thirty-ninth jump;

[ataraxites]

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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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

Comments

[lostsoldier]

[ This is why he'd always done his best work straight out of a mind-wipe. Emotion is— not exactly new, after a year here, but not something he has a lot of practice controlling either. Nothing used to be personal. This is. Anger writhes now barely even below the surface. ]

This one was a little better than a gym teacher.

[ Blake's lack of cooperation isn't making him any happier, but it doesn't matter, confirmation doesn't matter, he knows— it was Blake's voice, it fits, memory and reality line up exactly, he's not crazy, he just— ]

You put that in my head, [ he says, teeth flashing with the words and the whites of eyes turning half-moons under the deepening of his stare. ] Why.

[oversight]

[ Concern doesn't wane when this situation continues longer than expected. John might have briefly hoped pushing back would solve this issue but now that reality's really starting to set in, he's realizing he has no fucking idea what Davis — he remembers a name now, can connect it to a familiar enough face — is talking about. ]

Listen to yourself. How can— how can I put anything in your head? Huh? What d'you think? How would I—? How would I do that? You think it's not— [ Ah, fuck he's having trouble concentrating. Blake shakes his head like a dog, his fingers fruitlessly raking at the grapple that's keeping him in place. ]

Don't wanna fight you, dammit!

[ That last part's barked with intensity that he accompanies with a sharp shake. He's scared, he's disoriented, but he's not stupid, so negotiation isn't out of question (yet). ]

[lostsoldier]

[ Listen to himself? He is listening. He knows. It sounds crazy, everything here sounds crazy, but he's not— Doubt flickers behind his eyes. ]

You wouldn't be the only telepath onboard. [ The acid in his tone has flattened as fast as it had spiked, like he's trying to convince himself now as much as Blake. ] Wouldn't be the only liar, either.

[ But the soldier knows a lie when he hears it, and that doesn't sound like one. Doesn't look like one, either. Confusion pitches his brow in a flinch. His grip loosens, uncertain, but doesn't quite relent. ]

[oversight]

[ The words hit him like accusations and its more than enough to edge Blake into the angry territory. He pinches his lips together and it's only because he seems some relenting aggression on the other man's face that he doesn't strike while he has the chance to break free and escape. ]

I'm not a telepath an' I'm sure as hell not a liar. This is— How d'you know this isn't your problem?

[ The suggestion is weighty and it doesn't quite feel right when it comes out of Blake's mouth. He hasn't found his footing yet, but he's pretty sure stuff like that's not really him, if you get my drift.

John weasels a hand free of wherever it's been gripping and holds it up. ]

Can we just—? Can we talk 'bout this without the shadowy interrogation tactics? Jesus, I'm cooperatin' already...

[lostsoldier]

[ Self-consciousness isn't exactly his style, but there's a reptilian blink, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, and shadowy interrogation tactics earns a quick side-glance, like he hadn't. actually thought of it that way, or thought much about it at all. Like an old dog kicked a few too many times, he's just snapping at boots.

There's a beat's hesitation. There are ways to be sure, about telepathy. He'd come a few centimeters from Charles's jugular with a shard of glass once. But not in the middle of a crowded room — and it's true, he doesn't know this isn't just him. (He never knows.)

With a begrudging nod and the groan of hinges, the hand falls away. There. Happy? ]

So talk.

[oversight]

[ As a matter of fact, Blake's more than pleased by the concession, even if he can't bring himself to entirely forgive being shoved into the dark corner in the first place.

He rolls his shoulders and tries to loosen, wary eyes on the other man the whole time. Interactions like this aren't uncommon for Blake — especially since quitting the police force — but he doesn't see any point in letting on to that fact. ]

There is a guy — someone I knew back home. Eccentric type. We used to kick around here an' there. He was big into tactics and theory. It was— [ Not a lie, but not the whole truth. ] It's nothin', if that's what you saw... We played hard.

[ John doesn't appreciate having to operate like this. He's used to people not bothering to ask questions. He gets the occasional comment about being from Gotham, but few people go probing into his past. Then again, there's probably something to be said for easy access... ]

[lostsoldier]

[ His shoulders pull back in turn, chin lifting in scrutiny. He could be projecting. That possibility skitters across the back of his mind, that he sees training when other people just see a friendly match. But he trusts his observational skills, and the fact that nobody says It's nothing about anything that actually is nothing. ]

'Cause you're just a hobbyist, right? [ A tilt of the forehead. He looks like he believes that about as much as he believes in the tooth fairy. ] He sure as hell wasn't.

[ If there's a note of respect in his voice at that, well, maybe he would have gotten along alright with Bruce Wayne. ]

[oversight]

[ Blake manages to avoid narrowing his eyes but in his mind he's scrambling just the same, as if he knows he's got tells and they're being read. He feels scrutinized and it's unsettling how very pointed it is.

A long breath escapes and John reaches a hand up to unconsciously rub at his arm where they'd made previous contact. ]

Hell no, he wasn't. The guy was crazy rich an' he was born that way. His first car was a Lamborghini at fourteen. Course he wasn't. People like that got time to be more'n hobbyists.

I don't.

[ It's a lie. A bold-faced lie, in fact, even if Blake doesn't have the same support structure. At this point he's just hoping Davis doesn't have more dirt on him than just that. ]

[lostsoldier]

People like that don't usually have the drive.

[ Usually because Kate grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth too, but he doesn't imagine she got as good as she did because she had too much time on her hands. People like that need a real good reason.

People like Blake, though? He isn't so sure. His eyes narrow, but there's a funny sort of contentment to it, like he already knows something worth knowing. (Which isn't to say he actually does.) ]

What'd you do after you quit being a cop?

[oversight]

Non-profit.

[ It's automatically — more so than it probably should be — but John's satisfied with the answer because it's legitimately the truth. He tries to shed some of the tension he's feeling but with a swimming head he's not doing the best job. ]

Workin' with kids. Orphans.

[ There's a much, much bigger picture but Blake neglects to fill in those details because that's exactly what this guy seems to want and hell if he's going to make it easy. ]

[lostsoldier]

[ New Guy pls. The slight, skeptical eyebrow raise that answers Blake neatly conveys how much faith he has in that explanation, or at least the amount of faith he'd like New Guy to think he has. (Not much.) ]

If you say so.

[ His eyes slide right, over the passing crowd of equally-naked bodies. Much as he might like to push a little harder, this isn't the time or the place. His weight settles onto his heels instead, opening up the space between them again. ]

Next time keep your memories to yourself, alright?

[oversight]

Yeah, whatever you say, pal...

[ John waits until the other guy moves away completely to head for the showers.

Seriously, though, what a jerk. Blake still has no idea what's going on, what's happening with his memories and dreams, or why he feels so groggy, but he does know this meeting is out of place and he'll probably be thinking about it for quite some time. ]