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

kitchens

[humanistic]

[It's a fucking kid.

Mitchell's hunger is always difficult to wrest back under control, after the jump. Whether it's because it's like they say, and they're months in the pods--or because he wakes up surrounded by people, by food, blood in veins and pulses thrumming thick in his ears--or if he's just gone so long now without feeding that the strain of it is wearing him all-over thing--it doesn't matter, really, does it? What matters is that he's struggling, every month it's worse. He picks himself up, he rinses off, he grabs his shit and he goes. Runs off into the ship, finds some secluded place to wait it out. He doesn't even go back to their room any longer, because he can't let Annie and George see him like this. Sweating and on edge and scared and hungry, above all, hungry.

Which is why it's idiotic, to end up in the kitchen. Like anything here is going to sate him or take this edge off--but that's not how he ended up here, he ended up here because he was trying to get somewhere else--anywhere else, anywhere without people--and then the urge to feed was so strong he'd staggered under its weight, he'd ducked out of the corridor, and--

It's not a werewolf smell, when the kid comes into the kitchen. It's a wolf, an actual wolf, and a fucking kid. Was she in here before him, or has he been in the kitchen for a few minutes now--or hours, maybe--time is so fluid, right now, sliding away from him, impossible to pin down.

And Mitchell laughs, once, shortly. He looks like shit and he knows it; he feels like shit. He needs to get out. Or she needs to get out. Something. He can't fucking focus.]

Careful.

[There's an edge of warning amusement to the word, like he knows so much better than her. Get out is what he should say, but the other side of him wrestles that wiser instinct down.]

[wolfchild]

[ nymeria stands swiftly. she studies mitchell like something new and strange. eyes narrowed, she barks. it's not such a strange reaction. arya can count on one hand the people nymeria likes. usually, she might ignore it. but she's still jumpy after her encounter with morgoth ( changing her routine, favoring new locations, keeping others — bran and gendry, in particular — near ) that she does not dismiss the warning sound.

she keeps her hands on the bowl as she turns around. it's sturdy enough to hit hard if thrown. arya hugs it to her chest, her brow knitting in a frown. the voice is familiar, but that means nothing. there are a hundred voices on the network. and he looks awful. ]

Shouldn't you be? You look like you're dying. [ a little pause. ] Are you dying?

[humanistic]

No.

[But that's funny. His lips lift, quickly, in a grim imitation of a smile, one that doesn't do a thing to fill in the hollows of his face. He's leaning, hard, against the counter, his arm braced straight and his fingers curled on the edge.]

And I don't need t' worry about being careful. One of the last things I need t' worry about. [He's subject to this place, but he's subject to so much less than everyone else. One of the perks of immortality.] But you ought to be. Even with your dog.

[wolfchild]

She's a direwolf.

[ she has had it with the motherfucking dog comments on this motherfucking ship B( ]

I'm hungry. Unless the food starts trying to eat us, I'll be fine. [ arya wrinkles her nose. ] You're not going to be sick, are you?

[humanistic]

[Wolf, dog, direwolf, whatever. Like it actually matters. He breathes out, dismissively--but he's quick to turn away at her question, bracing his other hand against the counter and hunching his shoulders.]

No.

[It comes out heavily; he swallows, loosens one hand so he can rub the back of his wrist over his mouth. It doesn't do anything to help, to suppress his twinge of hunger.]

I'm fine. Just-- keep over there. And your wolf, your-- whatever.

[wolfchild]

[ o...kay. weirdo.

satisfied at least that he's not going to assault her for her bowl, arya busies herself with the batter. having gathered the ingredients first, it doesn't take too long. plenty of batter ends up on the counter and on her, but what she lacks in care she makes up for in enthusiasm.

nymeria remains on her feet the entire time. she might be chiseled out of stone if not for the faint twitching of her ears and tail. the wolf never takes her eyes off of the intruder.

after she pours the first of the batter in, arya chews her lip and glances at mitchell. ]

Do you--want one?

[humanistic]

What?

[It was impossible to forget that she was there. He can hear her--the shuffle of her feet, the clatter of the bowl and the spoon, and then the hiss of the batter on the pan--but beneath that, there's the thud of her heartbeat, the movement of blood in her veins--hotter even than the waffle iron, and just there--and he needs to leave the room, but every time he thinks he's got himself worked up to leaving he feels another wave of hunger. Better to stay here gripping at the counter than turning to go and turning on her instead.

Just a moment longer, he tells himself. Just a moment. The wolf is keeping her pretty safe, standing guard between them. He could take it on, survive it, heal up--with more blood, always more blood, because if he starts now he won't stop, and that thought helps to stop him, too--

And then she speaks, and he looks over at her, wild-eyed again. Looks down, at the stove. And he swallows, and his voice still comes out rough--]

You're going t' make me waffles?

[ really. ]</small How old are you?

[wolfchild]

[ she doesn't want to be responsible if he keels over from whatever he has!! ]

I'm— [ arya hesitates. she ought be twelve by now. somewhere along the line she turned twelve and she does not know when. it's an odd feeling. ] —twelve.

[ a moment later and she returns to her almost brusque tone. not rude really, but direct. ] You want one or not?

[humanistic]

Twelve.

[He repeats it, in a huff of breath. It's nearly amused.]

Twelve, and you've not got the sense t' keep away from dangerous people? Offering waffles to monsters.

[So what if he looks like shit right now. Dangerous people can look like shit, especially when they're fighting tooth and bloody nail to keep themselves on an even keel. But his eyes flick toward the waffle iron, quickly, before he looks back at her with a tight little smile. It isn't necessarily nice, or amused.]

