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

[askedtobe]

[ after the rush to the pods and the past week and everything, peter's a little shakier on his feet than he usually is. not that he ever likes the jumps, but they don't exactly make him chipper either - especially not after days spent losing his mind on the bridge. days that now hang over his head like a lead cloud, waiting to pull him back to right where he is. in a room that was aging and falling apart around him and--

shut up. his brain needed to shut up.

the last time around, he'd been recognized at the jump. but this time he turned just as he was finishing pulling his shirt down and stared. stared. and it wasn't the friendly sort, the kind that came with attraction or fantasies of friendship. no, peter was just kind of displeased. ]

Elle? [ spoken loud enough to be heard, peter expected immediate recognition. and then he'd have so many more words to say. ]

[sleuthtastic]

[ It takes a little while for it to sink in. Veronica's not a spy or anything, but she knows what it feels like to have eyes on you, to have someone watching. This time, she doesn't take it in until someone calls out a name that isn't her own. She wouldn't have responded to it in the first place, if it didn't sound so— hostile, is maybe the nice word for it. ]

Veronica, [ she corrects, immediately thinks about Nathan, the way he'd talked to her on the network. ] Leeeet me spell it out for you in english. No electricity shooty-shooty. Does that about answer it for you?

[ It's not that she means to be testy, but. Well. ]

[askedtobe]

[ oh don't worry. he gets it.

though, it's his turn to take a second and blink and try to see past the veneer of someone who looks far too familiar. like him and his 'weasel faced junkie' self, he now knows what it's like to be accused of something you aren't and well... she doesn't really sound like elle. she does, but elle wouldn't say half those words. ]

Sorry, I just. [ no, really, have an apologetic grimace-look-thing, though her edgy response is a tad... frustrating on its own. ] - Yeah, that about answers it for me. But don't blame it on me that you happen to look like someone I knew.

[ mostly he'd wondered if he was going to be put on the slab for another round of shock therapy for shits and giggles but he isn't going to be saying that out loud. ]

[sleuthtastic]

[ Which is completely true, of course, because she really can't blame it on him that she looks like someone else, or the random generator of the universe decided to repeat that particular set of genetics. Veronica does look mildly apologetic, resting the back of her hand on her forehead for a brief moment. ]

And yet, here we are.

[ An exhale, and she makes a little face instead. ]

I promise, I'm not— a walking static electricity rod. I am, apparently, quite testy. [ Beat. ] Sorry.

[askedtobe]

No- It's fine. Don't worry about it. [ peter waves a hand, trying to brush aside the moment in an attempt to stop feeling like an upset asshole. it's not her fault, not his fault, not anyone's fault save for the ship. ]

And don't worry, I believe you. I just- last time I saw Elle wasn't exactly on good terms.

[ he shrugs. ] But that doesn't have anything to do with you. I get why it pisses you off though, got regonized for someone else last week. Didn't exactly make my day any better.

[sleuthtastic]

[ Well that makes the count twofor people who are feeling like assholes today. ]

Bitter ex?

[ Haha. That was a joke. Maybe. She shifts her weight, mentally reminds herself that it really isn't his fault, that she's just— frustrated and, okay, maybe still a little scared about everything. It's been months but it all still feels so— you know. Space. ]

Sorry, I really didn't mean to be— [ Ergh. ] It was one of the first things Nathan asked me when I got here, so. Whoa, flashbacks.

[askedtobe]

[ ... peter snorts, eyebrows raised at the very idea before he gives his head a small shake. ]

No, uh- lot more complicated than that, actually. She was more like... [ how does he even start to try explaining this one. after another second he cringes, shrugging helplessly. ] She kidnapped me for one thing. But it's kind of a long tory.

And really, it's fine. Don't worry about it.

[ he sighs, glancing around to see if he can spot nathan anywhere before looking back. ] Figured you must've met Nathan already. Don't know if he introduced me without my permission, but i'm Peter. And you're not Elle and you don't have anything to apologize for.

[sleuthtastic]

[ It comes out instinctively, born from a little fear (kidnapping is a familiar case, in the end) and apology: ]

Kidnapping? With these hands?

[ She jazz-fingers at him, her mouth curved into an apologetic kind of mue. ]

Peter. [ A beat, then with a lift of her brows: ] Do you also pick a peck of pickled peppers? Please say you do. I'm in space, the odds are high with this one.

[askedtobe]

[ he almost laughs at that, though he tries fairly hard not to. simply because it's on the ridiculous end of the spectrum and laughing at funny things isn't allowed when you've been traumatized in space.

but at the end of the day, it's easier than actually managing not to. ]

It's not the only thing I do, but you caught me. [ he shrugs, seeming apologetic himself. ] For the most part i've found that space only ever increases your odds.