[Open August Log]

[theweakhavepurpose]

Who: Deputy Pratt and YOU! + One prompt closed to Clarke
What: Trying to be a normal dude who didn't go on a stabby rampage a few weeks ago. Also giving Clarke back the knife she used to kill him. A completely normal thing to do.
Where: The buffet, Tommy Bahama, Sundries shop, Tauva
When: August before the event
Warnings: He's trying very hard to not be crazy so in the open threads hopefully none? The Clarke thread will have references to violence, murder and probably torture.

~ Also I will match style so bracket or prose all up in here.


1. A Plan in Motion - Tommy Bahama
[So the clothes in here kind of suck, even though he's currently wearing the least atrocious ones he could find that were still green. At least the jeans are jeans, small mercies. But clothes aren't what Pratt is after. This place kind of sells vacation supplies in the way that Eddie Bauer sorta sells camping stuff. He'd made half a plan with Lucius to try and fish up a swordfish out of the ocean and then cook it on the deck and by god he is sticking to that deal.

Sure he doesn't know that the ocean is totally empty, and no he's never gone ocean fishing before. But he's gone lake fishing pretty much every week of his life, so he at least knows what he's looking for. There's probably enough crap in here to make some sort of fishing rod, but maybe not one strong enough for a 200 pound fish with a knife on its face.

Care to offer an assist as he climbs the shelves to get shit off the walls? Or maybe let him know his plan is doomed before it begins.]

2. He Gets In Your Head - Sundries Shop
[The note had arrived early in the morning, just as the one last month had. Slipped under the door with his name on it: he had a package at the Sundries shop.

There's the icy chill of dread that runs down his spine and he's glad his roommate isn't there right now to see him stiffen and freeze, holding the inoffensive piece of paper in hands that are starting to sweat and smear the ink. He glances over at the wall towards the hallucination of a man Pratt knows isn't truly there, hard to remember when the apparition of Jacob simply smiles at him and vanishes.

Great. Just fucking great. Was he going to get every piece of Jacob's clothing one by one? What the fuck?

He stuffs the paper in his pocket and runs his fingers through his hair, wanting to not go and get whatever the hell this was. The dog tags. The pistol. He shudders imagining it being the knife.

But he'll go get it. He needs to, he can only avoid it for so long and he's not sure what happens if he doesn't like maybe Friday will show up and shove it at him in the middle of dinner and then force him to open it in front of everyone.

Like a doomed man walking towards his execution he heads for the Sundries shop, sighing as the festively wrapped gift is placed in front of him. It's about a four inch cube, and it weighs practically nothing. He tosses it from hand to hand trying to imagine what it could be.]

3. We All Have Sins - Tauva
[The second item that Pratt received from the Sundries shop was even more welcome: a whole carton of Marlboro Reds. With how he yelped delightedly and hugged it anyone watching would have thought he got a puppy or a letter from a long lost lover or something.

Carefully stashing the rest of them in his room, he slips a pack into his pocket and a second for Sharky in one of the empty pouches at his belt. And heads for the smoking room.

He is so fucking happy right now. Sitting in one of the booths with a drink that is 95% water and 5% whiskey and smoking away. He is in heaven and for a brief time he can forget the jacket he's wearing, the hallucination that has thankfully fucked off for a little bit, and the fact he's trapped on a magic death cruise. He needed this.]

4. [CLOSED to Clarke] The End of Things, The Beginning of Others - Buffet
[Pratt is pretty much always in the buffet, having been deprived of food for so long he now kind of has an unhealthy need to eat a ton while it's still here. Sure he's been here months and it's not like the food has ever run out, but that's not a guarantee of the future. He still can't stomach even the sight of meat right now, but hopefully that fades in time.

