sail_ooc | TEST DRIVE MEME #7

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TEST DRIVE MEME #7

1. before she hung up, she said she was a skeleton

[there is no note in your cabin. no forces stall your legs if you decide to walk anywhere but the atrium. in fact, for the first time in hundreds of years, newly arrived passengers on the Serena Eterna are waking up with absolutely no guidance. nothing but your fellow passengers in the halls - or maybe in your bed.

perhaps you end up in the atrium eventually anyway. it is where guest services is, and where Gal Friday… actually hasn’t been in a few days. until today. and she is visibly frazzled, her hair uncoiffed, her suit rumpled, something a bit like a bruise blossoming down from her hairline and over her smooth features. more papers than ever cover her desk, and when she turns to face you, her voice is as cheerful as ever, but audibly strained.]

Welcome aboard the Serene Eterna! [a pause] You know how to work a life vest, right? Everyone knows that! You don’t need me to teach you that!

[a light bulb burns out behind her head.]

… I’ll get right on that!

[freedom includes the freedom to not know what the fuck is happening. maybe you should reflect on that.]

2. grandma went and can't stop screaming

[it’s something about the lighting fixtures, this month. has the Bellona always had a massive chandelier? maybe. who knows. don’t ask questions. either way, in the stillness of the night, or day, or late afternoon, there is a noise like a cord being cut, and the chandelier plunges into the audience below.

it hits nothing, of course. no one is ever in the theater. and that, perhaps, is what the trouble is.

so, the chandelier starts to… travel, one could say. it starts to hang in various rooms: the dining halls, the bars, the clubs… sometimes, if you’re out on the pool deck and suddenly realized you’re under a shadow, you can glance up and see it suspended 20 feet above your head, securely fastened to nothing in particular and yet remaining perfectly in place.

until it isn’t. until it falls, crystal shattering on whatever surface it lands on: floor, table, person… and, wherever the chandelier goes, a lilting childish voice follows it, singing without any obvious source.]

Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies… ashes, ashes, we all…

3. jeff bezos murdered the infinite tommy bahama

[the lights of the Infinite Tommy Bahama go out three days into October.

barely an hour after its closure, the lights go on again, and a new banner is unfurled.

physically, it is the same store. you can even see the old signs hidden behind the new ones. however, long gone are the tropical prints and khaki dress shorts. now, one can purchase any number of officially licensed or legally distinct Halloween costumes, decorations, and various other haunted accoutrements, leading back as far as the eye can see, and then farther still. is that a Gal Friday mask? spooky! well, at least you’ll be good and ready for the Halloween party at the end of the month, which is absolutely just a normal party and in no way whatsoever anything even remotely resembling a trick. there are only treats at The Infinite Spirit Halloween!

note: bahamanuel is still here! somewhere! it kinda looks like dan bongino.]

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The mirror showed him many things. He saw, for a moment, eons of existence. Devices from times and places far, far removed from Arthur's own.

He's also started by the fucking clown.

A much louder "Jesus fucking christ!" overlaps Arthur's own as John nearly jumps out of his fucking mask.

Well that's even more startling!!!!

Arthur doesn't realise at first that he's hearing John's voice from somewhere in physical space behind him. He's a little too busy reacting to the fact that he's hearing John's voice at all.

"What? What? What the fuck? No, no, how could that-- that, that can't be--"

He starts moving away from that noisy fucking clown as if it's the one talking in John's voice -- which, for all he knows, it might be? The captain knows a lot and made everything and likes to fuck with people, so, not impossible? Arthur sounds surprised and alarmed, more than anything else, and not necessarily in that order.

Arthur, as always, flails first and thinks second, and in this way collides with John, who is still staring at the fucked up looking stupid clown automaton like it'll do more than laugh in a looping motion.

Arthur's body collides with his, a concept strange to think about so soon after their previous experiences together. Automatically his hands move to Arthur's upper arms to steady him, or just to keep him from fumbling into him more than he already has.

To head off even more panicking, he just says "Arthur, it's me."

But he pauses, knowing he needs to continue from there but not knowing how to start. Especially with that fucking clown still laughing in the background.

Edited 2022-10-09 04:00 (UTC)

So to recap: Arthur has been startled by an insane clown laughing noise, heard John's voice for the first time in nearly a month, and then bumped into and been grabbed by the someone with John's voice, a thing which makes no sense on its face.

This is nightmarish!

"What the fuck," he says again, pulling away sharply, holding his cane like a weapon. He barely misses backing straight into a shelf full of plastic animal skeletons. "No, you don't-- John doesn't have a body. How- how- how would you be standing there."

There. Acknowledgement. Even a bit of sense, because Arthur's right, John shouldn't have a body. Not one of his own.

