Deputy Pratt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theweakhavepurpose) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2022-10-13 09:32 pm
theweakhavepurpose) wrote in come_sailaway2022-10-13 09:32 pm
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.
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.
no subject
Look in Pratt's mind the easiest solution to problems is to kill them. Which he's fully prepared to do here. And if his general demeanor is anything to go off of, with his bare hands even though he literally has a gun in the holster at his belt.
no subject
(Could he commit himself as thoroughly as Pratt is doing, if it was a close friend? He's not sure, genuinely.)
So he nods, and he drags his hand down his face, and he looks at Pratt over the edge of his fingers.
"... Alright. Tell you what," Jack says, finally dropping his hand. "I'm having a really long day, so you have as long as it takes for me to grab a shower, maybe eat or rest my eyes for a sec - let's say hour, hour and a half."
He waves his hand at Pratt and his very normal and okay appearance and mission statement. "After that, I'm going to find you and either stop you or help you, depending how it's playing out. That sound good?"
Because Sharky seemed like a nice guy, and if something's taken his place, he'd like to get the real Sharky back too. He's not immediately leaping to violence, but he's not opposed if that's what's needed in the end.
Just, y'know. Give him a minute.
no subject
But... nah.
"Shouldn't take that long once I found him. I'm pretty efficient." He grins, which... is kind of horrifying considering the blood on his face.
Ask him about his best time skinning a human. Everything about this is fine."Don't worry buddy, this is gonna work itself out real quick. Have a good nap. Maybe eat something too. I've got it handled."[1/2]
"Nice. Sounds good. See you in a bit."
Jack says. He looks towards the door to the hallway, but... Tempting as it is, he turns around and heads upstairs to the buffet. Fuck it, he'll eat first, he's hungry especially after burning his plasmids like this. It's not like his cabin is going anywhere.
no subject
no subject
His nose is broken (again), he's gonna have a black eye most likely, his throat is already turning purple, he's limping, and both his hands are bloodied to the elbow. There's nothing to question about this.
"Hey. What happened to your room?" Situation: Normal.
no subject
"My room blew up." He says, nodding his head towards the ajar door of room 142, like it needs indication.
"How'd killing Sharky go?" Since we're checking in and all.
no subject
"That sucks. Need a place to sleep?"
no subject
Jack holds still, processes the offer, and slowly turns his head to squint at Pratt.
A complex calculation begins in his head:
Pratt = (Fun guy + chill with stories about dying + enthusiastic about Jack's cool powers + correct food opinions + buffet enthusiasm + struggling against something but genuinely trying + helping him set up the party with Sharky) - ([Attempt to kill Sharky ÷ {technically correct about possessions happening × but is he correct about Sharky?}] - [didn't succeed - stated intent to try again] - unknown combat abilities - unknown skill with weapons) + ([Jack's combat capabilities - effort spent taking "Jeff" down + kick from the First Aid Kit Hypo - the emotional pit of seeing his room destroyed] × [Jack's slept in more hostile locations + with worse threats in arm's reach of him])^does it matter when we come back from the dead anyway = ...
Yeah Jack could probably take him if it goes wrong.
Once the math is done, he shrugs and says "Sure."
no subject
He snaps out of it when Jack actually talks nodding in agreement and turning to shamble to his room. He's really a fucking mess and he's starting to realize that. He needs to sleep for a day and then take the hottest shower imaginable, and he should probably clean the wound in his arm before it gets infected and they have to chop his arm off.
Unlocking the door he shoves it open, not really looking until he's already a few feet in there because -- there is someone in his room.
"The fuck?! How the fuck did you get in here?" He'd been under the impression that you couldn't break into other peoples rooms even if you tried, you needed the key. And...
No. NO no no.
Yellow robes? Check.
Weirdo mask? Also Check.
Wary that this guy killed Caitlyn and stole her room key? SUSPICION RISING.
no subject
This is only confirmed when the door opens and he hears that fucking cop.
He whirls towards the door and scowls under his mask.
