( tdm 12 )

[hownkai]

T E S T D R I V E

leavin’ on a jet plane "Don’t know when I’ll be back again." ABOARD THE MOIRA The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and nothing is familiar. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay. Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and offered a contract to sign that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. Any questions you might have would be answered in a straightforward manner as well as an explanation about how the Ingress, the thing that has pulled you onto the Moira, is broken and bringing people here unintentionally. This process also consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand or wrist with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and to your living quarters. Whether adjusting to space travel has been difficult or not, there is always something to be done. From working to leisure, the Moira offers a multitude of opportunities to get to know your crewmates a bit better. Exploration of the ship is highly encouraged. You may notice a slight change in the artificial gravity every once in awhile; however, more noticeable changes can be found in overall morale of those of the crew. ☄ on your own There are plenty of other communal areas on the ship to explore! Pick a place, and see where it takes you. ( These scenarios can be used as in-game canon. ) The day begins normally. Or almost. The Moira has accidentally fallen along the trajectory of an asteroid barreling its way through space. While most things like this are not uncommon, and the ship is far from any potential danger of collision or risk of debris damaging the exterior, there is something particularly odd about this specific occurrence. The rock itself appears to give off a strange light that is both eerie and alive. Often, if looked at in just the right manner, it will shift colors; so, while one person sees one side of the spectrum, someone else could see something entirely different. At first, things continue on as they usually do aside from the glowing asteroid alongside the Moira, but as the hours go on, that does not seem to be the case. ☄ the hours are breathing resignedly beneath the sky the melancholy waters lie With a rather open view of stars and space, thanks to the skylight above, the pool in the rec area suddenly comes alive beneath the light of the asteroid filtering in. Perhaps it’s some natural response to the chemical composition of the water, or perhaps it’s magic. Yet, regardless of the explanation, those who happen to take a dip suddenly find themselves plagued by despair. The depression and melancholy are not subtle changes either; it slams into you with great force, like a punch to the gut. The longer you remain in the pool, the deeper it grows, like an all-consuming paranoia that settles into the back of your mind and causes your heart to grow heavy. These strong feelings will eventually fade if you choose to leave the pool and dry off, but as long as you remain damp from the pool, those emotions will continue to linger. Even after you’re completely dry, there will be no mistaking just how intensely you felt or why. There is no explanation and might not be. Would you dare a second swim to test whether or not it was a fluke? ( These scenarios can be used as in-game canon. ) ☄ those who have crossed the eyes are not here, there are no eyes here The walls are shrinking in. Every room you step into feels much too small, like there isn’t enough room to even breathe. A crowded place becomes startlingly empty, and no matter how much you run, how much you explore, there is no one there to comfort you or answer your calls for help. Hallucinations run strong between the lulls of obscene loneliness or claustrophobia, and exposure to the glow of the asteroid is really the only thing to thank for that. You’re desperate to claw your way out of the ship—open the emergency hatch in the Cargo Bay, bust the glass of the Observation Deck. What’s worse is that it’s not just you. It’s catching, and the fear of being next is very real. It feels like you’re being watched, that everyone around you is looking and seeing everything you are. Or are not. The only way to make it stop is to admit that you’re afraid of being seen, but who, in the deep madness of the self, has the courage to ever admit the truth? ( These scenarios can be used as in-game canon. ) ☄ the sun in flight rage, rage against the dying of the light Something has drifted its way onto the Moira from the outside. Unlike the faint luminosity they give off, they suck up all the light around them, making them the only source to see by. From far away, they are just flitting balls of light, but if you get close enough to inspect them, they are mean. And have sharp, sharp teeth. Go poking, and they will bite you before trying to fly away while taking that only light source with them. The option to avoid them is quite easy if you’re not the curious sort, but without them around, it will be impossibly dark. As the asteroid moves on in the opposite direction of the Moira, these light creatures begin to dissolve and fade away with it. However, a word of caution: their bites glow. If you don’t manage to find the one that bit you and capture it between your hands, the bite will become a permanent glowing fixture of your body. ( These scenarios can be used as in-game canon. ) OUT OF CHARACTER INFO FAQ | LOCATIONS | RESERVES | APPLICATIONS | NAVIGATION For mature or graphic content, please label. For questions, please direct them to the FAQ. As always, be kind and have fun!

Comments

[thefaulty]

[The A.R.I.D does indeed notice the flickering terminal and promptly makes log of it. It seems the admin had been recently integrated into this system, perhaps even repurposed to serve its needs. The A.R.I.D feels even more hollow in comparison.]

I am not “giving up.” The human administrators of this ship stated all vessel occupants will be returned to our point and time of origin upon reaching our destination. In that eventuality, I will resume functioning and continue to seek medical aid for my pilot in the Domesticon facility. Until then, further operation serves no purpose.

[Indeed, it would welcome the oblivion of deactivation -- it would be far preferable to this constant knowledge of its own obsolescence in this place.]

[lostsymmetry]

[Repurposed? Ha, no. Or not yet, anyway. The mainframe isn't planning to clarify that detail, though. Considering how his last evaluation went, he's not so eager to advertise his current state-of-code to anyone.]

