come_sailaway | AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

[it begins with a PA announcement on the morning of the 12th, Friday’s voice coming through clear and cheerful.]

Any passengers that wish to debark to our latest port of call can exit the ship through the metal detectors on deck zero! Please be advised that all alcohol will be confiscated prior to your exit!

[and whoever heads down to the lowest deck will find that what she said was true: there is a metal detector set up there, with Friday manning it. after placing all metal objects (including weapons, and all your weapons) onto the tray, she gestures for the passenger to step through the metal detector.

they exit in an entirely different location. suffering from a splitting headache, and wearing an entirely different outfit than they had put on this morning, but unscathed. they even got their weapons back!

the interior of the diner is essentially your average jonathan rockets establishment. the narrow lane between booths and counter is manned by an entirely mute Friday clone, who cheerily takes orders and serves up food (cooked??? somewhere???) with an almost unnatural talent for roller blading. there is a jukebox in the corner that can be fed with quarters passengers will inexplicably find on their person. the available songs range from the 50s to the 80s, with a particularly wide selection of songs from the platters.

outside, the diner is a great chrome boxcar, circled by a small parking lot. a large neon sign proclaims it to be GIL’S; it buzzes and flickers on and off often. passengers who have regained vehicles will find these vehicles parked outside. there are also a handful of midcentury American cars; none of them seem to require keys, and the gas tank seems set at full.

past the parking lot is a seemingly endless expanse of desert sand and scrubland, bisecting by the empty highway that the diner abuts. a few miles down this highway, the road forks into a smaller one, which winds its way up a steep, ragged mountain until plateauing into another parking lot, with only a small, old wooden fence between the cars and the edge of the cliff.

should they wish to return to the ship, passengers can leave at any time the same way they entered: walking through a doorway that now claims to be a mop closet. passing through will leave them on deck zero, again with a splitting headache. it’s probably fine.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eyeroll. Metaphorically, anyway. "Very slick. You look like a federal agent, you know." Yeah, that'll get him where it hurts -- indicate he resembles law enforcement in a vaguely catty matter!

Ava's right and it's a good thing she corrects him, because otherwise, Skulduggery would've. Good thing he didn't get to dunk on Max twice in a row, not after the first one was obviously so scathing. "I could see him dropping some sort of Mongolian death worm out there," he says, nodding out the window where he can see some of the parking lot.

Nobody around them is bursting into violence, so the food probably isn't cursed and the vents aren't pumping toxins into the air. He keeps expecting something to happen, and being inside is feeling increasingly like a bad idea.

"Well, we might as well go get a look at what we're dealing with," he says, gesturing for the doors.

"Sandworms? Well that would be something new, and I think we deserve that after not getting a lake monster in the last trip." He wants to shoot something and he's been such a good Omnic lately, he deserves to turn a sandworm into swiss cheese.

Giving a disgruntled snort he turns with a glare, looking every bit like he regrets not bringing his rifle right now. His delicate pride is wounded being compared to someone who would arrest people like him. "I look like no such thing!"

With a huff he heads outside because he is done with Skulduggery right now, and he doesn't even get fun six-shooters? He hates this place already.

The outside of the diner is dead, dry and dusty, he groans as a gust of wind sends sandy soil across his shoes, and he's about to remark on that. He has a very well formulated snarky rejoinder to convey his annoyance with this whole place and also somehow insinuate that it's the skeleton's fault but then he freezes.

The parking lot has a strange assortment of cars in it, but there's also something behind there, something sleek and black and he can catch the reflection of the sun off a fender. He makes a surprised trilling noise that he can't even stamp down and doesn't realize he did, as he goes for the keys in his pocket. Yes he's been carrying those around this whole time, shut up.

Chirp chirp.

"A lake monster would have been fun to fry up over the bonfire..." Ava laments such a missed opportunity. It's hard to be properly afraid of monster attacks when everyone is packing some sort of firepower.

