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ataraxionlogs2014-09-08 12:00 am
ataraxites) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-09-08 12:00 am
Entry tags:
- !jump,
- aaron doral,
- alex summers | au,
- alison hendrix,
- arya stark,
- benny lafitte,
- caprica six,
- captain hook (killian jones),
- caroline forbes,
- castiel,
- charles xavier,
- cora hale,
- death (discworld),
- derek hale,
- elizabeth of york,
- erik lehnsherr,
- fenris,
- firo prochainezo,
- gwen stacy,
- harry osborn,
- helena,
- ichabod crane,
- ilde knox,
- ivan,
- james 'bucky' barnes,
- james vega,
- jean grey,
- jennifer keller,
- josias st. john,
- katniss everdeen,
- kieren walker,
- lily potter,
- milagros gallo,
- peeta mellark,
- raven reyes,
- remus lupin,
- robin hood,
- sally malik,
- simon monroe,
- simon tam,
- taylor "tyke" kee,
- the warden (samara amell),
- zoe washburne
thirty-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, another round of new faces.
NOTES: You wake feeling cold and alone. There is a strange sense of emptiness, and the jump holds no surprises for you. There is nothing buffering the jump sickness and disorientation for you this month, and those still suffering the lingering effects of August's plot may find it more difficult than usual to get through the post-jump routine.
New arrivals will find messages spraypainted across their lockers telling them not to follow their tattoo numbers, and instead to find a room on Floors 001-010.
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You wake up in darkness.
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.
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. 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.
This is your welcome party.
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, another round of new faces.
NOTES: You wake feeling cold and alone. There is a strange sense of emptiness, and the jump holds no surprises for you. There is nothing buffering the jump sickness and disorientation for you this month, and those still suffering the lingering effects of August's plot may find it more difficult than usual to get through the post-jump routine.
New arrivals will find messages spraypainted across their lockers telling them not to follow their tattoo numbers, and instead to find a room on Floors 001-010.
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.
ichabod crane | ota
Katrina!
[His wife's name is a strangled cry on his lips from the moment the pod spits him out. He feels nauseated, confused, but he gets his bearing sooner than most. For one good (or in this case, very bad) reason - he's been here before.]
No, no, no. This can't be.
[Ichabod repeats the word like a mantra or a prayer, though the latter would fall on deaf ears. He knows this ship, and he knows it to be God forsaken, far more likely to be under the other side's control. It is a Purgatory all its own, filled with lost souls just wanting to move on, wanting to repent for whatever sins they've committed and just go home.]
lockers.
[He isn't calm, not even when he finds his locker. The number is different this time. How odd, that life continues on here without them, when the very opposite seems to happen on their world while they're here.
Ichabod collects his things, thankful for the lack of skinny jeans this time. He slams the door shut, scowling dismissively at the act of vandalism across it, this supposed "warning".]
Poppycock.
lockers!
She hears Ichabod as she passes though—the locker slamming—and it stills her long enough to see what it is he's calling poppycock, exactly. She almost smiles, but really it stops with a small upward lift to the corners of her mouth. Her eyes still look tired. ]
Most people have migrated to those floors, but I know that some have stayed on in their originally assigned rooms anyway. Safety in numbers was the idea, I believe.
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[Ichabod blinks at that, willing to listen to her where he might not have heeded the faceless warnings of assumed vandals. He remembers most of the passengers to be quite helpful.
But the information leads to his next question.]
Safety from what?
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[ Lily does smile now, truly, though it's still a bit small. ]
Security patrols were stretched thin going over so many floors as opposed to only the ten, and as the ship has been truly unkind as late, it seemed like a good decision.
[ The next isn't an afterthought, but almost— ] Mainly I think it was to put less of a strain on people worrying if someone would be nearby to notice they're missing or help if something happens.
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[Because he knows this ship, the sort of trials it can put a person through. Anyone who can endure them and still find the time to be kind, to be helpful is a person he would call a friend. Ichabod listens, and it makes sense now. He looks at the painted words with renewed appreciation.]
I see. It's a good plan. Perhaps one that should've been in place long ago.
[He smiles back at her.]
Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Ichabod Crane.
[He bows his head, never sure what greeting is most appropriate these days, since bowing and hand-kissing seems to have fallen out of fashion.]
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[ She inclines her head in return, ever willing to accommodate. Thus far she's been lucky, she thinks, to have met so many kind people on board when she's heard that there are plenty around that aren't. He feels a bit like an anachronism, but she's used to that, having spent so much time amongst wizards and now feeling like an anachronism herself being on the ship—]
I'm Lily Potter. It's a pleasure to meed you, Ichabod.
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lockers!!
