come_sailaway | pleased to meet you

Entry tags:

pleased to meet you

CW: murder

[it is the morning of the 17th when the usual morning announcement is replaced with the sort of tentative, nervous tone that Friday takes on immediately before something insane happens.]

Good morning, passengers! It's, um... Well, I sure hope everyone had an interesting time on their shore excursion! The Captain sure did! In fact, he had such a good time, he's asked me to inform you all that, tonight, he's going to be hosting his usual captain's formal in the main dining room, but with a twist! This time, it's going to be a, um... victory party! For Natsuno! Because he won! [small laugh] And also to celebrate the opening of a new shop on the Promenade! Gosh, and that really is something to celebrate; I haven't seen that happen since he--

[LOUD STATIC NOISES]

-- Yes, well! The dress code will be cruise formal; everyone can find a new set of clothes in their cabin to celebrate the occasion! I-- Oh, right, we'll see you all tonight! 8PM sharp!

[the connection cuts off. today, for the first time that anyone can remember, Friday can't be found in the atrium. or any other room. smoke 'em if you got 'em.

at 8PM sharp, the door to the dining room swings open. it is mostly empty: the only tables left are a dozen or so under the main chandelier. there are name cards at each table setting, written in Friday's neat script; the seatings seem mostly random, except for everyone who was on the island, who will find themselves at a table with their killer and/or victim(s). except Natsuno, of course, whose name is displayed proudly at the head table, next to an unnamed place. once they are inside, all of them find themselves under the same sort of compulsion that they felt during the muster drill, and their legs will stop working until they have gone to their assigned seats.

Friday enters the room first, dressed up nicely, but with hunched shoulders and her hands clasped firmly in front of her. the door shuts behind her. she says nothing, and acknowledges no one, not even Natsuno, as she takes her spot behind the chair.

a few fashionable minutes pass. it starts as smoke pouring out from under the door, moving towards the table as it slowly solidifies into the form of... a rather normal-looking man. he sits, cross-legged, in the chair that Friday pulls out for him. he looks over the assembled crowd, visibly considering something... there is a flash of silver in the light, and the knife he'd had in his sleeve is across Friday's throat quicker than she can react, and she falls bonelessly to the ground, a spray of arterial blood across the table setting.]

There, perfect.

[he looks out at them again. and he smiles. the knife is placed back in his sleeve, and he holds his hands out, palms up.]

Well. Here's your chance. [he waves a hand lazily, and the compulsion keeping them seated fades like pins and needles.] Try not to embarrass yourselves.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( five? )

Out of five, maybe.

( most victories in times of war aren't won by playing honorably, and decidedly video games were a new instrument of war. clarke does that super annoying thing where she lets him pry one hand off, then when he goes for the other that first hand returns to block his view. she gets in maybe one or two alterations before that elbow connects with her ribs. )

Oopf, ( comes the gentle exhale in response to contact. but, highlight being gentle. she knows natsuno can hit much harder than that, and the second after that thought registers, it's a free for all.

absolutely lawless grappling for a few moments. clarke even tries to wiggle under one of his arms and shove him off the bike proper. and the trash talk just intensifies. )

What happened, Natsuno? I thought you were supposed to be the one winning here.

[Is she grappling him? She's fucking grappling him. Clarke Griffin is a terrifying enemy, not to be crossed even in the arcade.

Well then. Time to kick his own spiteful pettiness up a notch.]

And I think you're changing the game because you're a sore loser.

[Natsuno grips the bike tighter with his legs and throws it right hard, trying to shove her.

The bike tilts. Somewhere, metal groans. Is it even built to lean that far?]

( two things of note:

that's a very accurate summary of clarke griffin; bitter loser to the end, he got her clocked in one.

and then — for this inevitably being the second time she falls dramatically on the floor, at least it's going to be funny this time.

the bike tilts, something groans like it's going to break, and clarke's distracted enough for a moment that she misses the opportunity to properly catch herself from sliding off the seat. another half-strangled help, and maybe a brief attempt to anchor herself to his torso, but ultimately, nah. she just sorta falls sideways, landing on her butt on the multicolored rug of the arcade. )

Ow, ( she says, more out of habit than any actual hurt. the smirk spread across her mouth undermines any thought of lasting spite here. then clarke looks at the screens of their games, notices the time for the lap has run out and the leaderboard shows both their avatars dead last in the running since they hadn't even finished the race, and she snorts. if only all battles were that easy.

...if only all battles were that easy!

somehow that's the thought that does it. pushes her just past the last hurtle of restraint, and rips a loud, clear laugh from her chest — then another. and one more. and then it's a full on laughing fit, the shoe shaped bruise on her chest from earlier aching with every inhale. )

[She almost pulls him down with her, but in the end she hits the floor and Natsuno jerks back upright. Another metallic groan, and the bike's base cracks, dropping Natsuno a few inches down. Ow indeed.

He slouches in his seat, looking from the scoreboard to the laughing Clarke. Natsuno's mouth quirks and he lets out a quiet huff, followed by a low chuckle.

