ataraxionlogs | thirty-ninth jump;

Entry tags:

thirty-ninth 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: A feeling of deep dread greets you as you stumble out of the gravcouch, strong enough to hold you still for a long moment, searching your surroundings for the source of your wariness. Nothing becomes apparent, only your fellow passengers waking up. Eventually you gather the resolve to pick yourself up and start moving, the feeling fading slowly as you progress through routine.

New arrivals will find messages spraypainted across their lockers telling them not to follow their tattoo numbers, and instead to find a room on Floors 001-010.

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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.

ＹＯ́Ｕ̴ ̧Ａ̨ＲＥＮＯＴ҉ ̷ＡＬＯ̨ＮＥ҉

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.

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lockers;
[He's been awake for an hour, and he's already exhausted. As if waking up surrounded in a gravity couch for the very first time on a spaceship distinctly not your own wasn't traumatic enough, he'd had the privilege of waking up to a friend trying to strangle an already dead friend to death, not to mention whatever the hell was going on with Clarke's timeline. He likes to think he can roll with the punches, he likes to think he's prepared for just about anything considering all he's been through, but as per usual, he turns out to be totally wrong about everything.

Go figure.

When Raven and Finn are taken away to what Bellamy has to assume is this ship's version of a prison block, Bellamy wants to fight it at first. They've served enough time for past, present, and future crimes thank you very much, and they're perfectly capable of sorting through their problems without a holding cell and strangers laying down the law. He's forced to let it go, though, and with an already bad taste in his mouth about this place, he heads off to the showers.

(Tries not to think about how he saw way more of certain people than he ever really intended to, no matter how lax the dress code at the drop ship had been.)

When he makes it to the lockers, he paints a grim picture. He has the presence of mind to put on a pair of pants but not much else, and he stands for a while with one hand braced on the neighboring locker, hunched over a little to give himself some privacy, head bowed, trying to process it all. His lips part absently as it washes over him; the hum of the engines around him, of machinery that never really stops, the way you can sort of feel yourself moving through the void, and worst of all, the smell. Or, rather, the lack of smell- the air here is better than the air on the Ark had been, it doesn't smell like electricity and freon, but it definitely doesn't smell like Earth. On the ground, it was... sweet, it was open, it was permanent, and now suddenly it's gone.

He's back in space...

and he can't help but wonder how long his group manages to last without floating this time around.]

elevators & beyond;
[When he finally manages to collect his things and escape the locker room, he heads toward the blue lift. Judging by the messages spraypainted on the lockers, crew have been relegating themselves to the tenth floor and below. He's not going to challenge this; if for some reason they need to jettison some compartments or prioritize air, they're going to do it around the highest population density. He's better served sticking with the crowd.

Beyond that, he seems to be at a loss. His fingers hover over the elevator floor buttons for just a little too long, unable to come to any sort of decision on where he should take up residence. When a few too many seconds tick by and he can feel the impatience of his lift mates, he finally selects one at random and settles back with an unhappy look on his face.]

Edited 2015-01-08 07:00 (UTC)

Takeshi glances up, his own hair a wet mess as he washes out the last of the goop; he has to step on a pretty tall bucket to achieve this goal, tragically, but he manages as usual. When the other guy speaks up, he looks to him with a little unsure smile. "M'okay. I feel kinda sick... Things feel kinda diff'rent right now." But surely it's just his mind playing tricks on him. He perks up, hopeful.

"I never sawed you before! Are you new?"

[Pods]

[Cullen ordinarily considers himself a calm enough person. Part of what he does involves remaining level-headed and calculating in the midst of battle.

Here, he panics.

It's not enough that there was a thing jammed down his throat until a moment ago, or that he'd recently been dumped mostly-naked onto the floor, but when he's finally able to focus his vision, he doesn't recognize anything- anything- about this place. The walls are too flat, the lack of texture is unnatural, everything is too sleek and smooth and foreign.

