i'm feeling devious, you're looking glamorous | OPEN

[cacophonish]

WHO: Jeff & OPEN
WHEN: June 1 - June 10
WHERE: Random cabins, every bar, the buffet, idk basically anywhere
SUMMARY: A messy new arrival hits the ground, uh... stumbling to rock bottom. I swear he'll chill out after this.
WARNINGS: Binge drinking, references to demons, possession, trauma, and death. Oh and Billy Joel slander.

So, like...

All things considered, Jeff thinks he's taking this pretty well. Obviously, he's majorly fucking dead, which is about what he expected after performing the ritual to give his body over to a demon. And, okay, so the afterlife is a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean, and that's, like, really not his scene, but it's better than the big empty void of oblivion he'd been expecting, so... Things are already looking up.

Look at him. He's chill. He's copacetic. He's not freaking out about anything at all.

After the mandatory safety drills are done, you can find Jeff all over the Serena Eterna, exploring all the fine shops and amenities the ship has to offer.

i. bar hopping...

...fuck it, okay, fine, he's bar hopping. That's all he's doing. Look, there's a lot of places to get a drink here, and Jeff's a connoisseur of self destruction and debauchery, and besides, he's already dead, so it's not like he has any reason to sober up now.

So, really, if you stop by any bar on the ship, you're likely to run into Jeff there at some point or another, in various states of intoxication. Maybe he's holding a one-sided conversation with an indifferent ghost at the poolside bar, while it blends him a daiquiri. Maybe he's singing to himself and anyone around him at Hurrikane-- hey, wait, did a cocktail napkin spontaneously burst into flames while he was singing? Maybe he's dancing with anyone who's got the misfortune of being at Rischie at the same time as him. Or maybe he's grooving alone at John's, to the beat of some song in his head, stopping to hurl expletives at the ghostly piano player as it launches into its set. "Fuuuuuck you, Piano Man. Billy Joel's a hack. Ha... ha... Fuck. Billy Joel. I'm in hell..."

The ghost of the piano man doesn't even care. Somehow, the indifference stings.

ii. strange bedfellows...

Big messy breakdowns can take a lot out of a guy. Not that Jeff's having a breakdown. It's just a general observation, about breakdowns in general, for other people. Jeff's fine, after all. He's just having a good time.

But sooner or later, that breakdown good time starts to take its toll, and Jeff's gotta crawl back to his cabin to sleep it off. The only thing is, he doesn't actually remember his cabin number. It's... 123, right? No. Wait. 113. 102... He knows for a fact it starts with a 1.

(What do you mean every cabin starts with a 1?)

Eventually, Jeff finds his way back to his cabin, or at least what he thinks is his cabin. Maybe it's actually your cabin, in which case: if you left the door unlocked, he's definitely going to stumble in and zonk out on one of the beds, thinking it's his. Total Goldilocks move. If it's locked, well, he'll just slump down in front of the door and sleep the booze off there, in the hall. You might have to step over him, or just wake him up.

iii. breakfast of champions...

Decked out in Tommy Bahama, with sunglasses perched in his hair, Jeff looks like he's finally settling into the cruise life... as he groans and slumps his head down on a table at the buffet, a plate of untouched food beside him. What's the point of hangovers in the afterlife?

"'s not fair. I wanna diiiie..." he whines into the table, as if this hangover is, truly, the worst hangover anyone's suffered, ever, in the history of the universe. If you join him, Jeff will lift his head and look absolutely pitiful. For as much of a mess as he is, he really has mastered the art of puppy dog eyes. Somehow, he actually manages to look like some kind of innocent Disney princess decked out in Tommy Bahama.

"I don't think I'm doing so good right now," he confesses.

Fine. Okay. So maybe Jeff isn't taking any of this well at all.

iv. wildcard...

go wild, throw anything at me. hit me at weeyotch or weeyotch#8200 if you want to plot something in particular!

Comments

Strange Bedfellows

[businessorlibation]

The thing of it is that the door of room 102 is propped open with a lounge slipper from Tommy Bahama, so it's easy for some dipshit to just let himself in and fall asleep on the bed.