She giggles at the mention of Max looking like a fed, though it does cause her to briefly glance around for Malcolm (WHO IS NOT A COP, she'll insist forever.) He seems more wary about these things than her, but he is one of those squishy powerless humans who has only really gone up against powerless serial kilelrs, so it's understandable. It's fine, she has her best buddies for stupidly running into danger (and each other) with.

The sand and the glare of the sun isn't quite her favorite, and Ava finds a pair of fashionable sunglasses in her pocket to shove on. She's about to ask Skulduggery if he has a pair of his own, if the light even bothers him when he doesn't have pupils, when Max makes a... sound. That sounds happy, perhaps? (She's getting better at reading his little beeps and whirs) that is almost immediately answered by another sound.

Not from Max this time, but from a car across the parking lot. She can only tell which one it is that has his specific attention, because of that little flashing headlights thing that cars do when they're unlocked. She checks her pockets again to see if she has keys.

"Aw, I didn't get any." She thinks it's like the whistles at the camp, randomly assigned, and doesn't quite make the connection yet that the car is Max's.

HAH! Definitely got him. Zinged him good. Skulduggery's going to remember this as his one win against Max.

The desert doesn't bother Skulduggery much compared to Ava and Max. It isn't hot enough, or red enough, or dead enough to truly remind him of the red planet, but it does remind him of North Dakota, which is functionally the same thing.

"Maybe it's a death race situation," he offers as he scans the absolutely buck-wild assortment of vehicles in the lot. "Everyone gets a car, and --"

Chirp chirp.

Skulduggery's head swivels to Max the moment he hears the car, Friday's cheerful voice supplying the connective tissue of this epiphany.

"Appropriate shore excursions!"

He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, past his guns -- then pats down his gray slacks like he's frantically searching for his train ticket. Or, more importantly, his key fob, which he yanks out with a triumphant shout, thumb sinking down on the panic button and triggering a brief, loud series of beeps from alongside the diner. Which is then accompanied by him bolting for the sound with another triumphant shout, because there, alongside the boxcar, is the long, sleek hood and flashing headlights of his one true love.

Later on maybe Max will remark on how disgusting the smell of cooking sea monster was bound to be. His distillery was on an island near the port and the smell at low tide was something akin to fish mixed with death and then heated in the sun.

But right now everything has faded out around him, if this was a movie it would do one of those forced perspective things where only Max and his car exist as the camera pans behind them. As soon as Skulduggery says that, Max bolts away to his car, forgetting he was here with two other people, because that's not nearly as important as HIS CAR.

Almost like he thinks this might vanish the moment he gets close, he tentatively reaches out to put his palm against the door, giving his own responding chirp as the car seems to really be there. Pulling the door open he climbs behind the wheel and starts rifling around, trying to make sure no one has been driving his car, no one has touched his baby. Because if anyone has he's going to messily murder them. Satisfied that everything seems to be in order, he pulls out a cleaning cloth from the glove box so he can get every speck of dust off of her.

Skulduggery and Ava might have dropped off the face of the earth for all he's noticed. It's car time.

"Aw," Ava remarks to herself, watching Max and Skulduggery run off like children let out for recess. "That's cute, don't think I've ever seen them so excited."

About cars. No, she's not jealous.

She prefers motorcycles, primarily because they're more fun to steal and easier to cut through traffic. But she admires some of the classic vehicles in the lot, tracing her fingertips across their hoods as she passes by.

And then pokes her head in right through the window of Max's. "Very sleek. This yours then?" she asks, because he's dusting it. Don't mind her admiring the interior as she slips right inside without bothering with the door. Yes, still holding the milkshake.

"Yes, it's a replica of a Tal--" He opens the door on his side to glare at her, "Don't bring milkshakes into my car."

His tone is more annoyed than mad, but if a single drop of condensation touches his precious upholstery he will be furious. There are also no cupholders, not just because he's an Omnic who doesn't need them, but what monster would drink things while driving?! Driving is supposed to be about feeling the freedom of the road through the vibrations of the car, not snacking. Heathens.

"I had this custom created off the original specifications of the 1937 Talbot-Lago of which they only ever made two." His eyes soften again as he glances around at the beauty that is his vehicle, "Everything was chosen and finalized by myself. It took over a year to build."

