thetube | Test Drive Meme: August-September 2017

Entry tags:

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 potential players: Looking for an OOC space to brainstorm your AU? Head over to our permanent character workshop post to ask for feedback and share ideas.

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) WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. Welcome to London! It's time to introduce yourself to your faction, to your fellow supernatural citizens, would-be friends, potential enemies... Will people quake with fear or awe when you enter the room? Or are you some nobody trying to make a name for yourself? Either way, gotta start networking.

2) THE RACE IS ON. The competition within your faction is even worse than the competition outside. That guy over there has turned sucking up to your boss into an art form. What about the woman who works out at 5am every morning and can probably punch through a wall? If you want to climb the ladder, you'd better start working harder.

3) THE WRONG DIRECTION. It's a big city and it's easy to get lost. Normally that's not such a big deal, but this time you've taken a wrong turn and ended up in hostile territory. If you're spotted by the wrong person, you could be in for a seriously bad time. Is there anyone around who can help?

4) NEVER LOSE CONTROL. You had one drink... or two... Maybe it's almost the full moon, or maybe there's some magic in the air messing with your hormones, but you're this close to going all out with your fangs or your claws or your magic. You need to get out of here, fast.

5) SWING IT, SHAKE IT. You've got a disco ball, a killer outfit and music so loud you can feel it pumping through the dance floor. Show the humans how it's done.

6) KARAOKE. It's karaoke night in one of London's favourite supernatural bars and that tone-deaf werewolf is hogging the mike again.

7) RUN AROUND. It seemed simple, right? One errand to run, just one. And yet the world seems to be conspiring against you. Your alarm didn't go off, you missed the bus or train, you got caught in traffic, someone spilled their drink on your brand new leather jacket, you tripped over and literally fell headfirst into a dumpster... Oh, God. Could this day get any worse?

8) CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE. Anything goes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cesare is at his office when the phone rings. To be honest, part of him is pleasantly surprised that she hasn't bolted by now. Clearly he must be fairly persuasive. That or she's feeling incredibly disoriented. He doesn't mind too much either way. He answers the phone, smiling into the receiver.

"You're up. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you. I'm sorry for imposing." Imogen's a bit embarrassed that she caused such a scene; this guy must be pretty high up in the hotel's chain of command. "Just tell me how much you want for the room, and..." Her wallet got stolen too. Dad's credit card was in it. "...I'll get the money. If it's not too much trouble, do you know what happened to my clothes and the guitar I had when I came in? I think they might've been taken by housekeeping when I was asleep." Oh, great, now she sounds like she's accusing him of something. "Sorry."

Imogen can hear Cesare laughing over the phone, a low chuckle. He can understand her concern and isn't offended by it.

"Don't worry. We'll replace your things. I'll have someone bring you some new clothes. Perhaps I can answer all your questions over lunch? You must be hungry." Not dinner. That's a bit forward. He's genuinely just trying to keep her calm and food has a habit of making people trust you, he's found.

"Okay."

And she is hungry, come to think of it. Ravenous. Apparently being mugged and then concussed is hungry work. It doesn't take long after that for an impossibly elegant woman wearing what looked like a haute couture version of a maid's uniform to knock on the door holding a garment bag. "With regards from Mr. Borgia," she says, and for a minute Imogen thinks it's her jeans and Bob Dylan t-shirt but--holy shit, no it isn't. Inside is a tasteful black turtleneck sheath dress that looks simple enough but the label says fucking Dior.

Maybe she ought to get mugged more often.

And the maid doesn't leave with the clothes, either. In a matter of minutes Imogen finds herself in full Pretty Woman montage mode. Her hair is styled in a tasteful chignon that partially hides the frizz and bad dye job, and it's odd to see herself looking so, well, classy after spending the last five years in raccoon eyes and badly matched foundation. There are shoes, too, shoes that have distinctive red soles.

Whoever her mysterious benefactor is, he doesn't fuck around.

Half an hour later, Imogen finds herself tottering on unfamiliar heels towards a tall, elegant man in the most expensive-looking restaurant she's ever seen.

"...Hello," she says again, awkward.

Edited 2017-08-31 22:21 (UTC)

Cesare smiles at her politely and looks at her in a way that shows he's fairly accustomed to cute looking ladies all dressed up in Dior. He holds out his hand so that she can shake it.

