TEST DRIVE :003

[onemind]

TEST DRIVE :003

     WELCOME to the test drive and thank you for your interest in Station 72! To allow players to experiment with game mechanics, flexibility and to account for the fact that our TDMs tend to span a number of months to make up for our low player turnover, we've put together a game-themes random scenario generator for you to play with. Mix and match prompts at will, pick your own broodmates, experiment with abilities and specializations, talk to each other and maybe make up some pre-established CR, and generally play around however you like.

This test drive is not game canon, so take this chance to go nuts! Current in game players are also welcome to make top levels here and aren't beholden to their in-game characterizations (so if it makes more sense to be a broodmates of a character test driving, feel free to do so for the sake of these threads).

For the full experience, we strongly encourage players to write up a short blurb about what their fellow characters might know about them either through shared time on the Station or through the Nest mental link. Handy links can be found at the bottom of this entry if you have any questions and APPLICATIONS are always open if you decide you'd like to jump into the game proper. If you're having trouble coming up with a symbiote ability for your character for use in either the TDM or for your application, we have an ability workshop post located HERE.

(Mix and match these prompts at will to create your own TDM scenario - there's no obligation to use something from every category. Feel free to make up anything that isn't covered in the prompt if it lends to your playing.)

     THE PLACE

1. STATION 72 consists of massive, alien sprawl. While large sections of the Station might be mistaken for a Station manufactured for use by humanoid beings - the hangar is relatively standard other than its massive size, the Life Support deck with its series of living quarters seems normal enough (if you ignore the part where none of the rooms have doors on them), and there's even a Jai Alai court -, beyond the most well trod paths the Station quickly cedes to the utterly bizarre. Corridors twist and loop back in on themselves, great verandas overlook massive empty rooms, ramps because stairs which lead to dead ends. It's easy to get lost if you don't have a destination in mind. Strangely enough, if you do know where you want to be, the Station's twisting paths will eventually get you there as long as you keep your goal firmly in mind. Knowing that is another thing entirely.

2. THE MELTED WORLD was once beautiful. Then again, maybe it's always been a toughened old rock, but at some point the planet called Ojan was glassed in the throes of a brutal war. The planet's entire surface has become a twisted, mirror-like substance by whatever super hot biological weapon was poured into it. The material isn't actually that horrible, consuming black; it perfectly reflects the empty, quiet space that surrounds Ojan: a foreboding testament to a war long forgotten. But what lies below the surface of the desolated world?

3. THE SCEPTRE is a fabulous building structure suspended from an asteroid in orbit around a planet. The Sceptre pierces down through the atmosphere of the planet below and over the course of the asteroid's orbit, The Sceptre has an opportunity to pass through every habitat and climate the world below it has to offer. The Sceptre is sleek and beautiful (or it is? Maybe it's fallen into disrepair and only ghosts remain) and its massive windows look out onto a varied, verdant world (or do they? What state is the planet below in, exactly? Has it been so thoroughly paved over that the atmosphere is the only place left to build?).

4. PENTARA PRIME is the ancient, meandering capital of the lush garden world of Pentara. Unlike most cities, it is a large, verdant sprawl, made up eighteen clustered centers - groups of low, elegant stone buildings, strung together by winding roads populated with quietly humming pods moving people from spoke to spoke. The capital is built around leisure, not production and there are far more gardens and orchards than there are buildings. The sun is heavy and low, and the air is still and buzzes with the sounds of fat-bodied insects. It’s so still, so calm. It seems empty and there is something unsettling in the quiet. --Or is it? Maybe it's bustling with energy, just as vibrant and delightful as it seems on the surface.

5. CHORIUS is not quite a planet. Not anymore. Once long ago it was, but over time it has changed - been stripped clean of every valuable mineral, every scrap of rare metal, and eventually even of atmosphere. The core has cooled perceptibly and now even its rotation period has slowed dramatically. Now it is a made up of shaped carbon and steel that bridge over the stripped surface of the planet, pulsing with energies, shielded from the harshness of the sun by a webbed dome that keeps the electric scented air from escaping into the space around it. Here nothing is wasted. Everything - everyone - is recycled and reconstituted into new forms. Every one of the cities changes daily, reformatted to meet new goals and new needs. It is a dead world filled with the living. But whether it is thriving or dying is hard to say - and what the newest change will bring with it is even more difficult to guess.

6. SPACE, THE FINAL FRONTIER. There's a lot of it in every direction.

     THE PEOPLE

1. THE OUTLANDERS consist of small bands of settlers and explorers who have quested out into the unknown, the remote, and the dessicated parts of this galaxy looking for either new opportunities or forgotten mysteries. They are mostly upright though only vaguely humanoid, remnants of a civilization driven from their own failing world, each group is bound only by their own codes and personal laws. They're traders and nomads, largely peaceful but wary of the harsh, dangerous environment and beings they've crossed paths with. Don't cross a deal with an Outlander - they'll make you regret it.

2. A VERITABLE MELTING POT, the beings of this metropolis are as vibrant and diverse as is imaginable. These are a people developed by a myriad of cultural influences, technological insights, overlapping interests and clashing societal norms shaken up and spit out into something that more or less works as long as there's a whole lot of bureaucracy to keep it in order. And boy is there a lot of that. Mind your p's and q's - someone might haul you in for questioning if you cause too much of an uproar.

3. A RUINED GHOST is all that remains of this ancient civilization. Once there were people here leading brilliant or lives, or quiet ones, but all that's left are their ruined structures, old half-functional consoles and signs of lives abruptly arrested. What destroyed these people is initially unclear, but their extinction appears to have been absolute. --Or was it?

4. THE COURT is elegant and beautiful and perfect. Every being is shrouded in delicate, gauzy fabrics layered so densely as to obscure their elongated squirming bodies from head to toe. Each step sounds like a bell ringing from the the small metal plates at the bottom of their soft slippers; every gloved finger glints with small golden threads. The queens sweep through their secret insect gardens and their royal technomancers walk the halls with the glitter of hologlyphs sparkling at their fingertips and in the wake of their sweeping robes.

5. THE GREAT MILITARY is larger even than it’s name suggests. Every member of their civilization plays some part in it, every person has a rank, every family an insignia. The structure is rigid and inflexible and all-encompassing, and it has made them into ferocious enemies. They have been at war for as long as they have been a people, and their battle will never end, because if it did, they would go with it. The harshness of their life is painted on the sharp planes of their grey faces, but there is an indomitability and a pride to them that is hidden by their stern, unchanging expressions.

6. SCUM ALWAYS LIVES at the edge of the universe. Beware the dark of the space and the seedier underbelly of cities or the shadows of forgotten planet - pirates make their living there and these are desperate times, friend.

     THE OBJECTIVE

1. GET UP from where you've fallen. Or get up from the nesting deck pod where you've just woken up on the Station. Or get up to Level 672 where there's a ship waiting for you. Or get up from the knee you've taken before this alien queen. Get up.

2. THE RESCUE might be saving a city from a disaster engineered by an enemy force, playing bodyguard for a government official, or liberating a rare artifact from a crumbling structure.

3. IT'S A RACE AGAINST TIME to collect the relic you've been sent to retrieve from the collapsing ruin. Or to make your way free of the military blockade. Or to make your escape from a crumbling world.

4. THE MASQUERADE is all a cover - for an assassination. For a heist. For a political coup.

5. INFILTRATE you know what you need. And you know who has it. With a little help you’ll be able to break into the place no one is supposed to go. You could sneak in… or smash in. Or maybe just talk your way past every little problem.

6. COME ON AND SLAM and welcome to the jam. It’s a ritual or maybe it’s just a pastime, but whichever it is there are rules and there is a goal. There’s probably even points. If you’re lucky, you just might score one. Avoid the spiky pits? Or maybe the thrown fruit. Or perhaps just the other team...

6. EXPLORE and uncover the secrets this place have to offer. There’s a mystery here if you know where to find it. And all you have to do is look.

7. DON'T DIE is easy to say and hard to do when you're under the guns of an armada. Or when you're trying to outwit spies. Or when the ground is literally crumbling under your feet.


