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pedalbike2020-08-29 10:30 am
upcyclingmod) wrote in pedalbike2020-08-29 10:30 am
Entry tags:
First TDM: Sterile Blues
Welcome to the Test Drive Meme.
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Not all characters (known as Wickie, singular or Wickies, plural) arrive at the same time, surprisingly enough! That’s life for you. Some Wickies find their way to the island at a pivotal (or very mundane) point in their life, or even after or during their death.
Wickies who were standing or walking often find themselves entering the town South Sister, located on Lighthouse Isle, through an open doorway. Those that were laying down, or sleeping, tend to be found lying prone in beds, bathtubs, showers, couches, and similar places within the cottages on Cottage Row. There’s no rhyme or reason to it all! To Wickies familiar with the era, they will realize that everything looks as if it’s come from the ‘90s.
The house which a Wickie finds themselves within could already be occupied. This includes walking into a fellow Wicke, waking up in the same location, or accidentally scaring a room full of people with their sudden appearance.
Oops.
After arriving, Wickes will find that food and water are easy enough to come by, as they can be readily found in the various houses which populate Lighthouse Isle. Medical supplies, on the other hand, are not so easily acquired. Bandaids and other simple trappings can be pilfered from the odd medical cabinet, but otherwise you’re on your own.
Thankfully, if a Wickie or their friend are in need of medicine or a pair of trauma shears, while you won’t find a full-fledged hospital on the island, there is a clinic. The clinic, named Sister’s Helpers, is like the rest of the buildings in town. Its appearance is well kept, and the doors are unlocked. Whether the Wickie goes in through the windows (because they can), or through the front door like most would, they’ll find that the clinic’s interior is crisp, clean, and orderly. There are plastic chairs, a desk where a receptionist would sit, white walls, but then—
There’s a sound. It could be mistaken for a breeze, at first. But as the sound goes on, it becomes more obvious that the ‘breeze’ is an exhale, prolonged and forced. At the end, there’s a murmur, professional and assuring.
“That’s good. Breathe.”
And with that, the clinic becomes awash in shades of blue. Sister’s Helpers itself hasn’t become warped in any way. There is only monochromatic coloring which, upon further realization, is not truly in the building, but a problem with their vision. Leaving without investigating further will mean having blue vision for the next twenty-four hours.
But for Wickies who choose to stay and explore, there is a chance at clearing their vision. This is is especially difficult for those who have a history of not taking care of their injuries. Gradually, it becomes more difficult to walk, as if there are weights on their feet. For Wickies are especially guilty of not tending to their wounds, their movements will become even more sluggish, and weight will settle on their arms and chest, forcing the worst of offenders into a crawl as they explore from room to room.
Laying on the patient beds will alleviate the situation for a short amount of time. The cure, however, will come from characters taking the supplies which they need for themselves and not for others.
If the Wickie fails this, over the course of an hour they will be crushed to death, and will eventually wake up outside of the clinic. Their vision stuck in shades of red with a weakness in their limbs for the next twenty four hours.
The Wickie’s only cure for that is either taking medical supplies for themselves or by doing some form of self care.
It’s the middle of the night when all the Wickies are jarred awake from sleep by the blare of a broken siren. Wailing into the dark, the siren functions as a foghorn might, warning of hazardous conditions to come. Beneath Wickies feet, the ground trembles, pulsating once. Twice. Three times. And again, and again until—
The world changes, and it is no longer the foggy island the Wickies knew.
Ash falls steadily from above, blanketing the ground, and at first glance it can be mistaken for snow. Whether by scent, by touch, or even by taste (an option for the brave, the bold, the few), the truth of the ‘snowfall’ can be easily revealed. It is strange, though, that there are no signs of fire in the vicinity. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much of anything at all. There’s still no sign of the mainland. There are no buildings in this desolate place, either.
Lighting in this new landscape is hazy and sullen, but still conducive to exploring despite it being the dead of night just moments ago. But while Wickies walk, there’s a growing feeling of foreboding. There’s something… something else with them.
And it conceals itself in the ash.
