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

( what is it with all these old men intimidated to approach a 5'5" teenager, especially one in kitten heels, with too much hairspray in their hair, and enough emotional baggage to kill a horse after a five mile journey?

...oh, right, it's the gentle kill a man energy, backed up with killed a man statistics. alright, can't fault them, but at least in this very moment clarke's much more intrigued with her third milkshake (butterscotch, kinda terrible but the hype of novelty hasn't worn off yet) and a plate of mini sliders than violence, and it's hard to tell a man to fuck off with your mouth full. still, sharky's tone and general presence put a damper on the meal, and clarke's attention falls from her next bite to his itchy disposition.

this feels like the inevitable, just timed atrociously. with lightly greased fingertips, she gestures to the opposite side of the booth, the universal indication of an invitation: sit down. )

About babies again? Or about your deputy.

( .........or both because, yanno what that kinda tracks.... )

[And man, Clarke, he would love to just let you get on with your food and your good times, or maybe just avoid this whole conversation altogether. Honestly, they could've. Maybe a couple of awkward moments of small-talk before they silently agreed, "My friend's a psychopath," "I know and I won't hesitate to kill him," and then things would move on.

But Sharky can't just leave it be. Not with the Russian roulette of Platters songs on the jukebox and Pratt just trying to fucking exist for five minutes somewhere other than the ship. And Clarke's pinned it in one, your deputy -- he's responsible for Pratt. It fucking sucks to be 0-2 in the "not letting your cop pals go crazy" game.]

If you wanna handwave the whole, "my friend is nuts and I'm sorry I didn't catch him before he went off the deep end" thing, I'm totally down to talk about babies or, like, literally fucking anything else, seriously.

[He knows they can't, obviously, as he slumps down on the edge of the empty booth seat. Despite leaning back into the seat, his one leg is still primed for him to get right back up and leave, knee bouncing anxiously.]

( thinking logically, they really, really can't just bury the subject and hope it doesn't rise from the grave at an inopportune moment like a dreaded vampire. sharky knows this, clarke has the first strands of an understanding about this, so he sits and she reaches for the napkin dispenser to pluck a few thin paper towels and wipe grease from her fingers and the corners of her mouth.

and really, what else is there to talk about? space versus earth? the underlying traumatic implications of this venue that she's missing because of a pop culture gap? crab legs? babies, which would inevitably turn into discussions of the ark's harsh population control methodology, which is only a shade or two lighter than murderous best friends? )

No. Doesn't seem like something we can just handwave.

( a long suffering sigh, and like most hard conversations, this one starts with an i'm sorry. )

I don't think you need to apologize for not stopping him. But you should have given us a warning. ( the royal us, everyone on this stupid ship. ) Pratt seems self aware enough to know he's dangerous, you both should have said something to make that clear.

[fair, fair, fair. Sharky's already going through a mental list of people he needs to hit up, to check on and kind of... game plan around, but most of them aren't exactly... you know. post-apocalyptic themed guys, who can sort of double-think psychosis into a quirky character trait. (what's a pirate going to do? stab him?)

but that's an adjustment he's had to make because of that fucking jacket. he can't blame everything on Jacob's shitty fatigues, but the cult programming hadn't kicked in until it showed up. and Pratt's been low-key freaking out about what it means, and...]

Okay, so, like, I get it, and TBH I agree? But you gotta understand, man, I didn't... know. Like... I mean, I saw the video. We all saw it, we all knew what Jacob did to him. I know he got fucked, and Jacob was good at what he did, his mindfucking literally never goes away, no matter how dead he gets. But... [ghghghghg he rubs his face with his hands and groans.]

I don't know how to deal with fucking brainwashing. I know how to handle PTSD and cult-related trauma, though. That's pretty much all you get back home. I mean, I don't needa tell you that the Collapse was trauma fuckin' city. So I was... goin' along with that. You know? Because that's what I know how to handle. And he's... definitely traumatized, [hahaha UNDERSTATEMENT] but that fucking goddamn jacket, dude! That fucking thing showed up in the shop and he literally just, like... snapped.