What is he doing here? He coughs, scrambling to sit up and put his back against the nearest wall. He can't remember how he got here- can't remember much of anything, but nothing that his mind supplies can come close to looking like this. There isn't anything nearby he can use to defend himself with, and- it's not real. It can't be- but who would dream this sort of thing up?]

[Lockers]

[The number on his wrist matches one of the containers lining the walls. However long it takes him to settle and start moving, he's here now. Cullen moves almost mechanically, as if in a daze until he's standing in front of his designated locker and it slides open effortlessly.

His things are in there. Of course they are. A small fraction of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders when he can see the familiar mantle hung from a hook next to some uniform that definitely isn't his. Just as well, though- if he's going to figure out what happened to him, he'd rather do it clothed.

Which is why anyone who cares to look is definitely going to find a guy in the middle of a space station absently putting on a few pieces of medieval armor over his old fashioned clothes. It's practical, alright?]

No, I'm not sick.

[She gives him room when he pushes, grins through the onset of hot, eye-prickling tears while he squishes her face. Leans in again (personal space? Who needs it!) to kiss each of his chubby little cheeks through her crying - which is disbelieving, giddy, closer to a laugh than a sob.]

I'm fine. Everything's perfect. Can I - can we go find your dad?

A moment, and Dick's black shades are back on, and he's stepped closer - and crouched, so he doesn't loom over the other kid, bucket or not. (And it would be a little strange for HIM to be looming, except he's saved enough little kids in Gotham to know exactly what not to do.)

"Sick how? Like you wanna throw up, or just not-good? Did you actually drink any water, yet? That can make some of the feeling bad go away."

And he shakes his head. "Not really new. It's my eighth jump, unless I've missed one." He's watching carefully, will the number mean much to the boy? Is he giving too much? Some kids grow up fast. Others... need gentler care.

[ Yeah this is about as unpleasant as Rick dimly remembers, although nothing's quite as confronting as stepping into the stasis pod of sound mind and body and letting it take you in, not even the coming out. One cycle down, and god knows how many more to go.

But there are worse things.

His eyes are hunting for faces as he moves from point to point, anyone familiar, 'cause that much has happened before. He's between showers and lockers, hair dark and beard shaven down since last cycle to a grey-dark grain, a leanness to him, muscles long and ropey and bound steely to his bones. Injuries make various scars and indentations over his torso, and he is not a big man, just a rough one. And he hasn't decided if it'd be good or bad, to snare his gaze on something he recognises. He remembers how Daryl was here, and that woman that looked like Maggie Greene, and the pang of realisation that with the way this place works, he could one day run into Lori.

And what he does recognise is nothing like that. A sharp turn around a corner presents him with a stranger's face, its eyes milky bland with tiny points of black at their centre, necrotic undertones veining under grey-pale skin. Far more intact than the walkers that Rick has come to know, but that doesn't matter. He's seen them freshly resurrected too.

Fear, tasting of copper in his mouth, sets him into mindless motion. There's a recoil, at first, before anger blacks out the rest -- at himself, for becoming so complacent, and of course, at the disease that's dragged this young man to his feet and set him wandering.

(There are signs he should be paying attention to, but can't.)

And he doesn't have a gun or a knife or anything like that, but Rick isn't waiting. He's killed these things with less. A hand suddenly bundles up in the sweater it's wearing, his other up to drive the walker's skull bodily against the wall of lockers to his left with a slam. It may only be wishful thinking that the bone is soft enough to crack, but there is a strength to his violence, adrenalised and desperate. ]

[A finger snakes around Bellamy's to push one of the lift buttons, the scent of cannabis permeating strong with whoever it is that has decided to walk up beside the man. Marty wasn't really trying to get in the dude's personal space, but he kinda wanted to get out of the shittiest part of the ship, okay. Nobody likes the med bay and the pod rooms. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyebrow shooting up as he looks at Bellamy. Yet another buff scary dude, he just knows it. Sheesh.]

Having some trouble with the scenery, compadre?