     INSPIRATION

NAVIGATION • PREMISE • FAQ • RULES • GLOSSARY • APPLICATIONS • SYMBIOTIC SKILLS • ABILITY POINTS

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[theycalledmeacurse]

He's like a puzzle waiting to be sorted out and put together, this nestmate she knows and yet really doesn't. One of those mystery puzzles, with only vague details provided but the image within yet to be discovered. Rogue's always enjoyed a good puzzle, lord knows she's certainly had that in her friendships with Logan and Erik over the years.

Turning to look out into the distance as if she might actually be able to see evidence of the phenomenon, she's quiet as she tries to listen. Tries, but doesn't hear anything. Perhaps the moment isn't right. "I hope I get to hear it before we leave here. Something beautiful coming from something dangerous is a thing I'd like to experience."

It's a description that fits her as well, at least she'd like to think it does. She's a walking weapon, a danger to everyone outside the Nest, and she's lived her life trying to prove that she is more than her mutation. Kindness, generosity, compassion - all elements of her personality that she's struggled to hold on to since the war on her Earth began... Some days are easier than others.

[modality]

Maybe it's the valiant effort at small talk, or maybe it's the low buzz of the cigarette trickling across the link — whatever the cause, it's easy to relax while he listens, anxiety going quiet as he risks a glance back towards her.

"Give the lady a prize. What gave it away?"

The question's rhetorical. David knows how he reads: a little naive, out of touch, too soft. Which is all fine and true, so it's not like he's going to take offense at an accurate guess. He wonders, absently, if his sister would've even let him live in a huge city — he got into enough trouble in the suburbs. The infinite resources of New York City would've made for a (worse) train wreck.

"You think this is some kind of prison?"

David latches onto the passing commentary with genuine curiosity, his own thoughts turning back — back to different repetitive hallways, shoving through the same door two, three, four times, the sense of a coffin walling him in and black, black, black. Nothing else. If he'd managed to break out of that prison, maybe this one's just round two.

[interlinked]

"Yeah. Me too." Snatched up on a sudden memory, he looks up to some of the irregular shapes in the distance. "Usually it's the other way around."

He'd come close to making that happen back in his own time. Made the decision to try, anyway, before their unnamed enemy came calling and shoved him out of the picture and into the arms of a stranger who took him away. If she's listening for more than the music, Rogue may glimpse a concrete floor at eye level, one body being stuffed into a vehicle by another. A great sea-swell of grief rises up from underneath, but at a distance, like watching the waves from above—maybe something she and K share. Then comes the echo of a voice sounding merry and cruel, perhaps recognized as their nestmate Luv, too faint to be a current transmission: Bad dog.

"You don't smoke, do you?" K looks back to her over his shoulder, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. He could probably find out without asking, but...

[theycalledmeacurse]

Those glimpses of what lies beneath the surface of her companion... They make her heart ache, these pieces painful enough on their own, how much worse would it be if she knew the whole story. There's a hesitation in her then, for she's debating whether to reach out to him about what she's overheard, but then--

The question shakes her in a way nothing else in their conversation has. It's like an earthquake in her mind, rattling loose some of the walls in her fortress-like mind, and a few impressions slip out into view. A sense of amusement at a gruff man surrounded by the scent of cigars, and frustration at another man swathed in leather, cigarettes, and confidence. People she's lost, people she misses. They're elusive like shadows, there and then gone, and she settles again like curtains in a breeze.

"Not usually, but I used to sometimes." It's nice that he asked, and she wonders at it with a tilt of her head.

[modality]

"Thanks."

David manages to make it sound wry and genuinely grateful at the same time. He didn't really need permission, but the empathy's appreciated — or what he's guessing is empathy, anyway. Maybe it's just laziness. He could reach out and confirm it, test the waters of their connection, but the thought alone already feels invasive.

His attention's elsewhere, anyway. Straightforward memories of the MRI machine swept up in something close, off-set by a fraction; two lenses, the words interlinked and cells. Not his. His curiosity's clear along the link and in the slight narrowing of his eyes, though the question that follows is an attempt at small talk. Definitely not prying.

