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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
[ Lydia dropped her hand, shaking her head. Obviously, something wasn't linking up in his head. But he wasn't sharing it, and that meant she couldn't possibly follow. ]
It's okay. You haven't been gone that long. [ She'd only just had time to confirm his departure to Derek. ]
no subject
Fifteen jumps, Lydia. That's... I know everyone's time-keeping sucks, but that's gotta be more than a year.
[ He sucks his lips together, frowning as he tries to keep it together. Weird things happen on this ship, he knows that. Dreams, hallucinations, loss of time, trips home, alternate universes. The laws of time and space don't really apply. But knowing that doesn't make it any easier to accept. It felt like... like a blink. Like one jump to the next.
Suddenly he wonders if he was the only one seeing that... seeing whatever it was before he got dumped out. Stiles isn't a coward, but he's not sure he wants to ask and know the answer. ]
no subject
[ She straightened, even leaned back slightly, taken aback by his judgment of the time disparity. ]
Stiles, it was one jump. You only missed 43. I haven't even been here for fifteen, that's— [ Wait. Yes she had. She shut her eyes, letting out a sigh. And so the amnesia grew more complicated. ] You don't remember. [ But he remembered earlier than that. ] And neither do I … We need someone who does, who can make sense of this. We need Derek and Cora.
no subject
Okay. I'll go see them.
[ Trying to push down his panic and sound steady, even out his breathing. Though really, that's probably equally obvious to anyone who knows him: Stiles doesn't really do calm unless he's in a high-pressure situation. ]
After I find my stuff.
no subject
Stiles, it's gonna be fine.
[ Guilt welled up then, as she remembered what she'd said about preferring he be here than back home. Thinking he would. Apparently, all her hopes had done were come dangerously close to inducing a panic attack. She raised her hands to try pacifying him. ]
Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out. Come on. [ She reached for his hand, turning to start for the aisle that would take them to another locker row. ] I'm sure it's just in 044.
no subject
Still. He lets her take his hand. Follows along. Everything is confusing and he's still a little shellshocked, so he'd be glad to have just about anyone he knows to fill him in, even Kate. Or Peter, who she'd killed, the thing that had set her most apart from the Lydia he thought he knew. ]
Why are you being so nice to me?
[ He does ask, a little accusation leaking into his voice. ]
no subject
If you don't want my help, just say so. But considering you looked a half-step from a panic attack for a minute there, I just thought I'd try to be nice. [ Her deflection was performative, masking injury. There was a time when she would have shrugged off anyone's startle response at finding that she could, in fact, be nice, but to have that come from Stiles—who'd always seen through her anyway—and now, after she'd let go of all of that … it stung. ]
whoa I never got this, smacks it back belatedly
[ Stiles admits generously, with a little grimace. Lydia seems like she's closing off, like she's hurt, and Stiles pushes back the instinctive response to try and smooth her rustled feathers. They work better together at figuring stuff out when they're getting on each others' nerves, right? And no matter what residual feelings he has that's just not his bag anymore. Because she's never just trying to be nice.
Except for how she is.
Maybe she's lying. Stiles doesn't trust himself to see through her manipulation anymore. ]
You know I appreciate your help, Lydia.
[ He tries finally, probably not super convincing. ]
it's all good!
[ Sharp and challenging, Lydia's voice doesn't relent to give Stiles any credit for the inch of effort he makes. Green eyes scrutinize him, trying to analyze his strangeness, but she can't find a reason there in his expression.
Instead of allowing either of them to dwell on the fact that she obviously doesn't buy how he compromises, she turns to continue towards the 044 row of lockers, still obviously expecting him to fall into step scrambling at her left like always. ]