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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.
pre Rick obviously
[Kieren Walker, today is not your day.
Johanna's hair has been chopped to chin length. The edges hang unevenly. Someone else has done the back, which lays a little flatter. If the whole thing looks like it was done with a knife, while her hair was still wet... that's because it was. She's only wearing Tranquility issue underpants and sports bra, and nothing else, but carrying herself like she's dressed to the nines. And she's carrying her axes, of course, one in her hand, one on her back, the strap bisecting her breasts. (They're pretty nice breasts, even if that doesn't matter to Kieren.)
And her knife is in her hand, its blade still flecked with little pieces of hair. She doesn't stab Kieren, or anything, but the way she's holding the knife sort of suggests that she could, or still might. Her glare is cutting enough on its own.]
You're not actually blind, are you? [No--she already knows the answer to that. She met and made fun of Simon.] Just the way God made you. I've heard that one before, don't say it.
Just get out of my way.
obviously
He thinks of Jem's gun. The weapons his parents had hiding in the shack out back. Crude weapons, all of them, completely overkill; axes definitely qualify. His gaze is caught on the knife when she speaks again, distracted by those flecks of hair, but then his eyes lift to meet hers. ]
What? No. I'm not blind, I'm just... sorry.
[ The apology's lacking gusto, now, absently tacked on as a matter of formality. He does go to step back, though, only to hesitate, face crinkling up in bemusement. ] The axes are a bit much, aren't they?
[ Bold move, questioning the point of weapons that are prime for zombie-killing. But between the leniency of space and the terrible influence of one Simon Monroe, the idea of just being bullied out of the way doesn't quite sit. ]
no subject
[Sorry, that is. The motion that he makes suggests that he's going to step back out of her way, and so Johanna moves forward, into his space--but then he doesn't actually get out of her way, he hesitates, and Johanna makes a noise of intense irritation that's so close to being a growl. Ugggggh.]
No. They aren't. [She practically spits out the words, one at a time.] There's no such thing as 'a bit much' with weapons.
[Like are you stupid. And they're stepped in quite close to one another right now, close enough that the rage coming off of Johanna probably feels like heat, like standing close to a bonfire or an open oven. Seething is the only word for it. She's seriously considering putting a knife into one of Kieren's creepy dead eyes when she puts it together.]
You're the dress guy.
[Definitely what you want to be known as.]
no subject
[ Maybe a little stupid, yes. Or just very optimistic. The gentle tirade's derailed by her sudden realization, though, catching him completely off guard. ]
I'm the... ?
[ He stares at her for a moment, trying to put two and two together. It's probably a little unnerving between the cloudy iris and pinprick eyes, but then his brows raise in sudden recognition. ] You're the girl with the tree dress.
[ See: other things you definitely want to be known as. And this would possibly make more sense if he'd seen her hair to begin with, but now that he's looking at her instead of her axes, it's difficult to miss the jagged edges that accompany those bits of hair all over her knife. ]
Did you cut your hair?
no subject
So her eyeroll is a little exasperated, but not as disgusted as it might be otherwise. Also, stupid question--]
Wow, good job.
[She shifts her knife a little, pinches the hilt against the palm of her hand and the curve of her thumb, so she can run her other fingers through the short length of her hair.]
Don't you like it? It won't look bad with your design, will it?
no subject
[ He doesn't sound particularly apologetic. He sounds more feisty, actually, like he isn't even a little bit sorry that he hasn't started on her dress. He might care a bit more if she did — or if she wasn't so generally unpleasant.
Probably best to cut this conversation short. Instead he eyes her hair for another second, then: ]
It's a bit rough, though, isn't it?
no subject
The haircut is a bit rough, hacked off and then patched up by volunteer hairdressers. She knows that. And it's not like she's going to make everyone pretend that it does look good--they can dislike it if they want, whatever--but she's also not going to let remarks go by without answering them.]
Sure is.
[She says it through her smile, and as she drops her arm to her side again, her hand twists to grip at the knife. Not a threat. Just there.]
And since you've got such an opinion on it, you can fix it. Or you can bend over and I'll shove this knife up your ass. [To explain:] Since you can't actually shove an opinion up your ass.
What's it going to be, smart guy?