forty-third 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: As you emerge from the grav couches following the jump, the chill of the medical bay pales in comparison to the hollow feeling that settles deep within your chest. Grim and foreboding, the grip of isolation spreads through you like a gnawing void, as though you've been left behind. That nagging sensation of neglect that comes from someone turning their back on you only worsens as you move through your routines, leaving you feeling distant, disoriented, and unwanted.

New arrivals will find messages spray-painted in red 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

[radiopalkiller]

[ There, the rapid efforts to process all of this hitch at that phrase. Back to Wonderland. Back? Can't be. Rubbish. "Back to Wonderland's default state, out of this event". Got to be. Odd phrasing. Still, got to be. Philip nods, tentatively. What else is there, though?

Not his Mirror. Not Dean bloody Smith. Guy might've changed, always a chance they do, but where's the reversal? Where's 'anything at all that isn't Dean"? So it's him. It's all him. It's... a ruse, but then what's the point? Network didn't give the impression that thing from hell was playing a long game, playing at anything even remotely subtle, which leaves... which leaves what he's been hoping for from day one, the moment he found out, from just a matter of time over days and days and too much blood spilled, until he started to wonder if there might be no going back after all.

But they did it, they- they cured him. You're cured, he mouths, ever-silent, more to himself than anything else, as if it needed its final affirmations to hold true. Another nod at that, more decisive. Just the prelude to a frown, because--

Because then what the hell does the real Dean Winchester want from him?

Philip reaches into his pocket and--

--realises maybe that his second pen would not be a welcome sight just now. He slows his movement appeasingly, and reaches for the communication device. No luck connecting to the network just yet, but if he only types the message out and presses this button, then maybe-- ]

_What ^{do y_{ou wa}nt?}

[ the device asks, in the stilted voice of a British robot woman. So he might need to look into more options for that text-to-speech program later... ]

[righteously]

[ Philip's mouth moves but no words come out, and it manages to add a little more of a furrow to the already consternated look on Winchester's face. That consternation becomes wariness as hands start slipping into pockets, but it seems to ease when it doesn't return wielding offensive office supplies.

There's a long, disbelieving pause when the dulcet tones of Microsoft Maria question his motives, because w-

what.

Really? is written clearly across his face, about seven and a half questions and one smartass remark fly through his head and all of them come out in a sort of jumble of syllables at once: ]

Wh-ar-why-

[ He's got to stop himself to clear his tongue, head shaking in a way that's at least two parts judgement. There are so many more important things to discuss right now, but he's sort of fixated for a second. Sorry, buddy. ]

What the hell is that? W- are you Dr. Mrs. Hawking now? Are you screwing with me?