ELEVENTH WAVE

[astrogate]

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: Keeping up with the tradition and copy pasted like always from the last one


You wake up in darkness.


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.

You are not alone.


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.

This is your welcome party.

Comments

[anomalies]

[ Each time, it doesn't get any easier. Waking up with your ears full of viscous fluid, a great tube down your throat, giving you air—until wake up and choke on it. Every time, it's the same hard-hitting thud against the grates, your knees and palms stinging with it, coughing up and heaving oxygen until you can think. Even then, it's jumbled thoughts, scrambled memories. Gaps in the mind that only time and a good rest can fill in. Jumbled frequencies all trying to meet up and get back in order, and sluggish brain trying to wake up from a nap from down under. And underneath it all, that primal need to get up, get away, run, run for your sorry little life.

But Connor doesn't run. Couldn't, really, if he tried. It comes back to him, and he gets to his feet, and he looks around him, and he remembers where he is and what his lot in life is, at least right now, and he tells himself that maybe this is the jump. Maybe this one he'll see a friend. Maybe this time, he won't be the only one.

There are many, many gravity couches, but each jump, Connor does a circuit of them all. Just to check.

Which is why it's the flash of white-blonde that catches him off-guard, and he has to stop and make sure his eyes aren't tricking him, that his mind isn't making him see things that aren't there. Well done, Temple, he thinks to himself, blinking into the crowd on unsteady legs. You've finally gone 'round the pole. It's been too long here, and you've snapped and started seeing things that aren't there. Because why would she be in space, when it's been so long without her? No, Abby's (debatably safely) back home, dealing with the things he can't, because that's how they've always worked. He watches her back, and she picks up his slack. But not here. (God, please not here.)

But he walks forward, drawn to the hazy figure, because even if she is a hallucination, he doesn't think he'd mind, really. Good company to have. And he's missed her, too, even if his brain's saying you just saw her, you muppet, she brought you coffee, she saved your pathetic arse again. But there's no way (there's some way, there's always a way, always), it can't be, except—

Christ, no, it is her. It's Abby. It's Abby, and he steps forward with one foot, and then both, and then starts shouldering through people to get to her. ]

Abby! Abby!

[ His voice is hoarse, but it's loud, and it carries. He stumbles and then catches himself, until he's closer, until he's in front of her, dripping and scruffy and looking a little too much like a drowned chipmunk, trying to catch his breath. She doesn't seem real, after all this time. But it's her. It's her, and it's the first time in a long time he's felt like maybe he can do this after all. Maybe they can do this together.

They've done it before, after all. What's once more, in space? ]

[mustloverex]

[ She's still watching, taking in her surroundings, but a numbness has settled in at the attempt to process it. The disbelief was followed by shock, apparently, and with nothing chasing her down, forcing her to fight through it, she has time to sink into it instead.

When she hears her name the first time, it's muffled; doesn't quite register, and she can't muster up a response. But the second time it rings into sharpness like a church bell, snaps her back into focus, startled eyes (but still numb, somehow, jaded and used to this kind of shock, even though she never should be) quickly darting over the crowd to look for a source.

And then she sees him, and she knows it's him, has no reason to doubt it. Just like that, she's not alone, and it almost occurs to her that it was silly to think she could be; they always found each other before, over time and space (and god that sounds dramatic, no matter how literal it is), so why should this be any different. ]

Connor!

[ It's not the same for her. She saw him before, recently, brought him back from hell and asked him to be hers. Everything was better. But waking up here was a threat, the flash of all of that gone, and for a second she thought she'd dreamed it; that she hadn't gone in after him, he'd died in the future, and she'd fallen into another hole in time without him by her side.

She doesn't hesitate when he's near, hands moving to either side of his neck as she presses her lips to his; her grip is probably a bit too tight, the kiss a bit too desperate, but it's nothing they haven't shared before. Life-affirming kisses have become too common between them. ]

[anomalies]

[ It seems like all the tension leaves him when her lips meet his, the line of his shoulders relaxing as he grips her skin, pulls her close, holds her face in his hands. It's pure comfort, pure confirmation that she's alive, that they're both alive, that everything's fine—maybe not always, maybe not five minutes from now, but in this one moment of reunion—it's all okay. The noise and bustle around them is completely inconsequential; nothing matters except the warmth of Abby's touch, her kiss, how real she feels in his arms.

