TDM #2

[goneawaymod]

TEST DRIVE #1

So it's your first day at your new job! Welcome to the Jorgmund Family™! It's time to settle into your new workplace on the Piper 90 rig, the coziest place of employment this side of the Livable Zone. A leader in its industry, Jorgmund is excited to have you join them in enthusiastically envisioneering team-driven paradigms.

The Piper 90 rig's mission is not only an impressive undertaking in terms of impactful customer-oriented deliverables, it's providing a vital backbone to the Livable Zone by creating a safe region for citizens to live, work, and play. Jorgmund's "outside the box" thinking means they understand the importance of wisely investing in their human capital - you! You'll soon find that you'll take pride in this vital work - and the benefits can't be beat.

Rest assured, Jorgmund's multidisciplinary approach to our world's period of recovery means we know how to keep it real when facing this opportunity for restructuring and growth. Jorgmund: Even if most of the world has gone away, we can make a world of difference!

Synergy!

USEFUL LINKS
It is recommended you check out the following links first for info on the rig, rig conditions, game mechanics, and the intro and slideshow your characters would have to endure that takes place chronologically before the Test Drive Meme:

Welcome/Arrival | Rig Weather & Hazards | Rig Setting Page | Game Mechanics

SCENARIO #1 - MOVE-IN?! MOVE OUT!

Well, hell, that was fast. Basically as soon as orientation's over, everyone gets shuffled into armored vehicles and a few boxes of gear are tossed in after them. Motion detectors, flimsy medical face masks, and... guns. Guns with flamethrowers. Even for the old hands at this, that's a new attachment, but the boxes all of the gear is in has electronic locks that refuse to open.

Before anyone gets any ideas, the doors are closing. The last view they get inside the Rig is a pair of medical workers dragging someone out of the 'interview' room, a tall muscular man in mismatched combat fatigues. Even without the twitching, the way he hangs limply in their arms leaves little doubt that whoever he was, he won't be joining them for cake. One of them carries his removed helmet, the other carries a removed body armor. On the chestplate a skull and crossbones can be seen, on the backplate are the words "contents under pressure."

When one of them sees them staring, she says, "Epilepsy, it seems, no doubt aggravated by Stuff exposure. We'll be taking good care of him."

Right, because the military lets epileptics in all the time, don't they.

They will never see him again. If asked about him later, they'll say he was transported to the Livable Zone, for the very best care in a proper hospital. Of course they wouldn't hire someome with health issues for a potentially stressful job like theirs, they aren't monsters.

The truth is he will get more coherent later and start complaining of a stomach ache, scans will verify something alarming, and he will be quietly killed with sedatives and quickly incinerated.

Before it's too late.

a) TAKEN FOR A RIDE
They're left to get to know each other, with the driver (in a separate compartment) informing them that they'll be at their destination in about four hours.

Meanwhile, for their viewing pleasure, there's a marathon of The Nutshack. Working media in the Gone-Away World is sometimes...lacking.

b) A LATE EASTER
...Blissfully, it's interrupted some three hours later. The boxes all click, allowing the unfortunates to grab the gear, and the Nutshack ends abruptly as the face of a harried middle manager takes up the screen, people walking back and forth behind her with the faked urgency of people who know the boss is watching. "All right, New Hires. I know some of you have just been hired, but we here in Jorgmund like our people to be able to hit the ground running." She smiles blandly, in that corporate way where no muscle above her nose so much as twitches. "This mission should be a milk run for you, though, a good way to stretch your legs and show what you're made of. It's just a bit of a delivery job, that's all. You'll be making your way to the old Pilton town, recently the site of an Incursion. To go with the milk, you're grabbing us some eggs."

Suddenly, her image contracts to the lower left corner of the screen. The main screen is filled with a single image, rotating slowly. "Our resident biology experts think that the life forms that hatch from these will be very useful in advancing various areas of science, plus they might be able to resist Stuff storms. We want an unhatched egg, drone footage shows that there's a good number of them are already empty."

Another image, this time of some kind of glowing box. "The engineers say that this will keep the eggs, and their cargo, in a kind of stasis. Just get one in there and it's mission accomplished. Easy, right? Makes me wonder why we even hauled you guys out of orientation for it." She shrugs, tossing a folder aside and glancing at a paper someone's just passed her. "Oh, right. Pilton's a write-off. They rejected our offers of help with this whole mess when it started up, so they're probably all infected with Stuff or some shit anyway, so safeties off and fire is free. Don't kill each other but anyone else is fair game. You're probably doing them a favor somehow anyway, we don't need mutants mucking up the place."

She sets everything down and leans in, filling the screen again. "Yeah, and just so you newbies know the drill, don't run. You remember what it felt like during orientation." They've already felt the first bite of the nanochains. "We got trackers in you and we don't appreciate it when our boys go AWOL after we go through all of the trouble of saving their lives from the Wilds." The transmission ends and all that's left is a map of Pilton displaying, with the cartoon's audio still playing in the background.

The vehicles all clank to a stop and open the doors. Pilton looks to be a mid-sized town, might've been home to a few tens of thousands of people once. Curiously, a tall, thick wall surrounds much of it, but something's knocked holes in it. It's in front of one of these gaps that the trucks have stopped. Inside, a thick mist obscures all but the tallest buildings, half-ruined by some disaster. Lots of shorter, squatter buildings just barely poke over the top. But some of them seem to have some sort of newer additions, a black, shiny, organic support for a few buildings. Hard to see details, though, because of heavy mist obscuring vision. The map suggests that there's a subway system... or possibly just an oversized sewer. It's hard to tell, but the way the drivers honk, so they can leave, they're not giving any more time to decide.

Motion detectors on? Locked and loaded? It's time to go. Just ignore the feeling that you're being watched.

c) THIS WAY FOR SENSITIVITY TRAINING
Well, it turns out that those eggs? They hatch sometimes! If you're lucky, this side will be all that you see. If not, well...

The radios crackle and the manager's voice comes back on, for everyone. "We're seeing some funky bio readings. Yeah, the Science department thought that one or two of you might get jumped. It's fine, just don't lose whoever that is. Pop your stasis box around them, it'll expand, and drag them back to the trucks. You can try pulling them off, I guess, but they want to see what happens when someone gets up close and personal."

There's a pause.

"Oh, uh. Don't try to pull them off. Got a report from another crew that it'll tear and dribble acid over everything. Well, we at Jorgmund appreciate the lengths you all are willing to go for the company and it'll reflect in your quarterly performance reviews." That's small comfort for anyone who's at risk of being down a man.

Then again, at the noise, there are moans from the walls and ceilings. There's a few people stuck in there, some with those creepy things wrapped tight around their necks and faces... some with with them lying dead at their feet. Some of them aren't making so much noise on account of the massive, gaping hole in their chests.

Something's hissing and writhing around your ankles, by the way.

About to spring.

d) YOU DONE KNOCKED OVER THE ANT HILL
Did you get lost? Not to worry, if those motion detector pings are anything to judge by, you're about to have lots of company! They're big! They're fast! They're black, shiny, and can climb on the walls!

Oh, and these guys bleed acid too.

The manager's voice on the radio blares out loudly. Too loudly. "By the way, it sounds like you guys have company! Did we mention that Jorgmund has excellent medical benefits and a highly trained staff with the latest equipment? Don't be afraid to get into a bit of a scrap! And remember, teamwork makes the dream work! So fire up those flamethrowers and show them how Jorgmund takes care of the competition!"

As bad as everything is, at least you can hide from them for a bit. And, hey, that civilian stickied to the wall who got all chummy with the alien babies? The one you might not have managed to seal into the box correctly? They're waking up now! An extra hand to fight these guys off will be handy! Especially since the monsters seem to be trying to guide you away from the exits, pushing you further into the hive.

e) MEET THE NEW BOSS, SAME AS THE OLD BOSS
So, a heartless, soulless, people-eating monster who doesn't care who suffers as long as the numbers go up? Boy, that sure sounds familiar.