It attacks by lashing out to grab at the ankles and the calves, attempting to drag the unsuspecting victim down, to somewhere far deeper and hidden by billowing piles of ash. It’s easy to save a Wickie from the pull, so long as they’re quickly freed from their assailants grasp. Retrieving someone out of the ash itself is nigh impossible, though.
Grabbed Wickies who lived to tell the tale, may find themselves bitten. The stalkers in the ash sink their teeth into the foot or calf of their prey, leveraging the force of their bite to take down their target. And once there’s blood, more of these creatures will be attracted to the smell.
If a Wickie is clever or strong enough to draw the stalkers out of the ash, they will find that the attackers are shark-like people. Most of their head consists of oversized jaws housing an impossible amount of teeth, and lacking any eyes. Their bodies are covered in ashen chitin and bone, with elongated feet and thin, taloned fingers. These Ash Sharks do not like being exposed, and will respond accordingly.
Ash Sharks cannot be reasoned with. Trapping one in ropes, magic, or other means will elicit angry shrieks which will attract other Ash Sharks, either to eat the trapper, or trapped, or both if they can. Being dragged completely under the ash will start a feeding frenzy, and the Ash Shark will proceed to rip and tear chunks out of its prey.
In dying, Wickies will reset to a random location within the ash filled fields, completely intact but for a purpling bruise where the initial bite took place.
Good luck.
There’s a beeping alert on all Wickie’s smartphones that refuses to stop until a particular notification is read. The notification is for something called the Heart Game (which, yes, looks annoying, overly bright, and cheesy). And surprise! The game opens up automatically with a loud ping!
The game begins (and ends!) with a question, one which will not go away even if you try to close out of it or shut off your smartphone. It reads:
It’s time for everyone's favorite game! Confession! Heeeeere is today’s question which you must confess!
What is… the scariest thing you’ve experienced? It can be anything!
no subject
It's clear the conversation is over, so he doesn't bother talking. He just fights with everything he has to keep himself alive. He didn't come all this way just to die in the middle of nowhere at the hands of his replacement. Hank didn't risk his own life at CyberLife HQ just for Connor to die so soon.
Shoving 60 aside as best as he can, he takes aim at his temple and fires. His aim isn't what it should be, though- there's every chance he could miss.]
no subject
The damage doesn't matter. Nothing does, except accomplishing his mission. Connor is so close, and the deviant is slowing too. He ducks its second shot, right hand dropping from the failed grab to stabilize his own gun. He twists and pulls the trigger—once, twice in quick succession, firing up towards its throat.]
no subject
His LED flashes red, and for a moment he eyes 60. A transfer... that would save him. But he can't move his limbs anymore, let alone grab onto 60 to start the transfer process.
All he can do is look up at his other self, trying to ignore the countdown until he shuts down. He only has a minute. There's a crushing sensation in his chest now. More error messages. He's not giving 60 the satisfaction of saying anything.]
no subject
—falls.
It falls, and Connor doesn't. It falls, and vicious satisfaction swells through Connor's code. Thirium still pulses stickily down Connor's wrist, weight dragging dizzily at his body, but those error flags mean less than nothing now. The warning that matters—the MISSION FAILED that's hounded his display since he came back... it's gone.]
I told you, Connor.
I'm not a failure.
[He's not.]
This— [The gun dips as his supporting hand comes free, gesticulating at the deviant's broken sprawl] —is where your dreams of freedom get you. But don't worry.
[His hand comes back to the weapon, leveling it on his predecessor's head.]
I'll make sure Amanda knows.
[A beat, and Connor will squeeze the trigger one more time.]
no subject
...
MODEL RK800
SERIAL#: 313 248 317 -51
BIOS 7.4 REVISION 0121
REBOOT...
LOADING OS...
SYSTEM INITIALIZATION...
CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS... OK
INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS... OK
INITIALIZING AI ENGINE... OK
MEMORY STATUS...
ALL SYSTEMS OK
READY
...
[He wakes on a bench. He's oddly groggy coming to, and rolls off the bench and hits the ground with a thud. It takes him a moment to remember how he got here. Then he remembers, and his hands find his throat in a panic. He's alive... he's undamaged. How?