It's not nearly as long as his friend's lauhging fit, but it's more than he had in six months.]

( clarke laughs until tears father in her eyelashes. whether their origin is pure joy, the aching discomfort in her rib cage, or the fact she constantly exists in a state of laugh, cry, of fight — pick one is anyone's guess. she drags a hand across her face after a few moments, then gestures weakly at the game. )

I'd say best out of three, but.

( but she doesn't want to make more work for friday.

...oh, and there's a sliver of sad realism again. )

Maybe we should try something where you actually stand a chance?

[He literally threw her to the floor and she's still trash-talking. Mad respect.]

Sure. [He slides off the broken bike and gestures around the arcade.] Pick any game. I'll show you all the moves. And you still won't beat me without throwing a tantrum.

( ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim, etc. )

That wasn't a tantrum, that was... Situational resourcefulness.

( which, yanno, she's great at. case and point: sticking her fingers in bullet wounds to win a fight, attempted murder with lobster crackers, and now just straight up covering his eyes. and despite what natsuno's seen from her, he still hasn't bore witness to the heartless, society annihilating quality of clarke griffin's worst tantrums.

casting around the arcade, the sense of competition immediately draws her towards the shooting game. good shot or not, in that realm she's had more practice. but then she spots a table that stands about hip-high, a bar with point screens arched over the middle. the tabletop looks plastic and lit with a blue tinged blacklight, and somewhere beneath the surface, the hum of power.

splashed along the side in bold letters are the words air hockey. and clarke can absolutely read, but that doesn't shed any more light on how the game is supposed to work. )

What about that one?

Hm, good choice.

[Simple rules, no fancy combos and great potential for violence.]

You use the discs to hit the puck and send it into the other player's goal. Whoever scores more goals wins. [A pause.] That's really it. I'm not gonna throw a sword at you this time.

( she favors him with a look that distinctly challenges only because you don't have one in the same breath it promises that kicking out isn't off the table. but ultimately just shrugs, nods along, takes up her position on one edge of the table and picks up the glaringly white disk to see how it fits in her hand.

the other hand is hovering over the table, weirdly fascinated by the puffs of air buffeting upwards. )

So it's just weird, flat, one-on-one soccer? That was one of the only games we played on the Ark, you are absolutely about to get your butt kicked.

[Talking over her:] Yeah, yeah. I dare you to do that by playing fair.

[Does his opening strike have a little supernatural strength behind it, or is he just really aggressive?]

( ...honestly, clarke should have expected that. honestly, it's a little weird she's routinely forgetting he's got supernatural abilities unless they're in dire, life or death straits. she hadn't spared that a thought before trying to wrangle him off a fake motorcycle, and doesn't consider it here when squaring up to receive the first serve.

and she almost. almost diverts a goal. actually clips the puck with her own disk, but that just streamlines it's route to clattering into the tiny slit of a goal on her end.

the game erupts into a tinny celebration song for ten seconds, and that entire time clarke's just. staring. daggers.

but, no, calm down, breathe. she's eventually going to retrieve the puck from the goal pocket at her knees, line it up and smack the tiny plastic circle so hard it pelts across the table at a break neck speed; bouncing off every inch along the edge of the table and ultimately wildly seeking a goal. )

[He's not smirking this time, returning her glare with calm innocence.

Creatures like him are apex predators, every sense and instinct honed to hunt their human prey. Natsuno swore to never use those abilities unless the situation is truly dire...

So clearly he needs to use them now to block the speeding puck and rocket it back into Clarke's goal.]

( it's the difference between truly being an apex predator, and simply acting like one so nothing gets close enough to hurt, then. a type a personality and fierce drive to win can't truly compete against heightened senses and superior muscle percentage, but clarke does her best to put up a good fight. they're separated by the entire air hockey table, it's impossible to reach over and ruffle his feathers. so, instead she's just stuck in a loop of hitting the puck as hard as she can, being blocked, and subsequently scored on at lightening speed.

this continues for at least two whole games, clarke stubbornly insisting let's go again despite natsuno just continuing to rack up points.

then somewhere halfway through their third game, she catches on. just stares at him and lets the puck sail past her hand into her goal once more. stares, then squints, and almost asks if he's doing what she thinks he's doing. because that's rude. anyone can reach over and kick a fake motorcycle, not anyone could pull from a well of untapped supernatural skill to flex over an arcade game.

but then — no. nope. didn't need to call him out yet. and next time she goes to serve afresh, clarke absolutely digs her upper teeth into the scabbed over split in her lower lip from earlier. reawakening the wound, causing a fresh wave of black blood to bubble between lacerated, painfully stretching sensitive skin.

...admittedly, it's a tiny bit of a test. mostly a low blow, underhanded attempt to cause a distraction. but they'd never sat down and discussed what being a shiki meant in terms of abilities, and clarke wants to see how much of a stir a few drops of blood can cause.

and she really wants to score at least one goal! )

[Natsuno can manage his instincts just fine. There's plenty of normal food aboard the Serena Eterna to keep him sated and hold back the empty hunger most shiki feel without blood. He has the special coffee machine for an extra boost when needed. A split lip isn't nearly enough to be appetizing - especially not when he was absolutely covered by the same blood a week ago and felt nothing but anger and nausea.

