skaikru | inbox @ comesailaway

( it simultaneously nothing and, yeah, everything. the cannibalism outside of a realm of apocalyptic starvation came a little out of left field, but she is friends with mizuki who has routinely offered to eat "evil people" for her since april so. desensitization is in full effect.

a fraction of the tension visibly leaves clarke's body with the first three clipped sentences. eyepatch is still a reference she doesn't entirely get, but the thick and sticky coat of blood smeared around the left side of her face doesn't make it hard to imagine. the how is just still up in the air, when her last memory is spitting vehemence in the vacant face of a friend while holding his hand. )

That wasn't Sharky. I know you know that. And half of them were magic users, if you'd been there and given them a fight, you'd be dead.

I know. But Pickles told me. Texted me. Around midnight. That they were going to kill everyone. If they kill people then they can take their bodies for other people from their ship.

[He gives an extremely unhinged smile, not at her, but at the ground nearby since he doesn't seem to be able to maintain eyecontact for long. Nor make sentences over a few words right now.]

He wanted to turn me into Jason Voorhees.

It wouldn't matter. Can't feel pain like that. I'd just keep coming at them even if they shot a fireball through my chest.

Shoulda done something. I was waiting for him to come to me. He didn't. But I shoulda been there. And I thought that I could help. Thought it would help.

( none of this information is entirely new, but she hasn't filtered through her own final moments up on the pool deck enough to completely align facts. natsuno's face had been swimming in her field of vision when he'd held her cold, barely grasping hand and talked about his friends. "you're not dying for nothing" and "let's hope whoever gets your body will make good use of it". of course it'd been planned, and subsequently executed quite well if her last memories were any indication.

her face hadn't been caked in blood and she hadn't needed an eyepatch when she died...

the level of violated disgust that washes through her in this moment is visceral, comes out as a full body shiver, but is going to have to be dealt with later. folded up neatly and shoved somewhere between her ribs, because pratt has called dibs on emotionally spiraling and he's her main focus right now. )

Hey —

( she's still workshopping some sort of inspirational or comforting spiel in her head, something she can say in the face of all of this that would assuage guilt or help his state of mind in one way or the other. but first to see if, when clarke reaches out to grasp his upper arm and then rub it like one attempts to rub painful tingles of numbness out of a limb that's fallen asleep, he'll let her. )

[He lets her, which probably says more about his mental state than anything he could ever put into words.]

When I got there Pickles was already dead, and just seeing him like that.. knowing that someone had to kill him. Had to kill Sharky and that it should have been me... it should have been my burden. I don't even remember how many others were dead by then, but there were already so many corpses.

I hope everyone who was killed wasn't... possessed. I don't want to think they were that close to winning. That we almost lost the whole ship. Everyone on it.

And what if some of them got away. We'll never know will we. This will always be something to worry about. That at any time....

[This is where if he had any emotions left he'd start crying, but he doesn't, so he just makes a deflated noise and drops his head into his hands.]

I'm sorry. I should have... I don't even know. But whatever it is I should have done it.

( it'd be lovely to have not just been through the ringer herself; to feel a little more composed, or at least have a more practical grasp on spirit magic and be able to offer him more solid, confident assurances that this wouldn't be allowed to happen again — that she believed lightning like this couldn't strike twice. but she was, she isn't, and she doesn't.

clarke is trying her best not to flounder, but there is a pause on her end. a long one, only bookended by a swish of cheap synthetic skirt caked with drying blood and the grating sound of four legs when she reaches to pull a chair right up beside him. )

Pratt, please shut up and look at me.

( the hand rubbing his arm trails down to his wrist and gives a tug, trying to unearth his face from his palms. acquiescence or not, she continues with a quick, guttural speech. )

You absolutely should not have been the one to kill him, okay? It shouldn't have ever been you, and it's good that it wasn't. That's a burden literally only you are putting on yourself, and you're being so goddamn unfair about it. ( recognizing that pratt is more likely not to take into account the damage that would do to his own psyche, there's a very swift follow-up of: ) Can you imagine how Sharky would feel if he came back and heard it'd had to be you? He loves you, there's no way in hell he'd want that for you, he'd be devastated.

[He does look over at her, desperate for literally anything to give this meaning. So lost in his own recycled thought processes he can't see anything else, or break himself out of these patterns. If she didn't come along he'd probably sit here staring at the table until he literally starved to death, missing the texts from Sharky and not reacting to anything around him.]

