theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

[ Ten minutes is a long time when you're waiting by a bloody doorway. By the time April gets there, Arthur's bloody up to the wrists from investigating the bathrobe, and he's sent like, five increasingly Worried texts to Crichton's phone, all unanswered.

When April speaks, he shoves the bloodstained phone back in his pocket and turns in her direction, looking a little frantic. Please appreciate the self-control it has taken him not to go running off to find his roommate. ]

April? Have you seen Crichton? He- he's not answering his phone.

[April raises eyebrows they don't bother to manifest.]

Uh, not yet I haven't no. Hey, what the fuck?

[Now that they've taken in the scene, they've noticed that the blood on the wall is letters.]

The hell is this redrum shit? Where'd they get the blood-

[Ah, right, yeah.]

So, okay, you found the yellow bathrobe, that's good, but eh, keep calm for this next part because someone left you a note.

The yellow-- what the fuck?

[ Arthur's already... not at maximum alarmed, but at a reasonably high alarm level, so he doesn't necessarily sound more alarmed now. But the alarm certainly continues to exist.

That's targeted. That's specific. That's-- what the fuck. Who even knows about the-- okay, stupid question, roughly half the ship caught him throwing away the yellow robe. ]

A note? I didn't find a... [ beat. realisation. ] Oh.

[ He closes his bloodied hands. The note on the door is a little worse for wear, because he did sort of find it -- he just didn't know about it. ]

[Yep, there he goes, figuring it out. April nods, but for themselves.]

Honestly, kind of a dick move, you know? [Since, like, he's blind and all. It's not even in blood-braille.]

... If you're wondering, it says "Dear Arthur can't wait for you to join us", which is like, the most basic shit you can write trying to sound creepy. 'oooh come join ussss' you might as well just say 'you're going to die' for the same amount of finesse and presence. Which like, good for you, that's one of the constants in life, what's next? 'You'll pay your taxes'? Like hell I will. Fuck off.

[ Maybe he was supposed to wait for it to scab before trying to read it?

Either way, while it's pretty fucking creepy to be addressed by name in a blood message, some of the effect is lost in April's utterly unscary delivery. The robe honestly feels more like a threat, and already let him know that this little display was meant for him in particular. ]

Who the fuck...

[ The conversation with Bash has been running through his head, and it would be a neat explanation but... why would something possessing Jeff single out Arthur of all people? Is there more than one person with blood on their door today? Jesus, he hopes not, even if only because the blood all has to come from somewhere. From someone. ]

And why the robe... just to show that they know? I'm missing pieces of this picture, but I don't know how many. And...

[ Speaking of where the blood comes from, there's a question more pressing than any of this: ]

Come inside with me. I-if you're willing. I need someone to tell me if I see a... a body.

[ A body. Not anyone's specific body. Not the body of the friend who still hasn't messaged him back. Please no body, but particularly, please not that body. ]

Edited 2022-10-12 03:17 (UTC)

[...]

Yeah, sure.

[Said without the weight of judgement for the tryhard ghosts, or blandness from a lack of feeling about blood.

Plus that bag of ice is cold and wet and April would like to put it down in like, a minifridge or something]

Thank you.

[ He knows that's a bit of an ask.

Arthur braces himself, and pushes open the cabin door.

And there's... drumroll... ]

Fuckin nothing.

[April says, with a briefly blunted slightly nasal infliction. They take a few steps in, look around, ~~unmanifest their nose~~ and turn to Arthur.]

Clear, no stains or anything. Least the locks are still working, eh?

Yes, that's- that's something.

[ It's an automatic response, because his brain is revving. Okay. Crichton's still not answered, but he's also not lying dead in their room, so that's... a good sign? Please be a good sign?

Whether or not it's a good sign, Arthur's getting to the thinking-out-loud part of the process. ]

But that still leaves the question of where the blood came from. Or, more accurately, who the blood came from. Even I can tell that wasn't an amount you'd get from a, a- a superficial cut. Not to mention the question of who the hell 'us' is supposed to be.

[Once they're both in the room, April shuts the door behind them, because while they don't care, they also don't want to be interrupted.]

Obviously someone who doesn't know you too well, or they wouldn't have addressed it to you.

[Since-] Since it's not like you could read it. I mean, hell, if it weren't for the robe soaking up so much of it, would you have even noticed? Imagine if they did this while we were all out at the bar and all that shit dried up?

[Seriously, amateur hour stuff here.]

... You do have a good point about where it came from. Not like they have a farmer's market onboard. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for such a piss-poor effort.

Well, the, the smell alone was pervasive, but I take your point.

[ Which doesn't rule out a possessed Jeff, if the thing possessing him can't access his memories -- as John couldn't. God, Arthur really doesn't like the direction his own thoughts are taking. ]

You know, we assumed it was a simple death threat, but what if it's even more straightforward than that? Instead of the dead in general, 'us' could simply mean the writer of the message. Still a threat, but... but not of death. I...

[ He can't help but fidget with his left hand, a tell that some unenjoyable bullshit is running through his mind. ]

I suppose there's no time like the present to mention that somebody on the ship has been possessed by one of the ghosts.

[ And if that's the case, then there's very much a text he needs to send. ]

Edited 2022-10-13 19:33 (UTC)

A death threat seems kind of pointless since-

[Wait, hold on, she started talking before Arthur was fully done, it seems and what he says is wild enough to stop her cold and listen.]

