ataraxionlogs | forty-fourth jump;

Entry tags:

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 ́ＩＮＤＡ̛ＲＫＮ̢Ｅ̕ＳＳ̶

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 ̧Ａ̨ＲＥＮＯＴ҉ ̷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 ̕Ｗ͝Ｅ̛Ｌ̨Ｃ͡Ｏ͝Ｍ͏ＥＰ̛ＡＲ̴ＴＹ͜

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

PODS, OTA;

Among the new arrivals, there is a man. Sort of big, and hairy, and getting to his feet with the unease of someone whose balance is knocked very off kilter, both physically and. Spiritually. But determined to be standing as his number one first sort of priority, arse in the air and hand still balanced against the slippery floor before he straightens all the way up, blue viscous fluid in slow, steady rivers down his legs, his chest, his other bits.

Burnish-brown eyes flash in quick looks around, taking in the mass of equally naked, slimy bodies collecting themselves and herding off to only the Maker knows where, dismissing them all from being immediate threats while his captor remains elusive. His hands at a testing hover, his breathing low and deep plunging, blinking hard. Letting his heart rate hike back down. Bitter, foreign fear gathers at the back of his mouth like nausea, slowly getting swallowed.

Nothing happens that warrants immediate violence. He goes ignored.

Lifting his hands, Hawke palms at the slime on his face, slicking his hair back, knuckling away the stuff from where it clings to the dark hair that grows in down his jaw. There's a pause, before he cannot help but taste at the corner of his mouth, before a look of distaste flickers across his expression, and he spits sideways.

"I don't know what I expected," is muttered, mainly, lacking the audience. Lacking, too, any better plan, Hawke moves in the direction of the strangers around him.

SHOWERS, CLOSED TO FENRIS;

This is a good idea. Hawke would appreciate this idea better if a sense of urgency wasn't already clawing at him from the inside.

The showers, that is. Hot water, needling his skin, feels like a welcome comfort from the stark cold of the rest of this place, but it's a trapping that he is determined not to delay him longer than necessary, save for the several seconds spent studying the markings appeared on his arm. He ensures he doesn't have any lingering slime clinging to any part of his person, washing himself down with impatient hands and keeping a side eye on those that range near.

Hawke leaves the water running as he turns away, deciding he is clean enough. Blunt nails scratch at his chest as he considers where to go next, noticing that yet again, a certain direction is being herded in. It reminds him of sheep being funneled down to slaughter, willing to meet their doom, as game as any of the people making brisk strides in that direction.

Maybe if he meets his doom too, he can punch its shadowy red-glowing formless self in the face.

LOCKERS, OTA;

There are sounds coming from his locker.

Growling, whining, snuffling sounds, and Hawke -- standing steady, having achieved cleanliness and a towel wrapped around his waist -- remains poised and considering, checking the numbering on his arm and comparing it to that of the numbering on the metal cabinet it's led him to. No one else's seem to be making that sound, but it only takes a moment's decision to decide that those sounds are too familiar to his ear to have any doubt.

Bracing himself, Hawke opens the locker, and predictably, a large animal comes rolling out of its cramped confines. Part mastiff, part prehistoric wolf, part bear, possibly, but all Dog, whose black lips snarl back to reveal fangs before even sharper intelligence takes in Hawke's presence, and his hackles immediately flatten, his tail starting to wag.

Hawke ducks down onto a knee, giving the animal a hug and a rough scrub around the ears, a deep laugh unlocked in his chest. At least he's got one friend aboard.

[ ooc ; feel free to revert to an action spam format, i will follow suit. ]

Edited 2015-06-08 04:28 (UTC)

[ All-in-all, Skye would like to think she has a pretty skewed perception of what's screwed up by this point. That's just part of becoming a SHIELD agent, and she's one of them, now. Even if it is still new enough to need constant mental reminders that there's no trainee attached. She's seen super soldiers, eye cameras, asgardian artifacts, and tussled with Ian Quinn.

