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

[favouring]

( her shift to concern doesn't precisely abandon that gladness, that affirmation - bravery is not defined by 'something you are utterly unaffected by afterwards'. that is stupidity, which she has little time for, and he is many things-- but no more stupid than any other quite intelligent man.

so, a little, yes, but it can't be helped and isn't immediately relevant. )

Is there anything I may do? For you, or others?

[forgodssake]

[ Charles treats this question with thought, wandering a look from her -- there are new people, staggering bewildered and lost and dazed. Other survivors, such as himself, varying degrees of shock, happiness, stone cold shut down and exhaustion.

He brings a hand up to brush his brow free of blue liquid, fingers combing back his hair. ]

I don't think so, Nuala, thank you. I think we've all worried about my and my fellow mutineers' well-being enough for a life time. But perhaps later, I might call on you for company.

[favouring]

Then I will give it gladly.

( she kisses his cheek - so briefly there is barely any true contact, more a sort of physical sentiment - and takes a step back, smiling. )

There will be others who wish to see you well, and we both must make ourselves tidy-- I will expect to hear from you.

[forgodssake]

Good.

[ His smile is different from prior giddiness, stupid boyish madness -- sincere and gentler and grateful. ]

That we must. Take care, your highness.

[ He steps aside, to let her find her own path -- he will seek out those who missed him, but with the cold of the room and his own discomfort clinging wet to his clothing and hair, he'll make for the showers relatively shortly. ]