[Despite smelling like weed, he seems to be firing off of all cylinders, which is kind of weird, but you gotta understand man - his tolerance is through the roof.]

[ It's a stark (and welcome) contrast to the last time he'd sought her out after a trip home. Killian smiles when she turns towards him, and it doesn't take more than a second to read her expression — she remembers.

The smile doesn't last long. He returns the kiss smoothly, hand lifting to cradle the side of her face while his other arm reaches around her, lightly holding the small of her back. His fingers trace gently over her jaw, sliding back to settle at the nape of her neck as the kiss continues.

For longer than strictly necessary, probably, and very conspicuously. He's the one who ends up breaking it, if a bit reluctantly, and he flashes another smile as he meets her gaze. ]

I think we've got ourselves a new tradition. Not the thing where we go home, of course— but the part that happens after. [ New tradition: PDA. It's obviously meant as a joke, though his tone sobers up a bit when he continues. ] How much do you know?

[In Dean's defense, he wouldn't exactly call it sneaking. He up until this point he hasn't had much of a need to visit medical, and it's with something of an interested hitch to his eyebrows that he wanders in. Yeah, no, it looks pretty much every bit as awesome and horrible as he figured a medical unit on a friggin' space ship would. What it means is that while he would never, ever want to sign himself up for a futuristic colonoscopy in a joint like this, he's got some pretty high hopes that they've got some horse-sized painkillers for his post-jump hangover.

Or, you know, his post-hangover-jump-hangover. Whatever term you wanna use for getting close enough to a bottle of whiskey to calm your nerves and prep for willingly climbing into a space womb.

He's stopped in his tracks, though, by a familiar face cropping up out of nowhere. He's been here a while now, long enough, he'd thought, to re-encounter every familiar face that he'd been used to seeing back at the mansion. Apparently it isn't the case, because there's a stubble-clad twenty-something kicking it on a bed that Dean distinctly remembers from Thanksgiving dinner and a few other run-ins. Most importantly, though, he remembers Cas leaning over to kindly less-than-whisper in his ear, "is there any particular reason you've invited so many werewolves?" and Dean had given himself shit for a month afterward for not having figured that out on his own.

This little fact, he figures, is reason enough to slow down and maybe have a conversation with the guy. Partly to see if there's some weird chance he remembers Wonderland, partly because Dean's a nostalgic son of a bitch and it's hard to pass by someone you knew, and partly because he never did learn whether or not werewolves still have to change every month when there's no goddamn moon.

So he ambles a little closer, head cocked, and clears his throat.]

Hey- uh, Derek, right?

[It's just awkward enough not to classify as casual, because smalltalk is always weird, but especially the guy you're talking to is shirtless and on a gourney.]

[pods]

[He panicked at first, of course, and Dorian isn't doing much better a few moments later. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't recognize anything, and considering the excitement that is his life - he's almost certain someone or something is going to try to kill him at any moment.

But that is no reason to light things on fire (at least he still has his magic) or start screaming and never stop, no matter how much he might want to. Instead, he clears his throat. There are others moving around, he knows that. Enemies, or possibly allies. He may as well find out, while trying to swallow down that terror that threatens to burst out of him.]

Excuse me?

[lockers]

[Dorian's initial panic has faded, and he's found his locker. That in and of itself is a victory, considering how incredibly far out of his depth Dorian is. He doesn't even know what half the things in this place are, much less anything more than that, though as his nerves settle he's beginning to find himself very curious.

It's not the Fade. That much he knows. And if nothing else, that's something to start with.

He's dressed, because no matter how much people might appreciate his glorious nudity, he still has no real idea what to expect, and fighting naked does not sound fun. His mage robes are no doubt not the usual fashion, but they're his, and that's what matters. Also, he wouldn't be caught dead in that sad excuse for a uniform. He reaches out to finger its fabric, an expression of distaste clear on his face.]

