TEST DRIVE MEME #10

[sailmods]

a. that's where we both belong

[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! I'm so happy you could join us!

[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.]

b. and there's plenty of that down by the sea

[it’s strange to think about, isn’t it? how all those new passengers, the ones grumbling or shouting their way through the forced muster drill, have absolutely no idea what happened just last month. no idea about the labyrinth. no concept of why anyone around them would be a bit more hesitant around shadows.

they’ll learn.

sometimes a shadow is darker than it’s supposed to be. very rarely does anything come of that; just a vague sense that someone is watching you, and little more. sometimes, though, the shadows move. sometimes they grab at your ankles as you walk. sometimes they give you a shove as you go down the stairs. sometimes they pull your hair, or pinch your arm.

sometimes you feel something sharp cut into your lower leg.

that’s not a shadow, though. that’s a fiddler crab. you see the crab, sometimes. the cut isn’t from its claws, which don’t look very intimating; it’s not a very large crab. the cut is from the large kitchen knife crudely taped onto its back. it’s probably fine. it's not chasing you. there isn't evil in its heart. probably.]

c. think I'll go back to the Keys

[one day, in the atrium, two pedestals suddenly appear. on each is a large button: one green, and one blue. pressing the blue button gives you a little treat, popping out of thin air next to you. pressing the green button sends a small electric shock through your body. weird, but, hey, pretty avoidable, right?

except, it seems to be spreading. to every other button on board.

in the elevator. on the soda machine. the arcade. your phone. the bell on Friday’s desk.]

Comments

[bedrockfriend]

He can see Arthur not looking at him, and his stomach sinks even as his eyes narrow. Sure, Arthur wasn't much for eye contact when he wasn't trying to glare someone down, but he didn't avoid Parker.

Despite himself, despite the hard-boiled judgement demanding he keep his gun up and pointed at the man who killed him - Arthur's a mess. His heart aches, seeing him look wretched like that.

And with some hesitation, knowing he could very well be setting himself up for round two, he puts the gun back in its holster. And steps forward, quiet and careful. "You wanna talk cruel, Les, you oughta try looking in a mirror some day." Another failed attempt at lightness, when his throat throbs again, and he swallows thickly. "Mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

[bedrockfriend]

He tilts his head slightly, as he moves up to keep pace with the man, but the warm grin stays in place. "What, no one keeping an eye on the gin mills here? Feels like a lotta trust, letting the alcohol sit pretty like that."

[theotherright]

The splintered edges of Parker's voice puncture through Arthur's denial. His left hand closes compulsively on nothing, finger by finger. This, on top of everything else, is too much, it's too fucking much and it makes him want to sink to the floor in a sobbing heap; he wraps himself in brittle distance and stays on his feet, but something like an ugly giggle whistles out of his throat at the suggestion that he might ever look in a mirror again.

"Shit." To himself. This is not how he wants Parker to see him. Parker, who's here, by bad luck of the draw, by whatever the hell a gatcha is, or maybe betrayed and summoned by Arthur's own subconscious wish. Ridiculously, it occurs to Arthur to be glad he hasn't been drinking.

"I- right. Of course, you'll... want explanations."

The words coming out of his mouth don't sound real to him, any more than they did back when he was standing in their unseen office, talking to a voice in his head. And instead of those explanations, instead of saying he's sorry, instead of telling Parker that he's missed him so god damn much every day for the last nine months or more, what he says next is:

"W-what... what's the last thing you remember?"

Ripping off a bandage to see how bad the wound is -- at Parker's expense, of course.

[bedrockfriend]

It's a practical question, but it's still one that makes Parker lift his hand to his throat and rub his neck with a grimace.

"Bit of a rich question," he comments, and this time there's no keeping the bitter edge out of his voice. "I ain't exactly gonna forget you killing me in a hurry."

Even if the details were a mess of motion and adrenaline, the last solid memories being the fucking book and the wild, mad look in Arthur's eyes...

But he keeps moving closer, less subtle in his steps as he tries to keep his outstretched hand steady. Not to touch just yet, but ready. Wanting to, despite himself.

