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

"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.

Congrats Pickles, he actually startles when he hears that.

With the distortion he can't tell where it's coming from, except vaguely to his right, but considering the dimensions of this store stretch for infinity that isn't exactly helpful. The smell of the fog machines is actually a little nauseating after standing in this for so long and Pratt backs up towards the entrance a bit to try and get some fresh air. Or at least pumpkin spice air and not fog juice.

He's about to shake his head and make a joke because apparently both of them are having way too much fun with a halloween store fight, but he snarls immediately at that last part.

"I'm not ripping Sharky apart, I'm ripping you apart. Sharky deserves better than to be taken over by a fucking douchebag ghost. He survived the cult, the collapse, raiders and the full-on apocalypse. And all he wants to do here is chill and relax and make this shit a pleasure cruise. Then you showed up to fucking ruin that for him you absolute asshole!" His voice doesn't really do yelling, but there's definitely the sense that he would be screaming at Pickles if he could. "Of everyone on the fucking ship why him? The one fucking cheerful optimistic guy who fucking cares about people. Shoulda been anyone else. You coulda taken over me - no one would notice. Or give a shit. But no, you picked Sharky. And that's the last mistake you're going to make."

He is quite literally seeing red by the end of that, and the minute he hears the display go off and then the sound of Pickles footsteps he takes off running towards him. The instant he sees something moving that isn't an animatronic he is launching himself at it to tackle it into whatever shelving is around.

Not only does he have a gun and a taser on him, he also has a collapsible police baton, but no, he doesn't reach for any of those things like a normal fucking person, he's going to bludgeon Pickles to death with his fists the old fashioned way.

If Pickles had any say in the matter, he would have come back as himself, damn it! He doesn't want to be stuck in some fucking asshole's body, let alone one that feels like it's been through all the things Pratt's describing! This body doesn't feel right, like wearing a skin fatsuit and walking around on stilts, and it doesn't smell right, or look right --

He has no breath to spare on explaining that to Pratt, so he doesn't. What he does do is cut across the winding central path to another rack of wet-looking bagged costumes.

That's mistake number one.

And here, there's only room for one mistake, as Pratt sees his opening and takes Pickles down, the two of them crashing into the water-exposed clearance costumes. Pickles doesn't hesitate ~~bitch~~, taking a punch to the gut and returning it with his own clenched fist aimed for the bloody gash from earlier.

Pickles' aim is true and hits him right in the face, his head snaps back from the impact, blood starting to gush again where it had finally stopped from the earlier injury. His nose is definitely broken, he can feel it, and that's happened to him so often he's surprised he even has cartilage left to break.

Costumes scatter around, the rack knocks over another shelf with bags of plastic spiders that burst and go everywhere like spooky themed caltrops. Somewhere behind them an animatronic goes off randomly cackling as they start fighting in earnest.

Pratt has one palm flat on Pickles' sternum, holding him down and scrabbling with his legs to straddle him and keep him in place. In fighting at least, being on the bottom of the pile is a surefire way to get wrecked in the unenjoyable way. He reels back his fist and starts punching at him, each throw of his arm punctuating what he's repeating over and over, "You're. Not. Fucking. Sharky!"

Maybe he's trying to convince himself now that he's actually trying to beat the shit out of someone who sure as fuck looks like Sharky anyway. Unfortunately all the shit on the ground and the fact that it's wet for some unknown reason has Pratt nearly slipping and falling into Pickles in a way that some fic writer would have a field day with. He's undeterred though, once this plan was set into motion he's not stopping until he accomplishes his purpose.

Getting fucked in a Spirit Halloween, and it's not even by a hot groupie in a sexy nurse costume. Just an ugly fucking asshole in a very real cop uniform, wailing on him with all the fury of the thin blue line behind him. For now, Pickles focuses on defense, keeping his arms up over his face to block as many blows as possible.

He isn't gonna die here, that much is for sure. He will not be murdered by this lightweight psychopath, not after getting so fucking lucky the first time! There is nothing for him beyond this body and he isn't going to give it up! He will not go back to being nothing again, he won't, he CAN'T --

The next time Pratt punches him across the jaw rattles his brain so much that Pickles can't think of anything else to do but bite down on Pratt's arm before he can fully retreat it. It's nothing more than brutal instinct, and he chomps down with the force of a man enjoing his first taste of blood in a very long time.

"Fuck!" Well more like feuughhhkkttt because that fucking hurts and he's sorta forgotten he actually has the ability to feel pain! How about that.

Pickles grabs him like a terrier, and Pratt has to make a split second decision if he's gonna just rip his arm free and lose a chunk of it, or try and get his arm back some other way. He's ninety-percent leaning towards the former, but the fact that he might have knocked some of Pickles' teeth loose and they may come out with his arm, is gross enough to keep him from doing that. Even this cannibal from Jacob's army has his limits and human teeth stuck in his arm that he has to pick out later is apparently where that line is.

Pratt hopes his blood tastes like Bliss and ketamine and death and Pickles chokes on it.

He scrabbles on the ground for something to bludgeon Pickles with, or to wedge in his mouth to make him let go, like he's a K9 unit that hasn't learned the drop it command yet. ~~He. Has. A. Gun.~~ He doesn't even look at what his hand closes around until he starts beating Pickles with it, turns out it's a ouija themed prayer candle which he tries to crack Pickle's skull with. The pain in his arm is distracting enough that he misses and bashes it into the floor, shattering the glass holder in his hand.

Time to try and jab that into his jaw and get him to let go of his fucking arm! Curse Sharky's ridiculously huge beard getting in the way...

It's very close to being the former, simply because Pickles refuses to let go even as Pratt flails and tries to dislodge him. Pickles would rather rip this motherfucker apart one mouthful at a time than risk losing this fight. For Pratt, it's a matter of dying and waking up the next morning, missing a chunk of his arm or his liver or something. For Pickles, it's a matter of becoming nothing.

There's so much going on that Pickles doesn't realize there's glass in his neck until it's tearing open the skin below the corner of his jaw. It's a sharp, searing pain that draws a ragged howl out of him, finally releasing Pratt from his mouth.

"GHHHK--!"

He winds back both fists and begins punching with blind, random fury; very few punches land, but the few that do are bound to leave a lasting mark.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject