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test drive — spring

SPRING TEST DRIVE
Welcome to the test drive and thank you for your interest in The Village. This test drive is not game canon but will allow players the opportunity to experiment with game mechanics, the setting, and the flexibility of choice allowed by this game. The following prompts are examples of typical situations characters might face in the game. At least one thread from the TDM is required as part of the game's application process.

Prospective players are welcome to play with any of the established locations within Mathias.

( Recommended listening: ♫ )

GHOSTS OF THE LIVING
The fog moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. It is not a soft blanket enveloping the town, but a heavy weight pressing down, threatening to suffocate as the sky is blotted out and no one can see more than ten feet in any direction.

Those who are outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, hoping that a randomly chosen direction will lead them to shelter or another living soul. There are perhaps even those who were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in. Wherever they are, the residents of Mathias will soon notice that they are not the only ones in the fog.

Anyone out in the fog is left disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

With all of these elements at play, the first strange apparitions encountered may be assumed to be figments of addled minds, tricks played by psyches struggling to cope with the strange reality they've found themselves in. But before long, there will be no denying that the Others in the fog are real. Appearing almost wraithlike and startlingly recognizable, these figures even feel a bit like ghosts to those who can sense such things, though everyone will feel that there is something wrong about them. Truly, there are many things wrong that residents will begin to notice as they encounter more and more of the spectres that do not acknowledge their presence in any way. They simply exist, silent and subtly terrifying like so many things in this town.

Like misty ghosts of those who have been in the town at one point or another, the Others appear as those who have died or disappeared and even those currently within the town. The likeness is truly uncanny, to the point of being completely terrifying, made even more so when they realize there is no way to communicate with the Others. They do not acknowledge anyone's presence nor anything said to them. At times, they may be only one in an area, or there may be a dozen existing in the same space. There is no limit to how many people can see them — if they are there, they are seen by all.

The Others do not enter buildings and cannot be contained in any way. They can appear at one moment and be gone in the next, or they can exist in one place for hours on end. Whether standing stationary or slowly wandering throughout the town, there is no discernible purpose to them. There is something absent and distant in the way they hold themselves, the way they walk, and their expressions, as if even they cannot grasp what is happening.

A BIT OF EXPLORATION
There are plenty of places in which to get one's bearings and hide from the fog.

There are businesses on the square, nestled around and extending out from the Town Hall. There is a schoolhouse nestled by the southern treeline, not from the rather expansive makeshift cemetery at the end of Jackson Boulevard that is courtesy of a few kind residents in town. To the far north of the square is a sprawling garden, now covered in snow, and a greenhouse that once supplied the botanical shop. And to the east and west, beyond the business square, is are residential districts.

The eastern district sprawls all the way to the beach, with some houses in perfect condition and others beginning to show significant signs of age. The western district, however, is nothing but decay. From the beginnings of rot to completely collapsed and little more than a pile of proverbial bones, none of these homes are anything resembling livable. Well, as far as one can tell, at least. For between the streets of Hill Lane and Stine Road there is a crack in the earth. A dozen feet across and fifty feet down, there is no way across.

TO SEE AND BE SEEN
Standing at the center of Mathias, the Town Hall is a modest two-story building that would be welcoming if not for the faded sign, chipped paint, and deafening silence within its empty halls. It's a typical government building, with a reception desk at the front and rows of identical offices within, the names half faded from each door. But what catches the attention is a large bulletin board on the main wall beside the reception desk, once meant to hold flyers or announcements for the community.

What it holds now is decidedly different. Covering the board are tacked-on scraps of paper covered in an assortment of handwriting styles — requests for supplies should anyone find them, pieces of information shared in the hopes of someone understanding the strange symbols and mathematical equations, notes about those missing or recently deceased. And painted directly across the center of the board, visible in the gaps between the pieces of paper, is a symbol in dark red. While peering at that obscured symbol, a strange breeze ruffles the papers, revealing a little more, just enough to—

An eye. A strange, ornate eye with three lobes, painted in still-wet red. And upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the paint is actually blood, perhaps even human.

The longer someone stands there, the more it will feel like they are being watched, even studied, with great interest. It's a sensation that lingers and stays with them even when they exit the building.

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[ There's a war to be waged between sharper concern and relief. It helps to have the contact. Serves as a much more concrete way to make sure Crowley stays in tow, that he doesn't somehow fall too far behind and slip out of sight in the space between glances.

