THE CRASH

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Any and all.
LOCATION: Medical and beyond.
WARNINGS: Violence, implied (and possibly explicit) nakedness.
SUMMARY: Arrival in the crashed Tranquility

W E L C O M E You wake up, alone in the dark. There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Through the fog you can see shadows of movement, the muted sound of alarms crying. 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 suddenly dropped several feet onto the opposite wall. The impact is painful, winds you, and it takes several seconds to overcome and persuade uncooperative limbs to move. You barely have the time for it. All around you is chaos: the sirens of alarms are shrieking in your ears, drowning out the cries of confusion from the people awakening around you, trapped in their gravity couches or stumbling through the wreckage. Louder than that is a deep rumbling, coming from somewhere farther away, vibrating through the metal underneath you. It's hard to make out much of anything in the dim red light, but you catch sight of a sprawl of garbled black on your forearm and wonder-- Who are you? How did you get here? A drip lands on your cheek. Another. You look up as a flash of light illuminates a rend in the outer wall high above you, a steadily increasing fall of raindrops showering through. Another rumble rolls through the wreckage around you, and you pull weak, unsteady legs underneath you, rising to a shaky stand. M E D I C A L There's a shout, nearby, and your attention turns from the hole high in the wall to the room around you. Standing sideways, the smooth doors of gravity couches under your feet, fallen wreckage and debris making obstacles in your path. But there are others here, climbing through it as best they can, or trapped inside their gravity couches, injured, or worse. You step over the body of a man in a jumpsuit, venturing further into the gloom of red. The shout comes again. Someone might need your help. Or they might have answers about what happened here. O U T S I D E It takes all the strength you have to climb up through the fallen structural beams and hanging cabling, metal slipping wet beneath your fingers and feet. Eventually you emerge, and in another flash of bright light realise you stand on the shell of some colossal structure, the shadows of dense jungle all around you. The night sky above is a violent flux of colors, a dense, roiling tower of cloud crawling with lightning as if on fire, thunder booming again and again as the deluge pours down. In the brief flashes of light you start to notice figures, further away, scattered across the shell. Dressed in dark jumpsuits, their shouts are drowned out by the storm, but their struggles are evident; lashing out, grappling, fighting each other for their lives. There's a sound behind you, and as you turn one lunges towards you, a jagged shaft of metal in his hand. His eyes are wide, teeth bared, and as you stagger back he yells something, coming for you again: "You did this!" N O T E S Venturing through the medbay will discover the lockers and main bay, all heavily damaged. Characters will likely be able to salvage some belongings from the destroyed lockers - otherwise they will be able to find jumpsuits and other standard clothing in the wreckage. The alarms will cut after two hours, a which point a looping audio message telling passengers to make their way to the blue lifts will be audible. The lifts, if investigated, will be missing, leaving only empty elevator shafts. The nexus of the strange superstorm will disperse out into colorful clouds after approximately half an hour, at which point rainfall will ease to something less torrential. The storm will pass entirely after five hours. Dawn will come two hours after this. The Tranquility's original crew members can be found amongst player characters, either in medical or outside of the ship already. They will similarly be suffering from memory loss, but worse than that, a small number of them will be extremely violent in attacking player characters, other crew, or even harming themselves.

Comments

outside, ota.

[klutziness]

The rain is all wrong.

Well, not the rain itself. Rain is a thing that happens naturally, she knows that. And rain causes things to grow, like all the greenery around her. Those things themselves are right. It's the fact that it's raining at all that's wrong. It doesn't rain... where doesn't it rain? Somewhere. Some kind of place, where there's only sand and heat, wind and jagged edges on everything. The exact opposite of... where-ever this is. But she knows, she knows she's supposed to be in the place without rain. At least, she thinks so.

The girl shakes her head, pressing a hand into her mop of blonde hair. She'd found clothes lying haphazardly across a bench, automatically put them on, and had crawled her way out of... that place. The place with the metal and wires, the red lights and screaming, confused people. It had been chaos in there, but it was also chaos outside. The screaming was just muted by the rain, the wrong rain, the wrong scenery, the wrong everything.

The chaos inside is what she'd prefer, she thinks. Steel and cables, those make her feel at home. She doesn't know why. All she knows is that it's too green out here, too wet and cold. She rubs at her arms, hating the dampness, and takes a step back on to more soaked leaves. People are fighting out here--wild. She sucks in a breath (so humid, her lungs can barely stand it) and turns, only to nearly run into someone she doesn't recognize.

Should she recognize them, though? This is so wrong. Her head hurts. Her mouth forms the words in a language she doesn't know she hasn't spoken in over a year:

"Fryd rybbahat?"

[ooc; if you hover over the al bhed, there's a translation!]

[queasycrow]

A skinny teenager who seems mostly made of legs and blonde hair nearly collides into him, and it's in this moment the least distracting thing to Hawke who scarcely pays attention.

It isn't personal, it's just this is his own first moment he had time to think, standing mostly naked on the shell of whatever this thing is after his frantic, borderline angry climb up cabling and broken steel beams. He hadn't stopped to get dressed and so stands in grey underwear, previously coated -- just like the rest of him -- in a film of blue slime. The rainwater is working on rinsing it away, replacing clinging stickiness with heavy damp.

He is quite large. He has hair on his wide chest, and more than that on his face.

It's when she speaks that he looks her way, squinting through the streams of rain cutting down the boney angles of his face.

"Come again?"

Lightning strikes strange cloud in the sky, the crack of thunder knotting tension up through his shoulders, in thick cords at his neck.

Rey | Pods | OTA

[circumitus]

The irony is that this scenario should be hideously familiar: Waking up, confused, and no memory as to how she got there.

(At least there isn't even a toe tag this time.)

However, the only immediate difference is the pain.

She's also fully clothed when the pod releases her, wearing some dogtags tucked around her neck and under her drenched tanktop. She feels herself falling before she can even take a step out. The buckling of her knees, the twist of her shoulder as she hits the floor, the sharp agony drawing her arms inward... The world is spinning around as she flips, unable to escape the raw burning encompassing all her limbs and her body as she curls over the floor in fetal position, shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes wide, teeth clenched, drunk on the pain that makes her want to scream but right now she can't.

It doesn't take long before her vision just blurs. Everything becomes static-white, and the noise of the surrounding populace and the sirens and blaring colors become distant and incoherent and fold together; her skin numbed to the chill of droplets falling on her. It's so loud and indiscernible that it's almost lonely in a way. Even if she could speak through rough, rapid breaths, every inhale like many sharp blades slicing her lungs more and more. Doesn't help that she's also coughing up blue goop in addition to everything else.

To anyone nearby, what's wrong should be no mystery. Her bare arms and shoulder are riddled with fresh bullet holes; her cargos pockmarked as well. It shouldn't take a scientist or a doctor to figure out that she's been shot multiple times (was it ten? twenty? fifty times?), and yet somehow she's still alive. Despite the freshness of the wounds, she doesn't appear to be bleeding out due to cauterization, the holes themselves burned into what are now scars.

Finally, a gargling sound escapes from the back of her throat as her eyes squeeze shut. And she's screaming.

[foundafamily]

It takes a moment for him to come to and take stock of himself and his surroundings--whatever the hell all of those are. His clothes are soaked in pod goo, but at least he's clothed. He doesn't realize why so the alternative is so unpleasant, just accepts that it is. Even more happily, considering the chaos around them, is the comfortable weight of a blade he can feel tucked away in the pocket of his suit jacket. He shoves himself to his feet and looks around for anything familiar--or, failing that, anything that can help him understand what's going on.

Instead, there's just some weird lady nearby yelling her head off.

Firo jogs over, wincing in sympathy when he sees the bullet holes. That looks painful. "Hey, lady! Calm down, all right?" Not that he can blame her if she doesn't.