[ss_buttcrack]

"Oh, it's about as free range as it gets. Same goes for anything else around here. Used to be Friday would show up to stop anyone underage from drinking but I'm not even sure she's doing that anymore."

Why does he feel like he's forgetting something? His head has been a mess these days... mostly on purpose since he's been drinking to forget Arthur. Oh! Right. Names. They should do that...

"Hey, I don't think I ever introduced myself. Sorry about that." He transfers his drink to his left hand so he can offer to shake with his right, "Commander John Crichton. Nice to meetcha."

[bedrockfriend]

He takes Crichton's hand in his own and gives him a firm, tight shake. Parker's is calloused, thick and scarred across the knuckles. Definitely someone familiar with violence, but now the smile finally reaches his eyes.

"Peter Yang," he drawls easily. "What kinda commander we talking, then? You don't see many of those going for the cocktails over something straight and hard."

His expression gives nothing away to tell if that innuendo was intentional or not.

[theotherright]

Well. He had a horrible feeling that the nerves in Parker's voice came from more than the strange situation.

"I wouldn't hurt you." It comes out quickly, frayed. Arthur's hurt a lot of people, some worse than others, but while he was partially responsible for Parker's death, he wouldn't have put his hands around his closest friend's throat. Crichton was the first time he went that far-- no, he's not, he's not thinking about Crichton or else the delicate house of cards that is his composure will come straight down.

He didn't react at all, at first, to Parker closing in on him. It's only when Parker's footsteps become audible on the wooden deck that Arthur cocks his head towards him, turning his body more definitely in Parker's direction, still not meeting his eyes. His hands half-lift, open, supplicating, his cane hanging from his wrist. His voice becomes faintly desperate, because he knows how this is going to sound but he needs Parker to believe him; the bitterness in his voice is beyond bearing.

"I-- when I opened the book, something took me over." Fuck, how is he going to explain John? Or, for that matter, explain this to John? "It sounds-- god, mad, I know. But I-I should have listened to you about the sign. There was a... a-an entity, inside the book, and it possessed me, and used my hands to..."

Saying the next part out loud, to Parker's face, feels as if he's leaping from a precipice. Arthur breathes out and then in like a punctured lung. But he finishes the confession.

"...to- kill you. I'm sorry. I'm... indescribably sorry. Christ, I don't think a day has gone by when I haven't thought about you."

[ss_buttcrack]

Crichton's taking note of those scars. Someone's lived a rough life. He notices that smile finally filling out all the way, too. Well, it's nice to not get an immediate cold shoulder for implying he's military, but now he worries it's going to be a disappointment instead.

(And, yes, he heard that potential innuendo but he is not feeling quite crazy enough to go reading into anything just yet... But maybe. Mr. Yang is handsome, he's gotta say. Not like it's off-limits anymore.)

"I save the hard stuff for closer to bedtime. And, I'm not military, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a civilian and a scientist. Actually, I'm an astronaut. I served as mission flight commander for the International Aeronautics and Space Administration. Well, I used to."

They've come up to Stand The Man now. It's empty at this time of day. As Crichton said, there isn't anyone behind the bar manning it either. Crichton will casually walk around behind it and pull up a glass. "What'll it be?"

[bedrockfriend]

He pauses quietly when Arthur talks, when he explains-- well. He hadn't had much chance to think about it at the time, and it's really only been the time between waking up here, having a small panic attack in his room about it and the weird shit that was everything about this boat.

But... well, God damn it, he believes Arthur. He wants to believe him, which isn't the same thing but he knows Arthur.

Or, he thought he did. But a guy doesn't just turn around and strangle his partner of five years if there's not something else going on there.

"I told you not to fuckin' touch it," he says wryly, but he moves closer again - and finally puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Aren't I always right, Arthur?"

[bedrockfriend]

The fact that Crichton goes up behind the bar immediately and knows what he's looking for certainly rings a little alarm bell for Parker - the bright tinkle of a door chime leading to a horrible basement.

He doesn't ignore it, but he lets himself be swept up in what Crichton's saying, and frowns as he leans his elbows on the bar. "You don't happen to know how to make a Corpse Reviver, do ya? Still feels like I could use one."

