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

[ligero]

"Not Zaharoff." He speaks the man's name coldly: it'd been his first consideration, too, but this is far beyond the pale. Were an arms dealer looking for revenge on them both, Cyrus expects he'd be more direct about it. "If that was what you were wondering."

He sighs, casting his gaze out toward the sea. No landmarks; nothing familiar. Not even his old sailor's instincts can tell him where they are this time. They may as well be floating in an overlarge pool for all he can tell.

"Nor Huan. Nor your brother. But we are far from alone: all seem near as confused as we are."

[conclusively]

"Good. The last thing you or I need is to be worrying about their welfare while so baffled."

Sherlock would find a way to risk his life in two days or less. Huan, he trusts more in terms of self protection, but he still would not see the man come to harm if it was in his power. And none of their enemies suggests this is not something that could be achieved by any standard means.

"Every ship must have a captain. Yet I've seen no sign of them so far."

[ligero]

He hums his agreement. He doesn't need a Holmes' deductive prowess to know they're thinking the very same things about their friends. (Though he might have Huan along, even if Mycroft wouldn't: his old friend is more formidable than he by far, particularly now that Cyrus has an ailing heart to worry about.)

"Well, if we are quite free to move, I would suggest we begin searching for answers," Douglas replies, still sounding a bit miffed.

With a slight incline of his head, he urges Mycroft away from the railing. It's a large vessel; God only knows how much ground there might be to cover.

"If not the captain, we may at least find our quarters."

[conclusively]

"Yes. I'll show you where I awoke, in case you ever have need of me. The strange contraption I was left with did seem to be capable of messaging people provided one knew their name and cabin number - it will be invaluable."

He means a cell phone, but no one explain it's a phone, we can't destroy him entirely. Not yet.

[ligero]

Messaging? With a contraption? Cyrus' mental image is something like a very small and very weird telegraph.

"Where you awoke?" Cyrus furrows a brow. "Should we not stay together? God knows whatever else might be on this vessel-- I should hate for anything to separate us before we can escape this place."

If they're fortunate, they should be able to escape within the day. So he hopes, anyway.

[conclusively]

"We'll have to see what we can do. The largest problem to me is that I cannot figure out what ocean we are in, nor where we are headed. I would not steal a lifeboat with you and try to sail off without an idea of where we were going - such a thing would mean our certain deaths from delirium more likely than not."

The cabin he enters is thankfully one where he woke up alone - identical to the others, if he had seen them, save for where he had thrown back the covers in an angry fit. The couch, at least, is safe, and he sits on it heavily. There's enough room for Cyrus as well, if he wants to.

[ligero]

He paces before Mycroft first, wondering aloud:

"Nor can I, on both counts. The boat itself, far as I can tell, is beyond any that I know," and advanced, impressively and unbelievably so-- or, rather, almost unbelievable, had everything about today not happened. "If the cruise director is to be believed, this is a vessel of leisure rather than the transport of goods."

A beat. At last, he takes a seat beside his friend; arms crossed in front of his chest, expression unsettled. In all the commotion, he'd shoved the sight of Gal Friday to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later on. Finally, and with no other leads, he can avoid it no longer.

"What do you make of the faceless woman, with the strange garlands?"

[conclusively]

"Are we so certain she is a woman at all, and not something else?"

He's not superstitious. He's not, though he reads enough tales and hears enough things. But there is something unsettling down to his bones to look at someone without a face.

[ligero]

"You know that I have never been one given to superstition," Cyrus speaks: slow, deliberate with his words. "She calls herself a woman. She appears, to the eye, to be a woman, if only from the chin down. I could scarcely guess at what else she might be."

He leans back in his seat; absently, he stares up at the ceiling.

"And yet..." He trails off, allowing the implication to hang where he'd left it. When he finally turns back to Mycroft, he looks uneasy.

"I don't wish to stay here long enough to find out."

[conclusively]

"Neither do I."

It's an admission he'd only make in private, when the flicker of disquiet and discomfort is across his face, and he hates not knowing what to do. All his brains, and what good are they doing him right now? Breathe, Holmes, and take in the situation again. Look at every angle.

"Douglas, you're the experienced sailor here. What all would we need to make a proper escape?"

[ligero]

"A sufficient enough distraction from our captors, first of all. A boat-- a stolen lifeboat might service, but it will not be easy. Provisions for a few days. Land within a distance of a few hours' rowing."

Cyrus, just a little deflated, hesitates. A few years ago, he might have said 'several'. Today, there are two fragments in his chest that would make that kind of exertion impossibly dangerous. Though it might make it harder, waiting for an even narrower opening to escape, if anything should happen to him-- what would happen to Mycroft? No: for his dear friend's sake, as much as his own, they cannot take any undue risk. "Four, at most," he continues quietly.

"However, this also presumes calm waters and that, upon making land, we will be in a country from whence we could access our funds and sail back to England." He pinches the bridge of his nose, wracking his brain. It isn't impossible. But it is all highly improbable. Desperate, even. "That is hardly guaranteed."