August 2025 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

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

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

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.

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

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.


BEACHED

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.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

[mikoshi]

Okay, maybe it is his biz. Vincent doubts a knife will do much against creatures who look like writhing shadows despite looking plenty solid. "Fuck!" Claws sharp enough to rip though clothes. Alright, pull him away from these creatures ASAP or he's beef jerky. That caustic reaction to the blood doesn't go unnoticed, making Vincent wonder idly if Dex has acid for blood or what.

His arm shakes from the exertion, bicep flexing painfully, legs spread farther apart to anchor himself onto the sand...

...and they're out. Vincent falls on his ass from the sudden shift in force, groaning pitifully. "You're welcome," knees bent, palms held flatly to his side, Vincent catches his breath. "Great, we got..." A long-suffering sigh. "...yokai or some shit. If anythin' starts singin' don't follow it, don't care how beautiful the voice is."

[ricochetingbullets]

At the sudden shift in momentum, Dex ends up stumbling and landing on the ground, automatically putting one of his hands to keep from landing flat on his face. It wouldn't surprise him if that did happen, it's just being one of those days. He listens to V. The term is familiar if only because at least a few of the guys Dex had served with back in the day in the Army had been weeaboos who were obsessed with anime. Since there wasn't always a whole lot to do between missions, he'd been exposed a little more than he otherwise would have cared to.

"You got experience with this kind of weird shit or what?" He asks as he shifts around so he can properly sit down. Dex is from a more grounded corner of his universe, far away from anything like magic, demons, and spirits; so he's got no real experience with whatever the hell this kind of thing is.

He examines his arm carefully to see how much damage has been done. Honestly, it's little more than a bad scratch, just enough to draw blood to the surface. It's as if the creature had done it by accident rather than on purpose. "That makes no sense..." He mutters to himself. Dex is an expert when it comes to knowing about weapons, bladed ones especially. Those claws had been sharp enough that they could have torn him into ribbons, yet all they'd been doing was persistently trying to grab and drag him away.

[mikoshi]

"Every land's got its cryptids. La Llorona, El Chupacabra. Tsuchinoko—which is my favorite one 'cause it's just a fat fuckin' snake." Yes, no, maybe? Isn't answering the question because he can't. Was Nibbles, his hairless cat, the bakeneko he and Goro saw at the rooftop overlooking that Arasaka factory—or was it Johnny Silverhand, whose soul literally revived him, then haunted him? Weird shit gravitates to Vincent. He wishes Misty was here, her tarot readings would sort it right out, the burn palo salto keep it at bay. "Doubt we're gonna get the anime greatest hits here though. These things are..."

Doesn't remember any yokai like these. Vincent squints as he watches the strange mass of shadowy hands roil in impotent rage then subside into a pool of tar, stilled. He shifts into a more proper seating position, staring back at Dex and his injured arm. "Did ya notice how your blood burned 'em? Like it was acid." Vincent wouldn't call himself an expert of weapons since he mainly uses his body as one, but knives, especially the throwing kind, he knows well. "So, you the kind of weirdo who drinks poison," it does seem like something Dex would do, "Or did we just find out what their weakness is?" Not too keen to bleed himself like a stuck pig to fight these things. Rather avoid them.

But that might not last forever. They'll probably be others like Dex, too curious for their own good. "Should try to figure out somethin' else we can use." A wicked-looking knife comes into view, Vincent spinning it as a force of habit. "'Cause I sure as fuck can't cut myself with this one." The ampoule's prominently slotted into it.

[ricochetingbullets]

"A general kind of weirdo yes." V has had ample time already to figure that part out for himself. "That particular kind of weirdo no. Guess human blood must be their weakness." Which didn't make a whole lot of sense but then the things in myths and legends that could stop a creature in its tracks or defeat it for good rarely did. Human blood made about as much sense as humanoid monsters made of tar to begin with.

Dex's eyes immediately snap onto the knife when V pulls it out. Just like that, he's right back in observation mode, keeping all information right at the front of his mind just in case he needs to switch over into fight mode and make decisions in a quarter of a second. He doesn't think V will harm him. If he wanted to do that, he could have just left Dex to his fate with the monsters. But old habits die hard and Dex's shattered trust won't be so easy to fix after the number Fisk had done on him just before he'd gotten here. "Don't worry, I'll just stab you if that's what needs to happen." There's the edge of a joke in those flat words.

[mikoshi]

"Military weirdo, yeah." The military, whether corporate or government—though those lines blur more and more every day back home—does seem to have a monopoly on weirdos. "That kind of weirdo is more niche." Organized crime niche. The Valentinos or the Tyger Claws would turn microdosing into an initiation ritual. "Blood. Life?" Spit-balling. In a kinder world, where people like him could get a formal education and fair work, Vincent would've made a killer private investigator. Figuring stuff out has always been a passion of his. Usually it's cars but tough chance of that here. "Try fire next? Lots of evil shit is weak against fire."

