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ataraxionlogs2015-07-07 10:04 pm
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-07-07 10:04 pm
Entry tags:
forty-fifth 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.
NOTES: There's a sense of quiet as you wake from the jump, a silence that seems to stretch into the medbay around you despite the slowly increasing sounds of gravcouches draining, releasing, bodies tumbled to the floor. A lack of any shadowed presences could be a relief, but as you fall into the process of cleaning up and getting dressed, you begin to notice it - there's no confused, uncertain faces in the crowd. No new, scared people, number 045 on their arm.
The bustle is thinner, the medbay a little emptier. People have left, been taken in the jump. But no one new has been brought in.
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.
NOTES: There's a sense of quiet as you wake from the jump, a silence that seems to stretch into the medbay around you despite the slowly increasing sounds of gravcouches draining, releasing, bodies tumbled to the floor. A lack of any shadowed presences could be a relief, but as you fall into the process of cleaning up and getting dressed, you begin to notice it - there's no confused, uncertain faces in the crowd. No new, scared people, number 045 on their arm.
The bustle is thinner, the medbay a little emptier. People have left, been taken in the jump. But no one new has been brought in.
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
TOMATOES ARE FRUITI mean--
...
Seeing him eat is almost like looking into a mirror. That is to say, she's hardly fazed by the barbarous manners he's displaying there. As someone who has learned the novelties of fresh produce over the past few years, she isn't one to judge, either. Fresh food and greenery is fucking amazing.
"Suppose it is." She pauses, brow lifting at the surrounding foliage. "Is there a patch nearby?"
no subject
oh shut up rey tomatoes are in salads we don't careHe just motions toward the garden that Heather and company usually tend to. Max is rude like that, taking people's stuff. But on the bright side, it's actual food and everyone should be eating it all up. He replies fully, mostly because he thinks it's an important note to be made: "No point in eating non-perishables all the time. Could be a time we need them if the gardens go sour."
no subject
you heathenHer eyes follow the direction of his wave, and then back to him. "Wasn't planning to lecture. Just curious."
With that, Rey disappears in the direction of the local vegetable plot, but only briefly when she returns carrying a couple ears of corn in her good hand (her right, two-fingered one has remained strategically out of Max's line of sight for now).
"Haven't had fresh maize in a while," she explains.
no subject
well at least I still (somehow) have all my fingersHe looks at the food in her hands with genuine interest, akin to someone at a museum seeing remnants of the past. It's not that old, really. It wasn't even that long ago that corn fields were a typical thing. But you know how it is, when war and nuclear fall-out happens. Things get hairy. People get killed. History gets blown away. Wonder if there's any museums still standing somewhere out there, in his world. Wonder if anything good's left. Last he was aware, Sydney had some semblance of a city standing.
He tries not to think much about the echoes of his old ventures.
Then he'd start thinking about whether people actually made it after he last saw them.
"Better for you," he says, actually looking a bit more comfortable with the small talk. He's stuck here, and even if she's annoying sometimes, Rey seems more... familiar? It's hard to explain. "Less scurvy and other illness, anyway. Never seen so many healthy people at once."
no subject
wow rude :|At least in Rey's timeline, things aren't good but they're also not bad enough that restaurants and farming and decent medical practices could be considered lost relics of the past. Things may never be the same, but having seen as much of the world as she has... it can always be way worse.
One shoulder leans against the trunk of a nearby tree, a leg linking across the other as she stores one of the ears into her pocket (they're cargo pants. They have big ass pockets) while the other she keeps in her hands. Holding it with her two remaining fingers and the three stumps of her left hand, she uses her right to start peeling back the husk. Her eyes flick to Max when he starts speaking as she does so.
"We generally have more to worry about than scurvy here," she says absentmindedly, deciding to indulge in the small talk. Because why not.
no subject
Scars and old wounds aren't weaknesses, but little pieces of someone that give them a story. He wonders how she got her own marks, though he doesn't ask; it's rude to poke around, especially when it all ultimately doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
"That goes for every place," he says, nodding slightly. "But scurvy isn't one."
Small victories, it means.
"Haven't seen all of this place, though. There are a lot of dark hallways."
A breath, soft humming.
"Lot of floors."
no subject
Because they were.
Her eyes narrow, watching Max be the most talkative she's ever seen him. Suspicious. But he's not entirely wrong, either. They have dealt with various forms of sickness in the past. None of those cases were scurvy, though.