Whether it was a tactical withdrawal, a blind rush, went in to rescue a pal, or you were dragged into a lower chamber after being snatched up by a batch of drones, you're now in a vast chamber filled with eggs. And there's the Queen hissing her displeasure at your company. And you thought the regular guys were huge.

She's lounging on the wall, attached to a pulsating ovipositor that stretches the length of this massive room, surrounded by smaller drones caring for her and the eggs surrounding her. But, luckily, it looks like before the bugs... adapted this whole mess to suit themselves, it was a construction site, and the hive resin hasn't quite covered some of the equipment.

Or some of the barrels with explosive warnings written on them.

Whatever you're going to do, think fast. This lady's no pushover, and she's the kind of boss who likes to get her hands dirty to show the troops that she still has what it takes.

Due to Stuff shenanigans reality will glitch, making this fight one that must be accomplished possibly quite a few times before reality allows her to be dead.

Because she doesn't believe she would die that easily.

Every time she dies, she'll come just a little closer to being gone for good.

f) HOMECOMING KING
Maybe you were there for all that. Maybe you missed it. Maybe you actually did your job. Somebody must have, because you're out there in the open air. The wind is sweeping through the ruins of Pilton, a refreshing rain washing away all of the evil that's been committed there. Even the manager's voice, congratulating everyone on a successful mission complete, ordering everyone back to the armored vehicles, seems upbeat and chipper.

Gather your wounded. Pick up your trophies. Usher civilians you may have saved against orders into the transports. It's time to go home. Your team's about halfway there when thunder booms menacingly in the background. Seems to be a messy storm coming, so it'll be a relief to be inside.

...Funny, that thunder just now. Thunder's supposed to come after lightning not-ah. There it is. Maybe it was an echo of a flash you didn't notice.

But don't echoes get quieter?

That's when a big fella comes around the corner. It turns its head, looking dead at your group, and the hiss it makes is a nightmarish mingling of a bull crocodile and one of the drones from inside. And then it roars, charging towards your group, massive tail smashing part of a building to rubble as it goes.

Bullets aren't going to be enough for this tyrant.

Even worse: the ground suddenly shudders even more, rumbling and shaking in a great cacophonous outpouring of sound...

And you see that the smaller version of the creatures aren't the only ones that travel in packs.

g) ON THE ROAD AGAIN
That was awful. But it's over now. The ride home is quiet, with the dulcet tones of Bob Ross filling the air on the way back. Rest, relax, drink some water, have some rations, and check up on your friends. Because after an experience like that, what else can they be?

If any New Hires have saved a civilian against orders, hopefully you're not in one of the unlucky trucks where they're starting to groan and clutch at their chest, face contorting in agony. Hopefully that's not a fellow passenger for you, and you can just ride home.

OOC DETAILS
➤ Feel free to play around with powers. If your character has powers from canon you want to play around with, go for it. If you'd like to test out possibilities for game powers, also go for it. Feel free to change it up from thread to thread if you need to. This can be handwaved as exposure to Stuff making characters' powers shift a few times before settling.

➤ Potential players may use test drive threads as their log samples. However, at least one post in their thread must fit the requirements for apps, both in length (200 words) and in quality. If you do plan on using a thread as a sample, please make sure the writing throughout your threads is a good example of your writing skills and has some solid examples of the character's voice.

➤ Players can eventually count TDMs towards AC. They can only count towards comment-based AC proofs.

➤ Potential players can opt to keep these threads as game canon when they app in, or start over fresh, based on preference. The Stuff bringing them to the game universe can fog their memories, if players don't want their character to remember TDM threads when introing into the game.

➤ The game is invite-only. Players without invites are allowed to tdm since some of them may know someone in game to ask for one, and since some people enjoy TDMs just for fun in games they don't plan to app into. But an invite is required during the apping process.

➤ The game is at a starting cap at 30 players. Apps are rolling apps that have a wait queue if the cap has been exceeded. Currently the cap is 23 of 30 players.

Comments

Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy | SWL CRAU | Open

[stillwinningthehardway]

Ride
Scout fidgets in her seat, which wasn't made with a tail in mind, looking at the people around her with a guarded friendliness. "You're conscripts too, right? Hi. People call me Scout."

She looks like a tall, strong human girl with short gold-painted nails, unless you're carrying iron or are a robot, in which case she's some kind of dragon-faun with gleaming brass hooves, claws, and nails. Either way she's got a very elfy outfit of metal scales and leather armor and a dark green cloak.

There's a faint crust of gold leaf rimming her nostrils and she keeps wiping her short broad nose gingerly, like it's tender. Her eyes are a little bloodshot. Looks like she didn't get much time between the hard sell and being shoved in here.

Sensitivity-to-anthill? A facehugger just leapt at Scout, who reacted very quickly. She smacked it to the ground and is now stomping on it, with what appears to be brass-toed boots if her mental suggestion works on you and with a hooflike paw if it doesn't.

"I could've brought the armor with the helmet, but no," she grouses, pausing to see if it's still kicking. "'Anomalous properties'. They gotta get their grubby fingers all over it! It's the worst!"

Another one tries to scuttle past. This time, Scout activates her lightsaber, deepening the shadows, and swipes it in half. The droning sound of it seems very loud.

Road
Scout's head comes up. Alarmed, she approaches the hapless civilian, swaying as the truck judders over a rough patch. She drops into a crouch besides him and, frowning, runs her hand over his chest.

"Oh, no... I got it. This is going to hurt but if you hold still I think I can get it." She gives a significant glance to the people with them. "Help me out. Hold him still or, you know, be ready?"

Then she stands and takes her lightsaber in hand, unlit, gauging the distance with a furrowed brow.

Sensitivity

[goddamnbatsman]

Casey doesn't have a lightsaber. He doesn't have various animal-like body parts either.

What Casey does have is a golf bag full of sports equipment. Something he's been using to pretty good effect so far.

Scout's appearance isn't really something he regards as strange. Not enough for it to be worth commenting on, anyways. He hangs out with mutant turtles. She's definitely not the weirdest thing he's ever seen.

"Yeah, well, no offense, but I'm not planning on giving you mine. Not even for that fancy sword of yours."

The steel hockey mask had been a gift from April, and not something Casey would give up willingly.

One of the face-huggers makes a leap for him, only to go sailing away into a wall as he smacks it with his cricket bat.

"You sure you wanna be stomping on these things with bare hooves, though? You're gonna be cleaning creepy alien guts out of 'em for ages."

Another face-hugger makes an attempt at Casey's face. Casey, imagining it as Dickwash's head as he swings, sends it straight down the subway tunnel with a satisfying crack.

"Huh. Would ya look at that? Six runs," he says, his grin audible in his voice.

Rune Saint John | The Tarot Sequence

[hot_dad]

A.

[Rune is trying to keep his shit together.

Easier said than done, really, when one is apparently tossed into the post apocalyptic future or something and immediately gang-pressed into service by some kind of shady human corporation. And when his Companion bond is completely, horrifyingly silent. The instinct to burn the whole damn rig down is intense, but probably futile and likely to lead to his death if the shock collar demonstrations were anything to judge by. All these other people seem similarly unwilling anyway, and he's really not into civilian casualties.

He's also really not into smalltalk with strangers, but eventually the boredom wins out. He doesn't even last all that long, really. They took his phone and it has all his games on it.]

They couldn't have parked the giant metal monstrosity any closer?

[He just directs it at whoever happens to be listening, deadpanning while slumped back in his seat staring at the roof of the truck. Compared to some of the people here, he seems pretty normal. Just a guy in durable-but-comfortable jeans, a worn-looking leather jacket, and a few pieces of jewelry that really clash with the whole aesthetic.]


B.

[Guns are a Companion's tool. But no one seems to give a shit about that here, so he takes one anyway. Scions are supposed to be above that sort of thing, but what precious little magic he has available here should probably be saved, and Brand had made sure he knew how to use one properly anyway "just in case". Rune can already imagine how smug he'll be when he hears about this later.

