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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ waking up in a giant container of goo shouldn't be something a girl gets used to, but Wichita feels herself exhaling slowly without even thinking about it, the breathing tube slipping out of her throat without making her gag, and her knees bent a little bit so it's easy to catch herself when the thing dumps her on the floor. she's done this before. twenty-something times now. it's routine. she's used to it.

so she's a little shocked when she gets dumped out on the floor and she actually stumbles, her stomach pitching with the movement, making her-

oh god-

right, just. don't go over there behind her tube, because it's covered in barf. how charming. she's actually kind of embarrassed, because it's been a long time since she's gotten sick like that after a jump, but eh. maybe they were all stuck asleep for an extra month again. yipee. though one thing that hasn't changed is that she's not exactly scrambling to find a towel or anything, she gave up on being ashamed of her post-jump nudity a long time ago so she's slow and lazy about it, grabbing a small towel on the way to the showers and wiping off her face so she can at least open her eyes without the threat of goo getting in her eyes.

she showers.

she dries herself off.

same old, same old.

it's not until she's padding over to her locker that there's yet another setback. it won't open. at all. it just won't budge. 002 » 022, right. that's her. she waves her hand over the lock ( and tries really hard not to smile at the fact that yes, she's doing her 'these are not the droids you are looking for' hand gesture, like she always does, because it's not funny, it's not. stop smiling, Kansas, you giant idiot ) a few times, but nothing. ugh. what the hell. so she checks out her wrist-

and promptly curses ]

Oh, what the fuck. Since when do they reassi-

[ wait. she's still nauseous from the jump ( which is weird, still ) but she's not stupid. she knows what that means. 028 » 002. what was the last jump she remembered? christ. it's not clicking. actually, now that she's taking time to think about it ( think at all ), she's realizing her memory of anything before the last week before the jump is a little fuzzy. not lost, just. distant. like it all happened years ago. so, she's been asleep for a long time. not home, she definitely didn't go home, because there's no new memories of it. but she definitely hadn't been here either, if her number is different. she knows that from seeing it happen to people here before.

so where the hell did she go? ]

[ ooc; or feel free to hit her up by the pods/showers/lift. whatever. timeywimey's okay if more than one person wants to find her at her locker, but. yeah. BUH. just excited to be back!! :D ]

Edited 2014-02-08 05:18 (UTC)

The Pods

[She has to get the people in the bridge out. She has to open the doors. She has to help Nathan.

Clara jerks awake in the pod as adrenaline that coursed through her veins up until the very last seconds of the final jump still pumps in her now. She stumbles out of the pod in a disorientated attempt to run.

Unfortunately, the disorientation cuts that short as she ends up stumbling towards the wall to keep upright. Breathing heavily, she lets the energy fade from her body and watches the crowd to see who comes out of those pods.]

The Lockers.

[This jump, Clara is no longer determinedly poking around every corner of the room to find her missing Time Lord friend. She's starting to think that he will definitely not be showing up here any time soon.

Instead she's slumped on a bench feeling far more exhausted than she thinks should be allowed after being stuck in a pod. The events of the mutiny are weighing heavily on her. Before, the rumors of dangers on the ship had been just stories to her. Now she was more aware than ever of how trapped on this ship she was. And how at mercy she was to whomever was in control of it.]

Edited 2014-02-08 16:29 (UTC)

showers •

[ getting arya to bathe after the jump has never been a problem. she hates the slimy feeling of the blue residue. if that were not enough, seeing it dried on those who refused to bathe all jump did not make it any more appealing.

nymeria does not dislike the showers either. but if there is one thing nymeria ( and arya too ) has never been a fan of is the brush. like the one in arya's hand with which she was attempting to groom her wolf. nymeria had been shedding like mad and plenty remained trapped by the thick fur. this wasn't counting everything else nymeria seemed to collect in her usual comings and goings.

at the moment, arya fights nymeria for the brush after the wolf seized it. a brief struggle later, the brush is thrown to the side. both the girl's and wolf's heads turn to watch its flight trajectory. arya scowls at nymeria. ]

Stupid!

[ in contrast to arya's obvious frustration, nymeria looks all too pleased with herself. ]

kitchens •

[ dressed, her brown hair curling against her back as it dries, arya raids the kitchens for the things she needs to make waffles. nymeria lies on the floor near her, ears pricked up and yellows eyes following arya's actions. arya tries to get at a bowl on the cabinet above, but even on tiptoes she is too short. she hauls herself up on the counter to remove the bowl. as she's drawing back, her knee slides off the edge. the bowl hits the counter with a loud clatter. grimacing, arya looks behind her to check if anyone saw. ]

gravity couch - lockers

The only thing Frodo can feel when he comes to is the pain tearing down his throat.