[He looks pretty much like he's not sure you're telling the truth. But eventually, he nods, because suddenly he really, really wants both of them together in one place. So it's all three of them. Four, if he counts Hoi Hoi. Five if he counts a particular little bunny. He reaches out quickly to try to dab at Heather's cheeks with the end of his tattered sweater sleeve, looking concerned.]

Are you super sure you don't need t'lay down...

Why're you crying — mom?

[If you've never been seriously contemplating your new living arrangements and without warning had a stranger slip a finger beneath your hand, consider yourself lucky. It's so awkward and unexpected that Bellamy draws his hand back, shifting to shoot his new elevator mate an incredulous look. It's muted, a hitched eyebrow and parted lips, but it's every bit as what the fuck, bro as a more enthusiastic person might have expressed.

He can't actually be pissed, though; between the exhaustion and the fact that this guy smells like Jasper and Monty on a particularly rough day, it's kind of hard to muster up the energy for it.

He falls back on flat and sarcastic instead.]

I wouldn't exactly call it scenary.

[He answers, mashing a random button and then crossing his arms.]

I'd call it the inside of a ration can.

[Dorian rounds the corner of some lockers to find, oh thank the Maker, a familiar face. And look! They're both clothed. Miracles do happen.

He can't quite describe how reassuring it is to see Cullen, someone he knows, in the midst of such unfamiliarity. Of course, he doesn't know Cullen well, but they are acquainted, and Cullen is trusted enough to lead the Inquisition's armies. Dorian can extend him some trust as well, particularly considering the circumstances.

Honestly, he'd even have been happy to see that hairy Grey Warden. Cullen is about a hundred steps up from that.]

Commander. [He can't quite keep the relief out of his voice.] I was beginning to believe I'd been abducted alone.

[He chuckles, voice a bit pitchy; he's got a pretty nasally voice for a college student, but whatever, he thinks it adds some charm to his character.] When you say it like that, it sounds like we're a bunch of beans rattling around in this weird-ass place. Not used to the inside of a ration can?

[He shrugs, grinning.]

Me neither. But I don't exactly have a planet with sexy trees to go back to, so I kinda just have to roll with what I get.

pods—

[ Hard grating rushes up to meet him and even if his mind isn't following along, John's body reacts appropriately. The last time he'd dropped out of the gravcouch it had been unceremonious, painful. This time around there are palms flat on the plating and he's up before ever really going down.

John knows where he is, not the why and how, but there's a solid conception of who he is and what's going on — space, Tranquility, the jump — so he has that going for him (plus a pair of goo-sodden boxers and not much else).

Scrambling, he's to his feet and properly moving in mere moments, hunched over and following the lead of his uncertain legs. Warily, his dark eyes dart this way that, and he doesn't have words for anyone in passing, only scant glances that end with him looking away quickly, especially when anyone really goes to take notice. Faces look vague and he senses that his body wants to accept them, to stand down, but it's taking longer to place the people on the landscape of Blake mind than he's really allowing himself and there's no desire to stop at the moment, even if it might lead him to figuring things out.

He feels chased, like there's a beast on his heels, but he can't quite put his finger on what it is, or where it's hiding, or why he feels this way, but he's driving forward toward the parts of the ship and this process he remembers from the last time around, now two months in the past. ]

lockers—

[ For some time after leaving the pods, John drops off the radar. Somehow he manages a shower and some clothes. Much like last time, he ends up back at the lockers well after the fact. Last time he went to it pretty quickly, gathering his remaining things in order to hoard the objects back in bunk. This time he just stares.

Something lingers just on the periphery still, but it's transformed from an unseen predator into a more wraith-like creature, transparent and fleeting and ominous. It tugs at John's attention in the moments where his mind's not racing, makes him look every bit in a stupor when caught unaware.

He holds his wristwatch in his hand. Staring at face, his eyes follow the second hand for a long time. Maybe too long.

What was it? He'd had a dream, some kind of dream. A flash of color, then inky skies splashed with pinpricks of light, but that's here not there. He can't remember. Why can't he remember?

