ataraxionlogs | forty-third jump;

Entry tags:

forty-third 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: 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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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.

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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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You know, that's the strange thing. [ It's like no time had passed, as if nothing happened between them. Elizabeth tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head thoughtfully to the paints as they make for the lifts. ] I had different colors in my tower, but the only ones that were in the locker were red. It must be symbolic, or... maybe a warning.

[ But she doesn't sound particularly concerned. The Songbird had been warning enough. ]

Did you find anything after the jump?

[ He's almost surprised at how quickly things seem to get back to normal between them. Surprised, but glad. Booker doesn't much like feeling awkward around Elizabeth, or things being tense between them.

As long as she doesn't try to talk about what had happened again, maybe they'll be okay. ]

Hmm. [ He frowns at the paints, troubled, but then nods. ]

A couple of things. You might recognize them...

[ He holds out the skyhook for her inspection, looking, really, far too pleased to have been reunited with it. ]

[ Elizabeth actually does smile (not so much at the hand canon, but at the Skyhook; it isn't that she's glad for a reminder of what they'd left behind, really, but it does seem strange to have Booker without his somewhat-trademark companion. ]

Well, well! I suppose it must be space Christmas.

[ The happiness is real enough; she has to embrace this fully, put herself entirely into this simple, easy moment, or else she'll fall backward into the mess of things she'd done and regrets. ]

Though, without any Sky Lines... Well, I'm sure it'll come in handy.

[ She isn't even thinking of it as a weapon, being Elizabeth, but musing the possibility of the lethal item helping them out somehow else. ]

... And I didn't mean that as a pun.

[ It's good to see her smiling again. An actual smile, not the cruel smirk she'd been prone to recently. Booker smiles back, tucking the Skyhook safely away.

He actually laughs at her unintentional pun - a strange sound, perhaps, and certainly one she wouldn't have heard before. But he can't help it. Just seeing Elizabeth back to her old self had brightened his spirits considerably. ]

I might find a use or two for it.

[ No skylines, no, but the hook has other uses. Mostly, he's planning to use it to make sure, by whatever means necessary, that no one else hurts Elizabeth ever again.

Not that he'll tell her that. ]

A can opener? [ She suggests mildly, stepping onto the lift. ] It might make for some interesting graffiti in the halls.

[ The halls, where she'd almost died, twice. Best not to talk about the corridors of the ship. ]

... I'm sure you feel much better, being armed. I know that I feel safer with my books, considering how effective they were against you.

[ Or not. c: ]

It might destroy the can.

[ Is she teasing him? He glances at her, quietly amused. ]

Your aim was pretty good. There wasn't a baseball diamond hidden away in that tower, was there?

Really? I thought it was designed for that. Are you sure it wouldn't work?

[ YES she is teasing, good lord, man. ]

Well, I was throwing to... injure. [ Incapacitate? She'd been acting out of shock and fear, in any case. ] Ha ha. No, Columbia's entire stock of baseballs are dedicated to their wonderful raffle.

[ She pulls a face, disgusted. Having lived alone in a tower all her life, Elizabeth isn't exactly in with the opinions of the others in the city. The idea of an interracial marriage is more exciting and joyful than anything. It's just another testament to how corrosive Columbia really is. ]

[ He knows. He's just not used to teasing from anyone. ]

I guess there's one way to find out.

[ ...and that's how Booker and Elizabeth got banned from the kitchens forever.

He snorts in derision, shooting her a look. He'd sort of hoped that some of Columbia's less savory ideology had escaped her notice, but he supposes that what she had seen was bad enough. ]

You knew about that, huh?

[ Or maybe it's how they began their beloved cooking program, Skyhook Kitchen. Who can say? ]

I knew some of what happened. Enough to know that the city wasn't the paradise it was intended to be.

[ Not for most, anyway. She wrinkles her nose as the lift comes to a stop. ]

... Is it like that everywhere? The division?

[ He doesn't answer for a moment. Truthfully, the 'Sodom below' isn't so very different from Columbia, at least in terms of racial intolerance. It's just a little - a very little - less blatantly obvious about it. ]

We don't throw baseballs at people's heads when they're tryin' to start a new life for themselves.

[ He smiles grimly, without humor. ]

Most places, they just make it illegal.

