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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
[Delayed DTs from the blood or haunted by the dead crew of the Tranquility. Neither option sounds horribly appealing.]
I don't know I'd count time spent in the jump as awake, precisely, but I also don't want to rule anything out prematurely. Though I suppose unless and until I remember what I dreamed about, it's relatively moot.
no subject
Maybe it's better, not remembering.
[If they were Ivan's dreams, not remembering would be weaseling out, almost escaping a punishment. If it's the ship-- God knows what any of that means anyways.]
I wouldn't try too hard to remember, if I was you. We don't get to forget too much.
[And rightly so. They shouldn't be let off lightly. But he still feels some-- prickle of sympathy, like if he could ease this off of Ivan, he would. It's stupid.]
no subject
[For all Ivan is the one off-balance, Mitchell still seems like a raw nerve, at least from Ivan's perspective. What Ivan does and does not remember from his own over-long set of years is a conversation for another day. The comment has something like sympathy. But he adds:]
I don't like not understanding things, but this ship certainly doesn't especially reward curiosity, that's true.
no subject
That's what they say. [More sincerely:] Thanks.
[It's kindly meant--nearly as kind as Ivan gets--so he'll take it kindly. Although he does wonder about the truth of it, if it's some nice little lie that everyone tells themselves, and everyone around them. Wouldn't be surprising. How much does Ivan remember? How much can you remember when you're dozens and dozens of centuries old?
He pushes his fingers through his hair, with an exhale.]
Doesn't reward anything. Or give us any answers. You have to admire the people still plugging away at it, like it's some puzzle they're going t' be able to solve. [Humanity, right? Weird.] But, I guess, what choice does anyone have in that. People aren't made for eternity.
[Not like them. In that, at least, it's like Ivan says: the edges wear down.]
no subject
[Even Ivan can gather as much, though since he missed the last jump, he doesn't have any inkling it might touch Mitchell personally.]
no subject
He flicks ash from the end of his cigarette and watches it drift to the floor, and flare, and die.]
And what would you say has been your way?
[Of keeping sane, he means. He thinks, then, of Daisy. It's still sometimes weird, not to see her right at Ivan's arm.]
no subject
[The momentary disorientation is passing, now, but he's still on a spaceship where self-preservation means he can't freely indulge his addiction and he has fuck all to do otherwise. He's surviving, but he knows he can't go on like he has been forever.]
no subject
[Not here. Maybe at home. But suddenly it's not something that he wants to talk about. He knows all about Ivan at home. They're friends. And Mitchell feels suddenly very tired. He wants to tell Ivan about George, but what the fuck would it matter? Sometimes everything here feels like a noose.
He rubs his wrist against his forehead, an almost unconscious gesture of stress, putting the ember and ash end of his cigarette dangerously close to his hair.]
George is gone.
[There. He's said it. Abrupt topic change.]
It happened last month.
no subject
Shit, mate. Your ghost, is she still here at least?
[And if something like concerned is not Ivan's usual way... well. It isn't Ivan's usual context.]
no subject
[It's a minor correction, and it lacks any real insult--not that he's any less sensitive to the disregard of Annie's name, but it's somehow less important right now. (Maybe it's got something to do with that same tenuous rare friendship.)]
She's here. She's-- all right. [Not that Ivan asked, but it's easy to turn toward--whatever that note is in his voice, concern or mere politeness or-- whatever.] It's not like there's anything to be done about it, just-- thought you should know.
no subject
[He almost shakes it off though. The depth of how much he doesn't like to think of himself in suspended animation for an entire jump... that is something for him to unpack privately.]
Well. I suppose you'll be in the market for a new way to stay sane, then.
no subject
Instead, Mitchell just-- nods, vaguely, like yeah-I-suppose-so. And maybe another time, he'd get prickly over that assessment--but instead he just huffs a laugh, once, short.]
Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I'll go out looking for a job, finally. I've nearly been here two years, maybe it's time.
no subject
[Ivan finds it hard to remember the last time he even pretended to have a job.]
no subject
Yeah, yeah.
[Mild, and he lifts his cigarette and takes another drag, lets it out with maybe a surprisingly steadiness. He's certainly not over George being gone, but there's a weird normalcy to this, standing next to Ivan and taking shit from him.]
We can't all be disaffected romantics, or whatever it is you pretend like you are. Bloody well-dressed tramp. You might think of the same, for the sake of sanity. Something t' do.
no subject
[A crooked grin.]
What do you imagine me doing, for work?
[He did, once, very long ago, but he doubts Mitchell will hit on that. Still, the suggestion of doing something isn't without some merit. He can't fill his time with exercise and reading network backscroll indefinitely.]
no subject
Ivan, mate--I have no idea. Honestly, the thought of you, working? Kind of impossible for me t' imagine.
[Even if he suggested it, it's kind of impossible. Tourist, right. As long as he's known Ivan, that's what he's been.]
Too bad they don't need any bloody salesmen in space. I could see you doin' sales.
no subject
[He misses that car. He misses cars generally.]
Or perhaps I could go into advertising. I always thought it would be easier, for our sort. You have longer to see what makes people act as they do, after all.
no subject
I think that counts as an unfair advantage. We'd be investigated for being too good in no time. Maybe we're better off stickin' with investments and funeral parlors.
no subject
My portfolio was excellent, I'll have you know. They say the market favors the investor, over a long enough time horizon.
no subject
[He flicks ash from the end of his dwindling cigarette, the punctuation on that idea.]
Vampire stockbroker? Come on, the jokes practically write themselves.
no subject
[Now he's just having the piss. ...probably.]
no subject
[Ha ha. He finishes off his cigarette and flicks the end to the floor, grinds it under the heel of his boot.]
But I'll leave the fine details to you. It can be your project. Definitely a way to keep busy.