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ataraxionlogs2015-01-08 12:01 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-01-08 12:01 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- bellamy blake,
- benny lafitte,
- bethmora fortescue,
- bucky barnes,
- captain hook (killian jones),
- caroline forbes,
- charles xavier,
- cole,
- commander shepard,
- cora hale,
- cullen rutherford,
- derek hale,
- dick "robin" grayson,
- ellen ripley,
- eponine thenardier,
- firo prochainezo,
- harry potter,
- heather mason,
- ivan,
- jackson "jax" teller,
- jennifer keller,
- johanna mason,
- john blake | au,
- john mitchell,
- kieren walker,
- l "ryuuzaki" lawliet,
- leo fitz,
- levi,
- liara t'soni,
- marian hawke,
- marty mikalski,
- minho,
- mordin solus,
- netherlands,
- octavia blake,
- padme amidala,
- raven reyes,
- richard rider,
- rick grimes,
- river tam | au,
- sally malik,
- sam alexander,
- simon tam,
- sirius black,
- takeshi,
- taylor "tyke" kee,
- thomas
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.
----------------
ＹＯＵ͘ ̨ＷＡＫＥ̢ ̧ＵＰ ́ＩＮ ＤＡ̛ＲＫＮ̢Ｅ̕ＳＳ̶
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 ̧Ａ̨ＲＥ ＮＯＴ҉ ̷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.
ＴＨ̀ＩＳ͜ ̶Ｉ͠Ｓ͡ ͘Ｙ̵Ｏ͝ＵＲ ̕Ｗ͝Ｅ̛Ｌ̨Ｃ͡Ｏ͝Ｍ͏Ｅ Ｐ̛ＡＲ̴ＴＹ͜
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.
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.
no subject
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. ]
rude
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.
POLITE
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. ]
abhorrent
If so, sorry.
Simon doesn't say anything, coherent or otherwise. If months of relative acceptance aboard the Tranquility ever did anything to soften the sharp edges of his instincts, that's undone in an instant. He isn't surprised or disappointed. He's just moving. He drops his injector kit—cased, probably not broken—somewhere along the way, so both hands are free. One to seize the stranger's balled fist, the other to grab at his shoulder and to wrench him backwards and twist away.
He's aiming for torque and a shove toward the opposite wall of lockers, to the extent he has an aim at all, with his jaw set and his eyes narrowed and enough anger to match any nobler protective impulse. He'd be willing to settle for putting himself between them, but leaving a bruise or two would be favorite. ]
upstanding ctzn
His hand sets against where he hit it, tendons pulled tight in the arch of his fingers, webbed over the back of his hand, and his focus flashes quick between the two, like his instinct is to consider his odds against the both of them. This new one's bigger than he is, all carrying with him a controlled aggression that doesn't remind Rick of the mindless murder of a walker.
Instinct overrides. That pervading sense of knowing dread, when he'd come out of his gravity couch. Doesn't matter. Rick's last war at home was against people anyways.
But he doesn't strike again. His shift to defensive is tactical, visible, fully expectant of fending off further attack. ]
hm
Kieren moves quickly after that. He's mostly just got a good view of Simon's back now, set between him and his attacker, and he pushes away from the locker so he can grab hold of Simon's shoulder, the other hand coming round to splay against his chest and push him back.
It doesn't quite put Kieren between the two of them, but it does negate the effort of getting Kieren out of the line of fire. He's well aware, and he doesn't particularly care. ] Simon, it's fine. I'm fine. He's just—
[ Psychotic, maybe. Kieren looks towards the stranger, and despite his best effort to sound encouraging, his expression's guarded, wary. ] It was a misunderstanding.
[ Which is sort of bullshit, frankly. He's mostly assuming the man was startled by his appearance, but plenty of people have been startled without trying to murder him. ]
no subject
But they do catch him, Kieren's hands. He stops. At first he only looks delayed—attention and energy still aimed forward, like a dog barely restrained by the command to stay—but it bleeds out of him when Kieren talks. He glances sideways to check if Kieren looks as fine as he says, and his shoulders ease back and his feet settle flat. Still tense, still furious, but static, for now.
A misunderstanding. ]
Was it?
