ａｘｍｏｄｓ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ataraxites) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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
"Life is not fair," Eponine reminded Johanna. "But perhaps. With scissors. And I should like a looking glass." So she could see what exactly the girl was doing to her hair. She was vain, and always had been. But having access to food and fine clothing by her standards had only augmented this trait. "But that is not a no."
no subject
Not the best way to convince someone to let you try your hand at hairdressing, but Johanna can't help it. The well of anger had been too immediate, like being sliced across the palm. "Is that still 'not a no'?"
no subject
She shrugs. "Perhaps. I have not decided. But I do see all these beautiful women, with different hair styles. In Paris, oh, some of the ladies had the finest curls and bonnets! They looked like dolls, and I should have very much liked to have been one of them."
no subject
But also, what the hell does she care. This isn't a sadness competition. It would be nice to say that none of it matters here, but it's like it matters more than ever, everything from the worlds they've left behind echoing and distorting on this ship. The same old shit, again.
Dolls. Johanna snorts. "I can do curls," she says, flatly, "curls are easy. What's so great about looking like some doll?"
no subject
Eponine takes a moment to think about dolls, even working on the hair in front of her. "They are beautiful. Perfect. Beautiful dresses and rosy lips."
no subject
Which, to be fair: Eponine is good about getting back to work. She's only momentarily distracted by her disgusting girlish giddiness. And why shouldn't she be? It's great to look good. Truthfully, wearing nice clothes and taking a bath every day were luxuries that Johanna really does enjoy, even if she hates everything else about the Capitol. Or, well. They were luxuries, that she did enjoy. Those days were pretty much over, even before the Tranquility.
"Dolls are beautiful, and they're stupid," she corrects Eponine. "They can't talk. They can't think. You just pose their limbs and then put them down and they stand there. There's nothing great about that. You could cut eyeholes into a piece of wood and slap a wig on it and it'd still be a piece of wood."
no subject
"Oui, of course," she says, and continues at the cutting. There isn't too much left to do now, but she's meticulous at getting it all the same length.
Eponine hadn't had luxuries, either. Perhaps, when she was a child, and had indeed had dolls and dresses and kittens. But when she'd grown, they'd all been stripped from her, and she slept beneath bridges and hallucinated from hunger. Death had been the best option for her, and she had welcomed it with open arms.
Then she'd woken up here.
"No, but, did you never pretend to be a mother to them? Or to speak to them as if they did speak back? There was much fun in that, for me as a child. Another sort of companion. It may be my childhood speaking for me, to find them so wonderful. Now, I do not know what I would do with one, save admire it."
no subject
She'd ignored Eponine's first question outright, but comes back to it now. Dolls were less important than axes, and pretending less important than work. But there were toys, and games. Not dolls, and mothering, but other stuff. It's just easier not to think of it at all, to avoid rose-tinted nostalgia. Not in the least because nostalgia makes her want to puke.
"Here's some advice." Decisively, Johanna turns a sharp glance over her shoulder, interrupting Eponine's progress. "Don't waste your time thinking about your childhood. Don't let it speak for you. No one cares, and you shouldn't care either."
no subject
Eponine is quick enough to pull the knife back when Johanna turns around. That advice, though she's prepared to disagree, is apt. Extremely. "Oh. That is..." Even her parents hadn't cared about her past. They cared about the now. Making money. Being able to eat. It fit her own circumstances, too. Why care about the past when you didn't even know if you had tomorrow.
"You are a very smart woman, Johanna."
no subject
Eponine is dull, but she isn't stupid. There's a hard-earned wariness in her that Johanna recognizes. She doesn't like her--but she doesn't hate her, either. It's stupidity that she hates more. At least Eponine can learn.
That eventual assessment makes Johanna turn away with a little flounce, a smile twisted across her face. She likes to have her talents recognized. "You bet I am. So you better listen to me." No modesty here, false or otherwise, and Johanna waves a hand toward her hair again, regal and dismissive. "Now finish up. I don't have all day."
no subject
But when it came to social cues and graces? She fell below Marius Pontmercy himself.
"I will. And I shall finish, just a bit more here." The cut was plain, nothing amazing to write home about, simply short and trimmed. With one last bit of sawing, Eponine let go of Johanna's hair, and smiled. "Stand! I should like to see how you think it looks!"
no subject
Instead, she pushes her fingers briskly through the trimmed length, fluffing it out for a second. Against all odds, it sort of suits her face, in a hacked-off kind of way. Maybe when it grows out a little, it'll look more purposeful.
"Well?"
no subject
"I do like it. Quite a lot." Carefully, she holds the knife back out to Johanna, hilt first.
no subject
"Message me, when you decide you want your curls." Business now, she climbs over the bench and pushes past Eponine, back to her locker. "I promise I won't shave your head."
no subject
no subject
"Well? Go on and get out of here," she says, too dull to be cruel, "or I'll change my mind and shave it right now. Find your stupid boyfriend. I've got stuff to do."
And she turns back to her locker, pointedly rummaging through the spare contents.
no subject
"Please do not- I will find Michel. And I will find you for more hair!" With a quick giggle, she practically trips over herself as she turns to find her boyfriend. Johanna was lovely, and Eponine believed that she herself had made another friend.