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

[capsize]

[ good to know he meets expectations, at least. hook can't help a quick glance to his closed locker — indecision over leaving milah's portrait, given what he's learned since running into swan — but aside from that brief hesitation, he's entirely nonchalant when he looks back to her. ] I suppose we are. [ a beat, then: ] Unless you've got time for the private tour—

[ trying to goad her into leaving first so he can get back into his locker without looking like a total dork? possibly. ]

[uncurse]

[ she isn't even taking him seriously at this point, because how could she possibly? rather than be offended or defensive, emma simply rolls her eyes at the insinuation, holding up a hand with the intention of putting that dog down right now. hard-pressed for patience and no longer interested in whatever she's been getting out of putting up with him this long (why has she put up with him this long? sark's commentary nags at her, and she pushes the question out of her mind entirely), she drops the hand and gives him one final, exasperated look. ]

Try not to get yourself killed. [ she shakes her head as she turns away to excuse herself and head towards the elevator, with every intention of taking a jog around the halls before she actually loops back to her room to settle down. she's too keyed up - waking up while coming off the panic of the bridge, then encountering this ... unanticipated wrench that hook's made himself. yeah. she won't be cooling her heels any time soon. ]