Which means when a dapper swell comes home after a night out, he discovers his bed already occupied. Really, this is the logical conclusion of matters. Still, still, he isn't a complete and total asshole. So he does a few things: takes off Jeff's shoes so he's not making a mess in the bed, tucks him in, and leaves out a cup of water and some painkillers, before settling onto the sofa. Watson's in Rich's room tonight, and he's not sure where César is right now. So it's just him and a stranger that smells like booze.

Dandy. Just great.

[cacophonish]

Eventually, the booze-reeking stranger wakes up.

Actually, he wakes up a few times over the course of the night (morning?), for a few fitful minutes, before he slips back into blissfully dreamless sleep again.

But eventually, he wakes up properly, to a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like a cemetery, and he clearly doesn't want to join the conscious world judging by the way he's groaning and whining.

(Bards are always so dramatic.)

He reaches for the water and pills as soon as he notices them, then lets out a surprised yelp when he realizes there's a dude on the couch. A really, like, well dressed dude, and is that his roommate, or did Jeff hook up with him, or--

"Heeeey, man."

There's the slight lilt of a question in there, like he's trying to toss the ball in the man's court to supply the context clues of who he actually is and how they met.

[businessorlibation]

"Did you sleep well?"

There is so much Judgment dripping from those words, because look. Look, Johnny understands drinking, even understands it as a mode of escape, but the point at which you pass out in someone's bed is too far. Someone, ghost or otherwise, ought to have cut him off before this point.

[cacophonish]

Jeff looks at him with bleary eyes, seeming to really consider the question, regardless of the judgment in his voice. Then he shrugs.

"I feel like shit."

Which is now, apparently, Johnny's problem somehow. Jeff rubs his eyes. "Sorry, uh, I don't... I don't usually get this wasted."

It's a total lie, and he can't even deliver it all that convincingly.

II

[makesomedeals]

Maximilien doesn't sleep, well not often anyway, but he does actually use his cabin occasionally and there is currently someone in the hallway outside it.

Someone drunk, snoring, and blocking the whole entire doorway.

So Jeff, enjoy getting prodded by a foot wearing a very expensive Italian leather loafer belonging to one entirely robotic being.

"Move."

Welcome to the ship.

[cacophonish]

Look, it's probably not the first time he's been nudged by a very expensive Italian leather loafer--

--but it is the first time he's been prodded by a robot. It's the first time he's even met or seen a robot, so when Jeff opens his bleary eyes and squints up at the guy standing over him, and he gets a look at that face, his first thought is IS THAT A FUCKING TERMINATOR?

Followed by: Is my roommate a fucking terminator?

Jeff's eyes widen, and he does his best to scoot out of the way, like, as much as his totally uncoordinated limbs will let him.

"Dude..." Don't ask if he's a terminator, don't ask if he's a terminator... "Um. I think... I got locked out?"

Because this is his room, of course. Obviously.

[makesomedeals]

In good news he absolutely will not get the reference so if nothing else it'll be a good way to confuse him.

"I fail to see how that's my problem." He backs off a bit, folding his arms over his chest and watching Jeff with red glowing eyes. This isn't someone he recognizes, which means it might be someone who's just arrived.

And has been availing themselves of all the free liquor apparently.

"How drunk are you right now?"

III

[bazooka_girl]

She's seen enough hangovers to know what one looks like, and kinda feels sorry for the guy. She doesn't know if this is an everyday thing for him or what, but waking up in a strange ship is enough to get a lot of adults want to drink.

"Yeah, you look pretty rough. I hear tomato juice helps! Want me to fetch you some?"

[cacophonish]

If Jeff were a more responsible adult, he would feel so ashamed for being in this totally pathetic, clearly hungover state in front of a teenager. But the whole concept of shame feels like a distant memory at this point, which is why Jeff responds to that helpful offer with, "Do they make tomato juice for the soul? I think... I think that's what I need."

Fuck.

Okay, nevermind, he can still feel shame. Jeff winces and then tries to cover it up with a smile-- no, wait, that's a grimace.

"Just kidding."

Smooth. He's totally convincing.

[bazooka_girl]

"I don't think so." She's teasing even as she knows it may be a possibility somewhere. Who knows?