Thank goodness for that. [ She huffs, shifting the objects in her arms as they start down the hall. ]

Illegal? [ Her frown deepens, brows coming together in innocent question. ] ... I really don't understand it. They're only people. I mean, they're all people. Not criminals, or...

[ She goes quiet, thoughtful. ]

They say that Daisy Fitzroy killed my-- killed Lady Comstock. [ Elizabeth looks up at Booker; it's clear this isn't the first time that this has occurred to her. ] And that's a lie, isn't it? I wonder...

[ If it hadn't been the Vox, then who? ]

[ Booker just shrugs. The topic is a sensitive one for him. He still hasn't forgotten Wounded Knee, the slurs and insults that had been hurled at him. He also hasn't forgotten his own reaction, nor the screams of those he'd killed...the way the flames had lit up the sky.

That's something he doubts he'll ever forget.

One thing's for certain - he knows for damn sure who on that stage had deserved to have a baseball lobbed at them, and it hadn't been the frightened young couple begging for mercy.

He's lost in his own dark thoughts for a moment, only emerging when he realizes that Elizabeth has stopped speaking and is looking at him. Booker blinks, making himself remember the question he'd only half-heard.

Oh.

This is something else that he knows and she doesn't, something she hadn't had the opportunity to find out before she'd been ripped away from Columbia and sent here. Booker gives her a carefully impassive look, raising his eyebrows expectantly. ]

You wonder...?

[ He won't be the one to share the truth with her. Not unless she forces it out of him. ]

What happened to her.

[ Could it have been Comstock himself? There's no way of knowing, or at least, that's what she thinks... at the very least, not while they're out in space. From what she knew of Lady Comstock, the woman had been completely devoted to the Prophet.

There's a world of difference between what we see and what is.

Elizabeth shakes her head, stopping outside of her room. ]

I suppose it doesn't matter now. [ Not really, though it does make her wonder, too, at the Vox. Had they been created as a response to Daisy being forced into the role of scapegoat, of murderess? And all that had been undeserved, after all... in the beginning, anyway. She has no doubt that Fitzroy has taken her share of lives. ]

You can just set all that down anywhere. [ Elizabeth puts the paints down on a table, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ]

I suppose it doesn't.

[ He doesn't really believe that, but better to let it lie. There's nothing anyone can do about it now, anyway, and Elizabeth has enough to deal with as it is. She doesn't need the additional burden of knowing that her own father had had her mother killed.

He sets the books down and props the canvas up carefully, ready for her to use, if she likes. Once his arms are empty, though, he's suddenly at a loss. He'd said that everything was fine, but...that's not really true. A part of him badly wants to stay with her, make sure she's all right and just enjoy her being back to her old self again.

Another part just wants to turn and go, shut himself away in his room and not talk to anyone. Especially not her. ]

...Well.

[ He shuffles uncertainly, half-turning as if considering walking right out the door. ]

Do you...is there anything else you need?

Anything else?

[ "Anything you need." The words ring in her head like a bell, echoing loudly, and she can remember the last time he'd said that, right after the attack. When she'd gone to his room, and...

Oh God.

Flushing faintly, she turns away, looks at the pile of new things as if contemplating them. He wants to leave, and she understands; Elizabeth feels resentment toward herself and deep embarrassment, still, at the memories of the things she'd done. Said. Wanted, even. Her heart pounds in her throat and she thinks it would be selfish to ask him to stay, not after the horrible way she'd treated him. ]

Oh-- Oh, no, I'm... I'm all right.

[ Need? Peace of mind, maybe. Forgiveness, mostly. ]

Booker--

[ She's apologized enough but it isn't enough and she can't think of how to make it better. The distress of it all bleeds into her expression, but she can't ask anything else of him. She doesn't deserve it right now. ]

... Thank you for your help, with... all this.

[ And she gestures to the books and paints, but of course, it isn't that. Not at all. ]

[ He'd made things worse. Booker looks away, face growing hot in return, cursing himself inwardly. He hadn't meant to remind her, hadn't meant to hurt her...

He looks up when she says his name, looking half hopeful, half wary, but she only thanks him, and his face falls as he nods gruffly.

They need to talk about this. He knows it, and she probably knows it, too, but...he's never been good at talking. What is there to even say? What words could fix this? He turns to the door, rests his hand on the doorjamb and just stops. ]

Elizabeth...

[ He speaks over his shoulder, speaking more to the floor than to her. ]

None of that...anything that happened...none of that was you, all right?