He stops imagining that real quick, because that'll just make him think about how he can't feel Brand at all and he really can't afford a panic attack right now.

Yeah, just...focusing on the guns for the moment.]

...Are those flamethrowers?


D.

[He abandons the flamethrower real quick. Handy in theory, but functionally equivalent to the spray-and-pray style of shooting. He'll stick to something more familiar are precise.

Said "something" looks like a bladeless sword hilt. He steadies one wrist on the other while shooting bolts of fire from it, backing up into one of the other "employees" to cover his flank while he tries to hit the fast-moving black thing. What the hell even is that?? He's usually pretty on the ball when it comes to identifying strange creatures but he's coming up blank here.]

And they want us to bring some of these things' eggs back with us?

[He sound somewhere between incredulous and outraged. Like, shit, he almost swears he saw a movie like this once. He can't imagine this plan going well for anyone.]

B

[zerofield]

[ Rooting around in the next crate over, a small, dour mid-teen has pulled out a gun herself, and is gingerly turning it over in her hands. ]

It's not orbal technology, so I'm no expert, but...

[ She carefully inspects the firing mechanism. ]

"Flamethrower" does seem like a probable guess.

A

[credit_not_blame]

Of course not. That would be convenient, and that certainly isn't allowed!

[The teenage girl to whom the voice belongs definitely isn't dressed for anything more dangerous than a regular school day: low wedges and a flower-patterned romper are cute, but not practical.]

Might be a blessing in disguise though. It means we'll have that much time to sleep off whatever horrible thing happens when we get where we're going.

D.

[greyerrant]

I believe it is time to creatively disobey orders. [ Loken's bolter roars out, tracking the black -thing- swiftly with autofire, the explosive rounds doing a good job of turning all the local scenery into shrapnel. ]

Not our fault they gave me my particular unsubtle and nonsurgical weapon for clearance, eh?

Matthew Swift | Matthew Swift series

[comebewe]

B
“Um,” Matthew says, as someone tries to hand him a bloody gun. They stare down at it in dismay. “I don’t…” he starts, but the manager is off making a hasty exit before he even gets to the chance to say, ‘Sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea how to use a gun, what the fuck.’

They look down at the weapon. Gingerly reaches out, and pokes what he thinks is the safety into what he really hopes is the ‘on’ position. If it weren’t for the fact that he strongly suspects that he won’t like what happens if he loses the bloody thing, he’d seriously consider just dumping it somewhere. Whatever they were going to need the guns for, it wasn't going to do Matthew any good.

Bugger trying to find any bloody eggs, he just wanted to get out of this alive.

He reaches out with his senses, searching for anything that he could actually use. Working mains would be a godsend, but he there weren't any to find - no spark of electricity, no crackle of a high-voltage powerline. He'd have to rely on other magics to get out of this alive.

Or you know, hope that someone else will decide to take pity on him, and bother to make sure that the new guy with zero combat skills doesn't just immediately die. There's that, if he's lucky.

E
Oh God, they were going to die, they were going to die.

Long angry gashes decorate their limbs, courtesy of a mad scramble to get away from the terrifying murder queen. They're crouched down behind a broken down earthmover, but this cover won’t keep them safe forever. He needs to find something he can use, some weapon they can call upon...

...then he spots the explosives, and a terrible idea is formed.

The first part is simple; thanks to their open wounds, they already have more than enough access to their blood. They hold the gash of one wound over the barrel, red blood dripping onto it. Until the blood turns blue, and bright, and moving, wriggling like little maggots of bright blue light that twist and burrow into the barrel.

“Fire in the hole, get out of the bloody way!” he yells to anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, before pushing the barrel towards the Queen and her brood...and booking it hard it in the other direction.

They wait until - they hope - they are far enough out of range. They glance behind briefly to make sure the Queen was right near the barrel, and everyone else was out of the blast range.

And then they set their blood on fire.

BOOM!

B

[typicaleverydayhuman]

"Um-- excuse me."

The voice isn't talking to Matthew, but he's very grating and also immediately behind him, holding a pistol between two of three fingers with a look of severe distaste that's visible through the purple mask.

He's also about six feet of turtle wearing a very bulky, purple metal shell.

"I don't do low-tech, especially not--" And he sticks his hand out, holding the gun at arm's length. "--creepy little mafia handguns. I'm a creature of class."

B

[parannoyed]

"...you saw the terrifying alien egg thing, right?" Wash asks, wondering why Matthew's not arming himself. "Do you...not know how to fire a gun?"

He squints.

"What kind of outfit is this?"

What the fuck? Are they just tossing untrained civilians into things without even telling them how to turn off a safety?

Wash sighs and walks over, partly out of an urge to help make sure this guy survives, partly because how effective people are in the field will decide if they complete the objective, and partly because he doesn't want to get shot by a teammate.

The guy looks like a deer in headlights and he needs to see if he needs a very quick lesson on gun safety.

E

[credit_not_blame]

A long hairy arm with taloned fingers reaches out and wraps around his waist, hauling him backward. Less than a breath later, a rock smashes down on the spot he'd been standing.

"Hrroon?"

The arm turns him loose and if he looks around, he'll find himself face to quizzical face with an enormous bipedal wolf-creature with brown and gray fur.

Agent Washington | Red vs. Blue | cw: mercy killing for option C

[parannoyed]

[Wash has more than one ticking time bomb in his body. The nanochain seems to come bog standard for all these New Hires, but the implant...]

[Even if there's no actual explosive in his head (which he doesn't trust), even if it's something they can pop without making his head blow up, their ability to make it break down and dissolve remotely? Provided that it doesn't cause him to stroke out, there's a life-altering consequence.]

[And if he succumbs to it, how long will he even last in this place? He doesn't know how bad the brain damage is, how functional he'll be. Wash is a survivor, he likes to think that he could maybe recover over time from something like that, hopes he could still strike out into some kind of worthwhile existence even if he can only heal so far. But he can only do those things - heal or find some new normal - somewhere safe.]

[By giving him the brain implant, they've given him a second chance but it's just so they can dangle something else other than death over his head: helplessness. Death from the internal shock collar is a quick way to go, something he might risk facing for a chance at freedom, but being helpless in this place, having to rely on others? There are niggling instincts that tell him maybe a part of him knows how to do that - but if there is one, it's definitely the part locked on the other side of the memory block they said the implant caused.]

[And even if there was a part of him that knew how to do it, it's one he'd have to body check because that only worked with people that could be relied on.] 

[Those don't exist. They never really did. Right now - as always - it's him against the world. That means that when Jorgmund tells him to go on a mission, he does. That means when the objective seems sketchy, he ignores it. That means when their mission liaison answers his objections over not getting his armor back with "We'd like to see what you can do without it, Agent Washington," he simply says, "Yes, ma'am."] 

[That also means when the liaison says "We hope you understand that your loyalty is to the mission and that you are to hold yourself to that above any other loyalties, including your teammates," he says, "Understood."] 

[Of course the mission comes first. This is just another prison and this little deal he'd made - to be Jorgmund's eyes in the field, to make sure someone sabotaged any efforts the group made to go off script - was just another deal to get him out, same as the last one.]

b) A late easter 

Motion detectors.

[And a picture of a very suspicious and oddly familiar egg. And a town that's eerily quiet.]

[And they didn't give him back his armor. He's regretting not pushing harder for it now, but chances are they would've still said no, and right now his deal with them is tenuous. He can't risk pushing too hard too early.]

[Wash clicks the proximity alarm to be extra sensitive. They've all got sensors to make sure it doesn't pick up friendlies, and potential attackers have to move faster than a certain threshold anyway, so he wants it to be able to pick up if a rat so much as sneezes.]

[Wash eyeballs the other gear, picking it up.]

And flamethrowers. [At least they look like they're not as low tech as some of the other tech on the rig and are therefore portable.]

[After they're geared up, the drivers start driving away. He sighs the wearily comfortable sigh of someone who sighs frequently.]

