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TEST DRIVE MEME #10
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.]
no subject
But courtesy demands she answer his first, at least. Grace wracks her brain for the things Jack has said to her and comes on what she's looking for; Arthur is treated to an awkward but earnest curtsy. ~My name is Grace, mister vampire, and it is the only name ever given me. But...what exactly... is a vampire? You remind me more of a gentleman I knew.~
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There's a wry grin, Arthur thought she might not know the meaning of vampire, hence the superfluous details. After all, they're not aquatic by nature.
"It means, dear Grace, on the brink of death, I returned, at the price of drinking blood, though you hardly need to fear me." Not just because she could clearly handle her own, but Arthur isn't prone to violence, and never against women. Admitted, he already saw that Rouge, which they call the consumable blood, is in steady supply. Although the mystery of how still eludes him for now. "Hopefully this gentleman is a friend? I'd hate to have made a poor impression already!"
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Her visible eye refocuses as she gets to the end of that train of thought: The gentleman Jack was employed for violent work, but outside of his duties he was, I am given to understand, unfailingly polite by the standards of the city-folk. He went out of his way to check up on me, and inquire after my health, and to tell me a terribly great deal about London. If I have a complaint it is only that I needed the help of several other people to get him to realize that I lacked context for his stories.~
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"Ah!" the sapphire and ocean blue eyes light up cheerfully! "That must be it! He's a compatriot!" And a storyteller who used too many cultural references that were nowhere near universal enough without context. Damn, and it was just only earlier that day the Lieutenant said the same thing about another similar writer. (Too similar, don't get him started. Doctor Watson was never a self insert, but Arthur always put as much of himself into his writings as being a Doctor. TOO much of himself, arguably.) "How is your health, he wasn't a doctor, was he? They're not usually employed in violent arts, but a fair bit have been known to join in war efforts to try to save lives." He's usually pretty good about not spacing out too much remembering the horrors of the wars he was a doctor in, though Arthur more than has a few moments, and today has been prodding that sore spot something fierce! Maybe Theo was right, Arthur's just living too much in the past. "I prefer to keep my violence strictly sporting, but I was never much of one for sparring with swords when words are my greatest weapon." Even as a purported boxer, and admittedly someone who studied Japanese and Brazilian martial arts.
"If I can offer you any context, I'll provide whatever I can, Grace. Do you know what the human year was for Jack? Anything past my death will be a bit out of my depths, admittedly."
no subject
cw: Jack the Ripper, true crime, child abuse mini-flashback
He probably feels his blood colder now than when he was still in the puddle! Jack the Ripper????
Surely not...
And yet, that's the kind of nagging feeling when it came to mysteries that never let Arthur down. Damn. Just what was happening in her world?
"He was always kind to you?" Maybe Jack knew the naiad was capable of protecting herself. Maybe it was just that he was only biased against prostitutes. Arthur himself had seen more of the forensic evidence than he wants to ever admit to, even though he was specifically banned from it, on account of almost being a suspect and he feels almost like he's drowning again, remembering a little too well those days. His own father's visits to prostitutes thrown back in Arthur's face as if that had anything to do with it, as if Arthur was harboring dark desires to mutilate women. Any woman. As if he resented prostitutes. He didn't then, and even now he still adores all women. Prostitutes are sensible strong women who usually have greater survival skills than even most soldiers, and that mad the murders all the worse, as far as he was concerned.
Jack was believed to have medical experience so there was that. The cuts were too precise, and so even trying to dam all the leaks, as one of the leading forensic doctors, Doyle had been more than asked about it, he'd been suspected.
"Can you drink alcohol? I just could really use a strong drink right about now." Theo is a little shoulder
angeldevil on his shoulder in his head, but maybe the shoulder angel Vincent (Theo's older brother!) is the less wise one? Since shoulder Theo reminds Arthur that he's not the best at holding his drinks, and there is no Theo or Comte to protect Arthur here from himself. I don't need it. He wants to insist and yet..."Even if it's just coffee?" he flashes a small smile, but it doesn't reach those deep ocean eyes.
"I'm familiar with stories of a Jack who wanted to evsicerate Whitechapel." He blows a heavy huff between pursed lips, choosing his words carefully. Ironically, wasn't Dracula posited as a hysterical theory by some? And here he is a vampire now even, and Vlad is real and -- not the point. "I want to take back calling him a compatriot." Oops. Too honest. "The murders I hate the most are of beautiful young women. But Whitechapel, despite the name, is a grisly place not much liked by many. Jack the Ripper wasn't the only man who would want it eviscerated. However... I rather wish it was elevated. Lifted out of its fog and sorrow. That the people could live without always crushing the weak and innocent." Way too honest. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, offering out a hand an arm to the watery woman all the same. "Come drink with me and I will tell you stories to put a smile on your face instead of pain in your heart."