By the time John looks up again, he's standing in front of a mirror at the end of a row of lockers and for the life of him, he can't remember if he walked to get here or if this is actually when he's waking up from the dream.

Maybe he's been asleep this whole time. Maybe he's still dreaming. Could he still be asleep and suspended in gel right now? No matter how hard he tries, like looking at his watch, staring at the mirror yields no acceptable results but the passage of time. ]

[[OOC: John is disoriented from his month of coma-statis! I doubt he'll get violent, but just in case, I'll PM to make sure it's okay to proceed if something potentially upsetting might happen.]]

Edited 2015-01-08 07:34 (UTC)

Well, if there's one thing that totally throws Takeshi off, it's watching someone chop away at their hair. And it's perfectly nice hair, too!! What the heck? But of course, his young brain starts, y'know, making up stories on why she could be doing it — and the next logical conclusion is clearly that she must have some bugs in her hair. He wanders over, his panda Hoi Hoi hot on his heels in the same black leathery powersuit he's also sporting, and he quickly speaks up with all the implication that he's gonna help a sister out. "Do you got something in your hair?! I can shake it out!"

[ Shit. That's his first startled impulse at nearly running into someone. It's quickly followed by the realization that he should apologize, but he doesn't get the chance to do either.

The man moves quickly, but it only takes half a second for Kieren to recognize his face. Not the details. He's never seen this man before, but he's seen that look — seen it on his sister, on Gary, on half the people of Roarton.

That's the fear. But there's something of the rabids in it, too, that feral and visceral reaction, and Kieren sees the warning in it at about the same time he registers the fist twisting into his sweater, the vague pressure of a palm at the side of his head.

His arms come up, quick, one elbow knocking roughly against the locker with a dull clang as it takes the brunt of the force. His skull still connects, hard enough to disorient but not enough to break skin.

Some of his weight goes lax as he struggles to stay upright, and he's left leaning against the locker, one hand pressing to his head while the other grabs hold of the man's wrist. His cold grip's hard, and he tries to forcibly drag the other's grasp loose. ]

It's— [ Okay? Not exactly. He'd struggle with the words in an ideal situation, and this is far from it. The expectation is to be passive, agreeable. Diffuse the situation. But he's fairly certain his head hurts, which is an accomplishment, and he's had such a quiet few months that something spiteful kicks up at having the peace broken. He should sound scared; and he does, a bit, but there's also a fair degree of annoyed and disbelieving. ] I'm safe. Jesus.

[ Rocket will continue to curse stasis travel for the next millennia, he thinks, because it's just pointless when your end of the universe has managed to advance past that kind of bullshit. But, thankfully, this time he gets into the grav couch and gets back out of his own volition, instead of being kidnapped like last jump.

Scratching his deft fingers and sharp claws through his fur in an attempt to get rid of the goop, he grumbles under his breath. It's a lot of unsavory commentary about his predicament and the message that was posted to the network just before the jump.

But the thoughts fade out as he hears a familiar voice talking to some poor damn newbie. Heading over, he reaches out and tugs on Newt's pants leg. ]

Hey, kid. Wanna share the wealth?

I'm okay! Happy tears.

[She's still while he dabs at her face, smiling through - nope, she didn't inflate how incredible he is after he was gone, the way loss and missing someone can distort your view. He really is a wonderful, caring, precious little boy. Their little boy.]

You remember I told you about my friend Tillman? How he went away, and then he came back?

You did that too, buddy. It's been - months. A real long time.

Cool glasses. He looks like Sakata when he wears those.

He shakes his head, though, relaxing a bit more.

"No, m'not gonna throw up. I only feel like — like my stomach just hurts a little." He doesn't realize it, but it's nerves, all nerves that quietly bother him because everything is the same but everything is different. At the mention of the jump numbers, he blinks. "Eight whole jumps!! I been here for lots, too. I was five, and now I'm six!"

He holds up one hand and a finger to demonstrate.