"Did you ever do this kind of thing at home?" He doesn't mean staring at screens on an alien planet — though these days, that's probably as plausible as anything else. "You know, research."

[interlinked]

Hell. Isn't small talk supposed to keep that stuff packed down where it belongs? Isn't that what it's for? Kicking up more sediment is the opposite of what he's tried to do with these changes in direction, but it's backfiring real nicely so far.

K inhales deeply, as though it'll move the cigar smoke—a scent he wasn't expecting, a scent that isn't even there—and lifts a hand in brief discomfort to rub his palm over his mouth and his stubbly chin, pinches briefly at his nostrils on the exhale under pretense of an itch. Another puff of breath though his nose, then, like the ghost of a laugh.

"Not really what I was after, but thanks anyway."

[deskjob]

[ that's odd. that's very, very odd. fortunately, odd is something that is very much not odd at all to myfanwy because ever since she opened her eyes and made the choice not to run, she's been surrounded by the odd.

so she closes her eyes, not sure whether that's necessary or even helpful but finding that it comes instinctively, and thinks back. ]

( Hello. )

[deskjob]

[ myfanwy doesn't glance down at her shoes, mostly because she knows they're hidden by the length of her dress, but also because she doesn't need to look down to remember just how high they are. (even with the heels, she's still small. it's ridiculous, frankly, but then, this is the body she's inherited and there's really nothing to be done about it. at any rate, it's quite capable a body, so that's nice.) ]

( You're right. I don't think I could run in these. At least not very fast. )

[ for a moment, myfanwy lets herself miss ingrid, her more-than-capable secretary who'd taken, unasked, to carrying trainers in her purse for myfanwy. ]

( I'm Myfanwy. ) [ she pronounces it in a way that rhymes with tiffany. a moment later, she thinks about whether she should have given an alias, and then remembers that they're linked telepathically. with a mental shrug, she adds: ] ( Rook Myfanwy Thomas. ) [ rook being not a name but a position. a title, if you will. ]

[nastygram]

"Got you off my fucking back?"

Maybe she should feel some guilt for just reaching in and screwing with someone else's head--or, if not guilt, at least like she's done something seriously wrong. Maybe she will later. Right now, there is other shit to think about, like the hiss of dust blown forward across the toes of her boots, and the rumbling of collapsing stone.

Darlene doesn't need further prompting. She takes Luv's shove as momentum, starts back on her path toward the way out--at a run again, as another gust of dust whomphs up from behind them, belched out by falling rock.

"If you tackle me or some shit I'll do worse!" Can she do worse? It's not clear. The concept of abilities is so very comic book, and so is shouting threats over your shoulder in a collapsing building, to a woman who just had you slammed up against the wall, a woman whose brain feels like a sterilized spring-loaded animal trap.

Darlene shoulders her way through the cracked-open doors. Dust is sifting out onto the cracked pavement, breathed out from the crash of the cave-in. Chest tight, she takes a few steps back away from the door, looking for Luv, half-hoping she'll have tripped and will be buried by rock. But she can feel her still, that clean crackle like protective cellophane packing, the kind that ink cartridges come in. She's there. And Darlene still has the book.

[memita]

Darlene moves, and there's a beat, maybe two, in which the distance between them spreads out like a shivering pool in a sliver of sunlight, as Luv's mind skip- skip- skips over new discrepancies. Dust rushes forth to overtake her. Seconds tick by.

Then a black glove claws its way from the opening, and the rest of her comes barreling out after, coated monochrome with earth, just before the tomb gives up the ghost in one last dusty gasp.

Luv pushes herself to her feet again. Her mind still simmers with rage, but trust sticks to her like crude oil, weighing her down even after the bulk of it has slid off. In lieu of Darlene's face, the stone doorway cracks beneath her clutched fist.

"You piddling little ant. That isn't for you." The book. The trust. "Do you think one book will convince them you aren't a fantastic waste of the gifts they've granted you?"

The symbiote, after all, is a privilege.

[modality]

[ Something's different. He's had voices in his head, and he's even had conversations with another telepath in his head, but this time it feels like there are very solid strings attached.