[he throws his hands up. like, she doesn't know all the context but she's gotta be able to sympathize with latent traumas violently resurfacing at inopportune moments.]

So. Yeah. You're right, I fucked up. So did he, but he's, [corkscrewing a finger next to his head] so, y'know, I'll take the L on this one.

( ultimately, clarke knows nothing about brainwashing techniques shy of shoving an artificial intelligence chip on the back of peoples tongues, where it dissolved, leaked into the brain stems, and projected their consciousness into a city structure built from data, where the hivemind mentality of a.l.i.e. overtook higher thought and killed sentiment in the name of the greater good. the chip wasn't... not brainwashing, but it wasn't this either. and where they'd had decent luck hooking people up to car batteries and frying the a.i. out, that didn't seem like it'd do the trick here.

sharky talks a lot around the main subject: i screwed up, my friend is broken with sharp edges. and clarke listens to every word, but also like... drag her current milkshake closer, and loops the straw into her mouth with her tongue. not that blended ice cream is much to physically chew on, but it gives her something to do while her mind churns.

angry about being stabbed as she is (that's never going to go away) and wary as all hell (also here to stay), that doesn't change the fact it's a sad story that's been told to her twice now: once by a sad sack of a person, and now again by a friend of the first who seems to be struggling to keep his head above water. clarke's not cold and heartless, just the type to take a grudge and run with it until her feet are nothing but bone. this ship and the human indecencies they've endured thus far have set about finishing the job earth started, turning her into a statuesque likeness of herself that's only good at strategy and killing when no other options are available. hope and peaceful desires took a back seat, but screaming but muffled. empathy still breaks out of the shell every so often, though. and while usually reserved for, you know, the people who haven't tried to publicly gut her, it flickers as sharky's words dredge up the tidbits pratt had dropped during their knife return escapades.

kept me in a cage, tortured me. starved me. for months. that's why i look like this, he had me tied to a chair starving for days before someone found me.

eventually she's gotta stop slurping milkshake and respond though. and before getting into the find a professional saga: )

What video?

[Sharky scowls briefly at nothing in particular, eyes sort of locked up towards the corner of the diner. He isn't mad, though -- well, okay, yeah, he's fucking pissed off, but he's not pissed at her, is the thing. He's just... mad at everything. Mad at the fucking cult, at Jacob, at the end of the world... Fuck, there's so much to be pissed off at that it's usually just easier to ignore it all.

But Clarke wants to know. And maybe it'll put some of his own shit into perspective for her, on top of Pratt's, if she knows even a fraction of the kind of shit he's seen. Probably not. But he's gonna tell her all the same.]

So... I dunno what he already told you, but. Basically, the cult back home had these three brothers in charge, and one of them was this ugly motherfucker named Jacob. He was in charge of "recruiting" for their army? Except that just meant he'd kidnap normal random people and starve 'em until they couldn't think straight. Then he'd feed 'em... whoever didn't make it that far. Really fucking awful shit, man, I am not kidding.

Pratt was one of the local cops that went in with the Marshall to shut the cult down. But the Peggies ambushed them, like, threw themselves into the helicopter blades and shit while Pratt was tryin'a fly them outta there. He ended up getting taken to Jacob and he was there... for a while. The only cop to make it out was Rook, and they basically went on a warpath to save him and the others and, like, all of us from Joseph. [Rook, in fact, is the very same person Sharky had briefly compared Clarke to when they first met and he'd talked about big hero antics.]

Rook got caught by Jacob, who pulled the same shit on them while making Pratt watch and, like, help fuck Rook up. But, uhh... I guess Jacob's brainwashing didn't take all that well, 'cos Pratt planned a whole-ass escape behind his back, and he managed to get Rook out before gettin' caught.

[And at last, he gets to the question at hand. sorry Clarke, you asked for the story and you're getting the story...]