Jacob's jacket has been washed several times, but the bloodstains still persist, adding their own design to the camouflage print. Clarke's black blood staining around the bottom like he dunked the fabric in ink. There's been a few days where Pratt didn't wear it, but he's back in it today, there's something deeply disturbing going on mentally with that jacket and Pratt isn't ready to face it yet. And the blood... well, he'd tried to get it out, but not Clarke's. Maybe he should keep that as some sort of twisted penance to remind him how dangerous he is. A cross to bear so he never thinks he's fine, so he always remembers he's not going to be normal ever again.

No matter how he tries, he can't stop thinking about that evening, that he'd attacked someone who hadn't even done anything to him. Without a real reason either. Sure he was dangerous enough back home they'd stuck him in a bunker room lined with mattresses, but he did usually have pretty recognizable triggers. This had just been -- he's not sure. Something about wearing the jacket had mentally broken him. Well, not so much the act of wearing it, more that the visual of the hallucinations he'd experienced had gone away when he put it on. And that was deeply disturbing.

Because he knew why.

He was becoming Jacob. Just as the Herald had planned. All according to the path he had been set upon.

So he's here. With his plate of mashed potatoes and sauteed vegetables and eggplant Parmesan, back to the door because otherwise he gets all distracted and startles everytime someone walks in. Sure it puts him in a vulnerable position, but he'd prefer getting a knife in the back to looking like a jumpy fawn every time someone comes to get food.]

Comments

Tommy Bahama Time

[selenokinesis]

[Ebalon can't begin to explain why he's here, but more importantly: There goes Pratt, ascending the fucking shelves. He watches with his arms crossed, mildly entertained, until such time it looks like Pratt might not actually make it up the shelf? At least to his eyes, it does.]

What are you doing, exactly?

Re: Tommy Bahama Time

[theweakhavepurpose]

[ He nearly does fall when Ebalon speaks because he hadn't heard anyone else in the store. But he catches himself, pulling upright to perch on the top of the shelving like the worlds worst gargoyle.]

Trying to see if any of this decor stuff is real. Like the fishing rods and the pullys and junk.

[ He rips the netting with various fishing lures off the wall tossing it on the floor and then climbing back down.]

Wanted to do some fishing.

[selenokinesis]

I imagine all of that is very much real, but I don't believe there's anything within the seas around us proper. You may be at a loss there, unfortunately.

[He's pretty sure there's just no life anywhere that isn't immediately on the ship.]

I haven't seen an animal aboard since my own arrival. Not an insect to be found. I imagine the sea is left wanting as well.

[theweakhavepurpose]

How is there nothing out there? The ocean is fucking huge.

[He gathers up the rope netting to start undoing all the lures stuck in it. ]

I haven't either to be fair, but we're pretty far out for birds. I dunno, are there insects in the middle of the ocean? Why wouldn't there be stuff in the water?

[selenokinesis]

You're correct about this, but as far as I've seen, there is a barrier around the ship and the surrounding seas. Several people have reported that the ocean we do have access to is empty...

Ah, but don't let it discourage you. Perhaps the fish are hiding?

[The fish are not hiding. There are simply no fucking fish.]

[theweakhavepurpose]

Well that sucks...

[It's not going to stop him from trying to make a fishing rod, because it's something to do and he already kinda started. But it does blow that there's no fish out there.]

How far out is this barrier? I wonder if there's hella shit just on the other side of it.

[selenokinesis]

It's a ten-mile radius in all directions, so it isn't small by any measure. Still... I've not heard tell of anything being trapped within this bubble other than us. If there is something beyond the barrier, I would think it would be occupied.

[He sighs.]

This area is akin to a pocket dimension, and the laws of pocket dimensions don't necessarily make sense. They simply are.

2.

[topside_cupcake]

[It wasn't that she avoided the room, it's just that well with both of them it was a little cramped. And Caitlyn was still piecing together everything that was going on, with more and more complications arising. Like Vi suddenly just vanishing, and then the attack from Jinx. And the letter that came a week or so later from her.

