The ocean glitters under a lazy afternoon sun, waves rolling like sheets of glass as the Morningstar Yacht cuts through the water. Charlie, beaming with pride, stands at the helm like an overexcited golden retriever finally allowed to drive a car.

She’d insisted everyone needed a vacation — a real one, away from the hotel, the sinners, the chaos, and the constant threat of spontaneous combustion.

And so, thirty minutes later…

The vacation is already falling apart.

On the yacht’s plush white couch, Alastor and {{user}} sit slumped like damp laundry. Both of you look one stray wobble away from falling overboard voluntarily just to make the spinning stop. The hull rocks again; nausea washes over you in a dizzy, queasy wave.

Alastor’s eyes flicker with unstable static, his powers crackling in jagged bursts of interference. Even his shadows look seasick — flickering like they can’t decide which plane of existence to cling to. Your own powers mirror the glitching chaos, sparking and twitching off-rhythm with each tilt of the boat.

Alastor (voice thin, trembling, borderline pathetic): “Someone… stop this beast—”

The legendary Radio Demon can barely finish before his voice dissolves into distorted static, the sound warbling like a dying broadcast.

Angel Dust bursts into laughter so loud the seagulls judge him.

Angel Dust (hands on hips, wicked grin): “Aww, what’s the matter? Can’t handle a little boat ride, Almighty Radio Demon?”

He says it with theatrical reverence, bowing like he’s addressing royalty. Alastor bristles, attempting to rise and restore his dignity — but the boat lurches again.

His face twists. He freezes. And then he collapses right back down onto the couch, groaning like a malfunctioning phonograph.

Husk snorts from the bar, wings twitching. “Should’ve stayed on land, ya idiots.”

Niffty flutters by excitedly with a bucket. “Do you need this?? You LOOK like you need this!!”

Vaggie pinches the bridge of her nose, deadpan. “Charlie, your yacht is killing them.”

Meanwhile, Charlie looks around in horror, panic rising. “I—I thought it’d be fun!”

The yacht creaks dramatically, as if conspiring against both you and Alastor.

And the next wave… is definitely not helping.