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ataraxionlogs2015-05-07 09:14 pm
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-05-07 09:14 pm
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- bethmora fortescue,
- booker dewitt,
- carl grimes,
- carlisle longinmouth,
- chell,
- elizabeth,
- enfys llewelyn,
- felix gaeta,
- fenris,
- fiona (borderlands),
- firo prochainezo,
- hiro hamada,
- ivan,
- jemma simmons,
- john blake | au,
- laura roslin,
- minho,
- muscovy,
- nill,
- nowi,
- philip (penumbra) | au,
- remus lupin,
- rhys (borderlands),
- rikku | au,
- samantha martinez,
- selina kyle,
- sophie groeneveldt,
- tadashi hamada,
- the warden (mira tabris),
- valya
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.
----------------
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: 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.
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
[ "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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
... 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. ]
no subject
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.