As the doors open, he slowly starts to stagger his way, before collapsing to his knees on the cold floor. There's noises all around him. Frodo has troubles even opening his eyes; everything is so bright, and it makes it all the harder for him to focus. He's cold, and....and......

When his eyes adjust and his world stops spinning, Frodo looks up, only to find himself in...a very odd spot. The world was grey, big folk were moving all around him. Some seemed just as disoriented as he did, some others not. Frodo moves a hand up to his chest as the fear starts to bubble inside of him, to grasp at the Ring that hangs from his neck-

only to have his hand grasp at open air.

His eyes widen as he gropes again, only to find the same results. A terrible, hard panic starts to settle over Frodo then, drowning him. Frodo struggles up to his feet, making himself look left, right. There were so many people here! Cold they have taken it? Why would they, what good would it do them? It was his responsibility, none others. And how dare they meddle in his business and take-

Where was he, anyway?

Questions started to pile on him, weighing down on his chest. Frodo quickly scrambles to a set of boxes, lined up in a perfect order. They have strange markings on them; numbers and arrows and arrows and numbers. His head is spinning, his heart pounding out of control. All he wants was his Ring, his Ring...

Frodo looks down to check himself again, when he sees the odd numbers etched onto his skin. » 028 » 033.

They look a lot like the numbers on the boxes...

He starts to search then, scanning by the numbers as quickly as he could. No, not that one, no, no...

And then he stumbles by it. Frodo opens his little box, and...thank goodness. There lies the Ring. It was just waiting there, looking as innocent as the other belongings. It's waiting for him...

The little hobbit quickly, carefully puts on the chain, the Ring weighing down heavily around his neck. His skin aches from where the chain has rubbed, but he can hardly pay attention to that now. Frodo's filled with relief, and for a moment, that's all he can feel.

But then his attention returns to another serious question: where was he? This certainly wasn't Minas Morgul. There was no darkness, nothing weighing heavily on his mind, and no ghosts making his limbs move. No Sam, no Smeagol.......no Sam. No Sam?

Frodo looks around carefully, the other contents of his locker ignored. "Sam...? Samwise.....?"

pods;

[When the pods open, immediately, her eyes are a bright amber color, shifting as her hair stands on end. It's been rough and she's not sure why; she doesn't know why she's been sliding in and out of forms lately, why she's more on edge, why her rage doesn't quite settle the way it used to.

She manages to get a towel but there's something clearly wrong, to anyone who approaches her - she's shaking, just enough for it to be noticeable, she's breathing a little heavily, there's a hint of terror - or anger - in the way she looks around even as she wipes the gunk off her.]

lockers;

[The shift happened after she finished showering, at least, and she doesn't think anyone saw it. But now she's in feline form, padding down the rows of lockers. She should try to avoid people. She's huge, new people will panic, she's a fucking tiger, but she doesn't. She's making it for the Oxygen Gardens.]

Edited 2014-02-08 05:28 (UTC)

The Pods

Suddenly, she can hear herself gasping aloud. She's drowning in cold blue liquid, grasping for life. There is something in her throat and she claws at the object she's choking on, wrenching it from her throat and letting it fall to the ground with a clatter.

Breathing. Her chest heaving, her lungs once more filling with air she stumbles from the pod, stumbling and collapsing to the ground. It's too bright, disorienting. At first she can only open her eyes partly, trying to see her surroundings, take in everything. It takes her another few moments to realize she's naked and there is something on her arm, numbers, which do not come off when she presses her fingers against them. A permanent ink of sorts.

There is an explanation for all of this, she will find out what's going on, she's determined as she gets to her feet, shaking with cold.]

The Lockers

[Elizabeth is more certain once she's dressed, glad to have some clothes on. It's cold, a chill that gets to her bones. She pulls on one of her plain gowns, drawing her hair back.

She takes a moment to glance around at the others around her, no familiar faces. There are still no clear answers, but she won't give into the doubt that gnaws at her as she ties her pendent around her neck, quickly tucking it out of sight.]

Edited 2014-02-08 05:25 (UTC)

pods.

