FIFTH WAVE

[satana]

CHARACTERS: ANY AND ALL
LOCATION: MED BAY
WARNINGS: Nudity. Probably swearing and all that jazz from the more crankier of the passengers.
SUMMARY: The next jump, the newest arrivals, and the same old mass confusion. Huge ol' meet and greet.
NOTES: EVERYONE tag and mingle and mingle and tag! If you've been accepted, you can post! Idea taken from the amazing theguidinghand, it's just the rehashing of the game premise, mmmyes. Don't worry if you join in late, everyone's gonna be rollin' in this log.



You wake up, alone in the dark.



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.

Don't worry, 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. They will help you through your disorientation, even though they might suffer from it too.

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

"Todd"/Guide | Open to anyone who wants to help a starved Wraith

[theguidinghand]

He should not have allowed himself to go this far.

His claws scrabbled uselessly against the gel-slicked floor as he tried to regain his footing. It was ultimately a futile effort, with both the aftereffects of the so-called 'jump' and his own weakness working against him. What little strength he could summon was hardly enough to support his own weight. In its own way, this was almost worse than being kept in Kolya's prison. He had been able to break out of the prison, feast upon the guards, and seek refuge with another hive. The Tranquility was not so honest about its nature as the Genii had been.

The Genii had been intelligent enough to see him for his needs, and they had made a tool of him. The Lanteans - Sheppard - had seen him for what he was: a guide who tended to his flock despite hardship, albeit one that made a flock from humans. Kirk and his followers, however, had made the grave error of assuming that cooperation implied a certain amount of faith and good will. They were idealists, indecisive fools who did not understand when to sacrifice anything but themselves.

Soon, he thought as the last of his strength gave out. Soon, they would see the fruits of their optimism.

---

Even on the best of days, the Wraith did not look like the picture of perfect health. The sunken eyes, the pale green-gray skin, the stark-white hair and heavy yellowed claws - all of them uncanny, and yet he somehow looked so much more the worse for wear lying on the floor than on any other day. The bony ridge of his spine was so sharp against his skin that it seemed to threaten to pierce through. Ribs stood out so clearly that they could be counted. His skin and hair had lost what little luster that either one had, and his claws, although they still showed the marks of being recently filed down, were splitting at the tips.

If not for the fact that he was still breathing, it was not difficult to assume the worst.

[goldshirt]

Jim had taken to working quickly whenever these jumps happened. Five jumps in gave him plenty of time to figure out that shit would hit he fan, whether they liked it or not, as soon as they came out of stasis. Tensions were high, and so this time, he wastes no time getting to his locker and getting back out.

When he spots the wraith, he knows immediately something is wrong. He'd been trying to get the guy to see Magnus, but he'd up and gone into hiding as soon as the talks had started. Jim knew there was a countdown over both their heads as to when the guy would need to feed. He'd been hyperaware of it, but he still hadn't known when it would hit bottom.

Now, he was worried they would be too late, and that had so many detrimental effects that he didn't even want to think about it.

Jim runs through the crowd when he sees the felled wraith, dodging people, half pushing others out of the way. Undoubtedly, he made quite the sight, sprinting through the halls in a splash of green and the glitter of gold. Apparently the ship had been kind to him this time around, but he crouches next to the wraith and immediately reaches for a pulse point (because even aliens had to have one).

He was breathing, but faintly, and Jim pulls his communicator from his belt, hitting what he's affectionately labeled his speed dial; the message will ping Spock, Magnus, Ratchet and Watson- the active doctors. "Guys, I need your help in stasis, we've got a wraith down here." He doesn't go on to explain, and hopes that the urgency in his voice will be enough to get their attention immediately.

Open; LOL TL;DR. SHORT VERSION. HAYMITCH BE HEADED TOWARDS THE LOCKERS.

[killarevolution]

[Haymitch remembered nothing of importance, which he should have known by now was how the Capitol operates. He wasn't easily thrown, especially not when he was woefully sober while the Quarter Quell loomed on every screen he passed, warning him that he had a job to do and that he had to keep his wits together to make sure it was done properly. He'd do no one any good passed out in a ditch.

What he passed out in was anyone's guess, but what he woke up in...

He came up choking and sputtering, disoriented, and the first thing he did was puke the remnants of breakfast and the trace amounts of the last bit of wine he'd consumed before the Games started onto the floor. Everything spun in a way that it hadn't since the first time he'd ever gotten dead drunk. Growling, his hands gripped the sides of the- the what? He wasn't sure and his eyes wouldn't focus enough to get a clear picture.

He sat up, trying to force himself to remember what happened last. Mags dying in the fog, Johanna bringing Wiress and Beetee to Katniss, and nearly exposing them- damn that girl. Had her blunt little tongue gotten her (and him and everyone else) in trouble? No, it was vague enough and Finnick had seen to it that she kept her mouth shut. So what?

He took a shuddering breath, wishing for a bottle, because if he was going to be this disoriented, he'd like to know exactly what it was causing it. The buzz of background noise became clearer, becoming human voices. He reached for a knife, but found none, and it was only then that he realized he was naked. More ways than one, he added bitterly.

