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ataraxionlogs2014-12-08 12:00 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-12-08 12:00 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- allison argent,
- benny lafitte,
- bethmora fortescue,
- caroline forbes,
- chell,
- commander shepard,
- death (discworld),
- death (sandman),
- elizabeth,
- ellen ripley,
- eponine thenardier,
- gogo tomago,
- hermione granger,
- jennifer keller,
- laura roslin,
- leia organa,
- luke skywalker,
- lydia martin,
- milagros gallo,
- nick gant,
- rick grimes,
- rikku | au,
- rocket,
- sam winchester
thirty-eighth 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: The gravcouch drops you abruptly, cold and naked on the medbay floor. There's no slowness to your senses this month; the details of your surroundings come through sharp and clear. It seems like there's nothing unusual to struggle with as you go through your post-jump routine, but as more people filter through it starts to become clear that a large number of your fellow passengers aren't waking up...
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: The gravcouch drops you abruptly, cold and naked on the medbay floor. There's no slowness to your senses this month; the details of your surroundings come through sharp and clear. It seems like there's nothing unusual to struggle with as you go through your post-jump routine, but as more people filter through it starts to become clear that a large number of your fellow passengers aren't waking up...
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.
rick grimes. medical bay; closed to milagros gallo.
It's a big fuck off revolver, too, but kept holstered at his hip, a part of his silhouette and as prominant feature as any other part of him. Steel grey growing through in scruffy, rough beard, a gaunt and underfed leanness to ropey muscle under worn clothing, and a wolfish way of regarding all the bright, sterilised science fiction around him that seems more it's looking for bigger predators, not prey.
He is dressed, by now, in the latter half of the jump routine, and the tattoo on his arm marks him as new. Still, he meanders through, out of place, looking at equipment, looking for signage, seeking out other people. ]
no subject
wearing dress pants or wearing a towel, it doesn't make much difference to the way she carries herself or the way she moves or the fact that she does not pause or break step in intercepting him, one eyebrow raised, having made the decision not to touch or startle him because the towel will drop and tangle and potentially create an inconvenience if she creates a situation in which he has to be more firmly managed. which is a great euphemism, by the way.
probably most people don't learn that kind of restraint through repeated applications of 'the hard way', and just happen to quite rationally respect the personal space of scruffy men with big fuck off revolvers. those peoples' lives aren't as interesting as hers. )
I frown on open carry in the medical bay. What do you want?
( do they have a policy on that? they should. )
no subject
He looks older than he is. Laugh lines still exist, and crease deeper shadows at the corners of his eyes at the concept of someone saying they frown on open carry in all seriousness. His mouth twitches, like it considered smiling, but that kind of thing doesn't come easy, not unless things are looking up. They aren't. ]
Least I know I'm in the right place.
[ He's cleaner than he's been in a long time. Recent injuries -- the way his face had swelled up from the Governor's assault, the newly earned limp from a bullet biting the meat of his thigh -- are all gone, and so is the dust and grime of hard living in Georgia's summer during the apocalypse. His accent is a permanent feature.
He looks at her, in her towel. ]
Medical assistance. Are you a doctor?
no subject
( her brief up and down examination of is remarkably businesslike for the fact that she momentarily appears to be almost looking through him rather than at him; he's asked for medical assistance, she's the nearest medical official prepared to provide it, vitakinesis is as easy as breathing and a magnificent diagnostic tool. old knife wound. similarly old bullet wound. bouts of malnutrition, and--
when her focus sharpens, she's frowning in a way that's subtly different to the usual thing her face does when she's looking at people. )
Follow me.
no subject
[ He follows upon minor hesitation, not going so far as to place his hand on his gun but being acutely aware of its existence all the same. There is an unblinking quality to his regard, which is trained on the back of her head. ]
Rick Grimes.
[ But also in glances around, behind, checking any corner, any sign of movement, a certain laziness in movement around a core of tension that hasn't unclenched for two years and isn't starting now.
It is only minimally because he knows this place.
His voice is quiet. Resigned. ]
In my world, there was a plague.
no subject
( which is barely politer than bringing up the black death, really, but there was a PSA about her bedside manner. even if it did go out before his arrival. she errs away from purposefully rude, it's just not always very far in the other direction. in this instance, however, it really is just concern and a preference for getting straight to the point-- )
My office; take a seat. ( which is roughly as businesslike and impersonal as she tends to be, professionally. she saves the weird hippie bullshit for her off hours. she closes the door, apparently not frowning on open carry enough to be actively concerned by leaving herself alone with a strange armed man and his hobo beard, and leans against the edge of her desk, studying him. )
no subject
He sits. ]
I don't want a panic. And I know things work differently-- it's not my first time here. I came by on another cycle, a while ago, I was here a couple months.