Eventually he pulls back, fingers curved to fit her cheek, thumb resting lightly on one damp cheekbone. There are unshed tears in his eyes, ones he hasn't cried since he arrived on this ship, but they're threatening to spill over, blurring the outline of her face as he fights to gain control of himself. Sheepishly, he grins out a laugh, realising how he must look: soppy and adoring and they're both stood there naked, for god's sakes, it's so Notebook, so chick flick, it's ridiculous, but...

But he doesn't care. Doesn't mind. This is too precious a moment to lose in formalities, and he loves her too much to let go. ]

God, it's—I can't believe it's you. [ Connor's still not sure if he should be overjoyed or terrified out of his wits, but—he can't help it. He can't help the flood of emotion any more than he can stop time, and he doesn't want to. ] It's really you.

[ Quietly, after leaning in for another kiss, he puts his forehead to hers. ] I've missed you. You've no idea.

[mustloverex]

[ Even if she doesn't quite understand the circumstances, why this reunion is any different than the ones they've had before, she doesn't for a moment shy away from it; she shares in the intensity, gives it back in kind, because the things they've seen make every touch important.

And she trusts Connor, knows him - knows there's something wrong here, something off in the weight on his shoulders, in his eyes. She's missing something, and it kills her that she doesn't know what, can't fill in the gaps and lift that weight.

It hasn't even been a minute since she last saw him. They'd been going to check out the anomaly, the one that proved they still existed, and then she was here, in his arms seconds later. So instead of saying she missed him - she did, though, always does when they're not touching - she tells the truth, tries to lift the weight without any guides. ] I love you. I'm here.

[anomalies]

[ He just holds her, almost afraid that if he lets her go, she'll fade into mist, drift right out of his grasp once more. (Here, nothing's concrete. It's not like the Cretaceous, where there had at least been warning bells, temperature shifts, solid expectations, a warm body next to his, reality that went nowhere. It was awful, but it was reliable—and familiar, after a while. This place... it's none of those things on a good day, and there are consequences to living here that are far worse than the ones buried in prehistory.)

It's with a very strong mental slap that he tells himself to quit thinking like that, lets his hands fall to her shoulders instead, giving a reassuring squeeze. I love you. I'm here. It's more than he thought he'd ever get, and it's overwhelming, but it's good. It's good, and it grounds him. It's pure Abby—always picking him up when he falls, centering him when he's wild, keeping him in check.

He takes a steadying breath. ]

Sorry. I know. That's me who should be saying that. You just got here. [ He huffs out another laugh, clears his throat, nods decisively to himself. The strange lilt to his voice's still there, but he's wrangled the worst of his emotions back under control—wipes a stray tear from his eye with the heel of his palm, a lopsided, happy smile on his face. ]

There's a lot I need to tell you. [ Massive understatement. His eyes flick over her shoulders to the showers. ] I'll explain everything, I swear to you. But we'd best get cleaned up first, though, eh? Rather not talk about it here. [ He pauses. ] Naked. Bit embarrassing.

[mustloverex]

[ She maintains the contact too, lets her hands relax, slide down to rest at the curves of his neck and shoulders. When he apologizes, her brow knits together gently in confusion and concern. But she waits, lets him continue speaking - because he's Connor, and he always has more to say.

She almost smiles back at him, at the comment about being naked, but - well, she is naked, and for as distracted as she's been by him, the scenario as a whole is still too disorienting for her to find her good humor just yet. And she's already done this, had her reunion with him, made amends - that was what, an hour ago? So it's easier for her to come down from the high of the moment, settle back into reality.

Naked and on what's probably a spaceship reality. ] Okay. Yeah, let's get cleaned up. [ A pause, and then her eyes focus in on him again, searching - because he's happy to see her, happy enough to make jokes, but he's still off. When she asks the question, it's genuine and concerned, but light - a lightness that she's capable of only because she just got here, just saw him, can't quite comprehend how different this experience is on his end. ] You alright?