He twitched an eyebrow and staggered to his feet. Some of these strangers seemed to know where to go and he didn't recognize a one of them- none of them Capitol. Capitol prisoners, maybe?

He had no option but to follow them, but steering clear all the same, carefully listening to everyone speak, but not catching anything that made sense. They all had their tongues- that was something. And the voice overhead said passengers...

Just another part of the Games, he growled internally. Until he had proof it wasn't, this had Capitol trap written all over it.]

[consulting]

[ Sherlock has decided to slowly sign himself up as welcoming committee. He was still clad in the black military issue boxers. A towel draped around his neck. Six months in and there were enough signs to discern how new or old someone had been to the tranquillity. The first jump, in his opinion was always the worst. He’s on his way to the lockers as well. Haymitch just happens to be in his path in that direction. ]

How fresh? [ He'll offer as a conversation starter. Deducing what he can. ]

Balthier LET'S DO THIS THING RIGHT

[profligates]

Not again. Not. Again. At this point, Balthier had come to expect this whole thing. Naked, and covered in goo once more, he woke up, sick to his stomach, and very, very cold. Did everyone else experience the same thing, over and over again? The last memory he had of home, did everyone have that, too?

A final retching sound was all he allowed himself to have; at least he didn't feel like he needed to be sick. Not like the first time. He had been hoping it didn't get easier with time, either, but damnit. Maybe it did. Wiping the good off of his face, he sauntered on over to the lockers, opening his.

Everything seemed to be in order. Pouches filled with legal and illegal substances. Bottles of varying sizes of different liquor. His pistol, his clothes, all rolled into little balls, because like hell he was going to wear that jumpsuit again. Everything a good pirate needed, and then some.

Pulling out a towel, he wrapped it tight around his waist and went to one of the benches, bottle and shot glasses in hand.

"So, who'd care for a post-jump shot? No age requirement necessary, and more then one shot for anyone who's here for another round!"

[bottlearum]

The first place Jack heads upon waking up is to Balther.

He feels absolutely horrible, the room won't stop spinning, his stomach won't let him be and his legs are having a harder time than usual keeping him upright. And he doesn't care about anything other than getting a god damned drink, which he knows Balther has.

"What you want f'r the bottle, mate?"

He's desperate, just give it to him, okay?

[theblogger]

When John spills on the floor this time, things are a bit different. Shoved up against the crook of the tank (cover, put your back to the wall, instinct), he gags around the incubation tube and almost jerks it out before the scrape makes him think twice. Breathe in -oxygen- breathe out... and pull. That done, John takes a moment to himself, crouched and leaning heavily on the machine in a posture that is both defensive and coiled at the ready to attack. He's shivering, which is understandable because it's so cold. Eyes fluttering and darting about dimly, chest heaving, he slowly comes back to himself.

He's never had a nightmare before while in the tank. Was this to be a new part of the routine? Struggling with the desire to pray to anyone on top of the nausea? Trying to keep his limbs from lashing out at others when they were unwieldy as it was? John's a bit shaken, but today, his troubles blend in with everyone else's.

After he's managed to get out and dressed (always the black jumpsuit on the first day - he washes his hair, face, and hands in the medbay sink), he's piercing himself with a hypo to put a jumpstart on flushing the sedatives out of his bloodstream. After a moment, he remembers that he keeps a drawer full of peppermints and takes to rolling one around in his mouth. From his vantage point in the medbay, he's able to supervise the gravpouch area and attempt spotting someone more pitiful than he felt.

[consulting]

“I wasn’t aware you kept a supply of peppermint,” he quipped as he entered the medbay. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed yet. He’s tried to shrug off the disorientation, the throbbing that drowns out where there is normally a string of deductions. Sherlock may not be at his peak. Who is after a jump? But he knows John enough to find subtle shifts in the man’s patterns even at this state. John may try to blend but Sherlock can always see the smudge lines.

He pulls up a chair across from where John is, blocking his view of the pouches for a moment. Finger tips pressed against finger tips. Sherlock instead tries their routine at every jump.

“Last event that you recall?”

aberdeen (hallah tawse) | locker room.

[wiretap]

[ There are both pluses and minuses to being able to remember everything. It means that Aberdeen can operate in a wholly efficient manner: she doesn't have to double-check facts or look up statistics — not if she's crossed paths with them before. But it also means she never forgets a face, never forgets the annoying everyday shit that normal people get to shrug off or repress or misremember. It's all there, in her head, rows upon rows of facts and no fictions:

First kiss, first fuck, first jump sickness. And after those firsts come seconds and thirds. (The inside of her arm reads 002 » 200 and this is jump 006, so she's got quite the collection.)

So jump sickness for her isn't about memory loss. It's about nausea and dizziness and the burn of all of her piercings as her body tries to fix wounds that aren't wounds at all. Absently she scratches at her ear with the damp pad of one of her fingers as she peers into her locker and (much to her grin but her complete lack of surprise) finds no Motherfucker in it. Her cat hadn't been there before the jump; logic followed that it wouldn't be, afterwards.