And our transport is getting as far away as humanly possible. All of this is just so promising.

[One thing others might find promising, at least he's reassuringly comfortable with his weapons, loading them and getting them ready with the experience of someone who's constantly had a gun in his hands for over a decade.]

c) THIS WAY FOR SENSITIVITY TRAINING  

[Wash doesn't just automatically shoot at the facehugger writhing near his feet. He jumps back and then aims his gun. Even with putting some distance between them, a few droplets of acid sizzle through his pants and hit his legs once the thing practically explodes from the bullets. Jorgmund wasn't joking about the acid being under pressure.]

[He winces, but keeps moving, not even bothering to treat it. One of the last things he remembers from home is getting hit by a Warthog and trying to climb over the hood to shoot at the driver. It's not easy to keep him down.]

[He mutters under his breath, his tone an almost perfect imitation of the smarmy middle manager.]
 
'Let's see what you can do without your armor,' they said. It's not like you'll need a helmet or anything.

[He expected more common sense from that frequently delusional soldier on the red team. Wash isn't even sure of his real name since they only called him "Sarge." He vaguely wonders if his actual name is "Sarge" because he can't actually imagine him having a real name. At least the man seemed like he thought body armor was mandatory dress for all conditions.]

Cover me. Someone needs to... [There's the briefest hitch in his voice] - do something for these people.
 
[He may be a soldier, and is certainly comfortable with killing people that might not deserve it if he feels he needs to - like when he shot those two red team soldiers. He's even comfortable with a certain degree of civilian collateral. But at the end of the day, things like Project Freelancer were supposed to be protecting people. They had utterly failed at it, but all the soldiers that signed up for it had thought they were doing the right thing.]

[It doesn't feel wrong, but sometimes even if you can do something, that doesn't mean it feels good. That's the least they deserve - that someone might feel uncomfortable with what needs to be done - and that they'll still do it anyway.]

[The second he has someone at his back, he takes out his sidearm to do the job, going towards the nearest groaning person with an open egg right in front of them. He wants to save the larger rounds in his assault rifle for...whatever laid these. (And even though it seems impossible, he's fairly certain he knows what did).]

[The facehuggers are the babies. If this is anything like the movies (why is it like the movies??) he knows what's inevitably coming next will be a lot bigger.]
 
d) YOU DONE KNOCKED OVER THE ANT HILL 

[He's clearly engaging in some positive self talk as he fires at one alien after another, prioritizing the ones lunging closest.]

It's just aliens. You've fought aliens. Maybe they didn't have pressurized acid blood and didn't lay eggs in your chest but you've fought aliens.

[He's by nature a very brave person, who has indeed fought in a war with aliens.]

[He's also seen the Aliens movies and that pushes this a small degree into 'aaah what the fuuuuck??']

[Breathe, just breath. Count rounds. His brain ticks an ongoing ammunition count and every time he's close to out of bullets, he's ready with the flamethrower in the other hand, pushing the aliens back so he has a chance to reload.]

[Whoever Wash is with can at least be reassured by the fact they're with someone pretty competent. Maybe even hyper-competent compared to the average person. The way the muscular, blonde soldier carries himself is tense but he's definitely sweeping through the room and controlling the chaos around him.]

[But they're still getting awfully crowded in.]

There are too many! Head towards the exit, we need to fall back to a more defensible position!

We also need to cover each other when we reload. Do call outs when you're close. We can cover each other with powers or the flamethrowers.

[If the other person doesn't, in fact, have a weapon, he hasn't noticed because all he's looked up enough to see is that they're a teammate.]

[Also, who would be dumb enough not to bring a gun to an alien fight? The fact they offered flamethrowers and gave them a picture of a very unearthly egg should've been a clue.]

g) ON THE ROAD AGAIN 

[Wash is exhausted. Because weird...confusion power or not, otherwise he is 100% human, and he's used to having his armor helping to take the edge off of just about everything. That's what power armor is for, it's protective, so you take on less injuries, it eases the burden of movement slightly, it's got life support functions to help regulate your temperature, etc etc.] 

[He's been hurt, even shot, while in his armor. He barely survived the latter. But he hasn't been this exact combination of hurt, dog tired, dehydrated, and sweaty since basic training. Or...there was another time wasn't there? A time he couldn't move. There was a room and figures frozen - no, whatever memory he'd been thinking of slips out of his hands like soap in the bath.]

[Even worse - the water bottles waiting for them in the transport he's in have some kind of un-removable no-spill sippy top that prevents you from just guzzling water, and he can't seem to pry the lip off when his fingers are practically numb from the cold, since they're passing through desert that's rapidly cooling as night falls.]

Why is this childproof?

[It's the weird cherry on the shit sundae that today has been.]

[And it's definitely gone to shit because he purposefully flipped the bird to the mission objective and is dreading what might result from that. Before they left he made sure to damage as many of the storage units as possible, enough to kill what was inside.]

[He was smart about it. Set the temperature regulation too low until the eggs and facehuggers froze solid, then knocked them to the ground enough to shatter what was inside. Then he grabbed the dismembered arm of one of the drones and ruined a very nice knife he kind of wanted to keep to strategically splash acid over each one of them. By the time they got back to the rig, the contents would be an acid filled mess. He even took some light spray to his fore-arm and a few droplets to the face for his efforts that he was going to pretend happened during the battle. He'd needed the transport medic to dilute the acid down and they'd bandaged it for now, with some kind of healing gel.]

[Those things needed to stay as far away from civilization as possible, and that included the thousands of people - including kids and innocent families - on the rig.]

[He's already mentally rehearsing what he'll say to explain not completing his first mission objective. Unfortunate damage during the battle, they should've warned them about the acid. They'd been going black on ammo. The New Hires have nanochains because they're that much of an asset that Jorgmund can't leave them volunteering to chance, and they were looking at a full team wipe if they hadn't prioritized escape, etc etc.]

[It's about protecting the more important asset over the other. Of course. No other reason.]

[It's a tight rope he has to walk here, the lying. But he's used to lying his face off to a commanding officer. He'd done it the entire time he'd worked against to expose Project Freelancer. There are times he'll just do what he's told but this...this time was different.]

[For some reason he's erring closer to the side of rebellion than caution here. He doesn't entirely know why. Not very long ago he'd cut a deal to get out of prison and killed two members of the Red Team he'd worked with, to make it clear he meant business and only left one alive to call down a medic.]

[And he's made a similar deal here, sold his soul yet again, promised to add to the mountain of regrets he'd already built up. There is far too much he's risking losing. But there'd also been the tiniest thread of shame, a vague feeling like he'd be disappointing someone if he just did what they said.]

[The problem is: he has no clue who it is he'd be disappointing. If there was someone, the memory block caused by the implant means he can't remember. But the feeling had still been there, so he'd acted on it impulsively - and had to hope he could be convincing enough to make them buy it.]

[He turns to the driver.] Do you think you can turn up the heat?

["No," the driver grunts. "My pay is higher if I save on gas."]
 
[Wash lets his head thud back against the side of the transport and then takes a sip from his sippy cup, wallowing in the indignity of it all.]

Worst. Mission. Ever.

Of all time.

[He really, really means it this time.] 

C

[xrater]

[There's some mental calculus that needs to be done here. These humans are clearly trapped, possibly impregnated. Alia bleeds out the higher colors, lowering the wavelengths that her eyes process until the visible colors start sliding over into the infrared spectrum, the heat painting over the hanging bodies.

The bugs don't give off heat, she can't see them using that method, but that much mass in someone's chest makes a difference.

As far as she can tell, there's no way to save someone once they've been infected. She doesn't know the gestation period. And Jorgmund has offered no evidence that they can, in fact, remove them safely. These humans will die, regardless of whether it's at the merciful hands of a New Hire or from the 'birth'.

She doesn't know Wash, he's too new, but she does have some files on human behavior and it's easy for her to play back and catch that little hitch in his voice.

