illyria_ooc | ☆ ᴛᴇsᴛ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴇ 02 ☆

Welcome, cadets! Wanna dip your toes in the pool? Have a new character you wanna try out? Interested in the setting but not sure if your character's a good fit? Welcome to the second official Test Drive Meme for Illyria, for all your test drive needs! There are a few prompts for you to choose from below, or you can make up your own starter if none of the choices tickle your fancy. Threads from this meme can be counted as game canon if you like, if you apply and are accepted, so you don't have to meet someone again for the first time. Reserves are open at this time, and applications will be open September 8th thru 12th. Have fun!

☆ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛs ☆
A. Arrival: You wake up disoriented, finding yourself on what appears to be a medical bed. As you try and sit up, a young woman with blond hair pulled up in a tight bun stops you, urging you to take it easy. You were found in the cargo bay unconscious with a few other people, and while she's not sure where you came from or how you got here, you're here for the long haul, now. As you look around, you see a few other people in beds like the one you're lying on--do you recognize anyone from home? Or are these people complete strangers? Do any of them know what's going on, or how you got here? The only way to find out is to ask them!

B. Mealtime: While the Illyria has been mostly repaired, there are still some systems that aren't quite back at 100%. Unfortunately, one of these systems runs the replicators in the mess hall. Every order, no matter what you have requested, will result in a nice squirmy plate of Bithool gagh. Hope you're hungry!

C. Going up? You're not sure about these turbolift things, but it beats climbing ladders and crawling through tubes to get to the other decks. Besides, the ship is all fixed now, right? Surely you won't get stuck in it again. As you step into the lift, maybe there's someone already in there--or maybe someone steps in after you, but either way, you're not alone as the lift begins to ascend. Things seem to be going well for a moment, and then there's a loud screeching sound and the lights go dark as the lift stops dead in its shaft. Well, shit. Looks like this lift still needs a bit of work. Do you and your company try and fix the lift? Do you call for help? Do you crawl up into the shaft and try and make your way to another deck through the Jefferies tubes, possibly while humming the theme from Mission: Impossible? Who knows what peril may lie in the corridors between decks--do you take the risk, or wait to be rescued? Time to see if you're Starfleet material or not!

D. Excusez-moi? Maybe you dropped your communicator, or maybe you found the switch that makes it speak nothing but Spanish like Buzz Lightyear, but for some reason or another, your Universal Translator just isn't cutting the mustard. Be it Spanish, French, Klingon, or Vulcan, you just have no idea what this person in front of you is saying. Well, just walking away would be awfully rude, but how do you communicate with someone you can't understand??

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"You should try it if you have not yet, sir," Data pipes up, revoltingly calm and pleasant in the face of McCoy's legendary disgusted look. He looks down at the offending plate of wiggly things—food only in the most Klingon sense of the word—and then back up to the good doctor, a smile twitching strangely at the corners of his mouth like he was told once that it's encouraged to smile at people when trying to engage with them socially.

Which he has. It's working, right? McCoy is totally feeling the urge to befriend strange robots wandering the halls and giving out bad gastronomy advice, yes?

"I have known many humans to develop a..." a pause, as he ponders that tolerance is probably not the right word to use if he's going to be any measure of persuasive, "taste for them." Almost purely out of spite, is the part he doesn't add. He still hasn't fully grasped the very human notion or how it might apply to Klingon delicacies.

And sure, he might actually be able to fix the problem while he's here, but he'll get to that in a minute. This mid-supper shouting is much more interesting than replicator mechanics.

There's a large part of him that wants to take this bowl of worms, shove it in this overly pleasant guy's nose, and demand to know why the hell he thinks anyone could ever develop a taste for this. In fact, it's a near overwhelming urge, and it's closely followed by another to find some way to wipe that creepy not-smile thing he's doing right off his face.

Uncharitable thoughts for a doctor, perhaps, but McCoy's had an awfully trying day and somewhere between what's going on here and what happened back home, he's about this close to an adrenaline crash that'll leave him with a disgusting case of sleepy, sore insomnia.

He has his hand on the bowl (and, ugh, it's wriggling at the tip of his fingers) to do just that when what the guy says -- and how he's approximating behaviors but not quite getting there -- clicks. McCoy just looks at him for a second, head tilted and hand still on the bowl before speaking. "You're not human."