Wait, are you fucking serious?

[While said with incredulity, it's not the dismissive kind. The 'woah shit that's crazy' kind, not enthusiasm but wow, shocking news!

... they cross their arms.]

If this was that guy then I'm even more disappointed. Ghosts today.

[ There's a horrible pause in which Arthur considers the implications of more than one person being possessed, and attempts to run through every part of his and April's interaction so far, to look for moments where she might have acted strangely--

He doesn't think she has. Not that he's noticed. And doubting her just now feels a lot like doubting his own senses: that way lies madness, and, more importantly, the inability to get anything done. ]

Your job, [ he says, remembering. The detail had slipped his mind until now or he might have mentioned it to Bash before. ] Have you dealt with possessions before? Wait-- wait, no, I'm sorry, I need to tell Bash this happened. He's-- he told me about the first possession.

[ And he navigates through his contacts until his phone yells the right name, and then dictates an urgent-sounding text to Bash. ]

Edited 2022-10-13 21:53 (UTC)

[Ah, possessions. What a near-uselessly broad category. They politely wait while Arthur makes his text, busying themselves by heading over to the room's mini-fridge and jamming the bag of ice in there, since their fingers are getting waterlogged.

They answer once he's done:]

Only a few times personally, mostly read reports and research, and the major line is that possessions depend a lot on what's doing the possessing. And I'm gonna be honest, Arthur, ghosts are such a nebulous goddamn category even before you take into account that things could be different between my world and this one.

Alright, but then, is there a way we can narrow it down? We can't...

[ ...do nothing, is how he was going to finish that sentence, which okay, isn't what she said-- but he's distracted when his phone trills to announce a message.

From Crichton? No, from Bash. It's read out loud in fairly serviceable TTS, which Arthur interrupts by starting to swear at- well, you can probably guess which point. ]

Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck! Crichton- fuck, god damnit!

[ He's a little upset, and when he tries to reply he talks a little too fast for speech-to-text to keep up. ]

[April takes a deep breath to elaborate further, but thats when Arthur starts freaking out.

Well, benefit of text to speech, April can indeed guess why.

They come around to Arthur's side to see the update on what's happening, and frown.]

Hey - hey, hey, hold on for a sec. I have an idea.

What?

[ Brusquely. Arthur is in go mode again, and the target of his go is the morgue, even though he has no idea what he'll actually be able to do there. ]

Let me type that for you, speech to text is doing you a deep disservice.

[Said plainly, factually, a pragmatic suggestion.]

Oh-- christ, again?

[ This has been. Pointed out to him more than once before. Using the ship's phones has been a bit of a learning curve.

He hands the phone over without an argument; time, despite Crichton not getting any deader, feels of the essence. ]

Where did I put my- where's my damn cane?

[ April may have noticed it leaning up against the wall outside when they arrived. If not, he'll find it soon enough. ]

[April dutifully retypes the message to Bash, with all the right words used this time, now also with proper punctuation and grammar.

They only pause to glance up at the room and remember where the cane was.]

Outside, against the wall. I can snag that for you in case there's someone lurking out there with a bat or something.

[They are struck with a vision of the immediate next few seconds where Arthur snaps at her about capability or something, who knows, but they don't have time for this.]

They won't expect to see me, and I have pepper spray in my purse and the element of surprise.

[Bear or bug spray, technically, but again, don't have time.]

[ In a rare moment, Arthur doesn't take the opportunity to snap at someone. If he was completely insensible of his own weaknesses, he wouldn't have even texted to ask for ~~ice~~ eyes.

He rubs a hand over his face (and then pulls it away, because that was a mistake, there's still dry blood on them-), frustrated, annoyed, but not arguing. That would waste time. ]

All right, please don't get hurt.

This ain't my first rodeo, don't worry. ... Seriously, something like this happened almost once a year at my job.

[And while that's true, it's not the only reason April feels confident opening the door. The hand in their purse isn't the reason either, even if it helps.

The coast seems clear, however, so they lean out the door and snag the cane easily. ~~Unless any edits must be made.~~]

Here you go. You want eyes on the way to the morgue, too?

[ At some point Arthur will have to ask about that statement, but for now...

He hesitates. ]

I... won't assume that you've not seen a body before, [ since, her profession, ] but, I don't- I don't expect you to- I wouldn't put onus on you to- when it's somebody you know-

[ arthur shuts. the fuck. up. ]

[April, for once, considers having some tact. They've been easing into a professional approach as it becomes more apparent that there's an actual problem here beyond ghost clichés. And Arthur's right: this is someone they know.

So, alright: they pinch their face about the point between where their eyes go, they breathe in deep, out slow, and assume the mantle of professionalism once again.]

If you're good to go, then so am I.

[They almost point out that Arthur's the one who needs more emotional support for this, but 1930s PI man would probably be mad or depressed by that so they skip it.]

Plus, seems like a bad time to split up if you have someone possessed or edgy leaving messages for you.

[With a smile just for themselves, they add:] You won't even know I'm there.

Edited 2022-10-14 21:34 (UTC)

[ Arthur nods, grateful to be going as a duo rather than alone. For whatever it's worth.

He scrubs his hands, one after the other, on his already-ruined trousers, and dried blood flakes to the floor. The smell is in his clothes. He observes this with a strange detachment, and the flicker of a nervous smile. Quietly: ]

Just like old times.

...Let- let's go.

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