TEST DRIVE #2

[collectedmods]

TEST DRIVE #2

Hi shoppers! Welcome to the second Test Drive Meme for COLLECTED. A few things before we get started:

» This TDM is open to any players who are interested in applying. Collected is an invite-only game, meaning that invites come from being on the mod plurklists, but for this round, our TDM is open to anyone who has an interest. If you are interested in applying but do not have an invite, please PM our mod account (collectedmods) with a link to your toplevel on this TDM and we will extend an invitation to you! Please note that you can only reserve and apply if you have an invite.

» As was the case in the first TDM, TDM threads are not canon. Because of this, feel free to assume CR for the ease of threads.

» While we’ve listed out some prompts here, feel free to make up your own prompts using the setting, or use any of the prompts from our last TDM as well!

» If you have any questions about what you can and can’t do (or about anything else) reply to the QUESTIONS comment below, and we’ll get back to you soon.

Most importantly, have fun! And thank you so much for your interest in Collected! 🧡

PROMPTS

Have you ever been to a parking lot circus? Well, they exist, and you’re in luck - the circus has come to town! Or rather, it’s come to the mall. For a limited time, a big top has appeared in the dusty, desolate parking lot of the mall. You’ll find a big tunnel vacuum sealed to the front doors of the mall that allows access to and from the tent, so how much could it hurt to go inside?

The tunnel and tent seem to have been crafted with the same skill as the mall was - it somehow keeps the toxic air from outside out. The only difference between the mall and the tent is that the big top doesn’t do as good of a job of keeping the blistering heat out - it’ll protect you from burns, but it’s going to be pretty hot in there underneath the summer sun! Be sure to bring a cold drink on your way in.

Inside the tent, you won’t find any staff or performers, unfortunately. Everything inside the tent seems to be in mint condition, though, strangely enough, as though restored to its former glory - not unlike how some of the stores in the abandoned mall revert back to their pristine states sometimes. While there’s no performance to catch, there is plenty to look at and experience:

I.

Right after coming in through the fun tunnel, the first thing to your right is a collection of popcorn machines, the same kind you’d see at an amusement park where kernels must be poured in. You’ll find several unmarked bags of popcorn right near the machines, and they look decidedly not rotten, unlike most of the food in the mall.

Things are never that easy and simple here, though! Pop a bag of these bad boys and consume some of it and you’ll find yourself with one of the following afflictions:

A. Caramel corn flavor: Loss of sight. Hopefully you trust your companion enough not to attack or steal from you, because you’ll need to navigate to somewhere safe until this one wears off!
B. Extra butter flavor: Loss of hearing. No matter how hard you try, it seems you can’t hear anything around you anymore! Learn to communicate non-verbally with your companion, and quick!
C. Cheddar flavor: Literally just food poisoning. You won’t be feeling so hot!

The only saving grace of these cursed popcorn bags is that there’s an antidote to be found if you have a careful eye: an inscription on the popcorn machines appears once they’ve been warmed from use, and it says, in the case of illness, have a taste of each flavor to get back to square one! You’ll have to suffer a bit more to get back to normal quickly, but.. it’s better than waiting out the effects, right?

II.

While there are no performers to be seen, their costumes can be found in the wardrobes in the back of the circus. They are typical of what you’d expect of a circus: colorful, frilly, and easy to put on, given their stretch. There are even props and accessories lying around like clown noses, jewelry, hula hoops, juggling balls, the whole nine yards. Given the horrible state of all the clothes and other fun items inside the mall, it might be tempting to take some of these outfits and items to repurpose them for your own wardrobe and use.

But be careful: donning these clothes or taking these items will give you the abilities of that circus performer. Wear or pick up anything belonging to a:

A. Clown, and you’ll feel like you need to make your companion laugh. Whether that’s through corny jokes, physical comedy, or other means, you won’t be able to resist.
B. Trapeze artist, and you’ll be blessed with great flexibility, and feel utterly fearless. Maybe that translates into being unafraid to speak your mind, or maybe you’re feeling brave enough to walk the tightrope - either way, nothing’s scaring you anymore.
C. Animal tamer, and you’ll want to train your companion to do tricks and follow your will (and not in the fun way, unless you’re into that).

