Samples; (All samples must be set in the game's universe) First Person Sample:
Right. [ the man speaking is by no means frazzled. though he would prefer text over blatantly showing his face over some network but...] What do we have? A disembodied, nauseatingly pleasant voice, a statement that's supposed to make us believe we're fictitious, [ as if. ] oh and that's right. Walking corpses.
Technically, an impossibility, and yet, here they are, with every highly cannibalistic tendencies.[ he takes a short pause, if only to glance around the area, before his attention, however disinterested he might look, flickers back to the device at hand. he hasn't really seen any of the zombie survival movies. because why on earth would that even interest him. he was sure John would have a remark about the irony of the situation. ] If none of you've figured it out yet? Aim for the head. Don't stay too long in one area.
And if any of you have seen a man by the name of John Watson -- [ there's another beat, hesitation.] Let me know.
( and just in case, here is a link to a thread at the test drive meme ) Third Person Sample: He checks his own phone, instead choosing to ignore the device he woke up next to. Though the action yields little results, a the phone remains dead in his hand.
His a frown, a mild sigh as he calms his breathing, he slides it back into his pocket, he other hand almost casually holding his handgun. His lungs tighten with the sting of the sprint he had to pull to avoid the crowd of undead - a phenomenon that isn't even supposed to exist.
Every part of this place seemed terribly...off. This Human Regenesis Program sounded like utter rubbish, and if it had existed why hasn't he heard about it until now? And he shouldn't even be allowed to start on the very idea of being taken out of someone else's imagination. Him. Sherlock Holmes. If anything, this was a cheap ploy to weed the emotionally unstable out early on, to make them question the validity of their existence.
Now, what did he know? He knew he wasn't the only one dumped into this place - dumped, because he could find no better or more appropriate word for it. The location...it irritated him that through the ruined state of this entire place, he failed to even recognize an approximate location. The architecture was almost deliberately generic. Unremarkable. Boring.
Oh god, if running away from corpses and maybe, maybe being made to interact with other was all this place had to really offer...he might need to get creative.
He stills his steps, a sudden rigidity to his spine as he hears the clear scraping of movement to the farther right, behind him. His index finger slides to the trigger as he glances over the raised collar of his coat, pale eyes scanning the area. Noting every broken wall, crack in the pavement, shadow. Movement of any kind.
It's close. He's giving it at best, ten seconds to turn the corner, and given the rotting state of its brain, another six to eight seconds to notice him. That gives him maximum eighteen seconds to already know where to run to.
His eyes dart in front of him as he begins a slow walk. Go to the left? Apartment building. Plenty of rooms to hide, but plenty of room to run into more of those things. And not enough bullets to engage in full on contact. He'll need a better weapon.
Straight? Too long of a run to a single-story cafe. Useless.
Right? Warehouse. Perhaps a hundred ten meter sprint. Doable. Warehouse yields two stories, and an overview of the ground floor, if the predictability of architecture is followed through in the interior as well. Warehouse also might yield useful supplies. At least some long and blunt tool.
He had twelve seconds left. Apartment or warehouse? Right, he's going to go right.
Sherlock is quick to push himself to a run just as that corpse rounds into view. He hears the snarl, throws a glance over his shoulder, before looking ahead. Twenty meters left.
He swings the door, sets it shut as his gun is raised, aimed into the warehouse, back pressing against said door. He stills his breath, no inhale. Just listens, looks.
items + samples
→ his Belstaff peacoat
→ scarf
→ suit and dark shirt.
→ iPhone
→ handgun
Samples; (All samples must be set in the game's universe)
First Person Sample:
Right. [ the man speaking is by no means frazzled. though he would prefer text over blatantly showing his face over some network but...] What do we have? A disembodied, nauseatingly pleasant voice, a statement that's supposed to make us believe we're fictitious, [ as if. ] oh and that's right. Walking corpses.
Technically, an impossibility, and yet, here they are, with every highly cannibalistic tendencies.[ he takes a short pause, if only to glance around the area, before his attention, however disinterested he might look, flickers back to the device at hand. he hasn't really seen any of the zombie survival movies. because why on earth would that even interest him. he was sure John would have a remark about the irony of the situation. ] If none of you've figured it out yet? Aim for the head. Don't stay too long in one area.
And if any of you have seen a man by the name of John Watson -- [ there's another beat, hesitation.] Let me know.
( and just in case, here is a link to a thread at the test drive meme )
Third Person Sample:
He checks his own phone, instead choosing to ignore the device he woke up next to. Though the action yields little results, a the phone remains dead in his hand.
His a frown, a mild sigh as he calms his breathing, he slides it back into his pocket, he other hand almost casually holding his handgun. His lungs tighten with the sting of the sprint he had to pull to avoid the crowd of undead - a phenomenon that isn't even supposed to exist.
Every part of this place seemed terribly...off. This Human Regenesis Program sounded like utter rubbish, and if it had existed why hasn't he heard about it until now? And he shouldn't even be allowed to start on the very idea of being taken out of someone else's imagination. Him. Sherlock Holmes. If anything, this was a cheap ploy to weed the emotionally unstable out early on, to make them question the validity of their existence.
Now, what did he know? He knew he wasn't the only one dumped into this place - dumped, because he could find no better or more appropriate word for it. The location...it irritated him that through the ruined state of this entire place, he failed to even recognize an approximate location. The architecture was almost deliberately generic. Unremarkable. Boring.
Oh god, if running away from corpses and maybe, maybe being made to interact with other was all this place had to really offer...he might need to get creative.
He stills his steps, a sudden rigidity to his spine as he hears the clear scraping of movement to the farther right, behind him. His index finger slides to the trigger as he glances over the raised collar of his coat, pale eyes scanning the area. Noting every broken wall, crack in the pavement, shadow. Movement of any kind.
It's close. He's giving it at best, ten seconds to turn the corner, and given the rotting state of its brain, another six to eight seconds to notice him. That gives him maximum eighteen seconds to already know where to run to.
His eyes dart in front of him as he begins a slow walk. Go to the left? Apartment building. Plenty of rooms to hide, but plenty of room to run into more of those things. And not enough bullets to engage in full on contact. He'll need a better weapon.
Straight? Too long of a run to a single-story cafe. Useless.
Right? Warehouse. Perhaps a hundred ten meter sprint. Doable. Warehouse yields two stories, and an overview of the ground floor, if the predictability of architecture is followed through in the interior as well. Warehouse also might yield useful supplies. At least some long and blunt tool.
He had twelve seconds left. Apartment or warehouse? Right, he's going to go right.
Sherlock is quick to push himself to a run just as that corpse rounds into view. He hears the snarl, throws a glance over his shoulder, before looking ahead. Twenty meters left.
He swings the door, sets it shut as his gun is raised, aimed into the warehouse, back pressing against said door. He stills his breath, no inhale. Just listens, looks.
He's alone. Brilliant.
Additional Information: n/a