...First time most of us saw Pratt since the Collapse started was when Jacob started broadcasting his punishment. 'Cos, like, he'd fucked up the Father's plan, right? Rook was supposed to get mindfucked like him. So... they, uh. Tied him to a chair in this fucking basement and just. Left him there. Ummm. [Oh, shit, is his throat closing up, are his eyes starting to itch? That's soooo not cool. Absolutely not allowed, he cannot start getting bitch-ass tears over Staci fucking Pratt 17 years after the fact.] It was really fucked up, okay? Like he just kept screaming for help and it would loop over and over, and I. Uh. Fuckin' hated the dude, straight up, literally one of the most obnoxious shitheads out there. But... fuck.

[He seems to realize just how much he's blabbed without stopping, covering his face with his hands and exhaling heavily.]

...Rook, uh, got him outta there eventually. But, I mean. The damage was kinda already done.

( clarke listens intently at first, mind whirling to catalogue important information, connect dots, and draw tangential lines of comparison to anything in her own life experience that might serve to shed additional light on where exactly along the way pratt had broken into too many pieces to be put back together again. they were from similar, if not the same, worlds, right? different points during the end of days, but the commonality had to extend past that, shouldn't it?

key words being at first, though, because there comes a point in sharky's lengthy tale (between helicopter blades and warpath) that her higher thoughts just sort of stopper up. no longer listening and thinking, just absorbing all that information like one zoning out in front of a television set; practically transported into the story, minds eye painting a picture so vivid she can almost smell the viscera and imagine the chewy pull of human skin between her teeth. skaikru, the grounders, the mountain men... none had ever resorted to cannibalism (save that for wonkru in season 5) and the very idea twists her stomach into painfully uncomfortable knots. pratt hadn't mentioned that part. the milkshake in front of her doesn't even contain meat, but she's lost all desire to continue drinking it.

and really it just goes downhill from there. watching your friend being tortured, participating, attempting to save them, staying — being left — behind as they escaped. more torture, the humiliation of being witnessed at your darkest moment, isolation, being completely alone with your demons and suffering. clarke imagines all hope of salvation died long before pratt would have, and even after a rescue...

sharky stops talking eventually, covers his face with both hands and exhales hard. and clarke wants to put a hand to her mouth, maybe even shed a tear, but doesn't feel like it's her place. what does she even say after all of that? again, there's no number of i'm sorry's that make you forget what the depths of human suffering felt, looked, tasted and smelled like. so... )

These were the apple tree assholes?

( and their leader — the one who got what was coming for him apparently, but had it been enough to make up for the laundry list of atrocities against humans that sharky's just laid out on the table for her? it's clarke's turn to sigh, and she sits back in her seat.

the damage was kinda already done. )

Yeah. There's no easy, paved road to recovery after something like that. Maybe not even a road out at all, it's — every sentence you just said was awful. I'm a little surprised Pratt hasn't lashed out more, either as himself or in whatever fugue state he goes into.

[It's a whole lotta word-vomit, an emotional blockage that's been lodged in place for seventeen years, and after he's done Sharky feels like a total fuckin' moron for spilling his guts like that. He should have just kept it to the basics, painted over all the details and shit, but -- this is shit he hasn't told anybody.

He'd thought he hadn't needed to, because, like, everyone back home knew the story, but the truth is that they didn't know all of it. They didn't know the sort of shit Rook would tell him and the other fighters, about the gristly meat and the mind-warping headaches and Jacob's creepy power plays. And it turns out Sharky just... really needed to fucking say it. Make some of that shit feel real, after being forgotten history for just a little too long.]

Yeah. Apple tree assholes. And yeah, I know. It's all fuckin' awful. I could tell you some goddamn horror stories about John, not to mention the like, sister-wife bullshit they had goin' on with Faith... [He makes a face, obviously not interested or willing to go down that route after having just unloaded some of the worst shit on Clarke. God damn, he didn't even tell her about Cook-Cook and Jess...]

