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thetube2016-02-27 09:49 pm
undergroundmods) wrote in thetube2016-02-27 09:49 pm
Entry tags:
Test Drive Meme: Feb/March 2016
Welcome to the Underground test drive meme! This is where you can try out the AU version of your character, start some potential CR and get a feel for the world of the game. Choose your character's species, read up on the available factions and you're ready to go. Put your character's name in your subject line when you post, tag out, and have fun!
Note to current players: Activity in this meme counts as game canon! So you can use it for activity check. If you end up playing anything that you can't or don't want to use as game canon, it's fine to ignore it. (In that case you shouldn't submit it for activity check.)
Here are some prompts to inspire you:
1) COMMON PEOPLE. What do normal Londoners do every day anyway? Sometimes you just want to blend in with everyone else. Make friends with humans. Talk about the weather. Go on, try it.
2) PENTHOUSE SUITE. But wait. Maybe you want to see how the other half live. The elite of the elite. You've been lucky enough to be asked to a meeting, or a luncheon, or a date. Find out what the most powerful people in London are really like.
3) GET OUT YOU FILTH. Supernatural prejudice is a regrettable fact of life in London. It doesn't matter what you are, there's someone out there who hates you because of it. They'll shun you, heckle you, even hunt you down and kill you. Of course, you're probably not immune to a few prejudices yourself.
4) SPEED DATING. Oh god. Why did you sign up to this. You should have known it was a bad idea when someone mentioned it was supernatural speed dating. Help.
5) THE REAL UNDERGROUND. Down in the darkest corners of the Tube, there are supernatural vagrants of all kinds, especially vampires. That friendly busker may well be a fae. That girl waiting for the next train is a ghost. Once you've seen it, you can't escape from it.
6) IN THE SUPERMARKET. On the other hand, you never know what you might find just walking around your local supermarket. You haven't forgotten how to do normal things like groceries, right?
7) A CURSED EXISTENCE. Maybe you literally are cursed. Maybe you just feel like it sometimes. There are things you can't do, weaknesses that normal humans aren't subject to, but they make everyday life in London that little bit more difficult. Try not to get too mad about it.
8) CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE. Anything goes.
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He could run. That's definitely what the part of him stiffening up his muscles until they ache wants to do. But despite the fearsome display, the--hunter/monster/VAMPIRE/threat/dangerous--man isn't attacking him. In fact, Sherlock looks almost embarrassed about losing control of himself for a moment. He staggers back from John with a resigned expression and a softer rebuke than was probably warranted.
John takes a couple deep breaths now that he's assured himself that he can breathe, and straightens his shoulders. He's faced scarier things than a twitchy creature of the night (no wonder the guy was dressed like an over-dramatic public school toff!) and a patient was a patient. He should have asked first before touching. Panic over possible intestines is no excuse.]
Sorry. I wasn't thinking.
[He gives the wound another critical look, keeping his hands well back this time.]
So that's why you aren't bleeding as much as you should be. But you still don't look well. Why haven't you healed yet if you're a...a...
[Saying 'vampire' out loud seems ridiculous.]
...resilient?
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Sherlock watches his body language physically change from frightened to soldier and he's reminded, quite forcibly, why he finds this man so interesting. To push your own instincts aside is no mean feat - Sherlock's been working on it for the last few centuries, and he still slips up from time to time (as recently witnessed).
That's about the most refreshing reaction he's ever had after revealing himself as a vampire. Doctor John Watson just gets curiouser and curiouser the more Sherlock tries to work him out.
Subconsciously, Sherlock mirrors John's breathing - he's not actively aware he's doing it, not at the moment - it's a self soothing motion, a leftover habit from when he was human and the action of physically breathing oxygen in was always soothing for obvious reasons. Sometimes he wonders what happens to the parts of his body that he no longer needs or uses. His lungs still work, but they're decorative - his heart doesn't pump blood around his body, because his body is dead. What keeps him from rotting, really? What keeps his brain working when there's no blood to keep it fresh? He is an anomaly, supernatural, beyond the principals of science and physics and the laws of the universe.
