THE TEST DRIVE MEME: MARCH - APRIL

[checkingin]

THE TEST DRIVE MEME

SO YOU WANT TO JOIN THE CREEPY HOTEL BRIGADE.

Well, welcome potential apper! Here we have the handy dandy test drive meme so you can get a feel for how your character might react to the game setting. This post can also be used to cultivate some of those required sample threads for the application.

Feel free to play any scenario you so please. However please note that TDM threads cannot be used for Activity Checks (for existing players) and will not be considered game canon unless transposed comment for comment into logs in checkingout. We also recommend avoiding playing the initial arrival, so that the intro log doesn't become repetitive and boring for you. Other than that, go wild.

Here's a few additional useful links:

PREMISE | THE HOTEL
TAKEN | RESERVES | APPLICATION

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS.

No time for losers, because we — have waffles and pancakes and crepes and delicate bowls of ripe bananas and juicy oranges. We have bacon and oatmeal and cereal and milk; we have coffee (that's really hot and will burn you quite spectacularly) and tea (that, on the other hand, is miserably cold and bland). And we have orange juice (that might just kill you)!

Basically, every component one needs to start the day off right. Which is good, because this is the only meal ever served in the hotel. So come one, come all — get it while it's hot and try to pick among seats amidst the crowded circular tables, or stand along the wall. Bemoan the lack of hashbrowns or fight over the last fork. Mix, mingle. Have "fun".

DON'T YOU LOVE MY TASTE IN MUSIC.

What starts as soft, subtle musical notes wafting out of unseen speakers?

Yeah, that quickly manifests into blaring, loud, aggressively high pitched notes — so distorted, and reverberating so magnificently in the main lobby that even those impenetrable windows rattle in their frames.

And what's more, there doesn't seem to be an off switch anywhere in sight. Good luck finding one.

GOING DOWN.

Right by the stairwell in the lobby is an old timey elevator, the sort that really ought to be manned by staff to insure that it's in decent working condition and won't kill you. But it's usually not. And usually doesn't run.

But today, your ears are treated to an oh-so pleasant ding, and the doors will slide open, offering a ride to the floor of your choosing. Finally, no more calf workouts on the stairs, right?

...well, you probably should have taken the stairs, because three seconds in the entire carriage shudders, screeches to a halt, and refuses to move.

Then the lights begin to flicker.

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE.

Don't see a scenario that appeals to you here? Make up your own. Get crazy with it! Good luck getting outside.

Comments

[carjacked]

[ There are about a dozen responses Neal would have anticipated, ranging from joy to terror, anger to relief, a whole spectrum of things depending upon what point of the timeline his father was from.

What the fuck is not one of those expected responses, and Neal's eyebrows shoot up almost comically fast. His hands come up in that woah, I'm not looking for trouble gesture that everyone who's ever lived in New York manages to perfect, but mingled in that offended afront is still that disbelief, still that surprise, hidden in the corners of his eyes and the part in his lips.

He's seen his father hiss out anger at everyone on the damn planet. Everyone, that is, but himself, and it comes with an unanticipated sting. ]

Depends, do you make a habit of snapping at people who're trying to help you?

[ He fires back, masking his conflicting emotions with disgruntled annoyance. ]

[lottawork]

Help?

[A low-pitched stutter of noise escapes him, something unformed and humorless and snide. He recovers from his brief moment of surprise masterfully, driving onward in vengeful, scathing criticism.]

Yes. I'm certain interrupting counts as helping in some circles.

[He launches back to his work in a renewed burst of semi-legible scribbling, his private symphony of exasperation, and continues without lifting his gaze from the far more interesting arrangement of numbers and letters forming from the vicious swipes of his pen.]

Though not, I would think, in those involving anyone remotely familiar with academia.

[Rush pauses, briefly, to favor the other man with a skeptically arched eyebrow, his private assessment clear. This man - not an academic. Clearly.]