He doesn't want to do it. Or, rather, he regrets the necessity. Either way, it would cause him emotional harm to euthanize these victims. She considers their possible lifespans, his possible life span, the emotional trauma it would cause, just what they'd need to do to chance one of these people coming back intact, and the chances that they'd need the ammunition later on.

It takes 0.0024 seconds for her to process all of the variables and come to a conclusion. The First Law demanded she do nothing that could harm a human. But allowing them to die in fear and agony would be so much more harmful, and that dropped a brick on her mental scales. One hand drops to his shoulder, gently pushing him aside. The other morphs, transforming into an arm cannon, a high pitched whine starting up.]

Stand aside, sir. You need to conserve your ammunition. My weapon is solar powered, I won't run out any time soon.

[He'd probably take that so much better than 'I think you're going to hate yourself too much for having to do this.' The decision is twisting in her belly, and she'd be sick if she were human, but Alia's ethical calculus has already played the situation out. Her tone is filled with regret, but... Well, what else could be done?]

You can turn away.

g

[onequartershark]

[ Carolina is tired. It's a familiar kind of tired: bone deep and tinged with failure, and she hates that. She also hates that the acid scoring on her left leg is considerably more real than Wash's. Two drops, but the fuckers went in one side and out the other and even "highly advanced medical technology" doesn't keep that shit from hurting.

And Washington is here.

There's the soft cracklepop of Carolina cutting the top off a bottle with a knife while he's complaining, then she throws back her head and downs it. It's a couple more seconds in which to think.

Is Wash a threat?

Possibly. But that would require him to know what she's planning, and to seem hostile. He hasn't so far, and Wash... well. He was a lot of things, but an amazing liar? Carolina never really paid close enough attention to the guy to see that kind of evidence.

If it becomes a problem, she will solve it. Later. She's tired and pissed off and mostly just resents that someone who knew her once can see how the mighty have fallen.

She doesn't have it in her to figure out the ins and outs of potentially killing one of the last of her old friends.

For now. ]

Saying things like that is how you set yourself up for disappointment later, Wash.

There's always a worse mission.

[ There's no amusement in it. ]

g

[zerofield]

[ Childproof water bottles, well, maybe.

The girl sitting next to Wash on the transport ride out next to him is fifteenish (old enough to definitely protest being labeled a kid, but still young enough that the average adult won't care about the distinction).

Hearing his protest, she reaches over to pluck the bottle from his hands. Rather than prying the lip off with her fingers, though, she pulls a small multitool from her pocket and uses that to force it off, before wordlessly handing him back his newly adult-friendly bottle. ]

g

[hot_dad]

[Getting to keep his own clothes for the time being had seemed like a small mercy when this shitstorm began. But now there are acid holes in his favorite jacket and his good boots, so even that little blessing was being thrown back in his face. He'd have been happier if it was Jorgmund's gear getting ruined.

At least he doesn't seem to be struggling as much as some people. It could have been residual adrenaline from a cantrip he cast earlier. Or it could just be that he runs a bit warmer than most people. Maybe the result of gaining more control over his Aspect. Not so much that he'll try playing the walking space heater for everyone, but he's not complaining at the moment.

He extends a steady hand, silently offering his help with the sippy cup.]

It's not the worst. Up there, maybe, but not all the way.

[Is he just bullshitting? Maybe. He does have to think real hard about whether this mess was worse than anything in the past. Objectively, it's arguable. But he didn't get a building dropped on his head or see any loved ones lose limbs, so he's giving it a pass.]

B

[shutuprattrap]

Yep, we're all gonna die.

[Rattrap's tone isn't a fearful one, just one of utter resignation. Still, the weird looking little robot readies his blaster. Whatever is coming will have to try very hard to kill him.]

Ya think we can get away with telling Jorgmund we couldn't find any eggs?

data | star trek TNG

[humandroid]

A. go go gadget small-talk subroutines

[ Well.

This is happening. Another day, another individual, organization, or civilization co-opting him for services to be provided, despite his personal preferences. So, plenty to process. And lacking sufficient information to properly plan around in regards to the situation as a whole, there aren't exactly... a lot of courses of action to consider.

Even temporarily, cooperation is preferable to his given alternatives.

Data sits in whichever seat he wound up shuffled to during the push to load up, still and straight-backed. His curiosity initially falls onto the in-ride entertainment in full, but it's short-lived. Before long, he cocks his head to the side like so many confused birds, and turns his attention to his fellow passengers instead. Then back to the screen. Then back to the passengers, before-- ]

I do not believe this programming is meant to relay our mission parameters. [ Unerringly gentle as his delivery is, it's still no less than confused. ] Is it common for the Jorgmund corporation to withhold information?


C. ah shit here we go again

[ And just like that, hours later, they actually do get mission parameters, right on time to be unceremoniously dumped at the site with weapons aplenty.

Data disregards the "fire is free" concept the moment he processes it. He has zero plans of firing on anyone, whether they wanted Jorgmund involved or not, and intends to take every active step to prevent others from doing so. Self defense against hostile non-sentient life forms is one thing. Openly firing on innocent civilians is unacceptable.

He does his requisite duties in sample collection for the most part. Missions like these in the name of scientific study are at least par for the course in his experience, and the prospect of creatures immune to the "Stuff" storms is intriguing. None of them were given scientific scanning equipment, of course, but Data often finds himself in a position where all one can do is take a statement at face value. Proceed one step at a time.

His priorities shuffle the moment they come upon the stuck civilians. Here's an ethical and moral standing upon which many of his base principles were constructed: fundamental respect for human life. What android has two thumbs and immediately approaches with intent to free and/or place folks in the stasis box? ]

We cannot leave them.

[ This android. ]


g. chill hangs 2 electric boogaloo

[ Or there is the other riding along in our automobile option. Data is among the members of the conscripted crowd whose overall energy provides a stark counterpoint to the fatigued and possibly grim air surrounding him. He's as bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and primly postured as he was when this whole endeavor began.

And it's safe to say that Bob Ross has a significantly larger amount of Data's resources tuned in than The Nutshack did. If he isn't doing his part to check in on the health status of his current truck posse, he's watching the paintings unfold with no small amount of abject wonder. ]

Fascinating. [ Look. It's art. It's unfettered creativity and feeling, creating an image not dictated by strict pre-established guidelines. What's not to find wondrous?

Sorry it's too late to swap out to another truck, though, because Data is absolutely about to get going. No, he has not read the room. ]

Mr. Ross appears to be employing the wet-on-wet painting technique, also known as direct painting, or "alla prima"-- a term which can be translated to mean "at first attempt." It is primarily accomplished with oil-based paints or with watercolor. These works are often somewhat improvisational in nature, and commonly completed in only one sitting. It has been employed in Earth's history since oil painting was first developed, although it gained a somewhat more prestigious esteem during the Baroque and Rococo eras.

[ If left uninterrupted or undiverted, Data will turn this 4-hour ride into an art history lecture due solely to his own personal interest in it. ]

For example, while he did not solely employ direct painting, I have nonetheless found the works of Jean-Honoré Fragonard to be particularly intriguing. You may find it interesting to know that his name fell into almost total obscurity for centuries after his death--

[ See? ]

A

[scavengineer]

"It's been a fairly common theme so far, " Gadget says from her perch on top of the next seat.

"If you ask me, it's a pretty inefficient way of handling things," she adds before turning to Data and offering
a tiny paw.

"Hi, I'm Gadget."

Julio Richter (Rictor) | Marvel Comics

[fuckcable]

B. An egg. This is all for an egg? This is is all for an egg, and he’s being press ganged into doing some company’s grocery shopping. Fuck that. “I’m not getting them their breakfast.”

He’s also not saying that too loudly, keeping it so low that only someone sitting beside him would hear. Rictor doesn’t know who or what these people, no matter how many PowerPoint slides he pretended to be bored with while trying to memorize everything, but he saw the state of the guy getting carted around and drew his own conclusions. He knows that this Jorgmund doesn’t play.

We don’t need mutants mucking up the place.

