rapturefree | baby you can drive my car

It's anticipated. It's expected. We're all about expectations, aren't we? Sort of? Maybe? Regardless, it's the first official

TEST DRIVE MEME

You probably know the drill by now. If you don't, here's a quick rundown: test drive memes are a game's way of gauging interest and such. It's a way to play around in the environment without the commitment of apping, maybe see how well that character you're considering gels with the setting. This one will be open indefinitely, or at least until further notice. You don't need to be apped to the game to test drive a character, or even reserved, or even want to reserve. However, if your interest is indeed piqued, reserves are thisaway, applications thataway.

As of this writing, we don't consider anything that happens in the TDM canon unless you'd like to transfer any threads that happen here to the main comms (provided they don't interfere with pre-established game events, of course). TDM threads are just a way to get a feel for a game, or in case you need that pesky writing sample for an app in progress. We don't recommend you do a standard intro post, however - save that for the game proper!

We don't have a set entry date for the game proper just yet. Once we accumulate some interest, we'll be sure to let you know!

Some resources we recommend that you check out if interest continues to abound:

Cast | Setting | Rules & FAQ | Locations

PROMPTS:

i. do you hear the people sing?
You've heard the rumors circulating about Atlas and his bandits for months. Even the upper echelons of Rapture's high society were having trouble burying their concern under the careful veneer of professionalism. What you didn't expect was an open attack. You'd just been passing by, but the poor souls who lived and shopped and made their living on this street have just found their entire livelihood set aflame. People are saying it's a bombing, while others protest that it must have been something down in maintenance.

Right now, it doesn't really matter one way or the other. The homes and storefronts have been reduced to sheeting flame as hairline cracks go cobwebbing up the glass, the only thing separating the city from a watery grave. Whether you choose to get the hell out of dodge or help the wailing survivors is up to you, but regardless of what you choose to do, this section of Rapture is rapidly coming apart at the seams.

ii. who's your daddy?
You've no clue whose bright idea it was to tail the Little Sister. It might have been some gang of spliced-up nobodies thirsty for some extra ADAM. It might have been your best friend's idiot plan. Hell, it might have even been yours. All you know is that no matter how appealing the thought seemed at the time, you and yours are in for a world of hurt. The Little Sister just had to shriek once and her armored protector came barreling into the scene, drill humming to life with a sinister whine. Guilty as charged or caught in the crossfire, you're in for the fight of your life with a Big Daddy, one of the most dangerous things in Rapture. Good luck.

iii. a part of the masterpiece

Fort Frolic, they say, is the hub for creative artistry. Sander Cohen is either a wildly inspired artistic genius or a madman depending on who you ask, but the alcohol runs the same no matter how you slice it. For tonight, the Fort is yours to enjoy at your leisure. Take a gander, gamble everything you've got, have a drink, maybe sit in for a show. The only thing Cohen loves more than his exclusivity is rampant attention, and tonight he's on full display. He's even torturing - er, entertaining a lucky pair of dancers in Fleet Hall! Don't mind the wires threaded in and out of their clothing, doubtless unspooled over all those important parts of the nervous system and ready to unleash a burst of fatal electricity at a moment's notice. They've got to be just for show.

One thing is certain about the possibly-deranged Sander Cohen, after all: he certainly keeps you on your toes!

iv. wild card! make up your own scenario

We prefer third-person, present tense prose, but if you're just in it for the fun you can write in whatever floats your pontoon. Have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Nice to get that confirmation. It pretty much feels broken, judging by the pain and the way it feels like things in there are moving when they shouldn't be and oh god. God. Shit. Tim's just - not going to think about that. Given the fact that he's pretty firmly attached to his arm, that's proving to be more difficult than he'd like.

"Yeah," he says, his voice strained. At least it's not his leg broken this time. It's an absolute pain, in the horribly literal sense, to lever himself upright by leg strength alone but he manages it, leaning against the older guy as much as he dares. "No, yeah, I figured we should probably - yeah."

He darts a look over one shoulder, his brow dark.

"Atlas, huh?" he says, tired and toneless, dull with grim acceptance.

Joseph might as well be a brick wall in comparison to the younger man, but even with the support he knew he wasn't going to stop it from hurting. He hooked his arm around Tim's good shoulder and lifted him up as best he can.

