ａｘｍｏｄｓ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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ataraxionlogs2014-02-07 09:55 pm
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-02-07 09:55 pm
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- abed nadir,
- abigail mills,
- agent washington,
- ai enma,
- alaric saltzman,
- alayne stone,
- alex summers | au,
- arthur pendragon,
- arya stark,
- bahorel,
- bucky barnes,
- captain hook (killian jones),
- carolyn fry,
- cassandra anderson,
- castiel,
- charles xavier,
- charlie bradbury,
- claire bennet,
- clint barton (1610),
- cora hale,
- courfeyrac,
- dana polk,
- dean winchester,
- elena gilbert,
- elizabeth of york,
- elizabeth woodville,
- emma swan,
- eric northman,
- faith lehane,
- fili,
- frodo baggins,
- gendry,
- harry lockhart,
- harry potter,
- ilde featherstonehaugh,
- isaac clarke,
- jack harkness,
- jaina solo,
- jean prouvaire,
- jenna sommers,
- juliana,
- leonard "bones" mccoy (xi),
- loki laufeyson,
- luke skywalker,
- lydia martin,
- lúthien,
- marty mikalski,
- master chief,
- melinda may,
- mr. gold (rumplestiltskin),
- nathan petrelli,
- ned | au,
- netherlands,
- nico di angelo,
- nill,
- nuala,
- peeta mellark,
- peter petrelli,
- pietro maximoff,
- rebecca crane,
- red scout,
- rick grimes,
- sam winchester,
- sapphire,
- seraphim dias,
- severus snape,
- sirius black,
- spike,
- stefan salvatore,
- stiles stilinski,
- takeshi,
- tara knowles,
- tauriel,
- veronica mars,
- wichita,
- will graham,
- yuri petrov
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.
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.
YOUR EYES ARE OPEN.
KEEP LOOKING.
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.
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.
they're v sorry (no they aren't)
[ tig you're twelve kinds of interesting, faith is js. ] Sounds about my speed, too. [ a beat. ] Nice ink. Kinda familiar, like... [ she snaps her fingers, grinning. ] Like Prospect's— sons of whatever the fuck, right?
[ she means jax. ]
not ever
Sons of fucking whatever, you're absolutely correct. Or at least that's the club name they'd give me if they could. [ he probably should be thinking about grabbing a towel right around now but a few seconds of looking and he gives up.
whatever. ] You could try anarchy. That's the actual club.
no subject
[ faith wrote the book on needling people for fun and profit lbr
and after a beat, because needling or not she does like jax— and hell, if he scoped wes and didn't send him her way, it'd piss her off. ]
You want his number?
no subject
[ he shrugs, casual, unbothered by the whole deal of being picked at. of needing to find jax. because getting a hold of the kid really isn't at the top of his list of shit to take care of. even if that's exactly where it should be - chatting with a brother.
he'll get to that in a second or two. ]
An i'll have you know that we'd make the best boy band around.