Emotional strings. There's a distinct sense of another presence that goes with her voice, like her thoughts and emotions are carving out their own space in his head. ]

( Are you a telepath? )

[ Totally logical question, all things considered. ]

[deskjob]

( No. )

[ that question, at leat, is easily answered. she can do a great many things, but reading someone's mind or pushing thoughts like this is not amongst her abilities. ]

( Are you? ) [ fair's fair. ]

[memita]

[ His apology is met with little visible reaction, an extra beat's mild stare at most, but beneath the surface there's a sense of satisfaction that he recognizes his error. He'll get a sense of the size of it soon enough, and while it might be too much to say that thought pleases her, it is something to look forward to, at least.

(Warrior pools in her mind, not as a battlefield, but as a dance of golden light across stone floors, a word gifted upon a dropped gaze and recieved with reverence.)

Here in the physical world, her eyes track his to the spectators. They remind her of new clients at product inspection, eager to see what tricks their latest purchase can perform. (Incredibly life-like, would come the praise. Remarkably human responses -- you'd almost forget.) A demonstration, then. That's a mental model she can fit herself into more easily. She nods. ]

It is compelling to have one's expectations exceeded.

[ Regret, after all, isn't much entertainment in itself, although she doesn't mind the idea of inspiring it. They'll do both, is the conclusion she seems to come to. ]

I'll take the larger one, [ with a nod to one of their two frankly massive opponents, like she's choosing between coffee or tea. ] For the spectacle.

kate fuller | from dusk till dawn

[forgive]

( ooc: playing around with the idea that kate is an iota type with soul/life-energy absorption - with manipulation/reverse part of that not being capable until higher ranks, so sticking with just a little leeching. she's not good with being selfish, so hoorah! :<)

INFILTRATE / CHORIUS

[ Distract, break in, grab and go. It shouldn't be that hard. How many times had she followed the exact same formula? And how many plans did she have to improvise when a lock was jammed or extra security showed up? Well, that was Mexico and this is alien. Literally.

This place — Chorius they called it — to the eye is a garbage heap but inside is where the real treasure can be found. Hidden beneath all of its shapes and steel is a piece of important technology. A key to unlock the secrets this planet holds. What it will actually do once they retrieve it, she isn't sure, but that's how most of these things go. Though she was reassured no damage would be done, she still had her concerns. 

More concerning is that the city before her now is laid out completely different than what they'd been briefed on. They did more than change a building or two; the city completely restructured itself. She peers through a smeared recycled window, out into the patchwork landscape. This was not going to be as easy peasy as she thought. ]

This was not part of the plan...

GET UP / A RUINED GHOST

[ There’s nothing to explore here, nothing but rumble and ruins. Like walking through a graveyard, impossibly quiet and still. Whatever (whoever) had been here was wiped out completely and abruptly. But there had to be more to the story, otherwise they wouldn’t be here, if not for a good reason.

Maybe to find life was the reason. For Kate, the feeling it stirred in her, knowing life was ripped away so suddenly, was a haunting one. Like a memory she was forced to confront, manifesting physically. She found herself hoping, needing, to save anyone who might have survived or been left behind.

As she steps out one of the crumbling buildings, a blurred figure passes by. Maybe it was an actual person, or maybe it was only a figment.

Either way, in her haze, and suddenly startled, she jumps back and stumbles over a piece of fallen debris. She falls to the ground hard on her tailbone and then back, dirt and dust rising up around her. Groaning, she rolls over to her hands and knees, face to face with the remnants of destruction and death beneath her. Flashes of red, blood, mocking laughter enter her mind — frozen by a demon she still can’t escape. ]

( Get up. It wasn’t you. )

[ The words are repeated, not realizing who she might be projecting onto nearby. ]

WILDCARD

[ Have a starter idea for Kate? Hit me with any scenario! ]

don't mind me i'm just gonna make you keep tagging this

[nastygram]

"It sure as hell isn't New York. Not that I'm hot for the trash heap but at least there were escape routes."