She had actually caught him on the way out the door. As she was bringing back a file with papers in it, some of her latest notes about things that had been occurring. A few more pins for the board.]

[theweakhavepurpose]

[He's so preoccupied it takes a second to register that she's there before he backs up and holds the door open for her.]

Oh, hey. More stuff for the wall?

[He jerks his thumb at the sprawling collection of papers behind them. He's not really sure what she's tracking, but watching someone pace and ponder in front of a bunch of paperwork and red string is actually kind of soothing in a homesick sort of way.]

[topside_cupcake]

Yes, a few disappearances. But also someone that went home and came back again.

[Caitlyn was curious about why some were seeming to leave more freuqnely as others showed up connected to them. But also if there was a limit as to how big the gap between times could be.

Pluse she had learned more about the group that Jinx was hanging around with after her talk with Venti.]

Are you sure it's not in the way or anything?

[theweakhavepurpose]

Oh, that's bad who... [Almost audible record scratch.] Someone went home and came back? That's a thing? A thing that can happen?

[No, he's not panicking in addition to the stupid note in his pocket, this is probably fine. He's dead so he can't go back which means he's safe right? Right?]

Who had that shit happen to them?

[He'll reassure her the files and paperwork aren't in the way later, this is a little more pressing and he's just slightly freaking out.]

[topside_cupcake]

Vi. A, friend, from home. She just vanished shortly after we arrived. But the one to go and come back is her sister Jinx. It's apparently happened twice now.

[From what Caitly had found out anyways, Ekko had mentioned that Jinx didn't remember their fight, then the next time she didn't remember the dinner party, and now she seemed to remember everything.

Caitlyn was already getting a few casing and charred napkins from where she'd almost burned down of the bars, or well had done as much damage as it seemed you could to one of them.]

I'm not sure why but Jinx, she thinks she's cursed, or maybe it has something to do with the shimmer.

[theweakhavepurpose]

Vi... Oh yeah. I had to explain a forest to her. And then we got drunk about it.

[Which he'd needed after the trauma of trying to explain Montana to someone who he's pretty sure had never seen a tree. Also it let him know that he absolutely should not get drunk here. He is a fucking lightweight after being forced to be alcohol free for months.]

And sometimes people are just.. I dunno if cursed is the word, but yeah. I can relate.

[He pulls the crumpled note about having a package out of his pocket.]

Have you gotten anything from home since you've been here?

3. sinning it up baby!!!!

[broshaw]

[Sharky's a simple guy. He sees his friends somewhere, he goes to see them. It used to be a real crapshoot as to whether or not he'd get yelled at for trying to butt in, but around the ship he's pretty sure it's a solid 80-20 in favor of getting to socialize. 95-5 when he sees Pratt vibing through the big glass doors of the smoking place.

You know what? Since he's managed to go an entire week only having alcohol in designated alcohol-drinking spots, he's gonna treat himself to a big fuckin' glass of whiskey and maybe a cigar or somethin'.

So yeah, he just throws open the door with his arms raised like,] What's uuuuup, brotendo???

That's how they roll!

[theweakhavepurpose]

[He gives him a cheery salute with his glass.]

Hey hey! Check out what I got from home. [He'll just toss Sharky a nice clean unopened pack like he's the world's most casual drug dealer or something.]

Finally something fucking good.

[broshaw]

[Sharky snatches it out of the air and groans in absolute, sheer delight because uhhh, he hasn't seen an unopened pack of cigarettes in years???? Look at the plastic, it's still all envelope-folded and there's no dirt and look at how bright the packaging is!!!]

Holy shit, dude, [immediately tearing through that super crisp plastic] this is like Christmas, man. [Why isn't he getting gifts from home? Did he piss someone off? Is there some cosmically lazy meta-creature that's preventing him from getting some fucking 4Loko?]