[ hook doesn't know the first thing about new york, but it doesn't exactly take a genius to guess this isn't it. the initial sensation is a bit like drowning, vision swamped in blue; then he's being unceremoniously ejected from the pod, and he only just manages to get a good grip on the side with his good hand and avoid slipping on the slick fluid. there's a reluctant pause to regain his bearings. or to make an attempt at it, anyway. a few seconds of observation tells him absolutely nothing of use, other than the fact that he's naked and he hasn't got his hook, which — not ideal, but he's far too irritated to dwell on the details.

the absence of his hook doesn't stop the phantom sensation of the metal sunk deep into the dark one's shoulder. the poison would kill him. hook's as sure of that as he is of anything, but there's still a sense of being cheated of his victory, the chance to watch a coward confront his death. and in the end, it doesn't matter that hook has no idea where he is. his mind's still there, back in new york, on the quest that's occupied his thoughts for the past three hundred years. wherever this is, the way forward is simple: find his hook, find the person responsible for the untimely interruption, get back to rumplestiltskin's cooling corpse.

at this second, however, he simply runs his hand through his hair before shaking blue fluid off his fingers onto the floor, looking altogether unbothered by the fact that he's just fallen naked out of a pod. any apparent nonchalance is quickly betrayed by his voice — it's hard to miss the irritated edge, matched by a smile that's far too sharp to be friendly. ]

This seems like quite a lot of effort just to get me out of my coat.

[ there's a handful of people capable of being this much of a magical thorn in his side — whether they're listening or not, the derision's meant for them. which sounds cool in theory, even if it mostly just means he's standing around naked talking to himself. ]

lockers - interrupt wherever!

[ if there's one thing a lifetime (or several) in the enchanted forest provides, it's adaptability. it's easy enough to humor the routine of the ship as soon as he's been brought up to speed, and soon enough hook's standing clothed before his locker. he doesn't retrieve the familiar silver hook until after he's put on his coat, and even then he's in no rush; takes a moment to study it, check it for traces of poison, blood.

it's clean. probably for the best, as far as the poison's concerned. regarding the blood, it's utterly disappointing. his expression's more disgruntled than angry while the realization settles, then he raises his left wrist and smoothly fastens the hook in its place. the pistol's abandoned as he secures the sword to his hip, and though there's a brief hesitation over milah's portrait, he ends up closing the door without removing it from safe keeping.

the moment he turns away from the lockers, he reaches out with his good hand to catch the nearest passerby by the arm. the gesture isn't necessarily forceful, but it's probably surprising enough to stop them up short. ]

If I were to say New York, you'd say... ?

[ The time spent in stasis was apparently enough to calm Rebecca's racing pulse, but as soon as she's conscious again, her brain is whirling. She hits the ground with a little less grace than usual (which already isn't too graceful, a good fall to prevent injury and nothing more), goo dripping out of her hair. She's still wearing her jumpsuit, her MP3 player and headphones sitting next to her pod as she had practically torn them off and simply tossed them down. There hadn't been time to stop at her locker, not if she wanted to live.

And god, but none of them on the bridge had wanted to die. But they'd made it, the doors had opened (with help from something, and the red text flashes through her mind, but she pushes it away because right now it is far less important). ]

I'm not dead, [ she whispers, then starts to grin down at the floor before rolling over onto her back. It's cold, but that just helps prove it- ]

We're not dead!

[ And, exhilarated, Rebecca starts laughing. ]

( lockers & elsewhere )

His newness would be more evident if he permitted himself to stagger and stare; he doesn't. There are enough people around that Severus doesn't need to wander purposely – he follows suit, keeping to himself with a frigid air that has nothing to do with the temperature of the medical bay. He listens and he watches – only out of his peripheral vision, unwilling to draw attention to himself by catching anyone's eye - but he doesn't call out and he doesn't linger except in front of 'his' locker, where the number matches the one stitched seamlessly into the skin of his forearm. He's almost too damp for comfort when he pulls his clothes on - his clothes, he bypasses whatever the hell that jumpsuit is – and leaves his shirt unbuttoned while he places both hands in the locker itself, looking over the few items left there.