Well, maybe she liked that sort of thing? Women loved true crime as much as the next bloke, but Arthur would swear on his own grave that it was more that humans loved the sense of justice, the idea that mysteries, even those of Jack the Ripper could be solved by quick thinking and keen observation.
no subject
~Tea would be acceptable, if there is any. I think...~ she points her harpoon in the direction of Sand Dollars. ~That I smelled coffee when I was passing through.~
Further explanation happens on the way. ~The gentleman did have an affinity for fog. He carries the mists with him, as the lakeshore in the morning, and vanished within. He said it was much like London, and I had thought perhaps all London people have the power of the mist. Do they?~
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"I'm not sure about tea, it's too cat-lap for me," meaning a less strong drink, "But tea is usually easier to find than coffee, so where there's coffee, there's almost certainly tea."
He wished he knew the right way to lessen her fears. A cheerful story, he promised. Even if his mind is still in the past and true crime. She reminds him terribly of Hans Christian Andersen's Little Mermaid, and he desperately wants to protect her. What's the point of being knighted when there's no way he could do that at all?
"London is the foggy city, that's true, but... no. Most people of London..." He closes his eyes. "He was always kind to you?" He asked that already. It's important. "I'm of two minds about humanity, truthfully, Grace. A vampire of contradictions, I am. I was a Doctor. Am, now and again. Eyes are the windows to the souls, did you know? London children are the same as Edinburgh, another city to the north. Same as South Africa, a country another continent away. Same as American children or Parisians. But by the time of the teenage years..." Napoleon was trying to educate the children of Paris the poor ones, and Isaac was helping him, and Arthur didn't have it in him anymore to look at naive innocent children who hadn't learned to hate or the strife of true war or the loss of everything they viewed important ot them.
He's haunted by ghosts and eyes of innocent children accusing him now and again. He only started writing Sherlock Holmes to try to give his young patients hope. Surive and he'll write another. And another. And another. And he grew to hate it. It was never enough. What was hope in the face of survival?
"Have you ever seen a whale?" She had to be near the Thames to know, to talk with Jack the Ripper, didn't she? But if her waters extended beyond the Thames, deep into the ocean, that was the realm of whales, where even whaling ships couldn't chase them. And it's the only comparison he can think of between the ocean's abysses to explain humanity's layers of mystery. "Beautiful monsters. Tremendous. The size of leviathans, like nothing else in the world."
He putters about Sand Dollars to get himself the blackest darkest hottest coffee he can, his lifeblood even more than actual blood! And tea for her of course! "What's your tea preference?" he flits about the counter, more fairy seeming than vampire. "Herbal, green Japanese, oolong, whole pearl, satchels, flavors..." he brings assortments back to her, setting up the chair like a gentleman and then acting like a golden retriever!
"Humans are like whales," Arthur nods somberly, putting his reading glasses on to inspect the labels. "Beautiful. And capable of terrifying deadly violence. A single thrashing movement and they can destroy dozens of lives in one fell swoop. They can inhale hundreds of fish like it's nothing. Humans can be cruel. Wicked. Monsters." A shadow crosses his face as he moves about making drinks. "But you look in their eyes, a whale, or a human's, and you can see their pain. And you start thinking, what got us here? Why are we fighting? Isn't there a better way? What happened between your youth and now that you are lashing out? I'm not a pacifist, by any stretch." He justified the British side in the Boer war, much as he hated it, and quickly used that to speak out against the Congo. Seemed like very little consequence in evening out his crimes, so to speak of. "Some men can't be saved. They're too broken." Was Arthur? Surely not. If even Napoleon could do good in his afterlife, his semi-undeath, then most people... maybe. "But I don't think London or Whitechapel are the worst of humanity, certainly not the worst that I've seen." South Africa though... "I think I'd like to look into your friend Jack's eyes. Discern for myself why he's--" eviscerating, cutting, the rest. "If I had to guess, he's in a lot of pain. But that's not always the case with murderers. Some just want to hurt others, and don't care who or why, but usually that type aren't capable of kindness to strangers." Then again theres Napoleon, who had no regrets and committed more violence and death than anyone else in human history to his point.
