[Open July Log]

[theweakhavepurpose]

Who: Deputy Pratt and YOU!
What: Pratt got his first regain and it's a doozy. Also still has no idea he's just telling the truth all the time.
Where: Buffet, Laundromat, around the Deck
When: Throughout July
Warnings: Standard Pratt warnings apply (cannibalism, murder, starvation, cults, etc) but now with Jacob warnings too! (Brainwashing, torture, skinning people). Important!! There's a very real chance he'll attack anyone who talks to him in the third prompt on the deck, so be aware.



Pratt got a notice that he had an item at the Sundries shop and was kind of stoked about it. Sweet, first present from back home. He swings by on his way to third breakfast, but as soon as he picks the thing up there's that sudden pang of trepidation. It's a rectangular box, looks pretty normal and what's in it is pretty obviously clothing from the weight and the sound it makes when he shakes it but.....

Oh that's interesting. Go ahead Peaches, open it.

1. Buffet

He doesn't open it. Not right then anyway, instead he takes it with him to the buffet grabbing himself some grub to fortify him against the growing dread seeping into the pit of his stomach. However; mashed potatoes can only do so much, and eventually he does, actually have to open it and see what it is.

You already know what it is.

Sliding his fingers through the tape on the box he lifts the lid off and stares. The look on his face almost like he might have just unboxed a human head, but it's just a jacket. An Army jacket with the name J. Seed on the chest. A plain, normal jacket that he recoils from so violently he spills his soda everywhere along with the remains of a bowl of pasta as he almost falls on the ground in his haste to get away.

Weird reaction since other than the fact the jacket reeks of blood and human entrails, it doesn't seem that bad?


2. Laundromat

As soon as he recovers from his shock at what's in the box, he grabs the jacket and fucking bolts out of the buffet to the one place he knows no one goes that often: the Laundromat. He stands in the middle of the room, amber lights flickering, signs cheerfully reminding him to balance his load, holding the jacket in both hands and looking right on the verge of either crying or punching something.

Go ahead then, put it on.

"Shut up!" It's not clear who he's talking to since he's in there alone, but then he suddenly throws the jacket at the wall, not very effective since the heavy canvas just flutters to the ground in a heap.

He stands there watching it, eyeing it like it might be a rabid dog waiting to attack him.

Eventually he does pick it back up, rubbing his fingers along the bloodstains, the holes around frayed patches on the sleeves. Standing there in the laundromat about to have a full on panic attack over a jacket.

3. The Deck
Pratt should have taken the time that he was in the laundry room to actually wash this new item of clothing that smells like it's been in a slaughterhouse for years. Because it has been. Unfortunately Pratt didn't think about it. And is now not thinking about anything because he is just... walking in circles around the deck.

Wearing his new 'gift' from back home he's been walking the length of the ship and back for probably hours now. The way he moves, his stance, is different than his normal 'cop on duty' pose he usually has, but it's pretty obvious this is some sort of a patrol. What for, and why, is anyone's guess.

4. End of the Month Wildcard

Well, Pratt has stabbed and been stabbed, and eventually got himself murdered. Apparently that's what he needed to put the pause on his spiraling breakdown. Sure he's still wearing the jacket, but he washed it. Several times.

Pratt is trying to reintegrate into society and aggressively pretend he's not a traumatized psychopath that could snap at any moment.

As always he can be found at the Buffet or the Dining Room since this guy is practically always eating. He's also hanging out near the Pool with comically large glasses of shaved ice. He doesn't look like he belongs at the pool since he's still wearing his police boots, the army jacket and pants. But look, he's trying. The shirt has an oversized foliage print, that counts right?

Comments

the deck

[touchofcashmere]

Stede is on his way to the sports deck which he's starting to frequent more and more these days, with his blazing yellow camp Aion T-shirt and too short red shorts. Aside from the Serena Eterna branded tote bag, towel and water bottle, he has a rapier attached to his hip, hanging from the belt which...doesn't quite match the whole effect, but never mind.

He beams as he sees the man.

"Oh, hello! Enjoying an evening stroll?" Well, Pratt doesn't look like he's enjoying much of anything, but at their level of intimacy it's a bit rude to point out.

[theweakhavepurpose]

Pratt stalks right past Stede before he stiffens up and seems to even notice he exists. When he turns to look at him, his eyes are strange, not quite glazed over but he's definitely not blinking as much as normal.

"No, I'm patrolling. For safety. We never know what might be here." He says it slowly, like he's considering all his words before speaking, and definitely not like the way he sounded previously with a lot of uhhs and uhms.

"Thought I'd maintain the perimeter."

[touchofcashmere]

Oh dear. This doesn't look good. Stede feels that hollow haunted look down to his bones and wonders if something happened that he missed. There are no sounds of screaming or general bloodshed or anarchy, but that might not mean anything.

It could also be the reality of the situation has hit and Pratt has just snapped a little.

"Oh I see... Well, I can patrol with you if you like. Nothing like a little company to make the patrol go by faster."

[theweakhavepurpose]

There's no sounds of violence to Stede, but oh can Pratt hear them. The crunch of bone, the sweetly soft slide of knife against flesh. He hears it so vividly right now.

There's a tilt of his head as he looks at Stede, judging him, before he gives a smile that is in no way cheerful, "You look armed for a fight already. I don't want to keep you from the hunt. Is there someone specific you're after?"

https://img-comment-fun.9cache.com/media/a6m2Exq/aGKQAVXJ_700w_0.jpg

[skaikru]

The deck is an open venue, ripe for any and all to cross paths in the most casual settings. Even when the sky has yawned and locked their elemental jaws wide open for this continued deluge of rain to patter down on the populace in this pocket universe, it wasn't enough to dissuade folks from venturing outside. This is a Sunday evening, and Clarke had spent all day with her nose deep into the depths of Cormac McCarthy's retelling of the apocalypse. Finally, with the tragic end taking place on an expanse of beach, she realizes she needs a breath of air and goes for a walk.

But it's the sort of idle meandering that sends the surrounding world into an idle haze. She's caught up on thinking about the shelf life of canned peaches (one of the least offensive parts of the book, honestly) and only vaguely acknowledges that she'd brushed past another person doing laps on the hardwood deck. But then the smell hits and —

There's a sour tickle in the back of her throat. Her stomach flips, and she's near moved to retching just from the air. The wet dampening of rainwater can't even stamp out the scent of rot and blood that clings to the man like a noxious gas. It's not a new sensory experience, but still different from the smell of dead bodies piled on top of her in an old mining cart. Settled, deep — older. Unpleasant, nasty, if she breathes through her mouth, it's thick enough she can almost taste the decomposition. And it's more than enough to drag a guttural response from between her teeth.

"Ugh."

And if Pratt turns to acknowledge the grunt, he'll find a blonde teenaged girl with her face pinched into an expression of absolute fucking disgust glaring directly in his eyes.

[theweakhavepurpose]

The gentle patter of misty rainfall hasn't done much to dampen the smell of human misery that's swirling around Pratt like a cloak. It does make his boots squelch with every step, but he's not trying to be stealthy, in fact he's walking more purposeful than normal, more determined, not hiding that he's there or what he's doing. Even if what he's doing is basically walking laps around a cruise ship.

Jacob's jacket is too big for him, the man is almost a full foot taller than him and built like a soldier. Pratt is small and emaciated and looks like he'd be more at home experiencing fighting during a 10-hour binge of playing Call of Duty on the couch.

At least he's not having a breakdown anymore, there's something calming and freeing about just letting go. Sanity is overrated isn't it? It's so much easier to not spend every moment fighting against your purpose and just... accepting it.

He stiffens when he hears that, half turning to look at her. His eyes aren't blank and glazed over, but they're very close, barely blinking even when the rain water manages to hit him. And there's a weird thing happening with his hands, where it almost looks like he's holding a gun that isn't there, his hand wrapped in a claw-like gesture by his side where he'd have his finger on the trigger.

