The Underground Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
undergroundmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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...
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
Didn't your mother ever teach you not to snoop through a dead man's belongings?
[ Which is as much a word of warning as any - feel free to snoop, but if he finds something he doesn't like, don't say Sherlock didn't warn him. His unique perspective on the world has allowed him ample time to collect far too many things that are both ludicrous and fascinating in equal measures; there's really no telling what John might end up discovering.
Whilst John made himself comfortable, Sherlock's busily been mithering Mrs Hudson for acceptable foods to give humans that are suffering from a distinct lack of blood in their systems. He ends up returning with a mug of home made chicken soup, some bread rolls, raisins and a pint of whole milk.
He also has a bottle of Lucozade and a packet of Quavers, just in case this isn't acceptable.
When he finally shows his face again, he's apparently discarded his coat downstairs (leaving him with a very ripped, very blood-stained shirt hanging down at his midriff). He piles the tray onto John's lap with very little warning before straightening up and surveying the lounge with a quiet horror at the state of it. He picks up a few stacks of paper and places them on his desk, grabs a bunch of letters he's yet to respond to and slams them on the mantle (stabbing a knife down to keep them all in place) - Sherlock Holmes is, for lack of a better word, fussing in a vague attempt to make his flat look that much more presentable.
He's not even sure why he cares how messy the lounge is, but he's struck by the notion that he definitely does. ]
There.
[ Having done most of the work to make the lounge actively liveable, Sherlock then decides to set about warming a bag of blood up for his dinner (because he's still not one hundred percent and it'd be nice if the damnable itching could cease to a pleasant tingling instead). In between the time it takes the microwave to heat up his meal, Sherlock opts to change into a purple shirt whilst he waits. That familiar ding sounds and it's not long until Sherlock's settled opposite John in his favourite chair, although he refuses to sit in it like an actual human being, instead choosing to crouch on it (which looks infinitely more uncomfortable than it would be just to sit). ]
Sorry about the mess. I don't really...
[ do this sort of thing often? No. Make a habit of bringing humans over? No, that's probably distasteful. He'll leave it there, trailed off and awkward. ]
no subject
He's also ruining an antique fireplace mantel with a knife. John decides that whoever Sherlock's landlady is, she must be a saint or just as mad as he is.
The soup is rich and hearty though, and quickly replenishes the warmth he'd lost along with most of his blood, settling nicely in his stomach which sets about reminding him just how long its been since he had a good meal. John quickly polishes off each item on the tray, drinking down the milk in small sips and the Lucozade in great gulps until he fairly sloshes. The beginnings of a dehydration headache fade with every swallow and when he's done he feels better than normal. Healthy.
When Sherlock swans back in with a change of shirt, John feels energetic enough to glance at his surroundings with more interest. It's a bit like a mad scientist's laboratory in here, he thinks to himself, eyeing the vampire who is perched in the chair across from him like a gargoyle. A gargoyle in designer clothes and curly hair. Clutching a blood bag.]
No, it's fine. What's all this stuff for anyway?
no subject
Generally speaking, Sherlock doesn't like to drink blood directly from the bag. He'll try and put it into an oversized mug he bought for that exact reason just to ensure that Mrs Hudson doesn't get an eerie fright when 'cleaning' (or as Sherlock likes to call it 'pointlessly moin. He just didn't have the patience tonight, too wired from the thrill of live blood singing through his veins to actively fold back into routine without hesitation.
Somewhere, he registers that he's feeling slightly nervous about this whole affair, but he pointedly ignores picking it apart in favour of engaging with the human that risked his life to save Sherlock's. ]
Research, mostly.
[ Which isn't the whole truth by any stretch of the imagination, but it's certainly not a lie either - most of it's trinkets, things he's picked up throughout the years, strange yet sentimental. He sweeps over the majority of it with the intention of looking at it all with John's perspective, and it occurs to him that some of it might be vaguely menacing, but then he is a vampire, and that's the sort of thing John should get used to if he's going to continue to associate with the likes of the undead.
Not that any of that's exactly on the cards, but Sherlock isn't so stupid as to dismiss the idea entirely.
He might have underestimated this man in any other circumstances, but as it stands, he's really quite impressed. Sherlock watches John thoughtfully as his lips quirk up into an amused half-smile, his expression somewhat mischievous as he leans forward. ]
So, how was it for you?
[ Oh, vampire humour. Because it was obviously quite spectacular for Sherlock, and he definitely didn't see John complaining, not until he'd taken perhaps a little more than necessary. He's been told it can be somewhat euphoric, although he's not sure how much of that he can trust due to the inconsistency in reports. He may have phrased it as a joke, but it's something he's genuinely interested in, his eyes alight with fascination as he studies John's reaction avidly. There must be something in it, because there are junkies addicted to the thrill of being drained; crack dens once full of doped up idiots now hooked up to IVs as they replace the lost plasma, dazed and confused as their sated vampires care for their well being.
It's the strangest sort of symbiosis, where one feeds from another and then the vampire works to heal them up only to do it all over again.
Sherlock isn't entirely sure how he feels about it. It's... clever, in a way. Eliminates the need for a hunt, cuts down on needless casualties, and both parties are consensual. It's the blood farms that Sherlock's wary of, and yet he still picks up blood from them on a monthly basis because it's easier to source and the constant comfort of knowing he has blood waiting for him is a luxury he can't afford to live without. ]