Being closer and getting a better look at the damage, he shakes his head. "Jesus, who the hell'd you piss off, huh?"

medical, ota.

[culver]

Coughs and gasps are the first sounds she makes once she scrambles her way out of the pod. Her face contorts in confusion as she looks around, bleary-eyed. An arm moves to wipe away whatever's on her face and comes away blue. She stares, silent, unable to process what any of this is. Her throat is sore, she needs water.

But first she needs clothes, she realizes. Hers are gone--or were never there. Has she only just now begun to live? Strange first thoughts, but her mind is stifled by white noise and static. These are simply things that have pushed through the turbulence. It doesn't much matter, though, as the thoughts disappear just moments after being born. She's heard other people, she thinks, and her focus has shifted.

Covering herself is imperative, so she grabs the first jumpsuit she finds. It's too big, but she doesn't care. It goes on easy enough, and makes her decent. Something on her back is uncomfortable, scratchy and lumpy, but she doesn't stop to think about what it might be. Deep red lights illuminate the scene around her just enough for her to see that there are indeed others around, some of them running and walking, some of them simply lying or sitting on the floor. It's this latter group that she approaches, brow furrowed, lips parted to ask if they're alright and if they know what's happened.

Except, she doesn't ask. There's simply nothing. It isn't that the words have caught in her throat--it's that they've never formed at all.

Blue eyes widen in fear, temporarily forgetting the other soul in front of her.

Has she been injured somehow that she didn't realize? Small hands claw desperately at her throat, feeling for any gash or collapse. Whatever is on her back starts to move, reacting to her panic, only making her movements more frantic.

Harry Potter | Closed & OTA

[bespectacle]

Pods | Closed to Elizabeth

[Harry lands heavily, elbows slamming into slick floor and his slimy feet sliding over themselves as he immediately tries to lurch upright. He scarcely has time to look down, through the lenses of his goo-smeared glasses, observe his own half-naked body and the fact that it brings absolutely nothing, no name, no recollection of this scar or that scar, no country of origin to explain why such a ghastly pallor, before--

--the stranger barrels into him. Harry gives a shout. Is startled by the sound of his own voice, but that doesn't stop him from saying,] Will you fucking calm down--? [to the ferocious rictus of the stranger screaming down at him, trying to hit him with closed fists and open palms, both. The young wizard's body remembers something about defending itself, throwing up elbows and forearms to deflect the worst of the blows. His glasses jump two inches from his face, so he's only looking through one eye with any real clarity. And even then, the strange man is tinted blue and gelatinously distorted.] What is--

[Your problem, he meant to say. But then he hears something alighting gently a few feet beyond his head, and both he and his attacker pause to stare.

Harry's view is necessarily upside-down, but despite that, he can see what the creature is that just deigned to join them. The tortoiseshell cat blinks at them from its landing crouch, peculiarly solemn, despite that its fur is matted with goo.] That, [Harry finishes, finally, inanely.]

---

Outside | OTA

[By now, Harry has discovered the slender stick of wood in the pocket of his sopping trousers. He doesn't know what it's for, but has thought better of it than to cast the thing into the crimson-dappled gloom of the forest. He still doesn't have a shirt, but the humidity seems to hug enough heat to his skin that it doesn't bother him so much, the rain spattering down. It washes the goop of his spectacles, fortunately, but that aside--

--nothing about this looks familiar, either. Which makes sense, considering the shape of the massive, derelict vessel behind him. The sound of footfalls picks at him from behind, too heavy to be that of the girl with her cats.

Instinct twists him around, sharply. The wand straightens in his hand, sudden and sure, his fingers tight around it with incipient intent. Yet nothing more comes to mind: he finds himself staring down the slender stripe of wood, under the vivid color of lightning, into the face of a stranger. One who's hopefully not trying to cave his head in again.]

[songburdened]

[ In fact, there are two cats. The one Harry's seen slinks around, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes. It (he) doesn't seem to be perturbed much at all and, after regarding him briefly, makes his way back to the feet of a a girl.

Rather, a young woman. A frightened young woman, one with brown hair tumbling down her back and bright blue eyes. She's found one of the lingering jumpsuits, apparently, and an ill-fitting one at that. The brunette clutches at its material as if to hold it on, though most of her efforts are in holding the other cat, one which seems content enough to just drape over her arms, tail swishing back and forth.

Elizabeth spots Harry as her eyes follow the tortoiseshell cat to him. She freezes in place, unarmed and without any memories, unwilling to approach. ]

W-What's happening? [ She sounds even more afraid than she feels, somehow, and isn't proud of it. ] Who -

[ But how can she demand his name if she doesn't know her own? ]

Éponine, ota

[jondrette]

pods/medical on arrival

Eponine takes a moment to recover, sprawled out on the floor. Her thin frame doesn't allow for any sort of protection from the impact, and, limbs akimbo, Eponine tries to force air into her lungs. In order to do so, she sits straight up, cold and as the air rushes back into her lungs, she realizes she's naked.

She's naked and... That's it. She doesn't know anything. Where she is, who she is, who all these people are. There's so much noise, so much light, and yet none-at-all and everyone seems to be moving and making noise.

On weak legs, Eponine forces herself to stand, looking down at her figure with awe. She was a skeleton disguised as a girl, her body a topographical map of abuse and poverty. But even that, she didn't know.

She doesn't scream. Others do, but she walks on the outskirts, trying to find herself something to wear. Clothes, first, then she'll ask for answers that won't have any sort of idea what they mean. Unless... Someone here must know something. Why she can't remember anything before she just woke up. The only clue she had was the number on her arm, and a small woven bracelet, and even those made no sense.

Her steps are uneasy, her steps hobbled by age that didn't suit her young features, carefully watching until she finds something that could be worn. A dress of sorts, flowers that had seen better days (she remembered flowers) and an odd pair of boots, and thusly, she makes it through the fighting, the shouting, out into the humid air, the rain.

The rain, she likes that. Closing her eyes, Eponine steps further out into the rain, holding her arms out and smiling. Then that, too, turned into laughing. It was wrong, amongst the noise. But there was something about the air and the rain that drew her out, away from the blood and noise.

later
Eponine has since found a bag amongst the wreckage, filling it with a few things she'd found. Maybe they were hers before. But she didn't know. Hopefully, no one else knew, either.

Now, she was sitting on a root, soaked to the bone as she watched everyone mill about. So far, she'd discerned that they were stranded, and she didn't think anyone knew who they were. "I should have a name," she decided out-loud, leaning against the trunk of the tree. "Something beautiful, I'm sure."

All around her, the storm was lifting, fog rising. The heat hadn't let off. She considers milling about with the others, and perhaps, perhaps she will. Maybe someone in there was here with her.

later

[acapriciousthing]

"You should." Names were important. It was starting to become obvious that all of them had lost something. The most fundamental something there could be. And without even knowing what to call themselves, what were they supposed to do. "Perhaps after a flower."

She couldn't remember if she'd ever known the flowers around here. But she remembered some.

Tadashi Hamada | OTA

[tadashiwashere]

[Medical]

Something's not right.

He knows it even before he's ejected from the gravity couch and crumples to the wall beneath him, jarring a shoulder he doesn't remember injuring. The boy lies there on what is now the floor, listening to his ragged breathing and the constant blare of alarms. There are voices all around that he doesn't recognize. Some are speaking quickly, some are screaming... a few just whimper quietly. None of them stir any memories, except...

One single phrase echoes with every cry he hears.

Someone has to help.

Shaking, the boy pushes himself to his feet and stumbles through the debris. Climbing, slipping, pushing on. There are shouts. He's still dazed, but that insistent pulsing feeling won't go away. He doesn't know how he can help, but clearly these people need someone to do something.