In a sea of modern colloquialisms, the old classics tend to stand out. Still, there's a difference between having a respectable vocabulary and saying things like poppycock, and he takes a moment to note the man's clothes before speaking up. ]
Not quite what you were expecting?
[ Space, kidnapping, the contents of his locker. Take your pick. ]
ahoy! or something.
No, it is not. Have petty vandals and ruffians taken over the ship?
[Ichabod gestures sharply to the paint on the locker door. It's not what has him so flustered, not really. But it's as good as scapegoat as any.]
I sincerely hope that the transgressors are caught and made to scrub every last one of these metal cabinets.
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[ It's said as he steps over to join Ichabod in front of the lockers, gaze following the other's cue towards the red paint. ]
And that'd be security, mate. The transgressors and the point. They've deemed the higher levels of the ship to be unsafe.
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[Ichabod arches his brow at him, and pardon the initial skepticism in his voice.]
Is it still overseen by Miss Tyke? And what dangers have developed on the upper levels of the ship?
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Aye, Miss Tyke is still in charge. And the dangers are the ship— the hallways make about as much bloody sense as Wonderland.
[ But a second later that critical look is turning to one of interest, tone curious. ]
You've been here before?
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and she, too, is gone. elizabeth moves forward, hand poised upon one of the painted lockers. there is much to be sad about of late. but this is not such a thing. her smile is smaller, less vibrant than he might remember. but it's present, which is all that matters. )
Ah, Mister Crane. I greet you well upon your return. ( she hopes that he remembers. if not.. welp. ) Are you well?
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[He surely remembers, even if it surprises and pains him to find that she's still being held prisoner on this wretched ship. But a familiar and friendly face is always welcome, something he's sure she'd agree with.]
I have been better, my lady. More importantly, how have you fared?
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I am sorry to hear it. is there aught I can do to help? ( short of sending him home. )
To be honest, I have fared worse; but I have also been better. Many terribly things have happened since your departure.
But I was able to find happiness amongst it. For a time, at least. What of your period in time? Is the future yet unsettled?
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I fear that these are trying times, both on board the ship and off.
[Understatement. But this is a Purgatory all its own, he needn't add to it. Ichabod swallows hard. His body is here, but his thoughts have been left behind with Katrina, with Abbie.]
How long have I been gone?
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lockers
[Eponine, dressed, notices him almost immediately, bounding over towards him.] I have missed you! You have missed a terrible time here. Though I do not believe I have ever thanked you properly- my brother looks fetching in his skinny jeans.
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[Ichabod's breath catches. To see a familiar face is bittersweet. But he's reminded that for some the ship might actually be the lesser of evils.
Then again, her words make him unsure of that once more.]
I'm glad to hear that someone was able to make use of them. [Slightly muttered before his voice lifts again. Skinny jeans. Crafted by Moloch himself, no doubt.] For how long have I been gone? Do you have any idea?
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[And that's what Ichabod hates most about it; it seemed a riddle with so few clues. But its malevolence shouldn't be doubted. Why else send him home only to bring him back at the worst possible time.
She's looking at him, and for her Ichabod manages a faint, troubled smile.]
Wonderful things? [There's a hint of doubt in his voice, but he looks at her brightly shining face and it makes him wonder] Such as?
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pods
[ Reluctantly, Emma crouches to offer a hand up to the perplexed arrival. His bewilderment can only mean one thing, and she’s not as broken up about it as she had been with Scott or Stiles. She’d hardly known him, but the familiarity remains. ]
Who’s Katrina?
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[He remembers. And he's startled, surprised to see her. Ichabod wipes some of the goop from his face just to be sure that his eyes aren't deceiving him. He takes her hand to help steady himself.]
The ship has continued to hold your prisoner. I am truly sorry for that.
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[He doesn't sound very convincing. But maybe the Tranquility prefers people with less than tranquil lives to begin with.]
I do. And for that much, I am quite grateful. It was all quite overwhelming enough the first time.
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lockers
slamkeep them in thereThe shelving of the roosters goes down as well as one might expect. It's as he's shuffling through the locker area afterward, dazedly picking light feathers from the dark of his jumpsuit, that he hears the word poppycock and stops to turn his head. Between his general malaise, his surprise, and the touch of thousand-yard-stare that both bring, he probably looks like a creepy marionette, turning his head on cue.
A few moments and his expression smoothes out into something more scrutinizing than anything.]
Poppycock.
[As if it were a word he was committing to memory rather than a question, but the question is there in the raised brow.]
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A chicken feather?
He's even more surprised when he turns his head to the man wearing many more of them.]
A common expression where I'm from, one that's spoken when you believe something to be complete rubbish.
[A pause.]
Pardon me, Sir, but are you alright?