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Entry tags:
- *hatch log,
- adam parker [original],
- ahsoka tano [star wars],
- anakin skywalker [star wars],
- anduin wrynn [world of warcraft],
- angel [borderlands],
- aoba seragaki [dramatical murder],
- ares [vagrant soldier ares],
- cathaway,
- hux [star wars],
- ilde vilmaine [original],
- illyria [angel],
- kylo ren [star wars],
- lexa [the 100],
- michelle benjamin [kings],
- nathaniel horn [original],
- rosemarie strauss [original],
- steve rogers [mcu],
- the prince
[HATCH LOG] IS ANYONE THERE?
CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :150
SUMMARY: Today is the day you wake up.
WARNINGS: None; will edit if necessary.
A MOMENT AGO it seemed like you willingly took the hand of someone beckoning to safety.
NOW YOU WAKE UP in one of many chambers of Station 72’s nesting deck. If you had wounds, they’re (mostly) gone; if you had doubts they are - for the split second between dreaming and waking - gently reassured. This is correct. This is right. You’re safe here. The only question is what here is exactly.
The compartment you find yourself in is small, though gently padded for comfort with enough elbow and head -room to not be wholly claustrophobic. Still, it’s difficult to re-orient yourself; the best way to get to the chamber’s built in ladder and down to the smooth, polished white floor of the nesting is to simply roll over onto your belly and go out feet first.
First thing’s first though: get rid of that tube running from the rear wall of the chamber to the base of your skull. The moment you’ve done that, there’s the sensation like a rubber band popping - a string in your hand being jerked. The headache that punches in falls like the heavy end of a hammer - not serious, but surprisingly abrupt - as a of combination confusion, resolve, anxiety, certainty, delight, and fear and expectation finds you. In fades after a moment, churning to a low dull pressure and a faint hum. It’s feels like standing outside the door of a small party, sounds muffled and incomprehensible. Some pieces rise and swell above the others then fall again. Strain your ears and realize you’re hearing nothing at all.
On the plus side, you’re not hooked into the compartment anymore. Slide out and onto the ladder, though not too fast or you’ll miss the small cubicle built into the wall near the mouth of the chamber. In the cubicle are all the things you brought with you, every small piece you own of the home you left behind. There’s a neatly folded pair of something like white pajamas there as well. They’re definitely in your size, though you have the option not to wear them since you’re still in the clothes you left home in. Granted, for some of you that might not exactly be a blessing. Your clothes haven’t exactly been laundered or repaired, so best hope you didn’t bleed or sweat on them too much during your escape.
Sliding free from the chamber pod and stepping out onto the ladder, you’ll find yourself in an open space. The room is broad and pale and clean, its sloping walls featuring dozens and dozens of holes like the one you just wiggled out of. There are more ladders and a few other people climbing down, or stareing, or already down on the nesting deck’s floor but the sixteen - seventeen, including yourself - people present would hardly fill even a sixth of the room’s available accommodations.
The noise is louder when you near any of the others. It’s as if you've entered the party yourself. Identifiable now is the low wash of feelings, a hum of emotions that only serves to make the slight headache worsen. They feel genuine. They feel like they could belong to you. Still, that pressure in your head doesn't worry you --Shouldn't it worry you? Does worrying - about the headache, about the world and people you left behind, or the strange place you’re in now, the odd collection of people you’re with and the fact that you feel strangely drawn to five or six of them - make the headache better? Or worse?
If you manage to push the sound aside and listen with your true ears, you'd notice you can't hear anything besides this small group of fellow hosts: their footsteps, their oddly sharp breathing. There’s no sound of traffic, no wind in the trees, no birds, no hum of a ship. Only circulating air and silence.
You may not know what a brood is, but finding yours is easy. There are minds among these strangers that call to yours, their voices louder than the rest, their feelings sharper. The nearer to you they are, the more comfortable you feel. Is that strange? You don't know them, but you do. There are few answers to be found on the nesting deck.
Eventually you will have no choice but to head out of the room. There’s only one way out that you can see: up through a spiraling hallway that arches overhead. When it opens again the space seems slightly less alien. There are doorways of a kind lining the walls and each one opens to a small, nearly normal room. There are no doors, so it's easy to see all the rooms are vacant. In seventeen of them there are items neatly stacked on the bed. Most are hygiene supplies. Some of them - a toothbrush, comb, razor - may be familiar to you. Others less so. There's a flat horizontal ledge beside the bed with a small light and a single drawer. Another table, apparently built into the wall, sits across the room with a chair. A mirror is on the desk; it’s slightly mundane and not quite to the Station’s style.
This room is yours for the moment. It doesn't mean someone won't want to trade - or take. Beyond this life support deck stretches the rest of Station 72. It is quiet and and twisting and perfectly inert.
At its most familiar, the Station is merely a still, empty ship with broad chambers and gently mottled light. At its worst, it’s an Escher painting of strange angles and bizarre platforms that seems grown as much as built. There are many ways to many places and while it seems all doors and passages open to you, there’s an unshakeable feeling that the space doesn’t quite match up - that there’s even more to the Station which you can’t yet see. Don’t get lost!
