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.]

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( yeah, there's nothing like the memory of a little anecdotal genocide to absolutely ruin a milkshake.

rita catches clarke's gaze — inevitable, really, it's not like either of them are being subtle — and thus the silent games begin.

staring and being caught; glaring for a second, then looking away. the occasional raise of an eyebrow in challenge — what? — before dutifully returning to dunking fries in her milkshake and pretending to be unaffected by the live studio audience watching her every move. for a period of time clarke brings up an elbow to rest on the tabletop, puts her chin in her hand and just stares out the window, knowing every raised hair on the back of her neck is likely a result of rita mordio's disgruntled observance. if she were any younger, any less mature or not as allergic to the definition of fun and carefree, clarke would have absolutely stuck her tongue out or crossed her eyes at some point. and if she thought herself undeserving of this penalty, she'd have rolled her eyes and likely gotten up and left the diner completely.

credit to their equally shared stubborn streak, this whole charade probably goes on for about twelve whole minutes.

it could have gone on longer, because clarke would do a lot of things to avoid a follow-up conversation to the one they'd had on the sports deck but... honestly, she's been confronted with hateful stares and scorning judgement enough in the last two years of her life that it's almost become comfortable. familiar, though usually from those who'd had a first person account of her transgressions against humanity; rita's got a very limited, one-sided account and no situational context. god knows how wild her thoughts are running...

finally, and with a sigh beforehand, it's clarke who'll break the silence. her affect is flat, the glaring temporarily shelved as her emotional energy turns to steeling herself for something bound to be unpleasant. )

Did you have something you wanted to say, Rita?

[She'd really rather not think about murder over her pink milkshake, no. Or any colour milkshake, really. It doesn't put her off, but it sure makes the experience overall less refreshing and more...stewing. Rita's expression largely remains in a grumpy glower during this silent standoff. The biggest change comes when Clarke dips her fries in her own milkshake because--ew?!--and that just prompts Rita give her an entirely different sort of judgemental scowl.

What should she say, to get to the bottom of it without just instantly sparking another argument? Before she can decide, Clarke breaks the silence. Well--]

Did you really kill hundreds of fathers?

[...Nailed...it?]

Or was that just--whatever was going on last month?

( ah, yup, there it is. you ever start a conversation knowing exactly how it's going to go, and then still end up preemptively exhausted and frustrated with it? that's clarke right now, pressing her lips into a tight line of resignation for a second before sighing heavily. it feels like the wind up for another argument already, but that's... a fair question. )

...can you at least come sit at the table with me so we're not shouting to have this conversation?

[She has half a mind to stubbornly stay where she is, but despite that temptation, part of her does at least recognize that she won't get her answer that way. And--supposing if it's not true...a little discretion isn't a terrible idea.

So, after staring at Clarke for a long moment with her own thin frown...wordlessly, she finally and somewhat reluctantly slips out of her own seat and brings her milkshake to the other girl's table, settling into the booth with arms crossed.]

...So, which was it?

( this is... better? worse? being up close wasn't ever going to diminish the intensity of rita's judgmental gaze, she knew this already, and doesn't have any desire to keep up the staring contest now they're actually communicating with words. so clarke sighs, leans forward to rest her elbows on the table, picks up a french fry and watches the thick frost of the milkshake obscure it every time she dunks. )

I ended up stuck telling the truth more often than lies last month.

( interpret that as you will (and don't actually want to) rita. )

Edited 2022-09-01 06:53 (UTC)

--Would you stop doing that! It's gross!

[Despite, like, everything, Rita can't help but snap when Clarke dips her fry in her milkshake again. Don't combine them!!

Her judgement wanes only briefly, brows knitted, before she turns the judgy dial right back up--along with her volume, because sitting at the same table doesn't actually stop Rita from yelling.]

So you're saying it was true, is that it?!

( salty and hot versus sweet and cold. get on the snack train and at least give it a try before judging too strongly rita, jeez. anyway, that objection prompts the slightest pause in clarke's fry-dunking, and a raised eyebrow. but, nah, she's just gonna keep doing it until the finger-sized potato wedge is thoroughly saturated. )

Yeah, I am.

( and for the did you really kill a hundred fathers question from a few seconds ago... )

And by law of averages, at least a hundred of them had to have been parents.