As per the last jump (and the jump before that, so on and so forth), she makes no real effort to cover herself up quickly. Those that come across her will find her in various states of undress (blue scarf cinched around her modest breasts as a shirt, underwear, maybe pants; but always a studded leather jacket and her blue black hair at odd angles around her face). She's watching people, matching names to faces to glimpses of the ID numbers branded to the inside of arms. Her hearing may be fucked but she can still do this: watch, learn.

Eventually, she smokes. ]

[comprehensively]

[ As it turns out, the way Jackson finds her is without the scarf but with the underwear, the hair and the leather jacket. To be fair, it's not the worst he's seen but it's certainly not the best.

Edward never smoked before he was possessed, but after that faithful moment, he started up and let's just say that no matter what his name is, he needs to smoke. Or at the very least be around someone who is smoking. ]

How long?

[ He's asking about the smoking but for all she knows he could be asking about any number of things. His voice is slightly different from Tony's as far as accents go but not it's not a drastic change, while if she was comparing him to Holmes, well, he's certainly not British. ]

[awakenings]

Another month, another dose of the tank.

She realized, as she was spitting up some goo on the floor, that they really should try to make some sort of calendar for these occurrences so they wouldn't sneak up on newer arrivals. Maybe they could finally start keeping track of months or weeks, though they still had no idea of a starting date for the initial arrivals.

Re-l picked herself up and made her way to the lockers to clean herself off and retrieve her belongings. The messages to those she knew would come later, once she'd taken care of the mess in her hair and whatever else she could.

She would return only twenty minutes later, there to answer any questions and to see to anyone if they needed assistance.

[goldshirt]

Jim falls into step with her on the way to showers and cleaning, though like her, there's purpose in his step. Call it a gut feeling, but these last couple jumps, he's wasted no time getting in and out to help people.

"How you feeling?" He asks, even though he knows what the answer is. Probably as shitty as he feels, and he wipes some goo off his arm as he dodges someone to stay next to her.

Captain Jack Sparrow and OPEN

[bottlearum]

Somehow, this jump wasn't any better than the last one. Somehow, it was worse.

Jack is continually amazed at how much waking up in the gravity chamber reminds him of his death. Covered in goo, unable to breath, complete and utter disorientation, followed by temporarily having no idea where he was. It's all very reminiscent of being eaten by a Kraken and waking up in Davy Jones' Locker.

It all comes back rather quickly, though. It's hard to forget being stranded in space, after all.

Jack's left coughing longer than usual, and the room is spinning faster than it should. He places a goo covered hand on his goo covered face, trying to slow the world down. It takes a while for some sembelance of orientation to come back to him, and when he stumbles over to his locker, it's with less grace than usual.

[agtcarter]

Peggy was already showered and felt a whole lot better after the initial wake-up from the chamber. She was hanging around the med bay for a little while longer to offer aid to those who might need it, just as she had promised to do so.

The sight of a man who wasn't very stable on his feet catches Peggy's attention and she follows after him as he heads towards the locker, wanting to make sure that he was alright.

She catches up with him a few minutes later, calling out as she approaches. "Sir." Ever the polite one. "Are you alright?"

[idkmybffmahogany]

Oh. Oh, these were not the prison cells. Cold like them, certainly, and with the same absolute vacuum of -- grace. But not the same. Partially because she was doused in some something which was unlike any experience she'd ever had in her life thus far. More so because she didn't recognize a single face among the bunch yet, not a nose or a wig or a, well, everyone here was in a state of absolute disarray, weren't they?

But she was Effie goddamn Trinket. And she knew everyone.

She's definitely unsure on her own two feet, stumbling up onto them and patting idly at her face. Oh, her makeup was going to be in absolute shambles. Her wig -- not even there. Naked! Partially. Well, that wasn't anything new, but the rest was atrocious. Her fingers pull at woefully sludgy hair before she holds out her hands, splays out all ten and inspects her nails.

And she's missing two press-on acrylics.

It -- It just wasn't fair -- There is now an Effie standing amongst all the mess, staring woefully at her ruined manicure, the beginnings of a sob starting to work its way onto her features.

[killarevolution]

It's by some miracle that Haymitch Abernathy isn't naked right now- uncomfortable? Very. The only thing in his locker was something regulation and form-fitting and reminded him all-too-much of what a prison uniform might be like. Also, the collar's too tight and he keeps hooking his fingers around it and pulling it away from his throat like someone with a nervous tic.

He came back to the med bay for the purpose of seeing if anyone he recognizes is here and maybe provide some context to this whole ordeal. The person he finds, however, isn't Plutarch or any of a number of mentors he's been conspiring with. Instead, it's Effie Goddamn Trinket.

Not one to bother looking disappointed- how could he? Bad situation, it might be, but it's not every day you catch Effie in a state of such complete disarray. Such a moment should be preserved for posterity, even if it's just for a second until he figures out what's going on.

Plus it's keeping his temper in check, lest he lose it all over some unsuspecting passenger who probably knows as much as he does.