But it is enough to grab his attention.

His nostrils flare and he looks up at Clarke. Is she - doing this to herself? There's no hunger in his eyes, no animal instincts, just pure dude, what the FUCK?

But hey, at least he's distracted enough for her to score!]

( she'll take dude what the fuck.

take it, hold on tight to it, and capitalize on the moment to just fucking sling the puck past his knuckles and finally secure her first goal of the game. really, the dude what the fuck just adds to her creed as a horrifying opponent, even in more mild situations.

and as if that's the winning shot on goal, instead of a drop in the bucket, the clatter of the puck in the goal sliver has her throwing up both hands and grinning wildly. the split in her lip stretches, stings. it's worth it.

yup, that's it, that's the end of the game, she's absolutely the winner. )

[He blinks in surprise when the puck flies into the goal with a ping. Clarke throws her hands up as the scoreboard announces her first point, the grin swelling with a fresh whiff of blood.

Natsuno huffs softly and the surprise disappears behind the closed shutters of his usual stoicism. He let himself forget that his abilities, as useful as they are - as good as they can feel - come at the price of snapping to attention at the hint of human blood.

He lets go of the disc.]

Guess you win.

( she's not usually one to lose herself in the delight of a such a silly little victory.

...usually.

for a beat, clarke misses the downright frosty shift in the air between them. ) We can do another round if you wanna even things out. ( brash, blatant sarcasm — look, she's pleased to have scored, but that doesn't change the fact the running tally is still something like 35 to 1. but he's letting go of his disk, even as she's gesturing around the room with hers still in hand. )

Or do you want to play something else?

[Natsuno lets her smugness and sarcasm fly right past him. The scent of blood brought him back to the reality of their situation, and now the arcade looks like a noisy, ugly-lit mockery.]

Not really. I'm done.

( he's — )

...what?

( a good chunk of of that competitive glee slips right off her features at natsuno's declaration. the mood had shifted for him a minute or two ago, but it isn't until the thin veneer of playtime is dismissed with four simple words that clarke begins to follow suit.

she spares one last look around the arcade — had wanted to try the shooting dinosaur game, and was intrigued by skeeball, and somewhere there's a ticket counter with chinese finger traps and bouncy ball prizes — but... if they're done... )

I mean, really?

[Apparently the mood shifted so much that Natsuno is now past words, and simply hums an uninterested confirmation. He sticks his hands in his pockets and starts heading out of the arcade.]

( woah. woah. oh hey wait, okay!

clarke's dropping her own air hockey disk and makes a direct attempt to follow after him. it's sudden, not the most graceful chase — she clips her hip on the edge of the game table and winces, but powers through that to jog and catch up with natsuno right as he reaches the exit to the arcade.

level and at his side — )

Hey. Hey.

( but... also having grown familiar with the teenagers sulking mood throughout the last three months, eventually pushing a step or two past him in order to plant herself in his path and force him to stop walking. bringing them face to face, with clarke's features back to her emotionally tight, perpetually wounded. )

What's wrong?

( what changed? what outside impact so quickly turned his mood sour — because she's still not connected the dot that it was her own stunt with the bloodied lip that's turned his stomach. )

[What's wrong?

Everything's wrong, or maybe nothing is wrong and he just needed to remember how things are supposed to be.

It's tempting to just shoulder past Clarke and move on, but she won't back off and honestly... sullen as he is, she still deserves a semblance of explanation.]

You're still bleeding.

( s...till bleeding? stiltedly, clarke brings a hand up to her mouth and runs the pad of a finger across her split lip. drawing it back, sure enough, there's still a streak of black falling into the wells of her fingerprint. her brow is still furrowed in confusion until, absently, her tongue darts out to lick at the tiny wound. and the distinct copper flavor floods her tastebuds and... oh. )

...this is because I bit my lip?

( this, the curtain being sharply drawn on their temporary escape from reality. this, the death of fun and his hasty retreat. clarke doesn't entirely get it — how could she really, ever get it? — but can scent natsuno's sour distaste as well as he can scent her blood in the air. )

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the game.

[Natsuno shrugs.] Forget it. It doesn't matter.

[It was a dick move, but his annoyance at Clarke is only a small part of it. Most of all he's angry at himself, for acting like his abilities are anything more than a necessary evil. It doesn't matter that it's only a silly game, that he would've never actually hurt her. He should never feel comfortable with what he is.]

( okay, cool evasive tactics, but please consider — )

I mean, obviously it matters.

( at least a little, right? and probably a lot. they'd been having a nice time and suddenly, with one impulsive and underhanded attempt to claw for the smallest victory, clarke had ruined it. she's still not moving out of his way, but folds her arms across her chest. shoulders dropping, curling in a little on herself. of course she'd ruined it. that was par for the course of attempting to have any semblance of fun, and now trying to make sure the bridge firmly suspended between herself and natsuno was the price for those thirty minutes of leisure childishness. )

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