ataraxionlogs | eighteenth jump;

Entry tags:

eighteenth 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: 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.

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[There's a thudding in his head and a small warm spot on the back of it that is slowly traveling down the spine of his neck, but he doesn't seem to really be too panicked compared to Edgeworth; a moment before, he was completely ready to run, completely alert and on edge and ready to get out. Now he hears McFly and something in him (maybe a little deranged, maybe a little messed up) snaps for a moment at that name and he laughs. Laughs because it's really funny to him, in some really horrible way. And there's something in his eyes that is most certainly a little mad, veiled behind behind his hair.

Only, the first few laughs could probably pass for either laughing or wheezing, and eventually Edgeworth's harsh exam snaps him back into pain and he pulls his shoulder back instinctively to escape that ripple of hot fire. He leans away, ducking his face, smile malformed through a fine mask of dizzying unfocus--he lifts a hand to try to push away Edgeworth at the chest as a fine line of blood drips into his collar.]

Marty-- [a pathetic correction]

--jesus--I'm fine, I'm fine; just, give me a second. I'm cool. That was--my bad?

[Calm. Or maybe he should be pissed off, but he's noticed that this just happens to him, whether it's supernatural or not. It's his role, his role in the universe. At any rate, he's a forgiving person in most regards, and the guy seems genuinely freaked. Maybe he deserved it, really. Maybe he should have learned not to play it so casual, even around people who seem safe enough. He was practically asking for it. Is that bad to think? Aaa well.]

Oh, God.

[He shoves his shaking hand into a pocket, extracts a little packet of kleenex; with a shaking hand he pushes it against Marty's skin, trying to sop up the blood. And all the while, he tries to excuse himself, voice trembling, sounding quite nearly on the point of tears.]

I - I panicked, I'm sorry, I - [And he closes his eyes as panic threatens to rise up in him once again, miserable and cruel. He'd panicked once before, and hurt someone back then, too, and -

One hand comes up to press against his eyes. He's really disproportionately shaken by this, beyond what would be reasonable.]

I'm sorry. I'm going to get you - get you a doctor. Can you...stand? God, I...

Edgeworth.

[It's firm but not mean or frustrated. He's not a fan of seeing people crumbling down; Dana had nearly lost it once, too, and seeing anyone that's not himself lose it? He doesn't wanna go down that road. Whatever this guy just did, he clearly has his fears. And whatever problems he had with that shit in his locker, Marty wouldn't poke at. Not here, anyway. Instead he just grabs the man's shoulder firmly like he would Curt--Curt snapped a little, too, didn't he--and gives him a stern look that is rare for the kid to take up.]

Dude, it's alright. It's just a little blood.

[It's probably just a minor concussion. Hell, if can't be that bad if it didn't knock him out. Just blurred around the edges, throbbing in his temples, nothing to gloat about.]

Take a moment, do some yoga, it's okay. [okay the yoga was a joke, but. seriously.] I'll just walk over to the medbay, get it looked at. I've had way worse shit than this--hell, I'll just go to my usual doc here.

No, I...I -

[He opens his eyes again and meets Marty's gaze. He looks crushed. Normally, his face is stern, stoic; he always has a frown in place, and his expressions are merely variations upon annoyed. Now, though, he really looks like he's on the verge of tears.]

Let me...Please let me at least help you.

[Well, jesus, he can't really say no to that. With a sigh through his nose, he nods. Pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes off the lack of focus in favor of a strong dose of pain. His tolerance for it? It's reaching critical mass, lately.]

Alright — alright. [His hand doesn't leave Edgeworth's shoulder as he shifts on the ground to get to his knees. He'll hold the handkerchief, no sweat.] Gimme a hand, will ya?

Yes. Yes, of - of course.

[Edgeworth reaches out to grasp Marty's arm. His grip is tentative, gentle, almost nervous - like Marty is a baby bird instead of a person.]

Here - on the count of three, we'll get you up. One, two...

[He's up and at 'em, and only staggers a little before he seems golden. Pats Edgeworth's shoulder twice reassuringly, as if to wordlessly tell him don't sweat it. But the guy seems like he will anyway; so audible responses probably wouldn't do for that. Instead he just holds one hand against the stained handkerchief. There's an obvious mask of ache, but it's more annoyed, a short grimace about as telling as a man with a hangover.

Though, his vision was still a little unfocused.]

So you're like a X-Man.

[Because it's the first thing he can spit out, without much thought.]

