sail_ooc | TEST DRIVE MEME #3

1. you're the only one you owe (GUEST STARRING: selenokinesis and creepyoldguy)

[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 Passengers(s),

You'll be unable to leave your cabin until you read this note. Congratulations on making it past the first step. Keep reading if you wish, as I have information to share with you, as a fellow passenger stuck aboard this ship. Or don't continue reading, and burn the note. I'm not particularly invested either way, especially if you choose to throw away valuable warnings.

Watch out for the Captain.

Be cautious what you sign up for.

If you die, you'll come back to life eventually, though I would recommend you try not to die.

Your life is the Captain's plaything.

Do not think for one moment that someone isn't watching you.

With that aside, I am now contractually obligated to tell you the following: You will find a life jacket within your cabin's closet, and you are required to bring it with you to your assigned muster station on deck one. A companion and I will take you through the drill. If you cannot find us, look for a tall male with white hair and blue eyes and a friendly-looking man with unkept brown hair and a winning smile.

Respectfully,
Moon Master Ebalon

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 two people standing at the front of the crowd: an exhausted-looking man with white hair who seems rather displeased that he's been roped into this, and a man with a wide grin, bright green tips on his hair, and amber eyes. the latter is waving cheerfully, having an armful of leis. he quite happily puts them around people’s necks and while they’re distracted, attempts to dip them into a kiss.

as he’s basically a walking corpse, and smells like one to boot, it’s not exactly hitting the jackpot. but, he does at least listen to the word “NO”.

the tired-seeming man ignores this and announces over the drone of chattering passengers like yourself,]

Welcome to the Serena Eterna. Do try to enjoy your stay here; it is rather permanent in nature, huhu.

[and from next to his companion, the… er, overly-affectionate man who sounds as though he smokes ten packs a day rasps,]

You’re all doomed!

[you touch the lei. rooster feathers, lotus seeds, and a carved circle of something white and hard, linked onto a silk string.

after the duo complete the drill, you'll find that your legs suddenly obey your command, for what that's worth.

welcome aboard, passenger. we hope you enjoy your stay.]

2. one by one they'll do you in

[it starts, as most things do, with a table lamp. floating down a hallway, or the length of the promenade. ambling at a distinct clip: one-two-three-KICK, one-two-three-KICK.

and that's... not immediately concerning. after all, things float around here all the time; usually plates and drinks, but maybe the shades want to mix it up a bit. the lamp is alone for about a half hour before it is joined by others. a pillow. some knickknack from the ship store. Friday's clipboard. an empty vodka bottle. all have lined up, one in front of the other, and lead a procession snaking around the ship, growing with each passing hour. anyone familiar with the concept would begin to recognize it as a massive conga line.

there is a small chance you will want to join of your own free will. most likely, you will not want that. this does not matter: something compels you, like pins and needles in your feet, to join the dance. and once you have joined in... your body fights your mind on the subject, even as it grows more and more tired.

you pass by a familiar face. they could help pull you out. or you could pull them in.]

3. the price of vice foretold

[the scent of citrus and coconut rum hangs heavy in the air. there is a new storefront on the promenade, tucked between Sand Dollars and John's in a place where you are very certain there was not enough space to tuck a store before.

the clothes for sale are... a lot. like, a lot a lot. but, there are quite a lot of choices, though they do seem to repeat a little, once you've gone in far enough. in fact, even if you actively attempt to find it, you can't seem to find the back of the store. you can see a wall, sure, but it never seems to get any closer, even as you walk towards it.

be forewarned: the infinite tommy bahama does not have food or water.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A tall broad figure moves over to the booth where Bugsy's sitting, pulling out a journal and pack of metallic gel pens from its pocket and sitting in the seat across from him. Clearly, it is art class time. It doesn't actually really acknowledge Bugsy. It's just...here incidentally.

Bugsy gives the big guy a glance from the other side of the table, running a couple of theories in his head before he... pulls out gel pens. Well, sure, this wasn't exactly like a drink and draw, but the idea of someone seeking out company to draw with wasn't alien either.

He slides his sketchbook a bit closer to himself and very clearly starts drawing this dude.

It doesn’t make eye contact, but there’s a few things to note. No facial hair, too smooth skin, features that belong on a mannequin and an abundance of symmetry, not for the sake of beauty, but more because no one ever thought to make a SecUnit’s face have character.

