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.

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Comments

[deservesadaisy]

Lord, you've been truant by your own standards. What would you do, if you looked for work?

[Ivan finds it hard to remember the last time he even pretended to have a job.]

[humanistic]

[Mitchell smiles, thinly--but there's a genuine amusement to it.]

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.

[deservesadaisy]

I'm a tourist, Mitchell. A tourist who is trapped on a bloody spaceship, at the moment, I grant you.

[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.]

[humanistic]

[Despite himself, Mitchell huffs a laugh.]

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.

[deservesadaisy]

Oh lord, yes. They could give me a briefcase and my car back.

[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.

[humanistic]

[The fucking car. Mitchell smiles, again, despite himself--and for once, he doesn't flinch at our sort, or look away, or anything. Whatever, right?]

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.

[deservesadaisy]

[Ivan spares a little grin for that.]

My portfolio was excellent, I'll have you know. They say the market favors the investor, over a long enough time horizon.

[humanistic]

Well, you did have that. One of the longest time horizons of any investor out there. Maybe you should've gotten into stocks.

[He flicks ash from the end of his dwindling cigarette, the punctuation on that idea.]

Vampire stockbroker? Come on, the jokes practically write themselves.

[deservesadaisy]

Well, first I'd have to construct a stock market. I should use cigarettes, that seems to be the hot commodity on board. I wonder if you could create a mutual fund using nicotine instead of traditional currency.

[Now he's just having the piss. ...probably.]

[humanistic]

Around here? You probably could. God knows there's fuck-all else t' do besides smoke--between all the terror, and danger, and comas.

[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.