Costumes of all kinds are here, though, so feel free to find anything that might belong to a circus performer and have the costumes possess you!

III.

All good things must come to an end, sadly. Whatever material the tent and tunnel is made of is not completely as sturdy as what the mall is built of - and after a fun day of activities, the tent and tunnel will begin to deteriorate and be destroyed.

Due to the radioactive sun outside, the top of the tent and tunnel will start to burn and get holes in it eventually, which will let in toxic air and harmful rays - not only that, but fires will start catching inside the tent as well. You’ll need to high tail it out of the circus and head back to the safety of the mall unless you want to fry in the horrible conditions outside. Exposure to the sunlight from outside will give you painful burns and welts, and it’s near impossible to inhale the thick, poisonous air from outside without keeling over.

While you’ll be able to survive limited exposure, it’s not wise to get stuck out here. Besides, you’ll find that upon returning to the mall, your wounds will mysteriously begin to heal, slowly and painfully. So, run quickly, and make sure not to leave anyone behind!

NAVIGATION

Comments

[skeletonize]

( when pouring over the information that she had available (which she still does even here, with all of this new time), she considers all possibilities based on the fragments of the picture that she has. perhaps she has brushed against the truth of it a few times, but she had set it aside out of hand — she had placed her hope in the elegance of necromancy in action and that such a sacred and holy secret would not be so obvious and monstrous.

she makes another impatient gesture with her hands, and the two skeletal constructs turn and stalk away, taking up sentinel positions in the center of the two hallways which conjoined on their position. she takes another few steps closer, only a few feet away from her own lyctoral body now, and she stops when she hears the answer. tension arrests her expression, several lines standing out in her neck as she clenches her jaw. the sickly sort of betrayal she had presented dries up, grows brittle, and burns away in an instant; in its place is a pain far more novel, a treason far more close to her shriveled heart because it had been inflicted by the only person she had ever decided to trust, all secrets laid bare, fully and completely. )

You—

( her instinct — an old one, and one that she is only vaguely ashamed of — is to lash out in her pain, to skewer gideon with lances of barbed words, trying to dig out the regret or the guilt wherever it hid (or gouge out the shape of it, if it didn't). but she can't. not in this moment, not with the embarrassment of a lump in her throat she was having difficulty working around. her teeth grind, and her eyelids flutter for a moment before resolving into a harsh gaze under heavy, furrowed brows. when she responds, the word is thick and beleaguered, having been forced through the emotional wringer that is her state: ) What?

[goldenize]

[ there's a tone in harrow's voice that's far too familiar and far too painful to think about right now. of course she's angry. can't stand the idea of being anything less than purely self-sufficient, right? can't stand the idea of being bound to her. but she's got to focus, because right now- ]

I don't know what the fuck either of us did to get here. And I sure as shit don't know why you've forgotten a completely new set of things. But I'm about to tell you a lot of stuff that you don't want to hear. [ not probably. she knows it for a fact already. ] And I need you to promise you're not going to carve it out of your fucking brain the second I look the other way. Got it?

[ hastily, still with a bit of that earlier irritation- ] No getting Tridentarius to do it either. Still counts.

[skeletonize]

( yes, that was a part of it. to harrow, self-sufficiency was like a compulsion. she had learned to be reflexive with it since before she turned ten years old.

but that wasn't the only part of it, gideon, you impertinent canker, you vindictive swine-with-the-sunglasses-still-on. it's hard to imagine, sure, but perhaps harrow had cautiously come to terms with standing on equal ground with someone for once, even if the innate vulnerability of such a thing gave instinctual rise to the gall in the back of her throat. she's stood alone for so long. aiglamene and crux were aides to her, certainly, but she had treated them as accessories more than appendages — using strings of duty and service she had puppeted their living bodies just as she had necromantically puppeted her parents' deceased ones. canaan house had been a long and difficult lesson of learning to let go of her need to accomplish everything herself, assisted only in the ways that she allowed, and to reach out to someone else.