It also serves to underscore the way that something is clearly wrong. Crowley is pale, shaken, withdrawn in a way that he never gets. Aziraphale would like to say several words. Get whatever it is turned out. Try to help. He can't figure what could have... well, gone so wrong. Apart from the obvious in waking up in this place.

Probably for the better that there are, in fact, some things he's quite good at restraining himself with. ]

Not a solitary peep. [ It'll be the most un-remarked upon hand holding in history.

He stumbles a little bit when the forest floor gives way to pavement beneath their feet, flash-in-the-pan annoyance over it included free of charge. Probably a good sign to have gotten here, though. If he doesn't try to see anything as a good sign at all, he's not entirely sure what else to do. ]

Right. Shouldn't be far off. [ Aziraphale takes a moment to try to orient himself and make a call on his own left versus right memory debate. The thing that makes them lucky is that, unbeknownst to him, there's some kind of building both ways. ]

[This is the most physical contact they've ever had, and he can't help but regret that it's under these circumstances, when he's too woozy to really appreciate it, when he's sure Aziraphale is only putting up with it because he's worried about losing him in the fog.

He wonders if this is what Eurydice's felt like, following Orpheus out of the underworld.

Rather than indulge that thought further, he focuses on the relief of feeling pavement under his feet, a reassuring change from the soft forest floor. It doesn't stop him from asking the question that's been on his mind the whole time he's been in the fog.]

Are we dead, angel?

[It should be impossible for beings like them, there's no 'alive' and 'dead', only existence and destruction, but it wouldn't be the first time that God has lied to them.]

[ Hm. He's just gonna go left. Left seems like as good a choice as any. ]

Dead? Hardly. We're not even discorporated. [ In the past couple of days, they've accomplished some generally impossible-even-for-celestial-beings things. In the past couple of days, Aziraphale has been in the business of processing a lot of, of disappointment (because disillusionment is too strong a word) that either came fresh or that he finally admitted to having felt already, and some very definite untruths that came out in the wash.

He still does not consider 'dead' a viable possibility. Not least because he's sure he would remember the dying, being something that they're really not designed to do.

It's a worrying question to hear, though. He tightens his grip a little. ]

No, I-- I think we should start with "displaced and probably in quite a pickle" and go from there. [ If they're in a pickle, it leaves even the faint possibility that they might be able to find their way back out of it. ] Wouldn't do to give up before we know anything.

[In an ideal world, what Aziraphale's saying makes sense. They still have physical bodies even if they aren't quite working right, and surely they would know if they died. He sounds very confident about that.

Except he was gone, and the bookshop was up in flames, and Hastur had promised that he'd hurt Aziraphale. And here he is, still acting like he doesn't owe some kind of explanation.]

How long have you been here? Is this where you went?

[Is it why Crowley couldn't find him?]

Where I...?

[ In all his years of existence, never has Aziraphale felt more like there must be something he's just not getting. Some important puzzle piece missing from the box. Which is one thing when it's only him paying for it.

All at once, his tone turns softer, more careful. ]

I've only just gotten here. If I knew how, I'd already be working on getting us back.

[ 'Went' implies an intent he knows he never had. Would've left a note, at least, surely. ]

Were you looking for me already?

[ They just had lunch. They made drinks plans. No threat looming over their shoulders. Nothing to be on edge about.

If Crowley weren't here already, he'd have figured at least a couple of hours before this got noticed. ]

[Only just could mean hours or days, knowing how Aziraphale can get with time, especially when there's some bloody fog playing tricks on their mind.

The faint thread of his temper finally snaps and he yanks his hand away so he can cross his arms over his chest, defensive and protective all at once.]

'Course I was bloody looking for you! I thought Hastur or Ligur had — had gotten to you before they came for me, and when I — [He groans, caught between wanting to look away and not wanting to take his eyes off Aziraphale lest he disappear.] You were gone. I couldn't find you.

[ He can't keep a sharp, reflexive surge of concern from crossing his face when Crowley says they came for me. Nevermind that all he's saying still doesn't add up right, or that there's very genuinely absolutely no way Heaven or Hell would be looking to take another hack at it.

It's just old habit. That's where the concern chips fall.

The not understanding keeps coming home to roost apace, though. Aziraphale has all his gears turning, full-tilt, trying to contextualize. Might get where he needs to be on it, in a bit. He thinks that tracking down the Antichrist with a day's work and a book of prophecy might have been outright simpler to parse than Crowley's current upset.

