sail_ooc | TEST DRIVE MEME #2

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TEST DRIVE MEME #2

1. this hotel room got a lot of stuff

[you wake up.

it doesn't matter where you were before. going to bed? dying? opening the door to face a great evil? same result. you wake up in a soft bed with starched sheets in a cool, darkened room, sunlight peeking out from behind thick curtains. maybe you're alone; maybe you aren't. maybe you immediately notice the folded paper on the bedside table near your head. if you don't, you better fix that real quick: you won't be able to even open the door before you read it.

the note itself is written in a neat hand on white card stock; there is a stylized logo of a ship with the words SERENA ETERNA printed underneath. the note reads as follows:

Dear Passenger(s),

As your cruise director, it is my great honor to welcome you aboard the Serena Eterna, your destination for fun and adventure! We know you could have chosen any cruise line for your vacation, and we're very grateful you chose ours! On behalf of the Captain, I would like to assure each and every passenger that will we do whatever it takes to fulfill all your needs and desires during your journey with us.

At your earliest possible convenience, please attend the mandatory lifeboat drill by the end of the day. I'm sure everyone is very eager to get started on all the fun and sun, but safety always comes first! You can find your life jacket in your cabin's closet; carry it to your assigned muster station on deck one, where I will take you through the drill. If you can't find me in the crowd, just look for the gal with the winning smile!

See You Real Soon!

Sincerely,
Gal Friday

you walk to deck one. you have no other choice: every time you try to step in a direction some unseen being considers "not towards deck one," you find your legs no longer move, staying stock still, frozen. whether compelled quickly by curiosity, or delayed by pure stubbornness, the result is the same, and you are left milling around with other similarly curious or stubborn people.

you see someone in uniform near the front of the crowd. she seems to be a gal, but is missing the winning smile, along with most of her other features. she seems to see you, though, rushing to your side and placing a lei around your neck with great formality. a voice, cheery but artificial, sees to come from nowhere and everywhere.]

Welcome aboard! We're so glad to have you!

[you touch the lei. rooster feathers, lotus seeds, and a carved circle of something white and hard, linked onto a silk string.

after the drill is completed, you are seemingly free to go. or, well, your legs work, now. and maybe that's as good as it's gonna get.]

2. and a touch-tone phone

[chatterbox isn't exactly the most popular venue onboard. it probably has something to do with the distinct lack of open liquor bottles. so, nothing personal. except it seems that it's decided to take it that way, suddenly.

anyone enjoying the other amenities of deck five will feel the distinct sensation of being watched while they do so. the kind of feeling a prey animal gets while being stalked on the grasslands. something may slither by their foot, or past their elbow while they rest it on the bar, but nothing appears to be there when they look.

until there is.

a black electrical cord originating from somewhere will, first, wrap around their ankle, tugging in a very clear "follow" instruction. should this instruction be ignored, a second cord will wrap around their other ankle, and, once again, tug. should this clear final warning be ignored... well, now they're being dragged down the promenade, and that's really their own fault, isn't it. don't struggle. struggling means more cords show up. and none of them seem terribly aware that most species need to expand their lungs to live.

their final destination, no matter the journey, is chatterbox's main stage, where the karaoke machine awaits. the cords place a microphone in their hand; the mic's cords bind it tightly to their hand.

they don't have to pick a song. there isn't an actual gun to their head, in any literal sense. it's just, those cords really don't seem that interested in letting go until they do.

and if you were heading to chatterbox anyway? welcome to the weirdest goddamn karaoke night you've ever seen.]

3. and a bucket of ice (cw: cannibalism mention)

[no longer will scoops be bound by the shackles of only having 31 flavors. for this month, and this month only, a sign that very much looks like Friday hand-wrote it announces, they will have 32!

what is that mysterious 32nd flavor? it depends, really: the letters on the display case seem to shift and change with each new pair of eyes that fall upon them, with the contents changing along with it. someone from the capital wasteland might find some Nuka-Cola ™ branded ice cream. twilight town residents will be thrilled to find sea salt on the menu. and a frankly concerning amount of people bring out a flavor that only describes itself as "long pig." it's a weird off-white color. don't think about it too hard.]