[carjacked]

[ Neal Cassidy has seen a lot of stuff. Neverland, the enchanted forrest, fairies, muggers, true love, pirates, Pinocchio. He considers himself a level or two above balking at new and unexpected twists in his life, accepts most things (including death) with a sort of weary resignation and doesn't miss a beat.

This is, by far, the weirdest shit he's seen in his whole life. While Rush's scathing retort might normally hit him as offensive, he's too busy trip-fall-stumbling over all that stuff coming out of what appears to be his father's face. Academia sure as hell ain't magic, and while it might be Rumple's voice, those definitely aren't his words. As such, it's not outright offense written on his face.

No, he's too busy staring at Rush like he's got three heads and one of them is Elton John doing a live performance of Candle in the Wind.

While on fire.

Raining apple juice. ]

Academa- what- what the hell-

[ He flounders, pulling back a second to touch his fingertips to his forehead, then gesticulating in an incredulous sort of flail. ]

Don't you- you don't recognize me, do you? Jesus- are you even- who are you?

[lottawork]

[That response detracts significantly from the norm even if the established norm of infuriatingly minute social cues lands somewhat beyond Rush's typical area of expertise or the general scope of his interest. It borders on panic. It borders on the absurd. All the same. It is, perhaps, worth sufficient examination.

Rush's wrist stills, pen lowering, the proverbial sword in its proverbial sheath. The mildly frenetic energy of his efforts has dimmed, leaving - paranoia. Suspicion. Perhaps vague interest.

He speaks evenly and shortly.]

No. [And with an incremental arch of one brow and a cautious modicum of curiosity -] Should I?

[Less of a question. More of a flattened, demanding statement. His own name is dispensed more dismissively, a reluctant afterthought.]

Dr. Nicholas Rush.

[carjacked]

[ Rush dialing it back, granting him attention and interest, even that suspicion and paranoia goes unacknowledged in the face of Neal's inability to comprehend this whole thing. His head shakes absently twice, three times, one hand coming up in a gesture to stop. Back up. Rewind. Hold on.

Nicholas Rush, no, that's not- that's not right. That's not even- he knows about the curse at Storybrooke, knows how it stripped the residents of their identities, replaced their memories with some ordinary counterpart, but that's not a pseudoname he'd recognize on his father. That shop in town, that was under the name Gold.

This doesn't make any sense.

This isn't possible. ]

Neal Cassidy.

[ His name comes out automatically, mechanically in turn, and is immediately squashed down behind a demand:]

Why the hell do you look like my father?

[lottawork]

[This - person is clearly experiencing some manner of difficulty that lands somewhat beyond what is contextually relevant or accessible. He's exhibiting a unique brand of distress, though Rush would be unable to categorize it. He merely watches, caught between uncertainty and wary interest.

That is. Not the anticipated outcome. That does not correspond to any anticipated outcome.

The initial period of escalating, indignant shock almost immediately cedes itself over to a low growl of frustration. Rush sighs, passes a weary hand through his hair, shoulders dropping in some unspoken vexation.]

Fuck.

[He tips his head back and studies the ceiling almost beseechingly.]

Don't tell me it was some - temporal duplicate.

[carjacked]

Temporal- temporal duplicate, are you kidding me?

[ He demands indignantly, taking a step forward and then immediate step back, a fluid backpedal that has him half turning away and passing a hand across his mouth. He may not be anywhere as clever as Rush, but he gets the picture. Gets what the man means. On top of being a traveller of universes, he's seen b-movies, alright, he's had cable.

And that just. That figures, doesn't it. This is just the icing on the cake.

He's dead, he's stuck in a stupid motel, the love of his life is in love with his almost father figure and now (unintentionally, reluctantly) closest friend, his actual father is proving to be sucking real hard at that whole 'turning over a new leaf to honor my son's memory' thing, and now a guy wearing his face shows up.

Who definitely isn't him.

And is an asshole.

He holds up a hand. ]

I'm so done with this crap.