Well, no, being upset at not being able to find him after something happened, that's actually very easy to parse. What he's saying technically holds together as an explanation on its own. It just doesn't add up with where Aziraphale was at in a lot of ways, which he would've thought it would have to be able to hold up as a unit. ]

I'm sorry.

[ Possibly mostly for apparently not being able to be found. Scratch the possibly. That's exactly it. A little bit, though, for just plain not understanding. ]

Last I remember, there wasn't-- there wasn't anyone looking to come for us at all. Nothing too out of the ordinary. [ Nothing that wasn't better than the last 6,000 years of ordinary.

He peers at Crowley, searching but not sure exactly what he's looking for yet. He can't figure how they got onto such different pages, unless this fog is involved in it somehow. ]

[Generally speaking, Crowley has two modes. The first is the carefully controlled exterior that he presents to people like Hastur and Beelzebub; when he's stressed, it makes him sharp and cold, doing whatever he can to hide that he's rattled, because it isn't safe to show any kind of vulnerability.

And then there's how he actually is, which only rarely comes out for Aziraphale to see.

That's what's on display now. The twitchy, rough movements, how he stumbles over words and can't seem to decide what expression should be on his face, rapidly vacillating between them.]

The — the apocalypse! The end times! The fact we lost the blasted Antichrist!

[He's gesticulating a bit wildly, pacing back and forth.]

Did you miss the memo?

[ Oh. Well, there's that puzzle piece he was missing.

Strange how something can make sense and still not make sense. Because it does add up-- the tension, the irritability, the emotional fraying, the you were gone, I couldn't find you. That's very much on brand with the apocalypse. And if Aziraphale had woken up here in the middle of all that, of course he'd be just as upset. That much puts a lot in order.

It's just that how things wound up was hardly forgettable.

The fog maybe, again, that's all he can think. Full of wandering lost souls, starting to put a dull ache behind his eyes, a turn in his stomach, maybe for Crowley it's... it's done something to muddle his memory. Which might be easier to try to figure out once they get out of the fog, which Aziraphale isn't inclined to up and walk off to do with some broad hope that Crowley will follow and keep up.

If he's not bringing Crowley with him, there's not much point in doing it. He couldn't risk losing him out here any more than he was willing to give up on Earth. ]

No, I didn't 'miss the memo,' Crowley. [ The scrap of familiar offense that he finds burns out instantly. He's got bigger problems, and they're all related to being worried. ] That was days ago.

[ Like two whole days. Even Aziraphale couldn't mess up his timeline on it too badly. ]

[That was days ago.

Crowley's anger fades as though he's a puppet who's strings were suddenly cut, the anxious tension draining from him to be replaced by a different sort of fear. It's obvious the wheels are turning, while he tries to figure out why he's missing a few days.

He can't help glancing around him at the fog; it had already disoriented him, has made him feel physically unwell. What's to say it couldn't do this, too?]

I don't remember.

[It sounds like I'm sorry.]

There was a fire, at the bookshop. S'the last thing I can remember.

I see. [ That explains so much.

The concern is justified and not going anywhere, and as an anxious consideration of possibilities, of wondering if he's lost anything else, not ideal. Days gone, just like that? Important ones?

Between that and the context of what Crowley last remembers, exactly, Aziraphale hits mid-mark between stricken and sympathetic. ]

Well, you can... you can ask me anything about what you've missed. Obviously. I'll just have to catch you up. [ He glances in the direction they were heading, clasping his hands again. Swallows.

If he wants to put time into feeling any particular way about the loss, if it doesn't come back, he's choosing to pack that away for later. There are bigger priorities here. ]

But I think we do need to get inside. So you'd be doing me a favor if you got back over here and we started walking again, really.

[ Ah, the oldest and wiliest maneuver in his arsenal. Literally just asking Crowley to do something because it generally means Crowley will do it. ]

[There are a million questions he wants to ask, some of them wiser than others, and he wants to ask them now before his thoughts can get away with him. He reassures himself with the fact Aziraphale is here, and seemed confident that neither Heaven nor Hell would be after them.

Does that mean it went well? For them, at least.

He clenches his jaw, huffs a breath out through his nose, but nods and slinks back towards Aziraphale. Metaphorical tail between his legs.]

You better be ready for a bloody long list of questions.

[ At least there's that settled. Crowley coming back over is enough to relax the set of his shoulders. Minutely, maybe, but considerable for Aziraphale while at any level of stressful situation.

He starts walking again, in a bit closer proximity than he started at last time. ]

For once, I think I'm fully qualified to take them.

