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

[puppydogeyes]

[The wince, the don't, she'd be flinching back if he didn't catch her hand. It draws her attention up from the wound to his face, concern evident in her eyes, open and raw where so many other reactions might be closed off, hidden away under a harder expression.]

A month. [Maybe a little dumbly, answering automatically before her own half-panicked words bubble over.] I can't hear you, Derek. I can't hear you and you're not--

[Healing. She doesn't want to say it, tempt it, make it real even when the bulletwound was already there, already real.]

[altercate]

[ a month. things are coming back to him, bits and pieces filtering in slow. he remembers her. he remembers the ship. he doesn't remember the dream. that's the most frustrating part, but he don't have a chance to focus on it. there'll be time for that later, when he's not trying to swallow his own panic while soothing tyke's. ]

It's okay.

[ which means nothing, in the long run. derek's definition is lacking on so many levels. ]

I'll explain. I can explain.

[ though derek doesn't even know where to start. there's so much he and tyke haven't talked about explicitly, and now he can't just let her look into his head. ]

[puppydogeyes]

[Then explain, she wants to say, demand, immediate. She never actively read him without invite before, but now without the option, the ability to know even the vague outlines of his emotions, she's desperate for answers.

But she shouldn't be. She doesn't need her pathos to see how much pain he's in, the disorientation still fogging his gaze. She turns her hand in his, gripping more solidly.]

Okay. [He's said it's okay, and it isn't, but if he can explain then he knows. It isn't some ship fuckery, some effect of being stuck in there for a month. Taylor getting answers isn't urgent; his injury is. It's something she can focus on, knows what to do with. She takes a breath, sets her jaw.] Later. Tell me later. We've gotta get you to medical.

[It isn't far, at least. She doesn't know if any medstaff are awake yet, but she'll deal with that when they come to it.]

[altercate]

[ medical. right. he shakes his head again, reaches a hand to swipe at his eyes. he's on the tranquility. disengaging from beacon hills takes derek a moment. it's always difficult, but it's never been like this, not even the first time. but he puts that all down to the loss of his powers, rather than his injury. ]

Can you come with me? If you have--if there's something else happening...

[ because she's head of sec. derek remembers that. there are other demands on her time, and she can't waste all of it sitting at his bedside. and she shouldn't, because he's fine. derek wants to tell her that, but instead he just squeezes her hand, straightens up slowly. ]

It's not as bad as it looks.

[ only a flesh wound, right? ]

[puppydogeyes]

[It doesn't look bad. As bullet wounds go, it's small, in a favourable position. If it was bad, he wouldn't even be able to stand, move - the muscles in his stomach wouldn't allow it, too damaged to hold him upright. But it still looks terrible, because it's Derek, because he shouldn't have a bullet wound in his side.

She doesn't say so. She shakes her head.]

There's nothing else.

[It might not be true. She doesn't have her comms on her. But it doesn't matter, she isn't leaving him alone like this.]

I'll take you. [She steps into his uninjured side, lifting his arm over her shoulders, still holding onto his hand.] Come on.

[altercate]

I can walk. [ derek says, protesting because it feels wrong, all of it. bleeding, needing to be helped along. a wound like this never needed any of this attention. ] Tyke.

[ as he squeezes her hand, trying to soothe. he doesn't need enhanced senses to catch her worry. it's a little jarring. derek's had time to get used to this. she's had it thrown at her, and he can at least recognize some of the shock and worry that she must be feeling. ]

[puppydogeyes]

[He squeezes her hand again, and she pauses, for a second, takes it in. His fingers laced with hers, his weight against her, warm under the cooling layer of stasis fluid on both of them. He's still here. He's still alive. She doesn't know what the fuck is going on, why she can't hear him, why he's not healing, but he still says her name like he's always known it.]

This'll go easier.

[Stubborn, glancing at him briefly before looking straight ahead. She doesn't want to say let me do this, give voice to how she doesn't know what to do, to help him. Only this.]

Come on.