riverviewooc | riverview: test drive meme

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meme: test drive

riverview: test drive meme

riverview test drive meme

Welcome to Riverview's first test drive meme! Feel free to dip your toes in on the test drive meme to try out your character in the setting, play out a mission, and get samples for your application at the same time!

● Reserves are currently OPEN.
● Applications open on March 1st.
● All threads on the test drive meme can count as game canon once the game is up and running.
● TDM threads do not count for Activity Check, but they do count for Activity Bonus Points.

Feel free to use the prompts below or create your own scenario. The setting is built to be flexible, so feel free to make things up as you go.

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prompt i: batten down the hatches

If the sky has seemed a little more yellow-green than usual for the past couple of days, there's a reason for that. Meteorologists have been warning of a particularly nasty storm blowing in from the direction of the Delta in the Southwestern part of the Abandoned City.

The Quarantine is about to be hit by a nasty typhoon, and there's a lot to be done. Whether you're helping sandbag the banks of the river, which is bound to be swollen by the storm and flooding, weatherproofing your building, or just huddling indoors for warmth and helping reassure your friends, family, or partner that everything will be okay, it's time to take action!

prompt ii: monster madness

There's been a lot of talk around the Quarantine about the various predators and monsters outside the fence, and how they've been getting steadily more active, crowding the fences, trying to leap over them, seemingly driven by some kind of mania. There have even been increasing instances of predators that normally mind their own business attacking the fences wholesale, slamming into it over and over as if they're trying to find a weakness.

The good news? The fences have been holding. So far.

The bad news? They won't be holding for much longer.

The Perimeter Guard is in a bad way, and it's all hands on deck. They've also sent out a few of the Perimeter Guard Cadets to post up flyers around the city asking for temporary help in fighting off the beasts. So pick up whatever weapon you're best with, hop onto a truck transport, and head on over to the fences to help drive off the monsters and keep the Quarantine safe.

prompt iii: hold your lover close

With a storm rolling in that's going to keep everyone indoors, that might cause power outages, and is just frankly pretty scary, a lot of the clubs, restaurants, and hotels are doing special events to keep everyone's brains occupied and flooded with endorphins.

There are flyers around the city advertising various couples activities: speed dating, dance classes, overnight pool parties, and all-expenses-paid lovers' nights in.

The catch? The great deals only count if you're a twosome. So if you don't have someone to love, hit up speed dating in the indoor courtyard of Riverview's largest mall, or grab the first person you see and take the opportunity.

prompt iv: solution

After a day or two of storm activity, things are definitely not getting better: the rain is torrential, the monsters are attacking with increased energy and decreased rest times, and the distractions are starting to wear thin. Power outages happen off and on, a very rare situation in Riverview Quarantine.

The government has put out an all-points-bulletin imploring anyone with an exploratory spirit to help.

From what government science techs can tell, the storm isn't natural - after all, even the meteorologists were saying that the pressure systems seemed extremely strange. They've managed to narrow the cause to an area in the delta where the storm seems to be originating from, and are broadcasting the general location so anyone with the guts can head out into the storm and try to find the source of it.

Any characters who decide to penetrate the jungle in search of the source will find a device in the shape of a pyramid, with glowing blue edges about a day's walk into the Abandoned City. The pyramid is a malfunctioning weather control device that is causing wild pressure fluctuations and causing the storm as well as making the animals in the jungle aggressive and erratic. Characters can destroy or deactivate the device to end the storm.

This mission can be threaded out however you would like, in groups however large you would like, and more than one team can accomplish the goal.

prompt v: wildcard/network

Whether you're looking for help with a mission or just want to get to know your fellow new arrivals, your character can make a post to the network.

Or you can choose your own adventure and do something else in the setting!

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She doesn't even try to hold back her own laughter, because the idea of some old sailor dressing up as Neptune and another forced into a dress to play his wife all to tease and torment the young ones through a rite of passage.

Eyes sparkling with mischief, she steps away from the table and heads for the lobby door once more, intending to retrieve the second table.]

That sounds disgusting and entertaining all at once. [Which is to say, she'd like to see it.] Have you ever have the honor of being dunked overboard yourself?

[Oops, it's a personal question that slipped right out.]

[He overtakes her in a matter of steps, for the express purpose of holding the door and with a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow,]

You think any man would dare?