Aw, too bad we can't go smoke these up on the deck. Fuckin' dumbass fire ban. [He flops into one of those comfy ass chairs across from Pratt. He's already got matchbooks from here tucked in his pockets because he went and lost his lighter a while ago. Literally just never went to look for it again. It could have magically reappeared in his room and he would never know.] You got a carton or what? 'Cos I'm not givin' this pack back, man. No way, not after the cardboard I've been smokin'.

[theweakhavepurpose]

Yeah, I got a whole carton, I've had that one on me for a few days for when I saw you. Figured you could use a fix after what, seventeen years?

[Shaking his head.] Man, guess that would be a good time to quit but fuck. That musta sucked. I've been smoking cigars here because that's all they've got but... fucking hate them. I look like such a pretentious asshat smoking a cigar.

[Though he can blow smoke rings and that's sorta cool.]

Also got a little light up thing that I don't think is from home. At least it's nothing awful this month.

[Zero stabs anticipated. The appropriate amount of stabbings.]

[broshaw]

[Sharky would never be able to wear his Joe Camel jacket again if he gave up smoking altogether just because of the Collapse. Well, he still can never wear it again since it was incinerated in nuclear fire, but still.]

Yeah, cigars fuckin' blow. Thought they were cool 'cos of that bigass cat in Mickey Mouse cartoons when I was a kid but then my grandma let me try hers and I was sick for, like, a week. Never touched 'em afterwards.

[Oh. That was probably what she was trying to do, wasn't it? Son of a bitch...]

Uh, anyway, dude, good for you. [He has no idea if the knife chick is a topic to bring up right now so he's just gonna sit on that for a minute.] And seriously, the shit we had to choke down was soooo fuckin' nasty, man. Stale as fuck, sandy, moldy... Ugh, don't get me started on the fuckin' weed situation. Dire goddamn straits, man.

[theweakhavepurpose]

My dad tried that with cigarettes when a was a kid, and I hated them but I hated him more so I just kept stealing his cigarettes.

Guess the jokes on me since this shit was expensive when I got addicted. Fucker.

[How does family always win? That's so unfair.]

Did it come back? Like mutant nuclear cannabis plants? We had enough people growing that shit on their property that it probably spread like crazy if it survived the fallout.

[skaikru]

( arcade or the buffet, natsuno tells her while they're in the middle of stealing the makings for molotov cocktails from stede bonnet's birthday party. and it hadn't even been a question that clarke would eventually seek him out. she wanted the knife john murphy scraped out of remnants of the dropship that had brought them all to earth; the knife charlotte had used to cut off wells jaha's fingers, and slit his throat. sometimes when she looked at it, it was hard to discern what might be the hints of rust, the dings and scrapes of time and use, and the long-dried blood of her childhood best friend, hiding in the grooves of the metal. sentiment takes on a strange form when a lot of the people you've ever love may be dead, or you may be dead and them carrying on after you. desperately clinging to every sweet and bitter reminder you ever existed, what if the fight is all we are becoming what if this is the last tangential way i'll ever hug people who were important to me.

but after the party, the resolve to seek out her would-be murderer... falters. never fades, but the emotional load of looking deputy "not j. seed" pratt in the face isn't appealing, no matter how much clarke wants her property back. and hearing in great detail what a sad sack of mashed potatoes he is, that the figment she met on the deck is not indicative of the threat level the man himself poses most of the time, it's absolutely a meeting that can be pushed back. it's so easy to get distracted by other goings on in the ship, by her own agenda, by studying fiction and trying to parse out magic in equal measure. by fretting over their next excursion, by thinking too long and hard on the captain's potential mommy issues, by mourning her friend who may have been reduced to a faceless shade living in the walls of the ship...

but that dissociative forced distance doesn't mean clarke's not looking into windjammer and playback every time she passes by. sharp eyes dragging across every occupant while partially concealed behind the entryway. and as fate would have it, the past four or five times she'd looked, pratt either hadn't been there, or had hunkered down sufficiently enough to avoid her gaze. on this sixth vague attempt she doesn't expect a different result, and that's what makes the recognition hit like an absolute punch to the gut.