When she spills out of the grav couch, though—short of breath, freezing, and ready to puke—it's definitely a new one. Top five at least. Tight contender for number one, steadily winning that top slot. She sputters blue liquid past her lips, pulling her hands up around her naked body as she looks around at the other people in the room—some naked and confused like she is, but some stepping out like they're just showering or paying taxes.

Dark hair sticks to her, and she pushes it back away from her face as she looks up and around. There's no sign of the dark figure, hovering outside the grav couch before it opened. But she can still feel it, rage pulsing out of it, like a weight on her mind. She pulls herself up. ]

Come on, come on. [ She mumbles blindly, feet carrying her in a hurry through the medical bay. Towels are stacked by the showers, and she invites herself to one without washing the blue fluid off. It's only when she's wrapping it around her that she even notices the tattoo. 044 - 084. ] What the hell? [ Her hand reaches down, trying to smear it away, but it's not marker. It's embedded deep in her skin. A brand. Like something out of a nightmare, something that can't be real, can't be happening to her. ]

[ Later, once she's got some idea of where she is and what's happening, she's managed to shower the stasis fluid off and bring herself to her locker. Some of the contents, she doesn't recognize. Some strange, metal device. Her fingers brush against it for only a brief moment, and the surface seems to ripple when her hand draws near. She pulls it back, perplexed, and settles on dressing herself. She can run that by Fitzsimmons when she links up with them later.

Right now, she needs to find Coulson. She grabs for the comms device once her clothes are on, scanning the previous entries to catch herself up while she uses her free hand to tug her hair out of the collar of her jacket. ]

lockers / open.
[ this happened once before. thomas remembers it vividly, waking up, sliding out of his pod and looking to his right for teresa and finding no one. there’s a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach, compounded by the red light, the smothering press of anger that made thomas' hands shake, but he refuses to accept anything just yet. he pushes himself up, visibly attempts to shake off the unsettling sensation, then grabs his clothes, and goes looking. ]

Excuse me, have you seen Newt? [ hasty, addressing anyone close enough to catch at. ] He’s blond, taller than me, walks with a limp?

[ thomas’ less than stellar descriptive skills might be working against him in this case. he’s trying to keep his voice steady, but some of the worry is bleeding through, obvious in the expression on his face. ]

lockers / closed to minho.
[ it takes time for thomas to admit defeat. when he finally comes back, finds minho, he’s pale and his hair has dried in crazy tufts, and the panic has dipped into frustrated resignation. ]

Did you--did you find him? [ hopeful, in spite of himself. ] I asked everyone I could, no one had seen anything.

[ he wants minho to tell him he’s wrong, that newt’s in the showers, that thomas is a shuckhead and they can all go up to their room together. it’s a long shot, but maybe, maybe… ]

Edited 2015-06-08 04:18 (UTC)

[Gravity Couches]

Ailanne's eyes drifted open slowly and, for once, panic seized him as he recognized that he was submerged in some sort of liquid. And then he saw the hand pressed against the glass. An unfamiliar jolt of fear pierced him as the feelings of rage washed over him. Time must have passed -- he must have gone unconscious at some point, but when his eyes snapped opened the next time, panic set in in earnest as he realized he was still submerged. He still had air in his lungs somehow, but he stole that and used it to force a pressurized burst of air away from him in all directions, trying to break out of the casing. It didn't work, but the liquid began to drain. Immediately, his attention focused to the object jammed down his throat, but even as he reached for it, it removed itself and the door to his tomb slid open, spilling him naked onto the floor.

There were people all around, but Fates damn whoever had done this to him -- his memories were broken fragments and he couldn't properly get his bearings.

Hissing a curse, Ai dragged himself up from the floor and breathed in deeply, replenishing the air he had stolen a moment ago.

