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

[circumitus]

Something tells Rey that there should be some sort of normal response to being stared at, but she's not one who's easily intimidated or creeped out. Most of the time she's the one doling out the creepy, so she casts her eyes towards the familiar voice to see that same waned, pale-eyed face she had seen over the network.

Rey senses that there must be a reason why he appears the way he does, and recalls that same subject that spawned their first conversation. Like everything else she's ever experienced, her memory of it is perfect.

Bringing the dogtags closer to her, she nods. "Yes," she simply says. "We have."

[revivalism]

"Did I ask your name?"

It's a genuine question, not only a polite one. On a good day he would be able to remember, but right now it's a strain, like trying to make out a road sign through fog. He looks down at the dogtags when she moves them, as if maybe he'll be able to see a name from this distance—and maybe he's a little curious, too.

[circumitus]

"No, you didn't."

It's not the first time she's had this problem. She's gone from Moose Woman to Tank Girl as a result of her lack of introductory skills.

Seeing Simon's eyes trace to her dogtags, she decides to take some initiative for once: "It's Rey."

[revivalism]

That's a relief—that he hadn't forgotten it, that he isn't being rude, since he does care at least a little about being rude to the people he's decided he has some kinship with. (Nonhumans who've wreaked destruction on others generally count.) He nods, pulls his mouth tighter to approximate a smile, and says, "Simon," though he thinks he must have mentioned that on the network. Manners. Occasionally.

He rubs water off one of his arms, even though he doesn't feel cold and barely feels wet, and nods his head toward the tags. "Are those yours?"

That might be a stupid question. Or an unnecessarily nosy one.

"Some things turned up in my locker I'd never seen before," he clarifies.

[circumitus]

It doesn't take much time for Rey to recall the first and last time they'd spoken, and his general offer of support to non-humans. It also doesn't take a whole lot of imagination to know why when she looks at him, and nods as he properly introduces himself.

Only her eyes shift towards the dogtags, as though she just realizes that they're there. "Used to be. Am not that person anymore."

Hence her reluctance to wear them. Schuyler was a different person. A decent person. Possibly one of the most normal of Rey's old lives.

"What sort of things?" She's genuinely curious. Most of the things ending up in her locker were familiar trinkets, or welcome gifts.

[revivalism]

"Knives." He dips his head to one side and raises one corner of his mouth, still bewildered and unnerved a jump—two jumps—later. "A bone saw. I hope it wasn't a warning. I don't heal."

He smiles. No teeth, but he means it. The knives weren't personal, at least, as far as he's aware. Dogtags from an old life, on the other hand, whatever Rey means by that—he remembers something about memories, from their conversation before, but even if he could remember it clearly he probably wouldn't understand right now.

"I hope they haven't upset you too much," he says. "Whoever is messing with our heads."

[circumitus]

He doesn't heal.

Well, that's one more interesting thing she's learned today. Simon mentioned something about non-humans, she recalls pretty clearly. If something had happened to them during their time here. It's fairly easy to start connecting the dots that it's related.

"How do you not heal?" It's not a question she would normally ask, but she's actually quite interested.

She looks down at the dogtags, flipping the tab over so the name is reflected in the light.

"No, not upset. Am used to head games."

Not just from all of her time spent here, but back home -- her entire existence had been spent having someone messing with her head in some way.

[revivalism]

He could turn and show her his back—replacing the missing staples is still an unfinished item on his to-do list, and it will stay one until he decides it's worth dealing with any of the doctors or scientists on the ship—but that would be needlessly flashy. It would also be awkwardly delayed, given that he's distracted by the tags, almost involuntarily. (A quick glance at the name. It doesn't mean anything to him. He might not remember it later.)

So he turns his forearm toward her instead, with its blackened needle marks, and then gestures close to the bloodless puncture wound on his ribs, where Odessa stabbed him while she was sleepwalking.

They could almost be scabs, but, "Permanent," he explains. "I'm undead."

And he's used to head games, too, technically, except the head games worked so well he doesn't realize that's what they were. He still sympathizes, though.

"I'd like to talk to you sometime," he goes on, "when we're not—" Another gesture at their shared state of undress. They also share a history of slaughter, if he's remembering right, even if his destruction occurred on a much smaller scale than Rey's. "If you wouldn't mind."

[circumitus]

"Oh."

She's not entirely sure what to say to that, but she reacts more in dull surprise than anything else. Not in shock or fear, but a sudden realization because it definitely explains his appearance, and that he wasn't born with ghostly pale skin and eyes. Let's be real here, she would've accepted that as a thing, too.

For a moment she didn't even realize that she was staring -- more like spacing -- and there's a delay in her response. "Oh," she says again. "Yes. Talk. Would like that."

Towels aren't exactly what one would deem proper social attire. Right. That's also a thing.