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ataraxionlogs2015-06-08 12:00 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-06-08 12:00 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- ai enma,
- ailanne rei,
- allison argent,
- bail organa,
- brigid tenenbaum,
- captain hook (killian jones),
- cora hale,
- daryl dixon,
- death (discworld),
- death (sandman),
- derek hale,
- eleanor lamb,
- elizabeth,
- enfys llewelyn,
- fenris,
- firo prochainezo,
- garrett hawke,
- grant ward,
- hermione granger,
- ivan,
- jackson "jax" teller,
- karone,
- laura roslin,
- lee "apollo" adama,
- leo fitz,
- leonard "bones" mccoy (xi),
- maes hughes,
- max rockatansky,
- minho,
- nami,
- robin,
- scott mccall,
- skye,
- tadashi hamada,
- takeshi,
- taylor "tyke" kee,
- thomas
forty-fourth 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: Awareness comes to you slowly in the smothering quiet of the blue fluid. In the light piercing through from the medical bay you realise there's a shadow, a figure stood at the glass of your gravcouch, a hand pressed to the surface just above your face. Fear spikes through your gut as waves of alien sensation crash into your mind, a rage that feels endless, all-consuming, furious, molten hatred that you know is for you.
When the fluid drains, door sliding open to deposit you on the medbay floor, you remember it. Remember it coming again and again, like a nightmare that plagued your sleep over and over, leaving you with no respite, no rest. Days. Perhaps even longer.
You remember that the light coming through from behind the shadow was red.
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: Awareness comes to you slowly in the smothering quiet of the blue fluid. In the light piercing through from the medical bay you realise there's a shadow, a figure stood at the glass of your gravcouch, a hand pressed to the surface just above your face. Fear spikes through your gut as waves of alien sensation crash into your mind, a rage that feels endless, all-consuming, furious, molten hatred that you know is for you.
When the fluid drains, door sliding open to deposit you on the medbay floor, you remember it. Remember it coming again and again, like a nightmare that plagued your sleep over and over, leaving you with no respite, no rest. Days. Perhaps even longer.
You remember that the light coming through from behind the shadow was red.
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.
Maes Hughes | Fullmetal Alchemist | ota
Hughes tries not to chalk everything up to fate, because that sort of thing is made exclusively by yourself — but even he has to admit, this seems like something out there in time and space wasn't quite done with him, was it? Granted, he could do without the blue goop and the general panic and the — everything else. But this isn't the worst thing ever. It beats a lot of moments in Hughes' life, dying included.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
He tries not to think about that too much, because it's torturous and doesn't do him any good; if he thinks about dying, he thinks about home, and if he thinks about home, he thinks about the little girl waiting for him — asking where he is in the morning, when she's getting ready for the day and needs papa to put her hair up — and he just could not go down that path right now. It's easier to focus on how utterly screwed over Amestris and the surrounding nations are than his family, easier to think about how he had the information there at the tips of his fingers and the carpet got yanked right out from under him, just when it was the most crucial moment to get Roy on the damn phone (and wouldn't you know it, he's got a scar on his chest as proof of his smart stupidity).
There's gotta be a way to get in contact with them, right? This place is supposed to be a technological wonder (and boy, is it). Surely there's some way of... he's not sure, shooting a freaky phone line down? How fun would that be, contacting Roy-ol'-buddy-ol'-pal from a space ship that takes in the dead. How would you even begin that conversation? 'Hey, Roy, I'm super dead — sorry about that! How's my girls? Sorry for turning into a crime scene. How's the team? By the way, there's a giant transmutation circle you should probably look into.' Yeah, that's not gonna fly very well. Ugh.
Maybe he can at least put some faith in Roy's smarts. Maybe he'll figure out just what Hughes couldn't get to him in time. Maybe his death'll at least be a clue in and of itself that something horribly, horribly wrong is going down. He could only hope. Sighing in defeat, he pops open the locker (wow, this technology is insane) and thinks about how much he wants to see his family's faces right now — which is pretty funny, because it just so happens his locker is full of pictures. They fall over like a jenga tower, covering Hughes and creating a rather impressive mountain all around him.
"Holy — " he starts, eyes big as he adjusts his glasses. "Well, the mysterious space gods sure know the way to my heart." He looks over his shoulder, calling out, "Anybody know where to find some boxes around here?!"
He's gonna need a lot of 'em.