[Wandering the Halls]

Waking up in unusual locations was, to put it as delicately as possible, not something Ailanne was completely unaccustomed to. Waking up in those locations with no memory of arriving? A little less common. Given his line of work, Ai had trained himself to never wake up groggy or experience the bleary disconnect with where he was and where he had been.

He couldn't be blamed, therefore, for cutting and running nearly a moment after stumbling from the Fates' damned machine he'd woken up in. Sure, he could have stuck around and tried to talk to a few more of the other naked, milling individuals in that initial room, but it just made so much more sense to take his possessions and beat a hasty retreat. Ai might not have even stayed long enough to locate his things if he had been even a touch less naked, but circumstances had been what they had been.

And now he was lost.

Momentarily without a direction was the phrasing he preferred, however.

As he walked through the strange metallic hallways, he kept his steps soft and his eyes alert, constantly observing his surroundings. Everything about this place put him on edge. This was nowhere within his homeland. He was getting that feeling loud and clear.

Edited 2015-06-08 04:18 (UTC)

LOW NUMBER LOCKERS; OPEN TO ALL;
Face first into the metal floor isn't the way anybody wants to start their day. Stiles let's out a pained groan, which loosens the fluid in his lungs enough that he starts to hack until he vomits, a disgusting dribbly smear of blue fluid and bile. Every jump he steps into his tube in his tighty whiteys thinking hey, this time will be easier. And every jump? It's freaking not.

Once he's recovered enough to pick himself up he starts to go through the usual motions: find a towel. Head to the showers to rinse off, broad feet slapping on the wet floor. Walk still dripping to his locker — not as embarrassedly modest as he once was, because the gods of puberty have been pretty good to him, and anyway, it looks like he's one of the first wave of open pods, 'cause there's not that many people around. Get dressed, and then go looking for...

Except, his routine gets interrupted when he gets to his locker, hanging open, empty. Stiles feels around for a moment and then looks around the fourteenth row for the culprit.

"Okay, ha ha, not funny, guys. Come on, gimme my stuff back," he deadpans, but every other locker in that row is hanging loose too. Like none of his neighbors are gonna come claim their stuff. A shiver runs down Stiles' spine unpleasantly, and he nearly stacks it skidding on the wet tile as he goes to try and find anyone — any other person at all, suddenly desperate to hear the sound of a human voice. "Hey. Hey."

It doesn't occur to him to check his forearm, and the gleaming new number there.

LOCKERS AGAIN; 044; PREFERENCE FOR NEW ARRIVALS;
Let's assume he eventually works out where he's actually gotta go. So there he is in front of his brand new locker, 044, 014, real funny joke with the numbers, and all that's in there is junk. Medication is important, sure, but his keys are useless, and the Go board is just fucking with him.

For now, he's gonna shimmy out of his towels and into his crew jumpsuit, but it's obvious he's not cool with his hoard.

"Hey, excuse me, did anyone get an extra t-shirt I can borrow?" he asks, loudly, to whoever else is around and going through their stuff.

CLOSED TO HALE SIBLINGS;

He's waiting on the ninth floor, hands jammed in the pockets of his jumpsuit, for whichever one of them steps out of the lift first. Everything is weird and different now, and he wants the reassurance of someone he knows has been around. If Derek or Cora still live here, then they'll be able to give him the information he needs.

Let's overlook the fact that getting information from any Hale that isn't Peter can be like pulling teeth. He also suspects Derek probably has his stuff, like the weirdo hoarder he is, so, you know, beggars can't be choosers.

(( note: brackets are fine! ))

Edited 2015-06-08 04:22 (UTC)

[POD ROOM // OTA // YOU'RE PROBABLY JUST GETTING RUDELY SHOVED BUT COME AT ME]

'Out of one situation into another. It's always a terrible idea, to let people get to your head, think that there will be a moment's peace; there never is. Not really. But at least the voices were quiet — for just a moment.'

