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CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
LOCATION: MED BAY
WARNINGS: ... Partial nudity? It should be pretty tame, but let me know if I need to add anything.
SUMMARY: Side-effects of a jump may include disorientation and temporary memory loss. Fortunately, there are a handful of others who have been through this before.
NOTES: Yes, it's a rehashing of the game premise. Don't worry, you can personalize your own (re-)introduction!

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. 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.

Don't worry, you are not alone. There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. They will help you through your disorientation, even though they might suffer from it too.

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.

This is your welcome party.

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"My head's killing me, so..." Bob's frowning, too, but it's not at the man who's talking to him. He's just trying his best not to get too caught up in how little he remembers. That's a bit shit, really. Not remembering a bloody thing about how he got here.

"Maybe the simple version, yeah? Don't think I'm up for much more than that, mate."

Simple, right. The Doctor nods.

"You are in the medical bay," he starts, and pauses there, not knowing how the rest of this is going to be received: "Of a -- ship. You're a bit disorientated now, potentially some memory loss, but I promise it wears off. Can you tell me your name?"

"Medical bay?" If it's not jarring enough that the word 'medical' is being offered up without a clue as to why it's being applied to him, the phrase 'medical bay' isn't one that he keeps collected as part of his vocabulary. His mind offers up 'hospital' in its place, but the rest of what the man's telling him is only serving to confuse him more.

"How did I--" Bob wants to ask how he ended up in a sickbay on a ship, but there's a question being asked of him, and he feels the need to answer it before he asks his own.

"Bob. I'm... yeah, Bob."

"Bob? Good name, Bob. Easy to remember. Your parents knew what they were doing." He gives Bob a pat on the shoulder and then removes his hand, reaching up to squeeze some more of the moisture out of his own hair, wipe it out of his eyes.

"My dad's name, too..." Bob doesn't have much hair to squeeze the liquid from - actually, his shaved head is almost dry already, the last remnants of that blue liquid wiped off the back of his neck. He takes a moment to just stare down at his hand, as though he's expecting it to either provoke more questions or answers, but leaves that train of thought where it is. He still feels sick and confused and focusing on smalltalk and familiar conversation is making him feel better.

"What's your name?"

"Call me the Doctor. Although I'm actually not the ship's Doctor. But I am a Doctor. And y'know, it's only just occurred to me how confusing that must be for the people around here. Call me John Smith if it's too confusing." The Doctor stands. The physical effects are a bit easier to cope with this time, and anyway it was never as bad for him as for the humans.

"You'll notice a number on your arm. Nothing to be alarmed at. We've all got them." He holds out his forearm for Bob to see the 001 » 018 printed there.

He's not always this stupid, but Bob's going to stick with the name John. He's got a mate back home called John and the Doctor... well, there's one of those back home too. He specialises in cutting people into tiny pieces.

At the prompt, however, he glances down at his arm, the numbers 002 » 082 etched into his forearm arm, the tattoo still so new it's bold and black and slightly shiny. An unexpected addition to the collection he already has.

"Why-- what're they for? Bit weird, ain't it?"

"Gets you around the ship. Lets the crew track you in case you're lost. Not actually ink. It's nanotech. Also acts as a universal translator for all those different languages floating around." Which brings him to another point, although he still attempts to approach it delicately. "I should probably mention, we are in outer space."

"Nah, that's proper weird, mate," Bob can't help but wipe a hand over it and doesn't know if it's itching because he's thinking about it or whether it's actually itching. If he thinks that's weird though... outer space puts it into perspective.

"We're what?!"

Whoops. "Too soon to bring it up?"

"You... you just said space, yeah? My ears aren't full of that blue shit still?" Bob is frowning deeply now, as though he's desperately trying to understand the how and the why.

"Outer space, yep. The Tranquility. Used to be a colonization ship, but... well, somewhere along the way they lost all the colonists. We're the replacements." He has a feeling it would be better to focus back on the small stuff, the simple stuff. Bob's physical well-being, for example. "How is your head? Can you stand?"

Actually, Bob's started to feel more than a bit sick now. News like that is always a bit of a shitter when you're not expecting it. He swallows a few times and tries to ignore that sweat he's broken into, hand coming up to scrub over his face, fingernails scratching over his stubble. That's real - he knows that feeling. Knows how it feels when those bristles dig underneath his fingernails right to the nailbed.

"Yeah, still got both legs, haven't I?" He sounds really distracted now, like if he concentrates hard enough on not chucking up, he might actually avoid it. "I'm fine, mate. Fine. Honest."

The Doctor goes silent for a long moment. Gives it time to sink in.

"You know, there's a lot of people here. We've all been... snatched up. It's not a pretty situation, but we're making do." He reaches out, just as carefully as before, toward Bob's shoulder.

"D'you need a moment?"

"Nah, mate," Bob thinks he probably doesn't want any moments that require him to be alone. He's not good at entertaining himself on a normal day and especially not days he ends up... not in London.

"I'm good, yeah? Just um. Think it was the blue stuff. Feel a bit like I'm going to chunder." And to anyone not from London? That would be his five second warning that he might be about to throw up. Mind your shoes, Doctor.

"You're going to -- oh." It takes him right until then to realize what Bob is saying and take a couple steps back, wary. "Yes. Go right ahead if you've got to."

"Sorr--" Bob can't help it, manages to turn away before he's emptying his stomach of... bile, mostly. He doesn't remember the last time he had something to eat, but whatever has happened since now and then hasn't agreed with him.

"I'm so-" he frowns and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "-so sorry."

The Doctor stays back, just in case he isn't finished. "It's alright. I know, it's - it's rough." He turns to scan his eyes over the growing crowd of people, milling about in confusion. "Far from an ideal situation."

"No excuse, is it?" Bob says and finally straightens up again and feels slightly better.

"Been in a better state meeting new people before."

"Oh, but I'm certain you could be doing a lot worse." He leans in and gives Bob a pat on the shoulder.

"Where you from, Bob? That's a thing new people ask. Put this meeting more up to standard."

The pat on the shoulder makes Bob feel better, if only because he actually believes what the Doctor is saying. Being macho for the sake of appearances back home has only ever been a surface thing for Bob. His own personality and caring nature always seems to seep through so he knows trying to hide it gets him nowhere in particular.

"London. Well, south London. Not the posh, rich bit. Been there my whole life," he mentions, happy to talk about it to try and forget that he's just thrown up mid-conversation. He looks like he has a bit more colour in his cheeks now, though. Clearly specifying London, Earth doesn't really occur just yet.

"You?"

"All around." Although if they're getting all friendly, he should probably share more than that. "Most recently Colchester. Although I had been -- heading out. At the time."

"Colchester?" Bob attempts to relax back into the conversation despite the remnants of tired muscles in his stomach from throwing up. It's not really surprising that he feels like if he laid his head down again he could probably fall asleep immediately.

"That's Essex way, isn't it?"

"Essex, yes, that's the one. Small universe, isn't it? Same country, now millions of light-years away on the same ship. What are the odds?" The Doctor says this all very blithely, as though he isn't that surprised by it at all. Because, well, he isn't.

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