What makes him so special, really? For all intents and purposes, Sherlock should be dead, and yet he continues to live. His mind continues to fire synapses, his nerves continue to transmit pain and pleasure alike and he knows that going down this path of self analysis will only leave him with more questions than answers, but he can't help but be insatiably curious about everything.
He hums thoughtfully with the apology; if apologies are expected, then he should probably be the one to give them.
He doesn't apologise, though. What's the use? It's happened. No sense crying over spilt blood. ]
Have you dealt with any of the 'resilient' before?
[ If John wants to skirt around calling him a vampire out in the open, he won't be the one to challenge it. That doesn't mean he's not infinitely amused over the continued choice of word. ]
I lost a lot of blood; it needs replacing.
[ Which is perhaps the gentlest way in which he could have alluded to the act of hunting whilst in the presence of what is essentially his prey. Strange, the hoops you have to jump through in order to keep those lower on the food chain than yourself placated. ]
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You're the first I've met personally. I've...heard rumors though.
[And seen a few injuries at the clinic that matched well with certain descriptions.]
Nothing specific. [Nothing you'd need to get rid of me for.] Just, you know. Things go bump in the night. Resilient things.
[It takes him a second, but he does get the implication behind the vague allusion. And why it was, exactly, that Sherlock had 'vamped out' on him a few seconds. Not pain or anger at John's presumptuous at all; he was hungry.]
Oh. Well...
[If they were in sight of a hospital John would already be ordering up a pint for transfusion, he supposes. This isn't much different. Right?]
How much would you need? To uh, heal up, I mean.
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[ Vampires are very good at hiding when they want to be. John's probably met quite a few, he just... wouldn't necessarily know. Although, if they knew what John was, he might find it daunting to go wandering the streets of London at night.
Luckily, there aren't too many vampires out there that are as old as he is - and the ones that are... well, they tend to have their own inner circles to contend with.
The vagueness of John's response has him frowning, but Sherlock doesn't push it. ]
Two and a half pints, at a rough guess.
[ Although it's not an exact science - however much he lost plus a pint and a bit to facilitate the healing process. He's been pushing himself too far, been starving himself for too long - it's why he's so weak and it's why his body's not healing as efficiently as it could be. ]
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Could you make do with just two pints?
[They're still in the middle of the street after all. Two pints should be enough to at least get them moving at a quicker pace.]
A little is better than nothing at all, isn't it?
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It's a lot to ask of a stranger, especially one that's never even seen one of his own kind before.
He licks his lips, gaze shifting away from John and onto the street they've found themselves on. There's no denying that it would mean they could get out of here that much quicker, but can he really trust himself to stop after two pints? It's Sherlock's turn to bite his lip as he considers his options.
He doesn't really have much of a choice, does he? Unless he picks someone nearby, but he tends to go for people that are committed to a life of crime as opposed to innocent bystanders. ]
Theoretically, yes.
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Wouldn't be so bad, says a part of John that he's been trying furiously to ignore since he got back from Afghanistan. He's no coward and living after the war doesn't frighten him. It just bores him. And whatever else this Sherlock Holmes is, he's not boring.
Definitely not boring.]
All right, then.
[He nods, coming to a decision and rolling up the sleeve of his coat and jumper until his forearm is bared to the moonlight.]</small] So long as you stop after two pints. I'd like to be able to stagger home as much as you after this.
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The idea of hunting is laughable at best - he's barely capable of holding himself upright let alone the idea of overpowering someone. He's also noticed that people tend to get a little uncomfortable when approached with blood-soaked clothing (as Sherlock knows to his cost), so his options are quickly evaporating one by one.
His experimentalism with starvation has taught him a few vital things: the first being that the longer you wait between meals, the harder the blood lust is to control. Dimly, he's aware he hasn't had blood for well over a week, and there's always a chance his instincts aren't feeling especially co-operative. As John pulls his sleeves up and exposes his arm, Sherlock can't quite force himself to look away; somehow his pulse seems so much louder now that Sherlock can actually see his wrist and it's getting difficult to tune his pulse out now that he's being offered his blood so willingly.