[ Alright as in - going to survive, as alright as you can be when you've seen what they've seen. She's not expecting platitudes and fulfillment, just a realistic gauge of whether he's hanging in there. ]

[anomalies]

[ He thinks about lying, but that'd be pointless—she'll find out anyway. It's obvious that he's not fine, that most of them aren't, and haven't been for a while. Sure, he pretends he is, surface-level, for appearance's sake, just like everyone else; he'll crack a joke, smile and laugh. And sometimes, he'll mean it.

But he isn't fine, and he won't lie to her.

(In the back of his head, he remembers saying he would, that keeping secrets is his job now—not that it hasn't always been—but from Abby, from Matt, from the team. Non-disclosure agreement. Philip? Something about New Dawn. Christ, his head hurts.) ]

Me? Fine. [ No, not— ] Not really.

[ There's seeing what they've seen, and then there's seeing what this ship does. Abby is strong, can take some heavy hits, but there's no guarantee she'll be okay. Not when people have died, gone missing. Back at home, at least you knew what you were getting... most of the time. And in the Cretaceous, it was hard living, but it followed a pattern. It was survivalism. Day in, day out, eat, hunt, sleep, breathe, run if he needed to, but always with someone he could share it with. Someone he could love and curl up against at the end of a hard day.

Here, it's a crapshoot. ]

Weird stuff's happened here, Abby. It's dangerous. There are—records, passenger-kept logs. I'll show them to you when we get back to me room. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that's gone on. I mean, we're on a spaceship, that's pretty hard to believe in the first place, but—it's not the anomalies, it's something completely different. Shouldn't even be possible.

I know I'm not really making much sense right now—and I'll just stop now while I'm ahead, actually. Can't make me brain work like it should. It'll wear off.

[ Inhale. Exhale.

One of Connor's hands drifts to clasp hers, resting on his shoulders, and almost like an afterthought, he catches sight of his tattoo. He gently nudges her arm to show her, nodding at it. ]

Identification number.

[mustloverex]

[ Lying would be pointless, and the honesty's appreciated - expected, really, because Connor's never been much for not wearing his heart on his sleeve. She doesn't interrupt him, watches and listens with an increasingly concerned expression.

Now's not the time to ask more questions - like he said, back at his room. But more than anything about the ship, about the things he's making references to, she mostly just wants to ask how long have you been here alone. The realization that he's been here long enough to know so much, long enough to not be okay worries her a lot more than anything else he's said. So much for staying together; there's a bizarre pang of guilt at the fact that he's been here and she didn't even know it, though she knows all bets are off with time travel.

She's still quiet when he gestures to the tattoo, and she casts a quick, curious glance at it. Identification numbers, like tags on animals at the zoo. That bodes well. She parrots it back, processing that bit of information, tone clearly unimpressed. ] Identification number.

[ She doesn't really want to know about this place, wants to take him back home with her, but that's not an option. So she raises her eyes back to his, steady and resolved. ]

Right, showers and clothes, then twenty questions. I'll even make the tea for once. [ It's hard to be light in these circumstances, but the genuine affection injects some good humor into her voice. But then there's a pause, and she continues with a hint of genuine worry- ] Please tell me they've got tea here.

[anomalies]

[ The corners of his mouth quirk up, despite the exhaustion, the strain behind his eyes. God, he'd missed this. Even if this is currently a conversation being held in the middle of room full of naked (or nearly naked) people, covered in blue nutrient goo. But details; she's okay, they're here together, and that's all right. There's a chance everything'll turn out just fine. Abby's always been a constant reminder to never, ever give up hope—because it's always possible something like this will happen, and life won't look so much like an unclimbable mountain anymore. Two heads are better than one, as his mum used to say. Less lonely, more productive. He'd just needed to see her to remember that.

Besides, it's been a while since he'd had some proper tea, actually; coffee is the brand name sleep-inhibitor for stressed scientists, and the tea in the kitchens is never quite up to his standards. Not that he has particularly strict standards here. You're not really allowed.

Still. Sign him up. ]

They've got tea. [ His nose wrinkles in mock distaste, and his eyes in returned good humour. ] Not very good, though.

[ The smile droops as his eyes flick to the shower area, and on to the locker room—just visible past the throng of people filtering through on their way to see what's been gifted to them this jump, dazed, toweled dry, and determined. He clears his throat. ]

Right. We should—probably—you ready?

[ Of course she is. He needn't have asked.

With one last steady, shared look, he steps away. ]

Let's go.