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come_sailaway2022-08-12 01:46 am
sailmods) wrote in come_sailaway2022-08-12 01:46 am
Entry tags:
- !event,
- arcane: ekko,
- arcane: jinx,
- changeling the lost: giles,
- changeling the lost: oswald wuthridge,
- doctor who: clara oswald,
- far cry 5: deputy pratt,
- far cry new dawn: sharky boshaw,
- fe3h: dimitri alexandre blaiddyd,
- groundhog day musical: phil connors,
- interview with the vampire: claudia,
- lavender jack: honoria crabb,
- lavender jack: johnny summer,
- mcu: ava starr,
- mcu: marc spector,
- mcu: steven grant,
- original: aiden copeland,
- original: lucas kovach,
- original: ylva wolfsdottir,
- overwatch: bastion e54,
- overwatch: maximilien,
- prodigal son: malcolm bright,
- rwby: ruby rose,
- sherlock holmes: john watson,
- skulduggery pleasant: skulduggery,
- tales of the abyss: jade curtiss,
- tales of vesperia: rita mordio,
- the 100: clarke griffin,
- the locked tomb: palamedes sextus,
- the umbrella academy: klaus hargreeves,
- westworld: maeve millay
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.]
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.]
no subject
There's really no hiding the confusion that crosses her face with every point of Clarke's rambling. Sometimes her own ghost shit is a Lot to explain, but this... Well, it puts into place why Clarke carries herself like some of Darcy's mother's military friends used to, and why taking orders from her came so naturally.
"Wow," is all Darcy can say to begin with, accompanied by a small, nervous laugh, "I had... no idea you weren't just from like. A regular Earth. Sorry, I probably should've asked more about your world by now."
no subject
"You thought I was from a normal place?"
You thought I was normal?
no subject
Excuse her for her defensiveness here. It's a bitter irony that after Clarke beating herself up for being a bad friend, Darcy hadn't even bothered to establish anything about her world.
no subject
But Clarke's also just... a tad cagey. She likes to learn others names before ever giving her own, step into their personal bubble before they can intrude on hers, and only dishes tightly held personal secrets in the company of good, good friends or to her own advantage in conversation. And any possibility to avoid talking about her home and what she'd done there is... usually a plus. There's no resentment on this end that Darcy hadn't asked after it before, just a gentle sort of surprise that it was coming up in conversation now.
"I never told you I was born in space?" A beat, as much of a soft smile as one can manage after crying so hard their whole face feels like it's about to start swelling. "Sorry about that. I've told it so many times now, I forget who knows the full story. But I'm from 2149."
no subject
Clarke probably isn't, but they need something to lighten the mood a little further.
"How come this thing isn't floating then, ehn? Max's car floats."
She pats the side of the rover like a comforting pat on the flank of a trusty horse. Or it would be if Darcy wasn't terrified of horses. Darcy's been an open book with facts and figures about her life thus far- most people she knows also know she's dead by now, her ghost-hunting; things she'd never reveal to anyone back home, but were required of her. Duty first always, after all, and who knows when it would be useful. Emotional truths, however, were kept close to her chest. If it weren't for the truth rain, Clarke would have never known about the crush, nor would anyone else. Utility in all things, her own emotions included.
"What's space like?"
no subject
"The car's from 100 years ago or so." A relic of a world gone past, subsequently pilfered from the compound of a society that never adapted to survive life after the end of the world.
"Space itself was beautiful. Dark and quiet; so, so, so many stars, yet the bright shine of Earth below them shone the brightest. I've heard from engineers that there's nothing in life that'll ever compare to putting on an EVA suit and going for a space walk. Life in space, though..."
Utility in all things. Utilitarianism above all.
"That was hard. We were more than a thousand people, the last remnants of humanity, all living aboard a ship made out of 100, 110 year old pieces of smaller ships, welded together. And the life support systems were failing."
no subject
Obviously not, but again, to lighten the tone.
Space sounds unearthily beautiful from what Clarke says. For obvious reasons. But she can almost picture it in her head, space stretching out rich and dark and velvety as the embrace of the ocean, little distant glimmering stars, the space ship like a whalefall drifting in an arc above the Earth, slowly being eaten down to the bone.
