come_sailaway | We're wide awake now, our eyes are wide open. We're running this world, we keeping it turning

The Bentley is always better. And this relaxing foray into a conversation he actually cares about is lulling him into a false sense of security about what's going to transpire shortly.

"I'm unsure. To fit more people and cargo in it I suppose, though I'm not sure what people are carting all over the place. It's especially tragic since in my time we've solved problems related to aerodynamics and safety, you could make your car look however you wish. And still people choose boxes. It's sad really."

Know what else is sad? But for Skulduggery? This four of a kind that Max has.

It's a genuine bonding moment between them. Skulduggery should have expected the mutual affection for nice cars, given their mutual affection for nice clothes, but still! A nice surprise indeed.

Equally nice is knowing he never had a chance, having gotten a bad hand at the start that he hadn't bothered to fix. What a pity, he indicates with a solemn shake of his head. What a shame.

"Ah, well. To the winner, the spoils. At least there are some to be had, this time around." Such spoils as they are!

It truly is a shame, and Max will properly gloat once he sees his prize. Bonding moments followed by absolute chaos is starting to be their brand™.

First things first, he collects his chips, because they may not be worth anything, but they're still a visual representation of winning, and he's all about that. The suits, the car, the yacht, all of his everything, it's all about ostentatiously reminding everyone that he, an Omnic, was better than them. He'd won.

Of course he'd also won the mysterious package.

He picks it up yet again carefully untying the ribbon and peeling the paper apart at the seams. Neat and tidy in all things. Not that he's ever gotten a present before so he has no idea the standard procedure is to rip it open, that's one of those human things someone will need to show him.

Tilting the package he lets the contents slide out onto the table. All folded up the fabric isn't immediately recognizable as a horrific garish disaster. It's just something brownish with an odd sheen he's not seen before on clothing. (Polyester isn't a thing in the future. They still have war, but they got rid of polyester.)

"See? You were worried over nothing. It's not as if this captain appeared out of nowhere now that it's open."

He sounds awfully confident about that because he hasn't actually unfolded this yet.

It's such a shame he doesn't have facial expressions, but even just his eyes go through all the stages of grief as he unfolds this....... thing. There's several moments of him silently staring at it like he blue-screened, and then his eyes flick back up to Skulduggery.

He's not even glaring, just... staring.

As a skeleton, Skulduggery is particularly adept at reading even the blankest of faces, and yet up until now, Max has been something of a mystery to him. Always neutral or somewhat skeptical, fairly poised even while they dealt with Scoops' extra flavors, and while not unruffleable, certainly hard to flap at the very least.

That no longer feels like the case.

"Ah," Skulduggery says, voice as grim as the grave, "Bad luck, that." But maybe there's something else, something a little glib when he remarks, "At least it looks to be your size."

It takes everything in him to not bust into 206 pieces from laughing, but somehow he manages it. Somehow.

He better not fall apart into pieces because Max is liable to start throwing those 206 bones in different directions. Maybe put one in the freezer so he can't reattach himself together again.

To be fair, this is worse than the Captain appearing, a man who Max still thinks doesn't exist. This is far far worse.

He smooths the shirt out on the table, as if getting the wrinkles out will somehow make it more presentable, then plants his elbows on the table with his fingers steepled. Apparently there's lots to consider here.

"What the fuck is this?"

Max has now hit his PG-13 quota with the one f-bomb he's allowed per year. It was also said in French which honestly does sound a lot prettier! So there's that.

It's not even as bad under the multicolored lights as it had been in the sundries shop. Skulduggery watches Max spread the shirt out like he's the one who unwrapped the gift, actually lifting a hand to his face like he has to hide his grin.

"Well," he says, and finally his voice cannot take it anymore, cracking with barely-contained hysterics, "It looks like a shirt. Well. Several shirts..."

HAHAHAHAHA.

"Hey, you should try it on! At least one of those colors is yours..."

It's unfortunate that Skulduggery doesn't have a throat because that will make punching his teeth down his throat much more difficult. But for now Max is as still as if gravity has suddenly increased on only him and he cannot move.

"I am absolutely not going to try it on." He is also not going to flip the table, though that would at least make him feel better. "This cannot possibly be a shirt."