[theotherright]

Relief comes over Arthur's face in a wave, and doesn't go away even when he tenses at the touch that he quite literally can't see coming (and god, that's an elephant in the room that's going to have to be addressed at some point). Air escapes his lungs again, but this time it's more like letting out a long-held breath; his shoulders finally relax. He's gone over this conversation in his head hundreds of times -- in dreams, on walks, in the shower, involving pleading, involving shouting -- but he never thought he'd actually have it. And Parker's...

Parker seems to believe him. Parker's got a hand on his shoulder as if nothing happened, and he doesn't sound cold.

Arthur closes his eyes. They're wet when he opens them again. His smile, too, is wet. He puts a hand on Parker's arm, a relatively certain target, and finds solidity, not a ghost or an illusion. It's entirely selfish for him to be glad to hear Parker's voice again, but he is selfish, and he is so, so glad.

"Only nine times out of ten, Parker."

[ss_buttcrack]

It's not the basement he really needs to worry about, it's the attic. There's a weird guy up there in a Halloween mask.

"Can't say I've heard of that one before. My specialties are with tequila." He's giving Parker a more thorough look-over now, though. Still feels like he needs it... why?

"Let me tell ya, the feeling is mutual. If you can walk me through what's in it, I'll try making one for both of us."

[bedrockfriend]

That gets a dry laugh, which gets cut off briefly by a short cough when he winces - and when he lifts a hand to rub his neck, Crichton will definitely spot the bruising around his neck, just fresh enough to turn those really nasty colours.

"Gin, triple sec, uh- white wine and absinthe?" He shrugs a shoulder as he lowers his hand. "Couldn't really tell you, I don't do business on your side of the bar for a reason. Tastes like lemons and a car battery, supposed ta be able to wake the dead."

[ss_buttcrack]

He's spotted it, all right. He turns a serious look on Parker. "If I try and make that I might put us back in the grave instead. Why don't I stick with what I know?"

He knows how to make a long island ice tea and that should be plenty strong enough, so he starts gathering the ingredients. Once he's got it all in front of him, he finally drops the question that's been hanging in the air between them.

"That from here or home?" He motions at his own throat to indicate that he's seen the damage.

[bedrockfriend]

"Yeah, but it's always those nine that matter, 'fore your one comes knocking," he points out readily.

He doesn't ignore the wet redness in Arthur's eyes, but it's never done do any good to point it out. Instead his hand roams, gently brushing between Arthur's shoulders before it wraps around his other shoulder and turns into a warm squeeze.

"But I gotta figure, now, if you've been here longer than me, you might have some idea what the hell's up with the Titanic we're finding ourselves taking passage on."

[bedrockfriend]

Parker's eyes flick to the drink as Crichton makes it, and he takes it with a fresh smile and a slight raise of cheers. Because hey, he'll try anything once. And that smile doesn't shift when Crichton points out the obvious.

"A friend back home had a bit of a bad turn," he says evenly, light with dismissal. "Turns out it wasn't one of my better ideas tryin' to talk him down. But, eh." He shrugs one shoulder. "One of the hazards a' being an investigator, I guess. You never know how far you're sticking your neck out 'til the headsman swings."

C.

[guildmastermind]

"From what I've seen it's hardly the Milgram experiment. More like an operant conditioning chamber. Skinner box."

The fact that the person making that comment is dressed in a white cloak and carrying a tall wooden staff, like someone cosplaying a wizard, may make the situation weirder. But he does, at least, hold up the staff silently, offering to press the button with it instead.

c

[ablativeholopleather]

"Yeah, don't do that. Miss Friday will tut at you."

The voice coming from behind Chip is half muffled by a mouth full of soft pita bread, and belonging to a man shorter than the professor by a fair amount, but with horns that arc up and give his head the appearance of a crescent moon. He's wearing a black pleather jumpsuit with its sleeves tied around his waist, and a crop-top baseball tee with a demon skull and weapons on the chest. Every inch of his skin is a bright, even yellow, and he looks like he needs about a year's worth of naps.

A gloved hand reaches out and presses the button instead to hold it down, the covering reducing the shock considerably.

