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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.
let me know if i need to change anything holla
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.]
u good bruh, u good
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.
no subject
[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.
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...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?
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[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.]
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There's a moment of intense silence that passes between them.]
...Just so we're clear, that's the story you're going with?
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[He holds up his hand, looking super duper intense. Sort of.]
I dismembered a zombie with a trowel and faced down a dragonbat. I shot a werewolf!!
[IT WAS A VERY VERY TRAUMATIC DAY.]
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His lips part a little as Marty defends himself, that muted skepticism falling into bold-faced undeniable (possibly judgemental) disbelief.]
I don't suppose whatever you were smoking happened to be laced with anything, right? Experimental drugs, maybe jet fuel? That stuff will fry your brain- not to mention set you on fire.
[Call it a public service announcement. Helpful advice for everyday life.]
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As a matter of fact, it is special weed. That's not the point though.
Where're you from, anyway?
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Space.
[He responds flatly. After a beat, he seems to rethink that.]
Earth.
[He corrects himself in just about the same tone, and... yeah, while both answers are technically correct, he doesn't know which one is more accurate anymore.]
no subject
Space-earth?
[I'm being sassy, see what happens when you leave an opening for sass.]
no subject
Earth-space.
[He corrects, deadpan. Although it does feel good to fire back a little of that sass ping pong, it's probably a little more accurate of the two possibilities. Space-Earth is just Earth, because Earth's always in space. Earth-space is the space around the earth.
At least, it makes sense in his own head. Whatever. Let him explain with actual sensical words.]
A space station just outside of Earth's gravitational pull. We went back eventually, but technically I'm from space.
no subject
Ahaaaa, so it all makes sense. You got to go chill on earth, and now you're stuck in another crappy hunk of metal and it fuckin' sucks, right? Feels kind of claustrophobic once you take a hit off nature and wake up in a place like this.
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Yeah. Basically.
[He agrees, a note of unhappiness in his voice. A surprisingly accurate guess from a guy who's probably crazier than a grounder on hallucinogenic nuts.]
We spent a lot of time fighting to make that place our home, and now we're back to die in an airless coffin. Today hasn't exactly been the best day.
[There's a dark almost anti-humor in his tone, like he recognizes the irony in it all and he's completely unamused by it.
Fuck space, though, for real.]
no subject
... That's rough.
[He seems to consider something, and then leans over, nudging Bellamy just a tad.]
I think I know how to help your nerves, man.
...
And it has nothing to do with weed.
no subject
Speaking of side-eyeing, that's exactly what Marty gets when he gives Bellamy a nudge. It doesn't have as much heat as it might have had initially, though, because that cryptic understanding seems to have earned him a point or two.
You're alright, but you're still weird.
Which is why he's wiling to humor the offer with a skeptical:]
And what's that?
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It's a nice stalling tactic before he goes to confront Finn at the brigg, anyway.
Besides, the name catches his interest, and he nearly freezes.]
Oxygen gardens? [He repeats in disbelief, because- there's no way it can be what it sounds like. He spent too long affronted with the possibility that him and everyone he knows could run out of air impendingly to think a solution could really be that simple here.]
no subject
[He looks super content with himself, anyway.]
First level is all machinery crap — but important machinery crap. Then you've got your water filters, your simple vegetable gardens, all that fun stuff; I grew potatoes here I plan on picking up. Marty's Munchies, you know? It's a business venture.
[He'd keep on blabbering about his awesome schemes regarding snack foods, but the doors open up at last and reveals the very overgrown and green landscape. It's opened up pretty well, the sounds of nature not perfect but permeating. The air smells nice, too. Smells more like Earth. Marty steps out without any fear — there's nothin' here other than their own people, probably.
And, yeah, there is a distinct sound of crickets, Bellamy. Enjoy the atmosphere.]
Whaddya' think? Not the worst a tin can has to offer?
no subject
He's got to double-take and glance at the elevator behind him just to make sure he did in fact step off of one, and yeah, sure enough, it's still there. Marty seems to be forgotten for a second in favor of drifting toward the nearest plant and reaching out to touch it.
A breathy laugh escapes out of his mouth.
It's real.
There are crickets.
Marty's voice behind him startles him out of it, and he glances over with that half-smile still on his mouth.]
...Yeah, no kidding.
[He agrees, hand dropping away from the plant.]
...All the lives that could've been saved.
[He mutters, shaking his head, hands on his hips, and for a second he just... breathes.
He's going to have to show this to Clarke later.]
no subject
Just gotta be careful not to get yourself lost here.
[...Hmmm.]
Your ship didn't have anything like this, huh?
[Then again, this place is fuckin' huge, so.]
no subject
If he can navigate the vast uncharted wilderness of eastern north america, he can probably handle the forest on a spaceship. It's not getting lost that he's worried about up here. He's not so sure what jump splatter is or how it would effect the wildlife population, but he doesn't really feel like asking.
He'll learn the details later, right now he just wants to breathe. He has the good manners to huff a courtesy laugh at unicorns, but it comes out so tired and unenthusiastic he's not even sure it counts.]
No. If we did, a lot more of us might have survived.
[He says quietly, solemnly, ducking forward to rest his head in his hands for just a second, before turning to give Marty another once-over.
A little less judgementally this time.]
There was an oxygen shortage where I'm from. They looked for any excuse to trim the population- any broken laws warranted execution. They'd throw you out an airlock.
[He's not sure why he's sharing this, not sure why it matters, but he feels like he owes the guy at least a few honest words after receiving a gift like this. Maybe it helps to put into perspective why this place is such a big deal for him.]
no subject
Which Marty endured enough of. So what if it made him a little unhinged?
He flops down, adjusting the pack on his shoulder. Mostly, he's just transporting his CD player and his weed and his Little Nemo book back to his room, now that he's returned. He supposes he's not in the same room as before, huh??]
That's rough, man. The system screwing over its people, same as usual. That's how my universe worked, anyway. Us and our technology, thinkin' we were hot shit, feeding unaware kids to some sacrificial alter. [He shakes his head, sighing.] You're in good company, amigo. This place is full of people who are sick of their world's BS. And who are kind of tired of being jerked around anyway.
You get any of your people from home?
no subject
His lips purse together when Marty brings that alter thing up again, the sacrifices, the old gods, and while he'd been quick to dismiss the entire story as ludicrous, he's starting to second guess that assessment.]
Yeah.
[He says slowly, torn between answering the question and bringing up the gods thing again.]
A lot of them. Four or five, actually. What about you?
1/2
He shrugs, itching the back of his head.]
I'm, uh... the last one.
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