ataraxionlogs | 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.

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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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[ He'd lied to her. Back home, even if he's got no intention of doing so here. Long enough for Gold to get the upper hand, and that makes some of the guilt his. She withdraws sharply, and he flinches and lets her pull away. ]

My— [ He stalls out, voice weak. The confession had been difficult, but that'd been entirely on him. Now all he can think of is Emma's pain as she'd listed off the people she's lost, his foolish promise that he wouldn't be next.

He doesn't want to see that look on her face again. But as much as he'd rather look away, he doesn't, sympathetic eyes steady on hers. ]

He took my heart.

[ It doesn't feel like enough. There should be more — a plan, some sort of comfort. But all there is is the knowledge that Gold's still in control back in Storybrooke, and Killian's days are numbered. There's no further explanation that won't simply make it worse. ]

[ It's my heart, Emma. I need to find it.

Her hand closes into a fist, an instinctive gesture to stop herself from reaching out for his chest. Processing his words doesn't come easy: her eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and she flounders for words, surprise slackening her features. Surprise turns readily to fearful concern, though, as all the ramifications of that truly sink in. ]

Rumplestiltskin has your heart.

[ She repeats it for confirmation, taking one half-step back, away from him. ]

I don't understand. [ She raises a hand between them palm up, fingers splayed, hold on a minute. ] When did this happen? [ And then comes the defensiveness. She bristles, realizing fully what being without his heart means. How much wasn't real? ]

[ Whatever urge he has to move forward after her, keep her close, it's cut off by that defensive raise of her hand. The gesture earns a wounded look before his eyes raise back to hers, and he should take his time, try to explain it evenly — instead the words come out heavy, desperate. ]

Since that night at the mansion. When he tried to... he was trying to take your power, Emma.

[ And that's where his restraint ends. Killian steps forward, just enough to try to place his hand on her cheek, give some sort of physical tether to keep her from withdrawing. ]

But he doesn't have it now. Not here. [ It isn't much of a victory. There's still a finality to it, and he tries to ignore the fact that it's a temporary reassurance. ] He's gone home.

The mansion.

[ A short, breathy huff of disbelief. Processing. Her eyes flicker across his face briefly, doing some quick math. Figuring out what's happened since then and what she feels about it. ]

And everything since then … Was that him? Was any of it even real? Has he just been using you to get my magic?

[ Predictably, the strain in her voice mounts with each iterative question, swelling with her distress. ]

What the hell does Gold want my magic for? What haven't you been telling me?!

Emma— [ The accusation pulls it out, defensive and pleading, but he bites down on it quickly. Now isn't the time to be asking for forgiveness. And even if he doesn't want the blame, he wants honesty — wants the confession that'd been denied him on the phone and several times since, held in check only by Gold's magic. His heart's still gone, yes, but now there's nothing to bind it. ]

He plans to rid himself of the dagger's power over him. He needs magic to do it. I tried to tell you—

[ The next word doesn't come. Instead there's a sharp inhale of breath, hand drawing away from her quickly to clutch at his chest as he falls back a single step. The pain's quick, intense, then gone — it still leaves him gasping for air, chest heaving slowly, brow furrowed in confusion.

It shouldn't be possible. Gold's gone, can't possibly control him from Storybrooke, not when he's— his eyes abruptly gain focus, lifting to hers as realization hits. ] It's on the ship.

Edited 2015-01-14 07:50 (UTC)

[ Rumpelstiltskin’s plan comes all at once, a wave of information crashing over her—too much to process at once. Sharp blue eyes dart around the room, already trying to come up with some kind of plan for how to proceed when Hook staggers back.

The movement is too familiar. The way his body tenses, the way he pulls his hands up to his chest, all of it. In a flash, she’s certain it’s too late. Hook was wrong: Gold is here: and she’s lost him already. The same thing happens every time she gets anywhere close to happiness; just when she thinks she might stand a chance at it, tragedy rips it from her hands.

Surging forward without a second thought, temper forgotten, Emma braces one hand against his arm, the other coming to rest against his chest, atop his hands. ]

Hook! [ Panic bubbles out of her throat before she can even consider what he’s said. Her eyes fix on his, searching, imploring him to be okay and to pull through this. She needs him. And it’s never been more clear. Something in her gaze softens out, putting her squarely back on his team out of practicality if nothing else. She’ll get the chance to harangue him for lying later. ] We need to find it.

[ Dying at Rumplestiltskin's hand had never been a bonus, obviously, but it's this that he'd been trying to avoid. Killian ignores the ache in his chest in order to take her hand in his, fingers threading through hers and holding tight.

His breathing evens out quickly; more quickly than it might if she weren't here, offering support — and incentive to be better, cause her less worry. The small smile's to the same end, and even if it is a little weak, it isn't lacking for the usual charm. ]

I'll just put out an inquiry on the network, shall I? Missing heart. Red, glowing— incredibly striking, if a bit worn about the edges.

That’s a good way to get yourself killed.

[ It’s not as if Hook is without enemies: she has much too easy a time imagining that one of them may be holding it, and choose to crush it once they realize precisely what they have their hands on. Even if he has fewer here than in their world, she doesn’t care to take that risk. Not when his life is at stake.

Keeping one hand tangled with his at his chest, Emma moves her other hand to stroke the side of his face, tempered concern capturing her features: her intense gaze scrutinizes him, her lips tighten and press together, and slight creasing lines her forehead. ]

I’ll get SEC on it.

thirty-ninth jump;

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this seems like good timing y/n

yyyyy

also good time for bad jokes y/n

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