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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
"They already got used against me," she says bluntly. "I already lost someone. It hurt. This tattoo isn't just for family, it's to represent what I've had and lost and is still precious to me."
She stands, sharp movement. "If you refuse to let people be precious to you just because you might lose them one day, then you're a dumbass. If I lose someone, I'll at least be able to remember them with love for every day of my life. And you can bet I'll fight every inch of the way to protect them in the first place. That's what we do."
no subject
He should have never given her advice. It was a mistake.
"If you don't want to listen, then don't," he growls venomously, madness burning bright in the posture of his shoulders, of the darkened stare. He can barely hear himself over an infant crying -- screaming, really, and if that mentally transfers to her he really doesn't care. He won't stop screaming and Max doesn't know how to fix that, and he really can't talk about this anymore, won't talk about this anymore.
"It was a mistake to talk to you," he says tightly, jabbing a finger at her as he turns and limps away toward the locker rooms, toward the lifts. He needs the gardens. Somewhere wide, a place where it can be quiet. Maybe he is a dumbass. Maybe he is. But he's not letting this happen right now. He is not going to remember them right now, because his mind won't let him take it.
He scratches at his ears, trying to focus.
Sure, that's what people do. Protect. Protect and fail, and watch people get run down under wheels. Over and over and over again.
Max, is that you? the girl asks innocently enough. Not sure from where.
Yeah, that's him.
no subject
But the words stay on the tip of her tongue, and instead she watches him stomp away, irritation dying by degrees. She should've thought that through. Nobody gives that kind of advice-- nobody reacts the way he just did-- without having lost way too much in the first place.
...yeah, that could've been better, and guilt starts to seep in. Ranting at him without knowing what he's been through-- she owes him an apology. She was lucky, she knows that. Not everyone gets a Luffy.
She won't give it today. Not with that look on his face. Instead, Nami lets him go. Give him space to himself. She'll find him later.
Maybe when she knows how to approach this a little more tactfully.