"Is there a problem?" his tone is calm, but his voice sounds rough, destroyed. The damage of months of tortured screaming coupled with his smoking habit making him sound like he gargles with glass every morning.

[skaikru]

She really should know better. Has spent months looking at each and every new passenger like they were little more than wild, unpredictable animals; constantly waiting for another shoe to drop and chaos to break out on the boat, despite — because — of the optimists' insistence they could circumvent that route and even go so far as to create some sort of order and sense of community. Clarke ought to take one look at that gore drenched jacket, the army green camouflage pattern and rank patches, and steer clear. Should have bitten her tongue, and should pay more attention to his hands in case he were to reach for an actual weapon.

But humans are hardwired to balk at the scent of decomposition and blood. She will never forget the scent of burning flesh and tree bark, or the smell of a stuffy bunker filled with bloody vomit and the vestiges of a grand dinner party; baked goods and bile. And now the aural impression of the jacket he's all but swimming in is burnt into her senses as well, never something that could be forgotten.

Not something that could be ignored.

"You reek of death. What did you do?"

[theweakhavepurpose]

Back in his world, Tammy had called him a feral dog, sometimes fine, would get close if you had food, could be lured places. But then other times, snarling and dangerous. And eventually, no matter how many times you tried to tame it, that dog would have to be put down.

If Pratt remembers any of this he will be mortified that someone's first impression of him is this, where he's barely holding onto any shred of sanity. Where he was too weak to fight it.

At least he's still talking, he's still in there, he hasn't devolved into that trained animal that Jacob had made him where he'll just attack everything until he's either killed or subdued. Unfortunately between the rain causing him to say more than he'd like to, and his brain swapping over into 'Jacob's Second in Command' mode, the fact that he's talking might not be good in the long run.

"What did I do." A slow blink as if he needs to think about that. "Here? Nothing yet."

There's a pause where he looks past her, at something that isn't there, and then snaps his eyes back onto her, starting to approach. Slow, determined footsteps, where he's definitely about to get all up in her personal space.

"That's not what you're asking though. I cull the herd, it's what I've been trained for, it's what I do. So I'm patrolling. Judging. Looking for someone worth hunting." The way he's eyeing her says maybe he's found that someone.

2.

[decohere]

"Uh," Ava says quietly from the doorway, watching, with an armful of clothes in various shades of white and grey. She's not exactly the most colorful.

This is usually her emotional breakdown spot. But she's willing to share.

She's also not exactly the best at this. She barely knows this guy, and he probably rather her go.

Problem is, even if she asks, she has no idea whether his answer will be honest or not. "Do you... need somebody to talk to? Or would you rather I...?"

[theweakhavepurpose]

Who knew the laundromat would be the popular place to go when having a complete mental break. At least it's quiet, conveniently located, and smells like fresh linen with a hint of citrus. There's worse places to try to hold onto sanity by a thread and Pratt has been to those enough times already.

"I don't know." Which is probably the most honest thing he's said in his life. He doesn't know what he wants, what he needs, or who he is right now.

"I just got a package from the shop and this was in it." He hasn't even looked at her, hasn't registered who it is. He could be talking to Claudia or Ebalon for all he knows, every shred of his focus is on that jacket. "How do these things get chosen? What we get from the shops from back home."

His voice doesn't sound much different than his normal rasp, but there's a hint that he's clinging to the hope that this is a mistake. This wasn't what he was supposed to get.

[decohere]

Normally it would smell strongly of fabric softener, but there's a noticeable stench lingering in the air. However, there's been an uptick in people avoiding showering because of the water curse, so it could be that.

But generally people don't smell that bad within a couple days. Not unless something went very long.

"I..." she doesn't want to say anything wrong, but she's not sure what the right thing is to say either.

Just answer his question.

