forty-fourth 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: 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.


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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

rude

[frizzard]

[ She isn't panicked in the sense that she looks like she's about to bolt. It's more of a tension, all wariness and control, disrupted only by the odd hint of familiarity in the strange young man's features and voice. It's only a short distraction; he says Minister of Magic and the old Hermione wants to relax, find that a comfort. Now, she knows better. Something in her expression hardens, growing more reserved and guarded at the realisation that he's another wizard.

That can mean a lot of things, these days. Not all of them good. But he also says she's all right, and that's something she desperately wants to hear; so her expression hardens, but there's a hesitation in her voice, a thin thread of hope beneath her caution. ]

I'm on a spaceship. [ Which isn't her asking for confirmation. That's her pointing out why she isn't all right, actually. She feels foolish, standing there with her hand held out like a threat (which it is, in some ways, even if she wishes she had her wand). She lowers hers slightly in response to his gesture of good faith, brow knitting together as she studies his face. ]

Who are you?

yep

[doggedly]

[Yes and you've been on the spaceship before, he does not say. After a few years on this ship, Sirius knows how this goes. Instead:]

Fucking hell.

[--Which he also does not say, or at least, not to Hermione directly. Instead it's a mumble, as his expression changes, any clarity muddying under his frown. He rubs the knuckle of his thumb against his eyebrow, glancing back down the locker bank for-- Harry, maybe. Someone she actually knows.

But there's no point in delaying this, or putting it off. Instead, he looks back at Hermione, quite directly.]

Sirius Black.

[And he sticks out his hand, almost defiant.]

Hiya.

[frizzard]

[ There's a slightly indignant note to her expression as she picks up on that mumbled curse, but that isn't the priority. His frown is, as is the way he suddenly seems intent on being anywhere else, and then—

Hermione stares, and then she gives a very light exhale of breath, halfway to a scoff. She opens her mouth as if to argue, to make some sarcastic comment — sorry, I must have hit my head harder than I thought, the usual — but instead her eyes narrow, and she watches him firmly hold his ground.

There's something in that defiance that rings a bell, same as the angle of his features. Her mouth closes, and then she cautiously takes his hand, still far too bemused to get so far as actively shaking it. ] You're—

[ She knows what this is. She had the Time-Turner for ages, of course she knows. But— ] This can't be legal.

[ Focusing on the legality of meeting a Young Sirius Black is absurd, but better that than thinking about the Department of Mysteries and veils that swallow people whole. ]

[doggedly]

[And like a spy in a muggle film, Sirius leans closer, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial stage whisper.]

Yeah--but don't tell that to the ship. I think it'll get offended.

[If she's not going to shake his hand, he's going to shake hers--firmly, with that same air of defiance. This handshake is included under the umbrella of general illegalities. Cool, right? Look at all the laws they're breaking. He lets the handshake go on just a little too long, two shakes more than someone else might give, just because.

This is, maybe, a little unfair. Forcing her to confront someone she knows as a man older than he is, an escaped convict, Harry's godfather and so much more--stuff he's not even asked about--when she's just woken up on a bloody spaceship--well, there's kinder ways to do this. Sirius isn't always kind. His amusements can run toward the dark.

And anyways, breezing by everything more complicated about this situation is better than dwelling on it all. He's practically doing her a favour. Doesn't she look less terrified, at least? (In a moment, he'll ask if she's all right. Just because he's not kind doesn't mean he's bloody heartless.)]

There's no such thing as laws, anyways. As you've said: you're on a spaceship. Don't worry, you'll get used to it in no time at all.

[frizzard]

[ Everything about the encounter is so jarringly disorienting, from the spaceship to the time travel to the Sirius Black, that she's disarmed into giving him a short, sarcastic smile when he finally releases her hand. Not a broad one, but it's still there; a small twist of her lips, the bemused pinch of her brow.

Sirius Black had always been reckless. Always made her feel a little long-suffering, like she was corralling another large, stupid boy. It feels like a massive disservice to think it now. Or it should, but he's right here, isn't he?

Maybe. ]

Why should I believe you?

[ The suspicion's real, lending a hard edge to the critical narrowing of her eyes. She'd been so ready to believe him a moment ago, but she'll just blame that on the disorientation. ]

[doggedly]

[Hermione. Please. He gives her a flat look, like he's expecting her to lighten up.

But she doesn't. She's still wearing that narrow look. At least she's not got any threatening empty hands aimed in his direction any longer--and it's not as if he can blame her exactly, for being suspicious. Not after waking up here, from whatever point in her life she's come from. Only she'd seemed lighter before, less sharp in her smile.

Not that this deters him. Quite the contrary. Slowly, he lets his eyebrows raise.]

Why should you believe me about... which bit of all of that. 'Cos there was rather a lot.

[frizzard]

[ His skepticism doesn't deter her, either, and she simply tips her chin up slightly as she continues, more sure of herself. ]

How do I know you're really Sirius Black?

[ The thing is, she can see it. She thinks she can, anyway; somewhere in that skepticism, in the gentle mockery in everything he does.

And yet there's something off, like he has less of an edge. He doesn't look like he's ready to bolt, or bite — no pun intended — at any given moment. Which makes sense, of course, that he'd have less wear and tear, but she's already dug her heels in. Dropping it now isn't an option. ]

[doggedly]

Shouldn't I be asking if you're really who you say you are? As you're the new one here.

[But actually that means quite the opposite, doesn't it. She's the one that's newly arrived, and, thus, newly suspicious, newly wary--and why shouldn't she be. It's just that he can't resist being a little difficult. Not always prone to outright and overt displays of hospitality or accommodation.

Still. He draws himself up with an air of put-on solemnity.]

Sirius Black, born 30 October 1959. Record will show that S. Black was born to Walburga and Orion Black, and more's the pity. Formerly of London, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, more's the pity there as well, except London, London is pretty great--then of the Potters', then of my own crap flat thanks to a generous donation from my Uncle Alphard who suffered the wrath of my mother but waited until after he'd died to do so--probably didn't stop her from blackening his name at the reading of his will, which is like a little joke. Black, blackening. Filthy enough on its own. Gryffindor, member of the quidditch team since fourth year, which was about when I'd gotten interested enough to give it a go. Owns a flying motorbike. Brilliant at crosswords. [Exaggeratedly, he drops his tone again.] Animagus. Purveyor of mischief. Map-maker. Once convinced Madam Rosemerta to supply fire whisky to a common room party. Record will show four in-school explosions officially, actual number is rather more, but I'm not a braggart. Turned the third-floor Charms corridor to ice in the winter of third year. Confunded ten paintings just after the start of term feast in third year so they all gave wrong directions for nearly two and a half weeks. Also successfully created the Biting Stair in third year. Enchanted pumpkins for third year Halloween feast. You don't want to know what they did.

[Or do you. He raises his eyebrows.]

I could go on, if you like.