What he feels, is... Annoyance. Anger. He sets his shoulders and tips his head.

"The same way I woke up on a fucking ocean liner." he says - and an equation computes, a blank space of assumption filled, a 'therefore' resolved: "The same way you woke up here without me in your head."

He knows this isn't Arthur's world either, so it stands to reason he appeared here the same way. How long must he have wandered blindly without his help.

Even without seeing, Arthur stares.

It's not impossible. It's not even implausible. The most unlikely part would be, out of all the billions of people in their universes, them both being picked at random -- and that's even assuming the captain picks at random. And after that? They're copies. Second printings. Some people not even quite the same as they were before. If the captain can make a ship and everything in it, then making John a body would be child's play.

Oddly enough, this doesn't make him feel better; it more sort of moves him emotionally sideways, into:

He's imagined what he'd do if John were here. Of course he has. How could he not? All the things he has to say to John, that have had nothing to do but circle and grow in his head for the last month. The talks he's had with Crichton; the drunken conversation about Parker.

He laughs. He can't help it. It's a stunned sort of sound. "Jesus. I didn't think I'd-- jesus christ. Well-- come here, let me get a, get a look at you."

The backs of Arthur's calves are touching the shelf behind him. He leans his cane against it, the better to hold up both hands and beckon with them as he steps forward again.

"You have a body!"

He feels giddy. He can hardly believe his luck, nor think past the next few seconds of his life. After that, whatever happens can happen; he just has one very important thing he needs to do.

John is tense, ready to - to argue more, to insist that he's here and real, to -

He's not sure. When he woke up, he thought... He thought the conversation about the auditorium, the mirror, that would be urgent. Then he moved his own mouth and heard his own voice in the air.

His shoulders ease back down, slowly, and he finds himself almost chuckling too, sort of, at how... unbelievable this all is. John has his own body, and Arthur has his. That crisis, that mystery, has apparently been solved by whatever put them both here.

He doesn't even correct Arthur on who's seeing whom. He just steps forward.

"Arthur, I..."

"I felt a bit lost, you know," Arthur interrupts him, "when I first woke up here without you. Panicking, I suppose. Ah-- there you are."

His hands have found John's arms, and travel up to his shoulders, as he marvels at-- well. John achieving exactly what he wanted: his own body, the final step of their separation. It's amazing, really, how that's worked out after everything. Suddenly, unexpectedly, and perfectly -- for one of them.

"God, you really-- you really are standing here."

Arthur moves closer, his left hand light on John's shoulder, his right rubbing his own face in amazement.

"Oh, and--" He laughs again, very quietly, and pats John's shoulder. "Oh, you're... you're about my height."

That makes this a lot easier, then. Arthur brings up his knee very quickly into John's groin, and his right fist just as quickly up into his stomach.

Arthur's left hand moves, and perhaps this is the mistake John makes, staring at it, noticing how the fingers move without any stiffness or numbness, and how tight it grips just as-

John wasn't able to directly feel the pain Arthur felt through most of their journey together. Through the parts of him he had... taken, that pain was felt as clearly as if it was his own, because - well, it was. And through the mirror... Pain mattered as much or as little as anything else, and something that always happened to somebody else.

He isn't ready at all for the explosion of pain that comes from a knee to the groin, is what we're saying.

John folds like a cheap chair as quick as Arthur's blows to him, unable to get out more than an inarticulate noise before the air is knocked out of him and his new (and nearly new) legs give out.

Arthur, what the fuck.

Damn. That wasn't as satisfying as he'd hoped it would be. Maybe he'll even feel bad about it later. Now, though? Now his voice snarls out, and he's floating on adrenaline. He steps back and lets John crumple to the floor, but doesn't go in to kick him while he's down, as tempting as that idea is to a violent animal part of his brain.

"I hope it's everything you wished for, you fucking parasite. Did you get that made for you when you arrived, or did you finally finish taking it from me back home?"

John is still wheezing on the floor, winded twice over by Arthur's outburst. It's the only thing stifling his white hot fury at Arthur's words and actions, spit in his face after he thought he'd taken everything from Arthur, that he rejected what he was too late to save Arthur's consciousness, that the choice he made meant nothing at all - and still doesn't matter.

Yes, he wanted to become whole again, but he refused when the cost became clear. Did that mean nothing? How little Arthur understood - and to blame John when he was the idiot who listened at the auditorium, who bound himself to that table? Who followed what the damn folio said and who didn't use the light when John told him to? He rejected John's advice and still blamed him for their misfortune?