"Max, can you hear me?" a soft voice whispers, and the little girl stands outside the wall of glass, putting her hand against it as a shadow stands beside her — and it's all red behind her, red red red, which is not necessarily new, but it's different; he scrabbles, and he swears in the chaos of rage and roiling emotion burning through him he puts his hand out to press desperately against the child's; her curly hair is wet, blue eyes piercing and burrowing in the middle of that bloody color —

And then Max's eyes snap open before he's catapulted unceremoniously into a very blue, very gray world. Which really makes no sense at all, because for the longest time, his vision had been all warm, hot colors caked across a deserted whistling dust bowl. He vomits what little is in his stomach, glancing around in a panic with dilated eyes. 'Max, hey Max, Max — LOOK AT ME, MAX — !!, and the figured around him are all foreign, all too blue and pale colors, metallic but not old scraps — and the hallucinations are coming back violently, storming in and crowding him, the imprint of that black figure close at hand and likely ready to tear him apart.

He jumps for the nearest person who moves toward or around him, likely slams their face into the pod doors before making a run for it buck-naked through the showers. No time for second-guessing, not really. But it seems like there's no where to really hide and sort his head out, and the voices are screaming as always in the middle of his more blind panics — the little girl of his nightmares flies at him from every young woman's face, eyes dark and demanding. He feels the limp of his run, his bad knee uncomfortably throbbing with every footfall; he needs his brace. Needs to get out of here. It's like the citadel all over again.

Best get out of his way. He's in flight mode — people will definitely be getting pushed down if they're in his way, and if they try to step toward him or talk to him (or stop him), they'll be getting a fist to the stomach or face. There's no calming him right now, not with words. Not with touch. Feel free to try, but it will likely be a short encounter with a naked guy with a large, still healing back tattoo, trying to throw you into a wall and growl at you like he's mostly rabid.

[MED BAY // LOCKED TO TADASHI]

When he finally slides into the med bay, he figures he's safe for five seconds to try and readjust. Except... would you look at that, someone else in the room. Surely they would not mind a scalpel held to their throats; it's the closest thing to him, and the guy there doesn't seem built for fighting — likely not a threat as a warrior, so he rushes him with all intents and purposes to throw him into a wall and hold a very sharp medical instrument to his neck.

"Where do I leave?"

It's sufficient ice-breaking.

Sorry Tadashi.

[CORRIDORS // LOCKED TO BUCKY AND TYKE AND I THINK JAX IS GONNA BE A SNOOPING ASS AND POPCORN AT THIS MESS]

Somewhere in that mess, Max gets pants. Thank god. Last thing he needs is to be tripping out in a mysterious prison with no fucking pants. Where is my fucking jacket, more like it, only his head won't stop spinning and his adrenaline hasn't gone down since he fell out of that weird goo-filled pod. He still has it in his hair, itches it away from his messy bangs as he rushes to get the elevator; luckily, there's not a lot of people there, all of them still doing... whatever the hell they do back in that room. He's getting up to the actual floors of this place — what the hell is this place — before he steps out with the scalpel in hand and scissors in the other. You never know which you'll need. Maybe both.

He's aiming for wherever an exit is.

God willing, he's getting the hell out. Then he can wonder just why this place is so different from every single place he's ever laid eyes on. This all was so new, so clean, so different. How?? Who made this place? Why? Why didn't anyone know about it? Are they harvesting people? He's got a new tattoo on him, and he's none-too-thrilled after his last close encounter.

Time to move.

Gotta get my head on straight.

'Max — this way, come this way...!'

A gun sure would be nice, right about now.

Edited 2015-06-08 04:34 (UTC)

Two friends.

"Do we all get dogs?" Merrill inquires brightly from her place at his left shoulder, standing in front of her own locker which so far she's only looked at curiosly. It's immediately apparent that she skipped the showers in favor of puzzling out the numbers, since she's still all blue-slick beneath the towels she's swaddled herself in for modesty.