Speaking of broken, his left hand gave an faint, mechanical creak as he moved them. That's his artificial hand. Part of his forearm was prosthetic, the result of a battle from a long time ago, but he normally kept it hidden under gloves and armbands or sleeves. Point being, you're not alone in the hurt department, buddy.

"Probably," the old man answered as he let go of Tim. "Bastard wrecked my business, I barely got out."

Tim hunches his shoulders a bit more securely around himself, pain and sympathy eliciting a sharp wince. He sways faintly on his feet. God, but his head's pounding. The high, angry tone humming in his ears probably means something bad, but he doesn't have the mental capacity to sort out what.

"Shit," he says, not really sure what else one should say to that, or to the fact that he maybe-sorta heard the other guy's arm distinctly creak? "I'm - sorry." He gives his head a quick shake to clear it, and is rewarded by a bright spike of pain to the temples. Fantastic. "Some revolutionary."

Belatedly, it occurs to him that getting your business detonated might have more than a few unfortunate repercussions. Reflexive tears sting his eyes, products of heat and the agony pulsing up the length of his useless arm, and he rubs at them with a soot-stained shoulder. "Uh - you got anywhere to go, or - ?"

Joseph only hummed at Tim's condelences. He appreciated it, really, but it's sort of hard to get in the mood to say thanks when it all just happened. He rubs at his bleeding arm.

"No kidding. What the hell does he think this will...?"

Then the next question came up. Joseph paused. Shit, he didn't think of that. His automatic answer was to say he had his place, but if they could target his agency... oh, god dammit. His apartment.

"Dammit! I need to get home."

"Where're you at?" He blinks at the other man blearily, trying to push past the haze of smoke in his eyes and in his head.

Oh god. Smoke.

The pressure around his chest is like iron, his shoulders quivering with low, ragged coughs. He doesn't remember if he took his pills with him when he left. It was supposed to be some stupid grocery run - the last thing he or anyone else expected was to get an actual bomb going off in the street.

"Don't think it was aimed for anyone in particular," Tim ventures when he can breathe again, which is - okay, not particularly comforting. That's just great.

"Maybe, but I've got family here. I need to make sure they're..."

Then Tim's coughing. Joseph pauses and frowns.

"First thing's first, let's get out of this smoke."

Please just let this be the fire. Don't make him seize here, not now. The tremble in his limbs could just as easily be fatigue, no guarantee any of it's about to herald the prickle of an incipient convulsion. Christ, fuck - and this is would be the worst time for it.

"We can - get them out, maybe," he mutters, never mind the needling instinct to do just the opposite and get as far away from the rush of flames as possible. "Maybe - call someone. Cops, security - someone's gotta know, right?"

Someone. Yeah, he has no idea how the police force here works. For all he knows they just work for whoever's willing to pay for their time. Actually, that's probably exactly how it works.

"Maybe. I'll call him once we get out of the district. If not, I better have a look for myself--"

Another explosion rocks nearby. Not nearly as close as the last two, but enough to get Joseph to jump. He frowns and shields his arms, then motions for Tim to follow with his bloodier arm.

"Come on, let's go!"

He wants to play hero, great. Right now Tim's a bit more concerned with ducking out of the way as the explosion spits out chunks of rubble. Is Atlas trying to flood the whole city? What exactly is the endgame here?

He wraps his injured arm a little tighter around himself, squinting through the powdered cloud of dust and smoke as he follows.

"You're bleeding." Yeah, no shit. What a helpful observation.

"Glass!"

That's not meant to be so loud, but between the explosions and everything else happening he figures it's a quick enough explanation. He picks up the pace. Pretty fast for an old man, but maybe it's not too surprising for a guy with biceps like that. Does grandpa even lift.

"Do you have a place to go?!"

To his credit, Tim's keeping up. He's well-used to pushing his body past its limits, even more used to doing so with fire roaring in the backdrop and the thick stench of smoke in his lungs.

"Think so." He lifts his good shoulder in a shrug. "Unless that got blown up too." At this point, all he really has is pointless optimism, and that's not particularly his strong suit.

Clearing the blast radius is gonna be hell, given that everyone else seems to be doing the same. Everyone who can still walk, anyway. Tim grunts, jostled to one side by some unlucky guy who brushes roughly past, the entire right side of his face slick with red. Tim swallows hard and hopes to god he's not going to be sick.

"Shit," he mutters again. "Not gonna be easy getting out. Bulkhead's gonna be packed."

baby you can drive my car

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