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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[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?

[his instinct is to point out that he'll hopefully get to Pratt first, in that sorta situation, but he can recognize that he's deliberately missing the point there. Clarke is offering support, and he can practically hear Kim giving a lecture on the benefits of teamwork. no man's an island, Sharky.]

It's kinda hard not to feel bad about him when he's cryin' into his mashed potatoes all the time. [said with a sigh of resignation instead of deflection.] I... really don't want you to have to kill him, either. But, like -- [she's a kid, which is just. so fucking patronizing that he can't help but laugh at himself.] Nah, fuck it, dude, like. I've never had to be responsible for a single fuckin' person before Blade, or, well, Hurk, but -- look, I'm straight up outta my depth, so I couldn't turn away help even if I wanted to. Which I don't.

( god, the mashed potato tears are so disgustingly and disarmingly pathetic. it tugs on the same heartstrings as puppy whimpers, and clarke's never even seen a dog outside picture books. )

Yeah, ( clarke openly agrees, wry to match resigned. and her gaze drops to the tabletop briefly as he continues to talk, briefly remembering all the people she's been in charge of and how horribly that tends to end. maybe the offer was in haste, and maybe sharky really would do fine fumbling his way through it. but that's two too many maybes, so what could a little tag team hurt? so looking back up in light of his agreement and her resolve steeled, she gives him a slight nod and a way too casual — )

Cool.

( that's it, then. yet another tragic apocalypse team up that could fail but damned if they didn't try. this is usually the part of the agreement where both parties stand and shake hands to cement the deal, but clarke's not moving save to push her fry basket towards the middle of the table. a silent offer to share, though one she wouldn't be disappointed if turned down. the appetite at this table is wavering at best, cannibalism does that to a stomach. )

Just keep doing whatever you're doing, and I guess I'll stop trying to avoid him.

[he does take a fry or two, which he figures is as good as signing a contract or shaking hands or... whatever people do when they're pledging to help each other out in the event of a psychotic cultist on the loose.]

He still fucked with you and you... should process that, and shit. [HE KNOWS, OKAY, HE KNOWS!!! processing is for losers. but he read those help/advice books and he feels obligated to spread the love.] So I won't blame you if you keep him at arm's length. [they don't need to be close friends, or even more than acquaintances, for Clarke to help keep shit together.] But seriously, like. Thanks.

( process her murder adjacent trauma? i hardly know her murder adjacent trauma!

...shut up, it reads. )

I'm fine, ( is the immediate assuagement of his concerns. it always is, because she always is. and past that, despite liking sharky, he doesn't need to be privy to the fact the scent of her own burning flesh still hits the back of her tongue at random times. he doesn't need to know exactly how many seconds she'd counted until his friend stopped twitching. neither he nor pratt need to know she'd closed still-warm eyelids over vacant-cold irises afterwards and cried. and, hey, nightmares about scrabbling against rain-slicked deck paneling and not being able to punch him in the face before he stabbed her in the guts again only takes up like, 10% of her already limited sleep.

fine.

breezing right along, and snagging a fry out the basket to chew mechanically — )

And I said I'd forgive him, so. Don't worry about it.

( this can also be read as his cue to get the hell out of her booth and leave. )

[Sharky lets out a short, understanding laugh at the every part of the dismissal. message recieved, buddy.]

Got it.

['cos fine? yeah, none of them are fine, but that's the word you use when you don't wanna talk about how not fine you really are. Sharky knows that one real well.]

Alright, well, uhhhh, sorry about the downer talk, but hey, we got that outta the way, right? [bright sides, Clarke, at least now you can stomach a milkshake when you inevitably see Pratt wandering around in the parking lot!] Take it easy, Clarke.

[definitely gonna go get his own fries now that the hard part's over!!!!]

Bye, Sharky.

( she'll watch him as he extricates himself from the booth and makes his way to the counter, maybe intermittently glance over while he's ordering fries as the conversation settles deeper into her stomach; digested, spreading out to nourish resolve, if not any actual organs.

and will also ignore the narrators voice saying in a low, doomed art thou timber that: no, actually. no one will be taking it easy after the next few days. )

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AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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