She's also incredibly shaken, stomach still roiling with that feeling of dread that always follows waking from a nightmare. But seeing Hawke's familiar broad shoulders has done a lot to ease that. Everything will probably be all right, so long as Hawke's here. He might even know where they are!

Merrill doesn't, but that's not really a new state of being for her.

.PODS .SHOWERS .LOCKERS - OPEN TO ALL

That awareness of being watched makes him feel uneasy even before he falls to the ground with a sharp pinch of pain to his hip. The blue viscous fluid sloughing off of his skin doesn't ease his mind at all. If anything, it makes him hyper aware of how this is not what he'd expected at all. His hand runs over his features and he feels how the goop is clinging to his beard and stuck in his hair. He knows he needs to get up, to move from wherever this is, but he's also aware of pieces of conversations he's picking up just by being silent. The explaining of things that don't make sense -- the reasoning that no one knows why or how.

The blue fluid, the pods for captivity - it all screams alien tech to him. Chitauri, Kree anything that could remotely pull this off is top of his list. When he finally rises to his feet and reaches for a towel, he's quick to notice the progression of people to the showers. Another moment and he spots the lockers. Heading toward them he's intuitive enough to match the never before seen tattoo to the numbers on the lockers and he finds the shaving kit along with not very much else in way of clothing. He brings the waterproof electric razor with and retreats with the rest to the showers.

After a shower and shave, he feels slightly better - but still uneasy about what this all is. He'd been on his way to Christian, to his brother and despite not wanting to be taken there his second option wouldn't have been to this place. He dresses in the jeans and t-shirt, leaving the dark grey jumpsuit behind and tries to figure out if he should head to the floor marked on his arm or try the lower decks as advertised.

.LIFTS .ETC | c l o s e d

Among the sea of faces that are unfamiliar, there is one curly head of hair that stands out. Ward can feel the tightness in his jaw increase as he recalls the last encounter with Fitz. There's nothing pleasant about having the oxygen pulled from his holding cell and he doesn't blame Fitz for wanting that sort of revenge. He can understand wanting to make things even, to settling an old score. It doesn't mean he likes it directed at him, but he can understand that need.

A few varied conversations have made him aware that not everyone is pulled from the same time. It's possible it could be more things related to aliens, to their understanding of things that are well-beyond their own capabilities. It also means that there's a chance that this might not go as poorly as he's anticipating. Especially since it seems Fitz has spotted him.

It's best if he meets it head on. His pace slows, trying to assume that this is going to be fine. That this isn't going to end with him having to make a choice he doesn't want to make right now. He even turns to look at Fitz, nodding slightly in recognition of the scientist. There's something... off, though and he's not sure if it's the environment or something else, but whatever good feeling he might have been hoping for has slipped away.

((ooc: I will match format!))

Edited 2015-06-08 04:46 (UTC)

[LOCKER ROOMS // PICTURES EVERYWHERE]

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.

[ yes, derek has all stiles stuff. derek's been keeping everyone's things in some kind of weird, sad hope that he still doesn't really believe has been rewarded. he's still damp when he gets off the limp, shirt sticking to him. his hair's longer, beard a little more unruly, but it's still unmistakably derek. he stops short outside the lift, eyebrows flicking up in surprise.

for all derek's mostly adapted to life without his powers, he still keenly feels their absence. especially in moments like this, where he wants to know if it is stiles, wants to be able to scent him, hear his heartbeat, be certain in all the ways he can. but wishing for that won't necessarily make it happen. derek looks at stiles intently before his expression softens, relaxes as he tips his head in greeting. ]

Stiles. [ quietly, tension in derek's shoulders dissipating as he comes to a stop, triggers the mechanism to open his door. ] Loitering around my locker get old?