After a minute or so of carefully scrutinising John's every move, Sherlock takes a calculated step forwards, the end result being that Sherlock's much closer than strictly necessary. Somewhere in his over-active mind, he notes that there's definitely some fear lurking beneath that military exterior but there's more anticipation and that's odd, isn't it? It's definitely odd. Why is that odd?
He wants to chase that thought, wants to discover where it leads but the promise of blood is slowly cancelling out the more logical facets to his mind; he's so close he can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. ]
... Could be dangerous.
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The steak knife is who knows where, but John's got his gun handy and he figures that will do enough to buy him some space if Sherlock decides to get greedy.
He doesn't feel safe as much as he feels prepared. Ready. The same feeling he used to get when starting out on patrol through the dusty streets of Kandahar. Whatever happens, John decides he can handle it.]
More dangerous than waiting around here for someone else to come along who wouldn't mind offering you a snack?
[He snorts derisively and lifts his chin.] 'Cause that's likely to happen. And don't even try suggesting that I ditch you here and just go home. I don't abandon my patients.
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The steak knife has since somehow found itself in an evidence bag, away from prying eyes within one of his many coat pockets. Thankfully Sherlock is far too invested in picking off stray prints from it to ever use it as a weapon, so John can rest safe in the knowledge that if he does end up dying tonight, it won't be via steak knife.
Of course, that was never really the worry, was it? ]
To be determined.
[ Which is perhaps not as helpful as being actively encouraging, but Sherlock has never been one to say things simply because it's what should be said.
John remains as stubborn as ever, and far be it for Sherlock to attempt to sway this doctor away from doing what he apparently assumes is his duty; it'd be counter-productive to engage in an argument, especially when he's invested in this particular outcome. At some point self-preservation has to kick in, and Sherlock certainly isn't immune to the basic fundamentals of continued survival.
Sherlock scoffs with the mention of patient, though. Surely patients are generally alive as opposed to definitely dead. One would hope, at least. ]
How very noble of you.
[ Not that Sherlock's complaining.
The ability to be chivalrous has long since left him; he reaches out and takes the offered forearm carefully, frowning as his pulse practically courses through him. ]
I'll try to pay attention to how much I'm taking, but you'll need to be aware too.
[ Because sometimes it's not as easy as just stopping. Is a safe word necessary? Probably. ]
If you tell me to stop, I'll stop.
[ For his own benefit as much as John's - personal reassurance, the sentence repeated in his head on the off chance it might condition him into listening.
You can never be too careful. ]
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Not noble, just not a giant dickhead leaving you stabbed in the street. Any decent doctor would do the same.
[All the little hairs lining his arm lift up as soon as Sherlock takes hold of it, and he can feel the prickling crawl of his skin that means goosebumps are forming. An automatic response to being "caught" by a natural predator, maybe? John holds himself still, taking deep, measured breaths.
Weirdly enough, the hand he offered Sherlock is the one he still gets tremors in (career-in-surgery ending tremors at that) but right now, with long pale fingers curled around his wrist, it isn't shaking at all. Steady as a sniper's shot. John doesn't know what to think about that.]
How much are you likely to take per second?
[Because he'd much rather just count to twenty or whatever instead of relying on his own body to belatedly tell him when they should have stopped. He knows how much time emergency blood transfusions can take but that's not the same as someone getting their blood directly from the source, no machinery involved.]
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Sherlock would be more inclined to admit to being rescued following a healthy dose of blood, if only because it saved him the task of actively hunting in his less than cooperative state. ]
Please, you're practically the definition.
[ The synonyms alone practically have Doctor John Watson written above and below. People don't tend to offer their blood up for a strange vampire that may or may not have a habit of getting into far too much trouble for his own good.
Sherlock notes the change, the way his skin reacts to the touch of slightly too cold fingers circling around his wrist; steady, pulse jumping up from underneath his skin in an inordinately enticing rhythm. He breathes through the urge to bite down and drink, but only barely.
