TEST DRIVE MEME #3

[sailmods]

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.]

Comments

[light_mischief]

Normal might not be the right word, but Skulduggery can't say he's surprised by the invisible conga line. Considering the karaoke machine sometimes tries to strangle people to death and the entire ship is run by ghosts... Not exactly breaking the top-five weirdest things to happen around here, is it?

They're in no danger of being sucked back in when he lets go of her arm, offering a mild chuckle. "No, sorry to say, I'm the only one like me around. The conga line, on the other hand... That is unfortunately very normal. Have you just arrived?"

[spindown]

Rosalind has to think about that question for a moment, much longer than is strictly necessary, and looks almost surprised as she comes to a conclusion.

"Yes, actually, how very novel," she says and, rather than stepping away, turns and steps a bit closer to her skeletal savior. Her expression doesn't shift much, ever, but it transitions easily into a disconcertingly intense flavor of curiosity.

"How is it you're speaking to me?" she asks primly. "One would assume lungs would be necessary for the endeavor, as well as a trachea and tongue, but you appear to have neither of the latter so the former wouldn't really assist much."

[light_mischief]

The question usually garners a quicker response than that, but the arrival can be jarring and getting your bearings afterward is difficult.

"No, I'm nothing but bone. You'll probably hate the answer," he decides that just by the scientifically minded line of questioning, "But it's magic, plain and simple. My spirit does all the vocalizing without any need for the fiddly bits."

[spindown]

"You're right, I do hate that answer," she replies and lets out a short sigh. She must be terribly disoriented, because she doesn't ask follow up questions. No, Rosalind just steps back and regards the conga line that is still making its way past them. While the method of locomotion is quite interesting, and something she will have to look into before long, several of the items being dragged along are more interesting.

"Do you happen to know the date?" Rosalind asks, abruptly and looks back at her new skeletal conversation partner. Magical skeletal conversation partner.

[light_mischief]

Skulduggery watches her for any of the usual signs of shock or impending panic attack, but thankfully, she manages to avoid either. No doubt there will be more backlash to the idea of magic in a few minutes -- or days, if she's unlucky enough to be around that long.

"Ah, more bad news there, I'm afraid. It was the year 2009 for me, on Earth. But time is largely irrelevant here. If people keep track at all, it's by tallying up the night cycles." It's a bummer these answers aren't largely helpful! "By and large, everyone here comes from a different time or place in reality. Usually after a moment of great personal or worldly strife."

[spindown]

"Well, it's good news that time is largely irrelevant in most places, then," Rosalind says and waves off the concern. The comment about great personal or worldly strife is worth noting but the conga line is passing and time is, oddly, finite for her now. She gestures at the floating objects and a series of CRT monitors and various appliances.

"Are those familiar to you and if so, are they exceptionally advanced? Being from 2009?"

At some point she should introduce herself but questions and answers must be prioritized if she must depend on magic to keep him animate. If he suddenly collapses into a heap of pressed suit and bones, what will she do then? Clap and lie about believing in faeries?

[light_mischief]

He's more impressed by her handling of the facts than he usually is. Most new passengers want to argue about one of the things he's said so far -- the magic, the lack of time, the existence of multiple realities -- but here she is, taking it all in a stride.

"They are familiar, yes. The technology aboard the ship is... maybe a decade out of date for me? Not much more than that. You'll find that the technology we do have available is..." Magic? No, she won't accept that. Not much better than, but, "Strange. Not quite the way it should be." Because of magic.

Fucking magic.

[spindown]

"A decade? So, just under a century advanced? Interesting."

She watches the floating objects a moment longer and then turns, or most of her does. She sort of...lags a moment, leaving an afterimage in her wake. Another version of her stares on at the moving assembly of items while the primary, mostly solid version returns her full attention to the Skeleton at hand.

"Ah, right, terribly rude of me," she says and sounds not at all apologetic about her priorities or potentially being rude. "My name is Rosalind Lutece, and you are? Or, perhaps, were?"

It always gets you in the end!

[light_mischief]

It probably says a lot more about the ship than anything else, but when Skulduggery sees the trailing afterimage, he barely reacts at all. He's seen similar enough to not be too surprised, although he can imagine the methods must differ.

While he tilts his head curiously at the effect, he doesn't immediately comment. At least not until introductions are out of the way. "Completely understandable, given the circumstances. My name is Skulduggery Pleasant. I'm technically alive, so present tense will do just fine." Alive enough for the ship, at least!

*Sinister Disney Logo*

[spindown]

"Bit on the nose, but I do appreciate clarity," Rosalind comments and glances to see the conga line disappear around the corner. This time she does not leave an afterimage, but the one she had left previously does follow after the items, walking at a sedate pace.

"A pleasure, Mr. Pleasant," Rosalind adds a moment later. "You said earlier that the people aboard appear after moments of great strife? Would you mind clarifying that? It seems rather prudent."

[light_mischief]

He chuckles, tilting his head to watch her ghost follow the dancing objects. "Generally speaking, most everyone I know here experienced something meaningful before their arrival. Some things seem mundane enough, like fights with friends. Others... less so." He considers her physical self for a moment. "More than a few have come from moments where they feel they should have died."

