come_sailaway | Are you on the square? Are you on the level?

Entry tags:

Are you on the square? Are you on the level?

Who: Deputy Pratt & You
What: A reckoning is upon you (He's storming the halls looking for Sharky)
Where: Everywhere!
When: Mid-October
Warnings: Violence. Cult stuff. Cannibalism. Skinning. Gore. The standard Pratt warning buffet.
Notes: Bracket or prose, live your truth.

1. The World Is Weak - Laundry Room
It's already been well established that the best place to have a breakdown on the ship is in the Laundry Room, so that's where Pratt is. Though he's not crying, he's not yelling or throwing things or freaking out over a jacket like last time. No, he's pacing. Back and forth and back and forth, again and again while staring at the ground. He has his arms folded, clutching across his chest, which is an awkward position while walking but he doesn't move them.

He doesn't know what to do. Well, he knows what he wants to do, but he also knows that he is the master of terrible decisions so maybe he should think about it?

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Enjoying yourself?

"Shut the fuck up."

2. Eviction Notice - Decks

When Deputy Pratt leaves his room in the morning, he's wearing his full uniform, his belt jangling with every step, along with the dog tags around his neck. Idly he trails his fingers along the wall as he goes, dragging through some of those bloody notes left on doors without even seeming to react to it.

"Sharky! Shaaaaarkkkkyyyy..."

For all that people have seen him sobbing into mashed potatoes, enjoying himself in the arcade, or just generally being a morose but kind of endearing dork, there's another side to him that even Clarke hasn't seen. The last time he was walking like this he was losing himself to the conditioning and barely knew what he was doing. This is different. Pratt is in absolute control of himself and that is so much worse.

"It's been a day and we had a deal. A pact even." Pratt normally sounds like a raven with laryngitis, but right now his voice is so low and controlled when he talks that it could probably be used to grind glass. If it's not obvious Pratt is pissed. He's fucking furious. And that cold fury is being bottled up, saving it for later, for when he needs to act.

"It's okay, you can come out. We just need to talk. We're going to have a little chat. That's all."

He gets to the end of the hall of cabins, blood trailing from his fingers across all the doors from the loving notes left to Ebalon. He reaches up to his forehead, using the blood to draw a cross down his nose and across his forehead.

"Did you think you were finally free?"

This is probably fine.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't look at the knife even as the sound of it rings loud in the bar, his eyes are locked with Sharky's. Well with what should be Sharky.

Jacob is still around, off to the side, and somewhere in the back of his mind Pratt is wondering why. This is what Jacob wants, for Pratt to go nuts and kill his friends, he should be proud. Instead of standing there watching them as if this is a training session and he's going to take notes to bring up to Pratt later about every wrong footstep, every twitch of a finger that gave him away before he strikes.

But for now he can be ignored.

"Yeah. But I'd like to hear it from you. Just between friends." The word ground out with so much venom they're going to need a doctor in here with an antidote.

He might not be intimidated by the display, but he still takes every twitch of Pratt's body for the warning it is. The guy's got enough upper body strength that he can jump the bartop, and right now, he's only holding back because he wants to hear the truth. Alright. Fuck yeah. He can do that.

"Well, your friend tripped down the stairs dancin' to the beat of the BeeGees, and I was the one to sit the body up."

He grins -- it's charming on his own face, but it's a sleazy expression on Sharky's.

"Sorry about that, dude."

For the first time he breaks eye contact, looking away for a brief moment. It wasn't that he didn't believe Bash or Ava, it's that he didn't want to believe them. Wanted to think there was some other explanation that was more readily fixable, like maybe Sharky had somehow gotten Blissed and they needed to wait for it to wear off. And watching Bash try and get items for some sort of exorcism ritual was pretty disturbing; especially since they didn't have any of the shit they needed - was sacrificing one of those honking rubber novelty chickens going to work???

His eyes are back on Sharky, just as hard as before. He'd already been prepared for violence, for needing to get whoever the fuck this is out of his friends' body by force. He's killed so many people he's known, sometimes in horrible ways, he's prepared to do it again. But this isn't Sharky, and that makes it easier. It's like an Angel that can talk. A mercy killing really.