I..... but....

[There's definitely a protest there. A well thought out one with multiple points about how it absolutely should be him because he's supposed to be the strong one. He's supposed to be an emotionless killer and the second in command of a whole goddamn army and he'd killed so many people back home. Enough that he'd lost count. With no friends or family whatsoever.

But that isn't here. A completely different reality where he has a body count of exactly zero, and quite a few friends. A swapping of fortunes that he apparently hasn't actually acknowledged.]

You don't understand how much of a fuckup I am. I literally can't do anything right other than fucking killing people and apparently I can't even do that.

[You're being so goddamn unfair about it. He is, and he knows it. On some deep level he does know that all of this isn't his fault, that back home the Collapse wasn't because of him, the helicopter crash wasn't his fault, none of it was.

Okay the Jeep crash was a little his fault. Like maybe seventy percent his fault.]

I know I'm being stupid but I can't help it. And he... yeah. He'd be furious with me if I made myself do that. Not cuz I killed him, but I'd be a fucking wreck about it. He'd end up consoling me when he's the one who died.

[He rubs his eyes.]

I'm sorry tho. For freaking you out.

Don't be. This is literally what I asked for.

( sort of. kind of. she'd more accurately threatened to repeatedly murder him in his bed if he ever tried to kill someone in a fit of delusion again. but the other half of that ultimatum that feels like it was issued ages ago had been some self sacrificial martyr just kill me bullshit, and actively seeking her out for help (after the fact help had been the intention, but still) when the manic urge to eat someone raised it's ugly head... that feels like a start.

anyway, pratt better be rubbing his eyes with one hand, because clarke's keeping his wrist encircled in her fingers and trying to drag his arm down onto the tabletop palm-up. there, she'll slot both her hands over his pulse point and apply gentle pressure. it's an attempt at a grounding point, but she's not a professional at this and is mostly going off instinct. )

You're not that much of a fuckup. You're really good at catching lizards, you can fly a helicopter, you saved peoples fingers and their lives doing that. You're exceptionally forgiving, at least towards everyone but yourself. And you're a really, really good friend, Pratt — just in this instance, you were going about it the wrong way.

[She can have that hand, he lets her hold onto it, watching as she grasps his wrist. He'd rather look at that then at a person, his eyes seeming to look through the tabletop, and then snapping back to her fingers, trying his best to stay in the moment and not fade out.]

Alright, okay that's... [He's trying to think up a protest but he really can't argue with his helicopter skills or the fact he'd caught multiple lizards without losing a single tail. Damn her for picking things he can't fight against.]

I gotta believe people can be better. You know, there's always gotta be hope - or I might as well give up on myself completely. Cuz I've done, I've done some horrible shit Clarke. And I don't expect people to forgive me, and I don't deserve it anyway, but like... other people should have that chance. Second and third and fourth chances. People are monsters but they have the potential to be so much more.

[Everyone else can get as many chances as they need, but not Pratt. He is beyond redemption and nothing he does can absolve him of anything. This is completely logical in his mind.]

I didn't know what to do. I still don't. How do we... just, move on from this shit? How do we make it okay?

( the meta out here just reminding how unhealthily similar these two are with their regard for who's deserving of forgiveness and who isn't... some day, clarke's going to listen to pratt talk about how many people he's killed and how many awful things he's done, offer up her near 1,000 kill count number and well and truly grill him about what might make her worthy of a second chance but not him.

today just isn't that day. today is the hangover period after the worlds worst party. today is the fight against dissolving into nothingness within their own heads, still alive but broken and unfeeling. right now isn't for a murderous dick measuring contest, or for greedily leaning into physical contact (she does the latter anyway, all too aware and abhorrently selfish for the comfort it brings her to feel his pulse in the juncture of his wrist). it's for vague assurances that clarke doesn't really think will help in the immediate aftermath, but still bear being said aloud. )

...I don't think it'll ever be okay.

( nor does she really believe any of them can move past this — all of this, any of this. )

We can't make it be okay. But we can take a breath. And then another. And then another. And hopefully somewhere down the line, our lungs will stop burning when we do.

[When that day comes Clarke is going to find out that this bad boy can fit so much compartmentalized rationalization in him it's unbelievable.]

Just keep going one day to the next huh?

[He wishes there was more, some sort of actual hope that things WOULD be better somehow. That there was an easy step by step guide to recovering from the kind of trauma no one is ever expected to experience. But there isn't, and he knows that. He won't ask Clarke to take on the burden of lying to him as well.]