I know it ain't the most popular opinion out there, but the ship's been, uh. Pretty good for him. The distance from Jacob, mostly... which is why that jacket is such a big fuckin' deal. He thinks it's like, a warning or something.

Edited 2022-09-01 09:44 (UTC)

( akin to actual vomit, better out than in. and as for clarke, don't give her a second thought, sharky. this may be some of the most horrific shit she's ever heard outside of novels like the road, but... when life feels like one insurmountable wall of competing traumas — each new fact competing against the other to be the most shocking, disgusting, or troubling and all of them hard to swallow — cascading down on you, some of the shock value is lessened.

she'd listen to any of his stories with a sympathetic ear, composed responses filled with appropriate levels of empathy, maybe even quiet reassurance that would never touch the roots of the horrors that live in sharky or pratt's brains. and then later imagine those same scenarios with her own loved ones injected into the plot, and weep for them. )

I do get it. Some people come from places so wretched and awful that all this — ( a brief glance around the interior of the diner, including a linger on the broom closet that serves as their ride back to the serena eterna proper. ) — actually feels like a break. The window-dressings are inviting, and at least the pain isn't constant.

( but it's not a reprieve, it's just a new level of hell. clarke doesn't feel she needs to say this out loud, the implication is heavy enough. )

And I get that, too. If A.L.I.E.'s backpack full of mind altering chips showed up here, I'd feel like I was right back in the city square watching people be nailed to beams of wood. But, I'd throw it overboard the first chance I got.

( it's not the same, though. and clarke knows it. she's silent a second, digging the nail of her thumb beneath that of her pointer finger, fidgeting thought a few lines of thought. )

...so he's scared that this Seed guy would show up next? And take his jacket back?

Edited 2022-09-03 05:31 (UTC)

[Sometimes a man has to worry about the emotional and psychological toll he's inflicting on others when he trauma-dumps, okay!!! Ain't nothing wrong with a little self-awareness and ability to reflect!!!]

Dude, so would I. But I'm not the one who got brainwashed by the dude. [To the point where he's still seeing him around everywhere, like some kind of fucked up It Follows.] It's more like, uh... [SHIT she wouldn't understand a Spiderman 3 reference at all...] He thinks he deserves it. Like it's proof he's gonna turn into a psycho just like Jacob was.

[And now's as good a time as any to start floating his solution out there:] I wanna burn it. So does he. But it... he's worried it'll break him, I guess. Just talkin' about it made him break out in a cold sweat, y'know? So... it's a work in progress. Gotta convince him it won't just respawn, first, TBH.

( that's fair. clarke makes a habit of getting ahead of herself and flush with self awareness; worrying about info dumping on people before it even happens in conversation. it's why some might ultimately class her cagey and secretive, unaware of the existential crisis being spared when she doesn't mention the world's end. either time.

also she's talking a big talk. a.l.i.e.'s backpack may have been thrown overboard immediately, but lexa's chip — the flame, the same technology as the conversion disks the backpack churned out, just the 2.0 version — had been on her person since the day she arrived. now lives in the back of her drawers, still routinely brought out in the rusted mint box container and longingly traced with fingertips. difference there is, clarke's dead girlfriend's voice rings in her ears, but she never sees her and is never compelled to act as she would. sometimes tries to, but it's always by choice. )

So burn something else first and see if it comes back. If it doesn't? Burn the jacket. If it does? Maybe hold off until it won't matter if it respawns.

( mizuki had talked about burying jasper jordan's goggles, but clarke hadn't been ready to let go. it's a different sort of tragic tale, but on some level she thinks she gets it. it's so much easier to met out advice knows is logical but won't take herself. )

And to get there — ( studying medicine at her mother's elbow had mostly been triage. life saving measures. on the ground and in the ark, mental health was largely overlooked for the sake of survival. adults probably got executed for having mental breakdowns and violating the stringent laws of space living in their fallout, and no one thought much on it. similar on the ground, which is why everyone looked at her and simply said you changed instead of thinking you should probably be officially diagnosed with ptsd and get counseling instead of council appointments, and even more crises shoveled into your lap.

but clarke can at least dig deep and give it a go. )

— figure out the best ways to show Pratt he's not like his tormentor. That he's still the same person who wanted to name the drunk tank after you. Did Jacob Seed ever apologize for almost killing him?