His hands find a jumpsuit amid the debris and he tugs it on. After another step, he spots a baseball cap barely sticking out from under a sheet of metal. He's not sure why, but automatically he stoops down to work it free. The moment it's in his hands, muscle memory takes over and he tugs it into place on his head. He doesn't understand it. But that's something to question another time.

Instead, he turns again, gaze frantically searching the disaster zone. It's difficult to see anything in the dim red of the emergency lights.

The dark haired boy coughs once as he tries to suck in air to shout. The second time, he manages to fill his lungs.

"Can anyone hear me?! Does anyone need help?"

[Outside]

The boy collapses hard onto the metal surface of the crippled whatever it is. Dragging himself out of the bowels full of cables and jagged metal bits might be the hardest thing he's ever done. But he can't remember.

More than once, he nearly slipped and fell to his death. His shoulder is on fire from the climb up, but he knows he needs to keep moving. There are more shouts out here. Some instinct recognizes violence and danger even through the haze of confusion as the boy still struggles to cope with his utter lack of knowledge about where he is.

With a surge of determination, he starts to drag himself up, but someone is suddenly there in front of him.

Outside!

[mikangirl]

Having shunned everyone inside to go straight for the climb up, the least Nami can help out the people that follow her up. And this guy doesn't look remotely intimidating, so she braces herself, holding out a hand.

"Here. Lemme help."

Laura, ota

[cabins]

The entire world was blurry. Even wiping goo and water and... blood...? from her eyes, Laura squinted as hard as she could and only the things closest to her were visible.

In addition to bad eyesight, it didn't take Laura long to discover an awful tattoo on her ankle and that she was nowhere near as young as some of the people here seemed to be. Oh, and, if the ring on her finger was anything to judge by, she was married. Married and in some strange, strange place.

Looking around, she tried to see someone she recognized, but came up empty handed. Opening her mouth to call, she failed to summon any names to mind and, as such, fell silent. Why was she here? Wherever here was.

"What's going on?" After finding a bathrobe, Laura resolves to get some answers, reaching out for the first person passing close enough. "Does anyone have any idea what's wrong?" She follows the crowd, though, as some of them seem to mill through what appears to be medical, through the twisted and ruined metal out towards the oppressive heat in front of them.

Re: Laura, ota

[atent_dead]

"Reckon whatever it is, it ain't meant to be happening." Granny's still working on finding something to wear. Working pretty hard, since she doens't remember much, but she does remember that people are supposed to have clothes on.

She's not about to admit how little she knows about what's going on. Because she can't remember anything and that's not the sort of thing you admitted at her age. "Are ye hurt?"

Mystique | Closed

[anybodies]

Closed to Max "Darwin" Rockatansky

[First of all, she lands on her stump.

Mystique's cry of agony is incoherent. She immediately pretzels around to grip the shorn-off end of her ankle, tears ebbing to her eyes. It's perhaps by virtue of this remarkable agility that she makes herself so small that the aggressive lunatics rampaging across the ship simply pass her by, two sprinting past. She cracks her eyes open long enough to watch them collide with a wall, scratching and swinging elbows into each other with the vehemence of something akin to hatred.

It's instinctive, really: to shift. Her skin ripples, inverts. Underneath the blue scales and shining slime there's suddenly a wash of pink skin and freckles, her hands, her broken-off leg, her whole body contracts in on itself, bones and muscle flowing into each other and a semblence of fabric flattening over her skin. By the time she sits up, the lizard woman is a wide-eyed girl, no more than ten-years-old. Her pink T-shirt is decorated with three flowers, and her khaki shorts leave her bandaged stump exposed. Red hair sticks heavily to her scalp and shoulders. Still, she doesn't cry immediately for help. Not from those two battering each other into bloody pulp there.

No. She tucks herself back against the wall, her fingers closed tightly around her leg, still, three or four inches above the spot where it so abruptly ends. She waits, and watches the shadows walk past. If her amputation didn't hurt so much, she'd feel the ache spreading through her gut more keenly. It's ironic, really; her body is consuming itself in infinitessimal increments to regenerate, but not fast enough to close what the fall reopened.]

---

Closed to Garrett Hawke

Hey. Hey, mister. [The other man has left-- looking for something, somewhere. Scavenging, probably, scouting to see if it's safe. Mystique could wait, but she's emboldened by success and, further, motivated by the too-salty spam resting queasily in her stomach. She's thirsty, and this preoccupation is greater than the fear of vulnerability, or the pain where her foot must once have been.

Besides, Garrett kind of looks like Max. Sort of a kind, funny-looking face, big shoulders, too much hair on his face. Something about him seems familiar, and Mystique falls into the easy misattribution.] Mister-- [she hobbles closer, using the wall (floor) to help her, her tiny, child-like hands braced against the metal.

If he could remember her, he wouldn't recognize her at all. Eleven-years-old at best, a heavy head of red hair to match with a high-contrast dash of freckles. Gravcouch gel has the pink fabric of her shirt stuck to her skinny shoulders, and her khaki shorts are equally damp, but not worse than what everybody else is stuck in. This is what happens when they don't have showers, towels, and the other creature comforts of luxury spaceship living.]

I wanna go up. [She points at the visible seam of sky, lightning forking across bloody cloud formations. Her voice scratches over her throat, dry to the point of urgency.] Can you take me?

[theroadwarrior]

[Max stumbles by himself, trying to compensate for battered ribs and an ugly burn on his arm that is scabbed and cracked and shimmery with pain. But he doesn't go by her like the others — he feels his alert sense take note of someone, someone, and he turns suddenly towards the girl. The look is not the usual look 'Darwin' has — not that the woman-turned-child can remember that much. His features are focused but softer, eyes less crinkled with world-weariness. He moves toward her very slowly, face falling into a gentle concern.

He keeps his arm curled around his side, though. Hurts too much to let his arm swing or leave his ribs unattended (even if it doesn't help at all, it's instinctive, body wanting to rid itself of pain).]

Hey — hey, it'll be alright. [He says it a bit breathlessly, tired already from moving around, but his voice is sincere and kind. He looks the child over, trying not to show his shock at the sight of her stumped ankle; she must have gotten it sheered off somehow in this crash or earthquake or whatever the hell this is. He clears his throat.] You must be in a lot of pain, but y'can't stay here. Okay? Gotta get you out of here, before anything else falls apart.

[The metal around them shudders and creaks. Strangely, that urge to run that he keeps having isn't coming back to him, though. There's a child in danger. He can't let her get hurt. He may not know anything about himself, not even a name, but he knows what his heart tells him.

He bites his lip, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, to his back.

Dammit.]

... Do you have strong arms?

Because I have a pretty strong neck. Bet it could handle your muscles.

Max Rockatansky | Pods/Medbay, Outside, OTA

[theroadwarrior]

POD ROOMS / MED BAY:

Max is in the dark, but he feels like something is wrong — very wrong, and there are muffled loud sounds, horrible screeching metal noises, and then suddenly impact; the tube slips out of his mouth and he plummets. Hits the wall hard, and that's when he realizes something is very wrong with him: his ribs all burst alive with nerves, bruised horribly (from what, he's not sure, he can't remember). His arm throbs violently, face sore and aching, and he just sits for a moment gasping for air at the agony of it before it starts to settle.

He looks around, still fully dressed with his small pack on his shoulders.

So many people. If only he knew who the hell they were. If only he knew who the hell he was. Name? Age? Something? The silent panic settles when he sees everyone else freaking out, and for good reason. Not sure where they are, but it's somewhere that is falling apart fast, if not already crumbled.