[ Shit got wild, but he was there for most of it, so. ]

'Course you are.

[It isn't sarcasm; despite his overall terrible mood and knowing that Aziraphale can sometimes be a bit... absent, he has faith in him to have a good understanding of a situation. He's cleverer than Crowley by half.

While still dizzy and rattled, he's more confident that Aziraphale is real, now, and doesn't feel the need to retake his hand.

But he sticks close, enough to occasional bump elbows. It's enough to be reassuring, when nothing else here makes sense.]

[ There's a special place in his heart, for Crowley's easy confidence. As often as he's not sure of himself, it's still novel thinking that there's one person in the whole of creation who generally is sure of him.

Aziraphale's gotten very good at squirreling those moments away like a secret hoard.

It's not a long or especially eventful walk, occasional ghost aside. Getting onto paved road was most of the battle, given how small a town Mathias is in practice. A careful squint here, an off-turn there, and lo and behold, from the mist materializes...

A very grimy-looking greenhouse. Why not fit sort of a garden into this day? He doesn't know what he expected. ]

It's a start. [ He can only put so much work into trying to sound optimistic when he's also putting work into steady walking at this point. There are times when an out-and-out house would be a little nicer as an option, okay.

The door is unlocked already, pulls open without any resistance. Admittedly very handy.

Aziraphale supposes it doesn't sound very sensible to lock up a greenhouse. In his opinion.

He makes an 'after you' gesture, because it takes more than haunted fog to de-courtesy this individual. ]

[Generally, Crowley is the chatty sort when he's nervous in an attempt to cover up said nerves. Talking nonsense about anything and everything is easy and stops people from realizing that something might be wrong.

There are far too many thoughts swirling in his head right now for him to attempt small talk, so he's quiet for the walk, sticking close by and hoping Aziraphale doesn't notice when he stumbles once or twice.

He sighs with relief when the greenhouse comes into view, no matter how run down it is.]

Sad state of affairs.

[A mild complaint, all things considered.

Crowley makes his way inside, noting the overgrown benches, the broken pots. As soon as he finds a relatively clear spot, he immediately sinks to the ground, head tipped back against the wall.

He can't remember the last time he was this exhausted.]

[ Okay. Good. Okay. With the door shut and no steady streams of leaked-in fog in sight, that's one less thing.

Crowley is sitting down. Also good. Seemed like he needs the rest. Doesn't seem like his corporation's physically injured even though he's clearly not at his best. No one's immediately burst in to try to... he doesn't even know, apprehend them or something.

Look at that, they have good things positively piling up. ]

That's already a bit better. I think.

[ Aziraphale stays standing and paces, for his part. He sticks to Crowley's vicinity, wanting to be sure to keep him in plain sight, but life today in general has him a touch too jittery to take a seat. So much to fruitlessly overthink, so little time. ]

[Crowley is struck by a brief sense of empathy for all the times he's paced circles around Aziraphale, wondering if it was as distracting and worrying as he's finding the pacing now. The only mercy is that if he closes his eyes, it's suddenly no longer a problem.

For a second, all he can do is breathe, before finally working up to asking what he needs to ask.]

What happened, at the bookshop?

[There may be other, more important questions, such as how the whole apocalypse thing went. But this is the most important one to Crowley.]

[ Valid question. Good starting point in general, actually, seeing how a lot of what happened didn't really start happening until after. ]

Bad luck, mostly. Afraid I made a bit of a mess of things. [ "I made a bit of a mess of things." Story of their whole anti-Armageddon campaign.

Aziraphale takes a moment of his own to try and get events in order. Or the relevant ones. His pacing kicks down a few notches into more of a vague, distracted ambling. ]

For starters, I worked out where the Antichrist was. [ Which is relevant. ] And I thought-- well, I thought, if I've got the information, why not try to go up the ladder about it? Stop that war nonsense officially. Keep it all above-board. Save everyone. So I put in that call to the Almighty that I was talking about, because surely nobody actually wanted...

[ Surely nobody wanted a war to end all wars, or to destroy all of humanity and Earth in the process, because surely they all cared about a world made to be loved, even just as a little bit more than a battleground. He and Crowley were already found out, no undoing that, but it's not like that was Earth's fault or something.

Aziraphale can't make himself finish the statement.

Everything worked out, but it doesn't take much away from how much some parts of the whole affair hurt. What is... a nice way to put it. ]

Well. Let's just say you were right about how that would go over. [ Poorly. Everybody else, as it turned out, wanted rather badly, and the Almighty was out of office. ] That was when I tried to reach you instead, if you remember. And you really ought to work on your phone etiquette, my dear, as an aside.