"Ms. Reed," Cesare says as he pulls her chair out for her so that they can both sit down to lunch. He's been doing some research and learned a few things, including names. "It's a pleasure to meet you in better circumstances. How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you," Imogen manages as a waiter appears seemingly out from nowhere to put a napkin in her lap and hand her a menu. This whole experience is so surreal she wonders if she took a bigger knock to the head than she'd thought and is off in a coma dream somewhere. That would explain the vampires.

Mr. Mystery Billionaire is gorgeous, though, and the way he smiles at her makes her feel like she's the only person in the world. "Are you..." she tries to remember what the maid had said. "Are you Mr. Borgia?"

Edited 2017-08-31 22:32 (UTC)

"Smart woman," Cesare replies with a smirk and a nod, just about resisting using the word girl as he usually would have. Not yet, Cesare. Gosh. Try not to scare the girl away with condescension just yet. Make her feel safe first and make certain she won't tell anyone about her attack.

"I suspect you have quite a few questions...Wine?" he asks, as the waiters already begin to put two glasses on a table, along with a glass of what looks like port for Cesare.

Sure, she'll take wine. And it's nice wine, too. It doesn't escape her notice that Mr. Borgia's having something else besides, but...whatever. He's rich.

"Do you own this hotel?" Imogen asks, trying to sound politely interested and not overly keen. While she had a fairly privileged upbringing, this is several levels of magnitude of wealth more than what she's used to.

"And I do want to thank you, Mr. Borgia. You've been so incredibly kind. I can't even begin to repay you."

Literally. She's wearing £650 shoes.

Cesare politely nods again.

"I do. What gave it away?" he teases. The obnoxious display of wealth perhaps? The fact that he consistently acts like he owns the place? Or maybe he just has a Hotel Owner look about him?

"And you're very welcome. You needed help and I helped. I'm happy to do so. The dress suits you." Nothing like a bit of flattery to help make someone comfortable.

"The staff all seem to know you," she points out. "So either you're a regular or you're their boss." Imogen laughs, but it's a bad joke. Then he starts complementing her appearance and Imogen can feel herself blushing a little, in spite of herself. She's not used to this much attention, not this kind of attention. She's always dreamed of being famous, of having this kind of wealth all for herself but now that she's experiencing it, part of her wants to retreat back into tattered denim and the rest wants more.

"Thank you," she says again for lack of anything else to drive the conversation. He's so dazzlingly beautiful that it's hard to focus. Or maybe that's the concussion. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come along. I've been singing on street corners for months and this has never happened before. I'd never felt unsafe." She rubs again, unconsciously, at the bruise on her neck, the one covered up by that beautiful, tasteful Dior dress.

"You never do when that sort of thing happens to you," Cesare responds sadly, putting on his most concerned face for her. To be fair, it isn't too hard to present. He is concerned, after all, though his worry is over the Nest, not really her specifically.

"You're feeling better though, I hope?" He smiles quickly and takes a sip of his port.

Imogen nods, trying hard to do so in an elegant way that doesn't set the room spinning, because her head really does hurt. "Much better, thanks to you." He's earned himself some flattery back, right? Like, a normal bloke would've maybe gotten her a taxi to the hospital, not Dior and Louboutins and wine so expensive that it would make Imogen's mother think she'd died and gone to heaven.

"You've got a very beautiful place here." The menu is ridiculous. It's all in French and there aren't any pictures to help her choose but she thinks she's getting duck confit. Her eyes wander to the dessert tray winding its way towards another table. Is that cake covered in gold leaf?

Cesare notices Imogen looking at the dessert tray and doesn't think twice about offering her some.

"Would you like dessert first?" he asks, gaze moving over to hers as the waiters bring the tray over to their table. It's all little cakes, crème brûlée and tiny mousses. And yes. That is gold leaf.

"Pick anything you want."

"Thank you," Imogen says, too embarrassed to argue. She picks a small raspberry tart, sprinkled artistically with flecks of gold because it would be rude not to take something that's been offered to her like this. They descend once more into awkward silence. She's usually so much better than this, so much more interesting and authoritative and conversational, but he has her flustered. The display of wealth and power in front of her has knocked her completely off balance.

Finally, she just can't take it anymore. Once the desserts have been cleared away and their mains are on their way out from the kitchen, Imogen blurts: "Why are you doing this?"