He wraps an arm around his horribly aching ribs, pushing through the pain. In what little lighting there is, his face is a mess of bruises, lip split and one eyelid swollen. It looks like he'd been in quite a fist fight (though little did he know, the worst of it was healed by someone before all this mess).

Part of him, distant, very distant, tells him to run and not look back at them.

But a part of him says it's just duty to make sure they're all cared for, saved.

His job.

"Anyone need any help getting out of here?!" he calls out, voice rough but clear. He moves carefully around ruins and wreckage, looking for the injured or anyone who needs a helping hand, trying not to wonder why he's in ragged clothing with some makeshift pack on. Why he's got such a damn fuzzy face right now. Why, when he runs his hand over his neck, there's thick skin where there's clearly a round, heavily raised scar.

OUTSIDE, OTA:

Getting out was hard enough, and he barely has the energy to keep dragging himself around like this. When he finally gets back on his feet, he's overwhelmed by the clouds, unfamiliar with such a turbulent sight. What the holy abominable hell is that? Why does he think of the sensation of sand in his teeth at the sight of the lightning, the colored clouds roiling in the sky? He ignores it, or rather, he's suddenly smashed out of his thoughts by a man rushing at him with a thick piece of sharp instrument in his hand.

Muscle memory keeps him moving. He grabs the arm, twisting it and making him drop the blade.

He gives him two strong punches to the face, letting blood drip.

The man lunges, slamming into his torso. His body screams in protest, and for a moment he's paralyzed with pain on the ground as the man wraps his hands around his neck and squeezes as Max scrabbles to get them off in the rain water. He can't see. Can't hear right. Everything's scrambled —

A little help would be appreciated.

[mikangirl]

A little help is given, in the form of a slim piece of piping swung at the back of the murderous guy's head. Nami's not very strong, but she can be pretty vicious, okay. Batter up.

Takeshi | POD ROOM (CLOSED), OUTSIDE (OTA)

[throwsdown]

POD ROOM / Locked to Allison (and eventually William the best Doctor)

Takeshi falls. He falls and his leg slams into the ground, and a child's awful, high scream rips out of him when he collides. He feels frozen, can't move, broken leg jarred and screaming for him not to even inch his way around anything. He's only lucky that the sudden debris that falls misses crushing him — it does, however, land over him, leaves him wedged in the corner as it creaks. Everything's messed up, and people are screaming, and he's so scared. So scared and confused, because there's a black weird suit over him, his sweat is in complete tatters, his lip is bleeding freely and his leg —

He cries loudly, terror in the sound as he puts his hands over his dirty ears.

He wants to cry out for his mom and dad, but he doesn't know who they are. He doesn't know.

Is he just too scared to remember? He doesn't know.

It hurts so bad. So, so bad.

Outside / OTA

After his leg is splinted, he's told not to move — he promises in a meek, shaking voice not to move, wrapping his hands around his little body. At some point, he's been given a blanket that has been salvaged from the wreck quickly, but it's ripped up and the rain is pelting down against the treetops enough that some of it finds him at the trunk. He shakes and shivers from shock, but he's sure to stay just in sight for the adults; everyone's saving people everywhere. Everyone's trying to figure out what is happening. People are fighting.

There are a few adults who've made it a point to stay close for a bit, just to make sure he doesn't get caught up in anything — this is probably you guys. He's very quiet, though, needs a bit of nudging to open up, though the pain in his leg and the confusion he feels may help ease him out of a very withdrawn and anxious shell. He closes his eyes and hides under his blanket, wishing to wake up somewhere better.

Please, please...

[overdraws]

Allison hears the scream on impact, and even though she's thrown against the wall, head knocking against it so hard she sees stars, she grapples towards the source, biting her lower lip to keep herself from crying out. She doesn't know where she is, or what's going on, but there's children here and one of them is hurt. Whatever is going on, that's her priority.

She feels blood running down the side of her temple, and she wipes it away with the heel of her hand.

"Hey? Can you hear me?" She's trying to slip through the debris, careful not to budge it any more than she has to. "It's gonna be okay. Okay?"

Not that she sounds like she believes it -- but she's trying. For his sake.

William Tsang | Closed (& intend to tag around)

[dogbane]

Medical Bay | Closed to Heather Mason

[The first shrieking hyper-aggressive crazy person who comes for him, William punts in the middle without even looking up. Sends them flying ten feet, to land in a heap of dirty linens lying beside the basin that had formerly contained them. Back when, you know. This massive ship was right-side-up.

The second one, he wears for about forty seconds around his neck. The maddened crewmate clings to him like a monkey, and keeps bouncing her fists off his helmet. William barely notices. Eventually, tosses her off onto the heap of linen.

The former Chief Medical Officer towers over the wreckage of his department. He doesn't look even remotely human. Faded Chinese characters emblazon the segmented pieces of his armor; his crudely-hewn hands, coarse ceramic knuckles and gauntleted wrists, large enough to contain a frying pan each, make short work of the equipment and furnishings he's sweeping through. Glass shatters and tinkles. Absurdly, the midsection of his armor is open, the wide rectangular plate hanging down to expose the supplies he's hoarded so far. Banana bags, packets of plasma and IV nutrients, bundles of tubing, needles, batteries, knives, flashlight, bandages in wads. Certainly, no creature of his dimensions could operate more than half of what he's taking. It's difficult to say if he's motivated by a specific plan or altruistic intent; impossible tell just by looking at his face.

Which is shiny with lacquer, tomato-red, the material and plump-cheeked sculpture of it reminiscent of a Peking opera mask. A green beard sets off his chin at striking advantage, but it's the reptilian yellow of his eyes that truly highlight the strange, folkish visage. His expression is indeterminably pleasant, as if he's quite enjoying the process of the raid, as one would a day at the beach. In reality, he was just drawn that way.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Fuuuuuck.

She's here for the same reason he is (or at least the reason he appears to be). They're in a wreck. Everything is chaos. There are medical supplies. Logical course of action: bag the fucking medical supplies while everyone else is running around shrieking.

Except that there's some giant freaking monster thing bagging them all first. SHe presses flat against the wall for a moment, staring at him with trepidation. He's really freaky. Still - she doesn't need the stuff now, but she'd be naive to think she won't in the future. She takes a breath, steel herself. Come on, girl. Get your shit together. You've got a metal leg and a bunch of guns. You're a badass. Get it done.

She walks in slowly, vainly hoping that if she creeps up real careful-like she won't disturb anything and tip the thing off. Starts reaching for what she can see and recognize - bandages, painkillers - and cramming it into the pockets of the overlarge coat she found with what she can only assume is her stuff.]

stiles stilinski / OTA / prose welcome

[ex_question191]

medical.

[ He's halfway through trying to find some pants when he just has to stop, shivering uncontrollably. The young man who doesn't yet know he calls himself Stiles passes a hand over his face, trying to push down the panic threatening to boil over. He just needs to... to find something to wear, and some other people, and they'll, they'll know what to do, right? ]

Pants first.

[ Ignoring the hitch in his voice, since he's only talking to himself.

When he finds a jumpsuit he gives a soft whoop. There's some girl's makeup, too, and a dog collar, and he picks them out of the debris even though they're basically useless to him. Or, hey, maybe he has a dog. Maybe he wears makeup. Right now Stiles just doesn't know, that's the whole reason he's freaking out in the first place. ]


outside.

[ Okay, so no one knows who or where they are. Great. The jumpsuit doesn't fit right, and the alarms are giving him a headache, and he can't concentrate on anything, jittering around and getting in other people's way.

But despite the fact that Stiles is barely out of puberty and hasn't taken his ADHD meds recently, he's a problem solver just like his dad. And he may not remember his name, but he knows what people need, especially in weather like this. Food. Shelter. Water. Organization. Someone to tell them it's gonna be okay. ]

Hey.

