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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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

[blackmagus]

Oh, I'm all right.

[ Other than the nagging feelings in the back of her head, which she's sadly familiar with, Fortescue looks just the same as always. She raises a brow at all of the objects Elizabeth's got. ]

The ship was feeling generous, it looks like.

[songburdened]

That's good. [ She smiles, and then looks down at the items gathered up in her arms and admits a little laugh. ]

That's one word for it. There was something I'd rather not see. And... well, all of my paints are red.

[ Ominous. ]

But I am glad to have my clothes and books. Some of them, anyway.

[blackmagus]

I hope they're at least different shades of red.

[ If so, maybe she can do an angry sort of painting to rival what the ship had done not so long ago... ]

[songburdened]

They aren't, but I'll make do.

[ She smiles brightly, glad to at least have the potential distractions. ]

Are you any kind of artist?

[blackmagus]

[ Figures, she thinks. But if anyone can get creative with it, it's Elizabeth. ]

Oh, no. [ Fortescue chuckles, shaking her head. ] I'm appalling. Can barely draw a stick figure. My sister was the artist of the family.

[songburdened]

You know, a lot of famous artists might say the same. I'd like to see what you can do.

[ MAYBE SHE'S TEASING but Elizabeth believes the best in everyone, so!! ]

[blackmagus]

If you'd like to see me paint a crooked stick figure, by all means, give me a paintbrush sometime.

[ Fortescue smirks a little. Mirabelle had mercilessly made fun of her art so many times (in that sisterly, joking way) that she doesn't mind. She's good at some things. Art isn't one of them, just like her singing. ]

I could probably beat a caveman in a contest. Do you paint a lot?

[songburdened]

Don't tempt me, I may take you up on that offer.

[ She smiles brightly, arms linked behind her back. ]

I do. Did, rather, in my tower. I haven't gotten the chance here, until now.

[blackmagus]

Well, I hope you find something other than red, in that case. Perhaps the ship's given someone else paints and they won't mind parting with a few.

[ Some of the things in lockers are very unusual, and random. One never knows, in her opinion. ]

[songburdened]

I'm going to ask. Someone else must like to paint, I hope.

[ And there's no harm in putting the inquiry out there. ]

[blackmagus]

I'm sure someone does.

[ It's a common enough hobby, Fortescue imagines. ]

You'll have to let me know if you find a painting buddy, mm? I should let you go get those to your room.