want to let anyone in, that's his prerogative. It'll be harder to make it, of course, but every man must make choices then live with their consequences. Anything else would be indolence. ] Keep the clothes. I'll figure somethin' out.
no subject
He reaches up in an automatic fashion, fingers running along the edge of the scarf as if afraid this is a trick and that V will change his mind. Frankly, Dex is surprised anyone would be willing to part with something as important and valuable as clothes in such a climate as this. It's both generous and kind in a way that Dex isn't used to experiencing from anyone, at least not for a very long time.]
....Thanks.
[He says after a pause that stretches out just a little too long between them. Being able to show gratitude in a visible manner has never been Dex's strongest suite.]
no subject
That's sad, man. Breaks his heart. Because it's the same shit back home.
"If ya can give something—or be seen giving somethin'—without losing anything yourself? Give it. Your chooms and allies will love ya for it. Your enemy will be taken in by it. Your chooms will think ya good where you're only being practical. Enemies will think you're weak where you're strong—beaten when you're one step closer to victory."
If Vincent were a calculating bastard? He'd believe that. Has served him well in the past. Giving away weapons, medicine, shelter, food and money at opportune times creates a sense of camaraderie and a tally of favors owed—the most powerful currency in the Badlands and Night City.
What is free often proves most costly. That's what Takemura meant.
But what if you truly don't expect a thing in return? Because Vincent doesn't. Does that make him daft? Are Sun Tzu and Takeda Shingen and whoever the fuck gonna come down from their afterlives, tell Vincent he's a pathetic excuse for a warrior for going soft on a guy who attacked him first?
It's just a fuckin' hoodie and scarf, he tells the ghosts of martial wisdom, all of the people who've gotten him this far. He looks pretty good in 'em. ]
Iie, tondemonai desu! [ He's just taking the piss out of the act. All this wood remind him of a Shinto temple, Takemura brings to mind his incessant bitching about how everyone was nicer in Japan, and that awkward pause demands something unexpected. The formal bow's just a bit too fast, the crow's feet of his eyes pulled in amusement, and the tone too high pitched, very girly. ]
no subject
Once they go inside, it's warm enough that he can remove the scarf and slip it into the large pocket of the hoodie. Now that they're no longer bound by circumstance, he leaves V to go off and do whatever it is the man does. Be nice to people he's just met apparently, if his interactions with Dex are anything to go by. He's just gonna help himself to a portion of that stew the old man is handing out and then go sit off in the corner like a feral dog unsure of what to do around normal people, whether to play nice or bite them all.]