[ He grabs the nearest person. ]

It's gonna be okay.

[ Probably he should try and sound more convincing. Stiles winces at himself, runs a hand unconsciously through his wet hair. ]

Let's try and find somewhere out of the storm, okay? We need somewhere that isn't about to fall off a cliff!

outside.

[doggedly]

[Sirius first looks down at the hand that's gripped at his arm, and then up at Stiles' face. Entirely unbeknownst to him, the mild tinge of disgust that crosses his expression would do the distant House of Black proud. Motivationally speaking, the look has got nothing to do with a muggle grasping at him. At present, he doesn't even know the word muggle, let alone all the little associations that go along with the greater concept.

He's disdainful because--despite the rain, and the awful raging storm, and the fact that he's got blood smeared all over his face and doesn't remember a thing, not who he is, or what his name is, or where he is, or what the bloody shit is going on around here--and he's barefoot, and wearing a pair of bedraggled jeans and an unbuttoned button-down, and gripping a stick in one hand because it, bizarrely, makes him feel better--and he just finished dragging an unconscious man into the woods and tying him to a tree with his own jumpsuit sleeves--and he's missing a finger, or maybe he's always not had that finger; he doesn't remember--but despite all of this, Sirius remains mildly disdainful at the grab because he doesn't like being touched.

The look fades relatively quickly. What this bloke is saying is a good suggestion, once he gets past the platitude that may or may not prove true. Even blank, Sirius isn't exactly optimistic. Nor does he embrace authority. He isn't a leader, but he isn't a follower either, not unless your name is--

Blank space. No memory. But okay: the suggestion is good, and he drags his wrist over his forehead to push some of his we hair aside, and points toward the jungle.]

There's a tree, back that way! [They're stood quite closely, but he's still got to shout to be heard over the rising roll of thunder.] Massive, fell over but got caught. Underneath it is dry--you could get at least twenty people there! But there's loads more just milling about--not to mention those mentals, with the--

[He goes to mime sharp pointy hand-held object, universal stabbing gesture. Since he's holding a thirteen-inch stick, it comes out a little too aggressive.]

charles xavier. medical bay, closed to ailanne rei; outside, ota.

[forgodssake]

MEDICAL BAY, CLOSED to AILANNE REI;

[ Definitely not the first to start moving, but also not the last, there's a man navigating his way through the wreckage of the. Whatever this place is. Jumpsuit struggled on in the semi-darkness, head ducked against the onslaught of noise, of sirens and shouts and thunder and also something else.

Charles, for all that he is not aware of his own name yet, let alone much else, is also bleeding. Scarlet soaks down half his face from the head injury doing him no favours, matting in the greasy tangles of shaggy hair, gathering along his eye socket, inking into the smatter of scruff down his jaw. Further down, soaking into the collar of his jumpsuit, visible as a smear mingled in sweat and slime at his throat. Just-- everywhere. On his hands. In his eyes. He remembers the panic of falling. He doesn't remember landing, but his body does.

This is awful.

And powerfully confusing. Knowledge seems to lurk on the edge of his mind, but clouded as it is by the monstrous shadows around him, the deep red light, the noise. He hears something beneath the depths of perception, says What? out loud, and turns to chase a voice that was not spoken. Not spoken, because the stranger that crashes out of the darkness bodychecks him with a slam of momentum. The messy scrabble has hands reaching for his throat, but a panicky clip of Charles' elbow into the man's face -- entirely accidental -- causes a break.

He twists, clambering to get away, hearing the drag of metal on metal. ]

Help!

[ Desperate and free of shame in his fear, he stumbles when the hand of his assailant wraps around his ankle, looming up with something jagged and sharp in hand. ]

OUTSIDE, OTA;

[ Hours have passed.

The rain has eased and the sky is livid with strange coloured clouds. Rain continues to strike the immense shell on which some are situated, and the panic and terror and violence is less feverish, but probably not all the way gone. This is why Charles has a weapon with him, a length of jagged metal that he keeps next to his hand where he sits in a sort of collapse on the strange shell-like surface. He found boots, eventually, to match his jumpsuit, and he is soaked to the bone from rain, which is far more favourable than slime.

And blood. Head injury is ugly above his left eye, concussion weighing heavy and tugging at him to just lie back and sleep, and the rest of him electrified in paralytic fear. No, none of that. He is just going to sit here, under the gentle rainfall.

And listen to voices.

Voices everywhere, whispering, not coming from anyone that he can see. It goes unprocessed like so many things are going unprocessed, watching instead the sky as it starts to blush with distant illumination, throwing a warmer light, ever so gradually, over the immense mountainous, jungle terrain. There's been talk already about the structure they've found themselves in tipping into the cliff somewhere behind him. That's fine. This is fine. The sun is rising.

At the sound of approach, his hand automatically reaches for his makeshift weapon. ]

Medical Bay

[ailand]

[Ailanne Rei stares at his hands in the darkness, then reaches up to touch his face, feeling the unfamiliar features through the slime. His fingers brush and then linger on a raised bit of flesh on his right cheek -- a scar. From what... from when? He doesn't know. There's noise all around him. Cries of pain and screaming in the distance. Somehow, he's unscathed. Aside from the scar.

Again, he worries at the bit of puckered flesh. It's a distraction from all the things he doesn't know. Who is he? Is there anyone who can explain this to him? There's a strong surge of disgust for the situation from out of nowhere, and suddenly this metal place seems too confining -- the air is too thick with sounds of people and the distant rumble of something. The confusion of it all grates on his nerves and he strikes out through the chaos. He needs to find a way out. Needs to feel open air. Something tells him this isn't where he's meant to be.

It's after he's found a jumpsuit with a rip through one sleeve that he hears the sudden cry -- help.

Instinct pushes him towards the cry before any empathy can stir him to action. He swings around the corner in time to see the dull glint of metal in the emergency lights. There's another man on the ground -- the obvious victim here. Does he know this man? Does he know the attacker?

There's no way to tell, so he leaves it to fate and hopes he's choosing true -- that feels like the right thing to do.]

You! Stop!

[The sound of his voice startles him, but doesn't stop his charge. He doesn't know what to do, but his muscles pick up where his memories falter. He hits the attacker from the side, hooking an arm around the other man's neck as they both fall in a confusion of limbs and shouting.

His hair is in his eyes, dripping the goo of the machine he fell from earlier. He kicks out when the weight of the stranger is suddenly on top of him, but he can't struggle loose. One hand catches the wrist holding the metal as it comes for his throat. The other scrabbles in the debris to the side, finding nothing.

Something gives. He rolls -- not fast enough. Pain sears his shoulder, then he feels like someone has kicked him directly in the lungs. Something pushes the assailant away and smashes that person back into a wall. He can't tell what. All he can focus on is the sudden panic as he can't draw in breath, desperately trying to force his lungs to re-inflate before the stranger can come back for round two.]

Selina, open

[testis]

Somehow, Selina landed on her feet, thrown from the pods unceremoniously. odd, considering everyone else was sprawled out, moaning and groaning. And- no, she was, too, she realized as she shook the goo from her ears and hair- what looked like a bullet wound on her shoulder was no longer bleeding, but there was still blood over a freshly healed scar. Blood, too, seeped from her hairline, though she didn't notice it, or the bruising on her right shoulder.

Selina made her way with better lucky than some of her contemporaries to where there seemed to be lockers. The first order of business was clothing and- oh and maybe a bra. That was awkward. Her search proved to be somewhat successful when she found a pair of jeans that fit, and a t-shirt. Yes, and a bra. Awkward.

Trying to block out the blaring of the sirens, Selina's hands found the locket around her neck. She opened it, revealing a beautiful woman who bore a striking resemblance to her. Taking the locket off, she looked closer at it, then turned her head up around trying to see if the woman was here. It had to be her mother, right?

