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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.
Grav Couches
It doesn't take her long to come across Muscovy.]
Something's definitely changed.
no subject
[He looks up at her, his words phrased as a statement but with a question lingering in them.]
no subject
[That much is obvious]
It happened in Mayfield.
[That's why she's worried]
It wasn't as dramatic. But it happened.
no subject
[How wouldn't it be dramatic if there are no new people when there always were ones? Because what does that mean about what happened to those people that didn't wake up this jump?]
no subject
[Go to hell, some might say. But she's seen hell. This wasn't it.]
no subject
no subject
[Death, the skeleton, he can remember the future. But not here. So they'll just have to find out.]
no subject
[In a way it might be good that he has no real people here. That might make it less painful if those that were at some point Russian die.]
no subject
[She's been here long enough to be pretty attached to some people]
We got through it in Mayfield.
no subject
[That just sounds. Unlikely.]
no subject
[Even the ones they thought they'd lost along the way]
We were building something better, when I wound up here.
no subject
[He won't say "you're lying" but it just sounds really unlikely for something like that to happen without really bad things happening. And really bad things always also means casualties, in his experience.]
no subject