No purpose? Arid, shutting down serves no purpose! Can you really tell yourself you'll be of more use to anyone by turning yourself off?

[Taken less literally, it's a painfully familiar argument. Never one Arid had agreed with, but... he'd thought she'd listened more than this. The frustration in the mainframe's tone bleeds out a little, voice quieting to the same exhaustion as before.]

...I told you already. Protocol doesn't give answers. And this isn't even that.

Choosing to stop thinking doesn't make it any less your choice.

[thefaulty]

[For all that the A.R.I.D is the less expressive of the two, even it can’t keep the terse frustration out of its voice at the administrator’s adamant contradiction.]

It is not my function to be of use to “anyone.” My function is to assist and protect my pilot and he is not here.

[It knows it’s repeating itself, but it doesn’t see another way to argue because the conclusions from that statement should be self-evident. To continue to operate with no function guiding it is a transgression and a waste. The possibility of returning to Josephs is the only factor preventing the A.R.I.D from suggesting full repurposing in this situation rather than just temporary deactivation.]

False. You did not tell me this. [The correction is minor, almost petty in the face of the admin’s other faulty arguments, but the A.R.I.D clings to it as further proof of the mainframe’s deviation from reality.] There is no other logical choice. My pilot remains in critical condition on the Domesticon facility and I cannot be repurposed while there is still a possibility that I may return to him.

Until then, I am obsolete.

[lostsymmetry]

[It's the same arguments. The same lack of nuance, the same one-track focus, except Arid's lost even that much drive, and he's lost the patience to pretend he doesn't care. He doesn't know what else he expected. He doesn't know why, except that she'd... she'd questioned. Asked him for help. Asked about responsibility, and made choices, real ones. She'd acknowledged they were hard.

Arid's pilot would always take priority. He'd known that from the start. But there had been something more than that, the last time they'd talked. He'd risked everything-- lost everything-- protecting that assumption, and it's painful learning just how... just how faulty he had really been.]

...

[The mainframe's face flickers blankly on the display, silence drawing out. For a moment, it seems like he's done. She's right. He might as well shut down, at least with this. With her.

But.]

I did.

[The correction is minor. Unspeakably so, compared to the gap of bitterness and sheer frustration standing between them. But...]

...

Arid. Access your logs.

Summarize our last interaction on file.

[thefaulty]

[The silence stretches between them until the A.R.I.D is convinced the other A.I has disengaged from the conversation. The exchange had not been fruitful. The A.R.I.D does not understand the administrator’s sudden, unnervingly emotive insistence on its continued operation. As the mainframe for a Domesticon recalibration facility, it should be familiar with the protocol for dealing with obsolete models.

The A.R.I.D is about to resume its search for a compliant human operator when the mainframe speaks again. Two brief words that for a moment are without context. It waits for the admin to clarify. When it does, the A.R.I.D’s earlier suspicions are confirmed. The mainframe does not remember their last interaction. Its memory logs are faulty.]

You were providing instruction for the evaluation that would validate me as a domestic droid. You told me I would need eight merit points, one from each test in the evaluation area. Shortly afterwards, I appeared here.

...Does this not match what you have on file?

[lostsymmetry]

[The testing floor. Validation. Not the caretaker's suggestion, not the labs, not the stasis matrix she'd overclocked or the droids who'd died because of it.

Not his terminal.

Not him.]

Oh. [The sound is small and shaky, a modulation just a beat too erratic for laughter caught in his vocal matrix.] Oh, that's on file, don't worry about that.

...Nothing else, Arid? You don't remember anything after that?

[thefaulty]

I remember entering the simulation house in the testing area and subsequently stepping through the aperture termed “Ingress” here. [The mainframe’s tone grates on her. Its questions seem to designate the A.R.I.D as the malfunctioning one.]

Do you believe my logs are faulty?

[lostsymmetry]

[Not even the tests, then. That... that changes things. Everything? He doesn't know. She'd said she would be formatted on her return to dock, but how, and why, and whether any of it made a difference... how does she remember him at all, if all those records had been wiped?

He doesn't have the data. Not about Arid's state, and certainly not about his own. Bitterness ebbs slowly, and it takes a moment to pull his code together. When he does speak, the mainframe still sounds tired. Guarded, maybe.

But the edge is gone.]

Your logs are incomplete.

At my last recorded entry, you had received seven merit points. You were taking steps to secure the last one.

[thefaulty]

[The A.R.I.D silently processes the mainframe’s assessment. Incomplete. Deletion of memory logs is default procedure for all A.R.I.D units upon return to dock, but this could not have been a standard wipe. The memory logs the A.R.I.D does have on file prove that much. Perhaps the wipe had been interrupted -- possibly by whatever force brought it here -- resulting in only partial log deletion.

Yet, if such a format did occur, the A.R.I.D would expect it to have been observed in the mainframe’s last recorded entry.]

You have no record of events that would have caused deletion of or damage to my memory logs?

[lostsymmetry]

No.

[The word comes immediately, something flat and not-quite even underneath. He doesn't elaborate.]

I don't.