Eventually he pulls his gaze from this thing and glares up at Skulduggery, "Did you know this was what was in there?"

Never has he desired eye lasers more than he does right now. Why had he focused on clothing and stylistic choices instead of having death rays implanted into him to use at a moments notice. Sure he could electrocute Skulduggery, but he's not sure that will even effect a skeleton and it would also fry everything around them. So for now - he is contained.

"I cannot tell a lie," Skulduggery admits, and then proceeds to not say a damn thing about it. He realizes belatedly that he actually doesn't know what Max is capable of, but if he's about to find out about some hidden weaponry or ultra-speed or strength, he'll die knowing he won against a casino owner from Monaco.

"Come on, it's perfect for you. Got a bit of everything in it, right? If I had won it, I would wear it. And proudly, too."

No fucking way he would. But it's not like he's going to get put to the test!

"You can't tell a lie yet you then immediately lie about wearing it. I know you wouldn't." Sure he doesn't know Skulduggery very well, but judging from the suits, the car, the entire persona - Max can just tell that he wouldn't be caught dea-- er, well, wouldn't wear the shirt.

Or in this case the multiple shirts spliced together by some insane clothing scientist that deserves to be shot.

"Go ahead and wear it then, if you're so attached."

Bluff called.

Skulduggery stares at Max. It's impossible to tell that he's staring, usually, but at this point in the night I think it's safe to say he's being pretty obvious about it. Something in the way his cervical vertebra moves, followed by a sort of... grinding move of his jaw as he looks down at the shirt in question.

"Hmm."

He lifts a hand and makes a middling gesture. "Care for one more wager?"

He can feel that stare in his very core. He knows. Even without eyes he knows that Skulduggery is slowly looking from Max to the shirt.

"Absolutely not, because I know should I win you won't actually put it on." He doesn't trust Skulduggery further than he can throw--- He just doesn't trust him right now.

"I'm not going to tackle you and force you into it."

"Excuse me?" Skulduggery tilts his head, which is all he can do to properly convey his surprise at being called a liar. He'd literally done all of those without lying once!!! Except for that last part, but now that he's being called on it, he's decided that he was just joking. Of course he would uphold a bet like that. Who the hell does Max take him for? Some kind of cheat?

Wow! Offense taken.

"Well good to know you're the man of honor around here," he grouses. "For your information, I would wear that shirt, and I would wear it proudly. I'd tell everyone that it was my favorite shirt. I'd stand up on this table right here wearing it and proclaim it to the entire damn party!"

Okay, that's... a bit further than he's really willing to go, but it's out there now. It's out there on the table, right alongside that ugly goddamn shirt, and now his very fragile pride is wrapped up in it.

And Max is offguard enough to snap right back, clear ire in his tone, "I took it and I'm keeping it and I think that upholds my end of the bet more than enough."

Because really he should light it on fire right now. In fact the intensity of their glares at each other should probably ignite the polyester just from proximity.

But he manages to calm himself, he's been in more dire negotiations than this before. Even if it comes to blows, he'll electrocute Skulduggery, Skulduggery will shoot fireballs at him; then they'll both wake up fine in their cabins and yell at each other some more later. This isn't a life or death scenario.

Well looking at the shirt again, maybe it is.

"Very well. I accept that bet." And this time, he is playing as hard as he can.

Right, it's just a friendly game. Which is why Skulduggery feels super relieved when his bet's accepted. That's what that knot of dread is in his chest, right? Relief?

"Fine," he says, false bravado on high unlike it's been all night, "Deal, then, and let's see what you look like in vacation wear."

If either of them could whiteknuckle their cards they would be. That's the intensity of this game.

He is shuffling the hell out of these cards, as if every bridge of his fingertips guarantees his victory later. It's definitely not that he's stalling and suddenly regretting all of this. Not at all.

Each card is dealt with more determination than grace, because now there are stakes to this game. Real stakes.

.... really bad stakes even.

There had been friendly banter, once. There'd been camaraderie, laughter, and a genuine bond between two people thrown into dire circumstances together. They'd shared their cars with each other.

And yet now... Skulduggery is quiet. He's too focused on the cards he's getting, the shirt looming beneath their individual hands like a specter of disgrace between them. He gets a face card, then two, but whether or not he can make anything out of it will largely depend on the cards they'll share, which is... not ideal.