Ric’s left eye twitches, and it has nothing to do with shocks he’d been given at orientation. Shocks, plural. He should keep his mouth shut - he knows that nothing good will come out of arguing with her, but if her only concern with saving the townspeople is that they might have mutated... “No, we couldn’t have a mutant mucking up the place. They might get their filthy mutant genes all over the humvee.”

He feigns a look of muted surprise, but he’s so flat in delivery that it’s not convincing or funny. From where he’s sitting, they already know he’s a mutant. That’s why he’s here with a collar implanted in his neck.

“Oh, no. There’s a mutant here already.” Ric fingered the top of his issued jumpsuit. “I guess Jorgmund doesn’t mind the stench so much when we’re useful. I’m gonna enjoy it when ▪︎-|A|-▪︎ finds out about you.”

He wants to test their ability to track, despite (more like because of) her reminder not to, but he abandons any such thoughts when the vehicles draw up on Pilton. Something hit that wall hard, but that’s not what unnerves him. Maybe it’s the mist, or the lack of people for a place this size, or the buildings, but Ric suddenly and belatedly finds the flamethrower gun much more interesting. It never hurts to have three different ways to hit something.

From a distance.

[couldputitback]

"I'm not sure who that is, but if they're a rescue party, I wouldn't mind in the least."

Faiza not in the best of moods at the moment. Though that's partly because she had to fight for her hijab when they were handing over her clothes. Which, the jumpsuit is great. Truly. Or it would be, if it actually fit. As it is, she has the arms rolled up to her elbows because it's safer than having them over her hands.

At least they gave her her trauma bag without any arguments.

And Excalibur.

She hefts the bag on her shoulder, looking out at the town. "Sure. Right. Egg. In and out, right? Shouldn't be a problem at all. Where's Pete Wisdom when you need him?" A pause. "And there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."

Agent North | Red vs. Blue

[bothbarrels]

i. new boss —

North and Theta have always made a good team. There’s less for Theta to do now that North doesn’t have any specialized equipment for Theta to run, at least most of the time, but Theta does enjoy things like suggesting to North when and where to point his flamethrower. Nothing like watching the eggs they are spraying with flames pop!

But it’s different here. Here, there’s a massive creature above them who seems all but eager to swallow North up. “Watch out!” Theta cries out, oh-so-helpfully, as North dodges an attack.

“I’m watching,” North assures him, pausing ever-so-briefly in his motions. He’s used to this kind of thing from Theta. Theta cares for him as much as he himself cares for the AI,, and he doesn’t intend to put himself in a position to cause himself to be put in any danger, because that means Theta would be put in danger as well.

Except, apparently, on this occasion, because the Queen smashes North into the edge of the chamber and North finds himself crumpled, breathless, on the ground.

“Hey,” he calls to someone whose image swims nearby. He knows he’s taken a real blow just from that, from the way his vision wavers. “Help me!”

No matter what the other person does, though, he’s going to stagger to his feet and point that flamethrower in the approximate direction the queen is in now.

ii. homecoming king —

“What is that?” Theta asks aloud as the creature thunders ever closer to their position.

“Doesn’t really matter,” North grunts, whipping out a rifle. “It’s the thing that’ll kill us first if it has its way.”

“Don’t let it do that!” Theta says, retiring his hologram in short order as North takes a brave step forward.

“I won’t,” he says. The creature keeps making its way toward the company, rapid steps and loud trumpeting doing everything it can to hold their attention.

“All right,” he says grimly, then nods over to whatever compatriot is standing by his side. “You ready for this?”

iii. on the road —

North has plenty of people in his vicinity needing his expertise in comforting and otherwise aiding people who have gone through a hard time. He has experience with the recently-traumatized, and it seems like Theta is doing okay in the aftermath of all of that. So North kind of keeps an eye out for anyone struggling with the aftermath of what’s just occurred. He nods to anyone who seems out of sorts, keeping a gentle and friendly expression on his face.

“You doing all right?” he might ask. Or he might start with something more of an ice breaker: “I don’t think I’ve been in a situation quite like that one, have you?”

And should it prove that anyone’s suffering physically from what’s just been encountered, he’s able and willing to intervene with that, as well. Just because someone is dying from a parasitic creature emerging from their body doesn't mean they don't deserve some compassion.

iii

[parannoyed]

It's maybe the angle of Wash's face that makes who he is not immediately obvious. Turned away just slightly, resting against a cloth partition. Eyes closed, for a moment, as he catches his breath after the mission. He's also got some kind of healing goo the transport medic put on a few patches of his face for the acid burns.

But it's also just a different face, the way you can sometimes notice the difference between "pushing thirty" and "pushing forty." The lines on his face had been there when he was younger but they were so fine then. Now they've solidified into permanent frown lines and eternal bags under his eyes that didn't used to be there. His hair is no longer in that sporty, spiky hair cut, it's just short and sensible, and there are a few tiny places where there are some strands that are a little too light to be blonde.

Wash's face is even a touch older than he remembers it due to the missing memories, but at least that was only a few years. To North, it may as well be the face of a stranger.

Especially when Wash never looked that worn down. It's a face that looks cold, and distant, and hollow. Eternally tired. Whatever took hold of him after the failed implantation of Epsilon...it looks like it never let go. It's a far cry from the upbeat goof who got his nuts grappled and mastered the art of eating with his helmet on because he thought it'd be more "efficient." That's the most noticeable change, in the end. When he finally looks over at North, sees who's actually talking to him, the light in his eyes that used to be there? That's gone.

Even when he sits up, eyes widening in shock, even as he huffs out a little shocked breath instead of words he can't find, and sucks another breath in, even when he's alert and paying attention to something, the light is gone.

He lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"I...I guess I fell asleep."

He says it in a very vague way, like he's talking more to himself than North, and leans back again.

"So why are you here, to do some kind of Jiminy Cricket thing? Is that how this dream is going to work?"

That's what this has to be, his subconscious trying to punish him for making the deal he made with Jorgmund, for caving into their threats. And it picked one of the few people that could actually make him feel guilty to do it.

That's the only thing this could be because it can't be North. North had been a corpse last Wash saw him, and thanks to Wash, he wasn't even that anymore. Now he was just charred dust.

Sarah Kerrigan | StarCraft | ignore all the queen of blades icons thx

[zerg_rush]

OOC: I'll match format if you prefer prose.

[Kerrigan hasn't got enough of a cultural grounding to appreciate the farce into which she's fallen, so she instead spent "orientation" memorizing the faces and mental signatures of people she's going to kill later. The list isn't that long, but that perky blond whose smile doesn't make it to her eyes or her mind is going down.

A few hours in the personnel carrier, ignoring the screens and the other riders both, gave Kerrigan more than enough time to get her wind back and recharge the power reserves on her suit, a lightly armored sci-fi-looking affair with a complex visor. Her exhaustion reaches deeper than simply catching her breath and letting the lactic acid drain from protesting muscles, down into what she'd call her soul if she ever bothered to think about things like that. Jim had been entirely right about Mengsk and the futile mission he'd sent her on, and she hopes Jimmy didn't do some hero crap like try to extract her on his own, while at the same time being quite certain he did.

Well, assuming this isn't a strange dream as the zerg exsanguinate her and her oxygen-starved brain starts coming up with bizarre hallucinations, which she thinks is far more likely than it being real, at least she still has the chance of a shot at Mengsk. And to apologize to Jim.

When they get to wherever—she didn't pay attention to the briefing, because who cares—Kerrigan pretends not to hear anything about team assignments and stalks off alone, activating her cloaking and shimmering into invisibility more to hide from her alleged teammates than from whatever enemy they're facing. She can feel the buzz of minds, human and familiar or alien and not, and slips with ease into the silent movements of a ghost as she focuses on the latter.

Scouting. Easy.]

c. Sensitivity Training (CW: Mercy kills)

[The cloak's never been much good against anything that doesn't depend on vision. That's what happens when you design your weapons systems with only your metaphorical relatives in mind. Kerrigan lets it drop after the first few of the scuttling whatevers make a beeline for her. Might as well save the energy.