"...there were really only a thousand people left?"
one thousand = two thousand, i fucked up my numbers shh let's just pretend
"A nuclear apocalypse ended the world."
Clarke glances sidelong at Darcy here, the flitter of an apologetic smile across her lips. So many of the people here are from such different worlds, but with expansive time gaps spanning generations between what most considered the modern world and her own birth, Clarke knows minds wander. Some wonder if that's what their world's end is; plenty imagine what it must have been like and how much suffering must have happened, even if logically knowing they're far removed from it. She's sorry for putting the very idea of a grim end forth into the air between them.
"About 2,400 on the Ark. And for that entire time, yeah, we thought we were the last of the human race. It wasn't until we fell down to Earth that we learned there'd been survivors down there too. But they didn't take too kindly to our landing, it wasn't any sort of grand reunion of the species."
Numbers are fake its fine
It's involuntary because. Jesus, what's the right way to offer your condolences for... The earth undergoing a nuclear apocalypse?? Is there one?? Especially when it's two thousand years in the past?? God Darcy has no script for this, not in the way she's managed to stake out how to interact with nearly everyone else she cares about. Is it too late to start this conversation again with less curiosity about who the hell Clarke is past the ferocity and steely resolve?
... probably not.
"That's... wild."
Good enough??
no subject
It'd been the second coming of the deathwave that felt personal and truly tragic to live through, then die at the end of. And it's the retelling of that which usually sticks in Clarke's throat unless asked outright but, hey, they have a Rover to focus on.
"Yeah, it was pretty wild. Anyway, we found this —" Absolutely patting the side of her car, this is her emotional support military transport right now "— in the basement of a mountain bunker. It was a relic, but perfectly functional and the first thing I ever learned to drive."
no subject
Wait that could be seen as flirting- abort mission abort mission- "if you wanted or whatever, it's not- it was just an idea, you know, so you can show it off or something."
Nailed it.
"Cool truck," she repeats, patting it again.
no subject
And as such, she doesn't track the reason behind Darcy's sudden and immediate back tracking, but weathers it and blinks extensively before offering the shell of a smile. Eyes still too swollen for any measure of levity to reach them, voice still scratched from swallowing sobs. But an attempt.
"Are you busy right now? I've gone out that way —" Pointing towards the cliff. "— already, but not over there." Another point, this time towards and past the diner, to whatever is to be found in that stretch of desert at Gil's back.
Another feature of this cool truck are the oversized wheels, tread large and wide, meaning:
"We wouldn't have to stick to the roads, either."
no subject
Darcy indicates with her head that she's going to the passenger's side and trots over to the door, climbing in with some restrained eagerness.
"I've done the loop of the roads with my girlfriend and a couple of the others, but I haven't gone off-roading yet."
no subject
Settled in her seat, she'll lean over Darcy to gently deposit the goggles in the glove compartment. A few old-world maps may flutter out onto the floormats in the process, but they don't matter. Then it's seatbelts on, a dutiful sniff to section off mourning from moments ahead, and the vehicle gutters to life under the turn of the key.
"Let's off-road, then," she says like a ready-set-go, pressing the clutch and egging the Rover from the asphalt of the parking lot directly into the sandy dirt in front of them. No reverse, no navigating to the open road and taking a sudden turn into open land. Just the bumpy lurch of driving directly over a parking stop.
no subject
"Jesus Christ- okay-"
no subject
Darcy's reaching for the oh-shit handles though, and with no off-road traffic, Clarke can afford to look at her sidelong and register that's funny even if she's in no mood for laughing.
Dryly, an attempt at bemused, and not unkindly: "You're fine. I'm not going to roll us. And I'll avoid the bigger rocks, if you're scared."
no subject
"I just haven't really done any off-road driving, that's all."
She's a city-slicker at heart, and driving old cobblestone roads is absolutely not as stressful as this. She looks pointedly out the window and huffs.
"I've never been to a desert before."
no subject
"I knew it'd be warm and arid, but I didn't expect it to be so hot it almost hurt to breathe. Or for the very air to shimmer."
no subject
The heat here of course is a presence all on its own, overbearing and looming as a prison warden, with precious few ways to escape it.
"I think it's kind of pretty. If you're inside the diner and not out in it. I'd hate to have to walk through it. Hiking is bad enough normally."