and so you would take it upon yourself to dash all of that, to throw yourself willingly upon the pyre of the two-hundred-plus souls that comprised harrowhark nonagesimus, even when those were already quite heavy enough? you short-sighted, obstinate ass.

she is roughly four and a half seconds away from absolutely Losing Her Shit, but she waits for her cavalier to speak, for some reason.

it's far too specific to be a hypothetical. she doesn't have the exact idea of what she's getting at, but it's enough of it silhouette for her to have a vague approximation. it also gives her an idea of the answer for her next question, posed in a mad rush like air escaping from a valve when the pressure had become just too much: ) Which Tridentarius?

( but of course it would be ianthe, wouldn't it? to repurpose a previous metaphor, those two were the hands of a sleight-of-hand magician — everyone watched the beautiful, room-arresting coronabeth (including you, gideon, because of course harrow had noticed that), but harrow had watched her wan, slump-shouldered shadow. and she had watched her scurry through the darkened veins and arteries of canaan house like a rat in its warren, scraping together scraps of information where others carelessly left them.

there is a devastating moment of silence where she wrangled internally with it all, in still mentally processing the whole of it but also being forced into a position to reply with clarity at the same time. so she says something, and it takes the shape of something she would only share with gideon nav: an admission of personal fault, even if it was wrapped in her customary biting, haughty tones: ) You know I am no good with meat, tissue, or offal. And I am not so fast to lobotomize myself. ( she is shamed to know she would stoop so low as to ianthe tridentarius for help in something like that, but — she is aware of her limitations she takes a short, shaky breath, holds it for a moment, and then releases it in the words, ) Go ahead. Speak.

[goldenize]

Ianthe. One of three Lyctors still alive.

[ and there's the first truth: three lyctors in all the empire's reach. three lyctors over the vast, dead emptiness of space. that one's for free. she waits for harrow to agree, and even if she'd really rather hold out for the words "i promise" the fact that harrow's even speaking is basically as good.

she straightens her back - tall, at attention, the sword gripped naturally in her hand even as its weight lugs it down to the floor. gideon nav shines through harrow's vestments. ]

It's been nine months since Canaan House. About twenty-four hours since you fucked off to who knows where, leaving me with- [ she reaches up to rap one bony knuckle against an upper bicep. ] these. Thanks for that, by the way. I thought you'd at least do push-ups or something.

[ her hand drops back down to her side. judging by the tightly pursed lips on harrow's double, the tension to her shoulders... she's not joking around right now. ]

Which leaves an hour at most since the assassination attempt on the Emperor. And that's not even getting into the planet revenants! A lot of shit has gone down in, let me be frank, the most fucked-up, awful, very bad day of my fucking life. And now, here you are, missing even more memories.

[ her hands grip into tight fists around the sword. she speaks, angry and still growing accustomed to a body and brain that aren't her own- ]

If you did this, I'm going to kick your bony ass. And if someone else did this to you, I swear to you, I'm going to make them regret every second left of their existence.

[skeletonize]

( in order to try to understand and not merely comprehend what was being said, harrow stops thinking. it's not a simple or easy task — she has to almost cauterize the part of her mind that is constantly sifting sense from nonsense in what is already a brain of dubious status. she tears away her many layers of mistrust and paranoia and attempts to accept each word at face value.

so: ianthe tridentarius is a lyctor. as is herself, as it would seem. and — one other? had the Emperor's Hands dwindled so much? no, she can't think about that right now. she blinks slowly, realizing that gideon is waiting for her affirmation; she exhales in a hasty rush. )

Yes, yes — I promise I will refrain from operating upon the grey matter of my brain.

