obsidianooc | test drive;

Entry tags:

test drive

test drive;

The game cap is 30 players. We currently have 22 players in game.

TDM Guidelines

1. We strongly encourage you to post to the AU Workshop before posting here, just to get your concept out there. Feel free to link to your workshop post in your tag for easy lookup purposes.

2. Threads can be game canon if both players agree to it.

3. No one is late! Consider this a permanent test drive (until captcha is hit, if that happens). We'll be tracking top-levels and drawing attention to new posts.

4. You don't have to use any of the prompts below; feel free to create your own!

5. Don't worry about cell block assignments for the purpose of the TDMm if you haven't chosen one - feel free to keep it vague or retcon the threads a bit later.

Prompt 1: Common Room

The common room has books, magazines, newspapers, cards, and board games. The television has been out of commission for a while, but oh! Look! It seems like a new TV has been mounted on the wall! And this one's a 32 inch flat screen, a nice substitute for the old broken tube TV someone broke over a Monopoly dispute turned violent.

If you decide to watch the TV, the screen cuts to static a few minutes after you start watching and a strange voice starts to speak. It's a soft voice, but with the occasional distortion as if spoken by a person standing too close too a microphone.

"Hello there! You must be [CHARACTER NAME]. I think it's about time you got to know somebody a little bit better. Why don't you..."

(Choose one of the following options:)

"Tell someone something you don't want them to know. It doesn't have to be terribly juicy, as long as you'd prefer not to have told them."

"Give one of your fellow inmates a nice hard slap across the cheek."

"Be nice. Ask somebody if there's anything you can do for them. Anything at all."

"Find someone with a snack, and take it away from them."

"Go up to someone you don't know, and ask them what they did."

"If you decide to ignore me, or you tell anyone you're not acting of your own free will, the guard beside the magazine stand will send you strait to the SHU for two weeks.. Your choice."

No one else in the common room seems to hear the voice except you - although the aforementioned guard sure seems to be staring you down. The other people watching TV continue to react to the show that was playing.

Prompt 2: Lockdown

Uh-oh. Something bad must have happened, because the entire prison has been put into lockdown without bothering to herd everyone back to their proper blocks. You've been herded into a cell with someone from ANY block, and who knows when you'll be let out.

You have a set of bunk beds, a table and chair, a toilet and sink, and two shelves where the inmates who actually reside in that cell have put anything that belongs to them.

Now's a good time to get to know your new temporary cellmate. Or pray that you're on good terms, if you already know them.

Prompt 3: The Yard

It's recreation time! Your daily opportunity for a couple hours of fresh air, if you choose to take it (or if the indoor guards are sick of you and decide you're going outside whether you like it or not). The guards here are primarily concerned with preventing your escape, so if you're not lingering around the fences you'll be watched less than if you were inside.

If you're new, weak, or don't have a solid group of allies yet, that also means it's less likely that anyone will help you if someone else decides to pick a fight. Be careful.

The outdoor guards to a careful, meticulous sweep of the entire area every night, trying to keep...something out. It seems they were slacking off a bit yesterday: the tiniest sliver of obsidian rock has made its way into the yard undetected and - ow - you've brushed up against it, embedding it somewhere on your body.

The shard has imbued you with one of the following effects:

The next person who makes eye contact with you can read your thoughts, and you can read theirs. Careful, it might get hard to tell who's who after a while.

You suddenly feel frightened and timid, as if everyone in the yard is bigger, stronger, and out to hurt you.

You are overcome with the urge to dig into the ground with your bare hands, looking for more of the rocks.

The next person you see fills you with rage, and you want to attack them.

You become exceptionally suggestible, and will do whatever you're told.

You feel a strange euphoria: regardless of how you felt before, the prison now feels like the very best place to be, as if you're at the center of the universe.

Regardless of the effect, the shard will slowly start to burn hotter and hotter, compelling you to remove it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'll be sure to keep that in mind, ma'am.

[ It would do him no good in not extending her a bit of courtesy in her own home. Ms. Mead taught him a great many things about the world, one of them being that a bit of gratitude and politeness goes a long way.

At the very least, he needs to figure out her trade secrets, Michael knows he looks a damn mess and it's so unfortunate. He smiles and stands so he can greet her properly, holding out his hand. ]

My name is Michael Langdon.

[ She takes his hand and gives it a good, firm shake, like she's cementing a deal instead of meeting a prison newbie. No one messes with a woman who feels powerful, she's learned, and a solid handshake is the best way to express it in a friendly manner. Well, that and appearances, of course. ]

I'm the Countess. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

[ There is no explanation of her name, and when she takes her hand back, she finishes uncurling her hair before she climbs down from the top bunk. She moves the cans to the second shelf, which she does not appear to plan on sharing any time soon, then hands him a hairbrush. Let it never be said she moves slow. ]

You have such beautiful hair, and those terrible combs you get during intake only make it a rat's nest.