"Hang on." She'll leave then and wander to the buffet. When she comes back she gives him a glass of tomato juice and some toast while having an orange for herself.

"Rough night?"

[serialskiller]

"I don't care if you want to die, I'm not killing any humans today. You simply aren't worth it. Do you need someone to reach out to Doctor Watson?"

The question comes from a tall, broad figure, built like the proverbial shit brickhouse, dressed in a black hoodie and cargo pants. The words "PreservationAux Survey Team" are on the front of the hoodie. "That or I could grab you some bread and Powerade. The electrolytes might help with your current condition."

[cacophonish]

Wow, dude, how can you make a promise not to murder him sound so insulting at the same time? Jeff frowns, looking truly wounded, and even more pitiful than before, which is kind of an accomplishment.

"I'm not... worth killing?"

Not that he wants to be killed, but hey, rejection hurts.

Oh, wait, the big guy also made some helpful offers.

"Um. I don't... No doctors." Then he nods and tries to offer a smile. "Bread's good. Maybe I won't puke up bread."

[serialskiller]

"Yeah, you're not worth killing. I'll be back."

Murderbot heads off to the buffet, returning with a plate of plain toast and a glass of orange powerade, setting them both down in front of Jeff. "Eat. Drink."

Jam Session | Closed: Alex

[cacophonish]

Jeff's been here for a few days, but seeing as he's spent most of his time dancing at the edge of a drunken blackout (and the rest of the time actually blacked out in odd places), he hasn't actually crossed paths with his cabinmate yet.

In fact, if it weren't for his guitar in the room (along with his other belongings-- a journal, a walkman, and a bunch of tapes-- tucked away in a backpack), she'd be totally within her rights to assume she didn't have a cabinmate at all.

But all the hard drinking isn't sustainable, and the party scene isn't nearly as fun when it's just ghosts and a few scattered people here and there, so eventually, Jeff calms down, comes down, and actually starts to spend some time in the cabin.

Right now, he's on the couch, sober, his hair still wet from a shower, just chilling with his guitar, strumming and singing a song to himself. It's not his usual scene, (definitely not what he'd perform on stage back home) but this kind of hippie stuff is like comfort food to him. It's what he was raised with, the kind of records his parents would put on when he was a kid.

And at least for the moment, his head feels a little less like a total mess.

[colorwheels]

Alex is almost starting to believe that she really does have the room to herself. It's passed through her thoughts a few times that honestly, maybe someone just decided to use her room as storage for some reason? But no one comes to get it, and eventually she just lets it go. Of course, it also means that she doesn't really take the time to announce her presence as she enters the room, door opening and closing behind her as she just hurries in and--

There's someone on her couch. And playing music.

How did she not notice that part? All at once, it feels like she's intruding. Unsure what to say or do, she just hovers there at the door for a moment, eyes flicking from Jeff to everything else in the room and back.

"Um...Hi?"

Nailed it, Alex.

"Sorry, I didn't think there'd be anyone in here."

[cacophonish]

The song trails off on his lips, fingers slowing, then stopping, as he looks up at Alex.

"Oh." The startled look passes, and he flashes a smile, trying to channel his best bright and cheery self after... several days of binge drinking and depression. "Hey! I'm, uh, I'm Jeff?" Like he's not 100% certain of his own name. "I mean. I'm Jeff." There, that sounds more confident. Nailed it, too, buddy. "I think we're roommates? I mean, we might not be, 'cause I wound up in the wrong cabin so many times, but, like, my stuff's here, so I think I got the right place this time, unless I'm wrong, and you already have a roommate, and, um... so... Hi?"

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

[decohere]

Ava gives this annoyingly vocally miserable guy a rather suspicious sort of look, because it's far too early in the day for this, and slowly scoots her plate further away from him.

"Don't puke on my waffles." They're piled high with whipped cream and dressed up with blueberries.

[cacophonish]

Oh, just wait, Ava, because there are so many ways in which Jeff is annoying, and this is just a preview. He watches as the waffles are pushed further and further away from him, and even though his stomach's a churning pit of despair at the moment, he has to admit: they look good. Whipped cream and blueberries make everything better.