[chipsahoy]

"Alright, anachronistic, much?" he asks, looking the other man up and down and gesturing at the cloak and staff before nodding towards the button. He's more than happy to accept help where he can't get his sugary, fizzy pop fix without suffering an injury.

"So what is it? Hedge witch? Wizard? Warlock? Definitely not warlock, you're too cheery-looking for that or necromancy. Always pushing the stereotype in black-on-black. Could be a priest..." he trails off in thought, tongue darting across lips that move too quickly, spilling words in nervous bursts of unfiltered thought.

"Sorry. Dr. Hallewell," he hums, holding out his free hand, all spindly fingers and slightly too-short suit cuffs.

"Chip is fine. Not sure my degrees mean anything here, anyways."

[guildmastermind]

The offered hand is accepted, once the cup is safely filled. Wooden staff--it doesn't conduct the shock at all.

"Shiroe. Enchanter, and engineering graduate student. What fields are your degrees in? They might somehow end up relevant."

[chipsahoy]

"I'm terribly sorry and I don't intend to be rude but there's really no way for me to gently ask what the hell you are," he coughs softly, swaying slightly away as the other...man? Presses the button, dispensing his much-needed sweet drink. He does not, however, move far enough away to lose grip on his cup, determined to get what he wants at the low cost of sharing air space with a horned lemon.

"I'm taken back to early film theory courses, watching that 20th-century Trip to the Moon film," the Brit mumbles, gazing wide-eyed at his current company before clucking his tongue in frustration.

"I am nothing if not incredibly ill-mannered at the moment and I apologize profusely. I shouldn't be startled by anything these days, but here we are."

[chipsahoy]

Offering a firm, polite shake, Chip nods once, pausing to sip from his drink as he regards Shiroe with a sidelong look.

"Enchanter like imbuing things with magical properties or enchanter like manipulating the minds of others, because that distinction determines the trajectory of this conversation, I'm afraid," the Londoner remarks, taking another few sips of the drink with an expression of transparent relief.

"Well, I have my undergrad at Cambridge. I got my doctorate in Western Esotericism, then went for my MA and DPhil in philosophy and religious studies. Mostly Hermetic Tradition, magic, esoteric influence, spirit possession, alchemy, ahh, metaphysics, ethics, and radical political philosophy. I was working on Ancient Near Eastern Prophetic Tradition. Writing a dissertation on spirit possession in the early modern Jewish world. Then I got a little side-tracked. I don't think my degrees are going to mean too much under the circumstances," he remarks, gesturing around them with his cup and arching a brow.

"But I've been wrong before. It's actually quite surprising how often science and magic tend to intersect."

[guildmastermind]

"Oh, you're going to hate this answer then. Neither, Enchanter like the support caster subclass in the MMORPG Elder Tale. That said, you're going to be surprised how relevant some to the all of the everything you just listed might be here, given the different worlds and different magic systems people here are used to. And the fact that, um. This ship used to be powered by ghosts?"

Look, he's still catching up on everything, he's only barely been here longer than Chip.

A

[serialskiller]

"...sniffing the lei isn't the usual weirdest way people examine it. There's a lot of people who lick it to see if it's bone. It is, by the way."

The individual commenting was watching the muster drill from the sidelines. It's built like a military propaganda poster, wearing a dinosaur hoodie and literally squirms and turns away from that direct eye contact as it speaks.

"And no, I don't know what Stepford Wives are. Though I'm 95% certain there has at one point been a book by that title in the library. Not sure if it's there now. Why is it relevant?"

[chipsahoy]

"Well, I don't know the first thing about video games. Mm, actually not entirely true, I've played a little here and there but I'm more of a books man. Couldn't afford games as a boy and couldn't afford the time as an adult, you know?" he muses, rubbing his chin a moment as he considers the revelation regarding his education; no less interesting is that Shiroe isn't put off by his specialties.

"I'm sorry, powered by ghosts? As in, lingering spirits of the deceased?" he asks, blinking at the other man a moment before reeling back with a shake of his head as if just registering a strange flavor in his mouth, only then connecting things Shiroe said to the conversation at present.

"Hold on now, wait. A what? What is a 'support caster subclass'? Are you putting me on right now? A video game?"