( clarke's tone is deceptively calm and flat for how readily this thought eats her up inside. even speaking it aloud, her guts start to twist and the food in front of her loses all appetizing appeal. she thinks of her own father, and the world-shattering heartbreak she'd felt watching him sucked into the silence of space; wonders if it was the same for grounder children upon learning their fathers had died in a ring of fire. meanwhile, the mountain men hadn't even had a chance to grieve, they'd died together except emerson... )

Maybe two hundred. Everyone is something to someone, after all.

[Her scowl's already darkening at Clarke's continued fry-dunking, because no those things shouldn't go together, though even her judgement over the other girl's culinary choices is getting temporarily shoved aside.

Because she's getting far more hotly judgemental over that next admission. Averages racking up to maybe two hundred?! Rita slams her hands on the table as she stands from her seat, all the better to get up in Clarke's face.]

Just...what the hell are you--how many people have you killed?! Do you even know?!

[Judgement and a small amount of horror that the girl across from her is apparently a mass-murderer.]

Edited (lil typo) 2022-09-02 20:35 (UTC)

( honesty is such a pain in the ass, it turns out. this isn't the first time clarke's divulged her home world histories, but between natsuno, venti, and diana abel, each of those people she'd already decided to trust. most had a lot more context to go off of, too, knowing clarke and the sky people had been in the pits of war with not a lot of options available to protect her people.

here with rita, a few steps seem to have been missed. terrible storytelling, which comes back to bite with the sheer amount of derision the other girl is throwing at her from across the table — oh, from up and leaning over the top of the table. clarke visibly bristles; shoulders up, brow furrowed, lips pursed like there's so much she'd like to say instead of the forcibly calm — )

941.

[It sure is hard to add in important context when it's only this sort of detail that's come out--and at this point, would context change Rita's shock? Possibly, but not right now. No, she's staring at Clarke with wide-eyed horror--almost a thousand? And, yeah, she asked for a number, but to actually give one that specific--]

What the hell is wrong with you?!

[Honestly, Rita doesn't know what else to say right now, so she just yells and slams the table again, before levelling a pointing finger at Clarke.]

That's just--how can you even...

( no one likes having a finger shoved in their face. and even comfortable under the scrutiny, judgement and loathing of her friends back home for what she'd done to save them, clarke bristles here and now in front of rita mordio. the memory of jasper jordan's snotty, tear streaked face staring up at her from the floor and the empty justification of we had no choice are fresh in her mind. that level of loathing she'd earned. )

How could I? ( clarke repeats, bordering somewhere between incredulous and sardonic. the simple answer remains ungiven: easily. )

It's not like I ever wanted to. We were at war, Rita. And if that's not something you can relate to and understand, at least ask me why instead of how.

[Sure, on some level Rita understands having to kill someone they don't necessarily want to--but not hundreds, and not for something stupid like war, because wars escalate can over the stupidest petty grievances and she can't imagine this being any different.

Still standing, she crosses her arms.]

I'm not sure I want to know--but fine, why? Did you have any reason besides "it's a stupid war"?

I did it for my people. My friends, my family — everyone I've ever loved.

It wasn't easy, it was never what I wanted. It hurt and I couldn't even save them all, but each and every time there were no better options.

( rita's hot take on war doesn't sit all that well with clarke either, and after a beat but before the other girl can get another scathing comment in edgewise, she's volleying back — )

How many times have you fought for the right to not be slaughtered like livestock? Were any of those instances stupid?

Obviously I'd never let people I cared about get into a situation like that in the first place!

[Because, you know, it's not easier said than done or anything...

It's easy to take this stance when it's all hypothetical to her. But there's also another thought that's been building with each fraught conversation--argument?--they've had, and she just goes ahead and blurts that out too because why not-]

Ugh--seriously, has there been a single thing in your whole life that wasn't terrible?

Oh, so did you let Flynn and Yuri get kidnapped by the Captain too, or did that just happen and then you all had to deal with the fall out?

( here they are, once again, edging towards a screaming match. pushing on the jagged edges of interpersonal wounds, and clarke's pulled back her lips to bare her teeth by invoking the names of those already lost.

temper, temper... yeah, no, temper's on a direct flight path to crash out the window of the diner. but clarke at least manages to keep her voice to an angry-yell whisper, even if she's not leaving any room for rita to respond before launching off that last question. )

And no, Rita. There hasn't been, I grew up a hundred years after the world burned and all of humanity was nearly wiped out. I was born on a space ship where there wasn't enough food, water, medicine, or oxygen to go around, and people were executed if they had more than one child. The sick were left to die, the lower class was worked to the bone for scraps, my father was murdered for lobbying against the Council he and my mother sat on, and then they sent a hundred kids down to die — and all of that was still the safe part of my life!

