ataraxionlogs | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Late thirties, but close enough. He's older than most people on this ship, more than likely, but he isn't human, despite his appearance.

"I am familiar with a John Watson, who is a former Army doctor, yes." Ratchet speaks, not knowing the rapid assessment by the other. "My designation is Ratchet, and I am one of the medical officers aboard the ship. Watson is the other one. You are not suffering from any ill effects from the jump?"

[ooc: I will be late tagging back. Work. :|]

Edited 2012-01-15 19:03 (UTC)

For a Victorian gentleman in his late thirties, he'd be lookin' pretty damn good. Hell, Holmes is in his late thirties. The not human, however, is fairly well beyond his grasp.

Full name. Specified: Army doctor. Holmes can't hide the immediate flash of recognition - and maybe a bit of guilt - at the details given. 'Watson' isn't a common name, but 'John' is, and the name alone he could have chalked up to an amusing irony no matter how much he did or did not want to. He doesn't invest much belief in any of those other John Watsons being army doctors. Damn it. "Then he is here," Holmes reiterates, unnecessarily, and shakes his expression into something more fitting as he does the same with the water from his eyes.

"Dizziness, and nausea in spades." He smiles wryly. "Ratchet! An appropriate nickname for a medical man. The name is Sherlock Holmes, presuming you have heard of me, and I should shake your hand were it not," wet and covered in weird space goo, um, he just trails off, wiggling his fingers to get some of the drops off.

Also his right shoulder seems to have a large gouge in it - half the stitches torn, trickling blood. But that's neither here nor there.

( ooc: It's all good! Take your time! )

Edited 2012-01-15 19:18 (UTC)

"Dizziness and nausea are common with the jumps, I believe. If you would take a seat, I want to look at your stitches first, then we can get you cleaned up."

He nods. "Ratchet is the closest word in English to my true name. It does suit my function. A pleasure, Sherlock Holmes. There is a second one who bears your name but he has a different appearance. Quite interesting."

Oh. His stitches. Holmes pauses a moment, could most certainly comply like a well-behaved sort of patient, but, no, he's going to do the opposite of that. "That's not necessary. It's merely superficial." Which is a pretty outright lie, but he's going to direct his attention to the latter statement.

Another, the same name. Mycroft, he was assuming? Was he here then? "In which case I apologize on your half for whatever grievances you may have experienced."

Ratchet's eyebrow kicked up. Joy. A recalcitrant patient.

"Unless you are a medical doctor, I shall beg to differ about the status of your wound. You are losing blood, and organics require that particular fluid. And I meant there is another man onboard who also calls himself Sherlock Holmes. He's a bit more modern, I would think. Now, sit, if you would?"

So steely was his tone, it really would be quite wise to listen to the good doctor.

'Organics'. What a peculiar way to refer to something of his own species. Holmes is silent again after a moment, at the ready, as if determining whether the petulant escape will be the more appropriate option, or mere acquiescence. "Perhaps a fern may not, or a cactus," he rebuts. Satisfied with this answer, he does sit, shoulder turned towards the other man - an invitation to access it.

This isn't even to touch in on the other half of the conversation. Another Sherlock Holmes? The name 'Holmes' was rare in and of itself, but a name like 'Sherlock'? Improbable. An impostor? A message? "A puzzling situation. What are the chances, I wonder, of someone sharing a name so original?"

Ratchet nods at his ascquience, and starts to clean up the wound, removing the excess blood before turning to fetch a suture kit.

"There are multiple universes, I am told. Beings with the same name, yet who are quite different. It is quite possible there are more than one world with a Sherlock Holmes, and it is proven out by there being two of you."

Well, and now here's Holmes thinking about fakes and actors and Ratchet is delving into string theory. Holmes immediately adjusts, albeit with slightly widened eyes, because the idea is- Also improbable, but not beyond the realm of possibility. It would have had less credence when he wasn't surrounded by spacey whosawhats he can't even begin to name.

"Not merely another man with the same name, or perhaps an actor for hire, an impersonator, but instead you suggest the man is actually, essentially, me."

Ratchet nods, his hands busily repairing the injured Sherlock. "He has many of the same mannerisms, and an similiar accent, with an acquaintance named John Watson, but he is much more familiar with technology's rapid evolution. What year was it last for you?"