[Yeah he's not going to answer that directly, but it goes without saying he endured such a fate. He was a young man once, and considerably more... diffident.]

Edited 2017-02-27 03:14 (UTC)

[The gesture is appreciated, and Wanda pauses midway through the door to meet his smile and raised eyebrow with one of her own. She reaches toward him to poke his mid-section briefly.]

I think you made a lovely Amphitrite the second time you crossed.

[Wanda sails into the lobby and heads to the second table, already bending to grab her end of it just as she had the time before.]

[He tenses a little as she pokes at him, but he's not had to cultivate the knife's edge wariness one needs just to stay alive in Nassau here. He would never be one to underestimate a woman in a fight - he'd take Anne Bonny at his back before a great many men - but Wanda doesn't strike him as someone who's had considerable CQC experience besides.

He takes the gesture as it was meant, in goodwill, and just shakes his head as he follows her inside.]

I did tell you it was a tradition in His Majesty's Navy, did I not? Does that mean you've given up this notion of piracy?

[Wanda lifts her side of the table, giving him a slight shrug.]

I've given up nothing. I've made no stand on my theory yet. Perhaps I'm just trying to keep you guessing regarding the assumptions I've made about you.

[He's keeping her guessing regarding his actual history, after all. It's only fair. Interestingly, she realizes now that he hasn't asked many personal questions about her. None at all really, except for the one. Even then, he hadn't pried.]

Edited 2017-02-27 03:46 (UTC)

I'm flattered you find me so fascinating as to have both theories and assumptions.

[And again, he hefts the table for transport. This one goes smoother, now that they're more in sync, and they set it down end-to-end with the first without much fuss.]

[Wanda sets her end of the table down, and shrugs.]

Does it surprise you? You don't strike me as the sort of man who isn't aware of the presence he has, even when not inclined to speak much about himself.

[This time she reaches for the table cloth, shakes it out over the second table, excepting he'll catch the other end. It isn't a judgment so much as an observation, and he is by far one of the more intriguing people she's met in this place.]

[He catches the cloth handily, free of any fluttering, and lets it drop gingerly to rest against the tabletop. No, he cannot play at being naive on that count. He has cultivated himself, cut away pieces of who he was so the rest of him could stand bloody and jagged before all judgement. He earned what presence he has. He cannot claim to be anything else but that, a chimera cobbled together from dead remnants of an old life. A captain, a killer, a king.

He strokes his beard, briefly speculative, before he goes to pick up a flower arrangement, trusting she'll direct him to set it somewhere else if he's in error but for now intending to put it atop the table.]

I didn't say it surprised me.

[Everyone has theories about Captain Flint. Most assume he was a Navy man, not untrue. There were those that used to think he was some... thrall to Miranda's witchery, that she directed him thither. Men have called him devil even as he cut their tongues out. No, he is used to being spoken of in dark corners and in back alleys, he learned long ago that ten whispers can mean more than a single shout.]

[It's about as far as she can push things, probably. This is only their second meeting, and still just minutes into it. She tugs at the corners of the tablecloth, watching him move a pot of flowers to the center of the table where it belongs. It's fine where it is, and as if to say as much, she moves the second set of flowers to the other table.

Smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt, she mentally reviews what there is left to do. Food to bring down. More flowers still. Drinks, plates, forks, knives, and spoons, and napkins besides. Wanda casts James a speculative look.]

The two tables will probably do for now. I have more upstairs but I should probably see how much space I need first. [Meaning he doesn't have to stick around to move more tables.] You're welcome to join me while I gather everything together if you'd like. [Though it's left unsaid that he shouldn't feel obligated.]

[He arches an eyebrow, but doesn't argue in the least with her changing the nature of their conversation. He gives it a moment, and then spreads his hands widely apart.]

Of course. I'm at your disposal.

[Wanda nods, and begins heading inside again. Once again, he opens the door for her, letting her move ahead to hit the button for the elevator. The doors open and Wanda steps in, waits for him to join before taking them up to the third floor where she's currently situated in the communal housing. The quarters aren't particularly suited for someone more private, but she's managing.

Upon reaching the floor, James will no doubt see just how many things she's prepared for the feast. Among the flower wreaths, vases, and spare scattered flowers there are several covered dishes. Most available surfaces are covered in one or the other, or any of the several bottles of alcoholic and non-alcholic drinks. Most of which generously given by local businesses happy to sponsor a community-encouraging event.]