Theoretically. Maybe it's the maze that he's inadvertently projecting back at her, translated into Darlene's demons: Dark Army. The FBI. Cisco's computer, with the picture of her, asleep. Elliot sitting on the other side of the narrow metal table. Black, black, black.

Darlene rubs the heel of her hand against her forehead like she can scrub it all out. She keeps her cigarette pinched between her fingers, angled carefully away to avoid singeing her hair. A real expert move.

"You know I can pretty much pick up what you're thinking, right."

[modality]

[ Yeah, okay. Fair enough. His hesitation's more of a 'huh' than anything wary. ]

( Yes. )

[ He doesn't know what the rules are. He does know that most people aren't great at projecting their thoughts into other people's heads, though. ]

( But to be completely fair, I don't think we'd be having this conversation if you weren't at least a little telepathic. )

[nastygram]

It's like fucking Shark Week, the camera poised over flat glass ocean for breathless seconds, before a shark bursts out, shatters it all at once. Darlene was waiting for it. She's only half startled.

She still takes another step back, her heart knocking hard against her ribs. All determination, even now--or perhaps, especially now--she digs down deep to be mad instead.

"I don't need to convince anyone of dick. I'm not some subservient thirst-machine looking for asspats." It implies a juxtaposition: I'm not, ergo, you are. "But if I was--"

She holds up the book. Proof. She's got it, Luv does not, and the other side of the doorpost chooses this moment to crack. This time it's not Luv that's doing it. The building behind her is still collapsing, folding in on itself.

"Now help me get out of here."

sighs long-sufferingly

[modality]

David catches himself watching her a little too late — eyes narrowed, bemused, trying to figure out the playback of memories that feel distinctly hers instead of his. They aren't sharp. It's like watching a projection in a bright room, washed out, but it's hard to mistake completely alien images when they turn up in your head.

He snaps out of it when she rubs at her forehead, shifting his attention back towards the soft light of the balcony. Her words aren't met with a jolt of unease or surprise or offense. They're met with a wobbly sense of guilt, the conviction that he's apologetic even as he's struggling to figure out which part he's apologetic for.

"Sorry."

The reply feels lame for a few reasons, least of which being how lukewarm it is in the face of what should be some earth-shattering revelation. "Someone told me it's like turning down the volume on a stereo. You just have to picture yourself—" He gestures vaguely as he turns back to face her, drawing a small circle in the air near his temple. "You know. Turning the dial."

[deskjob]

( I'm not the least bit telepathic. ) [ there have been tests. on the old myfanwy thomas rather than the one that woke up later, this her, but — while her powers have grown stronger since because she's not terrified of using them, telepathy is firmly not on the list of things she's capable of.

which means - ] ( I think it's something about this place. )

[ that, and her willingness to accept the strange at face value, these days. ]

[detestable]

Plans don't mean shit around here.

[ Here is a general thing, loosely accusatory. It's not the planet; it's the collection of people and the missions in general. They're always scrambling. And they set out to scramble, as far as Seth can tell. It's a shitty outfit. They hadn't really needed a whole planet to get in on the act, but the show has to go on.

Kate isn't the only one thinking of Mexico. Seth's irritation is set against a backdrop of indistinct heat and dust-clogged roads. ]

Still, we get in, grab the shit, and then we get out. Easy.

[ Seth's promised easy before. It's as unlikely now as it has been every other time. ]

leo fitz | aos

[technologist]

( OOC: Fitz has a Hydra AU timeline crammed into his head, meaning lots of conflicting thoughts and information. He also suffered brain damage that he's adapted to externally, but it'll show in the way he strings thoughts together — lots of word association, tangents and consciously picking through language before he gets to the final product. )

ONE

So much for the Prime Directive.

[ The mission itself was bad enough: stealing an important relic that may or may not be a powerful weapon, because that's obviously not an overrused trope. Bringing down an entire underground temple in the process hadn't been on the official statement, but they're already well on their way to that one.

It takes a few cool seconds for the dust to settle in the wake of the corridor's collapse. Fitz dusts off his sleeve as he straightens up, then gives the flashlight in his hand a few taps with his palm as it starts to flicker. A few rapid-fire flashes of light and a few near-inaudible electric pops, then it blinks out. The darkness is as solid as it is abrupt.