You got nothing to be sorry for.

[ He's leaving and she wants to call out to stop him, to beg his forgiveness. But she's already said that she would never say those things and he knows, says so, in fact, barely looking at her.

If they both know that it's all a lie, then why is it so hard to speak face to face?

Elizabeth fiddles with her thimble, trying sentence after sentence in her brain, none of them coming out right. There's nothing she can say to make up for it. More than that, there's nothing she can do to erase it from ever happening. It's going to keep hanging between them like something foul in the air with no way to get rid of the source.

You mean nothing to me. How could she ever speak those words when the truth was so, so far away? ]

I-- Okay. [ She wants to fight it, to deny what she's said until her voice gives, but he'll insist it hadn't been her and she'll apologize and time will march on with no resolution.

The reality of it is that she can't fix this and it eats away at her like acid. ]

... I don't want this. [ She says suddenly, unable to help it. Another Elizabeth might utilize more restraint, more sensitivity. But she's still young in experience, emotions out of check, particularly now, and the thought of this wound festering between them is too much. ] I don't want--

[ What? Him looking at her like she's another person and her only seeing her own disappointment in her mistakes? She can't put words to it, but hopefully he understands. ]

[ He understands. He doesn't look at her; he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, brooding. ]

I know.

[ Of course she doesn't. No one does. But Elizabeth...she's never felt this way before, has she? Most people...they made mistakes growing up. They fought with their friends. Disappointed their parents. Said things they didn't mean to say. But she'd grown up in a tower, alone. She'd never had the opportunity to learn about regret. She'd never had a relationship with another person that could be damaged, even if it was only by mistake. Even if this isn't in any way her fault. It had still happened, and she's right: they can't just erase it.

He thinks of her standing over Daisy Fitzroy's body, blood on her dress and mouth open in shock and horror, and closes his eyes. He'd thought...things would be different here. This Elizabeth had still had time to enjoy her innocence. To live without that shadow hanging over her head. This isn't anywhere near that bad, but it's still not what he'd wanted for her.

She hasn't done a thing. Or wouldn't have, if she'd been given a choice. But everything is different, all the same. Tainted, in some way he doesn't know how to fix.

He clenches a fist, his jaw twitching. ]

I'm sorry.

You've done nothing to apologize for. [ If not for her, she wouldn't have survived the Hellhounds. She wouldn't have her soul again. Elizabeth looks over at him with a quiet sadness, wanting to ask him to stay, even if they don't talk, because her makes her feel safe, if guilty. But that's her own fault and she'll feel it whether he's here or not.

... But she can't bring herself to ask, only messes with the thimble and knits her brows in frustration at herself, at everything. ]

Maybe we can talk later. [ Later, whether that's in an hour, a day, a week. She knows she should let him come to her, to give him time. Space. Elizabeth can't imagine it's easy being with someone who so recently decried him as as bad as the man she hated most in the world. ] If you... want.

[ If not, she'll accept it. She'd be sad, more withdrawn, but accepting. It's not more than I deserve. ]

[ That's actually not true at all - but he knows what she means, and he hadn't really been apologizing for anything he'd done, not this time. He's just...sorry. Sorry she'd gone through that. Sorry she's feeling this way and he can't do anything to help. ]

Elizabeth...

[ Shit. Can't they get through this? That hadn't really been her - can't they just forget it and put it all behind them?

But whether she'd meant them or not, whether she ever would have said them or not, some of the things she'd said while she was soulless had hit a little too close to home. Elizabeth may care about him and trust him to protect her...but she shouldn't. She could deny all day that he's anything, anything like Comstock, but Booker knows that's not really true.

She'd be better off without me.

It's a thought that's been there in the back of his mind for a long time, one he'd pushed back, refused to consider, again and again. He does so again now, forcing the thought away and swallowing hard. She's still waiting, and he turns to look at her finally. There's nothing more he wants to do than to pull her to him, hold her close and keep her safe from the world, but he knows that embracing her is completely out of the question right now. And he's proven enough times that he can't keep her safe, in any case.

Instead, he bends down, brushing his lips lightly, if a little awkwardly, against her hair. ]

Take care of yourself, Elizabeth.

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forty-third jump;

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well this got serious fast

REAL WORLD PROBLEMS

YAAAAAAAAAaaay no.

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