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

[dilemma]

We were down a bartender.

[ see he can be funny too, make the reunion seem casual when in reality he's more pleased than he's letting on. ]

I may have borrowed a couple of bottles. Trust me, bottom shelf shelf space booze make me regret every sip.

[ he misses the good stuff. he misses a lot of things actually and being sucked away for six months didn't exactly help any of that. ]

So, you're down for the count, come back with a new number. Did you at least get to pay home a visit?

[ because he sure as hell didn't and that might be the most frustrating part of this whole mess. ]

[cons]

Ugh, you're just the worst.

[ HA ha for a con artist, that sure was the least convincing insult in the world. but it's probably the only reason why she could say it - sarcasm, somehow, sometimes, didn't count as a lie. but anyway, he brings up what she's been wondering about and this feels like a last-ditch effort to remember if she went home, what she saw, where she's been. but nothing comes, it's just a blank. not even a long pause, just a normal jump.

so she shakes her head, brow furrowing up ]

No. I have no new memories, at least, and it's not like the old ones are any, uh, fresher. Or whatever. I honestly don't know where I've been. [ and now she's going to crack a joke, even if this idea is mildly horrifying- ] If I start acting all brainwashed or manticore-y, you're free to put me out of my misery. Please. Actually, I'm insisting that you do.

so very late

[dilemma]

[ no, screw you wichita. he refuses to accept you saying that and instead pulls her into a hug, the friendly sort that isn't quite reminiscent of the overly emotional last one they had. cause you see, damon's been on the brink of losing people or has lost some, and having her back is helping. he's having a moment, just let it happen. ]

Well I came back like nothing ever happened too. Better than coming back with a blank slate.

[ and the bitterness in his voice is just proof that he's had way too much experience with that. ]

Let's hope the subjugation to disgusting goo baths every month lends itself to manticore immunity.

all goooood

[cons]

True.

[ oh, okay, hugging. hugging Damon Salvatore. this doesn't really ever happen. but then, finding out she was gone for a few months doesn't really ever happen either, so she'll allow it. at least she has freaking clothes on this time, unlike all the other hugs she's gotten in the last half an hour. so she actually hugs him back, long enough until it doesn't feel so foreign, at least. the bit about the manticore immunity makes her laugh though, one that gets muffled against his shoulder because maybe she's really fine with just hugging for a little while.]

Yeah, right. And the masks were just a fun alternative to "tell us how you really feel" group therapy sessions.

[dilemma]

[ while damon prefers no-clothes hugging this will do. it's been a rough jump and, well, it's not like they haven't done it once before after her run-in with the ship.

damon doesn't really do connections with people so when he has them, he tends to hang onto them and not let them go (in the most annoying way possible.) ]

We're being trolled by our shared space purgatory, aren't we?