[ He announces, waving a hand vaguely in Rush's direction, as though Rush can even understand his declaration. ]

I'm so done with this... universe jumping... everyone wearing everyone else's face... someone's someone else's secret uncle, magical...

[ He grasps for words, gestures at the motel, then throws his hands up, palms out, in surrender. ]

No. I'm so done with it. This is- this is great. No, this is perfect, this is good. Screw this.

[lottawork]

[Rush does not favor that response with anything aside from a particularly unimpressed curve of the raised eyebrow, perfectly controlled in the face of this other man's apparent escalating, possibly existential panic.

He cannot in any way find it in him to give a fuck.

At all.

Seriously.]

You've encountered this before, then?

[Dry, unsympathetic, and in no way alarmed. It seems they share a similar brand of distaste for the universe's manifold machinations, the multiverse's theoretical fuck you. His mouth pulls into something somehow antithetical to a smile, a weary, bitter twist to one corner of his face.]

Fair fucking brilliant.

[carjacked]

Yeah. [ He corrects himself immediately, shaking his head. ] No. Not exactly. Kind of- look-

[ He rubs his brow wearily, still visibly struggling with this bullshit situation even as he forces himself to plow through it. Forces himself to keep moving rather than dwell on this for too long right now, because he wants to do that privately, far, far away from that face. But before he can he at least has to mention: ]

You gotta know something, my dad's-

[ He cuts himself off, then starts again. ]

He's not a good person. He's not- he's dangerous, and if he sees you-

[ But he's not here. And he might not ever show up. Or he might, and maybe he really will have changed, but banking on evidence over hope as Neal's wont to do, he figures it's better to edge on the side of caution and deliver the warning. ]

Or if someone- someone from my home sees you and thinks you're him... It could end badly. It could get serious.

[lottawork]

[Oh, how fucking excellent. Not only do Rush's temporal duplicates have the annoying habit of dying, they additionally have the side effect of making a multitude of enemies.

This conversation is not sustainable in its current configuration. Rush plants one hand on the floor and torques smoothly, rising with a satisfying level of fluid self-possession.]

Are you attempting to protect me.

[It strikes him that this likely not the socially acceptable tone he should be adopting, that possibly he should be speaking with a level of gratitude or interest rather than unalloyed skepticism. He simply isn't accustomed to being met with this atypical level of - concern. Directed at him. It feels rather like a foreign concept. His arms fold.]

I fail to see how I could pose a particularly adequate threat to myself.

[carjacked]

[ Rush is right, though it hadn't really occurred to Neal to label this warning as such. Protecting his father wasn't really something he did often, not something he wanted to do often, and yet he found himself from time to time doing just that. Apparently that extended to men who looked like him as well, to his own exasperation and bewilderment.

Why he even cares is totally beyond him, why either of them even matter, but as frustrated in himself as he might be about it, he sorta has to just...

Go with it.

Man, sometimes he really hates the universe. Like, it royally sucks. ]

He's not- he's not normal. The place we come from is different, it's...

[ He really hates dropping the 'm' bomb. Like really, he's doing everything he can to cut that corner, because explaining it 5000 times to skeptical disbelievers in the last couple months really burns a guy out, and considering this one's an academic or whatever... ]

He can do stuff human beings shouldn't be able to do, let's put it that way. Nobody on normal... regular Earth can do the stuff he's capable of. He's killed people for pretending to be him, he's killed people for pretending to be me, if he sees you wearin' his face.

[ He shrugs a shoulder. ]

I don't know what he'll do. Not anymore.

[lottawork]

[His expression darkens, closing into itself. 'Not normal.' Isn't that quite the revealing statement. He doesn't demand to know whether 'not normal' equates to the ability to compensate for overwhelmingly disordered thought. That is more or less, he has found, the natural order.

It doesn't matter.

And Rush doesn't care.]

Sounds like quite the family life.

[Not unsettled, not unnerved - simply abnormally if drolly attentive to someone who ordinarily wouldn't be deemed worth the time and effort.]

Is he not familiar with the concept of diverging universes, then?