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

"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.

Those punches are all that keep Pickles from having his throat slit open like Pratt is field dressing a deer. One of them hits hard enough in the temple to send Pratt careening to the side.

He makes a weird gasping groan because that feels like his already damaged brain is now sloshing around in his head and for a few moments he sees double.

The stun only lasts mere seconds, but that's enough for Pickles to gain the upper hand and the instant Pratt realizes that he is a feral, snarling, thrashing mess. Anything to keep from getting pinned and killed. Blood is pouring from his arm and his nose, and making him more than a little woozy, but he keeps on struggling, unable to get a good grip on anything with his bloodstained fingers.

Pickles goes with him the moment he rolls, bloodied teeth bared in a grimace of pain and determination. He smacks around blindly for a second before his fingers slip around Pratt's throat, and then he's grabbing desperately, thumbs pressing down hard on Pratt's windpipe. He'll kill him. He'll murder him. No, even better, he'll almost murder him, but not quite. Leave him just barely breathing, one leg twitching like a cartoon character --

It's hard to keep focused when he knows that he's slowly bleeding out from the side of his neck, doubly so when passing out is a guaranteed death sentence. Pratt doesn't make it any easier, thrashing and clawing at Pickles's face and arms; nor does being drunk, which hasn't done him any favors so far tonight other than dull some of the pain.

"I'm not going back," he snarls, fighting off the faint sensation of wooziness, "I'm NEVER going back!"

Pratt doesn't have anything to say to that, mostly because he doesn't have any air to say things with. The gasping gurgle he makes sounds like someone running ice cubes through a garbage disposal and blends pretty well with the Halloween noises going on around them.

One hand is on Pickles' wrist trying to dig his fingers into those tendons and get him to loosen his grip. The other goes for his eyes, or the wound in his jaw, anything to distract him enough so that Pratt can get some air and recover from this.

It's a lot going on for poor Pickles to deal with, especially when Pratt starts kicking and trying to twist around to bring a knee up into his groin. He's a fighter to the very end, and as Clarke found out, he takes a long time to die.

After the text for help from Pickles, it doesn't take long for Ava to track them down. Through the dissipating fog, the wrecked displays that maybe slowed their pursuit but not hers. The animatronics cackle brokenly as they sense her passing by in a flickering but purposeful path through the Spirit Halloween. That alone would lead her right to the scene, but the shouting and grunts and scuffling truly give their position away.

There's no shock at the brutality, she's seen far worse. Caused far worse. Just a sad tilt of her head as she watches them desperately get whatever blows in that they can, her quiet presence unnoticed. Because she doesn't yet interfere, doesn't call out for them to stop. Doesn't think they'd listen.

It wouldn't take much to knock them both out. They're just two regular humans, after all. And this isn't cold and efficient, it's an outlet for pent up raging emotions that... she can't quite argue with on either side and so won't bother. No, stepping in too early wouldn't solve anything, it's best to allow them to exhaust whatever fight they have left. Make them feel the consequences of the action better than her own disappointment could.

Pratt doesn't like an imposter living within his best friend. Would do anything to rip him out and bring Sharky back. She wants that too. And Pickles has his entire existence on the line, and she's been in such a position before to know the very real fear. He deserves a chance. But she has no solutions.

None of this is right. But this isn't her fault, she has to remind herself. She told Pratt. But he deserved to know. She wouldn't feel any better if she'd withheld this from him. And she knows asking Pickles not to hurt Pratt could only go so far. Still. Still, she's almost tempted to let this play out to the end, because maybe it's not her call to make. Who deserves to win.

But she cares too much. About all three of them. She silently asks Sharky to forgive her, as she sweeps in from behind to wrap an arm around his throat to hold his head in place before shoving a hand right through the back of his skull, fingertips poking out the other side through his eyes. Unlike the hand in his chest, this time she allows it to hurt. "Playtime is over, boys," she hisses against his ear. "Let him go."

And if Pratt thinks he can get cute and take advantage of her holding Pickles back for him. No, he has both her feet planted into his stomach, a twist of her heel to make sure he feels it. "And you. Stay down."

Pickles is howling something about choosing to be blind forever over death, fuck Pratt, etc. etc., and then suddenly there is a searing, awful pain that shoots from the back of his head to the front. So it kind of goes like:

"FUCK YOU, YOU SHITTY RENT-A-COAAAAHHGGHHH!"

He gives Pratt's throat one more hard squeeze, as if hoping to crush his windpipe, then lets go with an awful groaning sound. He doesn't move other than that, though, agonizingly aware of just how bad it would be if Ava decided to turn corporeal with one arm stuck through his head.

Rent a cop?? RENT A COP??? The white-hot intensity of Pratt's glare should cause Sharky to ignite into flames in a way his flamethrower never could. He's going to go demand the Captain send him back home for ten seconds to get his police academy certificate so he can BLUDGEON PICKLES TO DEATH WITH IT AFTER HE KILLS HIM THIS TIME.

Of course none of those words form because he'd probably need air for that and that's a thing he currently doesn't have.

He startles the minute those fingers protrude through Sharky's eyes because what the fuck. There's no room to recoil because he's flat on the ground but he tries anyway; he's seen some horrific things but if Ava actually became tangible right now would be up there in the worst things he's ever seen. He'll pass.

There's a yelp, and a wheeze, as her foot grinds into his stomach in a way that shouldn't be possible. But he grudgingly pulls his own bloodsoaked hands back from where they've been smearing gore all over Sharky's face in a desperate bid to get free.

He hacks and chokes and gasps for air now that he actually can, that final squeeze doing his already damaged throat no favors. It's a few minutes of panting gurgles before, "He started it."

The chaos seems to halt, and Ava can feel the warm blood from the gash in Sharky's neck already soaking through the sleeve of her sweater. Her arm tightens its squeeze like a snake around its prey. To keep him under control, in worry of him bleeding out.

This isn't Sharky. Maybe Pratt is right. Maybe she should just-

Ava slowly slips her hand out of his head with a blur that'll spark through his optical nerves, and pats the top of it with a soothingly whispered "good boy." He'd called her an angel, and so she'll be merciful. And far more patient than she feels.

She fixes Pratt with a stern frown at his childish excuse. "I know. You think it's better Sharky isn't in here right now." She strokes the side of Sharky's stolen face with her fingernails. "But what if he is? What if Sharky is in there. Right now. Watching you do this. Can you really live with that?"

Pickles hands are up and away, held out like Pratt has a gun to the back of his head. Although he reels momentarily as she takes her hand out of him, he doesn't otherwise move; no way, no how is he doing anything to get himself killed.

He's just gonna keep his goddamn mouth shut and let Ava talk Pratt down. Hopefully, that happens in the next fifteen minutes, so he has time to get to the infirmary before he starts to feel woozy.

Pratt doesn't move, isn't going to risk it for either of them. He just pants, trying to catch his breath while his throat feels like it's still trying to close up.

Though he's speaking to Ava, he's looking right at Sharky. "I don't care if Sharky hates me for the rest of his life, so long as he's okay. He can.. can never talk to me ever again, that's fine. I just.. can't let him end like this. He deserves better. I let him down before, let everyone down. And I'm not doing that again."

Yeah okay, Pratt is tearing up a little because he would be devastated if Sharky never spoke to him again. And the thought that Sharky might just be gone forever, replaced with Pickles permanently...

He swallows down a sob because he doesn't want to think about that, "You can let him up, I'm not gonna kill him. I'm just..."

A failure. Again. Like always.

"Yeah it's fine. We're good."

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

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