[ It's flat and cynical, same as the look he scrapes over the man, head to toe and back up to meet his eyes. ]
no subject
Simon, he said. Names. Open confusion takes over combative assessment at the sheer dissonance of it, but trying to shift his frame of mind feels like it requires heavy lifting he might not have the heft for immediately. Like it'll take a crowbar to open up his world view, between the dead and the living.
Slowly, Rick settles his posture into something less like a stand off. ]
Yeah. [ The word sounds like its produced by a stone grinder. ] It was.
[ And maybe he should apologise, but there's still something coldly guarded in stare from Simon to the kid. Uneasy. A misunderstanding implies an inherent lack of understanding. He doesn't repeat his question. ]
no subject
Or by him, more likely. It doesn't feel unlike being at the end of a gun barrel.
There's a reluctance to the way he eases back from Simon, and even as he tries to adopt a more casual stance, one hand remains on his shoulder. There's a quick glance between the two of them, then he makes a valiant (and incredibly awkward) attempt at segueing into something less hostile. ]
We're partially deceased. [ Simon doesn't like the term. Something gives him the impression this man won't find it charming, either, so after a pause to hedge his bets: ] Undead.
no subject
But any friendliness that found its way onto his face for that moment evaporates before he's even looked away from him, back to the stranger. Maybe they're done fighting for now. As long as Kieren's hand is on Simon's shoulder and the American is staying back, he'll stay put. But they're still trapped here together. He can only be so little of a threat.
His gaze would be icy even if he weren't death-pale and white-eyed, but it helps. ]
What did you think he was?
[ He could guess. ]
no subject
[ Despite the chill in Simon's regard, Rick is slowly relaxing.
Or.
Not really. Getting better control over his own tension, maybe, a roll of his shoulder setting robe cloth back into better place, making sure balance is in equal distribution on either foot, downgrading Kieren's threat level and reassessing Simon's in another look up and down.
He elaborates; ]
To this. [ He gestures by way of a hand at his side opening to them, little else. As if not to reignite the situation with sudden movements. ] Where I'm from-- some call 'em the dead. My group called 'em walkers. They don't talk. They don't think.
You look like 'em when they first turn.
no subject
The words are familiar. Not because they're true, of course; it's the kind of nonsense he'd heard from Dean. From Lisa's parents, too, the talk of turning, as if it was some kind of gift. There's a pang of guilt at the connection, and it's made no better by the description — no talking, no thinking. He's been trapped in that before, been rabid.
He wants to launch into an explanation of how they're different, exactly, explain the medication and the rest of it. Instead he offers a smile, and then there's a genuinely amused, but admittedly nervous: ]
Walkers. Really.
[ Because tensions aside, that's funny, thanks. ] That's my name. Well, not Walkers, but— I'm Kieren. Kieren Walker.
no subject
It's enough for him to unball his fists, pull one of the sleeves on his sweater further down his wrist, and look down the row of lockers to locate the kit he dropped. Still there. Not leaking. Probably fine. ]
You decided they don't think because—? [ More challenge than question. Kieren can try to charm them if he wants; Simon doesn't have the patience for it. He doesn't see the point. When he shifts his focus back to Rick it's less aggressive, less steely, but not less irritated. He raises his eyebrows and takes a stab at the answer on his own. ] Because they don't talk.
no subject
No name offered, then. Creases at his eyes deepen at the conclusion Simon's arrived at, almost amused without the mirth, and allowing a few seconds to tick by before he answers. ]
I didn't decide anything. I seen it. They're walkin' nerve endings, and the rest's dead. Nothing partial about it.
[ More to Kieren; ]
Rick Grimes. [ A little gruffly, like he isn't sure it's appropriate-- ] Sorry.
no subject
[ Said more for Simon's benefit than Rick's, frankly. Kieren gives the shoulder under hand another light squeeze, like he's still not convinced Simon's decided to settle.
The clarification from Rick's disgruntling. It doesn't sound like them, not as they are now — but it does sound like the rabids, all instinct and no thought. There's nothing but a bit of medicine between him and that. Kieren loses a bit of his nerve as he considers it, distracted, gaze dropping to the floor in thought before he looks back up and tries for an awkward smile. ]
I'm sorry I startled you.
[ He almost risks a handshake, then thinks better of it. Probably better to get Simon out of here before the situation gets less... stalemate. ]