ataraxionlogs | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ that is always important when wanting to avoid mauling by older brother's direwolf. the sister of whom retains a wary edge as she sizes up erik with narrowed golden eyes.

arya's features smooths into an unamused stare. though she did not plan on keeping the clubs, his attitude has her almost snapping that he could say please before taking one. his comment, however, as well as some little bit of sympathy she cannot quash entirely distracts her from it. ]

Is that a game?

[ no stranger to bloodsports that is what she assumes these clubs are for. it would explain their strange builds. the masters will not give the fighters real weapons; they want fights long and brutal. she eyes the rest, a flicker of disgust crossing her face.

remarkably perhaps when her eyes return to erik there is no disgust then. arya scoops up the damp towel from the floor and balls it up. she tosses it lightly at him so he can catch it. ]

You should clean it.

[ The look Erik exchanges with Nymeria is just as narrow, respect maintained in distance.

He’s swift enough to focus back upon Arya -- attitude intact to offset hers. The business-end of the club falls away from his fingers when he opens them, metal shaft dropped and caught into a more traditional hold at the grip. ]

Supposedly, [ he tells her.

In the next beat, her towel flumps open over his shoulder and he reaches with his free hand to catch it there, late to react. There’s a feline prickle about the way he looks dead at her when he flips the club 180 degrees, too quick and too certain. For all that it’s not a weapon specifically designed to break skulls, in that baton snap of end over end, it’s easy to imagine it doing the job just fine.

Anyway.

He puts towel to club and starts cleaning, oozing all the while. ]

[ the continued oozing earn a short grimace from arya. not only does it look disgusting, it can't be pleasant to feel. she shares a quick glance with nymeria. biting her bottom lip, she takes a small step toward erik. ]

You should — that too. [ she motions lamely toward his — gills? that's what they look like except that makes her wonder if he shouldn't be in one of the pools right now. ] If you can't reach well, I can help.

[ The towel takes on a sickly orange cast as Erik works it along cool metal and into the grooved face, polishing as though he’s had practice. A scrape of his thumbnail is followed up with a close breath, warm air bled white over stainless steel.

Then he polishes that away too, and it’s good as new, or thereabouts, when he finally looks up to tell her (in casual aside): ]

It’s poison.

[ poison. though the warning makes her appropriately wary of letting it touch her skin, arya does not appear fazed by it. plenty of nights she went to sleep with burnt lips and unable to eat from the poisons she had to try. ]

All the more reason for you not to keep oozing everywhere. There are gloves in the medbay.

I thought you were an engineer.

[ There’s no lilt or lift where a question mark might go, flat affect punctuated instead by him shunting the club down to her (or at her, as the case may be).

The towel follows in the same fashion.

He looks to the wolf when he does it, just in case. ]

It’s not really poisonous. How old are you?

[ the wolf jerks forward and closer to arya. her disquiet would be enough to infect arya with it did she not already find him odd. arya takes back her things and lets them drop back onto the pile. as much as she'd love to tell him fuck off, she doesn't know the extent of what he can do ( or the extent of his patience ) and she isn't stupid enough test him. instead, she falls back on the manner of an annoying little girl. ]

Where I'm from, you ask how many years you have left. [ the truth, technically. braavos was the last place she saw before awakening to glass and blue. ] I've got many of those. What of you?

thirty-fifth jump;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject