come_sailaway | [Open] Arrival + Event Catch-All

Entry tags:

[Open] Arrival + Event Catch-All

Who: Number 6 & OPEN
What: First few openers repeated from the TDM + New event prompts ALL TRUTH BECAUSE HE WILL HATE IT (All the TDM prompts except for the first one can be truth flavored, too)
Where: Locations stated in the prompt
When: The first one on the 11th, the rest throughout the month of July
Warnings: He's very upset and might be shouty

Over His dead body [7/11]
Waking up in an unfamiliar place is nothing new to him at this point. Not that it makes him any less boiling with rage over it. And that note only makes the steam rise higher over his head. So, they're doing cruises now? How novel. And using days of the week for names instead of numbers, too. What won't The Village try? He obstinately ignores the suggestion to bring his life vest with him. But the order to go to their mandatory drill is less easy to ignore. When did they gain the ability to paralyze him if he won't go where they say?

He can be found in the halls, not very far from the cabin he woke in (113), frozen in place with his hands balled into fists at his sides absolutely seething with rage. His entire body trembles with the force of it. He knows what he has to do to get unstuck. He'd experimented with taking a few steps forward and back. But will he go where he is directed? No. Never. He'd rather go red-faced in this hallway waiting for their unseen will to control him to run out than take one more step. Even if it takes hours.

Don't Look Down - Elevator prompt from the TDM
After, presumably, someone convinced him to finally just go do the god-forsaken drill, he thought the worst was over. How naive of him. He steps onto the glass elevator and reaches to hit the button. But nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing. No movement. Turning to the person beside him, whom he has failed to acknowledge up until this point, he asks, "Does this happen often?"

There won't be time for a reply before the elevator quite suddenly lurches up one floor, and then drops. His stomach rises into his throat and he desperately puts his hands out to grip the side, fingers squeaking on the slippery glass, as they careen down, down, down!

Then stop.

He's thrown from his feet, landing hard on his side with a grunt. But rather than worry after himself, he's turning to catch sight of his unwitting partner on this fun-house ride, asking urgently, "Are you all right?"

Since When Did the Food Fight Back? - Mikabo prompt from the TDM
"What in blazes?" he exclaims as a knife goes soaring past him, followed quickly by a roll of sushi and the whole plate too.

He turns in shock to see the conveyor belt, seemingly with a mind of its own, winding up for another throw.

"Who is running this place?"

The truth will set you free?
Well, how was he supposed to know not to drink the water? Who would be stupid enough to poison the finite water supply on a cruise ship? After splashing some on his face in the morning to wash and shave himself, and then using it to brush his teeth like any decent hygienic person, he goes about his day none-the-wiser to the sudden change that's taken place.

His newly formed routine is to prowl the ship deck first thing in the morning (and last thing at night), scowling while he checks the waves and sky for any hint of a clue about where they could be. He checks the life boats, too, as if paranoid they might vanish without warning. It's unfortunate for him that it's been raining so much, only compounding the problematic effects of the water.

Once he's done his lap around the deck, he will work his way down level by level. He's memorizing the lay of thing, taking note of cabin numbers and all the many and varied amenities. It's almost staggering how many venues there are, and all of them host technology he'd never even dreamed of.

For instance, the arcade full of flashy computer games has him mesmerized. He stands in front of a cabinet, hand on the joystick while utterly transfixed. He doesn't make it past the opening stage of the game, but he keeps trying, getting visibly more upset each time the death screen animation plays. Until, finally, he shouts suddenly, "what's this all about?!"

He's keeping that angry-old-man-shouts-at-technology vibe with him through the rest of his explorations. Nothing on this ship makes any sense. The music is different. The decorations are all unfamiliar. If he believed in such things, he'd think he got abducted by aliens. Maybe he shouldn't rule it out.

To add insult to injury, his assigned dining time of "6:66 PM" feels like a particularly stinging slap in the face. Surely that was done on purpose to mock him. And so, when he sits down at his assigned seat, he is looking incredibly sour. He would shout at their servers, if he could see them. Instead, he has no recourse but to sit there, elbows on the table like a petulant child, seething quietly while the meal is served. And to quench that rage, he drinks more water, of course. Looks like mealtime chatter might be about to get a lot more interesting, or rage inducing. Probably that last one.

Good thing he doesn't have a roommate.
Speaking of rage, Number 6 is in one now. An hour after a conversation with someone, he somehow sobers-up and realizes that what he actually said doesn't match what he thought he said. AT ALL. And he is livid.

A chair goes flying into the hallway, crashing against the wall opposite Room 113. A glass goes soaring out after, smashing in rainfall of shattered shards.

If anyone is brave enough to stick their head through the open door after all that, they will find him in the process of attempting to upend his bunk. And there will be pieces of his furniture and personal effect thrown all around the room. It looks like a hurricane came through.

