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come_sailaway2023-03-02 05:35 pm
saltwaterlungs) wrote in come_sailaway2023-03-02 05:35 pm
Joan never cared about the in-betweens
CHARACTERS: Darcy, Past Darcy, her Krewe, and you??
DATE: March
LOCATION: Various
SITUATION: Welcome to her twisted mind…
WARNINGS: Psychiatric abuse, eating disorders, death, violence, more to be added as they become relevant.
There’s a hallway leading to a sumptuously decorated crypt. Throughout, in small alcoves along the walls, there’s various statues and paintings of what you can probably identify as the Virgin Mary if you’re aware of her as a concept. Muffled, there is the sound of a choir singing, people talking, footsteps. Ahead of you, about halfway down, there’s a young girl with a pageboy haircut climbing the barrier between herself and the statue, a look of serious determination on her face.
A nondescript room.
There’s a bed, where a girl who… resembles Darcy is currently restrained to the bed by leather cuffs. There’s a bit of drying blood at her mouth, and she’d look more like Darcy if her longer hair wasn’t thinner and if she didn’t look gaunt and weedy. She’s staring at the ceiling. There’s a distinct lack of any ornament to the room, the sole window is frosted over. It would feel medical if there were more actual medical accoutrements, but as it stands there’s a bed, a girl, a locked door, and nothing else.
The night is listless and freezing, the Rhône turns over in her riverbed below, and you’re there just in time to hear someone hit the water under the bridge below you. They did not scream. The only person left on the bridge looks over for a moment, and then flees with a quick parting glance back over their shoulder.
Someone’s crying in a generic multi-stall bathroom. The only points of interest are the long mirror above the sink, the wads of toilet paper stuck to the ceiling, the gum stuck to the walls, and an almost supernatural chill in the air. And, of course, the distinct sound of someone trying to muffle their laboured breathing.
It’s dark wherever this is, and there’s someone banging on the door in the room you emerge into.
“GET THIS FUCKING DOOR OPEN,” a man’s voice with an… American? Accent?
“Darcy- tell him it’s no good, the locks are electronic. This whole place is sealed like a tin of sardines,” a German accent?
“Give it a rest,” Darcy, unmistakably, “we’re stuck. Only way out is through.”
Darcy crashes past the alcove you’re in, dragged backwards on her back by the ornate gold cord of a stage curtain, scrabbling for purchase on literally anything. You’re in an ornate theatre, and watching from the balconies and the stage are fellow ghosts- all in various archaic forms of dress- and from one of the lower levels, there’s people calling and shouting Darcy's name.
“He thinks he can replace his songbird with some ugly squawking crow?!” comes a shriek from the ghost dragging her around to the next set of stairs, elaborately dressed, “oh he’ll learn. I made this Opera what it is, he will learn this lesson.”
(Other. Hit me up on discord if you have something else in mind.)
DATE: March
LOCATION: Various
SITUATION: Welcome to her twisted mind…
WARNINGS: Psychiatric abuse, eating disorders, death, violence, more to be added as they become relevant.
Said Christ walked on water we can wade through the war(OTA)
There’s a hallway leading to a sumptuously decorated crypt. Throughout, in small alcoves along the walls, there’s various statues and paintings of what you can probably identify as the Virgin Mary if you’re aware of her as a concept. Muffled, there is the sound of a choir singing, people talking, footsteps. Ahead of you, about halfway down, there’s a young girl with a pageboy haircut climbing the barrier between herself and the statue, a look of serious determination on her face.
You don't need to tell me who the fire is for (Clarke)
A nondescript room.
There’s a bed, where a girl who… resembles Darcy is currently restrained to the bed by leather cuffs. There’s a bit of drying blood at her mouth, and she’d look more like Darcy if her longer hair wasn’t thinner and if she didn’t look gaunt and weedy. She’s staring at the ceiling. There’s a distinct lack of any ornament to the room, the sole window is frosted over. It would feel medical if there were more actual medical accoutrements, but as it stands there’s a bed, a girl, a locked door, and nothing else.
Oh bring me the love that can sweeten a sword(Skulduggery and Phil)
The night is listless and freezing, the Rhône turns over in her riverbed below, and you’re there just in time to hear someone hit the water under the bridge below you. They did not scream. The only person left on the bridge looks over for a moment, and then flees with a quick parting glance back over their shoulder.
A boat that can love the rocks or the shore(Fio)
Someone’s crying in a generic multi-stall bathroom. The only points of interest are the long mirror above the sink, the wads of toilet paper stuck to the ceiling, the gum stuck to the walls, and an almost supernatural chill in the air. And, of course, the distinct sound of someone trying to muffle their laboured breathing.
The love of the iceberg reaching out for a wreck(Okie)
It’s dark wherever this is, and there’s someone banging on the door in the room you emerge into.
“GET THIS FUCKING DOOR OPEN,” a man’s voice with an… American? Accent?
“Darcy- tell him it’s no good, the locks are electronic. This whole place is sealed like a tin of sardines,” a German accent?
“Give it a rest,” Darcy, unmistakably, “we’re stuck. Only way out is through.”