But if you're offering, I'll take one.

[wolfchild]

[ she narrows her eyes. there is hardly anyone on this ship who wouldn't count as dangerous in a way. if she was frightened by every single person who claimed to be a danger she would not leave her room.

though she is frightened now ( and nymeria growls quiet and dark, a warning ) she fixes him with the most unimpressed glare she can manage. ]

I lived with monsters.

[ that said, she turns back to the waffles. she has half a mind to throw the thing at him when it's done. ]

[humanistic]

Yeah?

[He stays where he is, still gripping at the counter, his shoulders hunched--still wearing that grin. The air in the room has shifted a little. Something sharper; it comes in the wolf's growl, in the glare that Arya gives him, and whatever else is beneath that glare, trying to keep it steady.]

Does that make you a monster, or just someone that knows cages really well?

[wolfchild]

[ wow, so getting a waffle thrown at him. except not because food. ]

Shut up!

[humanistic]

Ah, that's not an answer. And it's rude. Bad manners, pretty monstrous--

[But his grin twists, and then fades, as he remembers himself. Quickly he looks away from Arya, with a deep shudder, fixing his stare on the lip of the countertop instead.]

Just forget it. All right?

[wolfchild]

[ arya bites her tongue on an insult. angry and unspeaking, she finishes cooking. she piles two waffles with a little bit of fruit on a plate for her, slams another down on a second plate for mitchell and shoves it across the counter toward him. ]

There. Your stupid waffle. [ she hopes he chokes on it. ]

[humanistic]

[He's evened himself out a little bit, by the time the waffles have finished cooking. The sound of the plate scraping against the countertop still makes him look up, sharply--but he fights down that feeling again, and, after a moment, reaches for it.]

Thanks.

[There's something more subdued in him now that he's got his hunger under control again--at least for now; that could all change in a second. And with that is this vague feeling of shame, for talking all tough at a kid, and getting her to cook for him. w o w mitchell everyone is impressed with you.]

Look, I'm sorry. It's--these fuckin' jumps. [saying the fuck word around 12 year olds isn't really a high crime or anything; she's old enough to be cool and probably says worse herself.] They aren't exactly a walk in the park.

[wolfchild]

[ she purses her lips. ]

That doesn't mean you have to be a camel's cunt about them. [ if her mother could hear her now. ]

[ arya dumps the dirty bowl in the sink and wipes down the counter a bit before hopping on top of it. balancing the plate on her lap, she eats with her hands, ripping the waffles into little pieces.

on second thought, let's not have cat walk in on this. ]

[humanistic]

[...yep. Clearly says worse herself. Good instinct in suspecting that. He stares over at Arya for a beat--and then laughs, and it's tired but it's certainly less grim than the previous laughs. Less at her, more amused, too.]

Good advice. I'll remember that next time.

[And he's not the politeness police, or anything, so he doesn't comment on the feral wolf girl routine. He does shove himself away from the counter to fetch himself a fork.]

What name do I get called if I ask you if you were raised by the wolf of yours.

[wolfchild]

[ from the look she fixes him with, "stupid" is an easy guess. ]

I raised her. [ obviously. ] Since she was a pup. I got her when she was still blind.

[ only ghost had opened his eyes when the direwolves arrived in winterfell. she had asked jon if her pup would have red eyes too and he said he doubted it. some time later, nymeria opened her eyes for the first time and between her half-parted lids arya caught sight of a dark blue iris. within days the color lightened and settled on a muted gold that shone as bright a yellow as a polished golden dragon when sunlight hit it. arya still thinks it the prettiest color she has ever seen. ]

[humanistic]

["Stupid" or worse was his guess, yeah. He gives the direwolf a glance as he goes back to his plate, hunching over it with his elbows leaning on the counter.]

Got her or found her?

[Because she isn't the kind of thing you pick up at the pet shop, and she isn't the kind of thing Father Christmas would slip in to a stocking.]

What's she eat?

[wolfchild]

I got her. My brothers found them. We each got one. She's mine.

[ arya pops another piece in her mouth. ]

She'll eat waffles too. As long as they're made of meat. [ she nudges nymeria with her foot. ] There isn't much hunting to be done up here. Last time she had fresh meat, it was a dead doe that showed up in a locker.

[ while nymeria ate the mother, arya named the fawn. #teamwork. ]

[humanistic]

[A family with wolves, all right. Weird, but why not. A dead deer in a locker is more questionable. A wolf eating the deer, that's pretty standard. That's what wolves do. What he gets hung up on--]

A waffle... made of meat. I'm pretty sure that's not actually a thing.

[wolfchild]

[ wryly: ] Monsters don't eat those where you're from?

[humanistic]

[ha ha.]

Yeah, no. But kids do make shit up, where I'm from. How would you even make a meat waffle? Even saying it sounds disgusting.

[wolfchild]

I already made you your waffle. [ she points to the door with a particularly big corner of waffle. ] Fetch someone else.

[humanistic]

I don't want one. Believe me, that's about the last thing that I want.

[A meat waffle. Now that he's heard the words, he thinks them all over again, with a twist of his mouth--and what's worse is, he can sort of picture it. Raw and disgusting, and then suddenly he thinks of the blood in it, and that's one step away from blood that's everywhere else, and he shoves his plate away in his haste to move away from the counter.]

Jesus. [That comes out, mumbled; he shoves his wrist over his mouth, like maybe he's going to be sick--but it's worse than that. It's not a sick feeling, it's much worse, and he fights it down, staring fixedly at the waffle, just the regular old waffle, that this kid made for him. That's all.]