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

[onetouch]

[ he holds out his arms as she very nearly plows into him, but he manages to side-step her. what is it with everyone acting even weirder than usual, lately? ] Veronica?

[sleuthtastic]

[ She almost goes careening, with the way he side-steps. Luckily, the floor isn't (too) wet, or maybe Veronica just picked good shoes — she stumbles a little, presses a hand to her forehead like she's taking a moment to inwardly chastize herself and figure out a way to not be so embarrassed. ]

Sorry—

[ Well. It could be worse — it could have been Billy Idol, rather than Ned. ]

—Ned. Sorry, I'm just— a little out of it.

[onetouch]

[ he drops his hands quickly, wiping them on his slacks absently. ]

Are you alright?

[sleuthtastic]

[ She makes a noise that's a little chipper than her body language is, jerking a thumb towards herself. ]

This girl? Not so good with the space legs. Things are just— I just feel like I'm a little out of my element, that's all.

[onetouch]

Everyone's space legs are a little wobbly at first, you don't have to feel... alone.

[ he forces a light smile and thinks about his own space legs or lackthereof. but he was a special case, and even he had felt very alone before recently. ]

And very few people find this within their wheelhouse. Outerspace and monsters and... you know. This.

[sleuthtastic]

No kidding. [ And it's not that Veronica has a motor-mouth or thinks of it as overshare. It's just— you know, that's how things are, back home. ]

Bail jumpers. Murderers. Philanderers. You'd think it would pale in comparison to a Ridley Scott film— and yet, I am waiting for my giant Ripley-sized gun.

[onetouch]

If you take a stroll down to the gun range, I'm sure they have one there. [ whatever ripley-sized entailed. he was more interested in the rest off her statement anyway. ]

Murderers. That's why you have a gun. You... you're a private dick. --I mean, a private eye.

[sleuthtastic]

I have, on many occasions, been called a dick, this is true.

[ Still— she doesn't seem to be particularly shy or secretive about it, shrugging her shoulders in a you got me kind of way. ]

My dad is. I just— help him out. [ Or do half his caseload hahaha. ]

[onetouch]

I would never call you a-- [ he can't say it again. not with that definition!! ]

My best friend is a dick. I mean, a PI. A gumshoe, even. I help him out -- too.

[ it feels weird to say when he hasn't seen emerson in two years, but welp, it's still true. ]

[sleuthtastic]

[ Okay, Veronica, get it together. (My best friend is a dick. haha. ha.) Still— she's smiling, which is a vastly different emotion from the distracted distance she'd worn earlier. ]

And let me guess. [ Putting on a voice: ] Did the dame have a pair of getaway sticks ya wouldn't believe?

[onetouch]

[ he laughs. ] That's a good impression for someone who's never met him.

[sleuthtastic]

I'm good with impressions. It's how I found out about the bomb threat at my old high school.

[ And that one isn't a metaphor! Veronica tips her chin, eyeballing him in a way that's not antagonistic, but certainly a little more focused. ]

So what did you help him with? I don't really see you as the interrogating type.

[onetouch]

[ or is he... ned looks a little shifty for a minute, then shrugs. ]

I'm a consultant. I... consult.

[sleuthtastic]

Consult.

[ Come on, Ned. Does this face look like it would be pleased with an answer like that? ]

[onetouch]

[ well it's not like he can tell her the truth!!!! ugh. ]

I help. I'm tougher than I look.

[sleuthtastic]

[ Veronica immediately crosses her fingers together, jumping up and down on the balls of her feet. ]

Please say a gun baked into a pie, please, please say gun baked into a pie.

[onetouch]

Olive -- that's my waitress, back home -- actually did that for me once. [ there's a slight smile at the memory. breaking out of prison has become something that makes a place home, somehow. ] I declined to accept it, of course, but it's the thought that counts.

[sleuthtastic]

[ HOLD

THE

PHONE ]

—accept it?

[ Beat. ]

You were in prison?

[onetouch]

It was just... a case of mistaken identity. [ that's a yes. ]