[ it's an obvious attempt to deflect his own relief at seeing stiles again. in the back of his head, he's thinking about texting lydia, wondering if she's already seen him. the invitation in is implied, not that he thinks stiles wouldn't have just followed him into his room regardless. ]

[ Lydia doesn't have much cause for hanging around at the jumps. In general, she has a better track record of seeing people disappear than appear, and blind hope doesn't jive with her. She meant what she'd told Fitz and the others: she wished Stiles were still here because she knew he wouldn't want to be gone while his friends were still in trouble, knew he would want the time with Allison and to help them all find a way to get her home. But wishes are just that, and she's never been much of an optimist.

So she's already dressed, hair woven into a fishtail braid over her shoulder and heels clicking on the metal floor as she moves past the lower numbered locker rows. She's getting her comms device out of her purse, ready to send Allison a message to double-check something horrible hasn't happened when she hears his voice.

And here's the thing: it wasn't but last jump that she thought Thomas might be him. He'd come by physical sciences, asking to help, and she'd— well, she'd hoped. Mistake. But this isn't Thomas. She stops, startled by the sound more than anything, and looks around, jarred to notice she's by 014. But Stiles isn't. Stiles was 030. So when she looks around and spots him there, she freezes up for a moment.

Then, she moves for him. Lydia stuffs her comms device back into her purse, leaving the purse behind on a bench on her approach. Observing that he's half-naked and still goo-covered comes next. ]

What are you doing?

[OH HI THOMAS. Takeshi was just finishing up pulling his sweater over his Gantz power suit.]

I didn't see Newt! Is he okay? Did he get in his pod okay?

[Takeshi can feel that worry, man. He'll do whatever you need help with, if that's the case.]

[ This is all habit, by now. Literal years have made it so. But condensing the population only worked out for so long, and fewer and fewer new people are moving down to the first ten floors, so she's taking it upon herself to swing by and get to know them. Or that was the plan, anyway, before she got wildly distracted by seeing a great dog tumble out of a locker onto an equally hairy man.

Her eyes snap wide and she takes a beat, hand on her gun, wondering if it might be a monster. After that wake-up, there's no telling what might be waiting for them. But it's not, and she loosens up, moving forward all the same. ]

Did that thing come out of your locker?

What're you looking at?

[It's a bit sheepish, mostly because Takeshi's pretty sure it's rude to intrude on people while they're at their lockers trying to figure themselves out (she's new, Takeshi thinks; she acts new). He has just cleaned off his wet hair, had just gotten his sweater back on, the black leather powersuit underneath only shown at his neck and over his hands as he observes her. She was poking at something weird, and he's too nosy for his own good. And short. Very short, even for his age, and he has to crane his neck up to see.

His panda, which is sitting a little ways behind him chewing on his own foot, is not so nosy.

Yet. Lucky you.]

It's not gonna come off, kid.

[ which isn't a very comforting welcome, but it's not as bad as it could be. jax's tone is gentle. he's seen this before. coddling isn't in his nature, but a harsh welcome isn't either. ]

You want it there, while you're stuck here. It'll help you get around.

[ for a man in nothing but towels, he sounds fairly sure of himself. ]

By the time Skye makes her way to the lifts, she's at least got some idea of where she is and what's going on. Her hair's still damp from the shower, and she's thumbing through network posts so distractedly, she almost misses the giant, dark lump in the lift when she summons it down.

Almost.

The doors slide open, and Skye's attention flicks up briefly from her comm device's screen, ready to assess the area in front of her and step in—it's automatic. But she startles and freezes in the threshold, dropping her comm.

"Ward!" She's on her knees beside him in an instant, slipping one hand behind his head. Last time she saw Ward, he was on the other side of the table in the interrogation room on the Bus, waiting for eval after shooting the Clairvoyant in the chest.

As uncertain as she'd been about the lengths he'd gone to then, she's not uncertain now. Concern overwhelms all of that. In the same way he'd lost it trying to protect her, she abandons all baggage, driven straight to her desire to help him. She checks his pulse at his neck, exhaling her relief as the doors slide shut. "Wake up. Come on, wake up." She keeps one hand cradling the back of his head, moves her other to shake his shoulder.