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Realizing his forward motion is again his own to control is a relief, and Darlington's quick to break away from the rest of the crowd once the drill ends. He still doesn't know how he got here, how the basement of Rosenfeld--or the thing that swallowed him--came to turn itself into an open sea and a vast ship, but if he can't leave at least he can investigate. The deck is as good a place to start as any.

He doesn't get far before he's stopped again by a sympathetic voice, the other man's glasses glinting in the sun when he nods at him. "Between the note and all this," he says, waving a hand back at the muster area, "she does seem...invested in our presence here. I suppose theoretically, one doesn't need a face for that."

"It's not a theory I considered necessary to test before I found myself on this ship," Palamedes observes with a wry smile. He offers his hand. "Palamedes Sextus. Welcome to the Serena Eterna. You seem to be taking things well, everything considered."

"Darlington," he says, the handshake a little awkward given the life jacket still tucked under one arm. It might speak to how rattled he still is that merely hearing Palamedes mention testing a theory feels like a lifeline, but Darlington has always turned to experiments and knowledge and effort when all else seemed unfathomable. If anything, it's the most relatable thing he's heard all day, and a little of the tension leaves his frame.

"As for taking things well, appearances might slightly belie reality," he admits, though his smile is as wry as Palamedes' own. "Still, I have some experience with the unexpected, although suddenly finding myself on a ship in the middle of the ocean is a new one. How long have you been here?"

Technically, Palamedes' comment about testing a theory had been a self-deprecating sort of joke, and he certainly isn't expecting any kind of response from this new arrival. But he sees something like understanding flicker in the other young man's eyes, and it immediately makes him want to know him better.

"Well, you're not wailing and I haven't seen you try to throw yourself into the sea." A beat. "...to be clear, I don't this anyone has tried that upon arrival."

He has to stop for a moment and think about how long he has been on the ship, which is a strange sensation. Somehow, the time feels both infinite and brief. Is it because of all that has already happened, or some trick of the bubble they are all trapped in? "Seven weeks, give or take a few days. There are some people who have been here a little longer, but not by much."

And there are the revenants, of course, but let's get to those later.

"Oh God, no, throwing yourself into the sea in a hysterical fit is definitely an activity for a few weeks from now." It's not funny, not even something in good enough taste to joke about, but it was only two hours or so ago that Darlington was...consumed by something far above his pay grade and spat out here. Concessions might well be made. Especially ones that keep him from thinking about those last moments, or Alex's coldly impassive face as she'd stood by and done nothing but watch.

Seven weeks is a longer tenure than he'd been expecting, but he has no reason to doubt it--and no evidence to suggest that it's anything less than true. "What about less than that?" he says. "Or is the ship..." He trails off, breathing out a disbelieving little laugh. "Pulling in new passengers in batches, put bluntly."

It almost sounds like the societies' yearly tap, all those promising seniors--or legacy shoo-ins--ushered into a world they hadn't known was operating right beneath their noses. Depending what else this place holds, the secrets and mysteries it contains, it might very well be something exactly like that. The thought shouldn't intrigue Darlington as much as it already does.

“I haven’t been able to keep a precise roster,” Pal’s tone implies that he certainly wishes he could! “but I would estimate that until recently, all the passengers arrived between six and ten weeks ago, more or less. And now—“ he gestures to indicate the new arrivals still milling about the deck.

That all makes Darlington’s theory an tempting one, and Pal turns it over in his mind for a few moments in silence. Then, in a sudden burst of activity, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a small notebook and pencil.

“That really is an awfully intriguing point,” he says, speaking as much to himself as to his companion. “It may even say something about the power the Captain wields. Could it be cyclical?” Another flurry of writing. “If his power ebbs and flows, that could entirely change the game.”

"And now," is all Darlington can get out before something changes in Palamedes' face and he turns back to his notebook. He understands that reaction as clearly and with as much familiarity as Palamedes had clocked the relief that had flooded through him minutes earlier; it's a piece slipping into place, a new idea that makes the rest of them all the more whole, a flashbulb-stuttering shift in perspective that changes everything.

