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.

information resources
premise ● arrival ● setting ● ask a question ● navigation

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

[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.]

[Interesting company she keeps. These protectors without borders. He'll want to meet those of them present here, eventually. You see, she isn't wrong. He does like to know all things, at all times, but he prefers to intuit, to read, than to ask questions or make commentary. Talking is, after all, only his third-most preferred method of communication.

But the deed is done. He nods once, in acceptance of her words and then bends to finish his stew in silence. Too many ghosts crowd close in the room now, more than he's accustomed to or especially cares to indulge, and the sooner they're out in the open air the gladder he'll be. He is not, by strict definitions, a haunted man. He has a modicum more self-governance than that. And yet.

And yet.

He sops up the remainder of the juice, pops the last piece of bread into his mouth and then moves to clear his dishes from the table. He's grown accustomed to running water such that it is no longer a mystery, so he turns the taps on and washes his bowl diligently beneath the spray.]

[Wanda lets the silence reign as they eat. The stew is hearty, filling her stomach and warming her from the inside as her mind continues to wander. There seems a depth of meaning in what goes unsaid, what's left only implied, and no doubt she'll mull over their encounters long after they've occurred.

She finishes her food after him, but not much longer, and by the time she rises to deal with her dishes he's finished with his.

Then, there's nothing left for her to do but throw herself into her work. There's a feast to host, and she has a great deal to do before people arrive. Taking James at his word that he's at her disposal, Wanda enlists him to help where she can delegate. She asks him to bring down the easiest stuff first. The disposable plates, utensils, and cups, the donated bottles of beverages, and most of the flowers she's gathered as well. She trusts him to see it all there safely as she continues her work in the kitchen.

There are more dishes to cook, some of which won't keep for long periods like the others. Sweet breads stuffed with berries and nuts. Oven-roasted vegetables. Chicken with herbs and lemon. And three pies ready to put in the oven once everything's underway.

It's five minutes till the start, and Wanda reaches up to wipe her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. She's done an incredible amount of work in a short period of time, and if nothing else it feels like an accomplishment her mother would be proud of. With nearly everything downstairs, she allows herself a moment to breathe before shedding her apron once more and heading downstairs.

There are more people there than she'd expected, a respectable showing, and it doesn't take long for her to see that some of the people who joined brought some dishes of their own, and drinks besides. Wanda reaches up to adjust the wreath of flowers on her head before moving to rejoin James.]

I owe you for your help.

[She would have been rushing around and exhausting herself if it weren't for his help. Perhaps she could have used her powers to bring everything downstairs but she doesn't like the idea of using her telekinesis so casually.]

[He's got a small plate of things he's sampling, the blandest he could find among the festive offerings, and he's standing to one side. His clear preference is for observation rather than engagement. He isn't here to mingle.

But idly, to her,]

I take payment in gold, silver or gems.

[It's playful enough. A nod, perhaps, to her continued belief in his illustrious career of piracy, yet again it gives nothing away.]

[Wanda responds with a low chuckle.]

I'm fresh out of all three. [Nevermind that she wears more rings on her fingers and necklaces on a daily basis than him. And isn't it a strange amusement to be acquainted with a man with whom there actually be a comparison.] You'll have to take a rain check.

[After a pause, she reaches up and plucks one of the flowers out of her wreath and drops it stem first into his front pocket.]

Consider that an I.O.U.

[wow he only wears two rings and has an ear pierced how dare you imply he's some bejeweled vagrant. Flint is smiling slightly is she steps in close, and when she seats the flower in his shirt he's compelled to fish it out again. He twirls it between his fingers, bends to inhale its scent.]

This is a camellia, is it not? From the Orient.

[James, you wear more jewelry than any man or woman on her team, including the robot who literally has a giant gemstone stuck to his (its?) forehead. She watches him pluck the flower out to catch it's scent.]

It may be? I don't know all of the different kinds of flowers by sight, not beyond the more popular types. Roses. Daisies. Tulips and daffodils. [Etc. It certainly adds an interesting layer to what she knows about him, however, that he would know.] Have they made their way to Nassau?

[He twirls it a second time, and then affixes it more properly in the buttonhole of his shirt pocket. He hmms faintly.]

Merchants from all corners of every empire seek to bring civilization to the New World. Flowers, you'll find, are but one luxury the wealthy don't like to live without. Perfumes, all manner of apothecarical things. This flower is used in a variety of teas, and its oil for cooking.