"It's just random," she's been lead to believe. "At first I thought maybe it was some sort of reward or favoritism. But it seems Friday just... finds things that get pulled through. And matches them with who they're more likely to... belong to. I don't think she puts much intention behind it."

It's more of an answer than she intends to give, hoping she's not overwhelming him. She keeps her voice slow and steady, and remains lingering in the doorway.

[theweakhavepurpose]

At least Pratt himself looks nice and clean, so there's that.

He glances up at her for a brief second, and then back down to the jacket he's holding, "I don't think that this was intended for me."

Actually, now that he thinks about it, what's worse? That he got something of Jacob's, or that he maybe got something intended for Jacob, meaning the man is here somewhere. Oh god he hadn't thought about that.

He can't really go any paler, but he does look like he might pass out.

"Fuck." His fingers trace over one of the blood stains on the sleeve, "Maybe it is. Maybe I'm supposed to have this. It's my blood here."

1. buffet

[broshaw]

Sharky just woke up, okay, and he's hungry, so he's got a plate piled high with starchy, protein-y goodness. Lots of fatty meats and like, two slices of cake on top, because why not. It's probably gonna be the worst thing he possibly could eat, but his hangover demands it.

He sees Pratt like, a mile away, although it's from the back, so he doesn't actually see the package on the table or Pratt's expression until he unceremoniously drops his tray down on the table and falls into the seat across from him. He is already mid-conversation, obviously.

"So I was thinkin', like, maybe next time there's an excursion or somethin', you and I should --"

And then he sees the open box on the tabletop. Uh, what the fuck.

There's only shock and confusion as far as Sharky's concerned, because... that looks a lot like something Jacob Seed would wear. Like, exactly. "Uhhhhhhhh, what the fuck, dude?"

[theweakhavepurpose]

Pratt's entire focus is on the box, so he misses a prime opportunity to give Sharky shit for his insane breakfast choice that he's definitely going to be puking up later. In fact he barely even registers that Sharky exists right now, hearing things that he's positive aren't real but that he can't ignore.

"I got a message that I had a package from the Sundries shop. And this was it. This came here. For me."

Finally getting up the courage to actually touch it, he unfolds the top half, running his fingers down one of the sleeves to a very familiar bloodstain, "Fuck!"

Because this isn't just an army jacket that had Jacob's name on it. That would have been bad enough and caused nearly the same reaction, but this is his actual jacket. Off his corpse.

"What the fuck.. how..." that's about as eloquent as he can get right now.

[broshaw]

Sharky never got within more than a hundred yards of Jacob Seed, but he sure as shit recognizes that jacket. Stupid motherfuckin' cannibal never went anywhere without his beat-to-fuck fatigues on, to the point where he can practically smell the guy from here.

Damage control would be so much easier if he knew how any of this worked. But he doesn't. He has no clue why Jacob's gross ass death-shroud would be gift-wrapped at the shop for Pratt.

Well, no. He totally knows one reason.

"Someone's fuckin' with you," he says. Boy, he does not want any of his food but he is also still very hungry... "Someone wants to rile you up, y'know? Like the guy in charge, maybe. It's..." Not the real thing, but obviously, that isn't the case. Like, look at the blood, man. Smell that ratty ass garment. It's legit.

[theweakhavepurpose]

"Someone, went to our reality, in your past, my future, and took this off of Jacob Seed's dead body, and then put it in a box and brought it here. To rile me up?!" Pratt's voice can't actually raise much louder than he already talks but he'd be yelling if that was a feasible thing he could do.

Because that is the stupidest thing he's had to say out loud in a while.

"Well it's fucking working!" Which, is probably obvious because this is not a happy Pratt. This is a very distraught Pratt who is like two minutes away from everything around them starting to levitate and the room going red and distorted music playing over the loudspeaker.

"I'm dead. He's dead. What if this is a fucking warning Sharky."

What if Jacob shows up. What if he's already here.

3

[bloodmunchies]

From above:

"Hey, dude, I know the splatter's a classic look, but you've probably gotta take that to the laundry some time. I could show you if you're lost."