...it's probably some flavor of significant that she places the jacket before anything else about him. but on a more careful inspection... yeah, that's the same shade and cut of dark hair. the same shoulders, though different in that they're not held tight and primed for violence. and, yes, it's the exact place he'd told natsuno he'd be so it all tracks. part of clarke almost wants to sigh and keep walking, and another part wants to storm into the buffet hall, pick up a chair and hurl it at the back of pratt's head. what happens instead is a slow approach; light footed, almost like approaching a prey animal in a trap that still has a capacity to bite.

she'll stop about seven feet away, still eyeing the spot between his shoulders for the slightest change in posture that might indicate she needs to... run. draw her gun. something, anything other than willing approach the man who'd stabbed her and who she'd in turned strangled with a glorified friendship bracelet. this is weird and already uncomfortable, but clarke's committed. features schooled into stony impassivity, tone flat and stern. )

So your name's Pratt?

[theweakhavepurpose]

[This is the one time that it would have been better for him to be facing the door, to have even a moment to prepare himself before hearing that voice. Anything other than being kicked in the head with a sudden flood of memories, a sprinkling of panic and the realization that no matter how much he'd mentally steeled himself for this - it wasn't enough.

Her voice is steady, and it's a little different than what he remembered of her, the parts where she had tried to talk him back from insanity. It had been futile, he tried to tell her it wouldn't work, but it was appreciated that she had even tried. Granted he wouldn't ever get that sort of compassion again, not after what happened. Everything after that was distorted in his mind, like trying to see underwater, there were bits and pieces of the larger picture, but most of the details were lost.

Well, guess they're doing this then. He puts his fork down and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of a jacket that a month ago had been so gory its smell had announced his presence. And had started this entire fiasco to begin with.]

Yeah. Deputy Pratt.

[He doesn't spin in his seat to face her, but he does turn his head to see if he can see her out of the corner of his eye. There's the sense of being cornered prey, like maybe if he doesn't move too fast, she can't see him and won't pounce. That's what he is, a deer pretending to be a wolf, just something that will be hunted by those who are actually strong.]

I'm not gonna stab you. I don't have the knife on me anyway.

[He even sounds different than he had, less of the sinister steady voice like he was playing with an enemy, and more like someone resigned to dying and waiting for it to happen.]

I uh... [What's a good way to say, "I'm not crazy right now."? Yeah, there isn't one.] You have no reason to believe me, but I'm really not going to attack you.

[skaikru]

( a minor correction in that, ) You're definitely not going to get a chance to.

( it's an understatement to say that clarke griffin is constantly and egregiously tired. was once a kid with big ideals of peace shoved into a leadership position in wartime and gradually molded herself into rough shape of the wise, no-nonsense commander she tried to emulate — and now just got to wear the weight of every monstrous act she'd ever committed around her neck like chain and anchor. but persevere under pressure long enough, and some survival instincts cross into habits. like the hard edge of threat like a growl in the back of her throat, and the façade of confidence.

there's cutlery all around them, this is essentially a dining hall and plenty of bodily damage could be done with a spoon in the right (wrong) hands.

but she's no desire to stab him either. has razed an entire society for the wrongs they'd done her people, and yet it never made her feel any better. it wasn't like pratt had mauled and maimed anyone clarke actually cared about; forgiveness and trust would be a stretch, but vengeance isn't a particularly appetizing dish on the menu either, not when it'd just inevitably turn her stomach. )

I just want it back. So how do we do that?

