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

"I would prefer not to eat anything which causes a looseness of the stool of that caliber!"

Well, that's one way to sway someone away from the curry, nice job Steven.

Nostradamus accepts the plate, though, and begins to nose around the table. "Are there trenchers of bread for the stew to go atop?"

"O-kay. No curry. Let's move along! Eh heh." They venture further down the row

"Looks like there's bread over there, by the soups. But are you sure you don't want to try any of this other stuff? I hear sweet and sour pork's quite nice... Oh, I love a good moussaka! You know the secret to a good vegan moussaka is a cashew-based bechamel sauce. You must know what a bechamel sauce is, it's very-- Oooo. Crab legs? Wow. That's pretty fancy--" Wait, where is he going? What is he doing?

"Oh no no no, you don't want to do that!" Steven is mildly horrified at the thought of pouring some wet food all over a perfectly fine piece of bread. "You could put them on separate plates, dip the bread in. Otherwise it'll turn into cat food."

Nostradamus gestures to a piece of white sandwich bread. "What's the point of having something so flimsy? It's more like...a particularly limp cake than any sort of bread I'm familiar with. A good trencher wouldn't turn to mush, because it has the structure to support what you put on it."

Look, look, he's willing to try things. He just can't even comprehend the purpose of such a sickly loaf.

"Ooo! I know this one! Sliced bread was invented in 1928," Steven proclaims proudly. "I was curious one day about where the term 'best thing since sliced bread' came from and went down this six-hour youtube rabbit hole. Did you know, the sale of sliced bread was banned during the Second World War? Also you know how you keep clicking on the next thing and the next thing and two hours later I also learnt how to change a flat tyre and--" Steven blinks a couple of times at the blank look on the other man's face, and then he clears his throat and turns his attention back to the selection of different breads.

"Um... we don't-- eat medieval trenchers anymore... the ingredients that go in that are really expensive today. And it's honestly... I mean. No offence. But if you leave that slice you're holding to go stale for a few days, it'd be more like what you're talking about."

"Wait. Stop. Anno Domini 1928? Are you serious?"

If there was any question of whether or not the man is acting, the poleaxed expression on his face ought to clarify that somewhat for Steven. He is truly and completely unable to wrap his head around that year being in the past.

"Yes. The year of our-- all our. Collective non-denominational Lords. Nineteen twenty eight." Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it? And technically it'd probably be a different year if they're going by another God... Steven grabs a pair of tongs and goes for a firmer piece of crusty dinner roll that he thinks might suit the other man's tastes better, and pops it on his plate for him.

When he looks up he catches That Look and Steven tilts his head, looking puzzled although it hasn't fully sunk in yet.

"You're not. From a Renaissance fair convention...?" That much he can get at least.

"I'm from the French Court at the Château de Fontainebleau."

No, seriously now. Besides, most Renn Faires do England, Elizabethan times.

"No you are not serious?! Le Château de Fontainebleau?!" Steven gawks and almost causes an international incident but he manages to save his plate before clumsily dropping and breaking it on the floor.

"Napoleon! Met the Pope there! The Medicis! The Gallery of Francis I houses some of the most amazing paintings! I've always wanted to go! When were you there? What was it like? Do you have photos?! What's. Your. Name. I want to be friends. Can we be friends?!"

There are a lot of parts of that which fly over his head. The request for photos is meaningless, Napoleon rings no bells. But. But.

“I am the advisor to Queen Catherine. Catherine di Medici. My name is Michel de Nostradame.” Better known as Nostradamus.

"Michel de--" He's not sure if he screamed out loud or inside his head but there was definitely some fanboy nerdgasm that went off and he's not self-conscious enough in the moment to be embarrassed about it.

"You're-- Nostra-- Nostradamus-- You're Nostradamus. Oh my days I'm talking to Nostradamus. Did I have steak last night? I don't think I did. Maybe that was a bit of ninja pork in my tofu." Steven is hyperventilating and backpedalling a little bit. He curls his hand into a fist and bites the fleshy part of his index finger.

"You're not my usual kind of French poetry, I must admit, but I've read Les Prophéties in the original languages. Cover to cover." He might not be the biggest nerd on this ship but he is definitely going to be up there.

"W-- y-- you've. Written it already. Right?" Oh no, did he just create some space-time-breaking paradox in his excitement?

“I write down each of my prophecies after I have them, but...it did not occur to me that people would still be reading them centuries later.”

He clearly has no clue what to do with this reaction. Actually, he’s not entirely sure how to categorize the reaction, to begin with. It’s not fear, not accusations of witchcraft. Steven seems...excited? To meet him? That hardly makes sense.

"Well. You predicted a few things, didn't you? That's what everyone wants to know. Bit about the future. The world's so-- mad these days." Steven lowers his gaze, picking at a bit of imperfection on the base rim of his plate.

"Oh, but. Where are my manners? I'm Steven." There's a kind of reverence with which he doesn't quite sidle in so close anymore, crowd in around the guy. He lifts one hand and wiggles his fingers by way of greeting.

"Enchanté, monsieur."

TEST DRIVE MEME #3

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