He wants to hurt him back, to tell him that he did indeed take it all from Arthur, and he would never get it back, not even his fucking eyes, that he would do it all again with no thought, over and over again and that Arthur means nothing, just to shut him up for this outburst, so he can feel the same pain John is and more. But his mouth doesn't seem to want to work in sync with what air he can draw in, not as fast as the tension in his body and anger in his chest demands.

Instead, he lunges forward into Arthur's legs.

Arthur should have predicted that this might happen. Maybe he, too, is too used to John not having physical form, or maybe he just wasn't thinking; either way, he's not braced for an attack, and he can't see to dodge it, so when John hits his legs he goes backwards like a dropped sack of potatoes.

The clown keeps screeching and laughing at them, its sensors set off over and over by the violent motion going on in front of them.

"Agh," Arthur opines as his shoulder cracks painfully into the display shelf behind him. Several of the animal decorations there fall, and for a moment he's bathed in a shower of plastic skeletons with empty eyes and anatomically-confusing ears.

"Shit," he elaborates, as he lands on his back on the floor, just barely catching himself with one arm before his head cracks into the ground, his other arm momentarily paralysed and clanging with pain.

"Fuck you," he adds in summary of his argument, kicking with his legs as hard as he's able, hoping that a knee or foot will hit something vulnerable.

"Ugh John agrees as he falls into Arthur, who is falling against a shelf of false skeletons.

"Fuck-" John offers as a counterpoint, as Arthur's knee catches his chest and his foot tangles in his robes, preventing John from getting any meaningful use from that arm other than to keep Arthur's leg busy.

"Fuck you!" he concludes, not originally, as he tries to wrap his arm around that caught leg and haul himself up to land his left fist blindly on some part of Arthur's body.

When he's done with Arthur that fucking clown is next.

"You show up here-- agh," says Arthur furiously, interrupted by the noise he makes when John's fist hits the side of his ribcage. He grabs at that spot, finding fabric, plentiful rough fabric-- are those robes? Is John wearing their fucking robes? You know what, that's not important right now.

"I'll make you wish I could kill you--"

With the sleeve in his grip, Arthur climbs it hand-over-hand back up to John's head, and aims a wild punch at where he thinks John's face must be.

It doesn't perfectly connect. He manages a glancing blow against something hard and angular that jars his knuckles even as he feels it move under them. Arthur growls out an "Ow," and pulls his bruised fist automatically back towards his body, and only then realises: the mask? The fucking mask as well?

He's now holding onto the throat of John's robe with only one hand, his leg tangled in John's arm.

John releases Arthur's leg as he feels his way up his other arm, so when the punch comes and knocks his head back and his mask askew, he is free to swing that arm into the one holding his throat.

He squints through the offset eyes of the mask at Arthur's face, and with his own face twisting up he digs his fingers into Arthur's forearm.

"Fuck you! I should have taken everything from you!" he growls.

Their positioning is... awkward, but John doesn't think beyond striking Arthur back, so he manages what he can with his left on the outside of this engagement - he swipes his palm at Arthur's head.

John's palm connects, because, like, what's Arthur going to do? See it coming?

He's winding up for another punch, hanging onto John's robe despite the pain of those fingers digging mercilessly into his arm, when the slap takes him full in the face. It stings like an absolute bitch, and he tastes blood in his mouth -- the angle and the force made him bite the inside of his cheek.

John's words wake up something twisting and insane in him.

Arthur spits blood at John. His fingers on John's robe are loosening against his will as John's fingers dig between his radius and ulna, so he grabs with his left hand as well and drags him sideways in a crocodile roll, landing with Arthur on top.

"You should've?" He's shouting now, his voice whetted to a vicious edge. "Fuck you! What if I take them back!"

His right arm tries to twist free. His left hand darts up from John's collar. John's face has to be around here somewhere. He'll go through the sockets of the mask if he has to.

John is filled with furious, roaring rage, and as it always does, it escapes him as laughter. Cruel laughter, and then-

"Fuck!" he spits as they roll over.

The rage ebbs to a level where he just growls.

The downside of having his own body, he realizes, is that it truly removes much of the leverage he had on Arthur. Before, he could have laughed in Arthur's face and taunted him that he would be giving up all chance of getting his eyes back, but now...

It's an issue he is aware, distantly, that they will have to address. One that's concerning and raises many questions, but for now, he reaches awkwardly over Arthur's arm to try to catch the hand pawing at his face.

"Arthur-!" He grits out. He shuts his eyes against the blood that's dripped on his mask and Arthur's sesrching fingers as the it goes further askew, threatening to reveal what's beneath.

John growls and bucks, trying to throw Arthur off-balance, if not off him entirely.

(And for thise still wondering: the clown is still laughing.)