He's not xenophobic, not by any means. He wouldn't have joined Starfleet... Okay, no, that's a lie. Considering the circumstances in which he had joined Starfleet, it was pretty much running away as far as he could get without thought to much else. But the point stands: not xenophobic but really, really annoyed, frustrated, and tired and that's about all he can come up with. Actual curiosity is buried somewhere in that phrase.

It's not like he's ever tactful anyway.

If there's any one sentient on the ship that McCoy really doesn't have to bother trying to be tactful with, Data is absolutely that guy. He isn't the least bit perturbed by the observation, taking only a moment to let his eyebrows quirk upwards in consideration before responding.

"No, sir," he agrees amicably, "I am an android." An android with a starfleet uniform—slightly different, but still very similar to the ones worn by officers native to this ship—and the same rank pips. He's a Lieutenant Commander, just like Leonard. He wears none of the doctor's fatigue or frustration, though. The ship is from his era far more than McCoy's, and so everything seems more homey and familiar, even though it is not the place or the people with which he's actually chosen to serve. It's... in the right neighborhood.

And he's always been rather adaptable.

In either case, it might at least explain why he talks about the experiences of other people in relation to the food in McCoy's hands, instead of conveying his own.

"An android." McCoy repeats it in near disbelief -- not because it's unbelievable. He's seen some weird things out there. Space isn't exactly normal so the disbelief that comes when he's told he's speaking to an android comes from another place entirely. He can't help it; he puts a hand over his face and just laughs.

It's frustrated and maybe a touch hysterical (and that clinical part of him that never really shuts up tells him that he really needs sleep right about now) but he's laughing into his hand. For all the utter shit he gives Spock about having a computer for a brain, suddenly he's faces with an actual Computer-For-Brain. It's almost too much.

The laughter is short-lived and he rubs his hand over his face as it subsides. "Well that certainly wasn't what I was expecting."

Data blinks, and his brow scrunches back down in a close approximation of confusion.

Humans are still, after all these years he's spent in starfleet, quite mystifying. He briefly replays the memory files of their conversation over, trying to find the point where he said anything funny, but through his (incredibly limited) understanding of comedy, he comes up blank.

"Sir, if I may ask," His head tilts, just slightly. A little twitch. He sound genuinely curious, which is just a smidgen out-of-place. "What is it that you find so humorous?"

Oh, good. He's made himself look like an idiot in front of a walking computer. He waves his hand, dismissing the question entirely. "I doubt you'd understand even if I explained it." He pauses there, and snorts. "I doubt I'd explain it well enough to be understood."

Because, really. It's not actually humorous. It's just... weird. Definitely weird.

... It's time to change the subject. "Can you fix this thing?"

Data nods. At this point, he's resigned himself to the fact that he will not always understand his human coworkers and companions. They are, after all, a complex people, endlessly fascinating in their variety and sheer incomprehensibility. Many sentients are, of course—most, Data would venture to guess—but humans particularly.

It's why he likes them so much. Though, he was created by one of them and in their image, so perhaps that is only natural.

He gives the replicator a thoughtful look, before obligingly striding forward and sliding his fingers around the edges so he can lift its face off and take a look at its innards, "I will not know until I try."

Well, that's logical and McCoy has to bite back the urge to burst into near-hysterical laughter again. He kneads his temple for a moment, wishing for all that he's worth that he was back on the Enterprise right about now. He'll take flying tin can over all of this.

Failing that, he just wants something to eat and some place to sleep.

"Need a hand? I'm not an engineer but at least I can hold things for you."

"Thank you, sir," Data says, holding the faceplate of the replicator out to McCoy to take off his hands so he can be free to stick his fingers into the machine's newly revealed circuitry. It's certainly not impossibly heavy, but the android does make it look easier to heft than it actually is. He's about to turn back around to the machine when he seems to remember himself, tilting his head a fraction of an inch towards the doctor. "I am Data."

It's strange to be on a ship where he doesn't have the personnel files for every crewman in his memory banks, but hey, at least he remembered to introduce himself eventually.

Well, the walking computer made that look easy. McCoy fumbles the faceplate for a moment, before deciding that, yeah, it's likely this guy is that much stronger. At least he doesn't drop the thing entirely, but he is left holding it a bit awkwardly during the introductions.

"Of course you are." Why wouldn't he be named Data? "Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise."

☆ ᴛᴇsᴛ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴇ 02 ☆

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