If Vincent wanted to harm Dex there are easier ways to accomplish that goal. Not to mention he's not too keen on wasting the paralytic filling that ampoule. Who knows when he'd be able to another dose. "Not that I ain't willin' to bleed for the people, but that's kinky for our second meeting." Joke received, countered. No threat here, only an attempt at a reaction—any reaction. "Can you buy me flowers, a nice dinner 'fore you whip out the knives and chains?"

[ricochetingbullets]

"That obvious, huh?" There really is something about Dex, a certain air about him, that makes it clear he's involved with the government. Once it was as a soldier and now as an FBI agent....or at least he was before he got suspended. Now he's nothing at all, without an identity he can cling to as a shiny veneer so people won't look too hard and realize it's just a facade, that beneath the surface a monster lurks that wants to hurt and kill everyone around him. It's hard to figure out his own identity when he despises the real version of himself and knows everyone else will too.

Dex glances back at the sand where the footprints made of tar still reside, looking so harmless now, as if monsters hadn't sprung forth from them five minutes prior. "If you wanna find a way to light those things up, be my guest. I'm not going back out there."

There's the slightest twitch of surprise from Dex when V starts in with the talk of a date. Flirting, now that's something Dex is a little more comfortable with. Attraction, he has learned, is all an illusion, at least at the beginning, until sex enters the equation and then even more playacting is what happens. In that way he's no different than anyone else. It comes easy to someone who pretends all the other parts of himself are real.

He tilts his head a little towards V, a charming and easy smile on his face that nonetheless never reaches his eyes. "I think nice dinners in this place consist of moose stew." What he wouldn't give for a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake right now. "Point me in the direction of one and I can kill it for that dinner." Not entirely a joke. Put Dex within eyesight of any animal and he can find a way to kill it in one shot.

[mikoshi]

Vincent's intuition regarding people is usually on the money. This one isn't hard to spot. "Raised by a jarhead in a camp full of jarheads." Which is exactly why he didn't become one. Veterans are primed to zealously criticize the capitalistic failures of modern militaries. It's said veterans either end up as ranting leftists—the Johnny Silverhand special—or bootlickin' toy soldiers until they climb to fascist-in-chief like Kurt Hansen.

A little bit of balance wouldn't be unwelcomed, however.

"Wasn't asking you to. Sense of adventure wouldn't kill ya though." Easy to say for the guy who didn't almost get sucked into the void. That damned sense of responsibility nagging at him, demanding he find another way to make this easier for others. Community. Definitely why Vincent consistently flirts with death.

Speaking of flirting... "Think that's a smart idea? Place's haunted. Get the feelin' the gods, spirits, whatever the fuck, wouldn't be too happy with us poachin'." Probably demands a sacrifice before taking from the land. In the old stories that's always how it goes—balance. Besides, cute as Dex looks smiling instead of that RBF standard to all military men, it isn't quite right. But Vincent lacks the rapport to figure out if it's because Dex is lying through his teeth, exhausted from what just happened and their arrival, or 'cause he wants to get into Vincent's pants, badly, and is just saying what he thinks Vincent wants to hear.

Unlike Johnny, Vincent isn't that conceited. Sure, it's plausible, but A and B are exponentially more likely than C.

It does confirm something he suspected the moment he got hit with rocks, however. "You are a sniper. Kind of impressed you can do more than just bullets. Most snipers I've zeroed were one-trick ponies." Nothing funnier than a man decked out in the latest from Militech pissing their pants 'cause your fists coming at their face and there's nowhere to run. "Can you do bow and arrows? Meat and fur would be helpful."

[ricochetingbullets]

He's going to have to watch himself around this one. V is observant and has good intuition. In a way, it reminds Dex of the way Fisk was able to see him. That makes him wary because he knows despite giving into working for the man that it still wasn't the right decision. It was just the only one he had in front of him at the time. Has he just had the bad luck (story of his life) to stumble upon someone else who just wants to use him for their purposes?

"I left my sense of adventure in the red leather ninja outfit I was just given back home." Is he joking? Not at all, though it's hard to tell if he's telling the truth as it has been thus far with Dex. Fighting the real Daredevil had been enough adventure for Dex to deal with for the next six months, thank you very much. But it looks like he's gonna get sucked into more bullshit here. Almost literally given what the tar monsters had just been trying to do to him.

"Well, unless they plan on conjuring up a McDonald's here for us all, tough shit on if I have to kill a few of their sacred deer or whatever the fuck is running around here. I'd expect some spiritual beings on high would be all right with the circle of life playing out the way it's supposed to." He sounds a touch grumpy at the idea of having to put forth even more effort to find food than he's already been prepared to do.

