A Course of Action
Jon kept his mind carefully blank as he went through the motions of getting ready, making sure not to linger at the large intricately carved gold rococo mirror overlooking the sprawling vanity and washbasin. Even going as far as to close his eyes while he scrubbed. The shower, big enough to fit 5 people easily and with ludicrously good water pressure to boot, had its glass doors fogging with steam. Hands reached out and brought the steady stream of hot water to a sputtering stop. Not feeling ready even then, Jon felt around for the glass door eyes shut tight. He didn’t want to look at him again. All the water he’d gargled in the shower while scrubbing up hadn’t quite been enough to rid him of the bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t afford to be sick again.
Jon padded around reaching for one of the super fluffy heated towels, now slightly damp from steam, and dried off. Opting for mouth wash rather than one of the two toothbrushes- the very idea of using a brush that bastard had used even if he was in his body now sickening to him- the modern item looking a little out of place. He didn’t open his eyes until he was back in that godawful room again. His room now, he supposed. The thought stirred his stomach, but Jon didn’t explore it much further than that, instead walking towards the wide walk-in wardrobe at the far-left side of the room. He placed a spare bedsheet over the full-length gold trimmed late baroque style mirror as he passed, eyes averted, a foul smell emanating from somewhere in the room reminding him he still needed to clean up. Later, he told himself. Clothes first, institute second, question reality again third, and clean up last.
There were lots of suits to choose from, of varying styles and colours but Jon didn’t linger, grabbing the first he saw. He dressed quickly, picking a random pair of shoes and a soft pair of white silky socks. He really needed to get to the institute.
Just as he was about to leave the bedroom, Jon noticed a wallet sitting on a dresser along with what must be Elias’ keys. Grabbing them and stuffing them in his pockets he hurried out, idly noting he hadn’t seen a cell phone anywhere.
Jon’s footsteps echoed through the halls as he took turn after turn trying to reach a main room. As he suspected he really was in a small manor or mini mansion. The walls were lined with portraits of people he didn’t recognise in clothes from every kind of period, even some old photographs. Gas lighting fixtures in the shape of lanterns illuminated the halls as there didn’t seem to be any windows here. The silence was oppressive.
Jon could hear his heart beating strong in his chest, could feel it in his head. Every flickering shadow pressing against his already raw nerves making him swear there was something lurking just beyond.
Thankfully, with his next turn he found himself exiting the artificial light of the gas lamps into the more natural morning light as the hall expanded into a room lined with glass pane windows to one side, and a few bay glass windows on the other. It was a large sitting room… perhaps for reading or entertaining guests? Whatever the reason, it lit up the room with morning sun and most importantly, it lifted the weight off is chest. He could breathe again. Faintly, he could hear the twittering of birds from beyond the glass and into the beautifully landscaped grounds beyond.
Jon could see a sprawling driveway leading to a large gate at the end, but it was angled so that he figured he must be on the east side of the building.
He sighed.
In the end it took him nearly 30 minutes to find the entrance, then another 10 to figure out how to drive Elias’ stupid black 1964 Aston Martin DB5 (a fact he only knew about by the fact Eli- Jonah liked to brag about how rare it was at institute holiday parties and he’d sit and listen like a good employee, back when he still actually cared for the man’s opinion) then another 15 trying to figure out how the hell to get the security gate open plus figuring out where he was and the quickest route to the institute from there…
All in all, it was little over two hours since Rosie made the call when he finally arrived at the Magnus Institute. To say he was frustrated was an understatement.
“Someone better be dying,” he muttered, pulling into a parking space marked ‘Reserved for Elias Bouchard.’ Then at once felt guilty. That’s not something he should be joking about. Especially here of all places.
Shaking his head as if he could shake off the thoughts themselves, Jon locked the car doors and hurried into the Institute. Immediately, his eyes caught the clock above the reception area, and he winced remembering the hands of the grandfather clock in the sitting room when he left. Two hours since Rosie’s call. That’s… not good. So much for being quick.
Speaking of Rosie.
…Where was she?
Looking to the reception area he saw someone he didn’t recognise, young, nervous, and looking a bit out of place behind the front desk, like they didn’t know quite what to do with themselves.
Only sparing a glance for the handful or so of people in the waiting room, Jon approached the dark-haired, dark-skinned individual who he assumed was an intern of some kind Rosie had temporarily got to fill in her desk while she saw to whatever was holding her up.
Eye widening upon seeing him, the figure quickly tucked something on Rosie’s desk out of sight and straightened up.
Jon thought it best to get straight to the point.
“Hi, do you have any idea-?”
A shout sounded from nearby, cutting him off, followed by another crash and a string of curses from multiple people. Jon didn’t bother to finish his query just ran straight towards the sound, a “Wait, sir-!” sounding out behind him.
Bursting into a familiar hallway, Jon followed the noise of more shouts and crashes to the Institute Library, accidentally bumping into a woman he didn’t recognise along the way who let out a shout of dismay as her drink spilled all over the front of her sweater.
“AH! Hey, watch it, you-! Wait, Director B-?”
Jon gave a hasty but sincere apology with a wince as he hurried on and finally, burst into the room with the source of the noise with an almost irrational sense of panic and urgency.
Taking in the scene for a moment, breaths coming quick, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected.
…But it definitely was not what he found.
This was surreal. Surely there’s been a mistake, he thought desperately. But as he lumbered towards the companionway, the stairs leading below deck, he knew it wasn’t. No matter how much he wished he were wrong. Frankly, Martin couldn’t quite grasp exactly how this had happened. One minute he was with Jon then, poof! On the Tundra.
