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

[strayed]

[Asking what the worst of his worries are will just have him lashing out at her, she's sure. And she'd understand it, would do exactly the same. She isn't going to offer herself up as punching bag, though, so she doesn't say anything about that - steps in closer, reaching out to take his wrist.]

Hold still.

[Not that it's necessary, except maybe it'll stop him trying to pull away as she focusses, a slight frown pinching her brow, veins in her hand and arm turning black as she leeches his pain away.]

[doggedly]

Why would I need--

[And then she's got his wrist, and her hand is on his, and he scowls a little, goes to tug away--

Only then there's this--feeling. Like pain, but backwards, and he can't think of any better way to say it than that. Pain but backwards, receding, and the veins of her hand suddenly stand out black against her skin--and her arm then as well, and he feels his knees weaken a little, and gasps--and then the pain in his hand is gone, entirely. Just gone, like that, and he sucks in a ragged breath as he stares at her.]

What the hell was-- what the hell was that?

[strayed]

Pain relief.

[She says it plainly, as if it was obvious, like he shouldn't even need to ask. It isn't entirely accurate, but he doesn't need to know she's pulled his pain away into herself, gathered it in to carry for however long until it dissipates. She's stronger, doesn't get injured like him; it's better that she takes it.

She lets go of his wrist.]

It'll still need to heal.

[doggedly]

[It wasn't obvious, but now that she's identified it--well, it makes sense. What else would you call someone leeching pain right out of your hand? He stares down at his knuckles--which ought to be bruised at the very least, bleeding, split skin--and it should hurt. He's idiotically punched enough inanimate objects to know that much.

But it doesn't hurt. It doesn't so much as sting, and he looks up at Cora, blankly, a little bemused.]

Thanks.

[It comes out gruffly. He flexes his fingers, drops his gaze again.]

You didn't have to.

[strayed]

I know.

[Which is the least graceful way of accepting thanks ever, but it shines too much light on the fact she really didn't have to do it, leaves the question of why she did - and she doesn't want to linger on that, examine it. It was instinct and maybe a little bit of care, and walking away would have been better, but she hadn't. It was done now.]

You didn't have to hit the locker.

[Which leaves him with the question of why he did.]

[doggedly]

[That's not an answer, he nearly says, 'I know' doesn't answer anything, but then again, he hadn't really asked a question either, had he. Nor is her statement a question--but then again, it is, and he looks down at his hand rather than at her, fighting down the sharp feeling that rises quickly in his chest. It's a choking sad feeling, one he doesn't know what to do with, and he tightens his fingers again, making a fist, like he's going to undo what she's just done and punch the locker all over again. Anything to get out something of this feeling, to get free of it.]

He's gone.

[Vague, and stupid. His face darkens; he looks up at her, all at once.]

My friend. James. He's gone home. And he dies there.

[She'll have seen James back when they were doing that bloody memory-sharing routine. Any thought of Sirius' comes right along with bonus James, and now he's gone, and the tight feeling in his chest spreads a little more, but he doesn't drop his gaze this time.]

[strayed]

[It's a cold drop in the gut. A twisting, sharp feeling of helplessness and loss. Cora knows it, and she doesn't need some kind of link with Sirius to experience it right now. The month after she'd woken up here, Erica had gone home - only Cora had seen Erica killed right in front of her. Erica didn't have anything to go back to.

Something softer filters into her expression, understanding and sympathy. But she doesn't flinch away from Sirius' gaze, and she doesn't offer up any words, any I'm sorry.]

Come to the gym with me.

[doggedly]

Don't--

[Don't what, exactly, how was he going to finish that one, and even he doesn't know. He looks quickly away from her, breaking their gaze, his shoulders rising sharply, his moment of honestly flitting quickly away. Roughly, he laughs.]

What, is this another date? I'm flattered.

[strayed]

[It's easy to react to that with something more cutting and incredulous, but Cora can't always switch away from understanding so easily, not when she's set on a path. Instead she looks long-suffering, like his jokes about dates are something she's been dealing with for a lot longer than the few months she's actually known him for.]

If I was taking you on a date, we wouldn't go to the gym.

[It's maybe more open than anything she should give him, but he's the one being defensive for once, and for all her bite, Cora does know how to bridge gaps.

But she still isn't that patient about navigating them, and she doesn't give him the time to argue before she's grabbing his wrist again, this time to drag him out of medbay.]

Come on.

[She's small, but much stronger than she looks. Perks of being a werewolf.]

[doggedly]

[That's-- not what he expected her to say. That's something that's nearly a joke, sort of, and he looks over at her, momentarily wrong-footed.

It's enough that she can grab hold of his wrist, anyways--and even if he hadn't been distracted by that comment, she still would have been able to, because she's quick and also, yes, Merlin, but she's stronger than she looks. Sirius really has no choice but to go along with her, stumbling just a little over his own feet. His knees feel weirdly weak after that burst of anger, like it took something extra out of him.

So, fine. He follows after her, staring at the floor, since she's guiding him along anyways.]

What for, then.

[Why the gym, is the real question, but also: why are you doing this. There's a weird closeness that he feels to her, if he remembers to drop his stupid pigtail-pulling act. It's all leftover from the three hours of handholding, probably, from that exchange, but he doesn't know what to do with it--and here it is, again.]

[strayed]

[There's something familiar in having him by the wrist, leading the way. It's a different situation, there's no spill over of his emotions in her head, and with the current state he's in that's definitely for the best. Going the other way, it'd give him an answer on why she's doing this - Cora herself acts as if she didn't even hear him speak until they get into the lift.]

For you.

[She doesn't let go, even though they're in a contained space and he's not putting up any fight on coming with her. She glances over at him.]

It gets some of it out.

[Hitting something that'll do less damage to his hands than a locker door.]