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

[majestyofthethrone]

[His grip is a little too tight, it does hurt a bit, but she doesn't say anything, doesn't let it show on her face. Instead she presses her mouth to his forehead and moves so his head is on her shoulder, so she's hugging him, so he doesn't have to look at her or think about anything but the feeling of being held, if that's what he wants.]

[doggedly]

[He leans against her, hard--if that's possible--and his grip on her hand only relaxes a little. He needs this right now--hates that he needs it, but needs it.

His hatred and his restlessness fast get the better of him, and he pulls away after just a minute or so, jams the heel of his hand against his eye and breathes out, hard.]

I'm all right. I'm-- tired.

[The thought of going anywhere is daunting. He glances back toward his bed.]

I'm going to stay here.

[majestyofthethrone]

[She nods, fluffs up some pillows, nudges him back towards them and fills a space next to him. Co-sleeping is how she got through so much of the bad stuff. It's how she'll get him through this, she decides.]

[doggedly]

[Carefully, he crawls onto the bed and lets himself lean back against the pillows--even if he's not relaxed, not properly. Shutting his eyes helps, a little--at least it makes him feel like he's somehow doing the right thing--and he leans a little of his weight against her, the warm comfort of another person's presence.]