We just keep going because the other option is giving up. Story of my fucking life. Probably everyone here too.

Thanks. You're good at this you know?

( ...s...laps the roof of this fully grown man...

she presses a little harder on his wrist, meant to be a comforting sort of reassurance — validation and agreement, because yes, that exactly — but mostly just comes off as crushing insistence. )

That's it. That's a big part of the human condition, and you're only human, Pratt.

( then she lets up. one palm is still draped across his wrist, but the other hand peels itself away to rub at her gore streaked eye. blood has dried in her eyelashes, and flaked into sclera with each blink. )

And anytime. I'm one for two — ( it'd been a poor and ultimately failed attempt, but she had tried for a moment. to appease his insanity when out on the deck, before they'd come to bloodshed and blows. ) — but I'm learning.

[He's so unused to being touched when it's not followed by being punched or stabbed that even crushing his wrist feels pretty reassuring right now. Like some sort of human connection he clearly doesn't have enough of.]

Yeah. And sometimes being human.. kinda sucks. We're fucking resilient but, man, it blows just trudging through life from one trauma to the next. Makes it hard to appreciate the not-shitty parts.

Though ... the island was pretty rad. Even if I did have the absolute worst fucking hangover of my entire life. I stopped counting at thirteen drinks and that was a mistake.

[He runs his free hand over his face, scratching at his patchy beard along his jaw.]

Glad I didn't do ... what I was gonna cuz we'd be at zero for two right now. And I'd have a lot of apologies to make. Not even sure how to word: sorry I killed you because you were possessed.

I was planning on just bringing Sharky like ridiculous amounts of alcohol and snacks and figuring out how to make him a flamethrower.

[Words suck. Gifts are good.]

( hmmmmmmmmmmm...

after a beat, clarke offers: ) "Sorry my exorcism attempt got a bit enthusiastic"?

( it's too flatly delivered to be a real joke, but after this month what isn't a joke? what actually constitutes as humor when living through a veritable nightmare? she doesn't know, she's just vibing along miserably.

another beat of silence, the sound of ghosts rattling dishes into neat piles and slotting trays of warm food into the buffet line past them filling the space. then: )

All those are nice gestures, but I'm sure he'd just be happy to see you.

( words suck. gifts are okay. presence is what really matters. )

The guy from the Exorcism wasn't available and you got stuck with me and I didn't even have a cross or holy water.

[His tone isn't exactly joking either, but he's trying.]

Yeah maybe. Hope so. Either way, so long as he's okay - that's all that matters. As soon as he wakes up, I gotta be somewhat you know... stable, in case it fucking sucks.

I should probably go check.

[Since Clarke is awake, that means Sharky should be soon too.]

( well, fake jokes are a sign of improvement right? if still not particularly funny.

and that's a decent plan. clarke doesn't know how many of her friends have died, or if they still despise her, or if they're looking for her. she hopes palamedes is okay, and natsuno came back from possession as seemingly seamlessly as she had...

but before she lets him go on his way, it feels pertinent to ask: )

You feeling stable, then? ( er... ) Stable enough?

Five by five.

[He rubs his eyes and manages to actually stand up. For as messed up as Pratt looks he's able to stand without swaying, to power through any amount of exhaustion until he actually drops. But fortunately, he's not at that point yet.]

Yeah, I'll be good. And once we all find out our people are good? I think we all deserve to sleep for a fucking week. And get room service delivered direct to us so we can eat and go back to bed.

( hmmmmmmm....

okay, she'll decidedly take him at his word. watches him stand and mirrors the gesture because, he's right, nothing about the prior evening is going to be made right until she can gather all her people in close proximity and effectively do a head-and-soul count. she needs to find natsuno and make sure he came back alright, she wants to check on tear, she'd left palamedes asleep in his cabin the night before and owed him an apology. not to mention jade, rita, mizuki...

clarke's not outright swaying either, but she's favoring her left leg out of habit — not fully realizing that beneath the dirty bandages, her right calf is still skinned and healing from week-old nasty burns. )

For all the amenities here, I don't see that ever being one. But wouldn't it be nice...

( this is small talk, thinly veiling a goodbye. she'll continue worrying about pratt until she sees or speaks to him again; she'll be right back to dissociating through a nothingness hangover the second they disengage. but he really should go. )

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