Not just that though.
“Captain Lukas?” Martin barely restrained a flinch.
Cool, strong winds whipped (not) his hair around whilst the occasional bit of sea spray brushing his skin had him tasting salt in the air and feeling chilled even through his (Peter’s…) thick dark grey trench coat. He ignored the deck hand’s question and moved below, wooden steps creaking as he did. The ship swayed from side to side in a repetitive motion and Martin found himself moving his centre of gravity with the motion to keep his balance with little thought to it. This wasn’t the first time he’d been here after all.
The wooden wall of the hall leading to crew quarters was a familiar, unwelcome sight. Shoulders tense he moved in the opposite direction towards below the ships bow where the navigation room was situated.
Martin tried not to think about the last time he’d been here. It was difficult. Even more so when he opened the door, eyes raising instinctively to the familiar face that greeted him, stealing his breath away as he froze to the spot.
He really was in Peter Lukas’s body.
He blinked and the man in the glass, distorted as it was, mirrored him. He’d forgotten all about the large sandglass Peter kept here, parallel to the door on the farthest corner of the room. Its surface so spotless it reflected the viewer, though its curve and shape bent the image strangely from different angles and heights. Unnaturally so. Martin had always felt uneasy around the thing, making sure never to touch it even by accident. It was just by chance his eyes locked on the oversized trinket and then Peter himself upon entering. Fists clenching and unclenching, breath leaving in forceful puffs, Martin gave the glass a wary look, feet moving on autopilot onwards into the navigation room.
Therein he hesitated a moment, before steeling himself and turning away, large hand twisting the latch and pulling the door closed.
Not caring much to examine his surroundings much further than that he drew his eye to the lone figure standing at the helm of the navigation rooms map table.
He blinked and swore the crew member shook under his gaze, shoulders hunching as if he’d been sighted by a predator and, feet frozen with fear, was trying to make himself less of a target.
Martin wondered where the other crewmembers supposedly asking after him went. Weren’t there supposed to be more?
“C-Captain Lukas, s-sir?” The man’s stuttering broke him from his musings.
“Ah, yes. Sorry, I was just-. Nevermind.” He shook his head, pushing down the residual feelings (wrong wrong wrongnobadwrongwhy-) he still had about this whole situation and the many questions he wanted to ask so he could focus on what he could do, right here, right now. Despite how desperately he wanted to flip out... God…
Before he lost himself completely to thoughts he’d really didn’t have time to deal with right now, Martin spoke.
“Okay. So, um, what are we working with here?”
The crewman visibly swallowed. “Uh…W-well, sir, the s-ship is running low on supplies so we’ve- “
Martin listened to the man ramble about trade routes, supply costs, and maritime law. Particularly in regard to the route the captain apparently had insisted on last time they needed to make port that ended in them throwing quite a few of the Guardia Civil off the Tundra into the sea, and, quite possibly, Martin suspected, judging by the look on the man’s face, the Lonely.
…Great.
Eventually, he held up a hand. The man’s nervous rambling by that point might as well have been a different language as he’d started on what ship repairs needed doing that they couldn’t do themselves and had listed all kinds of boat terminology and jargon Martin didn’t understand, was getting dizzy just thinking about.
It seemed to occur to the man what he was doing and who he was speaking to because abruptly he snapped his jaw shut, looking horrified.
Martin really wasn’t sure what to do here but simply nothing seemed to be making the sailor increasingly more and more tense, shivers wracking his body.
Martin suddenly noticed how cold the room had gotten.
He spoke, his breath frosting in the cool air.
“…Thank you. F-for bringing this to my attention.”
He glanced at the table, where a small ship figurine sat. Peripherally, he could see the man start to relax a bit now that the larger man’s attention wasn’t directly on him only to tense up again when he turned to ask a question.
“Can you please set a course to…” Maybe if he smiled at the guy, he’d chill out a bit? “…To wherever we need to go to get supplies.” Nope, looks even more terrified scrap that. He continued awkwardly. “All that other stuff too.” A thought occurred to him, turning his once strained attempt at a smile into a full-on grimace.
Martin started to sweat, finally realising the difficulty of the task he had ahead of him. This was… And, well. Also, because…
I mean, come on, he thought.
…Really, Peter? He pursed his lips.
“Preferably one avoiding the Spanish Coast Guard.”
He didn’t even know where they were. His brief look at the map had only served to remind him once again, much like his 8th grade social studies teacher had liked to, that he’d completely and utterly failed geography.
He turned to the door, his sudden movement unintentionally making his coat flare dramatically to the side, a strange fog swirling around his feet. The weight of his captain’s hat tilting forward and shadowing his eyes from his startled companion as he thought about what to do next.
The gravel of his- no, Peter’s- his- their- his voice, still made him uncomfortable. Feeling it rumble out of his own mouth was even more disquieting.
“Supplies first. But then.”
Martin swallowed. Rested his hand on the door.
“Then we make for London.”
“Y-yes, sir-.” The door pulled shut.
It occurred to him then, leaving the crewman behind to (hopefully) make preparations for the journey ahead and making his way to Peter’s personal quarters, that right now he was captain of this ship.
A ship he has no idea how to sail.
With an entire crew at his disposal, yes, but a crew whom he was responsible for, and looking to him for direction.
Direction he wasn't even remotely qualified to give.
They were also, apparently, as the diary he found hidden in a fake bottom in the drawer of Peter’s writing desk stated, actually wanted by multiple coast guards.
Martin put his head in his hands.
God… he was so fucked.