If he catches sight of any onlookers he will shout, "What do you want!" His piercing blue eyes narrowed down to slits as he locks his gaze on them. Taking one step more might feel like stepping on your own grave. Enter at your own risk.

Threaded | Flat

As the glass shatters against the wall, there's a soft squeak; he's managed to startle someone. But, but, she doesn't shy away.

The girl looking into his room is no older than fifteen, short and dark-skinned with impossibly blue hair and eyes, like something out of a comic book. She's looking in on the destruction with awe and maybe a little fear. Someone so violent, this close to her room? She has to wonder if she and Ava are safe, with someone like him around.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone, please don't hurt me?"

She isn't helpless, she could defend herself, but after what happened during the battle royale, she doesn't want to have to use her powers against another passenger again.

Here's Jeff, wandering around, minding his own business, jamming to whatever's playing on his walkman, when suddenly a chair comes flying into the hallway, right in his path. He yelps. Then there's a glass, flying out after it.

"Fucking shit-- fuck-- fucking-- shit!"

Congrats, angry dude. You broke Jeff, and now his vocabulary has been reduced to two words. He's peeking into the room, looking at the man, eyes wide, a little horrified, definitely terrified, because now he's getting yelled at? He's at a total loss for words.

No. Wait. He's found one. One more word to add to his vocabulary. What follows is a very shrill, somewhat panicky. "Dude?!"

What gives, man?

Edited 2022-07-11 20:45 (UTC)

"I want to make sure that no one in here is hurt," Watson says from the doorway. He's stern and unflinching, his hand gripping his cane tight enough for his knuckles to be white. "You're lucky enough to have not hit anyone out here in the hallway, at least, but it was a near thing with that glass. What are you even thinking?"

It's a good thing he ducked automatically.

Number 6 has successfully avoided the knife, but the 15 year old behind him isn't as lucky.

Natsuno's instincts are usually better than this, but he was distracted by glum thoughts regarding another conversation gone wrong, and by the time Number 6 yells it's already too late. The knife hits his head, sinking halfway through the blade.

It's not the worst injury he sustained on the ship, but it still gives him a splitting headache, and right in front of someone too. Ugh.

"The captain, who else," Natsuno grumbles as he stumbles out of Mikabo's range. Don't mind that he grabs the knife by the hilt and starts pulling it out of his head instead of, y'know. Dying. This is perfectly normal.

Continued from HERE

"No number?" he says, sounding both surprised and slightly sour all at once.

Well. If they are doing names here then that presents a... problem. Of course, he has a name, but do any of these people deserve to know it? No. He thinks not. An old stand-by will do.

"Smith. Peter Smith." There's no bow or offer of a handshake, but he does finally push himself back up from the wall.

Continued from HERE

"I am aware of that, yes." It's very clear by his tone of voice that he is far from pleased at the prospect of trusting his rescue to a stranger in an elevator.

"You're the slimmer of the two of us. You'll have a better chance of finding an exit in the shaft. I'll boost you up. But first, we have to get the hatch open. It's locked. Might be able to kick it out with enough leverage, unless you have something I can use to pick it?"

Continued from HERE

"Oh, no doubt. Cameras, speakers, I'm sure he's got the lot of it. The better to look in on his little lab rats." As if that isn't what Number 6 is already painfully used to?

"I don't care. Let him listen. And if he takes offense, he can come tell me himself."

Continued from HERE

"Once is enough to know it can be done again," he grumbles.

"I've yet to go to the drill, obviously. So, I suppose I would have to take your word for it." But now he is curious. And conflicted. Going to the drill would be doing as he's told.

"What is so strange about it?"

"Does wh-AH!" is all that Ava manages in response before the elevator goes lurching upwards, her pale eyes wide in surprise. She grasps at the side rail tightly, legs unsteady, a futile effort at regaining her balance because just as suddenly they're falling downwards.

It's enough of a jolt that it completely knocks Ava out of herself, a faint blur that loses grip of the rail and tangibility, and is lost through the ceiling of the elevator. When they stop, the far more solid Ava left behind has an unfortunate meeting with the ground, a graceless jumble of limbs.

She groans weakly in reply, confused and numb, eyes unfocused as she tries staring at the man. And then her ghostly afterimage comes crashing back through the ceiling, right back into her body with a second thud. Ava gasps, blinks rapidly as her vision realigns, and... shakes her head, both ways at once as she continues to glitch. "Ow..."

"Ghosts are running this place. Or spectres, or spirits, or revenants, or whatever you wish to call them."

Ebalon doesn't have much of a reaction to the knives being tossed, to be quite honest; he's also standing some distance away to ensure he doesn't get hit. There's a thin, polite smile on his lips as he adds, "Lately, this restaurant has been pitching a fit. Best to dine somewhere else, or give up and go in. You won't be hit with flying cutlery if you choose to eat there, or so I've found."

"Well! You're a new face!" Stede is dressed for dinner in burgundy frock coat with matching trousers and cream waistcoat, lace at his sleeves and neck and looking a bit cheerful but also strained.

"Hope you don't mind if I join you here." Because too late, he is. "Did you just come aboard?"

All in all, Clarke looks like shit. Feels like shit, and had been sleeping like shit a few doors down in Cabin 108 before being jarred awake by the sound of exterior chaos. She's not so desensitized to not be moved to drag herself up off the pull out couch and gather herself to go investigate a commotion, but absolutely neglects putting her shoes on before leaving the confines of her confinement housing. Splintered chair bits and shattered glass are a decent beacon in an otherwise uniform stretch of hallway, and her approach lacks the usual care and caution.

She slots against the doorframe of 113 with a bit of a sigh, leaning heavily for support. If the man inside hellbent on destroying everything he now owns throws anything else out the door, it'll probably hit her square on — Clarke has neither the energy to dart out of the way, nor any real desire to. Her whole body already hurts, and she's got a hand firmly pressed against the freshly bandaged stab wound around her hip. A special sort of disregard for self preservation surfaces after almost dying, and Number 6 just happens to encounter her in this rare form. There's not even a flinch when he rounds on her and yells; just slake features, tired eyes and — if it's worth anything — a mild mix of approval and sympathy. The state of his room is an easy representation of what Clarke would like to do to her own. His rage is familiar, this horrible curse just isn't her first upheaval on board the Serena Eterna and she's quickly starting to feel like an old hat in dealing with magically imposed misery.

In response to his question that was more accusation than inquiry:

"...to sit down."

On whatever remaining chairs still stand, or else the small couch every room features. Actually, yeah, a seat feels more important now than any sense of decorum. Bravery isn't even a factor of stepping into the den of a perceived wild man, this is the overarching apathy brought on by pain and an existential crisis; any notion of fear is put to bed and subsequently smothered with a pillow. She'll try to avoid any sharp objects strewn across the floor, but if otherwise unimpeded is making a direct, stiff bee-line for a seat. She's comfortable in a grave.

Edited (edits 10x times bc it's late and i can't write) 2022-07-13 10:00 (UTC)

Maximilien is walking down the hall when there's a sudden and abrupt flying chair. Curious. Oh then a glass. He stands there with his arms folded waiting for the inevitable phone and table and lamp and maybe even a couch if someone was really feeling up to it.

It sounds like the rest of the chaos is directed inwards so he chances a glance inside, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

The voice is soft and modulated, almost musical, and when Number 6 turns to look at him he'll be greeted by an entirely metal man with glowing red eyes wearing a suit worth more than most cars.

"Has no one told you that this will all rectify itself as soon as you leave? Though I suppose that's for the best if you wish to do this again."

Skulduggery is staying indoors, thank you very much, because he doesn't trust the rain to only fall on the weekend. He barely trusts it to only rain outdoors, honestly... He's expecting another misstep from their errant captor any minute now.

Anyway, there's a six-foot-four skeleton in a suit making his way from the atrium on deck one to the library on deck three, and if he seems distracted, then it's probably because of the way he's clearly been pacing a loop (or two, or three) around the lounge area. It helps him get his thoughts in order, before he begins yet another fruitless hunt in the library. He'd be doing it in his cabin (117), but somebody in nearby 113 was absolutely tearing their room to pieces and he is trying to avoid that drama, quite frankly. What's he going to do, accidentally give another person a mental breakdown over their true existence? No thank you.

This means he has no idea that the gentleman he's about to pass is the same guy who was causing a ruckus downstairs. It also means that said gentleman gets nothing more than a curt, "Pardon me," as he walks directly past him. After all, why wouldn't this be anything other than a normal daily interaction?

The sushi in Mikabo is one of the few comfort foods Darcy has aboard- something clean and simple that she doesn't need to feel too guilty about. Which means when a knife comes flying at her, it's upsetting. Not so upsetting that she doesn't suddenly deflect it out of midair with her blade, of course, but pretty upsetting anyway.

"Looks like no sushi today," she jerks her head towards him, "c'mon, shoo before you get stabbed."

Pratt's assigned time is 6:24, but he's also found that they'll bring him food literally whenever he shows up. Which is whenever he wants something other than buffet food. He's pretty much always eating, not that anyone would know looking at him, emaciated like he's been starved for months.

Because he has been.

He arches an eyebrow, "Not a fan of free food?"

His voice is gruff and raspy, like his throat is damaged, and he's wearing an oversized beige army jacket that clearly isn't his, over some tropical Tommy Bahama button up shirts.

"It's pretty good, even though I dunno where it's coming from."

Threaded | Flat

He does have neighbors, though...

the ruthless violence against furniture prompt

no subject

The knife throwing one

[For Emet-Selch]