Need to wait for somethin' burnable to come through. [So far, Sharky hasn't gotten any gifts at all, and Pratt's only gotten the jacket. Maybe if someone had some clothing they didn't want any more... but what's the likeihood of that, when sundries gifts are like, the only way to get anything from home?] Just gotta be careful not to crack him more than he's already been...

[He totally agrees with her about convincing Pratt he's not Jacob, almost goes so far as to say so, and then she asks that question.

The laugh that Sharky gives is short, hard, and grim. He almost opens his mouth to ask, what the fuck do you think?, but he clamps down because that's exactly the kind of poison Seeds always bring with them. Just talkin' about them is enough to trigger the worst fucking reactions. Jacob has been dead for 17 years but he's still perfectly capable of driving wedges.]

No, [he sighs at last, trying to exhale the frustration and outrage that'd flared up.] He died believing he was right. They all did, but Jacob didn't even give a shit about the religious cult part. He just wanted to make people strong. And cull the herd. [All at once, his expression changes as he realizes,] If that fucker shows up here, he isn't gonna need Joseph to get him back on that psycho bullshit. And if Pratt is still fucked up like he is, all Jacob will have to do is whistle for him.

[He's debating on how to design wanted signs, tbh]

( it was never like she expected sharky to say yes.

"oh, yeah, between beating him like a dog, force feeding human flesh, sticking nails into his joints, and tying him to a chair to starve, jacob seed made sure to look his voodoo doll directly in the eyes and give a sincere hallmark card style apology." "wow, that's wild!"

pipe dream.

her point had been centered around the fact pratt had gone out of his way to apologize for trying to open her guts and offered — a very alarming but wholly apocalypse venue of justice — to be stabbed in turn. that's more cop than cultist, and clarke'd recon spoke more to who he was as a person than before he was turned into an attack dog. the laugh sharky lets out is disconcerting and uncomfortable, and clarke leans back in her johnny rocket's style bench seating so hard the laminate upholstery squeaks. and, look okay, she has no quick fixes for brainwashing and how to break violent conditioning, but there's a few tried and true methods on how to deal with a threat that thinks itself sent from god. )

Then if he shows up, we cut out his tongue.

( can't whistle without a tongue. not a proposed fix, she gauges the wiggle room still around this potential new crewmate that would wreck havoc on more than one person here. but it's the sentiment that counts, and the sentiment that speaks to the i'm invested vibe that pulses in clarke's chest like a second, smaller heart. )

Just to be safe. Also I have clothes from home, you can burn a scrap of them.

[he catches the way she scoots back and immediately puts a hand over his mouth, even though he's not laughing or grinning or doing anything anymore. it's just. you know. sometimes you forget, like, just how Not Good you're doing until someone says something that triggers the fucking shit out of you. and then next thing you realize you're lowkey unraveling in front of a fucking teenager. he didn't even consider what she might've meant other than the obvious, and he doesn't have the brainpower to actually put two and two together.

womp womp, anyway.]

Sorry, uhh. [awkward throat clearing ahoy] Yeah. Yeah, uh... probably the only way to do it. Not like he can die here. [no matter how many times Sharky curb stomps his skull.] And... yeah, I could really use like, any clothes to test it out. If it stays burned, Pratt just needs to be... y'know. Contained. Probably in the cruise prison? Or like, a really secure closet.

