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

"Before I moved to the court, I worked within a small village. Wherever you go, bodies are the same, and people get injured in both serious and stupid ways. I don't remember having to deal with dueling wounds before I got to court, if you know what I mean."

He lets out a rusty laugh, smiling. "But 1892--that's 300 years of progress."

He suppresses a smile, badly, at the talk of dueling wounds. At least that's one thing he's never had to deal with.

"I think most people here seem to be late 20th or early 21st century," he says, "though some are from further off than that. And others are from worlds I don't even know, with different histories. Some of them have marvels I would never have thought possible."

"The 21st century...I can hardly imagine what the world must look like, by that time. In any sense. Political, scientific. Fashion, either, but I was never particularly on top of that to begin with."

His gaze rakes across Watson's outfit, considering it--there's some pieces he can trace the idea of back to his time, but not all. And then he glances at the cane.

"Injury or illness?"

"It has... been an adjustment, but not an unpleasant one, on the whole. People wear less clothes, and are generally less formal, and have broader ideas about what is and is not acceptable in polite society. I find it refreshing, myself."

Automatically he glances down at his leg, and his grip tightens a little on the handle of his cane. "Injury," Watson says. "I was in the army, when I was a younger man. It was the end of a promising career."

"I see. Were you a corpsman, then? An army doctor?"

He can respect the hell out of that career path, even if he was never with the military himself. It means the man before him, this John Watson, has seen horrors that no man should, and come back whole enough to continue working.

"The latter."

Watson can feel himself warming up to this man; he'd initially been a little sceptical, but really he ought to know better than to judge someone's professional ability just because they're from his past. This seems to be a clever man, if as limited by his time as Watson is by his own.

"Specifically, I was an assistant surgeon in a campaign in Afghanistan when I was wounded on the battlefield. I'm lucky to be alive, frankly."

"I don't know where Afghanistan is, I'm afraid." It was still under the rule of the Mughals from northern India in his time. "But I know what it is to be the survivor of something that others did not, and how much of a mark that can leave on the soul."

"Oh, goodness, I'm not sure what it was called in your time. East of Persia, west of India, if that helps narrow it down."

Not his area of expertise, exactly. Still, Watson's expression softens a little, because few people actually see the truth of what he's gone through so quickly. "Insightful of you," he remarks. "What did you survive, if you don't mind saying?"

Given that Watson's a doctor, he's honestly expecting him to be familiar and to understand the true horror of what he's about to say.

"The Black Plague. It ravaged my village ten years ago, and had resurfaced in France right before I arrived here. I was making preparations to shut up the castle and try to ride it out."

"Of course. I'm sorry." And he is, that knowing empathy heavy in his voice. He knows all too well the quiet horror of watching patients die around you, despite everything you do. "There are still occasional outbreaks of plague in my time, though I've never dealt with that particular pathogen directly, thank God. It isn't quite the terror it once was."

Something dawns on him, and makes a face that's more a grimace than a smile. "The London I know is five and a half million souls squeezed into some six hundred or so square miles, and consumption, cholera, and influenza tend to be more of a concern than plague, but it would be devastating if it resurfaced now, particularly in the poorer parts of the city."

"London has...how many people?" He's shocked out of his sorrow and self-pity by the very idea, gawking at Watson in awe and perhaps a little horror. It seems impossible, untenable!

"Five and a half million," he confirms, his grimace turning wry. "Largest city in the world, at least during my lifetime. The jewel of the British Empire, a hub for culture and art for the entire world, and a filthy cesspool of poverty and misery, as any city might be."

And yet, there's some fondness in his voice. It's home, after all.

"Modern hygiene has done much to stop the spread of disease, but the plague would spread like a wildfire."

TEST DRIVE MEME #3

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