[ So nothing happened then. ]
But I wanna be sure.
no subject
but they do things differently here, and while an unbending level of ball-busting certainty has served her well elsewhere, her patients are not colleagues, competition, or interesting research puzzles. he is, she reminds herself - it is necessary to sometimes remind herself of this - a person who has come to her for help of some kind. the responsibility to provide it (and responsibly) is one she chose of her own free goddamn will to take on, and the fact that sometimes people aren't convenient or don't adhere to her preferences for interaction when they need help is actually not their problem.
so. having established the ball is back in her court and having failed to take a moment to reflect on her own irritation with other people's terseness and consider how her own behaviour might impact other people similarly and having definitely failed to contemplate working on that in the future, )
I am a qualified doctor, an experienced research scientist and a very effective healer. The third of my qualifications refers to witchcraft, which lent me the ability to assess what we're discussing to some degree already. The second of them, and my common sense, provides you with doctor-patient privilege. I will not unnecessarily divulge any information given to me by you without your consent and involvement. I will not necessarily divulge any information given to me by you without your consent and involvement if I am capable of making another choice without putting anyone else at risk.
Now, I would like you to provide me with more information.
no subject
And rise to the occasion in case it is, his focus even and unwavering. His lip curls under grey bristle just a little at her talk when she does, talk, because he is accustomed to not trusting people who talk like the old world. Because it's not the old world for everyone, anymore.
He nods, once. He even accepts witch craft as a thing. ]
Yes ma'am.
[ And he finds he doesn't want to, even if he has to. His hand roughs over the bottom half of his face, itching scruff. ]
Everyone in the world is infected with a pathogen that reanimates them upon death. Within a month or two of the outbreak, society as we knew it suffered catastrophic failure. Bites from walkers induces infection that wipes out a person in a couple days, and they get reanimated too, so goes with any kind of death that don't involve brain damage.
I got to see it. I got to the CDC with my group, and we saw what it looked like from an MRI recording. [ He doesn't know what that's called. It's a best guess. ] The only thing left alive are basic mobility functions, animalistic drive.
I don't know how it began. I don't know how it ends.
no subject
she briefly considers asking if the bodies continue to degrade after reanimation, but discards it. it'll be worth asking at a later point, but right now the purpose would be to satisfy her curiosity and that isn't the most valuable use of either of their time. god she hates the undead. )
The pre-existing condition does not require the secondary infection as a trigger, but that isn't confirmation that if you were to die and subsequently be reanimated with this condition that you would be incapable of passing it on to uninfected populace in addition to what you've previously observed is something separate.
I am assuming that isn't all you'd like to know, but am I correct in presuming it's the starting point you've no desire to panic anyone with?
no subject
Yeah.
[ Pretty much. ]
I wanted to do the right thing. This place, it's got enough problems.
no subject
It certainly does.
( less brusquely, which he might presume is what passes for gentle with her-- )
I'm going to need to take blood samples from you.
( which is obvious, and which it's entirely likely he has already considered and accepted, or that he would never have had an issue with - it's just also entirely possible that he has reasons to balk at that, that he hadn't thought all the way through how much he would have to do and be comfortable with, that this conversation needs to hit the right tone so he doesn't feel like the research puzzle mila consciously chooses not to treat people as.
mila would feel better about herself if that weren't so conscious, but considering her existing state of self-esteem, her ego might actually develop gravitational pull if she weren't tempered in some way. )
I am not going to make it a requirement that you undergo a quarantine, but I will say that if you would feel safer about this if you do so while I test the samples you give me, there are explanations that can be provided for that not requiring full disclosure of your condition. I don't believe that I would be lying in saying that your preexisting condition puts you at higher risk from unfamiliar pathogens, or that we are acting for your safety.
( and also everyone else's. but they don't have to say the second part, right away. )
no subject
To him, the word quarantine might as well sound like a chorus of angels. Imagine a world where that even applied, any more.
The rest of what she has to say plays to his concerns enough to get his attention, but she's done the thinking for him. He does not consciously imagine that such a process might make for a delay between now and a time when he's on his own and he has to start remembering everything he's left behind, left Carl behind, and Judith, but-- ]
Yeah. Let's do that.
no subject
( it's what she'd prefer, even if she didn't feel it necessary or politic to force the issue - she doesn't quite indicate relief at his choice, but she's very prepared to act on it. it briefly crosses her mind that at some point she actually is going to have to put some clothes on. )
We'll take the samples, and then I'll set you up in a quarantine unit.
no subject
It's placed on her desk. If he's trusting her with everything else, he might as well trust her with this.
He doesn't ask how long quarantine will go for. He might assume she doesn't know yet until tests are underway. He equally doesn't care very much. Once this gesture is complete, he'll comply with where to go and what to do as instructed, and do so quietly, all at once taciturn -- like maybe he used up his verbal quota on explanation. ]
no subject
I keep my own weapon securely elsewhere. I'll keep yours alongside it, for the time being,
( as she collects some medical scrubs from a cupboard, because this isn't the first time she's ended up in the middle of something just post-jump and although she's been occupied with their discussion, she is at least nominally prepared to dodge any inquiries as to why she's at work in a towel. she may already have to start talking quite quickly around the quarantine procedures. )