She doesn't know much of anything about car models, especially not futuristic replicas of apparently such limited edition vintage ones, but Max cuts himself short and Ava stares at the milkshake in her hand like she forgot she even had it.

And then her eyes widen, because in the heat it's definitely already melting, a bit of milkshake sliding down the side of the curved glass and about to DRIP and Ava makes an emergency lick to prevent it from doing so.

Her expression is definitely one of GUILT and HORROR that she almost allowed something so tragic to occur but mostly amusement, and then she shoves her arm and the offending milkshake through the door. She's still holding it, of course, but it's technically outside the vehicle. "I'd drop it, but I feel like you'd lock me in the trunk if it splattered. ... So why'd they only ever make two?"

Ava looks appropriately contrite and so Max won't push it, but hopefully she knows how close she came to being literally kicked to the curb. Assuming he could actually do that without her going intangible.

"I might try, even though you definitely wouldn't fit in the trunk. And they only made two because the company produced limited edition variants that were made on custom specs and they were outrageously expensive even for the time. Given the conversion rate it would have been the equivalent of about $900,000 in USD as a base price. The two they made are astronomically expensive in my time since they're also over a hundred years old, and if either of them ever went up for auction I'd have those as well." A huff, because he deserves all the cars. What's his money even good for???

"But this is better, because I was able to design it myself." He runs a hand over the roof, being careful of scratching it given that he's also metal.

Almost as an afterthought he looks over towards Skulduggery to see where he got off to. "Ah, I see our gifts from home were even more similar than we thought."

It's obviously luxurious, and quite comfortable from where she's sitting. No doubt about that. But there's absolutely nothing that Ava could imagine that would make an old car worth so much... yet she's not going to say so. It's not an insult! Just... "Are there special parts? Features? It better fucking fly." What can the car do to earn such a price tag?

"Doesn't even have trunk space? Where do you put the dead bodies, then?" Ava asks, because Maximilien definitely seems the sort that would. But maybe not, in something so expensive, and risk getting gross human corpse smell in it.

"You do clearly have far better taste than m-" she trails off to stare out the window in Skulduggery's direction. Taking in the sight of an almost identically old fashioned, shiny black car.

Ava can't help it. She starts laughing. "Oh... oh my god... you... and then he-" There's tears in her eyes that she doesn't bother wiping away. "No, that's too good."

Ava's already out of Max's car, hurrying over to give Skulduggery a proper mocking.

Skulduggery's first act was to dig through the glovebox, checking the registration for any potential errors to give the thing away as a fake. All of the papers, even the exorbitant reciept from her latest repair, are all in proper order, and it's only then that he finally allows himself to accept that his car is really here. Not only here, but in the best shape possible, with pristine paint and a dust-free interior.

There'd always been a chance in the back of his mind that maybe one of his friends would appear aboard the ship one day; that the Valkyrie he's been seeing on and off would turn out to be the real thing, or that someone would tell him about a heavily scarred tailor at the bar. It isn't impossible to see them again. But his car? No. That would be crazy.

And yet, here he is. And here she is. And so far, no sign of sabotage whatsoever...

"Well mine floats, which is similar. What is the obsession with flying cars? I have been asked that several times." As if the future is defined by cars that can fly.

"Do you really think I clean up my own messes? I have people who put the bodies in their trunks for me." Perks of being the rich guy in charge with his own lackeys.

He looks between Skulduggery and Ava as she bursts into laughter not understanding what's so funny. But before he can do more that scowl she has vanished to go bother Skulduggery instead.

With a huff he polishes out an imperceptible scuff on the fender of the car. Don't listen to her baby, you're the best car of all.

Huh. So it does float. A whole inch off the ground she hadn't noticed because she hadn't exactly been looking at it. But she does give a satisfied huff.

"Of course you have a murder butler," Ava remarks, trying to suck down as much of her milkshake as she possibly can while she has a chance. Because, well, the way Skulduggery is treating the vehicle, she's pretty sure he'd give a similar reaction.

