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)
ataraxionlogs2015-04-08 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.
no subject
[So it turns out riding the lift is just as awkward as standing outside it. Clutching his bow strap, his hair a damp tangle and grey in his whiskers, Daryl's looking around at the walls, the ceiling, quick glances to double-check the structure is clear. He trusts Rick, of course, but just in case is not a habit he's likely to break any time soon.
Despite the easy access to good water back home ("home") in Alexandria, he's cleaner than he's been in months, and it'd probably surprise no one to learn it took nothing less than full immersion in a slime bath to get him there. Having a change of clothes this fresh is unusual, too—even his vest smells less like him than it did before. Though it still smells a lot like him. The grime ground well into the grips of his knife and crossbow is familiar, too; that he'll almost certainly be keeping.
He looks askance at Rick, sways in shifting his weight, like he wants to be moving.]
A lot's happened.
no subject
Well.
[ His eyes set on the lights indicating floors. ]
We had our fair share of that. People from some other ship tried to board us. Some teams went after 'em, around the time monsters started coming out of the corridors. We had to pack everyone into the medical bay and fend 'em off til they stopped coming.
Coulda used you a jump ago. [ This is wry, a suggestion of better humour, a sure sign of Feelings settling. ]
no subject
Gotta be more where they came from, right?
[Deadpanning his way through the usual gravelly sarcasm, like this is a joke they should be glad to share: the monsters, they'll never stop coming. Meanwhile, he's looking at the lights now, too—the both of them standing there, staring. Alexandria's oasis of amenities is probably softening the experience for him, making it lightly less unreal, but it still feels pretty damn unreal.
He's about to ask how long he's been gone when the tone prompts them to disembark.]
no subject
Level four is pretty sparsely populated, which is why Rick picked it in the first place. It's grown since then, incrementally and Carl included, but right now, it's fairly silent of human activity as they emerge and head down past the many doors. ]
There usually is.
[ All the way down to room 131, so picked because it's the other set of digits that match Rick's arm, and he hadn't cared much either way until Carl arrived, and now they shared it. ] Security had the population consolidate down to the first ten levels, [ he's explaining, at a distraction, now, as they pass door after door. ] You can claim one for yourself, 'stead of match up with what's on your arm. I got Carl sharing with me.
[ Naturally. Rick doesn't yet remember it, but Daryl will; like wild dogs settling, the loungeroom of the Alexandria house the defensive den when two massive houses like that would have fit 'em all. He easily expects Daryl to neighbour up. ]
Carl, [ raising his voice ahead of him. ]
no subject
Unaware that there's good news rather than bad, he steps just outside the room, fully on alert.]
What's going on? You okay? [is the rushed questioning response considering his assumptions.
But the alertness of his fades soon enough when he spots nothing is wrong, at all. All there is to see is just another figure he recognizes very well. And he pauses in disbelief for half a second 'cause honestly he'd never thought he'd see any of the group again - but one of the group was really standing in front of him now so a small astonished smile colors over his earlier expression.]
...Daryl?
no subject
Rick's shadow follows him all the way down to 131. Then that kid appears, wearing that bright and honest face—and again he doesn't smile, but his expression does change at once, like there's a shy light glowing behind it from the inside, softening his eyes especially. Indeed, it is Daryl, crossbow on his back, scruffy like he always is, following dad's heels like he always does.]
'Sup.
[And just as talkative as ever, too.]
no subject
[ Just to clarify. Daryl's appearance is fairly self-explanatory, and there's a still a touch of strain pulling lines at the corners of Rick's eyes at rueful smile that emerges. Humour, too, in skeptical glance back at the expected amount of Things To Say that Daryl has for this situation, before he looks back down to Carl.
(It's probable that Rick will get it the most, even if he doesn't get all things Daryl Dixon. The quiet rooms had been a similar hell, when he first arrived alone.
They go manfully shoot at the shooting range and drink some space beer, later.) ]
Matter of time, I figured. [ This next part is harder. It should be easy, but it's not. So it goes. ] He's from after us, isn't that right. [ Does he have to say the thing? He's going to say the thing. His tone has a wry, self-aware note, as he says the thing; ] From the future.
no subject
Although he doesn't need to be told anything, he's already got the gist of the 'from the future' business by just looking at Daryl. Hard not to notice the longer hair and all, so he fails to see where the explaining is going exactly. Still, he nods his head anyway, showing he understands, though with a questioning look growing in his eyes.]