Severus doesn't need a wand to perform magic and never has, but it's still comforting to see it there, to feel the current of it. For a moment he is almost grounded. He flips open his journal and in abrupt contrast experiences slight unease to see his own handwriting: for some reason the notion of his captors carefully rifling through his bedroom at the castle to pick up only one arbitrarily decided memento is even more disturbing than the already disturbing thought of having been kidnapped and placed naked into a tube of Merlin-knows-what. Frowning to himself, he thinks a drying spell and is at least grudgingly satisfied that it works. Less damp, he buttons his shirt up, glaring at the back of his locker. And thinking.

( closed to sirius )

Something is off about the way he visualizes magic in his head. It is miniscule, and Severus would be hard-pressed to explain it (harder still to admit it), but the metaphysical sensation is one he might liken to holding something and being worried you'll rip a fingernail clean off if your grip isn't right. He can perform magic, he's already confirmed that, but he wonders at doing anything very complicated and how the nuances might be impacted. He mulls it over, taking a hundred mental notes to investigate later, at the same time already scrolling through an index of “welcome” data on the strange device left for him. Severus knows what phones are, of course, but even if wizardkind were not cut off from the rest of the world, it was only 1984 the last time he was in a familiar plane of reality. This bit of pressed plastic is bizarre.

He's waiting near the lifts, not entirely in a hurry to step inside one but not particularly dragging his feet, either. He's distracted in a way he shouldn't be, in a way that only sudden and obsessive research can make him. It's the singular tell that he might actually be stressed out by this whole kidnapped-to-space thing.

[It says a lot about Blue and who he is that when he's grabbed by a man with a hook for a hand, he doesn't seem to be even slightly bothered by it. But then, he's seen weirder. He is, after all, a teenager with a trumpet hanging from one hip and a sword from the other.

(The fact that it's the most powerful sword in the Homelands is probably worth thought, but really, Blue tries not to think about it.)

He turns on his heel when the man grabs him, looking up, because naturally, he's taller than Blue. Everyone is.]

Papaya King or Gray's Papaya?

[Actually he would say Fabletown but, well. Mundies.]

a. Waking up (warning for references to torture)

[There's the sensation of liquid surrounding her, she can't scream, here comes the shock--

The blue liquid is drained and she's dumped on the floor. Her fingers slip on the floor as she tries to stand, tries to get herself ready for an attack... she sits on the floor with a growl, shaking everywhere. It's all she can do to make herself stay there because she feels sick and not right and cornered.]

b. lockers

[When she finally is able to get up off the floor and towel off the blue stuff, she goes over to the lockers, giving the showers an angry glance. All else is forgotten when she opens the locker with her number and takes out the axes- two good, Capitol-made axes- and holds them in her hands. Her fingers tighten around the base and she gives them a feral grin.

She checks out the device for a few minutes, but it only says one thing. To hell with that. She wasn't going to take shit, especially not a lift. Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!

She looks at the outfit, but she's wants to be intimidating. She doesn't want to be a piece in this game. She sits cross-legged in front of her locker, device, outfit, and one axe sitting next to her while she picks at the her other axe, trying to shine it up.]

[ooc: It's worth noting that Johanna has a shaved head and smells really bad. ota!]

[ gendry recovers quicker this jump than he last. he showers quickly and gets dressed before making rounds (something he decided to do this time instead of fleeing straight to the forge), looking for friends - familiar faces, more likely.

he hears arya's shrill voice before he sees the girl and wolf, distracted mostly by the brush skidding across the floor towards him. gendry swoops down to pick it up without taking a break in his steps. ]

Here.

[ he's quick to join arya's side and holds out the brush. ]

the pods •

Ilde has no frame of reference for what's happening to her; she's on the floor before her response has had time to get further than panicked bewilderment. The liquid sliding down her skin and gathered, clumping, in the thin fabric of her underwear (at least she's wearing underwear-- that's a stupid thing to think, she doesn't think it's even hers, that isn't comforting)-- it feels disgusting, and it's so completely outside of anything that she can readily contextualize that for what feels like a very long time she doesn't move, just pushes herself up onto her hands and stares down at them as if she isn't sure that they belong to her.

the showers •

This isn't real.

This isn't real, this can't be real. This is insane. This is completely-- this can't be real. It feels real, though, blue goo clumping as it dries into her hair, and it's with some reluctance that she slinks towards the showers to deal with it. Has she ever taken a shower in a dream before? Maybe. Fuck.

Edited 2014-02-08 05:40 (UTC)

[Elrond steps into the room just as Arya slips. There is very little that he'd be able to do, but his hand rises and he takes a quick step forward anyway. There's a wince at the clatter; he recovers quickly enough to meet her gaze with a raised brow.]