So she sets the glass atop the hood of some other car. Before she gives herself another headache.

But yes, she is laughing, circling the vehicle with delight.

"How'd you two end up with the same car?"

Skulduggery gives Ava a disbelieving head-tilt. "They're... not the same?" he says, like this should be obvious. "Mine is a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental with a combustion engine and all-wheel drive." He points across the lot at Max, buffing out a non-existent spot on the fender. "That is a replica based on Talbot-Lago's 1930s model, without a decent engine."

He gestures for her to look at the hood and painfully continues, "The entire silhouette is completely different. Look at how defined the wheel-wells are -- or would be, if there were wheels." He will, however, give her some credit: "I can see some similarities, I suppose..."

He's about to protest that they're not murder-butlers but they kind of are so he just files that away to seethe about quietly later.

Max's head jerks up at that, sure he's on the other side of the parking lot, but he can hear that slander about his precious vehicle, "What do you mean without a decent engine?!"

Hopefully no one is parked between them just trying to enjoy a meal in their car while these two connoisseurs yell at each other across a parking lot about vehicular personal slights.

And while Skulduggery can see the similarities, Max has to look between them to really see it because the blacks are different hues, different paint saturations, different clear coat densities, the curve of the hood is several degrees of variation and the overall construction is completely disparate if you're looking at it in numbers and schematics and data points the way he is. It's only when he shoves all that aside and actually looks at the two cars that he will grudgingly admit they're vaguely reminiscent of each other. In a way.

"Oh my god," Ava replies, in outright disbelief as she continues to look between the two shiny black vehicles. Yes, there are differences that become more apparent as she does so. But.

They're the same in all the ways that matter to somebody who doesn't know shit about cars, like her. And either they've discussed their cars together before, a conversation that Ava has no regrets being left out of, or Skulduggery is that much of a car nerd himself to recognize this very specific model on sight.

"Fine. Fine, they're not the exact same car. Obviously. Maximilien's can float."

Which is pretty cool. But Ava kinda doublechecks to make sure Skulduggery's isn't doing some weird magical thing.

"But they're the same concept of a car. Maximilien said there were two. And here they are. One." Gestures. "Two."

A pause.

"So. Are you just going to argue about engines, or are you going to race?"

Not everyone has magical robot x-ray vision, Max.

"Two one-of-a-kind vehicles," which is as far as he's going to agree on that! But most important is that their cars are their own -- not illusions created by madness or constructed like the fake cars in the lot. (He doesn't even have to look under the hood to know they're all probably hollow like the rest of the technology.)

At Ava's question, Skulduggery immediately looks over to check Max's reaction to the suggestion. Because, like. Obviously, that's going to happen. But... the lack of traction is going to make catching up with Max's car a real trick on the straightaway extending out beyond the diner.

"I don't know," he says. "Does he feel like losing?"

That sounds like a human problem.

Max immediately folds his arms, his eyes narrowing in calculation, "Oh please, that would be so unfair to you I'd nearly feel bad about it."

He wouldn't. At all. And he is definitely going to race him. He's not actually sure if they're evenly matched, his car is definitely winning in lack of wind resistance and having no tires meant he didn't have to worry about drag or drifting on turns as the car could rotate on a dime.

But combustion engines had that initial burst of a literal explosion, and could probably go faster all other things being equal. So he's not really sure who would win. At least that's what the calculating mechanical part of him is currently processing. Oh well, he doesn't care about the stats and he shuts that down immediately in favor of: THEY ARE GOING TO RACE THESE CARS.

Unless Skulduggery has some neat magical enhancements to his car, Ava's leaning in favor of Max's having a distinct advantage. But this isn't just an issue of the cars' individual stats. It's just as much about the men behind the wheels. And their willingness to drive a bit dirty. Ava grins at the competitive banter. This is going exactly how she hoped.

"The most important question," Ava begins, slipping the neatly tied red scarf from around her neck. She gives it a shake, revealing the silky rectangle that flutters in the slightest amount of dusty breeze. It will work for a flag.