Can you love me like the crosses love the nape of the neck? (Vance)
Darcy crashes past the alcove you’re in, dragged backwards on her back by the ornate gold cord of a stage curtain, scrabbling for purchase on literally anything. You’re in an ornate theatre, and watching from the balconies and the stage are fellow ghosts- all in various archaic forms of dress- and from one of the lower levels, there’s people calling and shouting Darcy's name.
“He thinks he can replace his songbird with some ugly squawking crow?!” comes a shriek from the ghost dragging her around to the next set of stairs, elaborately dressed, “oh he’ll learn. I made this Opera what it is, he will learn this lesson.”
I thought I heard somebody calling, in the dark I thought I heard somebody call
(Other. Hit me up on discord if you have something else in mind.)
Florence and Calamity and Joan of Arc
Which is to say, a lot of very similar looking buildings on… a street, made out of some dark material which is far smoother than cobblestone. It’s morning- fairly early by the position of the sun- but the air is a little nippy, and the sparse trees out the front of the buildings are dressed in their autumn splendor. Cars, like at the Diner, line the street. A couple of people amble past, while Darcy stares up at one of the high windows. Her neighbours in the apartments next to her can hear the entire argument going on in crisp detail, but it’s all but silent on the street.
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Cold, though. Air that he can feel as anything but a humid soup. This isn't the first memory he's entered, not even the first with cool weather, but every time it's like the first real breath he's taken in months. Even if it tastes volcanic, it doesn't taste of salt.
The smooth monotony of the buildings makes his skin crawl a little, and the beetly shine of the rows of cars, but it's a city all the same. Full of people, full of life, of lives that will never touch his but whose presence is felt all the same, and the relief makes his heart ache.
Dimitri turns to Darcy, scrubbing out the sting behind his eyes, and tracks her gaze up to the window. "What are you looking at?"
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"I'm having a fight with my mum in there. In about ten minutes I'm going to storm out the front door."
It's impossible to see any details of her old home through the tiny window. But she's not going back inside this time around.
"You want breakfast?" she asks, "I need to handle some shit but then we should be able to basically go wherever, ehn? We'll pick up a tourist map, see where you want to go."
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It stands to reason. This is Darcy's memory; Darcy must be in it somewhere. It feels like abandoning his friend, except that Darcy is right here -- it's surreal and Dimitri is going to stop thinking about it before he turns his brain into a pretzel.
"Breakfast would be nice," he agrees, then pauses and wrinkles his nose. "How were you planning to pay for it?"
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"It's better for both of us that I don't tell you the answer to that."
And then she tugs him by the hand down the street-
"This way, it's a couple of blocks to the metro."
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Also. "The metro is the, the 'train', yes?"
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"Mhm- the underground one, it'll take us into the city center, and then we should be able to walk basically anywhere."
It's a short walk past a number of identical apartment buildings. A car rolls past every now and again- the 8th arrondissement of Lyon is largely residential, and it's far more new than most of the city, having only been established in the 1800s. A large monument marks the entrance of the closest metro stop, with escalators descending down into the station itself.
"Wait right here," she tells him, and descends. The turnstiles are downstairs, so he won't see her hop them, and if her memory is correct-
"No- no, Helen, this is not my fault, alright- nobody- no, nobody has-"
"But if we'd just asked at the tourist i-"
"-not my fault that the-"
"Are you guys lost?" Darcy asks, peering over the tourist's shoulder to look at the map. While the husband of the pair explains the situation, she pilfers their wallets.
(Upstairs, Dimitri will see the Darcy that this memory belongs to red-eyed and sniffling, in her school uniform, ignoring everyone else as she makes her way downstairs.)
A short while later, Darcy appears at the top of the other escalator, trotting back over to offer him a metro card.
"Here- you tap this downstairs and it pays for your train trip."
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He also has to resist the urge to bend the metro card when present-future Darcy hands it to him. The plastic is satisfyingly springy, but Dimitri knows he'd break it. Alas.
He is fascinated by the escalator. He hesitates, dancing nervously before he realizes he's holding people up and has to commit; then nearly gets the hem of his pants caught when he crouches down to examine the workings, and stumbles on the dismount. Still, there's an excited (if sheepish) brightness in his expression when he recovers and turns to Darcy.
"Can we ... go again?"
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"We've got nowhere urgent to be, ehn? Go ahead-" she leans herself up against one of the structural pillars, "I'll be here when you're done."
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"I think I've gotten the hang of it," he says after getting off, utterly failing to cover the 'hehe wheeeee' of it all. "Thank you for indulging me -- shall we move on?"
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A few stations down, a gentleman in an old-fashioned suit steps aboard, shimmering faintly and translucent as he sits through a couple of people on the seats opposite them, reading a faded newspaper. Darcy gently jostles Dimitri with her elbow, indicating towards him with a tilt of her head and raise of her eyebrows, questioning if he can see him.
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It just. Starts. And accelerates. And keeps accelerating. And KEEPS? ACCELERATING???