Are you well?

[ She's trying not to freak out.

(She's a little freaked out.)

Things are a lot easier when they're in front of her, parsed out like they should be. It's not that puzzles or life endangerments are some great, unfathomable thing, but it's that— it's that the jumps, the realism of everything, it's scary. It's frightening. (It doesn't help that she sees Beav— Cassidy, at the corners of her eyes sometimes, in that way people on board have been, the flickering in the mirrors when you look at them the right way.)

So Veronica's a little freaked out. (She misses her dad so much it hurts, sometimes. Wallace. Duncan. Logan, even. Anyone, with a familiar face and a familiar voice—)

Okay, Mars. Game face.

Let's make sure nobody really died, okay?

Towel drying her hair (ugh, blue), she's a little out of it as she makes her way to the elevators, doesn't seem to notice that she should be doing a lot of swerving and a lot less thinking. (Funerals. Is that a thing, that you do in space? Do you make a plaque?

What does Joe know about this, if anything? What does anyone know?) ]

[ emma is disoriented - more than usual, this jump, because she hadn't entirely been expecting to make it through this jump. she still looks out of it even as she approaches her locker, numbly opening it. the haze is broken by a familiar voice - it had been months now since she'd heard it, but it wasn't one easily forgotten - and she finishes pulling on her sweater, foregoing boots to move around the row of lockers and stop short at the sight of him. ]

Hook.

[ it's flat and disbelieving. how does he keep popping back into her life? every time she thinks she's left him behind ... she blinks, pushing down the confusion and collecting herself to offer something more substantial. ]

What the hell are you doing here?

[ or ... in theory, more substantial. more importantly, why the hell is he asking about new york? ]

Veronica!

[He sees her towel drying her hair, and god, it's good to see people are okay after the whole -

It's good that she's all right. It's the first time they've met in person, and it's nice that for once there's a girl who's shorter than he is, even if it's only by a little. On one hip, a trumpet.

On the other, a sword.]

Hey, are you all right?

[There is a little patch of blue gunk where he missed washing it out just behind his right ear.]

➝ pods

[ The moment he wakes he spreads his arms, shoves them roughly against the sides of the pod, feels the way the tube thrust down his throat already begins to move and he is disengaged, spat out against the ground. He gets a firm footing at first, it's easy--not so easy when he realizes he is devoid of his suit and the air is cold against his skin and one coordinated step makes for him going down onto his knees and wrists awkwardly. In the face of a Covenant brute, one might say that John is violently graceful, all fluid motions and calculated arcs of his knife. Never has he felt so clumsy, a small stream of blue running down the side of his face.

Cortana.

He feels the empty echoes of her, the unresponsiveness in the back of his head and it makes him breathe in once slowly and correct his mistake, pulling himself up onto his feet quickly. Faster, soldier, faster.

He's unprepared, stripped of his armor, stripped of his weapons (they hadn't even left him a knife). This isn't cryo, of that he's certain. Cryo is dry and cold--there's frost on your visor, your entire body is numb, dizziness, vertigo. Here, everything is just... irritatingly wet. Sticky. Still cold, but not in the way you can shake off. He spits the substance in his mouth out onto the floor, quick and easy, and finds his footing again. Slowly, he tells himself. Easy. He has take it one step at a time, but it hits him like a brick. This isn't the Infinity. This isn't any ship he's known (unless they're switching things up on him, sweeping out the old, making room for the new.)

After the plates came off, it's back in the box for the toy soldier for however long the world takes until it's fallen apart. He knows the song and dance all too well. Finds himself growing bored of it, maybe even learning to have the capacity to dislike it strongly (but never hate it--it's just a necessary part of the job.)

The current mission's objective is as follows, he tells himself. Find the MJOLNIR. Find a weapon. Get some intel. That is the mission. That is the mission and you can't be distracted. Goals. Objectives. No distractions. Mission first.

But no Cortana.

(You've worked alone before, this shouldn't be hard.)

He moves forward on careful feet with long strides, passing carefully through the sea of people, a brief touch there with his shoulder (everyone is wet, swarming lockers, it's disgusting). Stares will be ignored--he's used to them well-enough already. As he moves, he flicks a brief glance down as his hand, at the augmentation scars running lines up his knuckles and arms, down his back, his legs.

At least they've got something right:

028 » 117

One one seven.

