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.]

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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?"

"You...wait, what? You figured it out before he did??" Jesus Christ. Crichton's so shocked by this revelation that he almost misses the rest of that. A heartbreaker? Hurting his partner?

F U C K

He sags in Parker's hold, the leather of his vest creaking as it takes on the weight. If Parker lets go Crichton's going to slide to the ground on his ass.

"Yeah. That's why I'm running. I broke his heart and now we're split up. And I'm a little afraid he'll kill me a second time if he finds out I was making nice with you."

He feels the shift of Crichton's weight and his grip doubles to hold the man up, and his own expression doesn't change despite the anxiety and confusion starting to bubble under his own skin.

So he shifts his weight, so he can let Crichton drop, gently, to the floor, and stays crouched in front of him. There's no smile now, but it means his genuine concern is shining through.

"Hey, you don't gotta worry about me. Arthur in his right mind, he ain't ever gonna hurt me." His death was an exception, that fucking book that he told Arthur not to touch. But right now, he's got a rock-bottom bastard trying to pickle himself, so scared of Arthur that he'd rather run than hash it out.

"You said Arthur killed you," he prompts gently. Not a push - a coax. An offered hand. A shoulder to lean on.

Arthur in his right mind? An ugly, bitter laugh bubbles up in the back of his throat. But, oh God, Parker's being nice to him. Sympathetic to him. If he knew. If he really knew... Parker would put a fist through his face, too, and he'd still deserve it.

He comes to a rest on the floor with his hands splayed palm up in his lap and looks into Parker's face with bleary eyes. He can see what Arthur saw in this man, he really can. That gentle tone makes him ache to reach out. He can't. He... can't.

"It's complicated. He... I...I had it coming. Don't blame him for it. I had it coming..."

One corner of his mouth crooks into a sympathetic half-smile, and he reaches forward a little to put his hand on Crichton's knee.

"Spaceman, I've known Arthur for years. And the kinds a' men that he thinks got it coming to them? They're pretty good at not giving a rat's left ass-cheek who they gotta hurt to get their way. They don't make it sound like it's the worst thing they ever did."

The hand on his knee causes a new frenzy of emotions to play across his face in a myriad of micro expressions. Longing, relief, despair, guilt, anger...all rolled into one tight tangle that knots his eyebrows together over his dull blue eyes. It would feel so good to accept this sympathy. The kind of good that's taboo.

"It was the worst thing I've ever done. And that's... saying more than you know."

"You're making a lot of assumptions about the kinda man I am," he comments wryly, and the grip on Crichton's knee gives him a gentle shake. "Just 'cos I ain't Arthur doesn't mean I haven't seen some shit too, ya know."

His eyes flick up and down Crichton. "I'm not gonna ask. That ain't how this works. But," he gives that knee a last warm pat, and uses it to lightly push himself to his feet. "I think we should call the bar closed for a while, huh Crichton? We'll deal with the tab later."

And he offers a hand to help Crichton up.

Oh, that shake of the leg could shake him to pieces. He tried. Arthur, he swears he tried to resist.

"I'm sure you've seen plenty... maybe some of it even had tentacles..." The words hang heavy in defeat. He's been wallowing in self-hatred for so many days. Here comes this man like the ghost of Christmas past to reach out a hand and lift him up from the darkness.

He does spare one last reluctant look at the bar. This scuffle has sobered him and already the edges are getting sharper. Then he lets the sour air out of his lungs and nods.

"It's an all-included cruise. We pay the tab a different way here." And God knows Crichton has been paying double these days.

With a grunt of effort, he hauls himself up off the floor clinging hard to Parker's warm, caloused hand. Now that he's on his feet, he stands there awkwardly fidgeting because he doesn't know where to go from here. Back to a cabin he hasn't seen in days? To the brig he's been sleeping in? Should they...go get sushi?

Crichton's got a few inches on Parker, but the investigator's still bigger than Arthur, built on a slightly broader scale all around, and the grip turns into a light shake before Parker releases. He's never let an awkward or sullen silence stop him yet, or he'd be fucking terrible at his job.

"So, what are a couple of wet smacks supposed to do for fun round here?" he offers brightly. "I know hooch is the real American pastime but there's gotta be more happening, right?"

Fun? That feels like such a foreign concept. He wasn't exactly swimming in options for entertainment on Moya. With Arthur, he'd learned to appreciate quieter hobbies, like reading or drafting poetry. There's the pool? When was the last time he was sober enough to swim? Would the arcade be too much to explain to a guy from 1934? Playing poker seems a bit on the nose. It's probably a worrying sign that Crichton's taking this long to think about it. Almost like he doesn't remember how to have fun anymore.

"We got a bowling alley?"

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TEST DRIVE MEME #10

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