[ If it felt like he was making a deal with the devil, he wouldn't be any the wiser. So shrouded in darkness, it only feels like a connection bigger and bolder than he is. Knows someone powerful when he sees them, and she's such an enigma and her presence is almost electric. She has the look of a woman that would tear him to pieces if only given half an inclination. ]

The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure.

[ Michael takes the brush in hand reverently, casting a glance at her. He's more grateful than he's been in a while as he takes it through his hair starting with his split ends and working his way up.

He gives her a wry smile as he works. ]

At least I'll be more presentable for my present company.

[ She likewise could feel darkness in him, though she is as inclined as ever to run full speed into it, constantly seeking the dark to drown in it. Michael will be happy here, she can tell. Well, as happy as possible in prison. He'll find all kinds of darkness waiting to make friends. ]

Please, I wouldn't ever ask. I only think it's barbaric, what they provide to us, worse than what you'd give animals in a barn. Anything worth having, you'll have to buy at commissary.

[ Exhaling a lungful of smoke, she sits at the table and watches him with a benevolent-feeling gaze. ]

Do you have someone sending you money? From the outside?

The whole system is archaic and an excuse to punish your fellow man for your own superiority complex.

[ People have been and will continue to be fucking terrible. Once he's done, Michael slides the brush toward her and attempts to push it into some sort of order. He still feels quite exposed, but it's one more layer of his previous veneer that he's got back. ]

Thank you, Countess. Your generosity is appreciated. [ He frowns at the question, shrugging a shoulder. ]

I don't know.

What else can you expect from a country that once outlawed alcohol based on a book? They'll never understand people like us.

[ And she can feel in her heart that they are alike, they're the same kind of rotten inside. The same way she sensed it in her first husband, the same way she's always found that abyss. But Michael is young and green, something made ever more apparent in his reaction. ]

That won't do. You need money. But until then, anything you need, I'll make sure you have.

[ Prison doesn't give without taking too, though, even if the Countess is possibly the most actually altruistic of the evil weirdoes around here. She is, after all, the same woman who rescues children and helps people transform themselves. Her kindness is genuine, but not without strings. ]

It's not that they lack the ability, they lack the compassion to think about a complete stranger.

[ She has a wisdom that feels old. Older than she looks, anyway. An 'old soul' is what his grandmother would have called it. Michael nods, ready to accept whatever comes with her offer. ]

I don't need much. Though I wouldn't mind learning some of your secrets.

[ He's already in prison for the rest of his life, there's little he could do to extend his stay. Owing her a favor or two doesn't seem so terrible in the grand scheme of things. ]

You say that as if we ourselves are overflowing with compassion.

[ And maybe Michael has fooled himself into belief, but the Countess bears no delusion: those who kill (and eat) others do not have true compassion. They can say otherwise, they can save children and animals, but there is a hole in them where the humanity has failed to crystalize.

She smiles, reaches across the table and strokes his cheek. While she may have gone broke in the sense of "own and operate a hotel rich", she has more than enough money left to fund a life imprisonment, ensuring that she'll always be able to make phone calls and buy honey buns. He'll want for nothing. ]

Like what? I have a lot of secrets.

Ah, but most of them don't deserve my compassion. People can be surprising, but it's not often that they are.

[ It's possible that he could have had it if the world had been at all different to him. Instead, it is saved, cultivated like something precious and reserved for those he deems worthy. There is a detachment to the rest of the world. It's difficult for him to see the beauty in all things when all he sees is the darkness that lingers.

How he wishes to be a part of it.

Michael doesn't shy away from her touch, watching as her hand draws near and against his face. He hums at her question. ]

It doesn't escape my notice that you manage to look impeccable given your current living situation.

[ He doesn't want to just look 'good', he wants to look vaguely threatening and otherworldly. ]

And who are you to show them compassion?

[ It's not said to needle -- in fact, the tone is guiding more than anything, like she's expecting him to fill in a blank that he should know. She is no stranger to men with delusions of grandeur, men who claim to kill God, men who lead cults, men who spin webs for others to fall into before they reach their deaths. Anything less than that power now bores her, and her attention is rarely spent anywhere that she can't see it.

But Michael makes her laugh and she rises gracefully to return the hairbrush to its shelf, comes back with a handful of honestly strange tools, compared to the ask. Colored pencils, a lighter, a regular paintbrush from a set of watercolors. She adds a cup of water and then drags her chair closer to him. ]

Hardly what I thought you'd ask, but I'm happy to share all the same. [ She flicks the lighter to life and begins the process of apparently burning the tip from a black colored pencil. ] Any preferences?

[ If God were really there, Michael would have a few choice words for him. 'Fuck you', mostly. ]

Compassion is saved for the only family I've ever found who loved me back. I help everyone else see the truth. God is dead and chaos reigns supreme.

[ He doesn't move from his seat, but his eyes follow her every move. His expression morphs into confusion at her collection of items but doesn't ask questions. Clearly she knows what she's doing. ]

I'm aware of my vanity, but I can't find it in me to change. [ He absolutely doesn't want to. ]

Red.