"Effie," he says from somewhere behind her, amusement coloring his normally acerbic tone. "Didn't recognize you without the wig."

brittany s pierce, lord tubbington and FOREVER OPEN

[fondueist]

Lord Tubbington is huge. And squirmy. And he brought her to a health spa with him, which was nice.

It's a creepy health spa, though-- and Brittany doesn't remember how she got there. Which happens sometimes, once she walked all the way from home to the school parking lot (and then back again) without remembering how or why it happened. Maybe it's her head, which keeps pounding like there are rocks inside banging into the gnomes that make bodies move.

"Lord Tubbington, we talked about your online shopping addiction." Brittany 'oofs' as she lifts him up so they can see this eye to eye. "You have to stop."

Because cats can buy transport to health spas online, apparently. Or Lord Tubbington is very dedicated to American materialism, either/or.

/casually spams your inbox

[consulting]

Sherlock tries to formulate something. He prides himself on his wit and his outright ability to figure someone out in seconds. Brittany then has become the standards for anomalies. It had to be a ruse, it had to be.

May Brittany S Pierce be forever known as the only person to render Sherlock Holmes speechless.

He really has nothing to say, so he'll just make this face at her direction.

[theshabbiestofmen]

The first time was bad, but the second time was even worse, Lupin thought as he stepped out of his gravity chamber. The first time was disconcerting, terrifying-- but this second one had come right after one of his transformations, which made the pain of it all the worse. Lupin gave a little groan as he stretched and glanced around, trying to identify the new arrivals.

[bottlearum]

Jack's not a new arrival, but he does almost bump into Remus as he makes his way to his lockers.

He's incredibly unstable on his feet this time around, so his hands are flailing around, trying to give him some sort of balance before he falls over. Surely, he would be more stable without all the flailing, but well.

"Ah, sorry, mate! Didn't see you there."

alayne stone (+empty wheelchair) | OPEN

[wont]

The first thing she does is cry.

No.

The first thing she does is make sure she's alone — that there's nobody else in the white room with her, no shadows creeping in the corners in search of someplace better to hide. Only then, after she's certain that no one will hear, does Alayne Stone cry on the cold metal floor of the halls of healing. She may be a bastard, but she's a lord's bastard, which demands certain dignities (and weeping has none).

Since traveling with her father from the Fingers to the Vale, much has been demanded of Alayne — be bold, be brave, be dutiful, be comely — and Alayne (in her gratitude and indebtedness) has done all that she can to provide. But her shoulders are narrow and unfit to bear such burdens, and so she cries. Silently, so that no one will know her fear and her uncertainty; alone, because no secret can be certainly kept if another man lives who is privy to it.

—

Later, as she moves through the halls of healing and the maze of lockers beyond, there is be no proof of her weeping. No, instead she is a vision of certainty and poise, without so much as a chestnut-colored hair out of place. Her full skirts swish softly as she looks for a mirror in which to braid her hair, as she maneuvers through the small clusters of passengers to fetch Bran's wheeled chair. Those she knows she greets with a polite smile and a gracious dip and those she does not simply earn a curious glance before she hurries along, pushing an empty wheelchair down the aisle, back to where she knows that Bran is waiting.

[seem]

He dreams of the Trident.

It isn't a clear dream — or rather, bits and pieces of it are, like great panes of glass poorly welded together. The sunlight falling through the leaves shading the godswood, dappling his skin and making blinding crystals in the air; the grass under his feet, as soft as any carpet; the rush of the rivers, bubbling as if with laughter; the red of Tully hair, adorned with a makeshift crown of wildflowers, perpetually just out of his reach; the red of blood, the flash of a blade being swung up, the tearing of skin, his own blood bubbling up in his throat, choking him.

For the briefest of instants, he can't help but wonder if he's going to die.

—

He wakes, and there is still something in his throat.

Almost immediately, panic sends a chill down his spine. There is absolutely nothing about his circumstances that strikes him as familiar, and, suspended in blue fluid, all that he can think is that he is going to die. But even as his hands reach up to try to scrabble with the tube thrust down his throat, to pound upon the doors, they open up and he falls through, body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Panic is a phenomenon which, for Petyr Baelish, is extremely rare and completely unwelcomed. It implies a loss of control over his surroundings, of being out of his depth, and if there is anything that he has striven not to be, it is that.

As things stand, though, he isn't given too much time to linger upon the subject, or to come up with alternate plans, as he only manages to right himself to his hands and knees before his stomach seizes, and he retches upon the floor.

[unfiltrating]

Dammit!

It wasn't like he didn't have these things plotted out right from the beginning. Jumps were monthly, it was easy as that. He programmed them out on his comm, and done. But there wasn't much that could prepare him for the stark openness of them, kind of a weird open sort of vulnerability thing? Maybe.

There weren't enough people on this ship to keep transferring haphazardly between disguises - someone was going to notice a similarity. Artemis already had, but that had been a long time coming. So long as he was predominately Robin, there wasn't much to hide. Well, there was plenty to hide. Kind of his entire self. But still, it was easier.

