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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
For medical reasons.
[ Obviously. ] The brain controls lots of things. If part of it's damaged, you can— well you can't fix it, really, but you can identify things. But since the ship's got nanites, I thought maybe it'd be better at...
[ A pause while he considers it, then he offers a light shrug. ] Fixing.
no subject
[He's lost. If a brain's messed up, Firo figures it's as good as done. That's why the Mafia guys like to kill people with two shots behind the ear, right? (That is, people with whom they don't need to make a statement.)
Confused though he is, he's starting to realize that this might be something important. He might not have the technical knowledge, but perhaps he can be of some use.]
What exactly would these... brain scan things look like?
no subject
It's— well it's data, and charts, and sometimes maps, but I think it's... I don't think they've got any hard copies.
[ It'd been a long shot, thinking he'd either find something useful on paper or stumble upon some miracle machine, and in retrospect he feels a bit dumb for trying. ]
I need access. But you said you aren't with medical, yeah?
no subject
No. And I don't know anyone who is, either.
Is this stuff you can't just ask for?
[It sounds complicated, so maybe it's really fragile and/or valuable.]
no subject
[ At least that part isn't complicated. ]
I doubt there's anything, anyway.
[ He glances over, offering a shrug that translates to 'I give up'. And the guy isn't with medical, but he'd wasted the time checking in, so— ]
Sorry.
no subject
Don't apologize to me, apologize to whoever you need those things for. Are they gonna be all right without it?
[This has to be for a friend or something, right? Why else would it seem important?
He knows he should probably leave him alone, but his curiosity remains and he can't help but be a little concerned about whatever's going on.]
no subject
[ That's a little more defensive than he means it to be. He seems to regret it immediately, offering an apologetic look as he reins in his tone. ]
It isn't for anyone. Or it's not for someone else, anyway. I have a— [ Fitz hesitates, then gestures somewhat absently towards his own temple. ] I have this thing. And I couldn't fix it at home, but I thought maybe I could here.
no subject
[He frowns, groping around for the appropriate thing to say. He knows condolences would be correct, but he's not very good at those.]
That's gotta suck.
[Both the problem itself and the hope of assistance being snatched away.]
You know, with all the smart people here, there might be somebody who could point you in the right direction.
no subject
Yeah. To both, I mean. [ As in yes, it sucks. Flat attempt at humor, but it's the thought that counts. The next part's very reluctant, gaze straying over the desk in front of him. ] I'll just have to ask someone with medical.
Thanks, by the way. For— [ Another shrug, noncommittal. Trying to help, hopefully not telling someone he's been digging around, take your pick. ]
no subject
[Firo should probably not attempt to offer comfort to anyone. Emotions being uncomfortable things, he finds it hard to resist turning it into a joke.]
No problem. I wasn't gonna rat on you anyway, but I definitely won't now.