Edited 2022-10-09 22:49 (UTC)

Arthur's current quest is single-minded enough that he's caught unawares when John bucks under him. He's not thrown off, but he's knocked off-balance, and his left hand automatically goes to catch him-- escaping John's attempt to grab him, only to slam elbow-first into a floor that's much closer than anticipated.

"Shit!" he says loudly, as his arm seizes up painfully for the second time in quick succession; and now he rolls off of John.

Arthur said he was going to go see what the Tommy Bahama had changed into for Halloween, but that was a while ago. He's still not back. Maybe Crichton's just being a little overprotective but... what if that monster is still in there? He'd better go check.

As he approaches the shop, he can hear the unmistakable sound of a scuffle and shouting. Frell! Crichton grabs his gun from his holster and sprints into the store... just in time to see the two fully grown men grappling with each other on the ground. And one of them is wearing robes in a shade of yellow he's seen before.

"Arthur?! What the hell is going on?"

Arthur falls and John follows, scrambling to get his leg over him and get on top.

He should really stand, but - it would take too long to untangle from the mess of yellow robes, yes. He bunches his cloth-wrapped fists in Arthur's shirt.

"Listen to me, Arthur!" he says-

But he stops when the other voice cuts in.

Crichton finds a man draped in yellow robes over top tighter-fit black robes, wrapped tight up to his head. The pale mask, with its rough cut jaw and brow, sits askew on his face. While there are eyes visible through the eyeholes of the mask, behind the askew sides of it there is only an absent void where a face should be.

"Who the fuck is that?" John says.

Arthur's clothes are no less askew than John's mask, and there's a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," he says hysterically. It's not really a sensible answer to either of their questions, but from his choice of words, it can be determined that he's taken in Crichton's arrival and sort of responded to what he said.

He gets hold of John's robe again and attempts a reprise of the crocodile roll, but this time John's knees are planted too firmly on either side of him, and he only succeeds in pulling some fabric skewiff.

O-kay. Clearly, Crichton is missing something here. Arthur doesn't seem to be in the state of mind to elaborate. Fine. He'll do his own introductions.

"Hiya," he says with a cheerful wave, completely at odds with Arthur's declaration of intended murder.

"Commander John Crichton here; I'm Arthur's roommate. Wanna tell me who you are Mustard Man before Arthur manages to take a piece out of you?" Note, Crichton is doing absolutely nothing to stop Arthur's attempts to do just that.

Arthur's yanking around of his robe does at least tug John off-balance, and so for the moment he's preoccupied with counter-struggling against Arthur's struggling. It does at least draw this stalled moment out enough for John to notice the weapon the other man named John has drawn.

"Take a piece out of- roommate?!" John (in the mask) begins, stops short, and looks down at Arthur.

The man has a weapon and his thoughts should be turned towards disarming him, getting himself and Arthur to safety, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, "Arthur, what the fuck is he talking about?"

Crichton's here to back him up, and John just keeps asking him what's going on, and it finally dawns on Arthur that this situation should be giving him deja vu: John's new to this universe, popped in without ready explanation. But this time Arthur knows what's going on, Arthur's the one with leverage, John's the one clueless and full of questions and Arthur's the one with the answers.

It's not funny, necessarily, but a cackle bursts out of him all the same: an unpleasantly triumphant noise that's not a million miles off from that of the stupid fucking halloween clown.

The urge to literally pop out John's fucking eyeballs has passed, but that doesn't mean Arthur's not still carried away with fury at him. For murdering Parker, a better man than either of them. For tearing away that little bit of stability and comfort that Arthur had built back up after everything. For showing up here and trying to talk to Arthur as if he'd be welcome, as if he'd be wanted.

"He's my friend," Arthur says, and he grins with all his teeth, and drags at John's robes as if to pull him closer so that he can't miss a word. He hopes hearing this hurts John. He hopes it hurts like a knife to their gut. "I don't need you, John. No-one here needs you, and no-one here wants you. Go to hell."

There's something so remarkably feral about that laugh from Arthur, and the spread of his teeth. He's only ever seen the man like that when he's on the edge of his sanity thinking about things from... home. Puzzle pieces are falling into place. These two are speaking to each other like they know each other. Have history with each other. What really clinches it is that name. That name he's heard on Arthur's lips when he's talking to himself. Only, he was never just talking to himself.

I don't need you, John.

No. It can't be. Can it?

Horror-stricken, Crichton turns to look a that masked face, look into the eyes behind it, and his gun comes up and is now firmly trained on that sharply angled space between the eye holes.

"Arthur... Is this who I think it is? Is this the voice from your head?"

TEST DRIVE MEME #7

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lmao spoilers for season 1 that didn't take me long

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walks into the flaming store holding a pizza box

my god it's crichton with the chair

[distant sound of john cena intro music]

and the crowd goes wild!

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