[Shock and hurt flash across her face, tension making her clench angry fists, before Rita's on the verge of screaming back that this is different, or what what she supposed to do about that--but Clarke keeps going before she can protest, even as fury still simmers hot in her chest.

Any response she can make now is fueled only by anger, not logic or empathy (even if she might have time to reflect on how messed-up all of that is later, thanks Clarke).]

Then your entire world was seriously rotten, and I don't know why the hell you'd murder hundreds to protect them, you...!

[She points at Clarke but stops short, unable to come up with an insult that properly sums up everything she's feeling right now.]

( there's really only so much one person can take of having a finger jabbed accusatorily in their face before something in their chest snaps like a wishbone. the two of them really might not ever have a pleasant conversation, but in the midst of this one, clarke's restraint wanes.

rita's up, inclined over the table, pointing angrily — and clarke's suddenly snaking out a hand to wrap around the other girl's forearm and yanking. not to the end of dragging rita over the table and clattering between milkshake cups, but enough to serve as an unpleasantly abrupt shift in center of gravity. grip still tight, clarke takes this opportunity to rise halfway out her bench seat as well, keeping their faces level and leaning closer until there's about a foot between them. angrily burning eyes scorch much more effectively at close distances, chances are they're both going to walk away from this nursing burn wounds. )

You don't have to get it. I don't think anyone ever really knows how far they'd go for the people they care about until they're actively stepping across the line. You don't have to think highly about me, either. Gods know I don't. And you don't have to kill to protect your friends if you're not able to. Just maybe let them know that ahead of time, given the bloody, deadly circumstances we all find ourselves in this time around.

But what you do need to do is expand your sheltered world view and temper your judgements. Or just shut the hell up about things you've never experienced and couldn't possibly understand.

Hey-!

[The abrupt tug sends her off-balance, and she slams her other hand against the table to brace herself before curling it into a fist. She's sorely tempted to send that fist flying at Clarke as the other girl leans closer, and now they're furiously glowering at each other with all the heat of one of her fire spells.]

Don't talk like you know everything! [Because that's clearly not what Rita's been doing. Not hypocrites, either of them.] You think I won't protect my friends?! How about you shut up with that world-weary jaded "there was nothing else I could do" garbage?!

[She tries to yank her arm back, teeth clenched so hard her jaw hurts.]

And how about keeping your hands to yourself!

[Yeah, not hypocritical at all.]

Edited 2022-09-07 21:51 (UTC)

( hypocrisy is abound, and through it no bridges of resolution can possibly be built. it's become very clear that this conversation isn't going to go anywhere, and any weird notions of reaching a peaceful understanding clarke might have entertained in the beginning are dead and charred in the dust.

rita tries to yank away, but clarke's grip is firm and, yeah, she's older, taller, and has a few pounds on her side. it's not hard to counter that with a locked elbow and slight twist of skin between her fingers. you think i won't protect my friends?! )

I'm sure you'd do your very best. We'll just have to hope that's going to be enough.

( if the other girl tries to break free a second time, she'll release her without much fuss. )

[Rita got her answers--even if she disliked all of them. Not that she hoping Clarke wasn't actually a murderer... She does't think so, anyway. And it's a moot point now.

A faint grimace crosses her face as Clarke holds fast, before her dark scowl returns.]

It will be. Now hands off before I--

[She wrenches her arm back again, but this time there's no resistance and she stumbles right back into her seat, her left hand half-raised to ready a spell. She glares at the other girl a moment longer.]

...I'm done here.

[--And decides there's no further point to this argument, too, so she slides out of the seat and stalks off, right to the diner's exit and off to...nowhere in particular besides somewhere else. She even leaves her milkshake behind.]

( a tumultuous and tense end to a conversation they... may or may not have been better off never having at all. it certainly doesn't feel like it's bridged any gaps in understanding. clarke doesn't watch rita walking away with any flicker of hope for camaraderie, and imagines rita managed to come out of this more heated and bitter than before — if that half-raised hand, intent on doing some sort of harm, was any indication.

the door to the diner jingles upon exit, and it's only then clarke resumes her seat. but attention returned to the milkshake and fries in front of her, any trace of an appetite has died. dunking salty potato wedges into melting ice cream doesn't hold the same sort of spiteful delight with no one around to be disgusted by it either, and she'll ultimately pushed the glass and basket over the tabletop to join rita's abandoned drink. and just sort of... fold her arms, put her head down on top of them, and breathe. )

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AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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