[POD ROOMS // SHOWERS // WHEREVER]
Later on, he's got everything under control and he's mostly just hovering around the lockers and pod rooms to take inventory of who he's dealing with around here. He's being a total bro about it, though — you need some pills to help with the nausea and stomach problems? He's got you some, right here man. Might as well make himself useful while trying to get some information out of anyone around.
Lockers
But even caught up in his own problems, he can't miss something so dramatic as the cascade of photographs. As he kneels to help gather the pictures up, he sees that they all feature the same subjects. Particularly, a rather cute little girl. "Is she yours?"
no subject
He scoops up a few pictures, practically glowing as he looks over the edges of them to Bail.
"Thaaaat's right! My little perfect princess!! She just turned three not too long ago; looks just like her gorgeous mother! Don't you think??" Don't worry, there are plenty of pictures of Gracia, too. He's almost equal opportunity, when it comes to his favorite ladies.
no subject
Even if seeing them does bring a certain sadness. "My little girl's about the same age." Or was, at home, anyway. It was strange, to miss the little girl and the grown woman at the same time.
no subject
"Someone who knows the joys of fatherhood, then!! Just one girl, huh? No hectic little boys?"
Hughes wanted a boy, too. He wanted maybe a parade of girls and one boy. Granted, it was up to Gracia how many kids she was willing to put up with (because lets face it Hughes is a busybody and he knows better than to expect anything that insane from the love of his life), but Elicia needed a sibling to bug her, right?
... Yeah...
It would have been nice.
no subject
He pulls a holocube from his pocket. The little girl who features prominently in all the pictures doesn't really look like him or the woman who also features. "It was a long, hard road before she finally came into our lives."
no subject
no subject
He didn't even have a time displaced Leia any more.
no subject
He puts a hand out, ready for a shake.
"Lt. Colonel Maes Hughes; just call be Hughes."
no subject
Besides, if he was too concerned with titles he'd be doing a poor job indeed of serving his people.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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lockers
YOUR CHILD?
1/2
"Thaaat's right! My precious little angel, light of my life, gift to all of hu—"
no subject
Wait. Wait... Um.
Ummmmm.
Holy mackerel, what the hell.
He's dreaming, isn't he. This is a death dream, isn't it. Before death. Right? Or is he death, or something? Hughes is not even sure how to react to the skull face staring at him, so he just gawks for a long while.
no subject
YES I AM DEATH. HOWEVER I AM NOT ON DUTY HERE AND A CAPTIVE JUST AS EVERYONE ELSE IS.
He glances back at the photo.
MY DAUGHTER AND GRANDDAUGHTER ARE GROWN NOW. I REGRET I DO NOT HAVE AS MANY ICONGRAPHS OF THEM. ...WHAT IS HER NAME?
no subject
He stares for a long moment.
"Her name is, is... uh. I, uh. Elicia."
Good job, you've shut up the annoying father. (For now.)
"Did you say you had..."
What is happening to his life right now.
no subject
[Sorry you stumbled on the version of Death that is a proud grandfather.]
YSABELL WAS ADOPTED OF COURSE.
[He pulls out a picture that looks like it's been painted of a family. The little girl has white hair with a black streak in it and is sitting on his lap while her parents stand around him. They look totally normal.]
HER NAME IS SUSAN. SHE IS MUCH OLDER NOW OF COURSE.
no subject
[Whelp. He looks up, considers Death with a hand rubbing at his chin.]
Is this the afterlife? It's not exactly what I expected.
...
Mr. Death.
no subject
[Susan would be appalled at this.]
AH, MY APOLOGIES. NO THIS IS NOT THE AFTERLIFE. MY JURISDICTION EXTENDS ONLY TO THE DISCWORLD. I WAS TAKEN HERE LIKE ALL THE OTHERS.
AND JUST DEATH IS FINE. THOUGH IF YOU FIND THAT TOO UNCOMFORTABLE, I AM NOT OPPOSED TO BEING CALLED BILL.
no subject
Taken?
[And Bill. Okay. But priorities.]
no subject
(no subject)
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lockers
"These all of your family?" she asked.
1/2
no subject
"I'm already missing them. Space isn't exactly what I had in mind for a vacation, but I'm getting the feeling that it's good they didn't follow."
no subject
"It's good, yes. But that doesn't mean you can't wish they were here."
no subject
Because, y'know. I'm new. I have no clue what the hell is happening.
... He's just assuming it's a really, really bizarre afterlife.