It, meanwhile, seems to either over color choice before picking out a copper gel pen and trying to draw Bugsy’s coffee cup. Failing, but trying. The perspective is all wonky in a clearly unintentional way instead of an artsy one.

Shit's weird on the SS. Shit's Fucked, and he can only assume it's a similar deal to the other passengers; that the durance they're embarking on is one of slow corruption instead of sudden transformation, that the weirder they are the longer they've been aboard. This one is probably headed in the direction of an Elemental, something clunky about the way it's moving. Bugsy gives the artwork a gander.

"You been drawing long?" he asks, because if it is intentional, then he's not gonna be an asshole about it. Art is art.

“No. Never. Is it...that bad?”

It caps the pen and puts it away with the others, because clearly it must be doing it wrong.

"Naw, you were doing fine. Good line weight, weren't making 'em too hairy. And don't just give up the first time something isn't working, either. Try..."

Bugsy takes a ballpoint pen out of his pencil case, doing his own brief sketch. It's just the outline of the cup, and he turns the page to show his guest.

"'s called a contour drawing. You just draw the outside, get the shapes down before you try anything else. Art's a way of seeing, and good art is good understanding. You gotta get rid of your brain's ideas about what something looks like and just see it for what it is."

“Which brain?”

This has the ring of self-deprecating humor, someone punching down on themself out of habit. But it does pull a pen out again. Different color this time, metallic purple. And it tries again.

He doesn't get the joke, but he tries to play along with a-

"Pick your favourite and go from there."

He seems quietly pleased that it's giving it another shot, and he leans forward a bit so he can watch it work more closely.

"Other big thing, teach yourself to draw with your arm now. Start at your elbow, not at the wrist like you're writing. In somethin' like twenty years your wrists will thank me."

“I’ve never done any writing, either.” Well, like, not with a pen at least. It’s composed accounts of events, but that’s not the topic at hand. “Whose years?”

This time, the humor is directed outward, and carries a little bit of warmth.

"Fuck, man, I don't know. Time barely fuckin' means anything in here. Should make a new unit of time while we're in here. The glaarp. Three glaarps in a gorm, five gorms is the time it takes to jog from bow to stern."

All of which is offered with the sort of light humour of a man who has done his fair share of improv comedy before.

"Still, you're not missing much. Language was a mistake, and writing shit down is worse."

“Basing it on jogging speed would be almost as inconsistent as having years based on the motion of any planet. For what it’s worth, I’ve been here over 2,200 hours at this point. Hours are, at least, standardized across human space. It makes conversions easier.”

It glances up from its latest attempt at drawing the cup. “Do you really think language was a mistake? You need to use it to successfully express that sentiment.”

Definitely an Elemental. Might've even been snatched up from its own durance, if it's still speaking about shit like space travel like it's a fact and not a story spun by someone looking to hurt it.

"Didn't say it was a good unit of time."

And then a shrug of the shoulder.

"Do I? Because if I didn't have language, it wouldn't need to be said. It was also a joke. Like saying English was a mistake. Hyper-bowl."

"Oh. Sorry for not getting it."

It hesitates again, frowning down at the page. Yeah, it needs a break already. This isn't going well. "I'm going to go get some coffee. Do you want anything?"

"Nah, nothing for me. Something about eating the goblin fruits n shit."

Bugsy looks at the page in an accusatory fashion, as if trying to unpeel how to get through to it.

It's a few minutes before Murderbot returns, with coffee and a couple of croissants, sitting back down and grabbing a pen again. Hesitating to set it to paper, again.

It glances up at Bugsy briefly. "Why do you draw?"

"Couple'a reasons. Self expression, making cool shit, giving people tools to fight the system with, those are the big ones. But sometimes it's just nice to feel it, y'know? It's not like- people think you just kinda see shit and then make art, like it's all up here-" he taps his forehead.

"It's not. If you pay attention, you can feel the pencil going, feel all the muscles in your wrist going, feel that resistance against the paper. It just feels good. On the days when it feels like everything I make is shit, that's why I keep doing it. Because it feels good."

It sits on that thought a moment, and then grabs a pen and just...just...scribbles for a moment, small tight circles. No goal, but still somehow just tight and perfect and controlled, starting in one corner of the page and working it’s way out.

This...might be working.

TEST DRIVE MEME #3

Coffee, play a role, hash browns make me queasy

Coffee, you're a doll, gel pens make art easy

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