twenty-eighth 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: It could just be the standard sensation of air on wet skin, but if you bother to check, you might notice the steam rising from your body, barely there and gone within a minute. By the time you get to the showers, it will be clear that it's not just taking you time to adjust. The room is cold — colder than usual, but no worse than the last jump. While it's nothing dangerous, it's certainly motivation to hurry through the usual routine and get dressed quickly.



It's getting closer.




YOUR EYES ARE OPEN.

KEEP LOOKING.

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

pods & lockers || ota

[doggedly]

[[pods]]

[He wakes up, and it's like a prickling at the back of his neck: something is wrong. And it isn't that they left people on the bridge, late. That had bothered him, but not half as much as perhaps it should have, because there was always something, on the fringe of his mind, and it's like double that right now.

He's more brisk about this, usually. He has it down to a bloody science: go to the showers, wash off, get to his locker. But this time round Sirius hunches over himself, still on the floor a moment. He pushes his fingers through his hair, ignoring the way that they stick, a little, in the blue shit, but Sirius hunches over himself with a harsh breath, and stays there, a moment.]

[[lockers]]

[At the lockers, he waits. Not by his, but by James'. He waits, and he watches everyone go past--people he recognises and people he doesn't, not that he's marking any of them in particular. None of them are James. It's James that he's looking for.

It would be false to say that the longer he waits, the more sick he feels--because his initial prickle of apprehension has only spread all through him, making every moment worse, until it's come to this.

Because James is gone. He's gone, he has to be, and Sirius feels something deep in him, some yawning chasm of a feeling, worse than anything he's yet felt. Remus being gone, that was bad. This is dizzying, unfathomable, and he stares down at the floor, his fists tight at his side, before he whirls around to punch, once, at the door to James' locker--quick, fierce, and then he braces his hand flat against it and leans, his breath ragged, his shoulders hunched.]

lockers!

[mansuetus]

[ she watches him out of the corner of her eye when she asks one of the girls to help her dress, to pull up the silk blue gown and tie the lacing. it's not like him to be still, not to go about and seek some mischief but she thinks he must be waiting for someone to step out of the showers and doesn't think twice of it.

it's only a while after she left that she stops, frowns and thinks about the what if. there is always the little thought at the back of her head, the need to check and see faces and affirm that she had not lost them. cesare, robb, gwen, sirius himself. she stands and thinks and then, without so much as a word, she turns and returns to the place she had left earlier today.

she arrives in time to hear the clash of fist and metal and she doesn't jump nor looks startled. she moves - a display of angry violence is something she had seen and knows well, being a borgia. there would be a day when she herself will grow to do the same but it is not today

today she is still more lucrezia than a borgia. she moves over and gently (her fingers are warm) takes the hand that delivered the blow and presses her lips, slow and intentional, to the knuckles.

her brother would say lucrezia is so blinded by the beauty of the sun that she steps too close to it at times but she would shake her head and smile and say she has learned from Icarus' misfortunes.

he will not hit her. ]

[doggedly]

[He's so focused on the locker, on the twinge of pain in his hand and the feeling, deep in him, the wrench of James being gone--he doesn't notice her approach, not at first, not until she's too close.

When he was younger--first year, ages ago, so long past it sometimes seems like it happened to someone else--when he was younger, Sirius didn't know what to do with affection, like this. It took a few years of James throwing a casual arm around his shoulders to wear him down. The Blacks don't express emotion easily. It isn't their thing. And sometimes, when it's unexpected, affection can make his shoulders rise, sharply, can send a prickle over his skin that makes him want to curl his fingers in against his palms--

He stares down at Lucrezia, hollowly, almost stares through her, his breath still coming short. But he doesn't hit her. He would never. He stares down at her, and he knows he wears his pain too plainly in his face, but he can't help it, right now. Not now. He doesn't pull his hand away from her but stands, numb and silent, without a thing to say.]

[mansuetus]

[ Lucrezia was always the different one of the Borgia children. Cesare was too solemn, Juan too smug and Lucrezia - open and smiling and charming to nearly everyone who came in contact with her. Careful with you affections, sis Cesare would warn with his little knowing smiles, don't let it be wasted on the undeserving.