Well for Sharky anyway, not for whoever this is in his body.

Does Pratt care who it is? ...... alright. Maybe a little.

He gives a derisive snort at that apology, "Don't fucking lie to me. You're not sorry, and you certainly don't give a fuck what I think."

Which was pretty damn obvious from their previous conversation. A few moments of silence tick by, Pratt staring intently as if he can visibly see this thing in Sharky. There's no room for doubt in his mind, he's going to kill him. Then they see if Sharky wakes up as Sharky, or as this guy again. And if it's the latter, well, then it's onto plan B and those rubber chickens and candles.

"Who the hell are you then?"

"Hey, fuck you, dude, I gave you a genuine apology!" He scowls, which is... more like a pout, yeah, unfortunately. "It ain't my fault that I got fuckin'... I dunno, crane-machined outta nothingness into this guy's body. I'm just tryin' to make the most of it before you put me back."

He doesn't give a fuck what Pratt thinks about it generally, yeah, but he damn well wants to make it clear that he doesn't need to be playing so nice. This is the sort of courtesy he'd given the first year or two of his own cruise; the later years saw him much closer to Pratt's own simmering fury.

Which means, yes. Pickles knows this isn't looking super great for him. But he's willing to see how long he can burn the diplomacy bridge before it collapses.

"I was a passenger a while back. You can call me Pickles. Yanno, the drummer? From Dethklok." Beseeching a fan for mercy worked once before, and he's gonna try again here!

"Nothingness?" Pratt is full on believing that this... Pickles, was laying in wait ready to strike. The way that Bash had explained it had sure lined up with Pratt's assumption that the thing in his boyfriend was one of the ghosts in the mirror that had tried to pull Clara in, similar to the cat that had tried to rip out Izzy's life force. He'd assumed that Sharky had drunkenly plummeted near a mirror and got dragged into it, allowing the Duncan Hills Coffee man here to take over his body with ... He guesses Sharky on the other side of the mirror?

God he's so stupid to not have thought of that earlier and actually checked the mirrors. See if Sharky was on the other side pounding on them for help.

Pratt is just so overwhelmed right now from Clara and Caitlyn and trying to cheer up Ava and trying to get Steven to stop hiding under the bed and doing tasks for Izzy and proving his worth to the Demon King and doing chores for Pollux... and... Huh. Now that he thinks about it he is actually doing a fuckton of things on this relaxing retirement cruise.

But that's neither here nor there. There: being the creepy mirror realm that he's convinced exists. Here: Pickles.

"Pickles." Nope, name doesn't ring a bell. Neither does the band. If Adult Swim is a thing in Ubisoft land, then Pratt didn't watch it, probably in favor of doing LASO runs of Halo 5 at 2 in the morning after his shift. "Never heard of it."

He hasn't moved this whole time, body frozen in the windup before an attack, he's ready to hurl himself at him and start pummeling, but he hasn't yet. And Pickles should know that his patience and desire to chat is smaller than John Seed's dick after baptizing people in the freezing Henbane.

"Put you back where? Where's your body at? Because I think we both know, that you're coming out of there whether I have somewhere to put you or not. So if you don't want to be haunting a chair for eternity, you better start talking. Very, very soon."

For everything that seems to have changed around here, some things will always be the same. The tension between them is one of those familiarities. Same for the way his mind is already routing his quickest escape from Stan's and sorting the short drop-down list of people he could call for backup. Pratt's waiting for him to run out of things to say, but Pickles has plenty left to tell before he's completely worthless.

"My body's in cold storage. Or -- you guys had one of his stupid zombie excursions, maybe it got chewed up durin' that. Either way, it's fuckin' gone. I guess he got tired of me one of the times I died, or maybe I just forgot how to wake up one day? All I know is that when you disappear, you aren't really gone. But you aren't really here either. I was... neither here nor there, yanno? Nothin'."

He spreads his fingers and wiggles them, true dust-in-the-wind style.

"Look. We both know you're gonna jump over this counter and try to murder me, and I'm gonna do whatever I can not to die. Until then, I'm pretty much an open book, so long as you let me keep drinkin'. That's pretty much the only thing I wanna do."