Sometimes, just a moment too late.

Darlington gives him space to write, taking in the scraps of theories as they're tossed to him. When the Captain comes up yet again, his eyebrows go up. "You're the second person to mention him to me in the last...well, as long as I've been here," he says, looking briefly around for Clarke. "But for one person to have control of that much power...it's impossible. Even taking a cyclical flow into account, or a nexus that waxes and wanes."

“Oh, I wouldn’t say impossible. Improbable, perhaps.” A wistful sort of expression briefly crosses his face. It’s an inside joke, but its appropriate audience isn’t present at the moment, and that still hurts.

Pal puts away his notebook and studies this stranger for a moment, looking more serious now as the conversation steers towards their captors. Though he is certainly friendlier than some of his fellow passengers, he still doesn’t trust easily. All the information they have collected so far points to the fact that the Captain will eventually try to turn them against each other, and Palamedes needs to spend a bit more time scrutinizing the newest arrivals, even the ones he is immediately inclined to like, before he lets them in on what he and his tentative allies have discovered.

Besides, does he really want to burden someone who just arrived with Peak Serena Eterna Weirdness?

For now, his tone remains light, his answer vague. “A number of us have been trying to investigate all that he can do and how he does it. Thus far, we have less information than I’d like, though I’m getting close to forming a couple of hypotheses.”

"Improbable, then," says Darlington, taking note of the brief, pained flicker of something on the other man's face but knowing better than to comment on it. "Definitely outside my own experience with magic and the dangers thereunto."

When Pal puts away his notebook and grows sober, it's easy--maybe too easy, too hopeful after the cold betrayal of the Rosenfeld basement--to take it as a sign he's gotten somewhere, that again some new facet of a mystery is about to be revealed to him. He needs it, because to be a knight of Lethe with no purpose, no reason to be the one standing between the known world and the things in the dark, feels like an impossibility.

I've met junkies before, Alex had said, and maybe she'd been right--not that he'd admit it, now or ever.

Instead, Pal gives him barely enough; polite, of course, and perhaps as much as Darlington might warrant, new as he is, but still hardly anything at all. It takes work not to show how much it stings. "Close is something, especially with too little to go on," he says. "And with the uncanny, I've found that sometimes too little all you're able to get at first. Better not to rush in unprepared." It's advice he wishes now the board would have taken, that sweltering day in July. "If there's anything I can do to help, though, please let me know."

“Thank you,” says Pal, his smile warm. He doesn’t think it’s entirely lost on his companion that he’s being cagey, and he feels bad about that. Darlington’s polite practicality is appreciated. “You know what they say about a little knowledge,” he observes wryly. “What is your experience with ‘the uncanny,’ as you call it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Darlington could give as little information about the Ancient Eight as Palamedes had just doled out about the ship and its mysterious unseen captain, and for a moment he considers it. Joining Lethe had meant pledging himself to maintaining the secrecy of the Houses, doing his utmost to keep the magic that powered the nexuses beneath each tomb controlled and contained, keeping the work of the societies hidden from the general population of Yale and of New Haven as a whole. That responsibility doesn't end, shouldn't end, because he's found himself somewhere unexpected.

But maybe it can be bent slightly, in the name of finding out something valuable or gaining a little more trust.

"I worked for a...kind of oversight body," he says. "We monitored the magical rites and rituals of a handful of organizations, all with their own particular needs and specializations. Divination. Glamours and perception magic. Logomancy. Necromancy. Portal magic." He ticks them off on his fingers as he goes, a hard knot forming in his gut at the last one, though he tries not to let it show. "Among others. I'm making it sound dry, but it was anything but, most of the time."

Perhaps unexpectedly, Palamedes lets out a puff of laughter. “Ah, I know all about oversight bodies,” he says wryly, then shakes his head. The Oversight Body is a bit of a Sixth House inside joke, forever peering over the shoulder at every scholar, waiting for them to accidentally dot a t or cross an i. “Though where I come from, the Oversight Body largely busies itself with enforcing paperwork standards for unruly scholars.”