He'll charge to the showers as per usual once he catches his bearings. Once, uh. The world is a little less pukey and spinning. "This is so not on," he moans aloud, hands clapped over his face, a tiny 13-year-old Dick Grayson in black boxer briefs who was determinedly not going to yarf all over his grav couch.

[totallyhisniece]

"Hey look."

That's all the warning he gets before Artemis tosses his mask into his lap and settles in beside him. She's getting used to this, kind of, and there's not a lot better than being a super hero who has no secret identity. She's able to walk around on her own, not worrying about sneaking off before someone sees her face. Since she has that freedom, she's done her best to help Robin- she still things of him that way, it's kind of hard not to- get through the whole thing unseen.

"One day, this will be normal. And that's the scary part."

Sherlock | OPEN | Prose/Action is finee! <3

[consulting]

There are days when the world is magnified.

Everything is sharp and contrasted and every surface that comes into contact with his skin is rich with texture. He observes everything from the subtle patterns of ridges in the tranquillity uniform to the opacity of the stasis fluid. He notices the faint wefts of cigarettes in the air and the almost acidic taste lingering at the back of his throat. Everything is loud and Sherlock is the only one listening.

Sherlock will stare perhaps absently as he catalogues every intensified sensation he is graced with. In nothing but the Tranquillity issued boxers and still covered in goo, he will take an almost cat like stance as he perches himself up on the bench in the locker room. One hand pressed against the back of his neck and the other one has his fingers falling into a subtle repeated drumming pattern

( ... --- ... )

In between indexing he’ll remember to blink.

whatever i was logged in as him.

[starked]

"I'd mention taking a shower, but I'm not your babysitter." Tony almost drawls before plopping himself next to Sherlock on the bench.

Tony isn't like Sherlock (either of them, despite sharing a face with another) and he as such he doesn't bother with indexing everything. Instead Tony just vaguely takes notes of certain things, like where Pepper is (not here), where Natasha is and where Aberdeen is and....oddly enough, Sherlock. The thing is, Tony would actually maybe miss Sherlock if it came right down to it. He's rather entertaining for a genius who's an idiot.

"Anything different?"

cool for tags anywhere between pod and locker /o/

[heltersskelter]

It was about just as fun getting into these tubes as it was to get out, but like every time, it fucks with him. Fucks with him hard, because every time he comes back he's keenly aware of his body. That's it's real, that he can feel his heart beat, that he gasps because he needs to breath and not because it's habit.

Tate hits the deck hard this time, and he curses around his choking (cocksucking piece of sh--) and presses his forehead against the cold floor. It takes him a minute to get off the tiled steel, like it always does, but it's because he's reaching for that thing he can do. His chest itches, it always does, like he can feel the scars even though that's impossible. Maybe it's because he knows, if he gets up too soon, it'll draw attention. Questions. Things he doesn't want.

He counts down from ten, evens his breathing, makes sure any anomalies are hidden by his glamor and levers himself up from the floor with maybe a little too much grace. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glances around with too dark eyes, and just like last time, heads for the showers.

Eventually, when he finds his way to his locker, a towel around his waist and one on his head, he reaches in to find his clothing and pauses. Rubber meets his fingers, and though it's too dark in the small space to see what it is- Tate knows. Knows like it's an extension of himself. The pads of his fingers press over the fabric, curling against the bite of the zipper, a soft sort of glaze filtering into his eyes. Do you want to see my mask? his mind supplies.

Right after he gets off the floor?

[onteamdyson]

"Tate?"

He was down long enough for Kenzi to worry. She'd already quelled the urge to vomit and finished freaking over the tube by the time he'd finally stood up. She placed a slightly-gooey hand on his back.

"You okay?"

He'd been nice to her. She was drunk as hell, and probably even more annoying, and he'd been there. Witch sacks! Sweet kid. Definitely worth worrying about.

cassie | open | action/prose.

[flightdeck]

[ There is an order to this: the first part, the part where she wakes is the most difficult and Cassie finds herself sicker this time than the previous, a mouthful of statis fluid and unpleasant fluttering sensation in the space just behind her ribs making it an obstacle to rise from the floor in the medbay. (But she does, eventually, and the hardest part is over with. She's still alive, she's still here; she guesses that's something.) The second task is to shower and Cassie does so as quickly as she can, taking an extra moment to make sure she has wrung the mess of the grav chamber from the length of her hair.

Third on the list of things to do is make it to her locker; the imprint on her arm remains and Cassie touches it, still wary, still curious, before she sets out on her next venture. She's brisk, remains quiet, slips seamlessly through the smattering of her fellow passengers; if she had the energy for it, Cassie thinks that modesty (or lack thereof) might be an issue for her but at the present time it isn't and all she can do is get to her locker, her belongings, as quickly as she can.

She dresses in the Icarus II crew uniform stowed in the locker, just the same as she did the first time she woke here. Fully dressed and finally semi-comfortable (though still a little sick, the trembling in her chest soon manifesting itself higher as a throbbing ache in her head), Cassie glances down at the communications device she pulls from the locker before sticking it into the side-pocket of her utility trousers. (She holds her Icarus II comm device in her hand for a moment, too, and considers leaving it in the locker - habit won't allow, however, and she winds up tossing the lanyard around her neck anyway.)