( everyone's gotta come undone at some point or another. like pratt, the more she learns, the more she's impressed sharky can remain as upbeat and flexible as he is most of the time. hard times mold people into many types; liken them to material, and it's easily distinguishable who's become glass and who became iron.

so slowly, measuredly, clarke levers herself off the plastic coating of the seat. even inside the diner, the air is warm in defiance of any attempts of fans blowing; her skin sticks to the backing and feels a little like ripping off a bandaid. but she'll resettle with elbows on the metal lined tabletop, even circle fingers around the base of her milkshake glass despite no desire for it anymore. )

Sucks they redressed us here. How do we get around sprinklers on the ship? I'm thinking an accelerant, and we do it in the smoke shop on the off chance that throws Friday off for a second more or so.

[Sharky actually has a place in mind with a fire pit and no sprinkler system to worry about, but he's also trying not to blow up Giles' spot. anyway, he has no idea if that's something they'll allow, so he might as well plan for alternatives.]

I was thinkin' the casino, maybe? You can smoke in there, an' its big enough that a lil' bit of fire shouldn't set off the alarms? Shit, if we had a tarp or an umbrella or somethin', we could probably keep somethin' burnin' for a few minutes before Friday comes and pisses on the parade.

[this is the good stuff right here. problem-solving, you know? fixing shit, sorting things out, gettin' ready for trouble so it can't surprise you.]

( hey, she even knows someone with an umbrella! but isn't about to ask mizuki for help (or to potentially sacrifice his favorite accessory piece to smoke damage and science) without additional thought. she's also not completely sold on the idea friday herself isn't the fire alarm — all seeing and all knowing somehow. but if all they need is a few minutes...

clarke and rita mordio hadn't been reprimanded for setting a pool noodle on fire in the name of experiments — other than being forced to smell it burning. so maybe there was still hope! )

What about the lifeboat covers? They seem versatile, that enough of a tarp for you?

[why were they setting a pool noodle -- you know what, no, it's probably better not to ask.]

Oooh, yeah, that could do it! [rubbing his chin as he tries to remember what the hell those things look like] Yeah, that'd probably be good. Guess we could test the fire system in the casino first, then grab one of those if we need it. As for Pratt... he's gonna need a babysitter. Or, like, a shit-ton of tranquilizers...

But, uhhh, we don't gotta nail down anythin' right now. Just... y'know, gettin' the idea out there. Makin' sure it would work, whenever Pratt's ready. [hopefully sooner, rather than later.....]

( right, yes. they were just planning, getting ready — still had to wait for pratt to be ready. clarke had been leaning on the table just as she'd been metaphorically leaning into the idea of crossing back to the ship and enacting this plot right now. patience never her strong suit, and that jacket (still reverse-bleached with her blood last she'd seen it) really felt like it needed to go. now.

but she'd offered pratt forgiveness if he could keep a lid on violent tendencies. and by right, that should probably include a space for him to reach his own peace with jacket burning ideas. if, and only if, things didn't get worse.

babysitter, though? slowly, carefully — )

Who else here... knows about all of this?

[the only person Sharky expects to take on babysitting duties here is himself; Clarke knowing means that he has an extra set of eyes, but he doesn't expect her to put in the elbow work. it isn't her responsibility and it definitely isn't her problem -- or it wasn't, until Pratt fucking attacked her. ugh.]

Like, all of it? I dunno, man. I don't... I mean, when people ask I say he's... y'know. [taps the side of his head] But I seriously didn't know it was that bad until... [you know. you, Clarke.] Def not gonna downplay it so much anymore, that's for sure. And Pratt, I mean... look. He's real up front about everything, like, you can ask him and he'll probably tell you? But... I dunno if people look at him and like. Believe it.

My friends who found me bleeding out in a hallway and stuck superheated metal into me believe it.

( that comes out flat, but a little more contemptuous than she intends. one can be invested in fixing a problem and still so incredibly bitter that it happened in the first place, this is what we call over it. it takes a little effort to smooth out the pinched corners of her mouth before continuing. )

But respect that he owns it. I can respect that he owns it, and don't have any interest in spreading his traumas around the general population like fliers on a posterboard — I'd bet there are even people here who'd use that information against him. And being alienated before even having done anything wrong — ( look at those downplaying tactics, like your severed nerve endings don't lance out gut-punches of pain every so often, clarke ) — would be counter intuitive. Unhelpful towards the end of getting his head on straight.