Fenris passes him—among the brisk striders, yes. Also among the unwashed. He has a towel around his hips and a second one in his hands, wet, plucked up out of a puddle so he can wipe his arms and chest clean without stopping under a shower head. His hair, which is not as long as the Inquisitor's but still too shaggy, will dry blue-tinted and stringy.

This isn't his usual routine. He's not opposed to the showers. But he is opposed to being naked and unarmed when they're so recently and obviously not alone. When he's still afraid. The unease makes his never-ideal posture that much worse, hunched and wary. None of that fear is for his fellow passengers, at the moment, so it's only coincidence that he glances Hawke's way at all, and only a distant and unplaceable sense of familiarity—Bethany's eyes—that makes his gaze catch for a second. Just one. He doesn't stop.

[ Her hair flops over her shoulders, bunching in thick, wet ropes around her head as she turns her head to look at him. It takes a beat for her gaze to drop and find him at his height. She blinks twice before answering, but stows her surprise. ]

Uh — … Honestly? I'm not sure. [ She shuts the locker decisively. Let it be tomorrow's problem. But she did pocket a 5x3 hard drive before letting the door slam all the way. ] Some weird metal thing. [ She reaches up, scratching the back of her head and shrugging loosely, as if she's much more at ease in this situation than she actually is. ] You new, too?

[ The voice doesn't exactly reassure her—"stuck here" least of all. But as she looks up, Skye visibly takes a break from her frustration to, well, gawk slightly. She seems to choke on a breath, eyes scanning him. ]

I — [ She's never seen Thor in real life, up close, but she imagines this is a pretty comparable experience. Remembering that he's said something, she blinks quickly, searches out his face. The cold comes rushing back in a moment later. ] What?

[ Her brain catches up to her— Well. ]

Stuck? Stuck where?

[He shakes his head fervently.]

No ma'am!! I'm not new! I'm old. But I was gone for a tiny bit, then I came back.

[Totally normal, like talking about the weather.]

Maybe the ship put it there... It might be bad! Don't touch it.

[clarke was just finishing up putting on her jumpsuit when she overhears thomas and she's quick to turn around to face him upon hearing his inquiry because does know who he's referring to. her reaction jumps to immediate concern especially upon seeing the worry on his face] Newt? No, I haven't seen him— you can't find him?

Tadashi had gathering his things slowly and actually taken a long shower before getting dressed. He'd checked to make sure Hiro was okay first, then moved into the med bay. He had a lot weighing on his mind, not least of which had been the terrifying flash of a figure while he was still submerged in his gravity couch. He didn't know what it meant, but he had a horrible feeling that it was only the beginning of some new ordeal.

He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as he leaned against one of the counters. Before he went up to the room he shared with his brother, he was just going to take a minute away from everyone to clear his head and--

What was that sound?

Tadashi shoved up slightly on the bill of his baseball cap and squinted toward the gravity couch area as some sort of commotion broke out. Concerned, he pushed away from the counter and started toward the noise. Everything happened quickly after that. A man slid into the med bay. There eyes locked for a moment and Tadashi opened his mouth to ask a question.

Thud -- Max was right, Tadashi wasn't a warrior. The karate he did know was insufficient when put up against someone who's actually fought for his life. Tadashi grimaced as he hit the wall, then froze as he noticed the scalpel at his neck while the mad man's demand echoed in his ears. Tadashi's gaze darted to the gravity couch area, his first concern being for his friends -- had this guy hurt any of them? Fear gripped him for a moment as his attention flashed back to Max, but Tadashi swallowed it.

"No one wants to hurt you." He tried for a level, calm tone. It was difficult with the scalpel there. "Let's just... let's just talk, okay. Just... just put that down. I'll tell you whatever I can."

