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ataraxionlogs2015-04-08 12:00 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-04-08 12:00 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- bail organa,
- bethmora fortescue,
- booker dewitt,
- carl grimes,
- carlisle longinmouth,
- daryl dixon,
- elsa,
- evangeline de brassard,
- feuilly,
- firo prochainezo,
- hoban "wash" washburne,
- jemma simmons,
- john blake | au,
- kyle crane,
- leia organa,
- leo fitz,
- lúthien,
- muscovy,
- raven reyes,
- rebecca "newt" jorden,
- rick grimes,
- robin,
- sebastian vael,
- skye,
- the warden (mira tabris),
- valya,
- zoe washburne
forty-second 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: There's a strange sense of contentment that greets you as you wake from the jump. Deep and certain, it doesn't warm you or cloak the unpleasantness of the stasis fluid on your skin and the disorientation spinning in your head. It feels disconcertingly distant, instead, a sense as though an answer has been decided on - and that you won't much like to experience it coming to fruition...
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: There's a strange sense of contentment that greets you as you wake from the jump. Deep and certain, it doesn't warm you or cloak the unpleasantness of the stasis fluid on your skin and the disorientation spinning in your head. It feels disconcertingly distant, instead, a sense as though an answer has been decided on - and that you won't much like to experience it coming to fruition...
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.
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[And back into his hands his head goes as he presses his palms to his eyes.]
Eugh... I have neither the time nor the energy to be talking to a child about this.
PM me if this is not ok and I'll change the tag
[Giggling and this sure is the tip of a dagger coming for Charlisle's head and, if he doesn't dodge, stopping with perfect timing just as it puts an ever so tiny dent into his skin. Muscovy is still giggling. This is funny.]
Fine by me! o7
But until then, he's still conscious and still aware enough to feel the dagger as it pricks his temple. He flinches a little, but mistakes it as some reaction to that constant throbbing going on between his ears.
What's more vexing is the giggling, apparently. He grinds his teeth, trying not to yell at a kid.]
Look. Lad. This day has hardly started, and it's been long enough for me already. I don't know if it even is day anymore. Not a window in sight. So...
[He trails off there, hoping the kid will put two and two together.]
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[And now he's hearing bells. Are those bells? Maybe if he shuts his eyes harder, he'll shut them out, too.
Nope, that just makes his headache worse. Fantastic.]
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...the silver chiming turns into louder, more aggressive one. This would have been fun, why did you stop?]
How do you know what death is like?
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[With his palms still on his eyes, his fingers curl into his hairline as he grinds his teeth. The racket really is too much.]
You hear that, right? That isn't just this headache making me hear things, is it?
[Not that that was entirely out of the question.]
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[He honestly isn't sure what this guy is referring to, he can only hear himself and him and the fairies and some people walking around and talking and getting dressed around them...]
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The headache is making me hear things. Spectacular. You know, I was just thinking about how this day couldn't possibly get any worse, and then it did, and now it has managed to outdo itself again. I'd suggest another dozen problems that could arise, but that would be tempting fate, now wouldn't it?
[He lets out an exasperated sigh, letting it drag in his throat.]
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[He finally casts a look toward the lad, his eyes bleary.]
You understand that, right?
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... Nevermind. You don't understand. In fact, you're probably loonier than I am, or maybe a figment of my imagination, and where in blazes is that noise coming from?
[He covers his ears. Go away, ringing. Go away.]
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Muscovy meanwhile tilts his head.] You are very silly and very rude. Neither is a good thing to be.
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I'd tell you what you are, but I should probably watch my tongue when talking to a child.
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I'm not about to be lectured by you. What is it you want?
no subject