[spindown]

"A convincing pattern, one that I sadly do not deviate from," Rosalind tells him and, considering how helpful he's been thusfar, sees no harm in sharing additional information. "Before I arrived here, I was with my--"

It happens so fast that if you blinked you'd miss it.

As Skulduggery lacks eyelids, he gets a full, likely disorienting view of Rosalind's superposition as it collapses into one again. The woman standing in front of him ceases, fading abruptly into nothing like a spent flashbulb and the afterimage trailing after the conga line, just a few feet away, is suddenly doubled on itself and then both doubles crash together. This version gives off what can only be described as the exact opposite of a flashbulb effect. She solidifies in the next instant and her casual gait is interrupted as she stumbles, suddenly lacking sufficient momentum to carry herself forward.

"--often do the objects on board do such things?" Her question is half of a different question, part of another conversation entirely and, as she finishes it, she goes momentarily silent.

"Oh, that's terribly inconvenient," she announces, largely to herself, and turns back to face Skulduggery. There's a terrible tinny noise in her ears as the two realities become one and she is quite certain, in a moment, she will be bleeding from the nose.

"I say, do you have a spare handkerchief, Mr. Pleasant?"

[light_mischief]

Ah, well, that certainly isn't anything like Ava's ability. It's not quite the same as teleportation, clearly more temporally located, and given her distaste for the word magic, it's likely technologically based. But then the date on the technology --

Right, there's time for wondering about that later. He digs through his pockets at her prompting; there's no handkerchief to speak of, but he does have a clean, crumpled napkin in his jacket pocket. Given the pen-written list of weapons on it, it must be from the Battle Royale.

"Sorry. This ought to do for the time. Would you like to sit down?" The question of her wellbeing goes unspoken, mostly because he suspects she'll only wave the concern away.

[spindown]

Rosalind blinks in an attempt to banish the sound that's ringing in her head. It's not an effective method but it is, for some reason, the natural reflex to such a malady. A few steps has her back over to Mr. Pleasant's side and she takes the notated napkin with a nod of thanks.

She gives it a glance, reading the list of weapons, but makes no comment. Beggars and their inability to be choosers, and all that.

"No, but it might be wise," she replies and, as she's folded the square, begins bleeding from her right nostril. It is more blood than she would have predicted, given the short duration of the separation and, she frowns as she fishes around for her own handkerchief.

"Actually, yes, sitting will be necessary."

[light_mischief]

Skulduggery is quick to guide Rosalind toward one of the tables directly outside the nearby cafe. It's easier to let her grab a seat while he darts inside, ripping a handful of flimsy napkins from a dispenser.

"Well," he says on his return, placing the napkins on the table for her to use. "That seems like a lot of fun." As much as he'd like to ask what happened, there, he figures it might be better served to wait until she's got her bloody nose under control. "I can find a doctor, if you need one."

[spindown]

The napkin is sodden through by the time she sits and she feels just a touch lightheaded. The ringing in her ears ceased as the memories completed rewriting themselves, but the blood had yet to clot. An interesting problem. Fortunately her own linen handkerchief is spared as Mr. Pleasant brings a stack of paper napkins for her use.

"No need, either I will hemorrhage to death or it will stop, there's not much to be done about it," Rosalind assures him as she primly folds another napkin and presses it beneath her nose. It is not the most dignified way to have a conversation, but she's doing her best. "I expect magic--" this word is said with palpable derision "--is exacerbating the known effects of trans-dimensional travel. Confluence?"

She sighs.

"I have never experienced that before, it is new and unpleasant. If you would remain a moment I would appreciate it? If only to arrange my corpse in a dignified manner should I collapse and perish."

[light_mischief]

That's fair enough by Skulduggery's standards, although he might still reach out to Watson later, to make sure he's on the lookout for a ghostly woman suddenly apparating with a nosebleed. Seems like the decent thing to do...

He chuckles at the suggestion and nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I think I can manage that. Ah... actually, this is a good time to point out that when you die aboard the ship, you'll be resurrected later in your cabin." Yeaaaah. "It is, unfortunately, more magic. I wish I had a more clarifying explanation, but we don't know how it works, exactly."

[spindown]

The staggering look of absolute disdain on her face is masked only by the napkin she has pressed under her alarmingly serious nosebleed. She could not possibly look less pleased with that answer. She gives a ragged sigh and attempts a long, calming inhale through her nose but to no avail. She ends up sputtering and grimacing and then looks even less pleased.

This is all rather messy.

"It would be quite an ignoble death," or perhaps will be, "but not the least pleasant I've had. That I will revive at the behest of magic is less than comforting, but I suppose it's not entirely intolerable. Life is, no offense, generally preferable to the alternatives."

She has to swap to the next napkin after a moment and scowls at the growing stack. It is more dramatic than she would like, but not nearly life threatening. Still, it is concerning that collapsing into an alternate is so unpredictably different than what she's used to. The odds of having an aneurysm on this ship are much higher than they ought to be, it seems.

"I suppose I shall have to investigate all the magic abound. If a clarification arises, I shall inform you."