In case you don't understand how awesome it is that he's six now.

[He likes to think he's met some pretty interesting people in his time, but he's not sure he's ever seen anybody quite as high or quite as weird, at least not at the same time. He can't help the way his face keeps skeptical written across it.]

...Beans.

[He echoes blankly.

Alright.

Moving on.

It takes him a minute to process how that could be possible, to remember what Clarke and the others said about this place. Some people might not be from Earth, from the Ark, from their universe even, and it has him frowning a little in keen interest.]

What do you mean by that? What happened to your trees?

[ Despite apparently being a small, woodland creature, Rocket does not do children. He doesn't like humey kids - they're smelly and sticky and want to touch him, usually - but he just does not like them in general. Groot likes them, for some reason, though he just about likes everybody most of the time. Especially once he started sprouting in his pot. (He's still pissed that his pot has not produced a sapling Groot, and is still that stupid dandelion.)

But, he figures that Groot and Quill and probably Gamora, too, would all demand that he take care of the lost looking kid that's milling around the lockers. He's calling for people that Rocket doesn't know, since he hasn't been here long enough, but after he considers walking down his own row of lockers to the lift, he stops and groans.

Dragging his hands down his face for a moment, he turns around on his heel and heads down the 39th row of lockers, moving towards where the kid is just. Waiting around. ]

Hey, squirt. You all right?

[ Rocket, he's six. He's the same height as you. ]

[Dude, you gotta loosen up a little. He'll give you benefit of the doubt, since you're all new and whatnot, but still. Sheesh. And then you go asking a question like that! His gaze slides away to look at the opposite wall, eyebrows raised high.] There's a pretty big chance you probably won't believe me, but — uh. Giant ancient killer gods rose from their slumber and wiped everything out?

[He has to assume, anyway. He died pretty much the moment the damn asshole rose.]

So yeah, probably not a lot of trees. Probably a lot of giant tooth picks to poke at their teeth with, the fucks.

[He tries to keep it light, but it's a pretty shitty subject, huh.]

Edited 2015-01-08 07:49 (UTC)

[ Ripley forgoes the filthy clothes that showed up with her in favor of the crew issue jumpsuit, and she's dragging the zipper up the front when the question catches her attention. She glances over her shoulder, sparing the young woman a curious once-over.

There's no rush to answer. She pulls a small bracelet out of her locker first, lightly shutting the door, then turns around to face the girl. ]

Nothing. Security decided it would be a good idea to keep the population consolidated to the lower floors — easier to control, easier to defend. You're welcome to stay on the higher levels if you prefer your peace and quiet.

[ And no security. ]

[ The arm coming up isn't enough to keep Rick from bearing down, angling his arm so that he might press it firm against the metal and bring back his other fist with every intent to break its face, and maybe then holler for help in dispatching it. Fear and rage have resolved into something colder and clinical and diligent, fast as that.

But it's the grip to his wrist that throws him off, makes him go tharn, too sure and defensive to be the usual clammily cold grabs of a walker. His own pale eyes flash, meeting its stare again in time for it to speak. One syllable. Then more of 'em.

Rick doesn't let up, even so, deadly suspicious and ever so slightly unhinged. Studying its face unblinking. His face. There is necrotic grey staining his mouth, and Kieren's hand at Rick's arm only inspires the older man to press back, fist still ready as the only weapon in his arsenal.]

What are you?

[ Safe is not good enough. His voice is low and brooks no fucking around. The terrycloth robe he's bundled into probably takes away a little from his demeanour, possibly, bare feet set splayed on the smooth floor, hearing and seeing nothing outside of the walker he's got pinned besides white noise, a whine, blur. ]

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Page 2 of 65

thirty-ninth jump;

Bellamy Blake → Open

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cullen | ota!

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let me know if i need to change anything holla

throws up in my mouth a little

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dorian pavus | ota

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u good bruh, u good

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John Blake | ota

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rude

pods!!

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lockers! hello beebin here is a new furry friend

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POLITE