Getting to his feet, he steps cautiously away from the bench. Nobody could have fixed him at that point. The last thing he'd known was a bullet between the eyes.]
Hello?
[He calls out, wondering if anyone carried him here. But somehow, he knows they didn't. He shivers a little, an entirely unnecessary gesture. He died... the fact that he's here now doesn't change that. And he was right about there being nothing.
There's no android heaven, anyway. He wonders what Hank would say to that. Patting himself down, he finds his pistol is missing. He sure isn't going back inside that clinic to find it again, so for now he just tries to decide on where to go... and what to do with himself.]
cw robogore, death
Connor succeeded, and the creak of pressure as his damaged leg gives way is almost inconsequential. He hits the ground on one knee, reaching out with his undamaged hand to stabilize. He stares again at the body, logging the sight to memory even in corrupted monochrome blues. It's over. He won.
He needs to report in.A hole through his wrist. A bullet in his leg. Plating cracked and bleeding at his side. None of the damage is critical. But there's a weight pressing down on Connor's limbs, a crushing pressure squeezing his torso. It's difficult to take a breath. He—doesn't know if he can stand.
Connor tries. He spends the next half hour trying, as the sense of pressure builds and builds. He crawls as far as the hallway. He spits clipped threats into the corridors, but if whoever tampered with his systems is still here, they don't answer. No one does, and he doesn't make it to the exit. Just a little ways outside reception, the weight becomes too much to move, and Connor lies there, staring at the ceiling, skin glitching and plating cracking under a force he still can't see.
...He won't survive this.
It's not the first time Connor's been deactivated. It's just the first time the process has been slow enough to feel. He shudders helplessly as his thirium lines rupture. As his components compress. He can feel the blue blood pooling through his internal cavity. He can feel more weight, grinding against his skull, and he grits his teeth against the choking agony of errors.He needs to report in. He tries again. Again. This shouldn't be happening. He's succeeded at his mission now. Does Cyberlife know that? If they did—if he could tell them—would this stop?
(Will they bring him back this time?)
He doesn't know. He doesn't, and it shouldn't matter, because Connor is obedient; Connor is a machine (and maybe, that will help). He jolts as his limbs snap. Blinks at the timer that appears as fragments of his shattered plating cut through vital lines inside his core. The pressure is mounting, crushing, inexorable, unbearable—
His thirium pump ruptures with a pop and the world—
.
..
...
Outside the clinic, Connor model #313 248 317-60 slowly sits up on the pavement. His limbs are weak, and his vision tinted red.]
no subject
If his successor does make it out of the building, he won't know that Connor is alive. Now, Connor could use that to his advantage now, or he could save it for when he needs it. Of course if he dies in there, he'll likely figure out as quickly as Connor did that death isn't entirely permanent here.
He narrows his eyes as 60 appears on the ground outside the clinic. He's sure he didn't walk out and collapse, no, he would have seen that. And he plays back his memory of the scene too, just to be sure. No, he definitely just appeared there.
Time to see where 60 goes, and then promptly go in the opposite direction. He can't tell if he still has his gun, and he doesn't feel like finding out.]
no subject
...No damage.
The arm he's leaning on trembles slightly—and Connor freezes, staring at the limb as if it might attack. (As if the heavy, helpless feeling will build again, crushing him until he breaks and breaks—) But seconds pass, and nothing changes. He's not being compressed. He's just weak, and his fists curl against the pavement, mouth pressing flat as he struggles his way to his feet. Connor glances around—though not quickly enough to catch the other RK800 slipping out of sight.
He's outside the clinic.
...He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be functioning, not before, and certainly not now. And if this is a simulation—why has nothing changed? He did what he was supposed to.]
Amanda...?
[No answer comes—in approval or rebuke. Connor waits a moment longer. Then he picks a direction, and slowly starts to walk.]
no subject
He doesn't know what is happening, either. One thing he spoke about before- with Stefano, the artist- lingers in his mind. A machine that could tether the consciousness of multiple people in another world... could that be similar to what is happening here? It can't be real, surely?
In any case, real or not, he's stuck here with a version of himself who wants him very dead. He'll have to watch his back.]