( which, in her impatience, seems normal enough to promise, but... well, she hasn't heard the whole story yet.

even racing as quickly as she can alongside the facts that are laid out, she begins to lag behind considerably. that there are apparently nine months separate between themselves (at the very least — she would have no way of knowing how many days, weeks, or months existed between the point of her being pulled into this place and when she had achieved lyctorhood) was relatively easy, despite the daunting implication. but it's around the time the "assassination attempt on the Emperor" and "planet revenants" are mentioned that harrow's brain almost stops working entirely, choked on morsels of information that it simply could not swallow as-is. she wants to incise into those now, but nav is still talking, and she forces herself to be patient. she regrets it, but she decides to set those sacrilegious mysteries aside for now, addressing the slanderous elephant in the hallway. )

I can assure you, Griddle, my mental facilities are just as they ever were. ( an observant listener would notice that she didn't actually claim there were cohesive or coherent — harrow is aware of her own questionable sanity, but she knows she isn't missing nine months of memories, and she is certainly no lyctor. ) Clearly, something else is at play. From my perspective, I had not yet left Canaan House, and we had also not yet discovered the truth of the Lyctoral formula. I went directly from the Ninth quarters, ( here she raises one finger and points to a nondescript point in the air in front of her, drawing it in a straight line to a similarly nondescript point, ) to here.

( i'm not saying there's time shenanigans afoot, but... there's time shenanigans afoot. )

[goldenize]

[ harrow's promise is- unexpected, but not unwelcome. definitely not unwelcome. if nothing else, she can point to this moment and grind her necromancer's face into it every time it comes up from here on out. and maybe it's that small amelioration that makes her willing to take harrow at her word. not blindly, of course. but-

this isn't what harrowhark nonagesimus looks like when she's hiding something in silence. this is a harrow who's evaluated the evidence and found it didn't apply. ]

Alright. [ hearing an agreement from harrow's lips, even when she's the one forming the words, feels sacrilegious. like a blessed sister is about to rap her knuckles with a ruler made of bone. ] So you came here straight from Canaan House, and I came here from across the galaxy. So you're saying... what, time travel? Is that even a thing?

[ a beat. and then, in a flat tone that just might still carry a bit of the actual worry behind it: ]

Tell me that's not a thing.

[skeletonize]

( if anything, the promise is hubris. she's thinking that whatever it is, she can force herself to handle it.

but perhaps the reason why she feels emboldened to do something like that is because, regardless of what happened and for what purpose, gideon is standing before her — the core of her being is currently not being burned for all eternity in a lyctoral crucible. of course, the issue of her being in harrow's body is another existential nightmare, but knowing that she hasn't been utterly consumed takes some of the edge off of the overwhelming guilt and despair.

up until this point, harrow had been keeping the analytical portion of her brain pinned down by force, but her grasp over that had only ever been finite. now she turns and begins to pace, one hand at her chin, mentally observing the issue from all angles. ) Don't be absurd. This isn't one of your science-fiction rags. ( actually, given the full picture of everything that was going on, it really could be, but... no, harrowhark was not going to accept something like that. it was simply too pedestrian; a warped misunderstanding of what seems to be at play here. she is certainly no metaphysicist, but she has an idea that seems to make more sense. )

Imagine, instead, that during our time at Canaan House, a copy of myself was created, split away from the First, and brought here. Entirely unwitting of what had occurred, the original Harrowhark continues on throughout — everything you have described — to the point the same happened for you on, what was it you said, the "most fucked-up, awful, very bad day of your fucking life"? ( at this point she stops, turning over one shoulder to look with faint discomfort at her shades-wearing body double. ) This is, of course, all conjecture. I have been here roughly a month, by my estimate, and we still do not have an answer as to how we were brought here, or for what purpose. It doesn't matter. What matters is: we are both here by means through which we can assume what we know and remember has not been tampered with by an external source.

( a beat, and then: )

Who the fuck was stupid enough to try to assassinate God?

[goldenize]

Two lyctors. Dulcinea Septimus, by which I mean the corpse of the lyctor pretending to be her, again. And, uh. My mom.

[ it sounds like it could be the punchline to some terrible cosmic joke. it is absolutely not delivered like one. if anything, it sounds mostly like gideon would rather fucking die than elaborate right now. which is probably why she rotates straight back into harrow's explanation of- ]

Got it. So just stele-free travel and perfect, living clones, nothing stupid like time travel. That's reassuring. [ but she's not actually trying to argue with harrow right now, and she's more than happy to nod as the explanation finishes sinking in. ] Hey, works for me. We can worry about the how later, right? Right now, we're both stuck here. That's what matters.

