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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.
no subject
[Fingers covering one eye, she shakes her head. Sophie has seen it, too. It seems they all may have.]
It isn't the Devil.
[She pauses. Now that she's mostly clothed, she has to sit back down, as the dizziness takes hold again.]
Whatever it is, it hates all of us. And if anyone is corrupted because by that thing now it's me. I--
[Her mouth snaps shut, the memories of what Ward had told her recently whipping back to her and she remembers what happened in the dark corridors. The White Door. What she did. And that "it" has hooked its way into her. That it still has her. That she is possibly a danger to the other passengers.
[Her robotic tones are gone. Shaken by a fear of her own. The fear that Sophie has felt as well when it looked into all of them.]
I need you. It may use me again.
no subject
because you're the only one that can stop her. because you won't even be damned if you die here, you'll just be nothing. there will be no more sophie, only christine and her victory and no one to even say oh, how sad. because, because, because, sophie groeneveldt. you will not be your father.
her father, who had died saving them while hating them all the while, who believed until he crumbled to dust that she had betrayed him. her father, who had made her what she is and doomed her to years of torture and pain.
sophie will not be her father. she will not be her twin's creature.
it's more difficult the second time, knowing that the world is purposeless, that there is no hope, that nothing matters. she stares hard at rey, at her new scars and familiar sickness. she remembers lying in bed, stroking her hair as they bled a mess onto sophie's sheets.]
Give me your hand.
no subject
[Looking at Sophie now, Rey blinks.]
...All right. [Reluctantly, she reaches out with her right, two-fingered hand.]
no subject
Another finger gone.
[it's a neutral observation, again, but sophie stares at rey's hand like it's a thing she's trying to remember, the sort of concentration that borders on unnerving. her voice comes out small, barely audible.]
It is horrible, you know, to be damned. To know there's no purpose to anything, no hope for any of us.
no subject
[Steeling herself now, she rises back to her feet, on level with Sophie. Well, somewhat. Rey has a good five inches over the other woman when she's upright, as she usually is.]
...If it's one thing I've learned recently, it's that you don't need to have purpose to be worth something to someone. As for hope-- [She pauses, the steeliness manifesting in her stone expression.] Also found that you don't need hope. Just the will to be a stubborn fuck.
[It would be easier to roll over and accept defeat, as she always had before she died. But the Rey she is now is far beyond that point. And hell if she's letting the people she gives a shit about fall in her stead.]
no subject
will. it doesn't matter that nothing matters. she isn't dead yet, and until she is, she must be sophie. she takes a deep breath, shoulders the burden once again. when she looks up, her normal appearance is back, and the blankness in her eyes turns to concern, although more muted than it would usually be.]
What happened? Stubborn fuckery?
[profanity still sounds odd coming from sophie's mouth, but it was possibly worth the sad attempt at a joke.]
You need a trip to medbay. Or xeno, whichever you prefer.
no subject
[It wasn't until she had to save someone else from giving up at their lowest point -- a point that Rey herself had fallen from, only to be dragged back out -- that she took that lesson to heart. That survival is necessary now, and she has to fight to keep that right. Not just for anyone else this time, but for herself as well.
[Which is strange, trying to live for yourself.]
It's fine, really. These wounds are months old.
[Or it's been months for her. Weird to think that she hasn't missed a jump, though it's happened before so that she should be used to this.
[There is no getting used to this...]
no subject
[it doesn't make any sense to sophie, that it's possible to leave and come back different from the confines of the stifling blue of the gravity couch. then again, that's how they all arrive, and she knows enough to know that time is not always terribly relevant.]
But you can still barely stand. That seems more important than the scars.
no subject
[In a way, that answers both parts of Sophie's observation. The wounds are old because of the jump. And she can barely stand -- also because of the jump.
[At least she understands now better than she did the first time this has happened. How is this any different from everyone else who can come and go every time they do this same old monthly song and dance?
[Her mouth twists into a crooked smile.]
Actually feel a little better than before, all things considered. Just need to rest.