Nice dog.

[ casual, as if he hadn't just seen a giant fucking dog fall of this guy's locker. but seriously, jax is truly impressed. "nice dog" is actually an understatement. this it he kind of dog that would send tig into raptures. ]

He a souvenir from home, or did you just hit some kind of jackpot?

[ though seriously, where did this guy come from that had dogs like that? ]

A | PODS

[ For once, Scott isn't in the middle of anything particularly important when it happens. He's lying in bed, window open, trying to sleep — and failing miserably, mind too unquiet to let him really settle. When he finally closes his eyes, he wakes up surrounded by blue.

It isn't his first time in the pods, and he's done enough drowning back home that the press of liquid's familiar. The press of fear — that's familiar, too. He yanks the tubes free of his throat quickly, coughing as his feet hit the grates. One hand's flung out to the side of the pod to help him keep his balance, then it's two, three heavy breaths before he pulls it out to something more steady.

One hand swipes over his face to clear his vision, and there's a flicker of red as his eyes narrow, pushing through the confusion and gaining focus. Definitely the Tranquility. He follows that observation up with an attempt to sniff out more familiar clues, only to get a nose full of chemical goo that causes him to sneeze, loudly. ]

B | LOCKERS

[ He goes to the wrong locker first. Row seventeen-ish, not even close, and he has to shake his head (both at himself and to clear it, admittedly) before he heads to the right one. There's a familiarity to the way he swings the door open that's in stark contrast to the 044 on his arm, but he still startles when something falls out of it, jumping back half a step.

It's a mask. There are uneven leather straps dangling from the sides, what looks a little bit like blood both dried and fresh splashed across the brow. But the thing that registers before any of those details is the fact that it's a large skull, origins unknown.

More importantly, Scott has no idea what the hell it is. The ship, probably. That's a thing the ship does, right?? Put random creepy shit in people's lockers. He stares at it for a moment before crouching down to pick it up, slowly rotating it over in his hands. ]

Hrnn. Not so sure about that, kid. Max isn't in the mood to put his trust in someone who could have just as easily been one of the ones to put yet another mark on him. If anything, Max can at least be content in knowing he's never laid down and given up and become cattle or a blood bag or whatever the next group would try to fix him into. He glowers, a sort of fury flashing in his eyes. His fist clenches more tightly in Tadashi's shirt, the blade cool on the man's skin. He won't cut him, not unless he plans to put up a fight. He's bullshitted his way through things before. Granted, if this kid does try anything, he'll find himself at least impaled somewhere uncomfortable by said scalpel.

Max has very good aim. Granted he's still kind of woozy from the blood loss over the last few days, especially with needing to give Furiosa so much to keep her alive, but he's had worse. Been through worse situations. The citadel wasn't the top of his list of awful places to fall into. Or get dragged into, rather.

"No. Give me a way out." He glowers, jaw squared. Lets his knuckles be a pressure on the boy's chest. Something makes him glance to the side, as if he notices another presence; there's nothing there, though, despite his sharp intake of breath. "Talk. Directions. Clothes. Pain killers."

He knows if he gets out, he'll need something for his knee until he can whip something else up. He doubts he has enough time to actually treat it right now.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 44

forty-fourth jump;

garrett hawke | dragon age | ota: pods, lockers. closed: showers.

skye / showers or lockers

thomas | ota + closed to minho.

Ailanne Rei | OC | OTA

stiles stilinski / teen wolf / open

Max Rockatansky | Mad Max: Fury Road | some OTA, some locked!

lockers.

grant ward || varied locations

Maes Hughes | Fullmetal Alchemist | ota

slaps this tag together hi boo hi

no subject

lockers

no subject

Locker.

showers?? ish.

( lifts ) for later

no subject

no subject

objectifies jax

no subject

no subject

Med Bay

lockers!!

scott mccall | teen wolf | open!

no subject