Peeking over the edge of a rooftop is Aiden, silhouetted against the night sky, peering down at Pratt with two low-burning little red embers.

"You a werewolf?"

[theweakhavepurpose]

It's very lucky that Pratt doesn't have a gun because he would have immediately shot Aiden without even looking. He's not expecting someone to be above him and he's in a defensive position immediately.

That's a grievous oversight. Disappointing

It takes a moment for Pratt to even pick out what he's looking at, dark against the black sky and not fully visible to someone who can't see in the dark.

"No. But that would be better." When he's a little more rational, that would actually be a much better way to explain what's going on. Hopefully he remembers this. "I'm not out here to do laundry."

[bloodmunchies]

Aiden moves, swinging his legs out to sit more properly on the roof's edge. He kicks idly. "Maybe later, then," he remarks. "I know a coupl'a werewolves. One of them is a dude named Banks. Private investigator, total rube, never seen the guy smile--not that he's like, depressed or anything, I think he's just tired, and he always talks in the most flattest of tones."

Here he clambers off the roof, or makes an attempt at it. He's not very graceful. He moves without accuracy, fumbling, and when his foot catches he falls the remaining three feet of distance onto the deck hardwood.

On the ground, it's easier to see that he just looks like some kid, two little fangtips aside.

And on the ground, he asks, "So, like. What are you doing out here?"

2

[latersgators]

Steven is so used to talking to Marc like that that after getting told to shut up startles him when he's barely through the door, he doesn't seem fazed when the jacket violence starts. All he can think is phew, he wasn't talking to Steven.

"Talking to your other personality?" Steven remarks cheerily as he strides in holding his and Marc's clothes in his arms, a book sitting at an angle on top of a creased jumper. He figured he'd do something nice for a change and be the one to do the laundry instead of relying on Marc to clean up after them all the time. Well, maybe Marc sees it as looking after Steven, but. Steven is a full grown man. He can handle some laundry.

"Don't let me interrupt you. They can be very stressful to deal with sometimes."

[theweakhavepurpose]

"Hallucination. Not a... God I hope not an alternate personality." His voice horrified by that prospect.

He glares towards where the invisible Jacob had sounded like he was, unable to see him since currently it's only auditory.

"Stressful is a nice way of putting it. Fucker somehow sent me something from my world. Even though he's dead. And I'm dead. I'm trying to enjoy my retirement to infinite buffet cruise ship... and then this bullshit."

It has not even occurred to him that it's probably weird that Steven is so nonchalant about this.

[latersgators]

"They're not so bad, most of the time," Steven points out quietly. Alternate personalities, he means.

"Hey. It's alright," Steven tries to reassure the other man as he puts his laundry down and makes his way over slowly.

"I'm dead too. And trying to enjoy the same thing, more or less. What did who send to you?" Steven sits down on the bench and pats on the space next to him to invite the stranger to sit down.

4

[pineapplesalmon]

César has a tray with lunch. Apparently he went for curry, a small helping of mashed potatoes, a small salad, and a glass of milk. He's wearing Tommy Bahama today: a Baja hoodie over cargo shorts, and some slip on brown leather shoes. All his stuff is shoved into pockets.

He blinks when he comes into the path of the other man and steps out of it, "Oh, ah, hello, Deputy Pratt."

[theweakhavepurpose]

Pratt has a tote bag from Tommy Bahama which would look pretty vacation-y if it was full of towels and sunscreen. But it's not. It's full of bottles of Serena Eterna Mountain Dew from the sundries shop.

Like, a ridiculous amount of Mountain Dew.

"Hey, how'd the science go?"

[pineapplesalmon]

That much Mountain Dew entirely counts as vacation-adjacent. César will also not judge. He's gone to school with people that would stock up like that.

"Well!" César puts his tray down on the table beside him before he forgets about it and tries to talk with his hands. "Everything is as strange as I thought it was. It's uniform across the ship."