That's you, John. That's you. ]

➝ lockers

[ Upon investigation of the lockers, John immediately finds himself filled with a sensation of relief and violation. They touched it. Whoever they are. The armor is stacked carefully on it's side in the locket, slotted perfectly so that it will fit with his shotgun and rifle.

He squints at the helmet that looks back at him.

He doesn't remember his visor being so dinted up. So he reaches and grabs hold of it, the weight of it good and proper in his hands. Putting it on now would be ridiculous--hell, the rest of the armor would be a pain in and of itself to put on, heavy as it is (but he'd manage it later, as soon as he could). For now, the crew's uniform will have to do. In all honesty, he's surprised that it even fits.

Piece by piece, he begins to examine his suit, arm plates first, chest plate, and so on.

The thing is massive as it leans against the locker, accumulating into the vague shape of a disassembled man. ]

( ooc: feel free to hit him up post-cryo, at the lockers, in the crowd, or in the showers! c: open to everything and anything, really! )

Edited 2014-02-08 06:03 (UTC)

Just as with the last jump, Harry tries to charm a towel to retain warmth, but it still doesn't work. He tries another quick spell and seems satisfied that at least the damage - if that's what it is - remains contained to temperature regulation. As he mulls over this development and dries his hair, he notices another young man standing at a locker nearby.

It's not. That couldn't be.

Then again, even if it is, at least it's not Peter again. Harry almost wants to laugh at the relief of it, but sobers quickly when he realizes that Riddle might one day appear on a jump. The war that should be over and is over, hasn't yet happened for most of the wizards he's met here.

Just in case, he should warn The Man Who Could Be Snape. It's a stupid, rash decision that will likely be seen as an intrusion or an insult, but Harry consoles himself that Snape's distain is probably a universal constant and he might as well make the universe happy.

"Er, I'm sorry. You look a bit like a man I know." He's put his wand away and moves to show that he's not armed and means no harm. "May I ask your name?"

It's Snape.

Of all the people in the world to end up here, it's Snape, standing by the lifts--not the old Snape that Sirius had seen when he first arrived here--but a Snape that he recognises far better. And it doesn't even occur to him, that this might be someone that just-looks-like-Snape, it doesn't occur to him that something might be wrong, with this, that there might be some repercussions to this--he sees Snape, and he goes for him, because what the hell else is he going to do?

Because James is gone. He's worked that out by now. James is gone, and the ship seems infinitely crueler and emptier, and Sirius is so fucking angry he can't see straight, he yanks his wand out of his pocket when he's halfway to him, and then he's there, he grabs for the collar of Snape's robes or shirt or whatever, and he goes to shove him against the closed doors of the lift, viciously, his wand tight in his hand.

"Snivellus." He snarls it out, and his grin is more a baring of his teeth. "Aren't I lucky."

[[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.]

[Marty gets spit out by his pod and faceplants the floor.

But the pain isn't exactly unwelcomed there, and it takes him a few minutes to realize what had happened not long before, and how he's pretty much not dead. Maybe it's residual crazy, but he laughs like a completely insane person, and anyone around him will probably worry he will stab them with something sharp or maybe jump on their backs or something radically socially incorrect. He's pretty much ready for someone to carve into him about how stupid it was going into that brig, but he doesn't care at the moment, because he's fucking alive.

Fucking survived.

He's on his feet and off to find Dana, make sure someone dragged her back to her pod, because if they didn't, he'll flip the hell out is what. Of course, by the time he gets to anyone else he might want to let know he's alive and well, he's sporting a red, bloody nose from the girl's petite fist to his face. Hopefully nobody else is planning on hitting him today, all things considered, but it's not like he's about to fuck off without people knowing they all made it out.

You know what this means, Tranquility —

Looks like Marty's Space Potato Chips aren't going to be shelved.

Not this jump.]

[ Trumpet. (Boy Blue. Right.) On the other hand: sword.

These are the things Veronica might have noticed if she were feeling okay. If she didn't feel so — what's that word? Antsy. The kind of fear you don't realize you feel until you drive away, until you see a reflection in the rear view mirror. Until you know you might die—

(Come on, Veronica. This is not the time to get Texas Chainsaw Massacre about things.) ]

—hm?

[ She stops, the motion of it almost automatic. She places his voice first, then his face; the little bit of blue gunk makes her smile, not necessarily at but because it just— it knocks her out of that whole woe is life in space thing. ]

You could say I'm feeling a little blue.