[ God is dead, ugh. Hasn't she more than lived through her share of this nonsense? I must kill God, I am God, God is dead. She could happily live another hundred years without hearing anything else in same vein. Chaos, she can enjoy, but she's so tired of the rest of it.

Nose wrinkling delicately with distaste, she wets the paintbrush, then gently collects color in the dampness, flicking the excess onto a paper towel before she leans in to draw a thin line at the corner of his eye. Red he shall have, but black first, to make that pretty blue pop brighter. ]

The only reason to change is if you see a problem or want a different outcome. I personally think vanity is a boon. You have no idea how far ahead in life you can get just by looking good.

[ She rinses the paintbrush and lights up the red colored pencil next. ]

[ It's easier to cling to a belief when there is a central focus. He'd stopped believing when he was younger and the only real mother in his life had been a part of something bigger. A sadistic family that he even managed to have feelings for.

Michael watches what she does with rapt attention. Her maneuvers go to show that she has this down to an art. ]

People are more apt to believe someone who carries themself with confidence. The looks to go with it are just the nail in the coffin.

How did you learn your technique? Was it passed to you, or did you learn from trial and error?

[ All she believes in is immortality, and she's got that. The longer she lives, the less she can trust and truly love -- she has become inclined to think her heart has shrunk and hardened. Soon it will be nothing at all, no room for anyone save her own child, who she will never see again.

Maybe that's why she collects the youngest inmates and mothers them, provides for and advises them. It's filling that void. ]

Do it right and you wind up owning a hotel.

[ The corner of her mouth quirks up as she begins to paint red around his eyes, occasionally brushing her thumb over his eyelid to blend the color out. ]

Oh, I've learned to make do with what I can get. Years and years ago, I was penniless. I moved from my family's home to Hollywood all by myself, and even though I was getting paid peanuts, I still had to be presentable and go to parties. Then there were the years of rations... Anyway, you just need to know the tricks. Colored pencils, red ink in lip balm, what tools to sub in. Most people just don't put in the effort.

[ He hums in amusement. ]

I'm not nearly that ambitious.

[ Michael never had dreams of a material nature. There were the comforts he would certainly, and selfishly, miss. His Louboutins, for one. His ambitions have been devoted to the greater picture since his adoption into the fold of the Church of Satan. There's so much he never experienced or even accomplished, so hearing all that the Countess has done is enthralling.

To think that she rose to such great heights after being at the bottom is outstanding. Some things don't really add up, though. Rations? That was.. well. ]

So the rumors are true, then.

Ambitious implies that I meant to own the hotel. No, the Cortez is just my happy accident.

[ She'd never been out for the hotel, it's true, but when her husband died, she couldn't bear to sell it or leave it. She held onto it as long as she could, but now it was technically part of her... other husband's estate, running itself rather nicely even if she technically wasn't supposed to profit from it anymore. It was her castle, and she feels barren without it. Bereft.

Her lips quirk, and she arches an eyebrow while she keeps painting him. ]

Which ones? People talk so much.

What was your favorite part about it?

[ He hums in thought. He's heard quite a few, and after talking to her, he's willing to believe that all of them hold at least a modicum of truth. ]

They do little else. The one that interested me the most is your age. I know it's rude to ask a lady about it, but I'm less concerned about that and more concerned about the how.

[ If she's over a century old and she's this hot, he needs to know her skin care regiment. ]

My favorite thing? It's hard to say. It is my home, after all. But my late husband truly had a gifted mind for architecture.

[ He hadn't had much else that interested her, but he'd been brilliant in his own evil ways. She would never have married just any rich man -- no, her husband did have some terribly special sparks to him. The penchant for architecture and design was just the most socially acceptable.

Making a soft noise, she sits back, admiring her handiwork. Michael's eyes are so lovely. Reaching into her pocket, she hands him a compact mirror; it's more akin to a child's toy, made of plastic and not glass, but it serves its purpose. ]

I'm afraid I don't have much of an explanation. It just works, as long as I maintain certain behaviors.

[ He takes the mirror when it's offered to him, tilting it to one side so he can see her work properly. The smile he offers her is radiant and full of gratitude. It's amazing how much better he feels as a person, having just one bit of himself back. Closing the compact, he offers it out to her. ]

You do beautiful work, thank you. [ His expression turns inquisitive. ]

Which measures would those be? Unless it's a trade secret. I know I've already asked so much of you.

You're sweet, and very welcome. People should look like their inner selves. It's part of their humiliation tactics, keeping us from feeling pride in our appearance.

[ She gives a small chuckle and waves a hand, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. They're supposed to smoke in designated areas, but if they're going to lock her in, they'll have to deal with it. She inhales and then breathes out smoke. ]

Sometimes it's worth taking a chance on things that seem crazy. The things you only find at the end of your rope. You never know what will work.

[ It's been decades and she still remembers ever word, every minor movement involved in the ritual, but it's not something she thinks should be shared lightly. But her advice is solid; when she was desperate and determined, she'd followed instructions in a book, even though it sounded crazy. And now she's still here, fueled by the blood of others still. ]

And indulge in what you love.

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