"Yeah that's how dying works. Been there. But your body should have.. stayed around." Or so he thinks. Hell he doesn't know the first thing about magic. Rita had yelled about champagne and a water fountain appeared. Ebalon can shoot meteors out of a staff. Jack is telekinetic. Maybe the Captain has some spell that literally sucks the organic matter away from people until only the soul is left and they become shades in the walls.

Actually maybe Ava had said something like that, he can't remember. Someone anyway. Whatever, that's not the point here.

He finally relaxes just a bit, leaning back from where he's been ready to launch himself over the counter at Sharky (and for how emaciated he is, he is a spry little deputy and that would be bad news for Pickles). As soon as he does so, Jacob starts to walk closer and Pratt immediately turns and snarls, "Fuck off! This is between me and him."

It's a little unclear if that worked or not because all Pratt's attention is back on Sharky. "Did this ever happen to your group of passengers?"

Oh, cool, he's fuckin' nuts. Maybe Pratt hides it from Sharky, because all of the memories Sharky has of Pratt make him seem sad and in need of protection. Like, look at this motherfucker, he's literally wearing blood on his face like a $30,000 VIP fan in the mosh pit at his last show, shoutin' at thin air like he is.

"Okee, so, first? All I know is what I got told when I was the guy standin' behind the bar. Except we never had possessions. I mean, maybe we did, and they were just better at fakin' it than I am?" Shrugs. He has no idea if Pratt knows about other ghosts, and he isn't about to drop that information. "But if my body is still around, it's nowhere anyone's gettin' to. There's probably a whole pile of bodies in the hull of the ship somewhere."

He gestures towards the bottle. Either Pratt's gonna pour for him, or he's gonna do it himself, because, "Bein' a ghost works up one hell of a thirst, and you can't drink when you're nothing."

He snorts, "Being a ghost works up a thirst. My ass. You just don't want to pour it yourself."

He grabs a bottle and pours him a whiskey, straight up. "That's the most you've sounded like Sharky this whole time. Except he would have given me a smirk when he said it."

Pushing a glass over towards Shar--Pickles, he tosses the bottle from hand to hand, debating if he should pour one for himself or not. But ultimately that seems like a bad idea, especially since this is going to come to violence at some point, even if they're playing nice now.

"You think there's somewhere on the ship Ava can't get to?" He rolls his eyes, fat chance. She could be floating through all their cabins if she wanted to. He's just thankful she hasn't because that could prove embarrassing. "Why are you even pretending to be him? That's fucked you know? And damn stupid. You thought you wouldn't be found out? That no one would notice?"

Pickles watches the bottle while Pratt weighs it, expression loosening ever so slightly when he doesn't turn it into a club to beat him over the head with.

"There are places in this ship only the Captain can reach," he says. "Ava might be good, but she ain't god around here."

He throws back the shot, slamming the glass down on the counter. "I'm tryin'a keep a low profile so the Captain doesn't punish me, get it? Friday's too busy tryin' to deal with the ship fallin' apart to notice that I slipped through, and I figured it was the best way to get what I wanted. Which is!" He taps the counter by the shotglass, "Drinkin'! Partyin'! Fuckin', except not so much of that. This guy gets a load of tail, man, I gotta admit I'm impressed. And not one of 'em has tried to kill him? Cannot relate."

"Why the fuck would the Captain give a shit that you're around? Hell he's probably stoked that this is happening because everyone is so fucking pissed about it and he's some sort of emotional vampire feeding off our suffering." Pratt absolutely does not get it. Granted he'd be paranoid as fuck too if he was in someone else's body, but not for the same reasons.

Rolling his eyes, he pours him another. Fine, get good and drunk so when this little heart to heart goes sour he'll be easier to take down.

"Yeah because people like Sharky. Hard concept to grasp? That's why we want him back and you fucking out of there."

"Because he doesn't have control over it," Pickles snaps. "That's all that fuckin' asshole cares about. He plays his lil' murdergames with us like this is some kinda fucked up dollhouse, and when people don't play the way he wants, he murders everyone and starts over again!"

