twenty-sixth jump;

[ataraxites]

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: Your average, run-of-the-mill jump—except some characters don't seem to be waking up from stasis like they should.



Don't worry.




THEY NEEDED THE REST.

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

[homogamete]

[ one could make the argument (and rosalind certainly would) that nearly every eventuality they might have experienced would be more tolerable than this. claiming that all of them would be agreeable would just tempt fate unwisely, but naked, slimy, and—wait a moment. she catches robert's arm after he raises it to inspect his nose, turns it palm-up: --- » 026 » 124. she frowns infinitesimally and rubs at the numbers on his arm with her thumb in an attempt to see if they'll move, if they're just india ink or someone's idea of a hilarious prank.

they don't budge. ]

And we've been branded, it seems.

[ a quick check of her own forearm, just to ensure that she hasn't been missed out by whoever saw fit to tattoo numbers on their arms. she hasn't.

their window into this particular possibility is growing less pleasant by the moment. ]

[heterogamete]

[ robert mirrors her frown, blinking away the residual haziness from his vision. ]

Ah. So we have. [ he presses a slick thumb over his own peculiar mark, same as she, then takes her forearm gingerly to inspect the matching brand himself. --- » 026 » 123. a single digit's difference—the last count of heads.

how... apt. ]

Someone's misguided idea of a joke.

[ his tone, dry and unamused, suggests it's nothing of the sort. ]