There's a mild stirring of discomfort in the mental link, long-suffering. ]

What'd you say your ability was?

[ Please be a human flashlight. ]

TWO

[ There's something very rote about copying files onto a hard drive while someone watches the door. Fitz has done it a billion times, and that experience translates to a sort of calm, steady focus as he watches the screen and waits for it to finish, the edges of his cool only slightly ruffled by the fact that he's maybe half sure what he's looking at. Completion bars aren't multiversal concepts, apparently. ]

What's the— [ He speaks out of habit, stops, switches over. There's a delay in the process that feels like a hard wall, opaque silence followed by a less certain voice. ]

( What's the time? )

[ The ten minute count had started as soon as they'd rigged the door to open. The high-tech lock pick is still attached to the panel, red lights ticking down, a bit too far for him to make out clearly. ]

THREE

[ Wildcard stuff on the station, mental link, whatever! ]

one

[memita]

I can help you focus.

[ ...is one way of putting it. That's how Luv thinks of it, though. Helping. She's designed to be helpful. She smooths the dust from her ponytail with a thwip in the dark. ]

The next doorway is three steps forward and one to your left. [ A flash of memory, clean and crisp as a photograph, accompanies the direction, though pushing it through their mental link isn't nearly so clear cut a process. The result is fleeting and distorted, but, well. She's trying. ] I was also built with more precise spatial awareness than a human being, [ she adds like an apology. So sorry for being inherently superior to you in every way. ]

May I ask what the Prime Directive is, please?

[technologist]

Like guided meditation? [ Is the first thing he says, a little too dubious to be 100% kidding. Fitz looks to his left at her instructions as if he'll be able to see anything other than pitch black, lifting his free hand to tentatively feel for the rough stone wall.

The word built registers like a whip crack across the link. Fitz' focus slams into a wall, splinters, then plummets into the kind of calm that feels more like cold water than comfort. Too deliberate, too cautious. He'd very much like his flashlight back. ]

It prohibits interfering with a planet's development. [ He says, and he thinks: AIDA, artificial, Ophelia. There's a vivid memory of a woman's face crackling into flames from the inside out; the same face, vibrant and alive and leaning in, the press of soft lips. ] Or cultural development. Or— [ A vague gesture with the dead flashlight in the dark, as if to say all of this. ] Culturally significant ruins, just as a completely hypothetical example.

[memita]

[ The memory hits and rebounds -- Do you enjoy your work, officer? -- stirring up a cloud of ambiguous emotional debris Luv pushes down again without comment, without more than a held breath of wonder that synthetic life could provoke such a strong emotional response from a nonsynthetic life form. It's-- curious. But her own curiosity isn't what's important right now. ]

Like-- [ Us, is the neatest analogy; it takes a beat for her to seize on an example relevant to a more primitive culture. ] Blinders on a horse.

[ When there were still real horses.

She steps ahead of him, smooth and sure despite the fact that even exquisite short-term recall does nothing to enlighten her to the shape of rooms she's never seen. There isn't time to dawdle, and there is less here that can damage her as can damage him. ]

What is the purpose of prohibiting this type of interference? [ The humanity she knows had no such rules. ]

[technologist]

[ The analogy rubs him wrong, though not enough for genuine offense. It's a compound effect — the sudden awareness that she's synthetic, the image of a domesticated animal, of constricted senses. You can't control everyone. The Framework had been the ultimate blinder, really.

Fitz can't help the small flinch when he feels her move past him in the dark. Synthetic means strong, generally; but he has no reason not to trust her. He focuses on the sound of her footsteps and follows, hand still braced against the wall, his footing far less certain. ]

The purpose is that it's none of our business. [ The explanation falls flat. He tries to content himself with it, fails, then reluctantly tries stumbling through a better one without letting his own guilt derail it. ] We can't just play god with other people's lives.

[ "People" is a loose term, obviously. Followed by the image of blueprints, of a synthetic skull opened up. Of bodies strapped down to tables, not synthetic at all — bleeding, charred, screaming. He's one to talk about not playing god. ]