come_sailaway | APRIL EVENT PART 2: GUABANCEX

[it's around midnight, at the very start of the 13th, that the first wave rocks the ship.

winds howl against the windows, pushing the integrity of the glass. near-constant lightning lights up the sky like day, even with the punishing fall of rain, coming down in sheets of unnaturally icy water. it's not the only thing falling from the sky, though: shapes that anyone who has seen them can recognize as pretty much every piece of furniture on decks six and seven, tossed into the sea by the wrath of the storm. apparently. kinda. it's complicated.

should, for some reason, a person's first instinct during crisis be to check in on what Friday is up to, she is not at her usual spot at guest services at all. she is, in fact, on the sports deck, where she has been since she first scented the sharp ozone of Jenny's always inevitable shedding of her mortal form. she's clutching to a railing as a particularly strong (and almost targeted) gust of wind nearly throws her off the deck. she's shouting, probably, but it can't be heard over the storm.

Jenny is about still recognizable as herself, though being about 15 feet taller than normal is a little off-putting at first. expansive waves of her hands bring lightning from the sky and water from the ocean, both of which she uses to bombard the door to the bridge, which, as per usual, stays stubbornly closed. at least she only really seems mad at--]

Release them, liar! Cheat! I'll bring this whole realm down with me! I should have killed us all years ago!

[haha no this is very much a "you" problem. so. should probably. get. on that.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( speak of the other sea-salt flavored devil, and she will appear. slip-sliding across the slick deck in traction-less boat shoes, but determined to keep moving no matter what gravity and the crushing force of water had to say about it. they'll probably collide somewhere near the base of the exterior stairs that lead up — to the the sports deck, to the bridge, to the first set of stairs they'd run into each other on. and just like before, flynn's spilling competence and concern. but that order is one clarke takes issue with, even with drenched hair smearing into her eyes, and another cold gust of wind cutting through her shirt. )

Where —

( the high whistle of an incoming projectile is just audible over the gust of the storm, and clarke's got just enough time to flinch before the deck chair shatters against the nearby wall. it's loud, it's scary — but not enough to dissuade her response to flynn's hastily dictated battle plan. if he tries to brush on away from her before she can speak, best believe some bruised knuckles will find purchase in his shirt for the scant few moments it takes her to shout — )

Where are you going?

Up there!

[ Flynn has precisely enough respect for Clarke not to brush her off, usually, but he's alive with urgency and fear and certainty, and so he tries, ends up dragged close with a startled sound, scrabbles at her arms for purchase when the ship jerks violently.

He meets Clarke's eyes, or what he can see of them under the wild tangle of her hair and his own, drenched and clinging to his skin, and begs for her understand. She leapt off the side for a chance to fix things, and Flynn understands that choice more now. ]

She's going to tear this ship apart and we can't come back to life if there's no ship to come back to!

( she doesn't mean to keep him long here, tethered by cold fingers ripping at wet cotton. it isn't something that needs to be explicitly spelled out, how dire this situation is. begging isn't necessary. speaking isn't all that necessary either, but clarke had wanted to know for sure.

yeah, she gets it.

and will all at once lets go of his shirt. one palm flying to his shoulder and pushing, silently urging up there, go! — but with the added bonus that she's now virtually glued to his heels. an uninvited guest, but flynn's tried to talk her down once before, and hopefully knows by now the argument would be a waste of time. if a door is barred by debris, or if the opportunity to distract jenny from her tirade crops up, two sets of hands might be better than one.

will both of them even reach the top? could either do anything to help? were they stumble-running towards death, or did that chance to fix this actually exist somewhere along the sports deck, buffeted by the winds and scorched by lightning strikes? )

[ It's a mad dash, in the end.

The ship is heaving, wave-tossed despite its bulk, sending Flynn stumbling into the wall of the stairwell as water rushes cold and sharp up to nip at their heels. He half-pulls Clarke with him, glad for the company, glad to not be facing this alone, particularly because the door is barred, held shut by gravity and the remains of a sports net, and this time Flynn doesn't hesitate. He grits his teeth, shakes the handle at the top of the stairs, and then rams his unarmored shoulder into the side of it. It doesn't budge, and he lets out a shapr yell. ]

No! This is our chance—

( running, just general physical exertion, is supposed to trigger an output of adrenaline that offers the emotional bump of feeling damn near untouchable; invulnerable, unstoppable. but running for your life, with the weight of other lives slung around your shoulders like a weight doesn't offer that same relief. clarke's world hones in, all her focus on sticking her feet with every pace and not falling — not failing. but she's distinctly aware that every potential fall, every misstep, any mistakes, or obstacles could very easily result in lives lost. there's no peace in this attempt, only panic.

and then they come to the last door between them and the sports deck, only for it to be blocked. flynn throws himself bodily into the reinforced steel, and clarke's right at his side with her shoulder wedges tight and leg muscles straining. teeth grinding, blood rushing in her ears, and dread welling in her stomach. but the door doesn't move. doesn't feel locked, but barely gives within its frame so they're still resoundingly stuck.

a brief aside, a scant few seconds of planning and the most consideration their quest will get — )

Break it down!

( equal parts question and demand; no time to mince words here, or ask nicely. if he could blow it and any barricade off its hinges, later they can draw parallels to their first meeting. and if not, it was time to buckle the fuck down and push. )

[ Break it down, she shouts, and it sends determination rushing like cold saltwater through Flynn's blood. He slams his shoulder into it again (later it will bruise, and he'll wear the evidence of their desperation in black and blue all along his shoulder and his ribs) and it doesn't budge.

He has no sword, no focus, but he has Yuri's blastia wrapped around his wrist, still warm from Yuri's skin. That will have to be enough. Flynn tries again stumbles back and grits his teeth, and summons up every bit of focus he has. ]

On my mark, hit it with everything you have.

[ No sword, but there's a bit of railing a few steps down. Flynn grabs for it, stumbling on unsteady feet, and whirls with it braced in his hands like a staff, staring the door down. Magic flares bright and white under his feet, forming a circle full of words in a language only he and Yuri and Rita understand. ]

Light of the heavens, pierce my foes!

[ Thunder claps, and Flynn's ears ring and he shouts the last two words of the spell anyway— ]

Holy Lance! Now!

[ Lighting flashes, and Flynn's spell flashes along with it, searing through the air and slamming into the door. There's nothing here, no rock or metal to pierce through, but Flynn's hope is that it will shake it off its hinges enough that Clarke can ram it open. ]

APRIL EVENT PART 2: GUABANCEX

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crawls from the bowels of the earth