"You're better off not seeing everything. There are places here you never want to go." Flashes of white invade her mind for only a fleeting instant, before drifting back to the much more welcomed garden greenery. She releases her unconsciously tight grip around the maize as she finishes peeling off the last of the husk.
no subject
This is a good direction for talking, though. Max fares so much better at conversation when it's something like this. Something beneficial. Knowledge is power, you know.
"Such as?"
He knows about their being beasts out there, and something worse-off. Booker had given him a (admittedly hard to believe) list of things to be wary of, when the hallways are dark and you feel yourself brave enough to venture out.
no subject
Ripping off the corn silk and dropping it to the ground along with the husk (it's not littering if it can function as compost, right?), she offers a pointed look before answering.
"Such as the dark corridors within the ship. And if you're ever stupid enough to chance it out there, would strongly advise against opening any white doors leading into rooms full of light. Even if something is trying to lead you in."
She says something even though the manifestations in the past had taken forms of actual people, and Rey herself has led someone into that place. Then again, Rey has a hard time seeing herself as anything but a thing, so it still applies.
no subject
"White doors?" Sounds haunting. White doors in a dark, isolated place like this. "You've been to them."
no subject
For a few seconds, her posture becomes like stone, utterly unmoving. It's a natural reflex that one would expect from a sniper, until she breaks her solidity with a nod.
At first she wasn't going to say anything, but then the word "Twice" escapes her mouth before she can tell herself otherwise.
no subject
lose your family?
He just watches her for a moment, waiting to see what happens.
"Don't want to talk about them?"
It's blunt, not very kind-sounding with how gruff he is in general, but it's well-intended and actually his attempts at being considerate.
no subject
Regardless of her experiences, however, she shakes her head at the question. "No. Think it's more important that people know."
Her own comfort isn't as much a priority, especially when -- as far as Rey is concerned -- she has forfeited that right because of the things she's done.
"There's something in there that has a way of getting into your head. Can make you do things."
no subject
"Mindwashing. I've seen it before."
There are a hell of a lot of types of groups in his world, Rey. Lots. He's just been fortunate enough to avoid most of them. It's amazing what you can do to desperate starving people. It's amazing what people like Immortem Joe can do to little sickly war boys who want a noble death. It's amazing how close he'd been to being a thing himself, a piece of Joe's equipment. Only he was coherent enough to fight back, unlike those ashen faces who'd learned to gravitate around their 'leader' as though he were a boil-filled sun that needed lancing.
no subject
Only they had a different name for it. And to think that it was perfectly legal for a long time, too.
Expression hardening, jaw tightens, Rey's gaze into nothing transforms into a harsh glare. "That's why it's fucking infuriating."
It's not the first time she's been used by someone else, and it's possible that it won't be the last.
no subject
"How does it work here? In this... white room."
no subject
Another maddening thing. Rey shouldn't have forgotten. She isn't supposed to forget anything.
What she does remember now, however, are the words Ward had told her.
"The thing that lives in that place, though, is hooked into those of us who've been there somehow, and it isn't letting go. A few jumps ago, something even made us try and kill those people who boarded the ship. Wasn't sent to kill, though. For whatever reason, was just sent to lead one of them into that room, which may be arguably worse."
For the pilot that's in there now, or for all of them. Their angry smiling friend over the network did claim that Rey had betrayed her own.
no subject
"Is there some way to... disable it? The white room?"
Surely there is something very key in there.
no subject
How they go about using said link to disable or destroy or whatever to that place, Rey doesn't know yet. But it's a thought worth entertaining, isn't it?
no subject
"Mm. The mind powers."
He sounds very unexcited about that, thanks.
no subject
"Not much of a guarantee, but nothing ever is." She shrugs. "In any case, wouldn't even be able to tell you where the room is to disable it. It seems to just-- appear. Like it moves."
That's what it seemed like the second time she found it, anyway.
no subject
Enough that he bites another tomato gracelessly, like a hungry dog.
"Heard things about the halls. Monsters, moving halls. Angels."
He sounds very skeptical, really.
no subject
Surprisingly, she hasn't even taken a bite of her corn. Though it could be that her appetite has been unsurprisingly a little soured over the course of this conversation.
Ugh.
"Angels?" Rey lifts a brow. "Have seen the monsters many times, but 'angels' would be a first."
no subject
"Someone said angels. Maybe were crazy."