sail_ooc | TEST DRIVE MEME #10

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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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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?"

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."

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."

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."

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.

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."

"Sorry to hear a friend did that to you."

Something flutters in the back of Crichton's mind. Off in the distance there's the sound of an alarm blaring. Just a coincidence. It has to be.

"An investigator, huh? That's an interesting line of work. My uh..."--Insert the most pregnant pause imaginable--"...roommate used to be a P.I. too. Sounds plenty dangerous."

There's a long pause in return, as one eyebrow slowly raises on Parker's face.

"Well, if your, uh. Roommate is any good at his job?" And his tone certainly insinuates, but he doesn't follow up on it. "Then probably he's a real good survivor. It's a tough fuckin' job."

He lifts his drink and faux-mutters into the glass, "Dunno how it compares to whatever the fuck an astronaut is."

Crichton can feel a small bead of sweat sliding down the side of his face. Did he... did he really just do something that obvious in front of an investigator. This one actually has eyes. Frell him...

"He's a survivor; that's for damn sure. Shit he's been through, he's like a cat with nine lives--except I'm pretty sure he's down to less than three by now." As if Crichton has any room to talk?

But enough about the Ex he's definitely not supposed to be thinking about anymore! He seizes on that muttering like a lifesaver thrown out to him in choppy waters.

"You don't know what an astronaut is? What year is it where you're from?"

That megawatt smile flickers back to life, but there's a shrewdness in his sharp gaze now as he watches Crichton.

"What, you're telling me this corner of Hell ain't celebrating the year of our Lord, 1934?"

He can feel Parker's gaze on him like a laser sight.

"You aren't going to like the answer." Did he say 1934?? The klaxons in the back of his mind grow louder.

"I'm from Earth in the year 1999, give or take a few years. Some of us here are from even further into the future, or the past. Astronauts won't become a recognizable thing for another couple decades to you, but it basically means it's my job to study space in order to travel to space in a spaceship. They put people on the moon in 1969."

Funny how the guy who taught Arthur everything he knows about investigative work is fucking good at his job.

So he doesn't give anything away. Not how utterly fucking jarring it is to hear this guy talking about the 1999 like Parker would have lived to fucking see it, or the fact people are just- going to space like a goddamn sci-fi dreadful.

Instead he just takes a long sip of his drink, without flinching or breaking eye contact.

"That's an awful tall tale, Spaceman." No commitment, no agreeing or denying, but a certain level of healthy scepticism. Maybe it'll milk something else out of him if he tries to justify it. "We only got people in the air maybe thirty years ago - honest to God you're telling me we get even higher in just another thirty?"

The fact that this dude doesn't so much as blink after all of that still says something. Either Mr. Yang here is now thoroughly convinced that Crichton is insane and is just playing along until he can call a hospital, or he's seen enough shit that his poker face is impenetrable. It could always be both.

"You think that's bad? You haven't heard the half of it." Crichton doesn't seem too concerns if he's being convincing or not. Stick around long enough and it's only a matter of time until you become a believer.

"Call me Crichton, by the way. That's what most people call me." When they aren't using more creative pejoratives.

"And, yeah. That's exactly what I'm telling you. Competing with the Soviet Union to see who gets to the moon first is great for space program funding. Technology exploded in those thirty-odd years. Uh... sometimes literally." Ooh, maybe he should avoid those spoilers. "Don't believe me? Ask around. Hell, look around. There's technology here even I didn't have in my time."

Edited 2023-06-15 17:21 (UTC)

"I'm lookin', Spaceman," and now he's keeping the nickname just to tick Crichton off because it's funny. "And all I'm getting right now is that Hell's a lot classier than I would've figured for a guy who sure as shit wasn't going to the other place. I heard stories about the boats my folks came in on and they weren't anywhere near as nice as this."

He puts his drink down so he can reach into his jacket, and pull out his communicator from the inside pocket. "Though if you're the expert on all that H.G Wells bullshit, mind explaining to a poor detective what exactly I'm looking at, here?"

Using his own habits against him? How dare. He'll just have to think of a nickname in return.

"It ain't Hell in the biblical sense, but you're welcome to think of it that way. Lots of us do." Crichton very much included these days. "It looks nice, but this isn't a pleasure cruise."

Oh, right. The phones. "Sure, Time Traveler, I'll give you the run-down. That right there is called a 'cell phone' short for cellular phone. I know you still got rotary phones back in your day. This one isn't quite the same. You can't talk to people on it through voice, but you can type out digital mail or 'text messages.' You need someone's name and their cabin number to dial them. That and taking pictures is about all they do, oh, except they also act as your room key. Hold it to the lock and it lets you in."

