Jeff Calhoun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cacophonish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2022-11-12 09:59 am
cacophonish) wrote in come_sailaway2022-11-12 09:59 am
[OPEN] a walking study in demonology
Who: Jeff & Open
What: In which Jeff fails to cope with having been possessed, rocks out all over the ship, acquires a furby, and offers to beat faces.
When: Any time in November
Where: Rischie, the pool, the buffet, the atrium, promenade, deck, and pretty much anywhere else. He's busy.
Warnings: References to possession, character death, violence. One prompt includes brief references to drugs and borderline suicidal ideation.
I. beautiful garbage, beautiful dresses
(cw: borderline suicidal ideation, references to drugs)
He's missing a month.
Don't worry, Jeff knows by now what happened. Or, at least, he got a condensed summary of events from Bash, enough to understand that he was possessed by the ghost of a witchy douchebag, and he knows that the witchy douchebag used his magic to push Crabb down a flight of stairs, to kill Crichton, to try and kill Bash, to attack others, and was generally a huge dick about everything. He's tried to piece together anything else by popping into Photos At Sea, but even with pictures of the ghost piloting his body, he doesn't have any context to really piece anything together.
What's most unnerving is the realization that anything he said or did while in the company of other ghosts is just gone. Time lost forever. There's nobody to account for any of it.
If he stops and thinks about it for too long, he'll probably scream. Definitely cry. Probably throw up. His voice would be raw and racked with sobs. So, in the wake of October, it's time for Jeff to do what he does best: he tells everyone he's fine, and he fills his life with noise and distraction so he doesn't have to face how very not fine he really is.
The first thing he does is change his hair, because that's what you do when everything's fine. It's platinum blonde now, 'cause he feels like channeling Debbie Harry and Courtney Love. He paints his nails bold colors and goes all grunge meets glitter with his makeup, and extra with his clothes. (Thank fuck his entire wardrobe from That Other Place showed up.) Gold, sequin, neon, ripped clothes and DIY fashion, he's going for, like, a total glam queer punk clown aesthetic. After a month of somebody else taking his body, using it like a fucking meat puppet, Jeff's loudly, unapologetically being himself.
In the absence of any coke, he seeks out sugar and caffeine and adrenaline. If he stops, if he sleeps, he might as well slip into nothing. He spends a lot of time dancing at Rischie, whether anybody else is there or not. Whenever he thinks he might be getting tired, he jumps in the pool for a pick-me-up. He gets shitfaced and leans way too far over railings and climbs up to high, solitary places, thinking about falling, and how much of a rush he'd feel, right up until he hit the ground or the water. The only thing that stops him from toppling over is the possibility of the nothingness that might follow.
He doesn't have much of an appetite these days, but Jeff does stop by the buffet a couple times a day, whether it's to flop himself down at somebody's table (anybody's, whether they're a stranger or a friend) for some company, or to just kind of... force himself to eat some fruit or something. Sometimes, he's just hanging out with a plate of garlic bread, stroking its crispy, buttery top, or smelling it, even if he doesn't have enough of an appetite to eat it all. Look, he's just enjoying, like, having senses again.
II. hey so glad you could make it
He doesn't go to Bellona Theater anymore, because that's where he died, and he gets queasy and depressed when he thinks about it, but he does practice guitar with a borderline manic intensity. You can find him performing on the deck, atrium, and promenade, mostly, close to any outlets he can plug his amp into. He seems wholly focused on the music, ripping out guitar solos, going faster, more complex, erratic and experimental, strumming and plucking well past when his fingers start to hurt. Most of the time, he's just improvising or playing original compositions, but listen long enough, and you may hear wild, guitar-focused spins on other artists' music. Dinosaur Jr., Meat Puppets, Concrete Blonde, Primus, and so on.
In more sedate moments, you'll find him sticking to classic tunes from the 60s and 70s, songs that remind him of his parents. That's when you're more likely to hear him singing along to the music, instead of just focusing on the guitar. The Mamas & The Papas, Dusty Springfield, Nancy Sinatra, Jefferson Airplane, The Beatles... Fleetwood Mac, of course, is often on rotation, because the band's pretty much intertwined with memories of his mother.
Every time he performs Rhiannon, he misses her more.
III. yeah now you've really made it
What the fuck is this thing. See, Jeff may be from the 90s, but he's, like, from smack-dab in the middle of the 90s. The last date he can remember (vaguely, hazily, through the fog of intoxication and possession) is June... 15? 25? Something like that. A couple weeks past his 21st birthday. June Something, 1995.