Distantly, he hears himself answer. ]
About an ounce, give or take.
[ It's becoming more and more obvious that Sherlock is slowly checking out of their conversation under the restraint of holding himself in check. He'd like to look up, to tear his gaze away from his wrist, but he can't, so when he talks, it's shamelessly aimed at his arm. Sherlock deftly nudges John up towards the wall with a careful press against his other shoulder (should he decide to want to collapse halfway through, which would be incredibly poor etiquette on John's part). He's not sure when his fangs decided to make themselves known, but he can feel the weight of them pressing against his lips. ]
Don't hesitate to lean on me. I can take your weight.
[ Or more accurately, he'll be able to the moment he starts. ]
Ready?
[ He doesn't wait for a response. The second the word's out, he lurches forward and presses razor sharp teeth insistently down until they pierce through skin like it's nothing; a stray pulse beats blood into his mouth and any attempt at being gentle is quickly forgotten as his eyes fill with blood and his teeth lock down, persistent as he coaxes mouthful after mouthful with his tongue.
He'll insist that acting when he did was far kinder than allowing John to count down and brace himself - it would have hurt more had his muscles been tight in preparation (and although this is absolutely true, something within him snapped and he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to).
He remembers the euphoria of meta-human blood, the intense high that pulls at him just from feeding is fervent and far more invigorating than he remembers it being. With each passing second he can feel himself slowly being repaired, the warmth of John's blood practically scolding against his insides in the most delicious way.
It's like chasing a long-distant high that he rarely gets to indulge in but he's careful not to drown himself in it, to lose the quiet yet insistent voice that tells him to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention to the amount he's drinking and it's like he's waging war inside his own head; something tells him to keep going, keep dragging and draining until there's nothing left because he needs it whilst his logical brain reminds him slowly and methodically to keep one foot firmly in reality.
Life is systematically being forced into him, and it's nothing short of bliss. ]
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He watches the man--vampire, his mind corrects--direct all his comments at John's arm with something approaching nervous exasperation. An ounce a second, which would translate to about 32 seconds for two pints of blood if John does his maths correctly. He decides he'll give Sherlock 30 seconds while a two second buffer in case he needs to persuade him to let go a little more vigorously.]
You can't even take your own weight.
[He mutters as he's backed up against the brick, the position a little more nerve-wracking than simply standing in the street would have been. He doesn't like it, but there's not really time to protest when Sherlock's hunching over his wrist, fangs extended.
John is barely able to nod in response before Sherlock's on him, teeth so sharp he can't feel the bite until the man starts to suck, and then the pain is stinging and burning and he can't help the embarrassing gasp that falls from his mouth.
I'm supposed to be counting, he reminds himself. So John counts, slowly in his head, and tries not to squirm or whimper or concentrate too much on the euphoria of blood leaving his body.
He assumed it would feel more like being attacked than it does. Like something he needs to brace himself against. But having Sherlock's mouth greedily pressed to his wrist and hearing the frantic gulping feels more intimate somehow. Like nursing a hungry child. Sherlock's cheeks flush with colour and that's John's blood making him seem more healthy and alive and it's just...so odd.
And so oddly satisfying.]
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Forcefully aware of every passing second to stop himself from tumbling further down into the rabbit hole that is unquenched bloodlust as his abdomen actively works to heal itself, the sensation tingly and maddeningly itchy as skin begins to repair itself piece by piece. Already he's able to stand up straight, the pain diminishing alongside the more he drains.
There's a quiet hum of approval as he shifts slightly, watchful of the angle of his fangs to ensure the steady stream of blood continues unbroken.
He loses track of time entirely as he holds John in place; he just breathes him in and feeds, each gulp elevating his euphoria to new, dizzying heights. ]
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But he can't seem to tear his eyes away from where Sherlock's mouth is sealed over his wrist, watching avidly even as his head starts to cloud and buzz. If he had both hands free he'd brace against the wall, just to avoid leaning on Sherlock and perpetuating any embarrassing cliches about swooning. But he needs one hand free for the gun at his back, and Sherlock's got possession of his other hand so...he compromises and only rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder, doubled at the waist so that the wall is propping up most of him.
