ａｘｍｏｄｓ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ataraxites) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2014-11-08 12:00 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-11-08 12:00 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- benny lafitte,
- bethmora fortescue,
- bucky barnes,
- caroline forbes,
- cassel sharpe,
- charles xavier,
- claire bennet,
- cody griffin,
- dean winchester,
- draco malfoy,
- emma swan,
- erica reyes,
- gabriel,
- hannah,
- hayley,
- hermione granger,
- jemma simmons,
- jennifer keller,
- john blake | au,
- leia organa,
- leo fitz,
- lily potter,
- luke skywalker,
- malia tate,
- mr. gold (rumplestiltskin),
- peter quill,
- remus lupin,
- richard rider,
- ruby,
- sam alexander,
- simon monroe,
- simon tam
thirty-seventh jump;
CHARACTERS: Any and all.
LOCATION: Gravity Couches and beyond.
WARNINGS: Maybe some swearing, or even some violence, and more than likely some implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Another month, another jump, another round of new faces.
NOTES: Waking this jump is slow, awareness swimming murky up through the blue of the stasis fluid. There's no figures waiting outside the glass this time, no alarm in the state of medbay, but everything remains feeling distant and blurred. The fog of stasis sleep clings heavily to your mind and senses as you tumble free from the gravcouch, leaves you groggy as you turn to your post-jump routine. A good hot shower should clear it and wake you up, or maybe you'll be leaning on the coffee for the rest of the day.
New arrivals will find messages spraypainted across their lockers telling them not to follow their tattoo numbers, and instead to find a room on Floors 001-010.
----------------
ＹＯＵ͘ ̨ＷＡＫＥ̢ ̧ＵＰ ́ＩＮ ＤＡ̛ＲＫＮ̢Ｅ̕ＳＳ̶
There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.
ＹＯ́Ｕ̴ ̧Ａ̨ＲＥ ＮＯＴ҉ ̷ＡＬＯ̨ＮＥ҉
There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. Others have much less amiable plans. Some are merely alien and inexplicable, but there are always those who might mean you harm.
After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.
If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.
ＴＨ̀ＩＳ͜ ̶Ｉ͠Ｓ͡ ͘Ｙ̵Ｏ͝ＵＲ ̕Ｗ͝Ｅ̛Ｌ̨Ｃ͡Ｏ͝Ｍ͏Ｅ Ｐ̛ＡＲ̴ＴＹ͜
LOCATION: Gravity Couches and beyond.
WARNINGS: Maybe some swearing, or even some violence, and more than likely some implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Another month, another jump, another round of new faces.
NOTES: Waking this jump is slow, awareness swimming murky up through the blue of the stasis fluid. There's no figures waiting outside the glass this time, no alarm in the state of medbay, but everything remains feeling distant and blurred. The fog of stasis sleep clings heavily to your mind and senses as you tumble free from the gravcouch, leaves you groggy as you turn to your post-jump routine. A good hot shower should clear it and wake you up, or maybe you'll be leaning on the coffee for the rest of the day.
New arrivals will find messages spraypainted across their lockers telling them not to follow their tattoo numbers, and instead to find a room on Floors 001-010.
There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.
There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. Others have much less amiable plans. Some are merely alien and inexplicable, but there are always those who might mean you harm.
After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.
If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.
no subject
It takes the rough edge off of his anger, dulls it down to a low, steady throb like the pounding of a headache that just won't quit. Like a migraine he's had for years.
He sighs, drags a hand down his face, and paces away a few feet to collect himself. After a few distant seconds, he circles back again, mouth set to a grim line.]
I know that you're trying, man, I get that. I just-
[He shakes his head slowly.]
Running away without a single goddamn word ain't exactly waving the banner of trust. Ignoring every prayer, every text message, every anything for months and suddenly flying the coop with that big hunk of rock doesn't inspire a lot of confidence that your decision-making head is on straight. Buddy, I want to trust you, but you've gotta give me a little more than you been giving me.
[It's not that he's trying to ask for trust without handing out any of his own, he's really not, and there's a visible amount of sincerity on his face as he tries to express that.]
If you think running's the best answer, fine, just tell me why. Use your people words, help me understand a little.
[And maybe come to him about big ass plans like shutting the gates to heaven with your new BFF Metatron, just in case there are a few holes in the sales pitch you might be missing.]
no subject
[to leave like that. to disappear with samandriel's body and not make any kind of contact since then. after the past five (seven) years, he'd hoped that dean at least knew him a little better than that.]
Naomi has been controlling my actions from the moment she had me rescued from Purgatory. I was with her during those months, being prepared to kill you.
[it's the first time he's said it aloud. the first time he's admitted it to anyone other than himself. naomi had mindwashed him. had controlled him in a way that he hadn't felt in years. she'd taken away his free will and left him he unknowing spy. and despite the blame being largely on her shoulders, it still leaves him feeling sick each time he thinks about it. each time he remembers just how close he'd been to ending dean's life.]
The tablet is the only thing keeping me free from her control. If I had stayed with you--
[there's a breath taken to bolster his thoughts. to prepare himself for the simple, honest truth of it all.]
Dean, if she regains control, she could use me against you again. I couldn't risk that.
[so he left. he kept the tablet to himself because it was the only thing keeping him himself.]
no subject
[He stops himself, holding up his hands. He could argue until he was blue in the face, say it would have been nice to hear that from you or say he could've used an explanation, a text, he could have come back after he bounced, he could say a million things and Cas'll have a reason for every damn one of them, and they'll be stuck in this hallway on Dean's first day on the ship for the rest of their lives.
But there's no point.
Cas doesn't get the real sentiment behind this whole thing, and Dean's reached his limit for trying to talk things out. This is about as deep as he's willing to go, he's exhausted, and nothing's gonna come of this whole thing anyway.
He shakes his head, hands slowly dropping.]
Whatever, man. Just-
[He licks his lips, shoulders dropping.]
I'm tired. I'm... covered in freaking goo, I need to go shower, I need to not be arguing with you right now.
no subject
[it's a single word, spat out with more aggression that the situation may deserve. but it comes from the sheer frustration he feels at the entire conversation. at the fact he even needs to explain himself in the first place. dean should already see all this by know. he should understand.]
Thirty-five, one-fifty.
[his number, thought it isn't the room he's staying in. with his original room still untouched, he'd seen to reason to relocate. and that he mostly shares with seraphim--
there's one last look at dean, before he's gone, disappearing in an instant as he heads off to said room. it's the only way to cut the argument short.]
no subject
Instead, he just pulls a face, arms stretching out in disbelief, a moment of stunned silence is followed rapidly by:]
Freakin' asshole angels!
[And then he's stalking off, fuming.]