He blinks slowly, then lifts his gaze from the food to the chick and tries to offer a reassuring smile. It's pretty weak.

"Oh... don't worry, it's cool, I already puked."

So there's nothing to worry about!

"Can I have a waffle?"

[decohere]

That is somewhat reassuring, actually.

Ava's expression is still somewhat suspicious as he eyes her plate of waffles though, eyeing his untouched food right back as if wanting to say you have your own.

And then sighs. He does look properly pathetic, and she was admittedly overestimating how much she could eat. Thing is, she doesn't have a separate plate. So she spears one of the waffles with her fork, and plops it right on top of his other food.

"There."

II

[firewalled]

Well, Rich and his three dads caretakers have worked out a system that tends to be quite convenient for them, but also tends to be convenient for whoever may want to sneak into his and César's room. Since the men are sort of on a shift rotation for who needs to check in on Rich and check his bandages during the night, the door is propped open with the matching Tommy Bahama slipper from Room 102's pair.

And since Rich is used to those mushy boyfriends not separating until far too late, he's not really bothered by the door opening in the middle of the night.

...At least, not until the smell of booze reaches his nostrils. Almost immediately, he's up on his feet, holding his breath, trying to move as quietly as possible towards the sleeping figure. He might also have one of César's suitcases as a potential weapon, just in case.

[cacophonish]

When Jeff stumbles into what's definitely his room this time, he tries to make the bed out in the darkness, before deciding it's too long and too perilous a trek, and instead flops down onto the couch with all the grace of a jellyfish.

He doesn't even bother pulling it out into a bed. Actually, Jeff probably doesn't even know the couches can do that. So, there he is, innocently trying to fall asleep (even though his 6-foot frame is probably too long for the couch and it's totally uncomfortable), when he realizes, oh, hey, he's not alone.

Jeff opens one eye, squinting up at the figure in the dark.

"Oh... Hey, dude..." A beat. "Are you my roommate?"

If the smell of booze wasn't enough of an indicator that he's totally wasted, the slurring certainly is.

[firewalled]

Okay. Okay, so this guy is big, but... he doesn't seem too dangerous. He's more the stupid, sleepy kind of drunk and not the kicking his ass for stepping on the wrong floorboard at 3 a.m. drunk. Good. Okay.

Rich is still gripping the toolcase tightly, though, as he examines the man crammed onto the couch.

"No. I'm definitely not your roommate. You got in the wrong cabin, dumbass." He groans under his breath. "You are going to have the worst hangover if you sleep like that."

Bar hopping

[millay]

Maeve's been casually exploring the various bars on the boat, trying to find out if she prefers one to the rest. The piano playing in the background reminds her of home. Not so much the terrible parts of it, but those are also part of it. The times that she was asleep, incapable of waking up and understanding her place as a cog in the machine of a terrible place. The music isn't anything she knows, but the sound of the man shouting expletives about a Billy Joel is almost like the cowboys in the Mariposa. Drunk and disorderly makes sense in a way.

She casually orders a drink at the bar. "What has Billy Joel done to make you so upset, darling?" She's both curious as to who Billy Joel is and what sort of person he must be to cause such a reaction. Additionally, she wonders if it will distract him enough so that she can at least listen to the piano a little bit.

[cacophonish]

"He just..." Jeff gestures at the piano, as if the Piano Man himself were sitting there performing. Given the level of drunken vitriol he's showing, surely there must be some legitimate grievance here. He must have a totally articulate, well-reasoned argument and--

"...he suuuuucks. It's all fucking... empty, sentimental bullshit and he never says anything real, and... and..."

--or not.

"Like, 'We Didn't Start the Fire'? It's just... a fucking old dude whining about history and it's not even a song, he's just listing facts, it's like... it's like going to school!"

[millay]

Maeve considers his words, looking at the piano and back to him. She doesn’t know this Billy Joel, but he is some musician and he didn’t start a fire. That was a song?

“And going to school is a negative thing?” Not that she went to school. Technically speaking. She has vague memories of being taught to read and write, but everything is programming.

“Or is it simply that it isn’t what you look for in music?” She assumes it’s the latter. “Who do you prefer, then? For musical enrichment?”