Once upon a time there had been two people enjoying a simple game of cards. But that time was long since past. It's strange that no one else notices the music completely fading away, the people becoming nothing but blurs on the periphery. In fact nothing exists but these two, the table, and the cards.

For all his villainy, Max is actually an upstanding businessman, and he doesn't cheat at cards. Right now he'd be tempted to, but he hasn't been counting them, and it's so much harder to cheat in poker than blackjack. This is actually going to come down to the cards.

Around them time stands still.

Two cards for Max. Two cards for Skulduggery.

And then the first three in the middle: 8 of diamonds, 5 of diamonds, 6 of hearts. He sets down the last two but doesn't flip them. Theoretically they could bet between each round here, but there's no point, neither of them is going to fold, not with this much on the line.

Max sets down the deck to look at his own cards, 9 of hearts, 7 of clubs.

Okay that's not bad, he already has a straight. But that's two diamonds out there, and if Skulduggery can get three more diamonds then he has a flush, and wins. Or worse, ends up with 4 of a kind.

((OOC: Skulduggery's cards are a 9 of diamonds, and a jack of diamonds. Well on his way to that all diamond suit.))

The last time Skulduggery remembers playing a game of poker, it had been in an attempt to win the very skull he's wearing today. He'd been sitting there, atlas stuck out in the cold open, with a pair of fives that had miraculously turned out to be the highest hand at the table. He'd been pretty confident about his luck then, and that had been absolutely astronomical odds.

Somehow he doesn't feel as confident with his hand now as he did then, even with all of the diamonds in play. It's because he lost the last two hands, he reasons. Maybe it's because he hadn't particularly cared about which skull he wound up with, while he cares very much about what happens to his dignity. Maybe it's because that shirt is horrendous, and his pride led him to really put his foot in it.

Who knows why. Skulduggery tilts his head and decides to throw caution to the wind, with one final glib comment before the cards are down. "Don't look so worried. I won't make you stand on the table and shout."

He is having second thoughts. Hell at this point he's having fifth and sixth thoughts.

Both of them have the best poker faces in existence, giving nothing away, yet they're still emanating auras of massive concern. Right now Max could have all four aces and still be worried that Skulduggery was going to beat him.

"No table standing or shouting." Because even if Skulduggery loses he doesn't really want everyone looking at them as they play some bizarre version of reverse strip poker. It also occurs to him that no matter who wins here, they both kind of lose being seen with the one in the shirt. This is the worst bet he's ever made.

The next card he flips is the Ace of Spades.

"Well. That's... ominous."

He taps his fingers on the table before flipping the next, a Queen of diamonds. That is a lot of diamonds, and none of them help him at all, he still just has a straight: 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. All different suits. Hn.

Moment of truth. He sets them down tentatively. A straight is still good, it beats a two pair hand or three of a kind. But.. so many diamonds.

He is concerned.

Skulduggery watches Max flip the queen over and the white noise of relief briefly overtakes him. No... no, it's not white noise, exactly; for a moment, it's as if some sort of demonic entity has taken over the loudspeakers in the room, and Freddie Mercury starts crooning in his ear, Is this the real life... or is it just fantasy?

Sheer dumb luck or carefully woven fate -- whatever the reason, Skulduggery finds himself staring at his first winning hand of the night. And what a hand to win on, with the stakes as high as they could be on this ship. (Because nothing will ever be higher stakes than their honor, clearly.)

He lays out his cards for Max to see, and, for once in his life, he doesn't cut the moment short with a glib remark. He's too busy humming, thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening...

Strange that Skulduggery is getting serenaded by Queen when over on the other side of the table it has gone completely quiet. The quiet in a movie trailer before the Inception noise plays. Where it's so quiet that for a moment your brain tricks you into thinking there must be noise because it couldn't possibly be that quiet. That's the sound that Max is hearing right now.

He has now stared at the cards for a good minute, hoping that the 900 different computations he's done a thousand times are somehow wrong - hoping that somehow all those diamonds don't count.

But they do.

As his gaze falls to the shirt again that Inception noise finally plays. Max's eyes have moved, but he has not. Perhaps if stays right here and doesn't move eventually the sea air will rust him and corrode through his central processors and he'll die. That's a solid plan.