Have a seat. Are you hungry?

[She could probably let him taste a few things while she's gathering everything into, well, something or another to carry it all down.]

[If he's uneasy in the purely mechanical elevator there's nothing in his posture or countenance to suggest it, save perhaps a slight flicker of his eyes to watch the LED read-out of the numbers. He folds his hands in front of him and when the doors slide open he gestures her out first, entirely cognizant at how the system of lifts and pulleys shifts with even the nominal displacement of her weight.

He, too, would prefer more private quarters than this. Years of living aboard the Walrus spoiled him far beyond the days of sharing bunk and berth with his fellow sailors. There is a part of him that longs for the privacy of the Hamilton estate, but was it for the privacy or the company that he yearned?

(The answer is easy enough. He knows it, it needs not be thought distinctly.)

He sits when she gestures, resting both wrists lightly against the edge of the table and his hands laced again upon it.]

I could be persuaded to sample your cuisine.

[Not a man that speaks in absolutes unless he's pushed to it, Flint.]

[Wanda looks over what she's made, the rolls which will keep while other items bake in the oven, the vegetables ready to go in, and a few other dishes, mostly Sokovian in nature. With a moment's consideration she heads for the cabinet for a bowl, then grabs the ladle sitting in a pot of beef stew. The recipe is her mother's, the only one that she remembers learning from her before the shelling. Despite not having many opportunities to make it for herself, she feels as though she's managed it well enough. It tastes almost the same as it did when they ate as a family. All that's missing is her father talking to her mother about some funny thing that happened at work and Pietro nudging Wanda with his foot under the table.

Wanda sets the bowl in front of him with a spoon, but she doesn't ask for his opinion. No doubt if he feels compelled to commit to an opinion on the stew he'll speak up.]

I'm not certain if trying to host this feast on such short notice is more or less ambitious than attempting a career in piracy. It's usually more of a group effort.

[A community effort, which makes sense in light of the theme.]

[The stew smells delicious. Far better fare than anything he's had in-- years, honestly. Miranda's fare was hearty but simple, and she was no talented cook, and the first thing Silver prepared that he ate was also, coincidentally, the last thing. James studies the bowl a moment, and then he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and picks up the spoon. No doubt table manners haven't metamorphosed too significantly in the intervening years.

He damn near almost chokes on the first mouthful. It isn't that it's hot, or the ingredients unseemly, but the amount of flavour to the concoction is so strong he has to stop himself from spitting it out on reflex. It's overwhelming in many, many more regards than he's accustomed to, and he sets the spoon gingerly back down. Swallows with an effort.]

More ambitious, I should think. May I have a glass of water?

[It occurs to Wanda, having watched James out of the corner of her eye and noticing his reaction to the stew, that if she were a more ruthless person she would deny him water until he answered a few questions for her directly. She almost even says as much as a joke but concern trumps all else and at once she fills a glass with water and sets it before him.]

That terrible?

[Brows knit together, she glances back to the stew sitting on the stove, wondering if she's added too much salt or pepper? Too much paprika? She'll have to taste it for herself before serving it.]

[He takes a very measured sip of the water before setting it back down with a gentle clink upon the tabletop.]

Not the least. It's delicious. But far richer than what I'm accustomed to, I'm afraid it will take some getting used to. I assure you, it's no failing of yours as a cook.

[Why does she get the feeling that he would be gulping down that water if she wasn't watching him?]

Perhaps something blander to eat it with might help. [She reaches into the basket of baked rolls and places them next to his bowl.] Though don't force yourself through a bowl on my account, please.

[The last thing she needs is to make the man sick on food that's richer than his stomach is used to.]

[He does reach for the proffered roll, and turns it over in his hands.]

You're being very kind. Spirit of the day made real.

[But if you think he'd let food go to waste you have another thing coming, mmhmm. He gestures to the other end of the table.]

You should sit. Enjoy the fruits of your labour before you play hostess to the masses.

[Should she take him up on that offer, he'll stand to get her her own bowl.]

[She's being kind, yes. It's not a particularly difficult thing for her. She has time on her hands and a world that isn't hers to protect. Oh, of course, she and Steve and whoever else show up from their team will protect the people however possible, but she's not an Avenger for Riverview Quarantine. She's displaced, and has time to celebrate holidays from home. To cook up a storm and gather flowers and ignore the fact that if she were home, she'd be celebrating in a cell.