[ Too much? ]

[ the beginning would feel like the end. she had been warned.

but there hadn't been supposed to be another beginning, there hadn't supposed to be anything at all -- she had meant to die, hadn't she? someone had promised.

she fell out of her pod and landed harshly on the floor, too caught up in the memories to be able to catch her fall -- there had been strangers (but they weren't strangers at all, were they?), she was afraid and confused... one held something over her face... and then there was nothing. pet -- but she wasn't pet, was she? no, she was someone else -- was having trouble finding her muscles, figuring out how to move. first came her eyes, and she blinked those open slowly, looking around her. there were so many people, and she was in a place she'd never seen before in her life. even when she found the muscles to move her limbs, she couldn't, paralyzed with fear.

that was different, wasn't it? she'd never been so afraid she couldn't move before. usually fear prodded her into action, made her run. in her other body -- her other body!

wanderer sat up abruptly -- that was who she was, not petals open to the moon -- looking at her hands in confusion. they were small, pale things, with a little bit of a silvery sheen to them. on her left arm was a number, one that hadn't been in her memories of pet's life at all, and no amount of rubbing would get it off. this wasn't her body, the one she'd been in for the past year. no matter how loudly wanda screamed in her own head, she couldn't find melanie, and that was almost scarier than waking up in a place like this was. why had she woken up at all? doc had promised he would let her die, she didn't want to be a parasite!

slowly, limbs shaking beneath her, wanderer got to her feet, watching the people around her for a cue. they were all moving in the same direction, for the most part, though some were standing around talking to each other. with a deep breath, she walked over to the nearest person, tapping them lightly on the arm. ]

Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but... Do you know where we are?

[ it didn't even occur to her that this person might not be trustworthy. her own memories were still dim, the memories that come easiest to her pet's, and pet had never met anyone who wanted to hurt her in her life. the only thing that crossed her mind was how high her voice was now, so different from her old voice. and had humans gotten taller, or was she shorter? ]

(ooc: feel free to run into her anywhere else, too! she'll be making all sorts of confused faces at her new body in the showers and at the lockers she'll be confused by the things she's gotten from home.)

"Wake up. Wake up. C'mon, Nate, rise and shine."

To say Nate was rattled was ridiculous. There was no word strong enough to describe the level of unrest in that mind of his, especially after all that had transpired on the Ishimura. A dull ache in his arm became far more pronounced as a shooting pain as consciousness came to him. His eyes snapped open and sudden confusion caused a panic in his chest. The tubes were far too familiar; just like the ones on the Ishimura, the ones Nicole had put he and the others in. The urge to struggle and scream was far more prevalent than Nate wanted to admit, but he had no chance to. The tube was gone, the liquid with it, and he found himself squirming out of the strange container like a lowly belly crawling slug.

He coughed violently. The tube was out, but he never liked the feeling left behind after a stint in a recovery chamber. That was the least of his concerns, however. He was cold, vulnerable and impossibly tired. Sore, paranoid... there were too many things going on in his head. He went to brush the excess liquid out of his face, but then came to remember that his hand was no longer there. Nate's stomach twisted into a painful knot. His wound appeared to be properly wrapped, at the very least, but the fact remained that he hadn't a clue what transpired. Did he black out? Probably. Where was Gabe and Lexine?

Nate hadn't even noticed the numbers permanently engraved on his left arm, but he had noticed the familiar glow of his RIG reflecting off the various metallic surfaces around him. Red. That wasn't good. Someone clearly took care of his arm, but not much else. As a matter of fact, he felt weak. His knees didn't want to support him, so Nate ended up crouched near the pods, left hand pressed firmly into his face.

[ ooc; JUST A NOTE: nate is missing his right arm from his elbow down. think malik from assassin's creed! also, a rig unit is installed in his back, which will draw much attention due to the fact that it's, yknow, a glowing thing sticking out of his back. ]

Edited (ooc note!) 2014-02-08 06:21 (UTC)

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twenty-eighth jump;

ota;;

ota

no subject

frodo baggins | open to all!

ota;

Elizabeth Woodville - OTA

captain hook | ota (replies might be slow until monday!)

ota.

ota.

LOCKERS hi

Johanna Mason | OTA

showers.

( open )

kitchens

ota.

no subject

no subject

mcpo john-117 ➝ ota

no subject

no subject

pods & lockers || ota

marty mikalski | ota

no subject

wanderer; pods; ota

PODS | OPEN