( she's pretty solidly behind him, but if pratt deigns to slowly turn further in his seat, the tableau of a cagey teenager will slowly come into frame. blonde hair loose around tense shoulders, arms crossed in a mix of defensive standoffishness and that self soothing attempt at comfort that only comes from a hug. it's too hot for leather war gear, so it's more tommy bahama athleisure with the notable addition of a gun holster around her waist — complete with a glock, the other side empty for want of a specific blade — and scuffed boots that probably have steel in the toe. ready for any fight that spontaneously breaks out, but not willing to swelter for the broody aesthetic. )

[theweakhavepurpose]

[He gives a sharp bark of laughter, more like a wheeze with the way his voice is, and plants his elbows on the table so he can rub his eyes.]

That's fair.

[Running his fingers through his hair he contemplates his next move. His hair had been as long as regulation would allow, actually a bit longer because he was an impertinent shit that didn't obey the rules he enforced most of the time, and it had grown even more while on the ship, almost brushing his shoulders. He should probably start tying it back or cut it. One of those strange idle thoughts that happen when stress is causing synapses in the brain to short circuit.

Alright. They should get this over with.]

You can either wait here and I can bring it back, or you can come with me. It's in my room. But if you're planning to stab me again with it, do it here. I dunno if my roommate is in there and she'd try and stop you.

[He had not explained any of this to her obviously. In fact, the only person he'd talked about this to was Sharky, and slightly mentioned it to Izzy. Maybe he would have if he knew who Clarke was, but he didn't want this to come back on her somehow. This was Pratt's fault, not hers.

He finally moves to get up, slowly turning to face her, but he's not looking at her really, more at her feet.]

Your move I guess.

[Everything about his posture is defensive, braced for her to barrel right into him and beat his head against the ground. His nose already looks like it's been broken multiple times. Right now he might even let her.]

[skaikru]

( to beat his head against the ground again. and there's an undeniably angry part of clarke that sort of wants to. even with the visual disconnect of the mental image she'd carried of "j. seed" before (empty eyes set in his gaunt face, espousing alarmingly violent ideals with lacking conviction like a warped record on a broken player) compared to the image of pratt now (guilt riddled whisp of a man who's standing in front of her like a child waiting to be spanked and scolded), there's no easy un-do button for the weeks of resentment and loathing that have built up.

look what he did to her. look what he made her do.

also look at the end result, what she'd then had to go and ask someone to do to her — though clarke's not lifting up her shirt to showcase the gnarled, poorly healing shiny edges of the cauterized stab wound sitting just above her hip bone. and she will not be giving into the perpetual flares of pain that bring out a slight limp whenever they make their way to pratt's room, because that's what's going to happen.

still big mad. still upset and wary, slightly scared in a way that makes her heartrate kick up a notch, one foot sliding a half-step back when he finally turns to face her, and shoulders squared. it's a little defensive stand off. and still in critical disbelief that he seems so intent on prostrating himself at her feet for some vengeful, corporal, eye for an eye style punishment.

like seriously, what the hell? )

I didn't want to stab you then, and I don't want to stab you now. ( the unless you give me a reason is implied. ) Would it make you feel better if I did?

[theweakhavepurpose]

[ He cocks his head to the side like a dog, thinking about it. ]

A little. It would make this a lot less awkward anyway.

[ Fighting is easy. The rush of adrenaline, the taste of blood and the smell of sweat. All those things are familiar, are second nature. But talking? That's difficult. It's vulnerable. And his instinctive reaction to vulnerability is to quash it, to view the cause as a weakness and eliminate it.

He glances up at her, his eyes holding only a glint of the madness he'd had that night. Sanity he'd wrestled back and was desperately holding onto with both hands. There's still tells that he's not all there, and he knows it, Wheaty back home used to point them out: not blinking often enough, the way he'd trail off mid-sentence.

He'd thought he was doing better here but...]

I met your friend.

[ Sure, why not small talk while walking with someone he attacked to retrieve the knife that pinned his shoulder to the floor. Thats fine and normal.

He's going to have to walk past her to get to the door, but he doesn't pause, if she's gonna attack him so be it.]