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.
Harry Potter | Closed to Draco Malfoy
[Naked, embarrassed, dripping wet with shower water, and nearly blind, Harry barely makes it to his locker, where the crewnumber printed on the surface is hazy, legible only when he has his nose a foot from the surface, and the skewed rash of spraypaint below it just kind uninterpretable from where he's standing. He's managed to fumble his way this far, and glad of that, but he finds himself really hoping against hope that no kind of dial-turning will be necessary to open this thing. When he sets his hand against it, to his delight, he can feel his glasses fluttering faintly against the door, in a bid to answer his wandless summons five minutes ago.
Even better: the locker opens.
His sense of gratification, however, is short-lived. A split-second after his glasses zing into his fingers, his unadorned eyes go huge, lift: the rest of his locker contents, some book, a broom, a screeching cat, and an even louder Sneakoscope come tumbling out, hitting him square in the chest. In his bid to catch everything-- or something, at least the bloody cat, he winds up stumbling down to the knee, momentarily forgetting all about his bare bottom.]
no subject
Or.
He moves quick and silent, bare feet, bare legs, his body a starkly pallid form in the bright locker room lights, making the deep navy swimming trunks all the darker in contrast. (If he must stumble out of the goo filled chambers every thirty-odd days, he isn't going to do it naked.)
Of the items spilled in all directions, he chooses one. Maybe Harry can sense it, a subtle undercurrent of something wrong, when bony fingers curl around the wand of holly and phoenix feather. ]
Well well well.
[ Draco voice is as slithery as every other predictable snakeish characteristic, somehow maintaining a regal bearing half-unclothed, damp from the showers. ]
What's it mean I can't turn a corner in space without running into you.
i have no icons nude enough despite that he was, in the movie
Malfoy.
[The name itself is loaded with sort of kneejerk dislike. Harry stares at the blond boy, manages not to stare directly at the wand. There's something stubborn about the way he holds Draco's eye, specifically, refusing to acknowledge (despite that it rankles) his own state of disarray. His eyes narrow sharply behind the lenses of his glasses.] Give me back my wand.
it's okay i can use my imagination
Actual amusement for the other young man's compromised position flitters warm and cruel behind his expression. ]
You look like you've got your hands full enough, Potter. Maybe I ought to hold onto it a little longer.
[ Pale eyebrows twitch up. ]
Return the favour.
[ And then, his other hand comes to grip a hold of it, not yet posing it like he'd snap it in half, but the threat is there. Sharper, more serious all at once; ] What do you remember.
no subject
And he's sensitized to that threat, of course; that last year of the war was the worst, after the thing broke under the backlash of Hermione's spell. He manages not to squeeze Crookshanks any tighter while he's doing that his subconscious posturing, but his eyes are narrowed sharply behind the beading condensation of his glasses too. He's so cross he forgets to be self-conscious about everything else.
Objectively, it's not a terrible deal: answer a simple question, presumably get his wand thrown back at him, make peace with Draco's ego at a small expense of his own. But he was just kidnapped into space and made naked, so objectivity is not the prevailing frame of mind for Potters around right now. He looks very mad, his jaw in a clench, black hair still sticking to his scarred forehead.]
I'll answer all your questions when you give my wand back, Malfoy, [Harry says. A final effort at civility, very nineteen-year-old, very mature.] I don't know what this place is, but it's not home to either of us. I don't want more trouble.
no subject
Both of them know that the wand breaking is an unacceptable outcome. Draco's hands tighten and he ignores the cat. He could take that offer, but no part of him wants to remotely do any such thing.
Even when Harry halfway answers his question already. Still-- ]
What's the last thing you remember before you came here, [ he demands, anyway. Bright eyes soak in detail and nuance. He doesn't think Harry came in before the war, like Granger, but it's important to hear it all the same.
And it'll be more apparent now that Harry has had time to adjust to threats of wand breakage, squirming cats, his own pantslessness -- the Dark Mark is still printed stark black on the inner of Draco's left arm, a detail and its exposure that seems to go ignored by the blonde boy. ]
no subject
There's no mistaking that for a funny rash or any other choice of mark. There's no mistaking how dark it is, either, and maybe that as much as any other mess of hormones and confusion and misplaced conviction cocktail up to charge Harry's next move. Which is to hitch Crookshanks up his chest, and sling the cat at Draco's head, the creature opening his claws to find traction on Harry's arms much too late. Mid-air Crookshanks lets off a screech of dismay.
And naked Harry Potter comes scrambling at Draco too, his damp hands grasping desperately -- and carefully!! -- for his wand.]
no subject
His arms come up to protect his face, the cat snagging claws on his arms and a scrabble at his chest to rebound off and away, both cat and boy giving their own disgruntled yowls.
And then Harry's hand closes on stolen wand, and Draco staggers back, clinging to it, his other hand setting blunt nails into the other boy's wrist in attempt to wrest it away. Principle of the thing, and he's not sure he wants Potter armed, after this-- ]
no subject
He extricates himself somehow. Crookshanks manages to do so before him, so he ends up nearly tripping over the cat instead. His back slaps heavily into the same locker he'd kneed earlier, and he braces himself there, wand up. It's not the best dueling posture, but his dueling postures have never been the best. For a wizard messiah, he is very bug-eyed and disheveled for a moment, glasses skew-whiff and shower water gathering between his piggies.]
I'm warning you, Malfoy. Leave it.
no subject
He'd always imagined that everyone in Hogwarts was as nasty as he was, underneath it all.
Harry, of course, does not immediately hex off his eyebrows. Even if his duelling posture needs work, it's superior to Draco's lack of his own wand, hands empty. There's a smear of blood from catch scratches on his bare chest. He manages to school his expression into something more neutral. ]
You're far away from home, Potter, [ he finally spits, which is as close to 'leaving it' as he's willing to concede ] further than you know about.
psst can u mention teh snapes next tag or 2
[It's ruder than Harry was as a child, but then, McGonagall isn't around and there's a lot of stress even besides that Crookshanks seems to be wandering out of the periphery of his vision. It does occur to Harry, for a split-second, that it's strange that Draco is running around without his wand-- what sort of place is this, where wizards so tender still from war and ever hot of disposition aren't going around armed? But the breathing tubes, the strange message scrawled across his locker.
The shape and smell of these windowless corridors. Draco's right, obviously. But Harry doesn't trust him to recount the details any further than he'd expect the other boy to care for a peacock that he regrettably didn't Jump in with this go-around. He gestures with his wand.] I'll hear all about it from someone who isn't being a git.