And the good ammo, come to think of it. She slings her rifle and switches to a pistol. The little zerg-looking things might be fast, but they sure aren't tough, and Kerrigan's aim is superb. The splat and explosion of acidic blood that marks each hit is kinda satisfying, if she's being honest.

What isn't satisfying is the horror movie gallery that greets her when she rounds the corner. The few minds she can still feel within the bodies are consumed by terror and pain, and her eyes narrow. Like hell is she bringing any of these poor bastards back, or turning over any samples to Jorgmund's researchers.

Efficiently, methodically, calmly, Kerrigan starts taking headshots, and doesn't turn when she feels the new mind coming up behind her.]

Help or keep moving.

g. On the Road Again

[Kerrigan regards her own personal mission of leaving nothing for Jorgmund to collect as having been a moderate success, and it's improved her mood somewhat. She leans back in her seat, gulping down half a water bottle at one go and thinking idly about electrolyte balance. With luck, she won't have to kill anything else for at least 24 hours, and she declines to dwell on how unlucky she's been lately.]

Definitely in my top ten worst days ever.

[She's not talking to her fellow passengers, but she's not not talking to them, either.]

?. Wildcard

[Got an idea? Good, 'cause I'm out.]

[breq]

[ Breq isn't happy. They've given her a gun, but they've also made it quite clear that they'll kill her if she doesn't cooperate and that they've put implants in her to make sure that they can kill her quickly and painfully. Her armor won't help with that. She hasn't spend twenty years to die here; she can wait a little longer. Still, she's silent and withdrawn through most of the trip out, her face set in a blank expression. She does hum a little, though. Some unfamiliar song from a distant world.

By the time they're on the ground, she's taken stock of her fellow 'employees', including one woman who simply activates some sort of cloaking device and vanishes. Interesting.

It's later, as she's moving through dilapidated buildings, examining the strange, slick growth that covers everything, when she hears gunfire. She picks up her speed. It only takes her a few moments to round the corner and to find the woman from before calmly executing what's left of the survivors. She's not sure she blames her, even if some part of her objects. She remembers to alter her expression appropriately this time. ]

No chance of saving them, then? [ She gestures an interrogative. ]

[ To Kerrigan, her mind will likely feel a bit cold and calculating, like a computer's perhaps. But there's emotion in there. Real feeling. Along with jagged edges where something has been lost; cut off. ]

Counselor Aiden Price | Red vs Blue

[myagents]

G.
[Price sits away from the other people in the truck, drinking water and listening to Bob Ross's soothing voice as a way to relax. He managed to mostly avoid the rough part, he was merely watching the others do the work. Now, as they all seem to be preoccupied with assisting some random injured civilian they dragged in, he does his own calculations in his mind, trying to predict future interactions and how this civilian would be a key variable to those scenarios. He smiles at the civilian, who is laying with his legs slightly raised.]

How are you feeling?

[An acknlowedging nod is all he can get as a response. Then the man hisses in pain as someone tries to clean up a wound. Fascinating, truly, to see such comraderie among his teammates bonding over this...Selfless act? They must be using this as a way to justify the horrors they have to witness, to make it all worth it. Pathetic. When some bumps in the road distract those very kind souls, they go speak to the driver for a moment and Aiden gets closer to the injured civilian, water bottle still in hand.]

It's sad that we are not providing assistance in the best conditions, but unfortunately we are rescuing you as a...Secret favour, outside of the very strict orders that we have been given.

[He flutters his eyelashes as his seemingly kind smile becomes a mischievous smirk. As much as he could get entertainment from this man by analyzing him, there are quicker and safer ways to have fun without facing repercussions from the staff. Takes a cotton tissue out of his pocket and wets it with his water, gently placing it on the man's face. Now it's time, to use Bob's words, for a happy little accident.]

Oh, you look thirsty. Let me help you.

[hallelujahjunction]

[Dan comes back from talking to the driver and emphasizing, gently, the importance of keeping the ride as smooth as possible while they have a person with a spinal injury in the back. Dan's pretty sure that he's going to get at least a little zapped when they get back, because the manager cussed him out by name multiple times during the mission, all "Mr. Sagittarius, please stay focused, Mr. Sagittarius, follow the guidelines please, Mr. Daniel Sartoris this is your final warning to return to the objective-" until the voice became just so much white noise.

When the Jorg suits said the civilian wasn't covered by health insurance and couldn't be treated by Jorg doctors, Dan and one of his comrades (now off co-piloting the truck) grabbed medical kits and did what they could themselves. Dan's no doctor, but he's been the designated medic on enough teams that he knows enough to keep someone alive until someone more proficient can chip in. He takes a moment to breathe now; his uniform is coated in mud and sweat and splattered with different colors of blood, including a bit of his own.

He hasn't met the new guy, barely even got a chance to register his face before they were sent out to the field. He got the name, though - Aiden Price. When he comes back in he sees Mr. Price stooped over the civilian (a older gentleman named Gowan, who gave Dan that information in a slurry of rambling before exhaustion and pain took the words out of him) with a water bottle.

Dan speaks up as gently as his raspy croak of a voice allows.]

Hey, probably shouldn't be giving him water yet. I need to prop him up more so he don't choke. [He smiles at Aiden.] Do you prefer Aiden or Mr. Price?

lavernius tucker | red vs blue

[fuckingaqua]

b.

[ Tucker didn't have what one might call the smoothest or calmest of orientations. Despite a broad familiarity with being confused about what's going on and getting thrown into nonsense, his interview still incorporates a lot of being deliberately obtuse and childish and failing to win a chick over with pickup lines and then getting zapped. Stuff like that. Blah blah something Stuff blah blah compliance blah blah blah. It's a fancy kidnapping. What they want him for doesn't matter so he doesn't pay a ton of attention. He technically gets to keep his sword, but only for missions, which sucks. Are his friends here? Who knows, they sure don't seem to know.

By the time he's processed and suited up and shoved towards the armored trucks, sans the cool military-grade body armor he's been wearing for years, Tucker is twitchy and irritable and mostly busy trying to scrape his shit together through the ride to Pilton. When everyone's been unloaded and left to their mission devices, he's more or less managed that much. If he couldn't do bouncing back, he'd have lost his whole mind back in Blood Gulch. Dumb bullshit, dumb missions, no other options. Whatever.

He picks up on the concept that everybody on hand might not necessarily know how to do guns good. Does he have a moral obligation or responsibility to try to help with that with his life experience? Technically he probably doesn't, right? He doesn't know anyone here. And no one looks as bad off as Caboose about it... but Caboose sets the bar so low sometimes that they haven't finished digging down to it yet.

Ugh. Or, more to the feeling, ughghghghghghhhhhhh, this is such bullshit, etc. He makes a sound that roughly translates to that, and then he thinks, actually why not include that in his starting pitch? ]

This is such bullshit. [ That's better. Every day he sympathizes more and more with OG Church. ] Hey! If you don't know how to use the guns, go-- I dunno, go aim at the big wall for a while? Aim anywhere that's not at the rest of us! Get some pointers on how to not turn into a team-killing idiot before it's too late!

[ If not from him, a regular idiot, then surely from someone who isn't an idiot at all. ]


c.

[ Who has two thumbs and is making no real effort to actually harvest eggs? This guy. He's fine to try to not die, fight the horror-movie aliens, whatever, but he's drawing a hard line on appearing to be at all mission-competent. That simply is not what he does. Especially when having face-hugger chest-burster combos skittering around the place everyone actually lives is on the line.

He'll eat that punishment later if he has to. That's a problem for future Tucker to complain about.

He might be inclined to stick some face-hugged people into the boxes, but he also knows better than to think anyone's got a real chance. So it's complicated. He's working on his opinions. The thing is, he's very bad at actually not caring about stuff. And he's very, very good at caring whether he wants to or not.

It's a very cool demoralizing pointless experience that he doesn't wanna be experiencing.