She was too quick to give it, it would say. it placed her in danger of heartache but Lucrezia had not yet grown too think of it as such. The ones who have her affection are, to her, worthy of it. Those she gives her love to are more rare but those she would never leave and oft they are dangerous. History remembers her brother's hands as bloodied, Robb Stark had cut down many men in his battles - if she loves the edge then she's unaware of it. All she knows she is not afraid of either, she's not afraid of Sirius, either.

She's afraid for him because she loves him, of course she does, it would be silly to pretend she doesn't. She's afraid that one day the empty look in his eyes shall linger and his smiles will become fewer and it would be the ship's greatest victory and Lucrezia -

Lucrezia, like a true to form Borgia would spill blood, would have heads rolling before she allows this to happen. He's hurting she realizes and it's not something she can expel entirely, it's something she can ease.

(he had forbidden her to be sad without him, she might as well forbid him to do the same)

he doesn't pull his hand back which is a comfort. She doesn't pull him towards her, instead she steps closer, moves her other hand to rest against his cheek and presses into a sort of an embrace. ]

I'll stay with you here. Or we'll leave.

[ one way or another, there is a 'we' here. ]

[doggedly]

[Any other day and he might lean against the hand on his cheek. Any other day and he'd be quicker to fight this feeling down, to smile at her and dismiss it, put it all away until later. Emotion isn't something he usually has time for. Comfort, he doesn't need comfort, even if it's from someone he likes a great deal.

But today, it's not any other day. The anger that had seized him only a moment ago has not faded--it's there, hot, working at him--but there's a numbness, too, that spreads through him, and when he thinks of leaving, going out into the ship, going back to his room where James and Remus both ought to be--]

I can't leave.

[Can't. He hates that word. What kind of coward can't face up to this? Because he will have to face it, and soon. His eyes flick over Lucrezia's shoulder, staring beyond her, like maybe James will still come around the corner--but he won't, and the twist of pain deep in Sirius' chest renews his anger.]

You don't have to. You've got-- people, you've-- [It's a stupid protest. He sets his teeth together and shuts his eyes, a moment, breathes out, harshly.] I can't leave yet.

[jurisimpudent]

[It's not hard to guess the root of Sirius' anger. Edgeworth knows Potter's number; he knows whose locker that is. The absence is conspicuous. The conclusion is...easy.

(He doesn't know what to do in these situations. It's strange and uncomfortable, in its way, because Edgeworth was friends with Sirius but not friends with them - because they had never opened their circle to him, and he'd always felt on the outside. Sirius is so very dear to him, his best friend here, and so he feels sorrow when he feels sorrow, hates anything that hurts him. And yet some petty, unworthy, nasty, cruel, possessive streak in him actually allows him to have mixed feelings about this disappearance.)

So he stays back for a few minutes. Retrieves Pess, lets Lucrezia talk to Sirius first. When he wanders over, it's rather deliberately casual, and he lets Pess lead the way. It is, after all, hard for a conversation not to be improved by a happy shiba inu coming over to put her front paws on your shins, even if it's followed by an awkward expression and a self-conscious:]

Hello.

[doggedly]

[The pain of James being gone has shifted into something sharper and more brittle, something that keeps his shoulders raised sharply and his hands curled into fists at his sides. Every time he tries to think of something else, he thinks of James, being gone, and that's like when you've got a cut on the inside of your mouth, and you bump against it, with your tongue, forgetting that it's there, and then it sends a shock of pain all through you, all over again.

He stares down at the floor, his back braced against James' locker. His hand aches, a little. He hit the locker hard enough, it ought to have a dent in it, something, but it doesn't.

Pess' paws come as a tiny surprise. He blinks, quickly, and stares down at her, but doesn't lean down to pet her or anything.]

What.

[He doesn't look up at Edgeworth, either, and his reply comes dully.]

[jurisimpudent]

[And Edgeworth's response is, once again, to retreat. He'd wanted to back away when Lupin had gone; he wants to back away now. But instead, he moves forward, steps in, leans against the lockers next to Sirius.

