( a few days have passed since waking up here, and no matter how hard she fights against acclimating, a routine starts to take shape regardless. every morning, clarke's up with the announcement, listening intently for any changes (and appropriately alarmed every time the captain takes the mic from friday), then leaving her room and immediately ending up at the aft of the ship. it's like a vigil, leaning against the railing and focused on the horizon — like maybe if she stares hard enough, a landmass will manifest and offer some sort of escape.

sometimes it's the frothy white edges of the serena eterna that catch her attention again. a grim line of thought carved across her brow, white knuckling the safety bars, and one foot on the lowest rung of the railing. the very clear evaluation about the pros & cons of jumping into the water below in some desperate, poorly formed attempt at escape. but again — no land in sight. no other ships. clarke can't even recall seeing the shadow of a bird cross over the bright and beaming sun.

inevitably, she'll have both feet back on the deck.

and sulk. doesn't take very long for caged animals to get cagey themselves. )

( it's an absolutely huge ask to trust the food that just, yanno, randomly passes through walls and floats towards placemats. even now that the plates aren't trying to smack passengers upside the head, clarke still sits so she can see the main wall behind the buffet, and squints at each dish as it arrives. like maybe if she stares hard enough at the wall, she'll catch a glimpse of what's happening behind it, or a doorway.

it's been three days, and she hasn't eaten anything that's not vacuum sealed from the gift shop. she's totally fine and not at all hungry as a well cooked steak waltzes past her head in the dining hall. instead of empty growls, her stomach is still too twisted with anxieties, which eventually drive her to stand from her table and move to the edge of the room. creep along the wall until she's standing right in front of the salad bowls and bread baskets passing through seemingly solid structure. after each new dish, clarke brings up a hand to press on the wall, like she's trying to slip through to the other side.

she even tries to catch a plate halfway through the wall, and push it back, but almost with instincts of it's own, the plate slips out of her reach and carries on its way. frustration mounts, and it's just a matter of time before she's full-body pushing on the wall.

then hitting it with a closed fist and a sense of angry, broiling defeat. ) God dammit.

( ooc: she's going to do this in both the buffet and the fancy dining hall, feel free to wtf at her in either location. )

( alright. look.

one cannot claim they've done full and thorough research about every oddity they've come across on this ship without... taking advantage of the amenities. clarke's never set foot in a casino, but the bright chime of the the machines cashing out has a certain kind of draw. eventually, in a moment between twisting herself in mental pretzels over unanswered questions and trying to find the next thread to pull on, she'll end up in the casino. staring down a slot machine like it might explode, but still reaching for the lever and pulling.

only to be greeted with a screech of victory bells, and an aggressive avalanche of chips shooting out from the dispensing slot below. if what the actual fuck had a picture in the dictionary, it would be clarke's face in this exact moment.

but there's the immediate instinct to try to catch all the chips rocketing out of the machine, and clarke get's a good handful of them before dragging herself back to composure, and letting the rest just fall at her feet. )

( drop a girl on a boat with just the burns and clothes on her back — pull her from a post apocalyptic world where you just made due with what you had, wore 100 year old hand-me-downs, and went hungry — and give her unfettered access to a general store? that's just asking for things to get a little wild. penniless, first clarke tries to smuggle out travel packets of tylenol and dried fruit. but after a quick correction by friday, and learning she can pretty much take whatever she wants so long as she pretends to pay, it's open season.

she makes several trips between all and sundries and cabin 108 that second day aboard. first with an armful of prepackaged snacks, at least three mini first aid kits, soap, and as many bottles of water as she could carry — only dropping a few. yes, this is survivalist hoarding.

secondly, with a blank notebook and a packet of pens. a roll of scotch tape, a survival at sea for dummies style book, sunscreen, and a travel box of dryer sheets — that last item just because she'd never seen them before, and even the box smelled good.

the third time, with snorkel sets, duct tape, a lighter, any item that looks like it might be the slightest bit flammable (nail polish remover, hair spray, isopropyl alcohol, screen cleaners, etc), and pool noodles. nothing to see here, keep walking.

last but not least, one doesn't have to be a fashionista to know that bulky hazmat suits are not meant for everyday wear. she's a sweaty mess by the end of the day, and eventually finds herself at bric a brac, walking out in horrifically floral boat shorts, a long sleeved shirt with serena eterna plastered across the front in elegant writing, and white boat shoes. don't judge her, there were not a lot of options, literally no one is less happy about being here than clarke griffin, but a shirt is a shirt. )

( ah, her prize. the goal she'd settled on from that very first day, from that very first conversation with gal friday. once she's most of the way through investigating the main attractions of the ship, clarke finds herself on the seventh deck, a ways removed from the spa and sports deck, staring down a firmly secured door. this has to be it. behind that sealed door had to be the captain, and by extension the ships wheel, and whatever god forsaken magic or technology had brought them all here.

so clarke camps outside the door her forth day on board the ship. sits huddled outside the door deeply inlaid in the bulkhead, staring intently for a few hours until her eyes begin to ache with exhaustion.

the fifth day, she's back for a few hours in the evening, notebook and pen in hand, and impatient for anything to change so as to make notes about it. nothing happens, clarke ends up doodling plantlife and friday's featureless face in the margins of her notebook before giving up, resolved to try again.

sixth day, she's worked up the nerve to try knocking. beating on the door, more like. and trying in vain to twists the handle on the outside. it doesn't budge, which ultimately leads to be a bit more beating, and aggressive demands. ) Open the door! I just want to ask you a few questions! ( before giving up in a huff, and storming back down to the main areas of the ship with absolutely no care for who she accidentally shoves out of her way. futility breeds ferocity.

on the seventh day, she's maybe losing it a little. lunch time will find clarke griffin standing opposite the door to the bridge, stony faced and holding a handgun at her side. she's staring at the immovable metal barrier like it's done her a personal wrong (it has) and occasionally brushing the safety of her weapon on and off. she knows better. she knows better than to shoot at heavy door in a tiny, enclosed, metal hallway. it won't break through, the bullet would just ricochet and maybe hit her. it'd be loud. there's no declaration of maritime laws posted anywhere she's found so far, but breaking into a locked door seems like it'd absolutely get her in trouble with at least friday.

but all logic aside, the drive for answers is absolutely eating at her. and patience has a limit. )

( chances are, clarke is going to be all over the place. other ideas i had for her were: trying to steal sharp instruments from the infirmary, and trying to sneak past friday to rifle through the guest services desk — both things she'd probably need a partner/lookout for. also feel free to: stop & gawk at her burnt & blistered face, be waylaid and interrupted from your own investigating to be asked what you've learned so far, feel like someone is watching you (because yeah, someone is absolutely trying to size up all passengers), etc. if we had a tdm thread carry over into game canon, it's safe to assume clarke would drop whatever she was doing to say hello to someone she's already met in the name of forming a (rebel group) sense of community. also feel free to pm or hit me up at inb4circlejerk for any plotting or hashing out specifics. or just excited screaming about this game! i default to brackets, but have no problem with prose if that's your pref. )