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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.
----------------
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.
no subject
An eyebrow arcs over her glasses, and she could almost laugh at that. Furthermore, it's been some time since anyone called her Madame President.] And last I recall, you played a key role in ensuring the destruction of my people. Tell me, do really consider yourself unlucky now?
[Airlock. Right now. Someone point her in the right direction.]
no subject
But she still observes. She isn't the best conversationalist at the moment, but teeth are on display -- slotting together jagged, too many of them seen. There isn't much for the other Cylon to read in her face beyond pending threat. She had meant it when she said that no one's going to die.
They aren't listening to her. So she is silent, at least for this moment. Her attention remains on Roslin, a sudden cynicism taut in her brow. ]
no subject
[ They missed a plucky few.
There’s a ball-bearing swivel to the way Doral turns his full attention (or the illusion of it) over from Six to Roslin. The motion is too smooth to seem human -- too crisp.
Carefully, he adjusts the fit of his fingers around his knife, tilting the grip harder to his palm.
It’s a better hold for stabbing. ]
Do you?
no subject
It's eerie to recognize the robotic movements in the way her current companions moved, but it's there. Robots. Cylons.]
You've wound up here, Mr. Doral. I hardly believe that counts as luck. You, however, have managed to avoid a rather nasty illness that was sweeping amongst our numbers. No one was spared it's side-effects.
no subject
Silent, she steps forward. Five will feel her oppressive presence like a ghost, pressing near without touching. Hands and their claws rest on his shoulders, slide down enough to rest light on his upper arms, the bony tips making only feather-light indentations in the fabric of his sleeves. ]
SORRY FOR THE DELAY
Six can feel, rather than see, the biological intricacy involved in folding the knife closed without projecting any movement to the fore. Tendon plucks along the back of his hand without shifting at his sleeve; the drop of stainless steel into his pocket doesn’t make a sound. ]
The Tranquility is unkind, [ he says, reasonably, without inflection. ] Torture was never a part of our agenda.
I’m sorry for your suffering.
no subject
No. That was all torture.
Her jaw tightens, just slightly, as she bites down on her tongue.]
I'm sure you are.
no subject
Except it is Doral she is holding still.
Well, not exactly holding. Her grip is simply a touch, as breakable as clinging vines. ]
This isn't the time,
[ she tells them both. Mild. Factual. ]