Crawling her way out of the wreckage, she found herself crying out: "Mom? Mom? Has anyone seen my mom?"

[shallbeavenged]

Ai is looking around as well. She's more timid then before, confused and lost. But if the girl knows who her mother is....maybe she knows about this place?

"What does she look like?"

Gavroche OTA

[lafautedevoltaire]

Medical Bay

The first thing Gavroche is aware of when he wakes is the cat insistently headbutting his face. Does he have a cat? He's not sure. He's not sure about anything. Other than that he's going to have some serious bruises from landing hard against the wall.

He gathers the cat (his cat?) up in his arms as he tries to figure out what's going on. He needs to find clothes, that much was obvious. And what's going on. That might be harder. He hums random notes to himself as he picks through the rubble. Most of the clothes he comes across are far too big for him, but surely there must be something somewhere.

Later, Outside

The climb was tricky, as badly shaken around as he'd gotten ending up here. But his feet were sure, his hands found a place to grip to almost automatically. The cat keeps following him on the way up. Maybe he hopes to find a place to get out of this rain.

When the person in the jumpsuit attacks, he scoops the cat up. Whether it's his or not, he's not leaving it anywhere. And there's no way he can fight a grown man unarmed. He needs to find a way to get away. Away from people attacking. And maybe out of the rain.

He runs off to one side, hoping he picked a good direction.

[ailand]

There comes a moment when a man has been standing in the rain with no clear attempts to find shelter for so long that he must either be crazy or a little slow. Or, more likely, suffering from a head injury. Ailanne knows that he felt relatively free of injuries before he moved away from the room with the cylinders of people, but a head injury would explain a lot.

Especially his inability to remember his name.

He gingerly brushes his fingers across the stinging skin of his right cheek, feeling the warm wetness of blood there. He feels like he might need to be concerned for his face, but he still doesn't even know what he looks like. He knows there was already one scar on that cheek, so it shouldn't be extremely life altering if he's earned another.

Before he can move on from that train of thought and start towards the thick of the chaos again, he spots the little boy. The silent debate he's wrestled with when it came to every adult he's encountered doesn't even come up here. It doesn't matter if he might know a kid or not. A kid is just a kid.

"Oi!' he calls, loud enough to be heard over the storm, but hopefully not loudly enough to attract unwanted attention. "Who're you looking for?"

Because a kid should be looking for someone in this mess. Not running around on his own.

Newt | Pods Closed to Wash

[sleepallthewayhome]

Newt screams as she hits the ground. Hands wrapped around a dolls head that was apparently with her in the pod.

She's gasping the air and looking around frantically. There's chaos and noise everywhere and she needs to get away. She doesn't know where she is, she doesn't know who she is and everything is loud and it's too much.

She draws in closer to herself in an attempts to hide beside the pod she dropped out from.

[dino_zarf]

All Wash knows is that there is a very scared little girl nearby. Well, that falling out of that pod hurt, it's raining, and there's a scared little girl. The scared little girl is definitely the most important part though.

He picks himself carefully to his feet and walks over to the child. Surely there's a reason she was so close by, right? He can't for the life of him figure out what that reason is right now, but it must exist. Once he's close enough, he crouches back down so they're on the same level. "Hey, are you hurt?"

closed to caprica six.

[navigational]

He went into the pod with his leg on, thank gods.

That was due to neither foresight nor habit, only a hobbling rush from Engineering to the Medbay that left no time for fussing over laces or navigating out of his clothes while balanced on crutches. Maybe in a few weeks, when he understands what happened, he'll think back to appreciate this small bit of luck amidst the wreckage. Or maybe he'll have been eaten by something by then. The possibilities are endless.

At the moment, however, the possibilities seem very limited. His climb onto his feet is shakier than most. His crutches are nowhere to be seen. Not that he's looking. Not that he feels the absence at all. But he definitely feels something when he slips on the slick glass under his feet.

Twice.

He hasn't made it back onto his feet a third time before one of the pods above him opens, dropping blue liquid and a body—a body, dead, though it takes Felix a few moments of pushing at the cold, slick skin to notice that she isn't moving, not even her chest. He doesn't scream, but that isn't stoicism. It's just overload: the rain, the sirens, the chaos, and this. He pushes the body off, and then he lies there, with all of his efforts devoted to breathing.

[xerampelinae]

He doesn't scream, but attention is attracted anyway. The lurch of a body pushed off another after the noisy crash of flesh and slime. She picks her way through the chaos with the steely grace of a big cat.

Fingers hook into the shoulder of the limp body pushed aside, turning it over. Her hands frame the dead woman's face, but there is a medical, economic purpose to the touch. She moves on, sliding a knee between the slump of the corpse and the still living human flat on his back. Slate blue eyes scan down the length of it, back up to his face.

"Are you alive?"

A little touch of gallow's humour, emphasis on the 'you'. She's in her jumpsuit, probably looks reassuringly official as a result, her platinum hair sleek on her skull thanks to the grease of blue slime, although colours are hard to make out. Everything is red and black.

Nami | ota

[mikangirl]

Nami moves like a woman in shock, pulling herself up with uncertain, shaky movements. Her head hurts. Unfamiliar clothes, but at least she's dressed, which is more than she can say some of the others here. The piping that rolls past her to hit the angle of the wall feels familiar, and she reaches out to scoop it up. Just one piece. Then she staggers up and lurches across the uneven flooring like a drunken-- well. Sailor. Accurate.

She doesn't know the others and the sirens and dim lighting don't do anything to reassure her, so she shoulders her way past other disoriented bodies to low-hanging cables, using them to keep herself upright for a long moment. There's rain coming down, and that means there's a way outside, and that means getting out of this place that shudders underfoot, and so she doesn't care about anyone else. Once she gets her bearings well enough together, she heads straight up, climbing the cabling and fallen beams until she pulls herself through the gap. Survival. She can't remember shit, but she's good at this.

Once out, the rain washing away what's left of the goop that coats her face and arms, she crouches by the opening and leans in to help anyone else make it up to fresh air. She can do that much.

[foundafamily]

Firo eventually staggers his way to the same exit and hesitates when he sees the woman reaching down. Is it a trap? A heratbeat later, he decides he's too confused ot care. He puts his knife between his teeth as he takes the offered hand and clambers up.

Once he's out with her, the knife returns to his hadn and he looks around at the land before them. His jaw drops open at the spectacle and he's just silent for a moment before he thinks to show his gratitude. "Thanks. You got any idea where the hell we are, miss?"

He doesn't know who she is, he doesn't think, so instinct tells him to address her that way. A little politeness can't go wrong considering she seems helpful, right?

Firo Prochainezo | ota

[foundafamily]

Pods

A man in a soggy suit picks his way through the wreckage of the… thing. With it in shambles like this, he doesn’t even know what it is. Maybe he did once, but that doesn’t bother him now.

The one thing that’s a relief is that he found a knife in his jacket. Why it was there, he’s not quite sure, but the simple fact of its presence makes him think he’ll need it. On shaky legs he wanders around the pod area. He has no idea what any of the equipment is for, but that’s not his goal. Instead, he surveys his fellow people to see if there’s anyone who looks like they know what they’re doing. And when that proves hard, anyone who looks alive. The unconscious ones he’ll poke roughly with his shoe, while the conscious ones simply have him trying to insert himself into their path.

“You got any idea what the hell’s goin’ on here?”


Outside, a few hours after the awakenings

Memory is coming back to him, though slowly, in small drips. But so far it’s enough to let him know a few things—-mainly that he’s a total psycho. For some reason, this doesn’t sit well with him, especially a certain incident that keeps looming in his mind. A shadowy alley, a knife in his back, and a beautiful woman in agony on the ground.