She immediately regrets it. How can she be so rude? He's giving her everything--so why does it make her so uncomfortable? Why does she catch herself looking at this beautiful man out of the corner of her eye and seeing...something that she quite explain? He's too beautiful, too perfect. Too kind.

Cesare laughs a little, looking down at the table. If he were the blushing type, he would do so now.

"I like to help people in need and you were clearly in need. Do you find that odd?" Truth be told, he hasn't really learned much about this girl yet other than names and facts and histories. He knows she behaves how he wants her to, but that's about the extent of it. His question is an attempt to learn a little more about her.

See? Even that response to her question is too perfect. He ought to at least be a little annoyed she was questioning his hospitality. But, once again, it throws her off. She'd been gearing up for an argument and he hadn't given it to her.

"Yes--I mean, no. It's not odd to help people in need. But the lunch, the gifts--I had a bad night and suddenly it's My Fair Lady? I--" She breaks off and covers her face with her hands, both out of embarrassment that she would be so ungrateful and also because, suddenly, she's crying. It's the stupidest thing.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I'm sorry. It's all so much, you know? They weren't--those people last night--I thought they--"

Cesare pulls a sad, sympathetic smile and reaches out across the table to take her hand, his fingers subtly shifting across her pulse so that he can feel it.

"You're safe now. Just trust me. Things will be fine. You're enjoying yourself here, aren't you? If you'd rather I leave you be, that is entirely fine too..." Well, sorta. He would rather she stay with him where he can control her and watch her. But he'll figure something out if she would rather be alone.

Part of her is screaming at her to jerk her hand away, not let him touch her, but there's something so calming, so reassuring about it. She is enjoying herself, isn't she? Isn't it exciting to be at the center of attention like this? She scrubs furiously at her eyes with the back of her other hand, smearing her mascara. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I must sound so ungrateful. I'm just overwhelmed."

She laughs, self-deprecatingly. "You must think I'm a mess."

Cesare gives her hand a quick squeeze before letting her go, rearranging the napkin in his lap to give his hands something to do.

"Not at all. Trust me. You are not the first person to shed a few tears at a dinner table." She's not even the first that Cesare himself has witnessed. In fact it's a fairly common occurrence when you have a habit of picking up poor innocent people who are in a bad spot.

He grabs himself a creme brulee to join her and gives her a small smile.

"How long have you been in the city?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

This is a safer topic of conversation. "Just since May," she says. "It's easier to get auditions if you're already in London." Not that she's been doing many of those. It's all about who you know, and Imogen doesn't know many people in the entertainment industry willing to give her the time of day.

But the obviously wealthy businessman across from her might.

"Auditions? That guitar...?" he says, pretending to have all his thoughts click into place as he realises that she's a performer. "Do you just play or do you sing as well?" If she sings at his hotel, he can keep an eye on her, make sure to have his staff misdirect if someone comes looking for her. Truth be told, he's frustrated that he's having to do this much work to keep some girl under control just because a vampire didn't know how to keep their fangs in.

Imogen visibly perks up when Cesare mentions singing.

"I do," she says. "Pop, jazz, opera...I even do vocal impressions. Been trying to get myself out there, you know? But it's hard; most people don't make it in music."

No matter how talented they are.

Cesare makes sure to listen very carefully to her, leaning in at all the right moments to show that he's being attentive.

"Well, I am far from some big producer, but the hotel lounge is always looking for singers..." he offers, giving her a small smile. It will keep her under his watchful eye and keep her out of trouble, he hopes. That's how it works with Cesare Borgia: make them like you then help them to the point that they can't think of an alternative without you.

Well. This is promising.

Imogen smiles excitedly. "Really?" Singing in a swanky hotel lounge beats the hell out of sitting on the pavement with a guitar and hoping it doesn't rain. And that was before she'd been attacked.

"When is the audition?"

Edited 2017-09-14 22:15 (UTC)

"When works for you? I have a guy who manages it all, but I'm sure you'll be more than good enough." At least he really hopes so. Otherwise he's going to have to try and get her to sing as late as possible, during the zombie slots when everyone is either asleep or too drunk to listen.

"Just a formality really." For appearances.

(no subject)

greenevoices - 2017-09-15 18:48 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only