Or he has somebody else do it.

"And fuck yes, it's a hard concept to get! I mean, I get you. You guys are from the same world. It's the same with me and my brothers -- I'd do fuckin' anything for 'em. But the rest of them? Good for some N-S-A fun, sure, but... friends?"

His brow furrows as he says the word, confusion plain on his face.

"You shouldn't have friends. That's just gonna make it worse. It's just gonna fatten you up for him."

Brow furrowing he thinks about that, because yeah, that tracks that an egotistical magical maniac doesn't like not being in perfect control of everything. Pratt knows that personality firsthand. But he just, hasn't really done that.

"I dunno that we're doing any of the shit he wants. And he hasn't killed us all yet. He let someone crack his head open at a party once, which, was before I was here so I didn't get to see, but sounds kinda amazing? And the only time I've gotten murdered was my fucking fault." He eyes him, "Shit went real bad on your ship huh?"

Pratt sets the bottle down, he's done playing bartender, leaning against the back counter so he can watch him.

"We're from the same world, but we sure weren't friends there. But still, you thought I wouldn't fucking notice shit was wrong with you?" He scoffs, come on man, this is his best friend and he's a cop. He might be a shitty one. He might regret that choice of career. But it's still part of him. "And of course people have friends here, when you're at the end of the world people either band together or they splinter into groups that murder each other. You can see it happening now, where the ship is falling apart and there two groups yeah? Those who are I dunno, blowing the damn thing up and themselves, and then those who are trying their best to keep it all together. I spent like an hour folding towels..."

Helping Pollux keeping things neat and tidy, then turns around and drags blood all over the hallways. Maybe he'd feel bad about that if he wasn't talking to someone in a Sharky skin suit.

The more he hears about this group of passengers, the more upset he becomes. What's so special about these jerkoffs that they get to have fun beach days and deaths in the single digits and... people they care about? He doesn't get it. What makes Sharky so much better than him? What makes Pratt better than Skwisgaar?

"Let's put it this way," he mutters, scowling at the shot in front of him. "We had to specify which Battle Royale we were talking about." He sighs and meets Pratt's eyes again. "How many psycho murderers on board other than you? I'm gonna bet there aren't too many. Maybe that's why you guys got it so nice."

"Just me and Jinx. And I haven't killed a single person in the whole six months plus I've been here and if you were really Sharky you'd be super proud of me." Come on man, be supportive, he's trying over here. And Jinx has gotten so depressed about being isolated without friends that she's not killing anyone either. The two psychopaths sure aren't doing much psychopathing. Well aside from his festive face paint and yelling at the walls.

"But almost everyone has killed people back home, and some of them .. like the Demon King I think might have committed genocide against an entire country? Thousands of people? Clarke, Ava, SecUnit, all the pirates, all the magic users - everyone here minus like four people has killed people back home."

He studies him for a second before continuing, "That doesn't track anyway. Put me and Jinx in a room full of people to kill and the Captain doesn't get nuthin'. We're used to it. It's our purpose. Put a bunch of people who've never taken a life in a room together and then have them fight? That could probably power the ship for years."

"If he didn't get somethin' outta you, you wouldn't be here. That's how it works. It ain't just about killin' people! It's about gettin' them where it hurts. Until your friends disappear on ya, and you're all alone with a bunch of guys you can't trust, and then..."

He draws a thumb across his throat. "When he finally wrings you out for all your worth, when someone newer and more fun comes along, then you're useless to him. And into the nothing you go."

He shakes his head and picks up the shot. "I dunno why he's playin' this game with you guys, and I don't wanna know. And for the record? Yeah. Sharky would congratulate you for bein' a good boy. Probably give you a pat on the head, or somethin'."

He raises the shot in a salute, lifts it to his lips -- and then hurls it with the force of a fastball at Pratt's face.

"But I'm not Sharky!"

And he's gonna try to bolt.

Jacob disappears.

And Pratt smiles.