Dying. Because he was killing her.

He has no idea if that incident happened nearby or recently enough for him to do anything—maybe it was years ago, worlds away—but he has to at least try to stop it, right? He rushes around the mayhem, trying to stop whoever doesn’t look crazed and violent. Even if they seem to be hurrying somewhere else. Even if he has to grab them by the shoulders.

“Hey! You seen a girl around here? Short, red hair, probably in a black suit?”

Outside

[ailand]

Although no one can say he doesn't look potentially violent, the man who turns to face Firo with dripping hair and a guarded expression doesn't seem crazed. Being out in the open air has solidified his focus, draining away the distractions that came from the flashing emergency lights and the echoing noises inside the husk of this dead, metal creature people are slowly making their way out of.

"I've seen a lot of people around here." He lifts one eyebrow and for a moment considers walking away. But... there's still that lingering doubt that he might know some of the people here. Maybe they're important to him. He'll feel like an ass if he remembers them later.

...though he'll likely feel like more of an ass if he finds out he's on the same side as the crazed man he fought with down in the ship's bowels.

Flicking some hair back from his face, he wrinkles his nose. "It was dark inside. And I wasn't looking. How important is it?"

outside, ota.

[doggedly]

It's luck that found him a pair of jeans. (His.) Luck got him out of the bloody chaosy wreckage and out into the open space of--wherever the hell this is, whatever is going on. In the torn out broken shape of what's passing for a door to the free world, at the top of the arduous climb, Sirius hauls himself up, and stops--not out of fear, more like a dog that's caught a scent. Looking out across the chaos for a moment, ears pricked. Even blank, he's not a panicker. The heavy thud of his heart has got nothing on the roiling grumble of thunder.

Rain lashes his longish hair to his forehead. He paws the fringe out of his eyes, his hand scudding a little at the catch of that blank space where his left ring finger ought to be. Ought to? The hesitation makes him put his hand in front of his face. Reddish light from the ruined structure behind him illuminates: three fingers, one thumb. For all he knows, it's always been that way.

It's a shout that gets his attention, snaps his gaze into sharper focus. Figures, shadowed, violent in their movements. Something very like instinct clicks into place. Left hand goes to his side, a gesture that he cuts off, confused by himself. What the hell was he grabbing for? But now that his hand is there: in the pocket of his jeans, he finds a stick. Twelve inches, dark wood, one end thicker than the other, a natural place to grip. There's something weird about taking it in hand. His whole arm feels warm, all the way down to his fingertips.

Another shout, and a scream. Sirius jumps down from the wreckage he's stood on, right out into the teeth of the storm. Wind whips foliage around his legs, and a moment of dizziness makes him reel, grab on to a twisted metal beam for brief support. The shout echoes again. One of the figures has a knife. Sirius shoves away and strides forward as a crackle of violet lightning forks down from the high dome of stormclouds. In the slippery dark, his shoulder slams into some other stumbling someone. Impatient, intent on the other scene, he shoves someone away. Snarls: "Move--"

Later: wide-eyed, with blood smeared on his face along with the rainwater, he's got jumpsuit bunched in each fist. The stick is back in his pocket. The jumpsuit belongs to a man, who Sirius is dragging away by the shoulders. The man's head lolls to one side at an uncanny angle. He is bleeding from somewhere on his forehead. A rock snags his sleeve, and catches. Sirius loses his footing in the mud and loses his grip as he falls. He lands heavy. "Fucking--"

The word cuts clear even through the rumble and boom of thunder. He wastes no time in picking himself up again, and grabbing hold of his victim to drag him off toward the jungle again. He probably looks mental. He might actually be mental.


[IMPORTANT OOC NOTE feel free to be the person he bumps into and pushes away, the person getting attacked by misc crewmember, OR the person who finds him dragging bodies into the woods! i can roll with whatever ok thnx]

later...........

[sorrycharles]

The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes and a human figure is illuminated among the trees Sirius is pulling for, the wet creases and hard lines of his jumpsuit at odds with more organic tangles of vine branching through the foliage. He isn’t hiding, exactly -- at a distance, the overlay of trees and greenery under chain lightning does the work for him, pitching shadows at odds across his outline.

But Sirius is no longer at a distance.

And if he isn’t hiding, he isn’t announcing himself either.

He’s just watching, not entirely unlike a lion watching a hyena drag a haunch backwards into his patch of grass. Still making his mind up what he wants to do about it.

Somewhere in Sirius’ slip, or in one of his twists towards the jungle after, lightning hisses through the rain near enough to cast Erik out stark relief, waiting for him in the tree line. He may not register it immediately, but the human brain is wired to hone in on faces.

Dog brains too.

sam winchester ; ota

[familybusiness]

pods

They say the bigger they are, the harder they fall. It sure feels like that's true as he's ejected from his gravity couch in a torrent of blue goo, and every muscle and bone in his body seems to completely reject every sensation as he collides hard, no doubt landing on some kind of wreckage or debris.

There's a sharp intake of breath followed by some low cussing as he tries to pull himself off the ground. A little help is always appreciated, though he'll gladly help out anyone else nearby once he gets his bearings.

medical/lockers

Sam manages to limp his way through medical, though he's looking better off than a lot of the other people here. It's by nearly sheer luck that he manages to find the remnants of the locker that apparently belonged to him, if he's matching the numbers correctly, but he only sticks around long enough to grab jeans, a wifebeater, shoes, and a knife that looks incredibly old but also probably useful.

That done, he starts making his way towards what might be the exit, trying his best to focus on getting the hell out of here instead of lingering on the fact that he can't even remember his own damn name.

"Hey," he'll call to anyone nearby who seems particularly lost or disoriented. "Come on, we need to get out of here."

outside

Sam is one of the unlucky ones, and as he's trying to get his bearings outside, he hears the threat coming from behind. On complete instinct, he turns and ducks away just in time, just barely getting out of the way of the jagged piece of metal the other man is holding.

He's not sure how he knows how to fight, but the knife in his pocket is in his hand a moment later, held in his palm with a skill that came from years of practice.

"Come on, man. You don't want to do this."

Helpers or passerby's both welcome.

Lockers

[goodgodman]

"Fuck." he curses, trying again to lift a toppled cluster of lockers that had ripped away from the wall. They'd landed face down and with the way they're angled it's doubtful the man move them on his own but hell if he's going to let that stop him.

"God damn it, move!" This particular ire is directed at the lockers but when he hears the other man's voice he looks up and scowls.

"Don't just stand there, man, give me a hand with this." There is a bit of a growl to his voice and an angry arch to his eyebrows. Upon closer inspection there is also smeared blood on his hands.

Bail Organa OTA

[bailedontheempire]

[Medical]

Once Bail determines nothing's broken in the crash, his first priority is finding clothes. He doesn't know anything about where they are, but the rain coming in makes it obvious that he needs to dress for some sort of elements.

Eventually, he comes across suitable clothes in a half ruined locker. He hesitates over the other items. A couple weapons, one of which at least seemed to be designed to attach to the robes in the locker.

And one other small object. HIs thumb moves almost instinctively onto a button. An image starts projecting. A family. His family? Yes, that's his face with them as well.

But he doesn't see them here. And the child is so young.

[Outside]

In the chaos outside, Bail still has only one concern. A concern that he's stopping anyone who isn't currently engaged in fighting about. "Have you seen a little girl? Dark hair, dark eyes?" He wishes he could call out his daughter's name. He hopes she's right that she's his daughter.

Outside

[toomuchtenacity]

[Chell, is looking around when she's asked. Exploring the chaos and trying not to be noticed.

She shakes her head.]

Sorry. Do you know what's going on?

outside, ota.

