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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
But, maybe that's the charm of him.
"Since security isn't here to escort me into a tiny box, I'm going to leave you two."
no subject
"Exactly where are you going?" And more importantly, what is he going to do? Because Fitz did...and maybe Ward could get him into trouble since it happened here on the Tranquility.
no subject
Skye touched one hand to Simmons' forearm, as if to heel her. Honestly, Skye had spent enough time trying to get Ward to get the hell out, she wasn't going to fuss over where he was going next. They could regroup with Fitz and make sure that wasn't the answer, then find a safe room to bunker down in and —
Reluctantly, she realized, and find out how much of what Ward said was true. Her eyes never left him, conflicted in their mistrust. "Go ahead and let the door hit you on the way out."
no subject
Then he'll just leave. He's not going to inform them of his destinations. Though, he's glad he knows where Skye's room is intended to be. For future reference.
no subject
"You're really alright? I tried to contact you and I didn't get an answer."
no subject
It all came crashing in at once. The panic and confusion that she'd stoppered so that she could keep it together (as much as she did, that is) around him. She felt weak and stupid, not to have seen it. But none of them did. None of them knew, and Ward, he'd — He was a—
Tears burned in her eyes, and Skye pressed her lips firmly together to stifle any reply. As she tried to fight back the coming storm, the only response she could manage was to shake her head. She wasn't all right. Nothing about it was ever going to be all right. He was a monster, and she felt sick with hurt and with hate. Stepping forward, she pulled Simmons into another hug, burying her face against the other woman's shoulder and letting the tears slip down her face finally.
They'll tell you the same things I did, Ward had promised. She wished they wouldn't. She knew that what she needed to do was pull it together, get answers, find out precisely what she was missing out on, but she needed a moment to truly fall apart before she could put herself back together, and now, in Simmons' company alone, she felt that she could.
no subject
Skye starts to crumble, and a PhD can't help that, only a friend can. Jemma puts her arms around her again and pulls her close again. It brings it all back - when they all realized that Ward was Hydra. When he betrayed them. He'd hurt all of them, but Skye and Fitz got the worst of it.
She hates him, and it's a hatred that's changed her, made her someone different from the Jemma she used to know. But at least she is still her friend.
no subject
"It was him," She told Jemma, as if it were new information. "All of it was Ward. Quinn. Deathlok. He tortured Coulson." For Garrett. Pulling away from the hug, Skye drew a breath, steadying herself. Distress was swallowed quickly by hate, spinning conflict into an illusion of certainty that relied fully on flipping her feelings like a switch. She couldn't just not care, but she could blame him. Hate him. "Why didn't we see it?"
no subject
"Because he's a sociopath. He's so good at charming and lying, that with being nurtured within Hydra, I don't think anyone could've seen it at all."
no subject
"God, poor May." Rather than allow herself to focus too long on her own feelings of betrayal and hurt, she utilized her natural empathy to project onto worrying for others. For how he'd hurt Fitzsimmons, for how he'd hurt May. If she thought too long on how it hurt her, she'd be left spinning her wheels.
Lifting her gaze, she met Simmons' eyes. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why Ward would have told her everything once he had her up here. Couldn't stab through at his motive. It was like he was another person entirely, one she couldn't reconcile with anything she'd known about him before. It wasn't just jarring: it was paralyzing, and it kept her from figuring out how to proceed. But one thing was certain: she didn't trust him. "Jemma, what happened?"