No, I'm - I'm still a person. If that's what you mean.

[He tenses at that, admittedly. It's - He feels keenly the difference between what he was then and what he is now, and is keenly aware too that there are some who would consider him a freak. An oddity. Something not human. And so that comment, him being an ex-man, it does dig in.

But he's wronged Marty. He's not going to lash out at him. Possibly ever.]

No, not —

[He winces.]

I meant, like, X-Men, like the show. Like — you have powers, more like. Y'know? You're still a dude. That's not what I meant.

[He snorts, and some sad part of him is glad his head is throbbing; sometimes, he needs a reminder. A reminder of something he can't really understand. It's some sick thing, and he's not sure what it means. So he just talks instead of thinking too much into that, because might as well enjoy the sound of himself talking, am I right?]

And anyway, I'm a lot weirder than you, powers included. Trust me. One time, I won a bet to wear a different kinda' costume every day to class for a straight month. Got enough betting money to fix the A/C in the Shagmobile.

Edited (LITTLE EDITS ALL OVER SHHH) 2013-06-07 06:35 (UTC)

[Edgeworth looks over at him, his brows furrowing. He stops, then, and reaches out to tilt Marty's head towards him to look him in the eyes. And he says, nervously and earnestly:]

I - I think the concussion might be a bit more severe...You're speaking nonsense.

[Marty staggers like the hand is a stop sign, his own brow furrowing as he looks back. Eventually though, he waves it away, just a little defeated. He's used to speaking non-sense, but more importantly, he's unused to anybody being touchy-feely. Anybody other than Jules, and she's dead and gone in some world that has more than likely caught fire.

Marty really hasn't tried to find the luxury of time here, in space. All the minutes and hours in the world to try to cope, and he can't bring himself to do it. So he swallows dryly, lets the pounding in his head wash back over him, and ignores the fact that he guiltily likes when people look him in the eye like that.

Dude, you wouldn't bother if you knew you were right about me.

Anarchist to the extreme — by forfeit. He let the world burn and fall into chaos, and the weird thing is — he doesn't feel very bad about it.

Sigh.]

Personal boundaries, man. Personal boundaries.

[It's a mumble as he carries on towards the med bay.]

Ah...What?

[Edgeworth stares over him, plunged even more into despair by the fact that he still hasn't any idea what Marty is saying. The man is clearly hurt and hurt badly -

He hurries after him, nearly jogging to make up those few steps.]

Yes, er...What you said. Here, are you really okay to walk -

I'm fiiiine. Captain Worrywart, jesus.

[He blinks blearily. Or maybe he's just always like that. Hard to say.]

I took a trowel to the back once, still managed to run like a marathoner.

[He almost passed out a lot and bled considerably, but eeeeh. Details. He still fucked up a zombie.]

A towel would have been somewhat less that this was, Mr. McFly.

[He says that grimly.]

[He laughs. At two totally separate things in that reply.]

Naw, man. A trowel, like those pointy shovels for gardening.

[He motions a stabbing motion, making the necessary 'ckshh ckssh' sound associated with impaling something.]

Redneck zombies got me, man. Got me pretty good.

Ah...Right. Redneck...zombies.

[Oh my god are you dying]

Yeah. [He double-takes at Edgeworth, slightly offended in his bleariness.] You don't believe me? S'all true, man. Don't tell me you've been here for a bajillion days and still don't believe in evil redneck zombies.

A zombie is a...creature risen from the dead, correct?

S'right, man. Risen from the ground and everything.

[He seems strangely detached. Humored, even. He's not even sure how his mind works, when it comes to dredging up the facts about where he'd come from.]

They totally sprang up from the ground and killed all my friends.

[Actually, no, there's something not at all detached about the way that's spoken; but he smiles, tired, and pats Edgeworth's shoulder. The effort of talking about Jules and Curt and Holden and — and poor, poor Dana, fucking hell, she'd been through too much — it's too much today. Just like it was too much effort yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

And tomorrow; it'll be too much effort to talk about tomorrow, too.]

Dude, you hit me really hard.

[They're at the med bay, though, and he sighs like the place sucks the air slowly out of him 'til he's dried out. And then he just - dramatically plops down face-first on one of the beds, still bloody red on the back of his head, still holding the handkerchief in one hand. And then sighs again like he's found a great place to sleep.]

Round up an MD, let's get this show on the road.

[so very muffled]

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eighteenth jump;

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