[ whoa, hey. that sounded... kind of reassuring? don't get her wrong, nonagesimus. that was absolutely not intended to be reassuring. any tones of gratefulness for be able to see harrowhark nonagesimus again are entirely imagined.

god, she's so close she could reach out and touch her. she very nearly does. ]

[skeletonize]

...Oh. ( what? the fuck? ) A revenant? ( she can't think of any other explanation; she has seen gideon's mother's bones herself, interred in one of innumerable drearburh burial niches. God, but that she had been dead before harrow had even been born. what kind of revenant...

there is so much to break apart and break down in those few sentences that for a full ten seconds, harrow completely whites out, reverting to crass, base instincts. ) I see. Well, that must have been quite an Oedipal conundrum for you, then.

( AND THE FUCKED UP THING IS THAT SHE JUST MEANS HER ASSUMPTION THAT HER MOTHER (A REVENANT) WAS POSSESSING THE BODY OF A WOMAN SHE KNEW GIDEON TO HAVE FANCIED (who was not dulcinea septimus?? a lyctor?!), AND DOESN'T EVEN INFRINGE UPON WHAT SHE DOES NOT KNOW, WHICH IS THAT THE TARGET OF SAID ASSASSINATION WOULD BE HER FATHER—

regardless, as calmly as she had said it, harrow is convinced that within the next ten seconds, she will have her own lifeblood leaking from her ears, soon leading to death by catastrophic brain hemorrhaging. her promise to gideon would mean nothing if her brain gave up on its own. )

You know nothing you've said makes any sense.

( she lifts both hands to knead at her temples. two lyctors (and the corpse of a third), attempting to kill God? that's impossible. his Fingers and Gestures were not and should not be capable (and perhaps that was why it had only been an attempt). she is still attempting to stymie a skull-cracking headache, eyes squeezed shut, when she continues in an exhausted tone, ) It's merely the explanation that best suits the facts at hand.

( she lowers her hands, and her eyes open. she looks to the air above them, as if everything gideon had said had manifested there, monolithic, like a colossal fuck-off rosetta stone which she would have to spend the next few hours — days — weeks? — transcribing information to divine understanding and meaning from. but if she began doing that now, she would be useless (or possibly soon dead). so she forces herself to turn away from it, for now, and she instead turns to gideon. she is silent for a moment here, the blockage of her throat returning; she is disgustingly close to becoming sentimental. but this is harrowhark nonagesimus we are talking about, and no manner of emotionally-fraught pool-bound confessions would make that mutable. )

In any case. Though you arrive late, and in an incredibly inopportune state, ( which, looking at her now, is threatening to make her complete her long, slow journey to "stark raving mad" with record speed, merely considering the implications, ) it's — good, that you're finally here.

( a necromancer without her cavalier is a sorry thing. )

[goldenize]

Ayup. [ and then, at the oedipal commentary- ] -okay, point taken, but go easy on me? One: she was really hot, and two: she wasn't my mom at the time. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to think about hot girls again without remembering them taking off God's shirt, so really, I'm the victim here.

[ but they can't stay on oedipus and unfortunate connotations about her father forever. more to the point, she'd really rather get off (heh) the topic entirely. so when harrow succinctly summarizes her day from hell by telling her it's complete nonsense, all gideon can do is shrug her bony-ass shoulders. ]

You're the one with the head for formulas. I'm just reporting in.

[ it sounds insane to her too. but harrow hasn't accused her of lying - she's said it's the best explanation they have. which sounds suspiciously close to her necromancer trusting her, just like what comes next sounds suspiciously close to her necromancer being grateful for her presence. she's sorely tempted to tease, to be an utter shit in harrow's moment of weakness.

instead, her hand twitches, as if it intends to reach for harrow of its own accord, and gideon mumbles- ]

Yeah. It's... been a while, hasn't it.