He doesn't flinch, he doesn't react, just lets that pelt him right in the face, his nose splitting open along the scar bisecting his face. The skin there is so much easier to break after being ripped open dozens of times, blood starting to trickle down and drip off the end of his nose, extending the cross he'd already painted there.

The sound of glass thunking into flesh and cartilage is disturbing, but if Pickles stayed around to see the expression on his face it would be even worse. There's no emotion whatsoever in his expression, even as his lips twist into a grin, and his eyes flash.

Finally. This is what he's good at, this is what he's trained for. Not talking. Not negotiating. Pratt is a killer, a hunter, and for all he's trying to be normal here, to not be a violent, aggressive psychopath, he's fucking good at it. This man had earned his spot at Jacob's side. Every trial Jacob had set before him he'd passed, every weakness culled, until there was nothing of himself left to sacrifice. But even more importantly, this is what he wants - Pickles' ghost is coming out of Sharky even if he has to take him limb by limb.

God he hopes Pickles makes him do that.

With a snarl that shouldn't be emerging from human vocal cords, Pratt gives chase, using one hand to vault over the bar, grab a barstool and hurl it at the retreating form of what used to be Sharky.

It's more a warning than anything. He likes it when they run.

This is fine. Good, even. Great. Sharky's body isn't as out of shape as it feels when he's sitting on a stool getting wasted; he's slightly slower than Pickles' original body, but it makes up for it in the stride. There are a lot of places he's used to running to when being hunted, but the cabins are a death trap these days and there's too much space between him and the gym with all the heavy weights.

Something he isn't used to, however, is the Halloween Spirit. The shop is new on board and infinite -- and that means plenty of places to hide.

He could text for backup, but -- who would come, really? None of his friends are here. He's on his own.

Pickles busts through the entrance of the Spirit, yanking the first shelf behind him as he does.

This feels so perfect, so utterly right. Pratt stalks out of Hurikane standing there for just a second watching him run before he gives chase. Pratt has a gun at his belt, he could just shoot him and end this right now. But no. That's not what he wants, and that's not what Pickles deserves.

Jacob might be the slow, methodical stalker, knowing that his victim can't escape; the embodiment of terrifying inevitability no matter how fast or far they run. But Pratt is all explosive energy once he gets started. He's fast and determined and will. not. stop. The shelving gets knocked over to block his path so Pratt merely chooses another entrance and straight up hurls himself at the side window, crashing through it and sending shards of glass raining down upon the nearby displays of spider-webbing and plastic witches cauldrons. He skids a bit as he lands on the other side, but doesn't go down nor pause to notice that there's bits of glass in his shoulder. He charges after Pickles, not weaving among the store shelving but knocking them all over and barreling in the straightest path towards his prey.

He is after someone specific and he doesn't give a fuck about the collateral damage.

If he can get within lunging distance he'll try and tackle him to the ground and start pummeling.

It'd be in Pickles' best interest to not let Pratt within lunging distance.

Jesus, what a showoff. Pickles wants to hurl a couple of choice insults about seeing Jason pull off better entrances than that in the movies, but talking would be a distraction he can't afford. Funnily enough, the only thing he has going through his head right now is that stupid line from that book Toki would always read aloud to him.

"Whenevers they catch yous, they wills kills yous... but firsts! They must catch yous!"

He sticks his arm out, catching boxes of string lights and scattering all but the one in hand across the ground. Okay, yes. The box crushes under his grip, but these lights are far too small to shatter in Pratt's eyes. Up ahead is a sizable fog machine display -- and are those trigger pads surrounding it working? WE'RE GONNA FIND OUT.

Pratt's having a good time, he'd be having a better time if this wasn't Sharky. He doesn't wanna kill Sharky, but like hell is he gonna let Pickles pilot his body around doing who knows what. So, fine, be cunning and full of tricks.

He loses some momentum trying to not trip over all the shit Pickles is knocking over, so he's a little behind when all the fog machines go off.

"Are you fucking serious?" He pulls up, suddenly wary as the area fills with cheesy Halloween sounds and dense fog between eight machines going off at once. He can't even listen for where Pickles might have gone due to all the witch cackling and machine hissing.

He takes the moment of respite to pluck some glass out of his shirt before resuming the hunt. "Damn. Always wanted to do that."