[ Okay, that last part is not relevant. He's chosen to take the long walk to contextualizing, and it just gets folded in without really thinking about it. Not offended or upset about it after the fact as much as an absentminded verbal note stuck to a fridge with a novelty magnet.

This would have been a great time to have a powerpoint presentation. ]

[When the rest of his existence has become strange and confusing, at least he can count on Aziraphale to be consistent. True to form, the long winded explanation fails to shed any actual light on the situation or answer any of Crowley's questions. All it does is worry him that Heaven were somehow responsible for the disappearance and bookshop fire.

Overall -5/10 for the explanation. Raised more questions while insulting him at the same time. Peak Aziraphale.]

Yeah, sorry was a bit busy with the puddle of Ligur goo and Hastur trying to drag me down to Hell.

[Breaking news: he doesn't actually sound all that sorry.]

Can we speed the story up a bit?

[ He stands by his statement. It was still rude. But maybe he'll let it slide for extenuating circumstances. Either way, Aziraphale will not bother to learn anything about answering machines. ]

Yes, yes, full steam ahead. [ Forget the powerpoint presentation. He wishes he had wine. ]

Now, Upstairs had left the line open for me to pop up and join in. Which I had no intention of doing if I could help it, obviously. Perfectly happy to leave it there for a bit and take care of things ourselves. Only some human burst in and started trying to exorcise me. Must have overheard something. Absolutely ridiculous. [ He's actually still offended enough about that after the fact that he stops pacing.

The fucking audacity, honestly. ] I wound up stepping into the transportation circle trying to keep him from stepping into the blasted thing. And, well.

[ Vague wiggly-fingered one-handed gesture?? Yes. The physical equivalent of one of Crowley's Wordless Sounds. ]

Upstairs I went. Gets you discorporated, when you haven't made the preparations to do it beforehand. So.. so there was nothing on Earth for you to find when you came looking for me. I couldn't even tell you what got the fire started in the first place. It happened sometime after.

[ Aziraphale doesn't sound like he thinks foul play from above or below factors in. As much as that's worth in the moment.

He's broadly grateful, he thinks, that he didn't see the shop burn. Didn't see it start to catch right before he was taken completely out of reach. After everything settled down later that night, it was hard enough just trying to process the loss hearing about it secondhand.

He can only imagine what it would've been like for Crowley. ]

[In amongst all the other words is an actual answer for how Aziraphale disappeared, and while it leaves something to be desired, it could be worse. Discorporated, not destroyed, and not hurt by Heaven, which is one of Crowley's worst fears.]

Right. [Breathing is an unnecessary affectation but a useful one. He takes a few deep breaths, in and out, trying to center himself, pretending he can't still smell smoke and taste ash on his tongue.] Suppose anything could have started the fire, with all those books.

[Not the most flameproof material, really.]

How'd you get a body again? Can't imagine Heaven would be keen about handing one out.

Suppose so.

[ He needs to figure out some preventative measures for that. Something a little more foolproof than assuming he'd be there to catch it and miracle it away. Add it to the docket. ]

I'm sure they wouldn't have been. Seeing how there were much more important things to be getting on with at the moment, I didn't stay to ask. I just sort of... popped back down to Earth without. Found you, told you where we needed to go. Possessed someone for a little bit so I could meet you there.

[ As one does. ]

I've only got a new body because the Antichrist manifested it. Adam, I mean. His name's Adam. Lives out in Tadfield. Rather nice young man, actually.

[Now we don't have time to unpack all that.

It frustrates Crowley, that he has no memory of what surely should have been an unforgettable few days, from the story that he's been given the spark notes for. The thing that sticks is that they apparently found the Antichrist, maybe even before it was too late, if he gave Aziraphale a new corporation.

The why is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.]

Alright, the Antichrist gave you a body, not exactly what I thought the answer there would be, but I suppose it makes sense. Did he start Armageddon before or after that?

[ That's the most reasonable headspace to land in for the spark notes.

Aziraphale pulls a face, tips his head to one side. A facial shrug. ]

I'd say before, technically.

[ He pauses. Steps over and levers himself to sit on the ground next to Crowley, with all the graceful ease of someone who hasn't sat on the ground in at least a few centuries, by choice. ]

Of course, considering the world very much didn't end, I'll have more trouble than usual trying to place anything on that timeline.

test drive — spring

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