ataraxionlogs | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Renaissance.

[ she echoes it back, trying to determine whether if she's already managed to affront someone with what some might perceive as a lapse in conversational tact or an honest request for clarification. ultimately, after a few seconds of deliberation, she presumes it's most likely the latter. ]

The cultural revival of classic art and literature in the Middle Ages?

[ well, it's a condensed version and nostalgic of days as a teacher's aid, but the explanation is more of a question than a statement, testing to see if it rings any bells. from him to have heard of new york but not the renaissance is odd; coupled with the hook and the talk of characters appearing off of the pages of books, peculiar might be the best word she'd use to describe the man in front of her thus far.

the book comment actually does get a laugh, one that's more of an incredulous and faintly amused huff of air than a vocalization of mirth. ]

If this is going to lead into a bad pick-up line about how you walked off of the pages of a book, show mercy and spare me.

[ so that's a 'no' on believing that people appear out of stories, despite finding herself stranded on a spaceship and being a werewolf. ]

[ wow, shoot him down before the line's even out of his mouth, why don't you. there's a slight pause while he looks bemused at her last comment, but hook's smile doesn't falter. ]

I'd more say I sailed in on a ship, actually — but there are others who'd beg to differ. [ namely one emma swan, whom he can't help but be vaguely reminded of. probably the threats and the lack of belief (and the rejection, obviously). ] And I'm afraid your renaissance still doesn't ring a bell.

[ it's said mostly as an afterthought; he wasn't really expecting it to, clarification or not. that's not the priority, anyway — and not believing hadn't kept swan from knowing more than her fair share about his world, so it's worth a bit of prying. ] Does the name Rumplestiltskin mean anything to you?

[ that's what she's here for, you're welcome. she arches a brow, directed at both the lack of knowledge on the renaissance, preceded by the odd ship comment. give her brain a few seconds to piece everything together.

or not, because rumplestiltskin startles a faint laugh out of her. of all of the questions he could possibly ask, it's one of the more peculiar ones. on second thought, this entire conversation is odd, if she's being truthful.

whatever, she supposes she'll humor him. ]

Like the ugly and demonic creature that tricks women into giving away their firstborns? Am I ringing the right bells this time?

twenty-eighth jump;

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wow can we pretend my inbox didn't eat this