Okay... but... why are you telling me? What's happened?
[Because. Until now, he thought his dad didn't think future things were good to share. So with it brought up now, he's rightfully a little confused.]
no subject
That and scrutinizing father and son for damage, for any changes, anything wrought by the ship or otherwise that isn't so obvious at a glance. Rick's in pain, that's easy enough to see; he often is. Carl, not so often. The kid's smiling like nothing's immediately wrong, but Daryl looks anyway, just to be sure.]
no subject
He stoops down, as he is sometimes wont to do with Carl, taking a knee to speak on level like his son is still eight instead of growing into the man he is, or will be not so long away from now. ]
It's Judith. She survived.
[ His eyes are very bright and clear and serious and direct. ] He says it was Tyreese, and Carol, that got her out, kept her safe all this time. She's alive, back home.
no subject
Except for maybe the beat and seriousness that transpires. Carl feels uncomfortable the second Rick kneels to eye level because he is sure it can only be about another bad thing that has happened. His mouth tugs back to a thin line, ready to be told whatever it is.
And so he's not ready at all for hearing the happy opposite: Judith still being alive? The look he'd been ready to hold immediately crumbles, shock filling his eyes, as all the pain he's been holding back since losing her resurfaces at the mention of her name before washing away when he realizes the news for how good it was.]
... What. Judith's alive? But-
[A small part of him is still in disbelief, but he knows Daryl would never lie so he stops himself short of letting the rest of the question slip out and add more fuel to his doubt. In it's place an immense and overwhelming sense of happiness bubbles to the surface as tears threaten the corner of his eyes. A new smile also tugs at the corner of his mouth again. What it feels like is more of a whiplash of emotions to him, though.]
Tyreese and Carol did that? Where are they now?
no subject
[Daryl glances at Rick, shifts his weight to the other foot, squeezes once at the bow strap. Looking down at Carl, his hair hanging all in his face, he gets through the last of his fidgeting by turning his chin a little toward his shoulder so his gaze becomes more comfortably sidelong. By now the pause alone will have said enough, but he can't leave them hanging:] Walker bit him. We tried to stop it, like with Hershel, but...
[But. This blank's an easy one to fill. (Daryl didn't have a direct hand in the attempt to save Tyreese's life, but we's become a reflex.)
—No, he's still fidgety, swaying where he stands, eager to get out of the hallway's oppressive vastness. Whenever it seems least awkward to do so, he murmurs to Rick,] That the room?
[Obviously it is, but he's struggling for a segue here, okay, give him a break.]
no subject
And yet he's not saying anything, having twisted a look up at Daryl before settling it somewhere on the ground, hands curled lax, settled into his kneeling crouch.
But. Blank. Daryl had said it -- a lot's happened. ]
Yeah, [ he affirms, a nod. Dismissed, in a way, before Rick looks back up at Carl, a hand going to grip his arm in a companionable clasp. They still have family out there. More than the easy we and us that constitutes their people. ]
no subject
It's only a momentary lapse of emotion though, like silence for those fallen in war, before being boxed away with the rest of the same and his attention is brought back around by the both comment on the room and the hand on his arm in a comforting sort of way.
His eyes move back up to Rick and he takes a deep breathe in as if to say he'll be okay. At the very least he felt better now knowing Judith was alive and safe. And Daryl is largely to thank for letting them know that so his look moves on to him quickly enough. Also, in a small way, yes, moving away from the mix of emotions created by the good/bad news is something he could use to do. Right then--]
You gonna stay with us?
no subject
[Delivered with a quiet levity that he doesn't particularly feel except out of obligation. Maybe it's insensitive to be quipping so quickly, but maybe it isn't. Death is so familiar anymore—it's more a part of their lives than ever before, not a threat but an inevitability, a passenger asleep in their blood, and anyway none of this feels real to begin with.
Soon enough, by loitering in that direction, he does reach the next room over, and when the door slides open for him it's like looking in on his own tomb. Two beds, a bureau, and the crushing weight of emptiness caged in windowless walls.
If this ship had a face, he would punch it.]