She's being kind because she likes to be, especially without Pietro around to look after. No, she's not looking for replacements, just like she's never looked for someone to stand in for her mother and father, but they've all left a hole in her life, and it's part of her nature to want to nurture on occasion.]

I'll sit, for awhile at least. [She still has work to do, and in all honesty she ought to be hauling flower wreaths and the spares meant for lapels down to the tables, along with the vases and disposable dishes, cups, and cutlery. Everything that wouldn't spoil out in the sun. She reaches behind her to remove the apron she wears, rolls it up and sets it on the table before sitting across from him.] May I ask you a question while you eat?

[And so he stands, and bustles a bit. Fixes her a small dish of her own, despite her protestations, and sets it in front of her. It's obvious by the way he handles himself in a kitchen that he's no stranger to the goings-on of hearth and home. He was his parents' only surviving son, after all, and some duties fell to him regardless of society's rigorous gender roles. He knocks his chair askew with one boot before sitting back down in it and pulling it properly to the table.]

What was it you said? 'You can ask what you like, but I won't promise you answers'?

[The last thing she'd wanted was for him to feel the need to get up and serve her, but when her protestations fall on deaf ears she doesn't persist in arguing with him. It's a bowl of stew, one she accepts with murmured thanks. Wanda takes a tentative bite of the beef, half checking to make sure that it's cool enough and the other half wanting to make sure it really does taste as it ought to.

Her eyes close a moment, savoring the taste. It's too rich for him but to her, it's perfect.]

That's fair. [She doesn't ask right away, however, mulling over her phrasing briefly. It's not an especially personal question, she thinks, not one that has been picking at his background or history the way that the others have, but it's not as impersonal as she wants it to be.] I've noticed in our conversations that you don't ask very many questions of me. Especially by comparison. [It's an observation, not a judgment, and not indicative of anything deeper.] Is it simply not in your nature or are there subjects that pique your interest more that simply haven't come up?

[It's not even that she's trying to learn what his interests are, so much as she's curious if this is just how he is, to be less inquisitive than she seems to be.]

[He fiddles with his rings a moment before he picks up the bread to sample it as well. It's too sweet by far, but it's something he can more readily adjust to than the absolute cacophony of flavour in the stew.

The fact of the matter is, the truth of a person isn't in what they say, or what they don't say. It's in their hands. Their eyes. The way they hold themselves. The manner in which they speak. He's spent enough time amongst men whose languages he didn't comprehend to know how to read intent in anything from a look to the twitch of a muscle. Flint is not a fearsome pirate because he is the strongest fighter, or the best tactician, or the most brutal - though he has been at varying points of his life all three of those things - but because he can read the scripture of a soul laid bare before him. But he is of no mind to surrender that knowledge, for in many respects it is his greatest weapon.

He lifts the spoon to his mouth, samples the soup a second time now braced for its peculiarities.]

What manner of question would you have me ask?

Edited 2017-02-27 21:38 (UTC)

It's not that I would have you ask anything specific, but rather that for a man who seems to be as knowledgeable as you are, you don't seem very inquisitive. It strikes me as odd because--

[--because he has to be getting his information from somewhere. Her mind races ahead, trying to put the pieces together automatically.

He doesn't ask questions because he has the answers.

He already has the answers to what he wants to know because no doubt there are people who give it all away in conversation. Like this one. All he has to do is sit and wait for her to speak and she gives up much about herself, her personality, her motives and focus. And if he isn't speaking then surely it means that he's simply picking things up or intuiting them in a way similar to herself.

And anything he couldn't glean from other people without their knowing could perhaps be discovered through over avenues, so that he acquires the answers he wants without someone knowing he has them? She doesn't have a confirmation but the way that her own line of reasoning jumps forward reminds her of Natasha and some of what the spy has imparted to her over the last year.

It's been a while since Wanda's been made aware of her own inexperience compared to those around her, that as great as her powers are there are others still, more subtle by far, who manage as much as she does without her particular brand of cosmic abilities. The feeling is humbling in retrospect, that he might have managed far better in learning what he wants and giving away nothing, and all with powers like her own at his fingertips.

Perhaps the better question might have been to ask him how much he's managed it all without asking any questions at all. But she's figured it out. Or at least she thinks that she has.]