[axeyou]

She's one of the first out, because she doesn't wait.

There is nothing familiar. So she picks herself up and she goes, barefoot, naked, without thinking twice. The scene around her she takes at a glance, one sweeping look. Nothing and no one that she knows. Others are picking themselves up now too, and she will not be caught. Adrenaline eggs her on, adrenaline gets her free, pumps strength into weak legs. Go. Now.

Her landing is ungainly, but she's out. And now, outside, she flattens herself against the wreckage, her eyes darting around, dark and frightened, breathing through her teeth. She has never looked more like a cornered animal than she does now. Rain strikes at her; she twists away, and grabs a shaft of metal up from the dirt. It's maybe twice the size of her hand, and the crude edge along the top is razor sharp from where it was shorn free of the rest of the ship. Even the blunt end that she grips bites into her palm when she tightens her hold on it. She doesn't care. It doesn't feel right, but it feels better.

The first person that lands on the forest floor beside her is in for an extra panic attack. Naked, terrified--ready to kill--she grabs hold and slams the newcomer up against the side of the ruined ship, her arm tight across their throat, her makeshift knife raised up toward there eye.

"What the hell is this!"


. jungle .

Scared, then: she runs. A flash of pale naked skin, bound for the treeline. The rain stings. Anyone that dares to follow her is going to regret it.

In the jungle, in the safety of the trees, she grabs hold of one of the tree-trunks. Presses her bare back to it, plastered as close as she can get. Breath heaving, she stares, crazed, up at the dark canopy. Inspiration flickers, and she grabs hold of a lower branch and swings herself up. It isn't high enough. Another branch--she has to stretch for it, but she grabs, swings up. The rainfall is a little less under the foliage. The scrap is still in her hand. She keeps climbing.

first one :*

[workout]

Scott lands steady, instincts and an extra edge keeping his limbs under control even as his mind's in a free fall. He can't hear anything. He can hear too much, water pelting at metal and dicing up mud, a solid barrage of white noise that makes it easy for someone to get in close before he realizes they've come up beside him.

Hands close on his arm and throw him back against the hull with a dull clang that reverberates through his lungs if not his ears, and his hand snaps up to close on the offending wrist, other hand landing on the arm that's braced across his neck. His hold's tight, defensive, but it doesn't turn immediately violent.

Takes a second for focus to creep back in, only to reveal yet another face he doesn't know. A girl, young woman, spitting anger. The glint of shrapnel just below his eye.

Instinct kicks in again. Brown eyes flare bright red and lips draw back to flash teeth, too sharp. His grip tightens quick like a vice where he's got her by the arm, gives a rough yank intent on twisting her away, putting pressure on her shoulder and forcing her to flinch back.

Magneto | OTA

[sorrycharles]

Jungle:

[ Erik jolts to life with a nose full of water, choking, spluttering to the sensation of thunder rolling through the trees around him, booming in his bones and between his ears. He’s already soaked through, jumpsuit heavy with metal and rain when he’s spasmed through the initial shock into half a sit, and up, nearly to his feet.

Halfway there, a stabbing pain pulled deep into his side drops him right back down to his knees.

Lightning close enough to sizzle the air barely breaks through the foliage; his eyes are slow to adjust, bleary with rain. The earth under his hands is black and clotted thick between his fingers, full of leaves. Rain rips through the canopy, drumming off the back of his skull while he drags the air knocked out of him back in. The racing of his heart spurs him back up onto his feet before the pain has time to ease off; he staggers upright with his elbow pinioned back, one hand pressed high against his side.

He’s still unsteady, but more careful the second time, reaching half-blind to brace against a break in the wind that happens to be a tree.

Even in the chaos of the storm, it's clear that he's wounded. ]

Later/Less Jungle:

[ There’s a break between peals of thunder, and he hears shouting through searing lightning and driving rain. Voices.

It’s slow going, through the vines, and the trees, with one eye to gauge distance by the light of strobe lightning. But he knows where they are, and eventually, the foliage thins out enough for him to make out wet shapes lashing out at each other in the mud.

He stays put just within the tree line, breathing ragged and one shoulder stooped.

People are kicking the shit out of each other.

Excuse him for a moment while assesses the situation -- and the great hulk of the Tranquility looming over it all. It’s probably safer for him to stay where he is.

Someone hits someone else across the face with a metal shaft, knocking them flat. Erik blinks hard -- shifts his weight, feels an uneasy tickle at his heart.

It’s probably kind of a dick move for him to stay where he is. ]

less jungle;

[milagros]

( probably. although that is possibly not the opinion of the woman who stops short of a collision with him, scrambling on bare feet and scraped legs; he is not going towards, but she is actively going away from, ugly bruising forming on her shoulder and scraped open flesh (scoring through a tattoo that covers most of her back, the bulk of vines twisting across her skin rising from just above her backside) offering up a quick and straightforward explanation for the whys and wherefores of that decision. her hair is plastered across her neck and her face, curling damply, and through it her expression is--

mostly annoyed, in the way of people who respond to their own fear and confusion by becoming angry at the entire situation for existing. it would help if she had any idea what 'the entire situation' was beyond the immediate obvious, but as she also isn't completely clear on things like her own name or where she is or what the fuck is the... ship? above them? it seems like it might actually be a lot to ask, it turns out.

she tried fighting, initially. now she's tired, and sore, and nothing makes any damn sense, and when instinct told her to turn to the trees, there wasn't anything else to tell her different. she moves like she's thinking about hitting him, also, and then changes her mind; it plays across her face in moments, easily read--

she makes a quick 'shh' gesture instead, and a curt one across her neck as a suggestion for alternatives to not remaining fucking quiet where they're far enough out of sight to regroup and consider.

consider.

... something. maybe fighting the crazy people for their pants in a more organized fashion. )

Carlisle | pods, medical [open]

[tongueamok]

What little consciousness that had found its way to Carlisle flitted away again the moment the gravity couch released him, dumping him from the pod before he could even regain his senses. The collision with the floor -- or the far wall that was acting as the floor now, rather -- stunned him, the expulsion having been completely unexpected. It shouldn't have been. After all, he'd done this before, hadn't he?

He couldn't remember at that moment, nor could he parse out his thoughts enough to realize that wasn't the only memory he'd lost.

His arms trembled as he rose from the metal surface that had failed to cushion his fall, his soggy clothing clinging to his numb limbs, his drenched tabard unwrapping itself from his leg as he stretched it out; his hand trailed along the floor instinctively, looking for something he knew he needed, but couldn't recall why. Opening his eyes gave him that answer, his entire world a blur -- while that might have been from the pounding headache, he reasoned it was more likely that the glasses he saw lying a few feet away were his. Putting them on cleared his vision, but not his mind.

The painful throbbing in his head would have to wait, as would the state of his clothing. For now, the boom of thunder and his most basic instincts told him what he needed to know: he needed to find somewhere safer than this. With that, he finally pulled himself to his feet and started moving, stumbling on unsteady feet as he tried to focus on survival. He couldn't die -- not here, not again.

[doggedly]

"Don't fall."

Helpful commentary from behind, as Carlisle stumbles. Sirius is no more coordinated, but he grins anyways. Even under the grime and slime of his post-crash awakening, it's still, somehow, a nice grin. A little grim; a little more like a grimace. Still nice.

When is a good time to take the piss out of someone, post-crash, near-death, amnesiac. Once you've found a pair of jeans, at least. Sirius has got those, with bonus weird stick in his pocket. There's a drip of blood rolling its way down his forehead, from somewhere in his hairline. That's why he's here, leaned--temporarily--against the wall. It won't last long.

Friendly-like, he raises his eyebrows. This is, probably, not the time for this. And yet. "You go down, you might not get up again, yeah?"