"This is how humanity is. Capable of so much death and brutality and violence. But the children untouched by it are always full of hope." Despite those words, Arthur looks more depressed than ever! "So the monsters usually want to crush that innocence. Maybe out of envy or because they don't think it deserves to survive. A weed in a desert. Deserts are barren sandy places where plants don't grow unless they're cactuses: thorny destructive things."
Shoulder devil Theo in Arthur's head points out that Vincent is still that brand of innocent and naive and sometimes there is strength even in that, but Arthur's hanging by a thread, lost in the past again of his own memories and fears. "I think... even in London, in Whitechapel, there are still sunflowers. People who radiant warmth and sunny energy that dispels any amount of fog and monsters. Until they get hurt by the monsters or humans alike. Baby whales are so..." Ugh. Why did he bring up the analogy if it's going to hurt him? Whatever. "Like that too. Very sweet. Like bubbles." He shivers, even though he shouldn't be cold, really. "It takes a damaged sort to want to pop that, whatever the reasoning." Kill or be killed world is one thing, but there was no way the prostitute victims had done anything that necessitated that.
no subject
Eventually Grace chooses a breakfast tea with an unfamiliar brand name, one whose scent reminds her of home. Well. Insofar as that was ever home.
~Whales...the First Officer told tales of them...I have never seen one. My home was a lakeside village, in the wooded mountains, where life was slow and novelists would come to hide from the world and marshal the power of their words. You keep asking if my friend was kind to me, Mister vampire.~
Grace floats close in a smooth and sudden motion, nose nearly pressed against Arthur's. ~Could it be that you think I don't know cruelty?~
no subject
When she bobs so close into his vision, his Adam's apple jumps like a frog undecided on the best lily pad.
Is she looking into his eyes? Can he dare face hers? Is he going to see that shining hopeful light again that sets him back to drowning worse than her puddles?
Does he think she's too naive?
Yes. No? "Not exactly." He can't look. He's too damn scared. He can be too bricky (foolishly recklessly brave) for his own damn good, but at times like this....
Slowly, he dares look back, not moving away, even though it occurs to him, someone has to be fearless to get this close to an admitted vampire, or so painfully naive they don't understand the danger, even when he tried to explain it. It's probably too piping hot to drink the coffee already, but even lesser vampires regenerate very quickly, and Arthur sips some coffee to cover for the fangs and try to force them to stay retracted. He's not even sure she could be bitten! It's just vampire instincts, she's so close and he's nearly intoxicated on her scent and presence. But no matter that he's still a little new to being a vampire, he's not new enough he'll accept that as an excuse. This isn't flirting, just talking.
"I think even the cruelest of men have kindness, and--" he slides his tongue over the left fang definitely peeking out, damn it. "It's a mystery." The fang starts to slide back. Ah yes, his easiest trick of all. Think of Holmes and romance withers in his heart. "I'd be lying if I said I don't want to protect you," a head tilt. "That's in my nature. Arrest murderers and corrupt humans, fight disease, help people see," and flirt and chase every woman he fancied. Which was generally... any woman who flirted back or even just tolerated his presence. Yes. "Drink more coffee than a fish drinks water," he holds his cup up to hers in a rote gesture, "Cheers, by the way," and takes another too-hot sip!
"But you've met novelists, so..." why is he jealous? Of all the random stupid petty... this is just like how he gets with Dazai and Shakespeare isn't it? "I'm--" the words die. He can't say it. He's a mystery writer. The one thing he's avoided saying here so far. "Very taken with true crime and mysteries. And the Whitechapel murders by Jack the Ripper was something that got a lot of England obsessed. I wouldn't have made nearly so much popularity without it myself." He's kind of disgusted with himself. Pretending to be glib again, like he's not worried about her safety, or heart, like he never worries about gentle women and their chances of survival among the wicked. Not even just women, gentle people. The type the rest of the world cruelly discarded on their way to the top and Arthur kept on pretending he was like that too. Maybe an excuse, because otherwise it hurts too damn much.
He gently reaches a gloved hand towards her cheek to see if it can touch. After all, if she's as tangible as a wave, he hardly needs to worry about violence done to her. Physically. Verbally, emotionally... remained to be seen.
"What's the worst you've seen, Grace? Were any of your novelists mystery writers?" He's still better. Probably. Not that it mattered. It doesn't. Except to him. "Do you know what possesses a man to kill someone he's meant to love?"