Nevermind. [Spoon still in hand, she gathers another morsel of beef for herself, regarding James now as if she has several more questions to ask him, none of which she'll give voice to.]

Edited 2017-02-28 01:21 (UTC)

[There is something of a revelation to her now. He watches its progress, in her countenance and the sharpening of her gaze. It's in the tight, controlled motion of her hands and the stubborn set of her jaw. Has he gone and made her angry, or simply given her cause to frustration?

He wipes the side of his dish clean with a hunk of bread, watches the stew seep back into place like blood on the sand. Part of him feels guilty, as if he should surrender something of himself on the altar of his misdeeds, recompense for having troubled her so. But he wonders how much of that guilt comes from how exactly she resembles Miranda. Christ almighty, they even share the same look of chagrin, fixed on him like the black bore of a gun.

(He thinks briefly of dark waters, gold coins and a ferryman, and he has to look away. He can't bear it. God help him, in this he is weak.)

The truth of the matter is thus: of fucking course he's curious. Of course he wants to grip her by the arms fit to press bruises into her skin and ask her, what of London, what of Nassau, what of history, what of my name, and yet he fears the answers she will have for him. Former pirate haven, she'd said. He may be successful now, he may be successful tomorrow, he may reign for a fortnight, for a decade, he may die on a throne of blood and bone but Nassau still falls. Through some... deficiency of his, he fails. He knows he cannot control what comes after his death, but he should have done something, made some provision for the storm to come. It is-- incogitable that he should have spent so much of his soul's currency, clawed his way so far, and failed.

He misses Thomas so much, so sharply in the moment that he simply cannot breathe. Blandly, he pats another piece of bread into the stew and chews on it to cover the siren, shipwreck song of emotions that roil beneath the surface of his ever-calm exterior. My love, he thinks to himself, not knowing if he would be addressing Thomas or Miranda if both or either stood before him, What have I done? He wanted only ever to grant the ghost of Thomas Hamilton some small peace, a light to guide his way in the hereafter, and even that he feels slipping away from him. The last tenuous grasp on humanity that he has left will go with it, and James McGraw will finally be as dead.

Everyone left in his path shall rue that fucking day. And just like that, he breathes again. The body wants to live, the will allows it. For now.]

I'm sorry if you feel my lack of inquiry stems from any disregard. That is... patently untrue. I have felt your companionship to be a balm, though I've not long known you. [He gestures a little, sharply, with his ringed hand, a crust of bread held perhaps too tightly in the curl of his fingers.] I am wary of troubling answers. No more.

[In all honesty, Wanda doesn't expect him to stay long. Her concerns feel juvenile somehow, even if they stem from inexperience and ignorance than any lack of emotional maturity. At least, that's how she reasons it to herself, though she feels at the outside it may not seem that way. The members of the Avengers may tolerate that well enough, as she's one of them and they have no choice. They're used to dealing with young recruits, after all, and they know her story. Allowances are made, no doubt.

Eating this stew makes her sentimental, perhaps. Emotional. It's the Feast of Saint Nikolina, a day that has a great deal of meaning for her as well. It makes her care too much about things that perhaps she shouldn't, like fixating on why a man she's met only twice asks no questions when by all rights he ought to, shouldn't he?

Wanda dips her own bread into the stew, lets the bread soak up the dark broth. She bites into it, chews, listening to James when he finally speaks--

--he gives more than she might have expected. She can't recover quickly enough to mask the surprise on her face when he says that her companionship has been a balm to him. The admission pleases her, and the explanation he gives is one she can accept. The answers that she gives him may have greater meaning and implications than she realizes.

Has she taken it for granted that Sokovia will always remain Sokovia? Countries are harder things to destroy than cities, but shouldn't she expect that a war-torn country like her own is destined to fall just as Nassau did? The fate of Novi Grad may yet only be the beginning.]

Then I won't press you to take more information than you wish to have. [That much she can give him, to the best of her ability in any case.] I'd rather you feel at ease in my company, as your own is so welcome. I'm simply unused to being around people who don't want to know everything at all times.

[Which is somewhat unsettling, making him unpredictable since he's not following typical and well-trod routines and conversations most people have when getting to know one another.

It makes him an interesting challenge, one she welcomes, but he does try her skills of intuition in ways most don't.]

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