Furbies wouldn't exist for another three years.
So, when he opens up the nicely-wrapped gift to find, uh... a weird little Gizmo-looking thing, with pastel rainbow fur, he's just... very confused???? Did Friday gift him with a stuffed animal because she could tell he was sad or something? That's nice of her, he guesses, even if he's, like, not a little kid, and doesn't really want or need a stuffed animal or--
"Aaaahhh..."
The mogwai just opened its eyes and cooed at him.
"Oh jesus fuck!" he yelps, dropping the thing in surprise. "Shit! Dude, I'm sorry!" Quickly, Jeff scrambles to pick it up, cradling it in his arms carefully. With a mechanical whirr, the mogwai bats its lashes and coos some gibberish.
"Are you okay?"
IS THIS A ROBOT GREMLIN? Maybe he should ask Max. Or Murderbot. Maybe it comes from one of their worlds.
You can find Jeff, harried single father to a robot gremlin, carrying his new child around the ship, alternating between trying to soothe it and trying to hold a conversation with it. ("Are you hungry? Can you eat? Can I feed you after midnight? What's your name?") It's tough when the robot doesn't speak English, and he doesn't speak... Gremlin.
Somebody please explain furbies to him. This thing doesn't even come with an instruction manual.
IV. when i wake up in my makeup
Once the month moves closer to the wedding date, some new flyers go up around the ship. Totally amateurish, with bold lettering and doodles scribbled in ink, they look more like flyers for a punk show than what they're actually advertising.
As promised, Jeff will be at the atrium lounge during that block of time, usually working on song lyrics or writing some other notes in a Serena Eterna branded notebook, if he isn't doing his own or somebody else's makeup. (Sometimes, he's accompanied by the furby, which he's trying his best to parent, even if he can't understand it.)
Don't let his own aesthetic fool you. Jeff can totally go soft and subtle for folks who want it. Step right up and tell him what you want!
V. wildcard
[ hit me with whatever you want, i'm open to everything. you can reach me at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
weeyotch / weeyotch#8200 to hash out any specifics! ]
What: In which Jeff fails to cope with having been possessed, rocks out all over the ship, acquires a furby, and offers to beat faces.
When: Any time in November
Where: Rischie, the pool, the buffet, the atrium, promenade, deck, and pretty much anywhere else. He's busy.
Warnings: References to possession, character death, violence. One prompt includes brief references to drugs and borderline suicidal ideation.
I. beautiful garbage, beautiful dresses
(cw: borderline suicidal ideation, references to drugs)
He's missing a month.
Don't worry, Jeff knows by now what happened. Or, at least, he got a condensed summary of events from Bash, enough to understand that he was possessed by the ghost of a witchy douchebag, and he knows that the witchy douchebag used his magic to push Crabb down a flight of stairs, to kill Crichton, to try and kill Bash, to attack others, and was generally a huge dick about everything. He's tried to piece together anything else by popping into Photos At Sea, but even with pictures of the ghost piloting his body, he doesn't have any context to really piece anything together.
What's most unnerving is the realization that anything he said or did while in the company of other ghosts is just gone. Time lost forever. There's nobody to account for any of it.
If he stops and thinks about it for too long, he'll probably scream. Definitely cry. Probably throw up. His voice would be raw and racked with sobs. So, in the wake of October, it's time for Jeff to do what he does best: he tells everyone he's fine, and he fills his life with noise and distraction so he doesn't have to face how very not fine he really is.
The first thing he does is change his hair, because that's what you do when everything's fine. It's platinum blonde now, 'cause he feels like channeling Debbie Harry and Courtney Love. He paints his nails bold colors and goes all grunge meets glitter with his makeup, and extra with his clothes. (Thank fuck his entire wardrobe from That Other Place showed up.) Gold, sequin, neon, ripped clothes and DIY fashion, he's going for, like, a total glam queer punk clown aesthetic. After a month of somebody else taking his body, using it like a fucking meat puppet, Jeff's loudly, unapologetically being himself.