Pal considers the rest of Darlington’s explanation with a thoughtful expression. “In the interest of full disclosure, said scholarship almost inevitably involved necromancy, so perhaps our work has a few things in common. Though I would have never even considered necromancy to be uncanny before coming here.”

Pal's laughter is unexpected but a relief, defusing a little more of the awkwardness that had lain between them as they'd both tried so hard not to tip their hands. It's not enough for either man to drop their guard entirely, but it's enough. "Oh, there was plenty of paperwork involved with Lethe," he says, his grin coming easily. "Weekly reports on rites observed, sanctions imposed, issues dealt with. Although there were blessedly few instances of the last two."

Until now, he thinks, and wonders what Alex's report on what should have been a routine trip to Rosenfeld Hall will even say. Whether she'll even have the decency to make note of it at all. It's out of his hands, and the thought will paralyze him if he indulges it too deeply. He puts it aside, pushes it down, and moves on.

Thank God for necromancy, which appears to be far more familiar to Palamedes than he might have expected. "It certainly sounds like there's an overlap," he says, and there's a sharper interest in his blue eyes as he looks at the other man. "But Book and Snake kept their knowledge of nekromanteía closely locked down. With all due respect, knowing them, that's probably for the best."

“We tend to be a secretive lot,” Palamedes confides wryly. This is definitely true, even if the reasons probably differ. “Though I should clarify—what we call necromancy is not entirely what people from other worlds seem to mean by the word. Necromancers can’t typically bring people back from the dead, for example. There are spirit-talkers, but revenants are unstable creatures, and they never stick around for long.” He gives a rueful smile. “I hope that isn’t too disappointing. I’m thinking of getting cards made up: Palamedes Sextus, Necromancer. But not that kind of necromancer.”

"Cards might save time," he agrees, his grin easy enough, though the keen interest in his expression remains. "The Lettermen are predominantly what it sounds like you'd term spirit-talkers. They did their share of raisings, too, but that more or less ended back in the seventies after a truly egregious incident."

Talking about the girl from Camden, her name lost to time and to the Lethe archives, puts enough distance between Darlington and the thought of an unstable spirit for it to feel academic rather than personal. It's enough, for now. "The instability of Greys--what you'd call revenants--is well-known where I'm from, too. There's enough documentation of when things go wrong to want to make sure everything goes right."

Palamedes isn’t quite sure what Darlington means by raising, though what springs to mind is poor Pro, who had not only suffered the fate of being murdered, but also the indignity of having his body puppeted in death until he literally fell apart. Whatever these Lettermen had once done, it sounds at least as unpleasant.

He nods. “They don’t like to be bothered by the living, and even when they can be called back, they rarely stay for long.” Pal is quiet for a moment. “Except for the revenants on this ship.” Has Darlington figured out about the ghosts yet? Well, now he knows! “Though in their case, the captain seems to have trapped them here.”

The surprise on Darlington's face should be all the answer Palamedes needs to the question of whether he'd worked out the presence of the Serena Eterna's ghostly population yet. The fact that it's replaced a moment later with an equally obvious curiosity, an almost hungry need for answers, tells his new acquaintance even more.

"Trapped spirits?" he says, and though no amount of desire has ever let him see Greys, Darlington's focus still shifts to the deck around them, hoping that maybe this time it'll be different. Maybe, this time, he'll have some scrap of what had come so easily to someone as undeserving of it as Alex. "The wards alone something like that would take, to not only draw them but keep them from traveling back through the Veil...I've never heard of anything that powerful."

“Neither have I,” says Palamedes with a small shake of his head. At least Darlington seems to be taking this all well—with concern, certainly, but not with horror or disbelief. Comforting, too, is the fact that while his vocabulary may be different, the concepts he speaks of are awfully similar. Taken together, it’s enough to spur Palamedes on.

“That’s been my experience with the captain in general,” he continues. “I can mostly trace the potential mechanics of what he does, but it’s all at a scale that should be impossible. Which leads to all sorts of interesting questions.”

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TEST DRIVE MEME #2

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