"After I give the signal. Which one of you will be willing to hit me with your car?" Obviously to pick her up for a ride.

The odds are stacked against him, it's true. But he knows that the moment he slides into the driver's seat, all he's going to want to do is drive -- and it's inevitable that they'll have to weigh their cars against one another. This moment was written into the stars the moment they mutually opened up about their vehicles.

Taking the Bentley down a straightaway like this will be a delight even if he loses, but rubbing his technologically-lesser success in Max's face would be an added bonus.

"I think the question should be, which one of us will get to you first." And then he gestures towards the edge of the lot next to the road. If they're going to race, they're going to do it right!

Max has been dreaming about this moment since he first got the keys. Not literally, because he doesn't dream, but sometimes when he's bored in the middle of the night and standing by the edge of the deck gazing off into the horizon, he fantasizes about being able to actually pit these two cars against each other.

He even correctly guessed the color and interior of Skulduggery's car. The Omnic may not have a single ounce of creativity or much of an imagination, but he certainly nailed a lot of how this would go.

Being able to drive right into Ava to pick her up is definitely a bonus.

He gives an almost imperceptible nod back to Skulduggery getting into his car and listening as it hums to life, perking up and floating a foot off the ground. He will sedately drive out of the lot and to their new fictional starting line, real casual. As if he hasn't a care in the world and doesn't have visions of absolutely leaving this Bentley into the dust swirling around his head.

"Perhaps that cactus out there?" Far far in the distance is something that might even be a stick, but the familiar three arm shape proclaims what it's supposed to be.

"That sure is a cactus," Ava remarks, because it seems as good a landmark as any in this otherwise empty desert.

Ava takes off a good distance to stand out in the middle of the stretch of road, giving the two time to start up and get positioned side by side for the race.

And then raises the red scarf in the air, grinning.

Three. Two. One. Ava whips it down to signal the start. And readies herself to jump into whichever vehicle gets to her first. It does take careful timing, after all.

He could sit in the Bentley and listen to the engine rumble for hours. That's probably what he's going to do, once this race is done and dusted. He's not as confident as he'd like to be; the second he saw that thing floating there without proper tires, he just knew he was in trouble.

But, bravado does many stupid things to many stupid men, so here he is, squaring up his late aughts engine against a hover car from the future.

By the time they've lined up, conveniently side-by-side, Ava's a good distance away. He revs the engine as she gets ready, lifting her scarf... when she brings it down, he lays on the gas and just hopes for the best.

The Bentley has a far more impressive sounding engine, there's just nothing quite like the sound of pistons firing on all cylinders. Max's car is much more understated in that regard. He'd never anticipated racing his car, the speed and maneuverability were more to account for being chased, but in his mind that's about the same thing. And while he'd never admit it, he's honestly not entirely sure how this will go.

He's never driven an actual car before, and he knows that race cars of the past could absolutely smoke his, but the Bentley isn't exactly a race car. So until proven otherwise his smug sense of superiority in his car is intact.

The two cars sit there rumbling, neck and neck, Max and Skulduggery ironically next to each other given the steering wheel situation in both cars. But Max doesn't look at him, all his attention is on Ava and that scarf.

He has his foot on the gas, prepped and ready for as soon as she brings it down. This entire diner experience, this whole pocket reality, might as well have been created for this very moment. The scarf drops and Max's car jets out, ahead at first because he has no lead up time to getting his car in motion, no tire traction to hold him back. And he's heading right at Ava.

Whatever fear reaction most people might have at having two vehicles speeding toward them has been burnt out of Ava long ago. There's not a whole lot that she excels at in life, not much she could claim to be any better at than most. But highly dangerous car stunts are her speciality, and she hasn't had a good run since terrorizing the streets of San Francisco.

It's obvious that Max is going to reach her first, and she blows Skulduggery an apologetic kiss right before the car collides with her. Except, of course, it doesn't.

In a blur of motion she hops far too gracefully upon the hood, and flips right through the windshield to land with a small 'hah' right in the passenger seat. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, and beams. "Don't worry, I didn't scratch it."

AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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