( MEMES ) TEST DRIVE >> 003.

[contagio]

THE TEST DRIVE




Like it or not, you've been dragged from your world into the sanctum. It's a pretty nice city, all things considered--sci-fi, high-tech, glamourous.... Except, of course, for the giant dome encircling it, and the threat of glitching, contaminated zombies at your door. Looks like humanity's built itself a fortress that looks suspiciously like a cage, too.

The object of this meme is to get people familiar with the world of the Sanctum, and to try to see if their characters would fit in a sci-fi utopia such as this. Here are your options:

1. Intro: Waking Up. Make your intro post, folks. You wake up in a strange place, and get a strange transmission to go with it. What are you going to do?

2. Failed Upgrade. One of your upgrades is more wrong than right. How will you cope? What exactly is different? Who will help?

3. Mission outside the dome. You've come under fire. The strange things are coming towards you. Luckily, you have your suit, your teammates, and a lot of firepower. Or are you stranded on your own, looking for someone to come to the rescue? Perhaps you're the rescuer.

4.Infected Something bit you. Now you're turning into them, and all you can hear is a high-pitched squealing in your head, like a frequency you just can't quite hear. Do you tell your loved ones, or do you wait? Do you trust your doctor?

5. Military training Everyone's got to start somewhere. You're training the green folks, maybe you're one of the newcomers yourself. Maybe you haven't even touched a gun before in your life. Either way, you'd better start now.

6. Chance encounter makin' my way downtown walking fast, faces pass--you get the point. You bump into someone! Shopping, or strolling in a park? Maybe just lunch in a cafe?

7. Glory to the Network! Network post. Text with general queries, say what you have to say to the entirety of the whole city.

8. Wildcard: Whatever you want. Mix and match, switch and swatch, make something else up entirely!

Comments

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

It'd feel better if you didn't fudge the shot.

[He scrubs his face with his real hand and sighs, callouses working at the lines of scarring around his bionic eye. Every time he has to teach someone not to fucking die the edges of his socket, reinforced with steel plating, aches. He could walk off or keep on.

Considering that no one else has the sense to teach this kid a damn thing he huffs a sigh and motions for him to get back into position.]

It doesn't stop with one bullet. You don't quit fir'n until they're down. Two in the skull, two in the chest. Get up and aim again.

[250mhzwabl]

Two in the- seriously?

[Jack lifts his rifle again, though he's still looking sidelong at the other man, shoulders once again hunched and toes planted in the way of a man ready to throw down his burdens and sprint.]

Four altogether? That's how you're meant to do it?

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

I was stuck outside for two goddamn months- one isn't always a sure thing. Two in the head, two in the chest. You need them dead.

[More murmuring behind them because if anyone that wasn't sure he was THAT Whiskey was still around, well, now they all know for sure. He grunts and adjusts the kid's shoulders, mutters at him to loosen up his grip, christ, it's a gun not a throat don't strangle it.]

Aim.

[250mhzwabl]

[Two months. Maybe the done thing is to be incredulous, or impressed, or conciliatory. But all of those feel too shallow when you've been out there even a week, pinned in place half your days and doubling back to a new route every third or fourth.

So Jack just whistles, low and soft, lifting his eyebrows as obligingly wiggles his shoulders back into relaxation and aims again.]

Yes sir.

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

Try aim'n for the gut this time. You're hopeless for headshots right now. Center mass first and foremost, we'll fine tune shit after you can actually hit the damn target.

[He rests a hand on the kid's back, straightening him up a bit.]

Breathe- then squeeze.

[250mhzwabl]

[Jack half-grins again, and a bit of it is probably the momentary, distracted awareness of that solid pressure on his back, and the the immediate intimidation settled down enough that his brain is just starting to pick through secondary details. Like how extremely easy on the eyes his tutor is.]

Oh my god. Posture and breathing? This is all too much.

[He aims even as he talks - and somehow. that takes him out of his head enough that he locks up a little less, follows instruction without intervening conscious intent and eases into the shot. And the target jerks, as a neat hole punches through the flank.]

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

Posture, breathing, and aiming. You're not pay'n attention to where the bullet's go'n, kid. Adjust and fire again.

[He offers no real instruction on how to adjust his aim to make the shot better. Not at first. Let the kid figure it out on his own, if he can. If he can't? Then he'll step up and say something.

Someone behind them mutters something about wanting lessons from a Callsign and earns a baleful glare from Whiskey- they shuffle off soon enough.]

[250mhzwabl]

[The actual mechanics of shooting, where to look and how the bullet goes, how to adjust? Jack's already received the lecture on that. Multiple lectures, really - all he's been missing is any kind of steady foundation to adjust from, any instruction that does not still leave him stranded between his own ears.

He aims again, just a tic closer to centre, holding off on shooting as he murmurs his reply. Whatever's being said behind him, be barely hears it, caught in the focus still flitting between his sights and the target.]