In the absence of any coke, he seeks out sugar and caffeine and adrenaline. If he stops, if he sleeps, he might as well slip into nothing. He spends a lot of time dancing at Rischie, whether anybody else is there or not. Whenever he thinks he might be getting tired, he jumps in the pool for a pick-me-up. He gets shitfaced and leans way too far over railings and climbs up to high, solitary places, thinking about falling, and how much of a rush he'd feel, right up until he hit the ground or the water. The only thing that stops him from toppling over is the possibility of the nothingness that might follow.
He doesn't have much of an appetite these days, but Jeff does stop by the buffet a couple times a day, whether it's to flop himself down at somebody's table (anybody's, whether they're a stranger or a friend) for some company, or to just kind of... force himself to eat some fruit or something. Sometimes, he's just hanging out with a plate of garlic bread, stroking its crispy, buttery top, or smelling it, even if he doesn't have enough of an appetite to eat it all. Look, he's just enjoying, like, having senses again.
II. hey so glad you could make it
He doesn't go to Bellona Theater anymore, because that's where he died, and he gets queasy and depressed when he thinks about it, but he does practice guitar with a borderline manic intensity. You can find him performing on the deck, atrium, and promenade, mostly, close to any outlets he can plug his amp into. He seems wholly focused on the music, ripping out guitar solos, going faster, more complex, erratic and experimental, strumming and plucking well past when his fingers start to hurt. Most of the time, he's just improvising or playing original compositions, but listen long enough, and you may hear wild, guitar-focused spins on other artists' music. Dinosaur Jr., Meat Puppets, Concrete Blonde, Primus, and so on.
In more sedate moments, you'll find him sticking to classic tunes from the 60s and 70s, songs that remind him of his parents. That's when you're more likely to hear him singing along to the music, instead of just focusing on the guitar. The Mamas & The Papas, Dusty Springfield, Nancy Sinatra, Jefferson Airplane, The Beatles... Fleetwood Mac, of course, is often on rotation, because the band's pretty much intertwined with memories of his mother.
Every time he performs Rhiannon, he misses her more.
III. yeah now you've really made it
What the fuck is this thing. See, Jeff may be from the 90s, but he's, like, from smack-dab in the middle of the 90s. The last date he can remember (vaguely, hazily, through the fog of intoxication and possession) is June... 15? 25? Something like that. A couple weeks past his 21st birthday. June Something, 1995.
Furbies wouldn't exist for another three years.
So, when he opens up the nicely-wrapped gift to find, uh... a weird little Gizmo-looking thing, with pastel rainbow fur, he's just... very confused???? Did Friday gift him with a stuffed animal because she could tell he was sad or something? That's nice of her, he guesses, even if he's, like, not a little kid, and doesn't really want or need a stuffed animal or--
"Aaaahhh..."
The mogwai just opened its eyes and cooed at him.
"Oh jesus fuck!" he yelps, dropping the thing in surprise. "Shit! Dude, I'm sorry!" Quickly, Jeff scrambles to pick it up, cradling it in his arms carefully. With a mechanical whirr, the mogwai bats its lashes and coos some gibberish.
"Are you okay?"
IS THIS A ROBOT GREMLIN? Maybe he should ask Max. Or Murderbot. Maybe it comes from one of their worlds.
You can find Jeff, harried single father to a robot gremlin, carrying his new child around the ship, alternating between trying to soothe it and trying to hold a conversation with it. ("Are you hungry? Can you eat? Can I feed you after midnight? What's your name?") It's tough when the robot doesn't speak English, and he doesn't speak... Gremlin.
Somebody please explain furbies to him. This thing doesn't even come with an instruction manual.
IV. when i wake up in my makeup
Once the month moves closer to the wedding date, some new flyers go up around the ship. Totally amateurish, with bold lettering and doodles scribbled in ink, they look more like flyers for a punk show than what they're actually advertising.
NEED SOMEONE TO BEAT YOUR FACE?
(WITH MAKEUP!)
SEE ME @ THE ATRIUM LOUNGE
2 PM - 4 PM DAILY
OR TXT FOR AN APPT
this is jeff btw ☺
As promised, Jeff will be at the atrium lounge during that block of time, usually working on song lyrics or writing some other notes in a Serena Eterna branded notebook, if he isn't doing his own or somebody else's makeup. (Sometimes, he's accompanied by the furby, which he's trying his best to parent, even if he can't understand it.)
Don't let his own aesthetic fool you. Jeff can totally go soft and subtle for folks who want it. Step right up and tell him what you want!
V. wildcard
[ hit me with whatever you want, i'm open to everything. you can reach me at