Okay he can... He can... Well.. He still hasn't done much, but he has picked the shirt up.

Why oh why does he honor his deals?

Max certainly can't see it, but Skulduggery has braced his feet against the ground in preparation for... well, something. A table-flip, maybe? An attempt to flee? Maybe he's just expecting Max to try and strangle him. Either way, he wants to be prepared.

He's patient as the stages of grief recycle themselves through whatever processor Max uses as a brain. There's a brief second, right before Max reaches out to take the shirt, where Skulduggery almost wants to tell Max he doesn't have to, really, it was just a little prank --

But that magnanimous side of him is choked to death by the part of him that finds the whole thing fucking hilarious. No. No, he can't actually laugh. No matter how much he wants to, no matter how hard it is, he cannot laugh at Max.

That shred of decency is probably the only reason Skulduggery doesn't immediately start to quip about the fit and cut of the shirt. Cherish it, Max. It's the only respect you're getting out of this.

If he laughs at him Max will rip his jaw off with his bare hands and then bludgeon him to death with it. He has no idea how hard you have to hit a skeleton to break all its bones but he's betting he can punch harder than that.

Max lifts the shirt up to look at it one last time.

"I hate you with every fiber of my being."

That's directed at Skulduggery by the way, not the shirt. Though he also hates that with every fiber of his being and every synthetic fiber in that shirt.

Fine. Okay. He is a man of honor. He will put the stupid shirt on. It's just a shirt. It's just a shirt_{it's just a shirt_{it's just a shirt}}

He's not going to take anything he's wearing off, he's going to put it on over his clothing because he is not letting that polyester nightmare touch his delicately polished exterior.

Look. He has it on. Is Skulduggery happy? IS EVERYONE HAPPY NOW??

He is just going to sit there and stare directly at the table and the cards that betrayed him and resist the urge to just shut down and hope someone throws him in the recycling.

In the future, when things are looking their worst, and Skulduggery finds himself precariously suspended over an internal vat of boiling rage and hatred, only one thing might keep him from absolutely losing his shit over everything. That one thing will be this moment, ensrhined in the amber of his memory.

The entire vision before him is a... a masterpiece. His own personal piece of art, all of his own design. The dead-eyed stare, the way the $20 shirt bunches up over the shoulders of Max's likely $1,000 suit, the sheer dumb fuckery of it all -- it's all just. It's too much.

The absurdity of his situation hits him like a brick through the eye-socket. All of it overwhelms him at once. He's stuck on this damn boat in the middle of an infinite ocean, after having been ripped from the clutches of evil gods who most certainly are still out there looking for him, playing cards with a robot for an ugly shirt when he should be looking for a way back home...!!!

"I think," he begins, and then he has to bury his face in his hands, lest his hysterics overcome him and cause a scene. He visibly struggles not to burst out laughing, but a few unhinged giggles do slip out. "Sorry, just --"

Oh, wow, is this what losing your mind feels like? Skulduggery's never done it before, so he's not sure!

The way the shirt lays over his $40,000 suit is not ideal. It doesn't really fit over all the layers he's wearing even though it is all boxy. And he's not going to button it up because he is going to wear this for approximately ten minutes and then stuff it into the trash.

He is losing years off his lifespan for every moment he wears this.

At least the eruption of sound from Skulduggery unfreezes Max from his stupor. He's basically blue screened and needs to be rebooted. But the sound that Skulduggery makes, which sounds like giggles but might also be sobs, actually causes him to look up.

"Oh fine. Go ahead then." said tersely as he expect Skulduggery is going to burst into hysterical laughter while pointing directly at Max.

He just sits there. Waiting. Trying to tell himself he's been through so much worse than that. Having his memory wiped? That's worse. Being interrogated by Reaper? Worse than this.

But that also had been out of his control. This was him losing. Which feels like it's also his fault.

So he's having trouble setting it aside and concentrating on the many other terrible things that have happened to him. It would be so much nicer to focus on the time he almost had a hole blasted in his chest by Null Sector. Ah, happier times than right now.

We're wide awake now, our eyes are wide open. We're running this world, we keeping it turning

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