Pess, that stalwart, takes advantage of the slack in the leash to try to climb Sirius' leg. Since her favorite person is not coming down to her, she is going to try to get to him.]

The...people on the bridge survived.

[He wonders if that's even an acceptable topic to broach. He wonders if it won't turn into anger that they lived when Potter was gone.]

[doggedly]

[He smiles, bitterly, staring at Pess instead of looking at Edgeworth.]

Yeah. I saw.

[Another moment of silence, and then he gives in, a little, and leans down to give Pess his hand to sniff at, if only so she'll stop pawing at his legs.]

Good for them.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She doesn't mean to come find him. It's an accident, although not a bad one, truly. She sees him brooding at the lockers from behind, and, well.

They haven't been apart. They decided to do this, didn't they? They decided that one bad turn does not a bad everything make. Or at least, that's what she thinks. She taps her board, carefully, so he knows she's there, because she still won't touch him without him seeing her first, she won't touch anyone without them seeing her first, not here where sometimes a surprise touch simply turns into a smack on the face.

And then she sees his face, and where she would take a step backwards, normally, she goes forward instead, and reaches her hand out.]

[doggedly]

[He flinches back.

Which he knows, after he's done it, that it was a mistake. She's fragile, in her way--not weak, but it's too easy for them to misinterpret each other, misread what's meant by movements and gestures. It can be easy to hurt her, and Sirius usually doesn't give a damn about stuff like that--but with Lucrezia, it isn't so easy. He's grown too attached to her for that.

But he can't. Not right now. He can't have people touching him, the thought of it makes his skin crawl--or maybe it's something under his skin, maybe it's because he really does want it. He wants to just put his arms around her, something, just forget that any of this fucking matters or happened.]

I'm--

[It comes out thick, and clumsy. He swallows; he shoves his wrist over his mouth and presses against it, hard. And then, impulsively, quickly, he reaches for her hand.]

[majestyofthethrone]

[Something's wrong. Something's wrong and Seraphim can see it, and she sets aside everything that she feels - all the crazy put aside for a moment, and when he reaches for her hand she moves closer, too, pressing closer to him, her arms around his shoulders.

It's not a sexual hug, it's just - its a comforting hug, because then her hands are in his hair.

She doesn't know what happened. She doesn't know and it doesn't matter.]

[doggedly]

[Something in him wants to shove away from her--fiercely, more fiercely than perhaps he ought to. Something in him wants to fight this feeling down, fight away from her--and either smile, and be all right, or else go off and leave her here, because he can't do this. Being without James is like missing some crucial piece, like a clock that's missing a certain gear, and he can feel it wearing away, in him, somewhere not so deep, somewhere so close to the surface it's painful.

He lets her step in close, he lets her put her hands in his hair, and his hands come up--loosely, awkwardly, not pressing against her so much as resting. His nose is against her shoulder, and he stares, blankly, through her, beyond her, a muscle working in his jaw.]

lockers

[ivurie]

[ She moves to approach him, Lady by her side - the sound of something clanging against the metal had initially drawn her attention, so that when she finally makes her way down the rows to where he stands, head bowed and body braced, she can see that the tension in his shoulders has not fully abated.

Rather than reach out to him instantly - though the instinct is there, the urge to offer something more than words rising up from within - she lingers near, hovering in his periphery so that he will recognize her presence. Perhaps she will address him once he lifts his head. For the moment, she chooses to remain silent beside him - until she notices the state of his hand.

Still without speaking, she reaches out to rest her fingertips against the back of his hand, inches away from the bruised, tender knuckles. ]

[doggedly]

[He's too focused, still, drawn so tight that he nearly jumps out of his bloody skin when he feels that touch on his hand--and he looks up, wild-eyed, staring around at--

Alayne. She'd stepped in so close and he'd not noticed her. Perhaps in another moment he would have at least looked around and seen her, or perhaps he never would have noticed. Everything in him is focused so furiously inward--only now he's staring at her face, and he knows he probably looks pale and mental, wide eyes and clenched jaw, anger and sadness etched too deep for him to try and correct. And he hates that. He should be able to correct it. He should be able to fight it down--but this is James, missing, and that wound is so raw that he can't manage it just yet.]