Cassie pauses, takes a moment to collect her thoughts and catch her breath. In the back of her mind, she knows that nothing about her predicament is normal, that her second awakening as a passenger aboard the Tranquility cannot be reduced to the meticulous task-list that she has made it out to be but it keeps her calm. Still, the thought remains: you have a mission - it's not here. She stills for a second in front of her locker and sighs heavily, briefly disheartened.

Inhale, exhale; it's the one moment of being at a loss that Cassie lets herself have before she sets to work again, rummaging around in her locker in the hopes of organizing her things. ]

[grndnpnd]

[ It's getting to be routine almost, no more or less comfortable than any of the dozens of routines he's had to adopt and leave behind over his life. Training at the crack of dawn with pop at thirteen. Getting dumped out of bed during basic training for guard duty and to run through P.T. half asleep. The goo from the beds is easier to clean out of his mouth than sand at least.

When he comes back out of the showers, he's got a towel slung over his shoulders. He'd stashed it nearby when the last jump was announced, as much as anything curious about whether it'd still be there when he woke up or not. There's a woman nearby when he reaches his locker, and a quick glance her way -- barely intentional, just reflexes and the over-awareness of his personal space that he's been carting around since he got out of the hospital -- makes him stop. He tugs the towel off his shoulders and holds it out in her direction. ]

Missed a spot, [ he says and then uses his thumb to gesture at the spot just behind his own ear to show her where. ]

open | prose or action it's all cool

[handelaar]

Now, the last time this jump nonsense went down, he had - after a scuffle and a broken nose or two - opened his locker to find a few brand-new possessions.

And while his favorite possessions are the ones he gets a great deal on, they're followed closely by the free ones.

So when he's ungraciously ejected from his pod (for the third? fourth? time), the first thing that makes itself clear in his mind is that getting to his locker might be a good thing. It overrides the common sense that tells him to stay put until he's not about to puke all over someone's feet, or worse, fall on said feet. And the common sense that would normally manifest itself into checking for his fellow nations? Gone.



Anyone in the way can fuck off.

[profligates]

There you are! [Balthier was glad to see his... what, his friend? His favorite to bother? Something like that.]

open \ however you want to respond, JUST COME AT THIS SKELETON

[sammyskeleton]

You are in a river and you need to pull yourself together.

It was a unique sensation to feel something try to slide up through your throat when you didn't, in fact, actually have a throat. Unique in this case meant slightly painful and a bit terrifying, because for one long moment, he felt as though he were underwater and all he could remember was that he'd died in a horrible and painful manner. Then again, it wasn't completely surprising he was under the impression of being submerged, given that there was a viscous fluid draining from around him, which he went right with because, well, he was just a bag of bones at this point in his life. It was hard for him to do anything but go with it. Serpine, he thought for a moment, before remembering that no, Serpine was dead, so this wasn't him. Vengeous, then, his mind tried - but no, he was dead too. Well, fine then, he figured, Somebody else. Good lord, he wished that life would give him a few days to organize himself before throwing him back into yet another whirlwind adventure.

He realized he wasn't wearing his suit as soon as his feet touched ground, and for a moment he was glad. It'd be ruined if he'd been wearing it. Of course, then came the rushing realization that he was a walking, talking skeleton falling ungracefully out of a pod of goo, and that was... not so good. Also, nothing looked familiar. Very not good. Finally - and this was the important bit - there were other pods around, and other people. Very exceedingly not good. Well, with any luck, nobody would notice him and he'd be able to scuttle off and not start a mass panic. That would be goal number one.

Goal number two would be to find his suit. There was absolutely no way he'd be solving any mysterious arrivals in a strange and futuristic setting without it. ...Now to just find out where that would be put, without drawing attention to himself.

Yeah. As if that would be easy.

[heltersskelter]

Only not, really, because how the fuck do you miss a walking skeleton? Tate had seen some crazy things in his day- which generally ended at immortal, flesh eating babies- but even he hadn't bore witness to this. Or how it made any sense at all.

"Holy shit-" He blurts without pretense, as though he'd been startled when he came upon the man(?). He draws up short and stares up at him with huge eyes.

Erik Lehnsherr [ open ]

[swagneto]

[ They told him it would happen and Erik had done his best to be prepared, but he doesn't quite manage the same ease of the others, doesn't quite manage it with the same ease he intended himself, but that's another period of self loathing for later, when the numbers 004 » 012 catch against his wrist as he draws his hand up and through his hair. A second set of numbers that don't quite match up with the previous ones, and Erik does a double take that barely registers before he follows the rest of the moving crowd.

Right now he's not interested in interacting with anyone, short of cleaning off the mess as swiftly as possible, tucking himself back into the corner of the ship Erik is usually found in and planning his next move, but anyone interested would find Erik at his locker, slender fingers glossing over the helmet as he wills himself to recall those last few seconds, seconds that Erik had on the shores of Cuba that never quite dissipated.