[Joji uses it to keep the edge of his sword keen. It's where he has cause to know this one especially, as the man has a taste for it and Flint has learned to set any stock they find aside for him. He would never admit aloud to doing so, but good men are hard to find and though he does not often stoop to rewarding them himself, gifts left in sight of those they're meant for earns as much goodwill as anything.]

And in floriography, it means admiration. And, I believe, good luck.

[She very much doubts he would have worn a wreath like her own so she's glad he at least accepts the flower, placing it back in his pocket, and better secured.

Since he isn't inclined to hear as much about the future of the world as she could tell him, she's glad that he's at least open enough to speak of the world at his time. She can only imagine history class would have been far more interesting coming from someone who lived in the time, considering how fascinated she is by the tidbits he drops here and there in conversation.]

Does it? [And there are layers to his layers, it seems.] Considering our circumstances here we could all use the latter. The former wouldn't be so terrible either, I think.

[Luck is a thing for madmen and fools. He's been both, and had his share of it. His smile is crooked.]

I imagine not.

[He holds out his plate, laden not only with her offerings but some from the others as well.]

Care for a sample?

I could be convinced.

[It takes so much arm twisting. So, so much. After all of the work she's done she fully intends to enjoy herself. She reaches out to try one of the finger foods there that she didn't cook, immediately popping it into her mouth.]

Which one is your favorite?

[With due amusement,]

Flower, or food?

Both? Whether it's present today or not.

[He seems like he'll answer both of these questions without evasion so she'll be greedy enough to ask for two answers.]

[God, but Thomas enjoyed flowers. The Hamilton estate had gardens, both an aviary and an apiary with servants to tend all three, but Thomas never shied away from the dirt. They acted with propriety at all times when there was the chance of eyes upon them, of course, but one of his favourite memories beyond the walls of the bedroom they sometimes shared is of Thomas with his hands in the dirt trying to explain the etymology of the Sweet William plant. It was named for lovelorn men, Thomas told him, and James had been compelled to listen to his recitation of the poem whence it came rather than to carry on with his report as he should have done. As he would have done with anyone else. He learned with Thomas, that some things could wait.

The Latin name of the plant, of course, was--]

Dianthus barbatus. Sometimes called London's Pride or Sweet William. It symbolizes gallantry. As to food-- hm. [There are a million things he could say. Dishes he learned at his mother's knee. Ones he ate at the Hamilton house. But at his heart, a simple sailor, he can't help but say,] Oranges, perhaps.

[They prevented scurvy, and were not so bitter as the lemons the Navy kept aboard their ships to ward off that dread thing.]

[Sweet William and gallantry. Wanda has half a mind to sit him down and ask him to name flowers and explain their meanings, if only to see when or if he'd finally be stumped. She half expects him to name a similarly unique food or dish, so when he names oranges, her lips draw up into a smile.]

I've always liked them myself. My brother would steal a couple for us sometimes... [When jobs were harder to come by, when they were forced to do whatever necessary to make it through periods when money was scarce. She remembers sitting on swings in a park, peeling oranges together and flinging the peels at each other when they weren't eating the slices within.

It's one of her favorite memories of her brother, even if she'd scolded him for taking such a risk. She'd been too hungry to be that upset with him, and the fruit had tasted so sweet. Thinking of him now makes her feel a sharp pang in her heart, one she talks over before silence becomes a noticeably dramatic and heavy pause.] I haven't found a favorite flower yet, however. Maybe red poppies.

[They're common enough in Sokovia, and red's always been her favorite color.]

[He pops something that looks like battered shrimp into his mouth. Something recognizable at least in this place, is enough for him.

She doesn't know the meaning of the flower, surely, but the choice is suspect in his mind regardless. It's too perfect a coincidence given all the strange similarities they share. He knows she's seen dark, terrible things. Horror sings in her, soft and lachrymose and he looks upon it like a brother. No stranger, he, to horror. Or loss.

He turns the plate on his hand that she may be proffered a small blackberry tart.]

Used as an offering to the dead in ancient Rome.

[No, she doesn't know about the meaning of the flower, that's his forte. She thinks nothing of it when she mentions it, just remembers seeing them grow wild outside Novi Grad at times. Remembers seeing them in small mason jar vases on the tables of sidewalk cafes when the streets are calmer in the spring.

Wanda reaches out for the tart when offered, but she lets out a small snort at his response.]

Of course it is. Fitting. [She shakes her head, giving him a wry smile and a murmured thank you.] Perhaps I should round things out and adopt the pomegranate as my favorite fruit. Food of the underworld as it is.

Edited 2017-02-28 06:21 (UTC)

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