I'm--

[The word twists out of him, flat, miserable; he swallows, hard.]

Don't.

[She's had enough of this kind of shit. What little he knows of Alayne, he knows that she doesn't need more. She's meant to be smiling. And he wouldn't know where to start with that right now.]

[ivurie]

[ There are things seen, glimpsed but not entirely explained; she'd witnessed pieces of his past, knows his allegiances and his dependencies. She hadn't quite been willing to ask him what he'd seen of her, which memories of hers he now holds alongside of his own. Not all of them are pleasant. Some of them leave her with a hollow feeling, as though she is witnessing it through the eyes of another. To be Alayne, she'd had to separate herself from Sansa's memory, and refused to glance back.

She is not always smiling.

To see him like this, jaw clenching as he nearly grits out the words - she very nearly recoils, curls in on herself. She is not afraid, but that does not mean she will ignore caution. ]

You are hurt.

[doggedly]

No.

[He says it like he's correcting her, like she could have somehow seen wrong. When he looks at his hand, he thinks, yeah, no, she's right, but the pain hasn't yet set in. It feels distant.]

It doesn't matter. It'll get patched up. Everything here does, so we can keep going. For no reason.

[The dramatic tone of those words makes him scowl, and he stares down at the floor, lets his hand drop to his side.]

Where are you going, after this. To your room?

[onetouch]

[ ned approaches, digby in tow at a safe distance, and there's a smile on the pie-maker's face. ] Sirius, I-- [ oh. the smile drops and is immediately replaced by an expression of pensive concern. ]

Is everything alright?

[doggedly]

[He looks around, quickly, almost savagely--like that's even a question right now, when everything is so clearly not all right. But it's only Ned, and Digby--and there's a twinge of something very like envy, in Sirius; a dog would feel this sadness but so much less complexly, without everything in him at war.

He looks up at Ned again.]

What d'you do with him, when we do these-- jumps.

[onetouch]

Digby? He goes in with Chuck. Her... pod. [ the two things he couldn't touch but most wanted to in one sardine pack. ]

[doggedly]

[He nods, grimly, basically just a jerk of his head, and drops down to one knee, holds a hand out to Digby.]

Always wondered what people did with their pets. [And then, abruptly, almost as if this is part of the same thought--] My best mate's gone.

rolls in here really late

[strayed]

[Cora isn't looking for him. She's the opposite of looking for him, really, searching out the usual people she checks on after every jump, and any other time coming across Sirius, she'd completely ignore him. Except he turns and punches a locker just as she's passing, and that makes her pause, makes her pay attention.]

The locker's going to do more damage than you.

[It doesn't come out quite as sharply judgemental as it could. He's distressed, angry, and she can't really help the thread of concern that stirs up.]

like i care!! puts out pizzas in celebration

[doggedly]

[He braces his hand flat against the locker, setting his teeth together against the pain of straightening out his sore fingers. And he leans his weight against that hand, letting the twinge grow worse--

And then he sort of makes sense of what she's said, and laughs, once, grimly, as he turns to look at her, his hand still braced against the locker, his shoulders hunched.]

And you're pretending to care. That's nice.

devours all of them

[strayed]

I wouldn't put in the effort to pretend anything for you.

[It's sharp, matching his tone automatically, because Cora can never face harshness without giving some back. But the words are telling enough, even if she wouldn't argue it more directly than that.]

Did you break it?

[She didn't think he'd punched hard enough for that, but humans could be unexpectedly fragile sometimes.]

devours you!

[doggedly]

[Did he break the locker, is what he first thinks, ha ha very funny, and he snorts, insulted--but then realises that she probably means his hand, and he stares down at it, tentatively curling the fingers.]

No. Just-- [The pain of it is setting in now; he scowls.] Fucked it up. It's fine. It doesn't matter. Least of my bloody worries.