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

[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.