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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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
...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. )
no subject
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!!!!]
no subject
( 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. )