You say that as if I'm psychically equipped to know where it's going to land.

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

You got two eyes, don't you? Don't matter if they're upgrades or natural, you got eyes to see and a work'n brain. If you know your environment, know your weapon, and know your target? You know where the bullet is gonna land.

[He reaches out, metal hand cupping the kid's elbow to pull it up a hair, steadying him.]

Again.

[250mhzwabl]

[There's something just-barely off in the touch, enough that Jack's back to thinking about it, unconsciously comparing it to the warm palm still holding up where the curves of his spine meet, and he almost pulls the trigger with his eyes halfway to turning backwards.

Then he catches himself. Breathes, first.

_{(how many times did he tell you to take a deep breath and think)}

Aims, from the first point to the second.

_{(how many times did you come up with exactly what you needed)}

Fires, first shot wide almost to the edge - stays up, adjusts the fraction of a degree that geometrically translates to a foot inward - and a second later hits somewhere solidly in the ribs.]

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

[He has to lean in to get a better view of where the kid is sighting, to pick off where he's looking, where he's going wrong. There's a moment where he's quiet and still, trying to sort out what's still off aside from the kid's focus before his hands move- nudging the boy just a little. Warm pushes forward, pushes up, the stiff contours of his metal hand curl and adjust the line of his arm just so.]

Again. Three shots, aim for the sternum. Remember-

[It's more of a rumble of vibration, weary and weighted.]

Breathe, squeeze.

[250mhzwabl]

[He has a gravity to him, a pull, like a rhythm pulsing through heavy bass or the way the eye follows moving light, and Jack is drawn enough into following him that one more movement is a thoughtless thing, the work halved between both their hands with the thinking part of it taken almost entirely off of Jack's shoulders.

Three more shots, a steady cadence of them, before he can think about them or the breath moving slowly through his teeth can catch. And they cluster up in the centre, not perfect, but enough.]

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

Reload your clip.

[He moves away- not much, just enough for the kid to grab the clip on the table and go through the motions.]

Then empty it. Center mass, go for a headshot if you're feel'n lucky.

[250mhzwabl]

[Reloading, Jack can do. He actually does it well, quickly, with all the nimble dexterity one would hope for in someone who might be elbows-deep in wiring and circuits in the thick of it. Then he's back to form, re-aligning himself against the constancy of body heat and presence near enough to spark against his nerve endings, Provide context for the angle of his arms and the line of his back. The first shot is off-centre, but the cluster begins to tighten up after that, with the last few clipping a jaw and an ear before one lands soundly in cranium.

He's still a moment, breaths coming with shivery slowlness, before he lowers the barrle and gives a shaky, astounded laugh.]

. . . wow.

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

[Everyone hits their stride after awhile- and it looks like the kid's sorted out his own adjustments. he's got the rhythm, he's got the eye for it. His discomfit must come from something else, probably inexperience and a reluctance to do bodily harm.

Whiskey steps back, hands dropping away as he calls the target forward, eyeing the neat little cluster of holes in the torso.]

Now that.

[He flicks the pad with his metal fingers once it's in reach.]

Is one dead motherfucker.

[250mhzwabl]

[Laughing, Jack reaches out and traces the ragged edges of the punched-out areas that clustered neatest, rifle tucked securely under his arm.]

Hey now. I think he has enough problems without you making things all Oedipal for him.

[He looks back at last, realizing belatedly that they still haven't been introduced and offering his hand.]

I'm Jack Holden, by the way. Thanks.

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

[The amusement is short lived. He unclips the page and pulls up a fresh one, sending it back out while he rolls up the first successful terminated target of this kid's range time before handing it over.]

Try not to jog to the left and hit my target this time, kid.

[He's not big on handshakes just now, new sensors and adjustments but habit is habit and he stretches out his metallic hand to clasp Jack's.]

Whiskey.

[250mhzwabl]

[For a fraction of a second Jack begins to grin, the charmed, easygoing,, just a little offput grin of well that's different. What a suitably rugged nickname. Whis-

And then it hits him in one of those unfortunate suckerpunches of enlightenment. Whiskey. Callsign Whiskey. That Whiskey.]

. . . Whiskey.

[He has no idea what protocol is. Groveling? Is there a standard military grovel he needs higher clearance for?

Such answers being absent, he defaults into mostly being stunned, nodding and uncomfortably aware of the furtive glances burrowing into the back of his neck. God, is he ever going to hear about this one.]

Ah. Pleasure to meet you. I mean. Won't happen again. Right.

[oldfashionedfutureboy]

[And THERE it is. That look that's part horror, part awe, and part incredulity. It's a typical reaction- and the handful behind him that had come in late and weren't sure? Squeak. He thinks one wets himself a little, he doesn't bother to check. Consider'n he's the Callsign's medic he never really understands the intimidation.

Sure he's a gruff sunvabitch but, he.]

Remember. Keep it loose, keep your arms straight, aim, breathe, squeeze.