So like his whole military career.

Tucker's not brooking any sort of "hissing by his ankles" shenanigans, at least. If he catches a whiff of hatched alien, he's firing on sight. Sometimes he goes for a glowy alien sword slice or a shot and doesn't dodge a stray splatter of the acid blood, so instead of a fun one-liner he says "augh shit sonofabitch!" But he manages okay between those points. ]

Nice try, asshole! [ Manages the low end of "okay." ] Ugh. I don't know what it is with aliens who don't get personal space, but I'm over it. Been there, done that, didn't die, got the honor roll student to prove it.

[ It's times like these he can be really grateful that he somehow didn't die having Junior. Not that he wasn't grateful for that already. He's just freshly grateful. ]


g.

[ Hey, so that was all a bunch of even more bullshit than he thought. Color him vaguely impressed. In the way a person can't help being impressed by a bunch of stuff that they still hate a lot. But now it's over. Finally. No more stupid action movie, horror movie, everything-is-happening-at-once stuff.

Just weird sippy cups of water, flavorless ration bars, a little kickass Bob Ross energy, and the space to do what he was born to do: poke at his handful of minor burns and complain. Before maybe napping. Grif would nap if he were here. It's a touching tribute to friendship or something dumb like that. ]

Man, acid blood is totally unfair. If your blood's acid, it shouldn't be legal for you to stir shit up where other people have to deal with it! Fuckin' take it easy for a while. All work and no play makes you look like a tool.

g

[parannoyed]

[The voice that answers is dry - drier than usual. The warmth and regained humanity of the last few years has been cut off with a metaphorical scalpel.]

[Well, actually it was a literal scalpel, considering brain surgery was involved.]

Life isn't fair. If this outfit was remotely organized, we could've mounted a stronger response.

[Wash looks over at Tucker with an expression that doesn't initially click with recognition, or relief over having a friend, or concern that his friend is in this situation with him.]

[He's taken on a few visible acid burns, too. He's pointedly not fussing over them.]

Leonard Church (Alpha) | Red vs Blue

[gotfragged]

[ Alpha. That's the desgination of the AI wandering the comms network as the new hires are deployed. There's an AI doing that, by the way. Unfortunately for him, not even he knows that. As far as Church is concerned (because that's his name, Church) he's just a badly-inconvenienced ghost.

Sometimes, a person dies and instead of going on to whatever lies beyond, they get stuck here haunting computer hardware. That's obviously the most logical explanation. Leonard Church got the short end of the death stick and gets to be Casper the friendly asshole now, no matter what bad scifi movie "AI" bullshit Agent Washington thinks.

Or thought. Is Wash dead too? Who fucking knows. Church can't remember what happened with Wash after they set off the EMP at Freelancer command, and he's busy anyway.

The comms network may not be able to move around or have thumbs, which sucks, but it's full of cameras and microphones that Church can see and hear through. It's disorienting to not feel like he has a body with two arms and two legs, it's creepy to let his consciousness unfurl across many devices, but it does mean he has plenty of things he can distract himself with. ]

b. color commentary

[ Someone's glancing at their comm when a figure appears on the screen, interrupting the display: A man in some kind of space-age armor, cobalt blue in color. ]

So, aliens, huh?

[ His demeanor is insultingly casual. He speaks a little lower in his throat for exaggeration. ]

Suuucks to be you guys!

f. voice with an internet connection

[ At least there's some warning: A voice comes through the radios again. It's much more animated and human (perhaps or perhaps not ironically) than management. ]

Buddy I'd move it if I were you! We got some big fuckers on perimeter cam headed this way and they are ugly!

*. wildcard
[ Bring your own prompt, or ask me for a specific one. ]

f.

[bothbarrels]

Believe me, I'm right there with y—

[ He dodges before he manages to finish, then runs to another position. ]

Maybe a warning that's slightly earlier would help more.

Georgia Mason | Newsflesh

[choosetruth]

A

It took a lot of urging, and more than a few politely worded but extremely clear reminders of the shock collar, for Georgia to get into the vehicle. She does not for a second believe that man had epilepsy, and she doesn't trust these people to take care of him. Or anyone, for that matter.

She doesn't look extremely approachable with the dark glasses she's wearing even in the dimness of the vehicle. But she's watching everything, observing, taking mental notes, and wishing she had her usual gear so she could take actual notes.

Finally, she straightens and turns towards the nearest person who looks awake and alert enough to have some idea of what's going on. "Georgia Mason. Journalist, After the End Times." She doesn't smile, just gives a slight nod of her head. "They really don't love people asking questions around here, huh?"

D

Despite her loud and frequent objections, Georgia is actually extremely competent with a gun, even if she doesn't usually use flamethrowers as a rule. It's not that fire won't kill a zombie, it's just that it takes a while and until the fire reaches the brain, you're just got zombies but on fire, and no one wants that.

But her reflexes are good and her aim has the steadiness of someone with long practice. And while she's not exactly fearless, she's also not about to let fear show or worse, stop her.

After clearing the current chamber, she takes out a knife and starts working to cut the nearest civilian free.

"Georgia Mason, After the End Times. Can you describe the start of your encounter with these beings?"

The civilian looks like they're more in the mood to throw up than answer questions. Maybe they need a rescue.

Wildcard

[hit me with your best shot!! I'm antivillain if you want to plot!]

D

[hallelujahjunction]

Flamethrowers are far from Dan's preferred weapon. You fire a bullet, you generally know where that bullet's going and when it's no longer something to worry about. You spray some propane all over and light the place up, you have to worry that you've just turned your terrain into a tinderbox. Dan doesn't want to stay in this chamber of the hive a second longer than necessary, so as soon as he and his compatriot have pushed the creatures far enough back, he joins her with uncutting the civilian.

Unlike Georgia's, Dan's questions are a matter of field medicine utility: "can you stand up? Can you breathe?" The civilian nods, which is a good sign, but then proceeds to give the more alarming sign of having his knees buckle under him.

Dan turns to Georgia; she's already impressed him with the flamethrower, and given what she's said he expects she must be some kind of journalist or academic. He says the first dumb thing that comes to mind. "Your op-ed's gonna be sensational at this rate. Eye-witness testimony to die for."

Probably a bad choice of words, he realizes the instant he says it.

He's a small guy, but he's still able to get the civilian in his arms. "Can you cover us while we get out?"

Michael Burnham | Star Trek: Discovery

[notvulcan]

f. homecoming king —

[ Michael is alone for now, picking her way through the underbrush of this area. It's rough terrain, but she's dealt with that sort of thing in the past. She's keeping an eye out for enemies and for friendlies alike, knowing that she can't take her safety for granted. At least she has a weapon, and as always, she has her wits about her.

She sees a group then, and approaches them at a fast clip. Moments after she joins them, she hears a roar and looks in its direction. ]

Shit. Look out!

[ It's coming, and it's coming fast. Michael moves from the rear of the group to the vanguard, then points her weapon in a ready position.

As soon as the creature arrives, it tosses someone with its head. Michael is not aware of the powers she's been given by the Stuff until she acts on them—she's launching into the air as if she's flown many times before, and she grasps the falling team member, guiding them back to the ground with a soft landing. ]

You okay?

[ As soon as she has the person's green status confirmed, she turns to go back into the fray of the fight. If she's the one who's got the power to save everyone, she has a duty to get involved. ]

g. on the road again —

[ Michael enters the truck and goes to the seat furthest toward the front, sitting down heavily with a slight grunt. She's tired, she's worn out, and she's upset with how little she achieved in their efforts to rescue people. At least she managed to save a few lives, but that's little comfort at this point.

As soon as someone settles into the seat next to her she rests her head back on the headrest and eyes them. ]

I hope you're okay with the fact that I'm in a bad mood.

G

[ferengineer]

I'd be surprised if anyone was in a good one.

[Nog takes his seat a tired sigh.]

Lieutenant Nog, Starfleet. Although odds are that doesn't mean anything to you.