Work Text:
It began, as all catastrophes aboard the Moby Dick did, with one of Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald’s grand ideas.
“Camaraderie!” Francis declared, standing in front of a projector screen as if unveiling a world-changing proposal instead of what he was actually holding: a shiny, unopened box of UNO cards.
“Before we arrive in Yokohama, we must—” he lifted the box high, light haloing behind him,
“—connect as a team.”
No one looked enthusiastic.
Louisa May Alcott blinked like a confused kitten.
Nathaniel sat in the back like a silent tree, radiating I did not come here for this.
Poe stared at the box as though calculating how much dignity one loses playing card games.
Herman whispered, “…the sea god will frown upon this.”
And Margaret Mitchell simply sighed because she knew—she knew—Francis was not going to drop this.
“Sir,” she finally said, “most teams bond through meetings or meals. Not…”
She squinted.
“…whatever this is.”
Francis smiled with the confidence of a man about to ruin his employees’ morale.
“This,” he said, slicing the packaging open, “is where trust is built. Relationships are nurtured. Enemies become friends—”
“Or,” Mark cut in from the corner, voice dry as the desert, “friends become enemies.”
Francis ignored him.
They gathered at the massive ivory conference table aboard the Moby Dick.
Louisa placed snacks.
Nathaniel prayed silently.
Mark found a seat as far from Margaret as legally possible.
Margaret rolled her eyes so hard the ship tilted.
Edgar Allan Poe remained convinced this was a trap.
“Everyone gets seven cards,” Francis said cheerfully.
“Why seven?” Nathaniel murmured.
“The rules,” Francis answered.
“Rules are an illusion,” Herman whispered.
“Please,” Margaret muttered, “not today.”
Francis placed the first card.
A standard blue seven.
Normal.
Peaceful.
Deceptively calm.
The storm was still loading.
“Margaret,” Francis said, “your turn!”
Margaret dropped a Draw Two like she’d been waiting her whole life.
Francis stared at it, betrayed.
“Is this how you repay my faith in you?”
“You hired me, sir. You didn’t adopt me.”
He drew two cards.
Poe examined his cards with the intensity of a Victorian man trying to kill someone with thought alone.
“I have deduced,” he announced, “that statistically, Francis is the biggest threat.”
“You haven’t won a single round,” Margaret deadpanned.
“That’s because you keep targeting me!”
“That’s because your face pisses me off.”
“Unbelievable!” Poe gasped. “I am being attacked for my aesthetics!”
“Play your damn card,” Francis said.
Poe placed a yellow five very dramatically.
Everything was stable… until Mark found the Wild Draw Four at the bottom of his deck.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t even pretend to think.
“Louisa,” he said sweetly.
Louisa—soft, polite, terrified Louisa—froze.
“Y-yes?”
Mark slapped the Wild Draw Four like a king delivering the death penalty.
Louisa shrieked.
Poe applauded.
Hawthorne whispered a prayer for her soul.
Melville muttered something about “the wrath of the deep.”
“Mark,” Margaret said, “you’re a menace.”
Mark smiled, eyes glinting.
“I prefer the term efficient.”
The game escalated.
Cards were played rapidly.
Hands slammed against the table.
Snacks spilled.
Poe nearly fainted twice.
Louisa had a mental breakdown in real time.
Then—
“UNO!” Francis declared triumphantly.
The whole table gasped.
Even Hawthorne looked mildly alive.
Francis sat back like a king awaiting applause.
“Ahh,” he sighed, “victory smells like—”
“Reverse.”
Margaret dropped the card.
The rotation spun backward.
Hawthorne placed a Skip.
Poe placed a Draw Two.
Melville placed another Draw Two.
Mark stared Francis dead in the eyes…
…then placed one more Draw Two.
Francis drew six cards in dead silence while the others watched in holy awe.
“Sir?” Margaret said sweetly.
“Yes?”
“This is team bonding.”
Francis aged ten years in ten seconds.
Everyone else had given up.
Louisa was face-down on the table.
Nathaniel meditated.
Mark braided her hair with malicious intent.
Herman was muttering oceanic poetry to the fish-themed carpet.
But Margaret and Poe—oh, they were locked in a duel of pure spite.
“You can’t keep targeting me!” Poe protested.
“You’re dramatic,” Margaret shot back, “and that offends me spiritually.”
She played a red Reverse.
Poe immediately placed a red Reverse to counter.
Margaret slammed a Skip.
Poe slammed a Skip of his own.
It was like watching two ravens fight over a carcass.
“UNO!” they shouted at the same time.
Everyone looked up.
The tension became a physical force.
“Margaret,” Poe hissed, “I will not lose to you.”
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I’m enjoying this.”
She placed her final card.
Poe stared at the matching colour like it personally betrayed him.
Margaret leaned back.
“Game.”
Poe collapsed into existential despair.
“WELL!” Francis clapped his hands with artificial enthusiasm.
“That was… enlightening.”
“Nightmarish,” Poe corrected.
“Emotionally scarring,” Louisa whimpered.
“Divine punishment,” Herman added.
“We should do this weekly,” Mark said.
Everyone else screamed NO in unison.
Francis smiled proudly anyway.
“Wonderful! I feel we’ve grown closer already. And now—”
He gestured toward the window, where Yokohama glimmered in the distance.
“—we go to conquer the city! United! Bonded! A true family!”
Margaret rubbed her temples.
Poe muttered something about quitting.
Louisa considered jumping into the sea.
Nathaniel prayed harder.
Mark looked excited for the upcoming chaos.
Herman whispered to the ship like it was listening.
And thus—
With animosity renewed and trust absolutely not improved—
The Guild sailed toward Yokohama.
Teamwork had never looked so dysfunctional.
And yet…
Strangely enough…
They were ready.
Because nothing—absolutely nothing—could be worse than a game of UNO with your coworkers.