I just... don't know where the happy medium is. And I hate playing it by ear.

[Sharky doesn't have anything to say to that, because it's true. but he bets if those friends of hers had seen Pratt walking around the day before, they wouldn't have suspected him capable of jack shit.

but that was before. this is now.]

Yeah, it's, uh, not really somethin' where we're all gonna be happy. Like... man, he's makin' friends and shit. I didn't think he'd ever... I dunno, smile again? That sounds gay but whatever, it's the truth. I... guess we gotta trust him to be honest with people and, uhhh, you gotta trust... me... to not let him fuck up again. And the second I know what's up with that jacket, we can burn the whole jacket. And if Jacob ever shows up, we burn him.

( that's fair, her friends wouldn't have believed it after the fact either. natsuno probably sent her sneaky creeper pictures of pratt crying into his mashed potatoes after the fact like "you sure this is the j. seed guy?" but that's still friends for ya; only slightly hesitant to beat up a guy they know almost turned their homie into a (temporary) hashtag because he's exuding sad bitch carb load energy. she wouldn't have wanted him to anyways.

she listens to what the man intently, doesn't argue sounds gay but makes the slightest grimace, and ultimately comes away with a pressing need to —

clarke and sharky... are not to the point... where she'd hold out her hand across the table and expect him to slide his palm into it. nor the point where she might reach out to grip his shoulder, and bite her fingertips into his sleeve in a measure of reassurance. but can still squeeze forward verbally, like an unprecedented wave of wordvomit: )

You're not alone in it. You know that, right?

[but -- isn't he? isn't that, like. the whole point? Pratt and Sharky are on their own, here, and it's up to him to run interference when Pratt fucks up. nobody else is going to pick up their slack, because they've already got all of their own shit to deal with. Pratt snapping is, like, a fucking inconvenience for everyone else, not something that they're supposed to want to fix. you gotta be a problem solver, or else you're just a problem maker.]

Um.

[has Clarke ever seen a 54-year-old man look so deeply unsure of his situation before? he didn't even think that the Highwaymen had gotten to him, and yet here he is, thinking their fucking shitty ideology just the same as a Peggie would recite Joseph's words for reassurance. fuck that.]

I, uhhh. I guess I didn't think anyone else was gonna... wanna do anything about it. Other than, y'know, tell me to keep a leash on him. [the awkward laugh is hella forced, and it dies pretty much immediately.]

( the amount of times she's seen thirty, forty, fifty and even sixty year olds reduced to uncertainty and fumbling before is... probably the main contributor to her issues with authority, and has yet to stop her from plowing on ahead in a situation. sharky laughs in a humorless, tragic way. clarke just shrugs. )

Well, I'm a little bit invested now. If you want to be morbid, it's sort of like he and I made a little bit of a blood pact, right? ( jus drein jus daun. ) He's wearing mine on his stupid, disgusting coat. And I probably got some of his in my mouth during — you know, everything.

( contrary to pratt, her memory of that evening is pretty crystal clear: underlined and bolded with a whole lot of pain, highlighted with adrenaline. horrifying in the way the human psyche preserved, so as to better avoid similar situations in the future. yet still doesn't rank top five worst moments for clarke griffin, which sucks but helps with this decision to forgive and care. but the forgiveness had been conditional, hadn't it? )

Also... I told him I'd kill him again. If he hurt anyone else. And I don't really want to have to do that, Sharky. It was awful the first time around... And now I also feel bad for him, which is admittedly a weird about-face, he did try to gut me like a prey animal. But not my weirdest.

Then for you I feel... worried. How long can you hold a lead taut on anything before your hands start to chafe and you get tired?

AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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tw: cannibalism + brainwashing + torture mentions wowee

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late but with panera coffee

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