"The door was unlocked." John says, his voice hard and irritated.
no subject
With all the other shit reminding him of Rapture, it's no surprise that bright blue sparks dance through his veins and up his arm and arc between his curled fingers as he holds his hand out at his side. A man ready to quick-draw with lightning instead of a gun.
The masked man notices this, obviously, his mask angled slightly, but enough to make it clear where he's looking, and it's not at Pratt anymore.
no subject
"What do you mean it was unlocked? You can't even leave them unlocked, that's not how the doors work, you need the phone for that." Though he can't rule out that maybe the doors are busted the same way the rest of the ship is. Great. Fucking great. Maybe his will look like Rita's soon and blow itself off the hinges.
no subject
He shoves his hand into that inner-robe pocket and pulls out the device, showing it to the cop and the man behind him.
"Yes, I have this." John tells Pratt in a voice very solid with confidence for someone about to ask what a phone was.
Urgh. He needs to be smarter about this. There's a man with fucking electricity dancing up his arm who could hit him with it at any second, he needs out of here without getting injured or worse.
no subject
"Did you get that off Caitlyn? Fucking fuck I let you go and... did you kill her?" He asks of the roommate he hasn't seen in over a month and is most assuredly gone. But if he keeps deluding himself maybe that will change!
"Or is it your phone?"
That's definitely the worse option.
no subject
He breathes in through his teeth and nearly speaks through them, but his voice at least isn't raised anymore.
"I haven't killed anyone. This is my phone." he says, in what serves as calm for him.
Yes, Pratt, it seems they are both in the nightmare scenario here.
no subject
And, if what he's saying is true and right, he has a phone for this cabin.
Awkward.
Jack glances from the masked man to Pratt, and then sorta... lowers his arm and straightens up. His fingers are still curled, as if holding something invisible, but his veins are only softly glowing, not actively sparking.
"So. Room's full." Jack concludes more than asks.
no subject
"Fuck." An eloquent statement that covers everything they're probably all thinking.
What the hell is this fucking timing, he shows up covered in blood, all he wants to do is take a shower and sleep and now what.. he has a new... roommate? Oh fuck all this noise. Fuck this place forever. He's so done.
He heads for his bed. HIS bed, shoving this stupid yellow idiot to the side if he doesn't move and flops face down onto it. He's just not going to deal with this at all.
no subject
He feels as if he should say something, tell this man that John has no interest in his room or his hoard of potatoes and bread, that it'd be safer to sleep in the blood-soaked promenade, that he doesn't need this place and he shouldn't flatter himself.
His lip curls instead and he turns and storms out the door, slamming it behind him.
no subject
Okay.
Jack points his thumb at the couch. "Hey, I'm going to crash on your couch for a bit if you're still good for that. If you decide to kill me later, try to do it without waking me up, I'm a little violent when I'm startled."
no subject
"Yeah have at man. I'm not gonna kill you, though I may kill that asshole if he comes back in here. Weird ass cultist probably collecting peoples' fingerbones." He snorts, ow, maybe shouldn't have done that either.
"You know what, we need a goddamn vacation man." He curls up on his side with his back to Jack, which is kind of stupid since he has no idea if this is actually Jack either, but he's so past caring about much of anything right now as he comes down from the complete adrenaline crash of trying to kill his best friend, having Ava phase a foot right through his torso, and well, crying a bit about Sharky. He's just gonna take a nap and hope Jack doesn't sleep electrocute him.
no subject
He nods, agreeing with whatever Pratt's saying about cultists - and then chuckles at that last comment, a rough and rusty kind of sound.
"Fuck, me too." Jack says, about their enforced time on a cruise ship, "Would love to get some drinks after this. Maybe another stop on a beach, just..."
Jack trails off, struggling to think of what the other end of this bullshit looks like. He doesn't let himself struggle for too long, though - too long and he'll rightfully question if there's an end to things getting worse, if he's got a front seat to whatever happened to Rapture this time, and fuck. He wants to sleep, not do that.
So he keeps his eyes closed, equally trusting Pratt not to try to sleep-stab him or whatever else he might try to do.