27......28......29......
His vision blurs and he blinks heavily, trying to clear it.]
Okay, that's enough.
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Sherlock is only moderately aware when John's head falls onto his shoulder, gaze shifting along with the movement automatically. The word 'pale' hazily comes into focus as he takes in the doctor's condition and his teeth clench down further in subtle defiance; he isn't done yet, but subconsciously he knows what that means.
When his voice breaks through the extended silence, Sherlock doesn't immediately move. The words don't quite register, except he knows on a fundamental level that when John speaks, it means stop; it takes him a few seconds to force his fangs to retract and to physically force his face away from his arm before he can have a change of heart.
The movement skews his perceptions for entirely too long and he has to brace against the wall with a breathless laugh.
When he straightens up, he's practically manic. ]
That was- um, that was... yeah. Good. Really good.
[ On the one hand, Sherlock is absolutely strong enough to bear the majority of John's weight... on the other, he is quite clearly blitzed out of his head. ]
You are definitely not human.
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Which jostles John's position slumped half against it so he glares as much as he's able to with things being so soft-focus and digs his free hand into the sleeve of the vampire's coat for balance.]
Dunno what you're talking about.
[He's definitely human. The sluggish way his pulse is echoing in his ears is proof enough of that. He feels shaky, unsteady. Pretty damn fragile. Hypovolemic shock the medic inside reminds him. You're going to need to heal some of that before you go tachy. Which...yeah. Would not be good. Okay.]
Don't let me fall on the ground.
[He gives the warning with as much sternness as he can muster, seeing that his mouth doesn't seem to want to form words. Honestly, he's not sure how much the other man is taking in right now. He seems drunk quite frankly, and do all vampires react the same way to a pint or two of blood as a normal person would react to a pint of beer?
Either way, getting a concussion on top of going into shock is the opposite of what John needs right now, so he hopes a drunk Sherlock is at least as competent at being a support system as the brick wall.
Focusing on the same spark of healing he discovered on the day he got shot, John coaxes it into a brighter flame, a warm glow of healing that travels through depleted cells, replenishing and restoring. It's harder to do on himself than when he's working from the outside on someone else's injuries. He manages to pull himself out of tachycardia and replace some of the lost fluids before exhaustion pulls him out of the healing and back to the alley where he's no longer supporting his weight at all.]
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Sherlock grumbles a quiet 'obviously,' in response to John's instruction, carefully ducking underneath the doctor's arm with the intention of providing what looked to be much needed support. Which is apparently just in the nick of time, because it's not long before the doctor slumps against him quite unceremoniously.
With a definite air of interest, Sherlock notices as John's heartbeat slowly but surely turn into a louder, steadier beat. That is very fascinating, and definitely worth further investigation when the time is right.
When John begins to come around, Sherlock's rounding the corner of Baker Street. ]
Oh, good, you're awake just in time for the stairs.
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[John blinks away the last of the fuzziness, head lolling against Sherlock's shoulder before he realizes that he's being carried like a child and he stiffens up, face reddening.]
You can put me down now. I'm fine.
[Or fine enough that some salty snack and a juicebox will get his sugars and electrolytes back into normal levels. He frowns, looking around the unfamiliar surroundings.]
Where are we?
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He did just donate a considerable amount to Sherlock's cause, so he's not exactly put out at the prospect.
With a scrutinising look, Sherlock slowly deposits John to the ground (ready to act should he sway dangerously on his feet, but allowing enough space between them should John want to reclaim his wounded pride). ]
My flat. It seemed like the lesser of two evils.
[ Has John forgotten that the clinic is full of sick humans that may or may not be close to death? That is far too tempting an offer for a semi-wounded vampire, so he's decided not to take the risk.
He pushes the door-knocker to make it crooked before he lets himself in, dusting his shoes off on the mat.
Sherlock hopes that Mrs Hudson is around because he really doesn't fancy handling human food at the moment. ]
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He frowns at the answer he's given, shaking his head.]
You've got a flat? On...Bakerstreet?
[Seems an odd choice for a vampire's lair. John's a bit miffed that Sherlock sweeps inside as if he just expects John to follow without a hint of protest, but he ends up stepping inside anyway. They're in a respectable flat and he's already allowed himself to get bitten.
What else could happen?]
You could have just dropped me off at a cafe or something. I told you, I'm fine.
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Yes. Problem?
[ That's the point, John. Being obvious would hardly serve him well; having a hulking great Gothic castle in the middle of Baker street would be quite an obvious give away. Once John is finally inside, Sherlock shuts the door and very pointedly attempts to usher him upstairs. If he's so fine, clearly he won't have a problem. ]
You were unconscious.
[ Sherlock says it like the concept of leaving him anywhere when he's unconscious is the stupidest idea he's ever heard, because it's certainly up there. ]
Rest assured, should a next time ever occur, I'll be sure to prop you up against the nearest Starbucks with a pair of sunglasses and an empty cup.
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[The stairs seem more daunting now that he's standing in front of them. He makes sure to brace one hand against the wall and grip the banister with the other.]
You could have told them I was diabetic and hypoglycemic. The symptoms are pretty much the same, and so's the cure. They would've given me some sugar packets or some juice.
[And possibly called him an ambulance, not that John needs it. Really, a small snack and a nap and he'll be back to full health again. All the fussing isn't really necessary.]
That's what I need, you know. Sugar? Sodium? I don't suppose vampires keep sports drinks handy...
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And you could have left me for dead, but now we have to live with the consequences of our decisions.
[ There's a level of fondness there already, but Sherlock will blame the ever enticing effects of meta-human blood currently filling his system. He's not as giddy as he once was, the dull ache of his stomach going largely ignored thanks to the euphoria accompanied by the combination of John's unique blood and the sensation of having fed. ]
Mm, there's a coke in the fridge you can help yourself to. I'll grab something from the shop next door, just make yourself at home.
[ Pause. Should he tell him about the hand in the cupboard? No, it'll be fine.
Sherlock waits for John to reach the top of the stairs before he begins to head out the door. ]
The kitchen is just through the living room to your right.
[ And with that Sherlock disappears once again, seeking out sports drinks and a certain landlady to supply John with a healthy dose of snacks. ]
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[Which is just another way of admitting that Sherlock's right. For better or worse, they've both decided to trust each other. John struggles his way up the stairs, trying not to look as heavy and clumsy on his feet as he feels. He could use a kip on the sofa instead of a chair in the kitchen, but sustenance comes before rest. If he lies down now, he's not going to get up for a while.]
You're leaving me here by myself? Not scared I'll snoop around your place?
[Although he wouldn't. Frankly he's too tired to be curious. Sherlock doesn't seem too worried about it either as he points out the way to the kitchen and then leaves in a dramatic swish of coat.
Shrugging to himself, John enters the cluttered living room and looks over the myriad of science paraphernalia, books and papers, and newspaper clippings littering every surface. It's a cozy space, a lot warmer than the bedsit John's currently staying in. Could be very nice if it weren't such a mess in here, he thinks to himself.
The kitchen turns out to be even worse than the living room, with beakers of mysterious liquid and tweezers and microscope slides. John's careful not to touch anything as he skirts around the piles on his way to the fridge. Inside are packs of blood, neatly stacked. Disturbing but not too unusual for the fridge of a vampire. The human hand on the second shelf however, is a little more unsettling.
John reaches gingerly for the can of soda sitting beside it, as if the fingers might come to life and grab for him. They don't but it's still creepy.]
Jesus Christ, what'm I doing here?
[Heaving a sigh, he pops open the can and takes a long drink before heading back to the living room and lowering himself into a chair that only happened to have a few newspapers and unnecessary cushions on it.
Hopefully Sherlock won't be too long.]
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