There are new faces, as Erik scans through the crowds in between shrugging on his clothes, the odd person here and there reunited from what he's observing, but still, no sight of someone he's familiar with - Charles and his team, particularly. Maybe it's for the best to begin with, the tension between them unimaginable, but he doesn't question it right now, shifting through the crowds in an effort to simply listen. ]

[circumitus]

[Somehow, it's much easier for her this time than the last few. She quickly got over the sickly feeling boiling from the pit of her stomach. Now her main concern lies with getting up, getting dressed, and getting the hell out of here. There is no sense of luxury in the idea of confinement, and for Rey she tends to feel the weight of that burrow inward like a parasitic feeling.

[It's usually just like her to avoid contact with others during times like these. Coming out of those things... They tend to make her feel weak, and sickly, and vulnerable. Leaves her out in the open, exposed. While dressed now, her head still spirals and clings to that very open and vulnerable feeling, like something isn't right. Something isn't right... Something has never been right, and it had nothing to do with those cramped spaces, the tube that gets shoved down her throat, or the lingering sense of lost time.

[Pointless as it is to search for familiar faces, she begins to make for a hurried leave, when she is stopped by a brief glimpse of familiarity. Not because it was someone she kind of only vaguely knows, though.]

This has a tendency to get old after awhile.

[Part of her snapped to just keep on walking, but she's already said the words. She doesn't know why she bothers. One of the many mysteries of life, perhaps.]

Ned; open to everyone. /o/

[fly_like_pie]

[Wouldn't it be funny if this were all a dream?





Hellllllll no, as Emerson Cod would say. The immense amount of emotional turmoil was hardly worth a good laugh--even a chuckle, OR A WHIMPER! Instead, the Pie Maker identified this process as very real. The tube. The fluids. The nausea. It is the Space Witch's recipe for her cauldron of evil, and Ned is the main course. Stirred around, heated, and peppered to the point you could say "voilà!" to such a perfect meal.

... Okay, enough of that.

He's here again and there's nothing he can do. Sure, he goes through the rest of the process--cleaning up and moping. Except, there's a bit of dizziness to spice things up. He suddenly bumps his head into his locker, stumbles backwards, and forwards again. It could be the suppressed emotions bubbling in his throat, but all he knows is... dizziness, oh god, DIZZI-NESS.

So, he sits against his locker and stares off into space, no pun intended. Definitely not.]

[jilt]

[ the piemaker. irene stops by his side for a moment, touches his shoulder with gentle, hesitant fingers. startling men, even ones who strike her as harmless as ned, is always something to be done with care. ]

Are you well?

Wesley Gibson | Open to prose or action

[target]

[Well. This was new. Not new in the way that he wasn't already used to waking up naked and in a vat of liquid, but new in that he wasn't used to having the added bonus of a tube rammed down his throat. New in that this whole setup seem a little too high tech for him. Even with all of the Fraternity's funds at his disposal.

Okay, technically Cross' stash. But there's more than enough to get by there.

Stumbling out of his pod, Wesley takes a moment to just lean up against the side of it, trying to regain his bearings. The place is too clean, too organized, to mean anything good. There's noises coming from down the hall; other people who've been dragged here? But he doesn't bother going to look yet.

Right. Wake up in a strange new environment? Check.

Have no idea how the hell you got there? Double check.

Have no fucking clue where your clothes are? Or your weapons? Going with another check there.

Okay. Seriously.] "What the fuck is going on?"

[jilt]

[ crude, thinks irene when she passes him, but is that not a sentiment that she understands well? so she pauses long enough to drop a towel at his side, something like a welcome present, as far as irene is concerned. ]

I doubt you'd believe it if I told you.

[ since irene certainly hadn't. ]

locked to bbc!Sherlock

[rebelled]

He doesn't remember climbing back in to the tube; can't recall much of the moments leading up to the last jump. He remembers the ritual. Remembers pouring the blood, the water. He can recall every moment of the ritual, right up until he began focusing on the name. He'd tried to locate Raphael. Tried and then...

Nothing.

And now, he's stuck stumbling out of the pod, gathering up the fleeing remains of his Grace as he heads toward the one place on this ship- ship. Not an illusion. This is all...real? -that he feels safe. That he knows he'll be given the time he needs to rest and regroup.

One, quick burst of Grace and he's winging his way across the ship and toward Dean's room. Too bad that there isn't enough left in him now to make it that far. A sudden jolt, and he's crashing his way through a table with no idea where he is. No idea, and no way of finding out. One moment he's trying to scramble to his feet, the next-

Enjoy the near-corpse now laying on the floor of your room, Sherlock.

irene adler; open!

[jilt]

[ irene hates the jumps, with all their mess and the fumbling of new arrivals. one would think it was possible to manage some sort of grace and dignity when it came to this jump business, but there's little of either to be had when covered in blue goop, so what irene's really learned is how to land on her feet.