"So it's a camera, a telephone and a telegraph," he points out - they do have messages by text, thank you very much. "All rolled into one neat little package. Suppose I should keep an eye on it so people don't go breaking down my door trying to bother me."

The grin widens with a flick of one eyebrow. "Can't say I'm much of a time traveller, mind you. Only went forwards that whole time I was alive, and I don't reckon this place is followin' our good old Roman calendar. You might need to try harder than that, pal."

"That's right. The whole kit 'n kaboodle. You'll definitely want to hang onto that unless you want to break down your own door."

Crichton downs the rest of his drink and sets it on the bar with a decisive clack. "We aren't following any calendar now. Couldn't even tell you what month it is. You know, I'd try to make a tie-in joke to Sherlock Holmes but we have the actual Doctor Watson here so out of respect for him I'm not touching that one." Yes, you heard him. That Watson.

"Spaceman ain't all that creative either, you know? It's a compliment. I've been to space. I lived in space. And, spoiler alert, aliens are real."

He'll tuck his 'cell phone' back again - he'll give it a better fiddle later when he's not putting himself out there to be judged, but having a clue is nice - as Crichton finishes that drink. And based on how strong his own was, those concerns from before are now a lot more pronounced.

"Yeah, well, Time Traveller? That just ain't accurate." He lifts his drink in a joking cheers as he winks at Crichton. "You wanna call me something that makes us friends, I usually go with Parker."

Parker? Parker?!

The color drains from Crichton's face faster than the drink from his glass. There's a significant amount of white showing around his bloodshot blue eyes--noticeable now that his gaze is suddenly darting from Parker to the exit and back.

The date he could have dismissed as a coincidence. The line of work, too. But not the name. Not the bruises. The talk of a friend killing him in a bad moment... God have mercy, this is Arthur's Parker isn't it? Frell. Fuck. FUCK. Arthur is going to kill again.

"...S-sorry," he stammers, still in a state of shock trying to process how the hell his luck could possibly get worse?? "I think I'm gonna hurl." That might not even be a lie. Feels like every word he's ever spoken to Arthur is trying to crawl up the back of his throat right this very minute.

He darts from behind the bar, too panicked to think of anything except that he needs out of this conversation immediately. He hasn't considered what he'll do once he makes it out the door but one problem at a time, here.

Well that's a hell of a reaction, and Parker's eyes narrow just slightly at the sheer terror on Crichton's face as he lets go of his glass. And seeing as he's damn certain he's never seen this guy before in his life, he's pretty sure he can assume which little English prick might have talked about him in the past tense.

Crichton doesn't make it to the door, because as soon as he runs, so does Parker, and Parker slams into him at the bar's opening so he can pin him against the wall with an elbow jammed against his throat.

"Woah there, Spaceman," he snarls through that beaming smile. "We were havin' a fucking conversation! You mind telling me what's got a fire under your ass all of a fuckin' sudden?"

"Oof!" His head bashes against the wall and stars explode behind his eyes, leaving him wheezing against the elbow jammed into his throat. Guess he knows who the brawn was in the partnership now.

He glares into that smile, hating how familiar it looks. That one bead of sweat on his forehead from before is joined by many.

"Yeah, I do mind. Get your hands off of me!"

"Oh, so now you don't wanna talk?" His grin shifts, and it's just bared teeth now. "Lemme make a wild guess why, then, call it educated. I think you might be familiar with a certain English gentleman of mine." He shoves Crichton with the emphasis, and there's a bright ferocity in his eyes. "And I dunno what he mighta said about me, but if you're gonna try and walk on me I think it means you know I ain't gonna like it. Huh, Spaceman?"

Welp. That's the final nail in the coffin. Is there really any point trying to pretend they aren't both talking about the same English gentleman?

"Believe it or not, it isn't about you." Crichton grips Parker's forearm to try and keep him from putting on more pressure. "You still ain't gonna like it."

There's another long pause during which Crichton's face contorts through all five stages of grief like a spinning roulette wheel until, finally, landing on depression.

"Arthur's my frelling roommate."

There's practically maths floating around Parker's head as he stares, eyes flicking between Crichton's as he tries to recalculate the situation.

"...what, you think I give a shit if he's a fuckin' nance?" he snarls. "You think I lived with him for goddamn years and didn't fuckin' figure that part out?"

He shifts his elbow but only so he can grab two fistfuls of the taller man's vest and bunch those up under his throat instead. "Or are you just a fuckin' heartbreaker, huh? You fucking hurting my partner?"

TEST DRIVE MEME #10

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