"That's because firing a sniper rifle and throwing things are two completely different skills. They only seem similar on the surface. Most snipers can't throw for shit." A childhood of obsessively throwing a baseball and then a young adulthood of obsessively learning how to shoot a gun has left Dex with all the skills he's ever needed for the rest of his life. Let one thing be said about Dex: he doesn't halfass things. Once he's set on achieving a goal, he doesn't stop until he's the best at what he's set out to do.

"I can hit anything I aim at with whatever I have to work with." That's not just him bragging or trying to impress V either, even if the man is rather handsome in that rugged kind of way that reminds Dex of characters out of Westerns made in the 90s. Something runs through Dex's head in the milliseconds before he aims a gun or anything else at someone. Some smooth flow of different aspects of mathematics, spatial awareness, being able to tell what different materials are made of around him, and half a dozen other factors that he deals with which are so innate after years of training that he doesn't even realize he's thinking about them anymore on a conscious level.

[mikoshi]

"Sounds awful. Sweaty, chaffing..." Vincent's thinking of a latex fetish get-up, not the hi-tech superhero stuff. Such outfits exist in his world too, usually reserved for netrunners who need to keep cool lest they fry their brains whiled plugged in, but given the salacious bent of this conversation, impossible not to think of an outfit more appropriate in a Mox drag show. "'Least you shook that ass, got some crispy bills shoved under your thong?"

Vincent has no idea what a McDonald's is but he can guess it must be some sort of fast food chain. All food might as well be fast food in Night City, since it's all scop (no different than slop, really) served out of vending machines, meant to shut up hunger and little else. He isn't shy about admitting that, so far, the best thing about this frozen purgatory is how flavorful and filling everything was back at the community center.

Which is why he might've broken the record for most plates eaten in a single sitting. Another reason why he needs to contribute to the food surplus—he's gonna eat for two. "Didn't say you can't kill 'em, said maybe we should do a little research before pissing off deer kami or whatever the fuck." Superstitious? Unsure. But there's a reason why tales of vengeful spirits transcend cultures. They've been idiots not to approach the land with caution, animals included.

"Yeah, guess that's true." Fiddles with his knife as he thinks that, spinning it in place, making it hop from knuckle to knuckle, one hand to the other then back. Five finger fillet is a well-practiced party trick of his, a side hustle he keeps in his pocket for a rainy day. Most are impressed when a boorish mercenary displays finesse but he doubts Dex would fall for such charm, given what he's saying of his sharpshooting skills. Vincent's main attraction isn't the knife, however, so he won't be offended to be in the presence of a master while he's merely a dilettante.

"Sounds like I need to make you a slingshot, or a composite bow. Funny as you flinging stones like a caveman was, think it'd be safer for all of us if you could defend yourself properly." Is it, Vincent? He considers the implications of that—arming the guy who shot at him first meeting—but then realizes once more he needs to exercise trust. If Dex gets out of hand he gets the feeling there are others who'd be willing to set him straight. Condemning someone for a crime they might commit is also paternalistic bullshit. "Unless they are handin' out sniper rifles. I'd kill for my gorilla arms, but got the feelin' I'd have none of it with how fuckin' cold it is." All that metal would fuck with all the hydrautics and other components.

[ricochetingbullets]

"Not that kind of outfit, you perv." Though really this is on Dex for not elaborating as to what he meant. "Think protective motorcycle leathers, not a gimp suit." He pauses. "Though it was very sweaty. The thing didn't breathe at all."

Dex isn't quite sure what a kami is but assumes it's some sort of term for a spirit or demon. "I'm leaving that research up to you." Almost as if there is now a 'we' between them, like Dex has some other idea of how he can contribute to this partnership, especially after V has manages to save his ass twice now. That's how it works with Dex. Someone does something for him, so he does something for them in return. Besides, V is....interesting. Dex likes it when people can hold his interest.

"I'll figure out how to kill what's needed." There we go, that's what he plans to do. "If I piss off the spirits, they can come drag me off to tar-filled Hell or whatever they've got planned." Occasionally, there's a perk to being a psychopath, and having his fear blunted to almost be nonexistent in situations other people find extremely stressful is one of them.

"Sling," Dex corrects. "A slingshot is what that kid in the Dennis the Menace comic strip uses to annoy people with. A sling was what David used to take down Goliath." The first is just a toy, the second is a weapon that can shatter someone's jaw or break someone's arm bones into pieces if it doesn't outright kill them on the first shot. With Dex being the way he is, he can definitely make sure a second shot is never necessary.

He looks over at V, glancing down at his covered arms as if they will somehow provide visual confirmation for Dex as to what the heck he's talking about. "Do I even want to know what gorilla arms are?"