( a singular talent; she's always been very good at it )

so now she picks herself up off the floor, flicks the offending substance from her fingers as if she is so very above all this chaos and goes to collect a towel and a shower and perhaps her coat will be waiting for her again, like last time. ]

[wont]

[ On Irene's way from one place to another — from the pods to the shower or perhaps the showers to the lockers — she passes a long bank of sinks which run against a wall fixed with mirrors head to toe. There is a young woman with long damp hair standing in front of one, dressed in clothes of unfamiliar styling but of a fancifulness that perhaps Irene can appreciate nevertheless.

She is busy trying to affix her hair atop her head in an elaborate series of knots and braids, pins cupped awkwardly in one hand as she attempts a curlicue with the other. When she catches Irene's reflection behind her and realizes she's not alone, the girl stops and straightens and gives a little dip in acknowledgement though she does not turn to look Irene face to face. ]

[faderbroderson]

That the breathing tube is unnecessary; that's Godric's first thought upon awakening. His second is that he shouldn't be here, though his reasons for knowing that escape him. The liquid drains, the tube retracts, and when the doors to his chamber open he drops, his body strangely uncoordinated.

He stays there for a time, his legs folded beneath him and his head bowed, a statue among a swarm of the living. This place is unknown to him. The scents and sounds surround him and he takes them in silently, listening to heartbeats and voices, the subtle slap of wet feet against metal flooring. The gel he emerged from smells both chemical and organic, his surroundings almost sterile save for the warm bodies moving here and there. None of these are vampire. None are humans he knows. Some are not human.

There's a thought at the edge of his mind he can't grasp, a collection of memories and images that escape him. There's an urgency about them, something important, even vital in relation to the place he finds himself now. He makes a few attempts to recall, but the usual sharpness of his mind is blunted and he's forced to let it go. Later, he'll try again. For now, his thoughts shift to why his memories are failing him, and the odd unreliability of his limbs. Few things should affect a vampire in such a manner, all of them deliberate and usually cruel, and yet he senses no hostility from the people around him. If this is a trap, he is not the only one caught in it.

[unparental]

Teenager, is Jenna's first impression. Maybe a little younger than Jeremy, but around there. The tattoos are a little weird on someone that young, but she can't really judge what hippie parents let their kids do. Elena's occasional glass of wine can speak to that, as well as the half of the stash Jenna pretended she didn't find during her moment of doubt with Tanner and Jeremy.

That reminder tugs at her, and she detours from heading right to the showers to drop to her knees beside him. Holding out a hand without touching him-- just in case-- she settles a little then says quietly, "Hey, kiddo. You okay there?"

[onsilksheets]

Peppermint.

That was Bela's first thought when she stumbled out of the chamber, getting to her feet a lot more quickly than last time. Memories flash through her mind: conversations she had, people she had met. She doesn't waste time in going to her locker, opening it quickly to retrieve a piece of peppermint and suck on it to quell the queasiness in her stomach.

She placed her hands on the locker, resting her head against it gently and inhaled deeply a few times, trying to clear her mind of the fuzziness. All she needed was a few moments before she would head to the showers and cleanse herself of the vile blue goop that covered her body.

Bela finished the peppermint before releasing her grip on the locker and getting into a straightened position again. She still felt woozy and sick but it couldn't be helped until it wore off. Her main priority was to get to the showers without falling over.

[firstofficer]

They had not met in person, not formally at any rate, but there are- he's found- individuals aboard the Tranquility who appear uniquely capable of making an impression. Bela, is immediately recognizable despite the vast discrepancies with which Spock is accustomed to seeing in her.

The scent is faint, but unfamiliar all the same- and at her profile, his own hands busy with adding information to his communicator, his gaze falls on her face. Brows creased in equal parts confusion and curiosity. "-Peppermint?"

[agtcarter]

With military precision, Peggy was showered and dressed within twenty minutes, her locker items retrieved and safely stowed away. She felt a bit ill but it didn't stop her from what she intended to do. This time, Peggy decided to go back into the Med Bay and see if anyone required assistance; she had volunteered after all.

However, there was a second reason for her return: she was looking for someone. After hearing that people could arrive even after they had died, Peggy intended to keep an eye out for familiar faces from home. Namely the person whom she had kept a picture of in her jacket pocket ever since she arrived here. Thankfully, the picture was in her locker when she went to it earlier.

Looking around herself, Peggy took the picture out of her pocket and held it out in the palm of her hand, brushing a finger down it, an almost wistful look on her face. The picture itself was torn and crumpled but it was hers and a reminder of someone that she cared about very much. She had hoped that they would turn up one day and while she wouldn't wish imprisonment on them, seeing him again would make her incredibly happy.

[theblogger]

It was a bit unusual to see someone dressed, hanging around the tanks. It usually meant someone who wanted to help, since the sickness of the jump was formidable and anyone would, understandably, want to find a place to bunker down by themselves until it passed. It was possible that the woman in question was here for some sort of medical assistance.

But then there was... a photo? Having no one to contend with at the moment, John approached the woman slowly. Her posture spoke military, easily recognizable to someone who was familiar with not just seeing it, but moving with the same discipline.

"It's not a nice thing to wish on anyone," He addresses her, quietly. However, he opens his hand, "May I?"