They're having fun aren't they?

It's only a few seconds before he's back on the prowl. He doesn't know if Pickles will take this opportunity to just run the fuck away or sneak up on him for another attack. Every muscle in his body is so tense, waiting to react.

Pickles keeps low as he can as he continues to bolt forward, dodging around a few more trigger pads for obnoxious laughing clown animatronics. Fuuuuck he hates clowns. But he hates getting got more!

He runs for what feels like forever but is arguably only like, three minutes, tops, zigging and zagging between shelves until he finds a nondescript-looking pile of broken shelving to hide in. This is the hardest part of being hunted; if you backtrack too soon, they aren't suitably distracted, but if you don't find an exit soon enough, you eventually get cornered.

It says a lot about the state of his own cruise when he's almost fond of the game... This is how he bonded with his own cabinmate, who had been a literal six-five, two-fifty pound hulk of undead flesh and mommy issues. It's how he earned any shred of respect from people like Daisy, and probably people like Pratt, too. It feels like he's in the wrong group. Like he was meant for their cruise, but got misplaced somewhere.

While he waits to hear Pratt pass him by (or potentially find him under all this twisted metal and polyester scrap), he pulls out his phone and shoots Ava just a real quick text.

...---...
🐺🔪🥒

Annnd just gonna put that shit on silent...

If Pratt knew about Pickles' roommate he'd probably nerd the fuck out and want to know everything. Hell under other circumstances him and Pickles would likely be friends. But as the guy currently possessing Sharky's body any chance of that friendship has been snuffed out before it could begin.

"Come on, you can't hide now." Sighing as he shakes himself like a dog to get the rest of the glass out of himself, "I was hoping we could go run through the casino. Knock some machines over and get coins everywhere."

There's probably something to be said about Pratt's mental state here where he is enjoying the fuck out of this. This is the highest adrenaline rush he's gotten in months, and it's so damn easy to sink back into this. To just... let himself go.

"The longer this takes, the harder it's gonna be for me to ... stop. And I'm only after you. Only you." A pause, listening for the sound of breathing over the in-store music and various animatronics going off randomly. He doesn't hear footsteps, doesn't think he's still running anymore but he can't be sure with the fog and the dim lighting. "I'm doing exactly what I'd want someone to do to me. If I wasn't myself just...just fucking end it. Better for everyone. What I'd want Sharky to do for me. He wouldn't. He'd try and talk me down, but -- he should. Should have killed me when I first showed up here."

A look askance because that's some introspection he probably shouldn't have said out loud.

But then tubular bells comes on the in-store music system and Pratt absolutely loses his shit laughing. God that's thematic. Alright, back to the hunt. He's had his moment of explaining himself. Time to do a murder.

Pratt doesn't know where Pickles is so he just starts knocking over everything, 12-foot skeletons, sexy costumes, racks of plastic scythes, everything is coming down.

"Keep hiding and I'm gonna start throwing the fog machine liquid around and then shoot it with a taser and electrify you out of there. I can promise you it won't be fun."

Yeah, this guy is a fucking nutjob. Pickles could appreciate it if they were on a team together, especially if he had to face down Daisy, but right now, it just fuckin' sucks.

Ava says she's on her way, and Pickles uses the opportunity to slowly begin creeping in the direction of the exit, hoping to be quiet enough to avoid being detected. That lasts all of a minute before he spots a classic voice changer on the rack...

Shit, he can't not. Especially when it's a limited edition, mid-90s branded Ghostface voice modulator.

"So you want to play a game, huh?" Oh fuck yes, it sounds just like the guy. "You wanna play Regan and the Priest?" When he laughs, it's loud enough to make the thing all staticky. One more line before he tosses it...

"Nah, man, I think you've just been waitin' for a chance to rip Sharky apart. He doesn't think you'd do it, but I know better."

He chucks the thing in the opposite direction, into a bunch of hokey Oujia tin signs, then begins a quicker creep back toward the entrance. A creep that picks up into an alarmed run when he accidentally steps on a pressure pad that triggers a howling werewolf display nearby.

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