[ nine months of watching harrow in silence, like trying to struggle to the top of a lake in a dream. nine months of gasping sights and sounds and memories where she can find it, in tiny gaps in harrow's brain-based defenses. and now, even with the shittiest circumstances imaginable, harrow is here, speaking to her - being glad for her presence.

her bastard, traitor hand raises, just a little - fingers extending harrow's way from a short distance - and drops. instead, she takes a step back and executes a deep bow, a fairly decent mockery of the kind of the thing drilled into cavaliers from birth. ]

Lady Nonagesimus, [ and there's the shit-eating grin, ] your cavalier, Gideon Nav, will stand at your-

[ that's about as far as she gets before she just passes the fuck out, straight onto her face. the sword in her hands, whether by cosmic mercy or by loaded instinct, is pushed to the side; this close, it should be clear that the blood at her ears is sudden and new. ]

[skeletonize]

( harrow is in the process of rolling her eyes at her cavalier's feeble, sapphic excuses, but by the time she finishes her point, her gaze flicks back to rivet on her. her eyes fly wide with shock, and though it's virtually impossible to see under a thick layer of alabaster and charcoal, the color drains from her face in a dizzying moment of horror and fury. of course from her own perspective, she has never met God, but even in his many attempts at fostered familiarity, harrow had ever maintained her fervent zeal for their Resurrector.

so the thought of God becoming intimate with those, his Hands and Gestures, she —

might have honestly preferred passing out herself in this moment, or screeching shrilly for her to be more mindful of her sacrilegious comments, but instead she pinches at her nasal bridge, squeezing her eyes shut again. ) Griddle, if you insist on any further pulverizing blows to my psyche, you will only have yourself to blame for any injury to my brain.

( she could accuse of her of lying, certainly. at this moment, she is enshrouding her thoughts in a delicate, gauzy veil of suspension of disbelief, though one where she also quarantines any disrupting thoughts (such as the fact that God, apparently, Fucks) before she loses all coherence. as boorish and unbearable as gideon can be, she has to believe that she would have no reason to lie to her — not unless she has found one in the nine plus months temporal disparity between them, but if that's the case, it is a bridge that will be burned when it is gotten to.

and as for being grateful that she's there, well... appreciate it while it lasts, because it certainly won't (not without caveats, anyway).

harrow wouldn't have been able to pay witness to the aborted gesture, still having her eyes closed as she forcibly shoves everything she has seen and been told in the last five minutes through mental compression. she opens them when she senses the far more impactful movement of gideon stepping back and dropping into a bow — though the image of such a thing being wrought out of her own flesh and bones was an appalling one to her. where it seemed apt for other cavaliers, proper chivalry is woeful and ill-befitting of gideon nav, all because she knows that to be the case and milks it for all it's worth. lady nonagesimus, eugh... she would almost prefer the "tenebrous overlord" nonsense —

but then she collapses face-forward onto the cracked linoleum, causing a small sound of alarm to catch in harrow's throat before she lurches forward, ) —Nav?! ( for the moment forgetting the two burly skeletons that stand guard at both entry points to the area. for a split second she hesitates in reaching out to touch her — her own body, though otherwise spiritually occupied. the situation is awkward as all hell even without a vague worry that the universe might peel away at the seams and crumple inwards if she reached out to touch her, but she does it anyway, at the very least endeavoring to roll her onto her side so she can get a clear look at the tell-tale crimson ribbon of blood flowing from her ear. though momentarily unconscious, she is stable and as far as harrow can tell, there is no cranial injury; therefore she is abjectly useless in anything but trying to narrow down what the hell is happening. the hemorrhaging again? it happened again earlier, also — when she had called her by name...

at the dawn of a more complete understanding of what she had meant, harrow raises the trailing end of one of her sleeves to dab the blood away, murmuring under her breath, ) So, this is what I had done to myself. But, why... ( she trails off, turning it over in her mind. there are the obvious, mortifying, sentimental reasons, to be certain, but... surely there was more to it. does it have to do with the soul...? )