By the time the train slows again for its first stop, Dimitri has a white-knuckled grip on his own knees (he doesn't need to shatter the plastic seat) and is fighting to breathe normally. By the second stop he's accepted that his organs aren't going to rattle out of his torso, but he's looking faintly green; by the third he's beginning to steady enough that when Darcy elbows him, he looks up, and --
-- whether he actually does have any latent spirit sensitivity, or if it's just being in Darcy's memory, he can see their translucent fellow passenger. He catches himself, mouth open, before he can make any exclamation, but his gaze darts between Darcy and the ghost in obvious excitement.
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The ghost harumphs at being stared at, lifting the newspaper, which can be entirely transparently seen through. He's reading the funnies.
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"Is," he begins, " -- I do still want to see the zoo, of course, but -- is there any chance we could see the lecture in the forum?" Another spark of interest -- "Oh! And you could understand it, this time!"
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"He doesn't show up until nighttime, so... you really want to spend all day here?"
'With her' is the unspoken caveat, but like hell is she voicing that part. Wanting the company and esteem of loved ones is for cowards.
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The ghost gets off at the next stop, and vanishes just as soon as it leaves the train.
The metro takes them all the way to the centre of the city, out onto the Place Bellecour. She points out the statue of Louis XIV, the Ferris wheel- promising him they'll be back to ride it- picks one of the little cafes nestled at the base of an old building for breakfast. Decent fucking pastries and bread. It's not in her meal plan for the day but fuck it, cheat day, she's enjoying more carbs today than she usually eats in a year in the name of good butter and jam.
"Ugh, God, I'll never not miss this," she tears a croissant to dunk into her mug of hot chocolate, "I could probably cry right now."
Unbeknownst to her, someone has spotted her from a street or two away, and is bee-lining for her.
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He takes another tiny bite of apple pastry, chewing thoughtfully. 'Cinnamon' is still a lot. It's one thing on the Serena Eterna, where everything materializes out of aether; it's something else entirely to realize how much and how many spices the bulk of Darcy's world has access to, all of the time. "It's funny," he says once he's swallowed -- "I never would have had this at home to begin with. And yet ... " A slight sniffle. "It does feel like something I missed."
Is that -- no, that's not a coincidence, someone is moving towards them with intent. "Ah ... Darcy?"
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Darcy looks up from her food to see someone in a school uniform with bright red hair making her way through the subdued throngs of people, and she immediately fumbles in her pockets to try and get her wallet out-
"WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH DARCY?!" at which point she freezes solid.
"Skipping school?? To have breakfast with a boy?? With a buzzcut??"
"Hey, Bean-"
The short redhead reaches up to ruffle Darcy's head, leaning on her like a cat. Darcy seems quietly relieved that she doesn't actually realize she's not the Darcy of this world.
"Dimitri, this is-"
"Sabine, who I hope you've already been told about because you're not allowed to meet with a mysterious cute boy without telling him about your friends-"
"He's my cousin, gay, and taken, don't-"
"-and why do you never answer your hecking texts, girl! I literally just messaged to tell you I made the titration squad!" Sabine tugs on Darcy's sleeve, addressing Dimitri- "she is so impossible to get hold of outside of training-"
"Sorry- that's really exciting-" she's making a face at Dimitri like she wouldn't say no to a spoon through the eye socket right now.
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"Ah, Sabine! Darcy's always been quiet about her school life, but she has told me about her teammates. It's a pleasure to meet you." And just to head anything else off at the pass, "What she says is true -- very gay, and according to Darcy insufferably taken."
... huh. He's never actually said it like that before. And he pulled it off without stumbling over the cultural disjunct!
Side note: A Faerghan accent filtered through French translation sounds really weird.
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"His mum's Russian," Darcy explains, getting out ahead of the whole 'Dimitri having to explain himself while not being from earth' bit.
"Oh, right, you can kind of hear that- my family's from Novara. Well- my mum's from Novara, my dad's from Varese, I was born over here. Sometimes I slip up with rolling my 'r's because we mostly speak Italian at home though. Mostly anyway- my little brother's learning English so I've been practicing it with him, Darcy's crazy fluent in it, it's so cool."
Darcy shoots Dimitri a Look as if to remind him that he signed up for this.
"What are you studying?" Sabine asks, finally looking up from the stolen bread.
1/2
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Um. Uh. 'Battle tactics and governance' is absolutely not the correct answer here. What has Darcy mentioned as Earth topics before? Quick before the silence gets suspicious --
"Accounting."
Nailed it.
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"Oh that's cool! I also really like maths- but I was telling Darcy we have this awful teacher for this year who can't explain anything-"
Sabine gets lost in her ramblings in between bites of bread with preserves that she continues to pilfer from Darcy's plate, occasionally reaching over to tug on Darcy's sleeve or jostle her arm. Darcy, for her part, doesn't seem to mind. There's a few points, even, when Sabine isn't looking, where she looks fond.
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Eventually he does finish his tea, though, and clears his throat when Sabine has to pause for breath. "Sorry to interrupt, but," he shoots Darcy a regretful glance, "should we be going?"
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the boy is neither stupid nor incurious but he is from a setting where the church banned autopsy
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