ataraxionlogs | twenty-eighth jump;

Entry tags:

twenty-eighth 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: 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.

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[ 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. ]

[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.]

[ 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. ]

[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.

Then we are staying.

[ and she moves to lean against the lockers, the metal cold against her back (silk has never shielded her from anything); her hand stays in his, fingertips brushing over the knuckles to sooth whatever bruise that might be forming. she doesn't address the subject of other people. there are no other people but her and him, not now and not for her. ]

we are staying here.

[He doesn't look over at her, or smile. He doesn't acknowledge the brush of her fingertips--but he feels them, gentle over the tender ache of his hand. And he wants to twist away, he wants to go off into the corridors and do something--even if there's nothing to be done, he wants to do something--and it's weak, to give in to this, even for a moment. To let her be something soothing. That's weak, right?

But it's all so heavy. And he sags back, a moment, against the lockers, staring dully at the wall opposite. His anger is right there, it'll be back in a moment's notice, or with no warning at all--but it stays, for now.

There's silence, a moment. Just the two of them, no other people.]

How does it decide, do you think. Who to bring and who to send back, and who to leave. How does it know.

[ she sees the edge just beneath the surface and doesn't try to expel it. She is a Borgia through and through, she knows of blades and plots and things not many would think her knowledgeable of. If Lucrezia is painted with the same edge, a hint of something sharper beneath her smiles - well. it usually doesn't show. ]

I do not think it knows. There is little reason here; I think it just acts. I do not think it decides nor chooses.

[ everything here seems random. for her to be here. for him to be here. ]

It has to.

[He stares down at the floor, sucking in a breath that's a little ragged. It feels as if he's been punched, a little, as if there's something jagged that's taken up living in his chest.]

It has to decide somehow. How else do we end up here, with people we know? If it was just random action, we'd all be strangers. There has to be something.

[And something, then, to blame, though he doesn't say that aloud.]

Perhaps there is. But it is all - covered in madness. Searching for reason there might lead us to the same infection.

[ search for reason in a madman and you might go mad yourself, she thinks and sighs. she thinks of people she had loved and are no longer on the ship; thinks of sweet Chase who has died in the dark halls searching for answers and looks up at him. ]

[Is it just that she says it so gently that it makes sense? Better to know, he wants to insist, if only so they can either stop it from happening or bring back those that were lost--but it should be the former and not the latter, if he's not thinking selfishly he would make it the former. Better for James, even if it hurts.

And it does hurt, deeply, in a way he can't put to words. That helplessness calls up his anger again--he knows what to do with anger, at least--but he can't turn it on Lucrezia, even now.]

I'd still rather know.

[But he doesn't mean it. Even as he's saying it, he can hear how falsely it rings. He's so much better at this, usually, so much more ready to keep face, keep up his end.]

I'm just-- tired. Of this. Of all of it. [It comes out haltingly. Simple and honest and far too open. He pushes a hand over his face, hunching his shoulders, miserably.]

If I could I'd bring you the truth, the whole of it.

[ and perhaps it is dangerous, even if they are only the two of them here, for Lucrezia to comb her fingers through his hair and say this; she is a woman who would be married and she knows the dangers of people talking - she knows well Cesare would bring her the tongues of those who would speak against her too but that is unthinkable, isn't it? It must be and she banishes it from her mind because this isn't Rome and here the game is much more subtle and Lucrezia cannot command the world to bow to her will. ]

[He gives something of a smile at that--sad and quiet and not at all happy. Because she would. She's beautiful and clever and dangerous, in her way--he knows, even if he doesn't often think of it, because they're always smiling when they're together, and she is never anything but sweet to him. A little sad, sometimes, but he can always coax a smile out of her--a better smile than the one he gives her now.]

I know.

[It means something to even have the offer, even if she can't. And he wouldn't ask it of her if she could. The price would be too steep, he's certain of that, at least--but instead of saying that, he reaches for her hand. And it's stupid, but the next word comes out too thick, and he can't correct it once it's been said--]

Thanks.

[ he takes her head in his and he says 'thanks' and something in her becomes very sad, something in her becomes very angry. if she had a person to blame for this, she would have had blood for this as a borgia's wrath is always a terrible things. but he takes her hand and it helps her relax a bit. it's odd to have his gratitude, odd to have gratitude for something so natural to her as her love for him is. and she's being too affectionate, she is, especially here and now where all can see and talk but she leans to press a kiss of comfort to his lips, small and gentle and very warm and smiles. ]

always.

[He's quicker to respond to her kisses, usually. This one gets no immediate response, besides his slight smile in return to hers. And his fingers wrap a little tighter around hers, for a moment, before he relaxes his grip.]

More kisses like that and I'll be quite all right in no time.

[It's a little empty, but it's what he would usually say, so he says it. The faster he readjusts and gets himself back to the way he ought to be, the better.]

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twenty-eighth jump;

lockers!

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