For now, you reach the floor of the nesting deck. When you do, something blooms in your mind. A voice, disturbingly lacking any identifying traits but warm and comfortable like sweetened milk, says:
( ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬...There you are...▬▬▬..Welcome to Station 72 ▬▬. )
If you follow the thread of that voice, you’ll eventually find your way either to Cathaway on the bridge or The Prince in the training wing.
((OOC Notes: Welcome to Station 72! Feel free to check out the SETTINGS page for more information about the Station. If you have any questions about the setting itself, feel free to ask them there; otherwise, please direct all questions to either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.
Prince’s top level should be live in the evening! Keep an eye out for it if you want him to give your character the introduction spiel instead of Cathaway.
Happy hatchday, everyone! :) ))
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :150
SUMMARY: Today is the day you wake up.
WARNINGS: None; will edit if necessary.
A MOMENT AGO it seemed like you willingly took the hand of someone beckoning to safety.
NOW YOU WAKE UP in one of many chambers of Station 72’s nesting deck. If you had wounds, they’re (mostly) gone; if you had doubts they are - for the split second between dreaming and waking - gently reassured. This is correct. This is right. You’re safe here. The only question is what here is exactly.
The compartment you find yourself in is small, though gently padded for comfort with enough elbow and head -room to not be wholly claustrophobic. Still, it’s difficult to re-orient yourself; the best way to get to the chamber’s built in ladder and down to the smooth, polished white floor of the nesting is to simply roll over onto your belly and go out feet first.
First thing’s first though: get rid of that tube running from the rear wall of the chamber to the base of your skull. The moment you’ve done that, there’s the sensation like a rubber band popping - a string in your hand being jerked. The headache that punches in falls like the heavy end of a hammer - not serious, but surprisingly abrupt - as a of combination confusion, resolve, anxiety, certainty, delight, and fear and expectation finds you. In fades after a moment, churning to a low dull pressure and a faint hum. It’s feels like standing outside the door of a small party, sounds muffled and incomprehensible. Some pieces rise and swell above the others then fall again. Strain your ears and realize you’re hearing nothing at all.
On the plus side, you’re not hooked into the compartment anymore. Slide out and onto the ladder, though not too fast or you’ll miss the small cubicle built into the wall near the mouth of the chamber. In the cubicle are all the things you brought with you, every small piece you own of the home you left behind. There’s a neatly folded pair of something like white pajamas there as well. They’re definitely in your size, though you have the option not to wear them since you’re still in the clothes you left home in. Granted, for some of you that might not exactly be a blessing. Your clothes haven’t exactly been laundered or repaired, so best hope you didn’t bleed or sweat on them too much during your escape.
Sliding free from the chamber pod and stepping out onto the ladder, you’ll find yourself in an open space. The room is broad and pale and clean, its sloping walls featuring dozens and dozens of holes like the one you just wiggled out of. There are more ladders and a few other people climbing down, or stareing, or already down on the nesting deck’s floor but the sixteen - seventeen, including yourself - people present would hardly fill even a sixth of the room’s available accommodations.
The noise is louder when you near any of the others. It’s as if you've entered the party yourself. Identifiable now is the low wash of feelings, a hum of emotions that only serves to make the slight headache worsen. They feel genuine. They feel like they could belong to you. Still, that pressure in your head doesn't worry you --Shouldn't it worry you? Does worrying - about the headache, about the world and people you left behind, or the strange place you’re in now, the odd collection of people you’re with and the fact that you feel strangely drawn to five or six of them - make the headache better? Or worse?
If you manage to push the sound aside and listen with your true ears, you'd notice you can't hear anything besides this small group of fellow hosts: their footsteps, their oddly sharp breathing. There’s no sound of traffic, no wind in the trees, no birds, no hum of a ship. Only circulating air and silence.
You may not know what a brood is, but finding yours is easy. There are minds among these strangers that call to yours, their voices louder than the rest, their feelings sharper. The nearer to you they are, the more comfortable you feel. Is that strange? You don't know them, but you do. There are few answers to be found on the nesting deck.
Eventually you will have no choice but to head out of the room. There’s only one way out that you can see: up through a spiraling hallway that arches overhead. When it opens again the space seems slightly less alien. There are doorways of a kind lining the walls and each one opens to a small, nearly normal room. There are no doors, so it's easy to see all the rooms are vacant. In seventeen of them there are items neatly stacked on the bed. Most are hygiene supplies. Some of them - a toothbrush, comb, razor - may be familiar to you. Others less so. There's a flat horizontal ledge beside the bed with a small light and a single drawer. Another table, apparently built into the wall, sits across the room with a chair. A mirror is on the desk; it’s slightly mundane and not quite to the Station’s style.
This room is yours for the moment. It doesn't mean someone won't want to trade - or take. Beyond this life support deck stretches the rest of Station 72. It is quiet and and twisting and perfectly inert.
At its most familiar, the Station is merely a still, empty ship with broad chambers and gently mottled light. At its worst, it’s an Escher painting of strange angles and bizarre platforms that seems grown as much as built. There are many ways to many places and while it seems all doors and passages open to you, there’s an unshakeable feeling that the space doesn’t quite match up - that there’s even more to the Station which you can’t yet see. Don’t get lost!
For now, you reach the floor of the nesting deck. When you do, something blooms in your mind. A voice, disturbingly lacking any identifying traits but warm and comfortable like sweetened milk, says:
If you follow the thread of that voice, you’ll eventually find your way either to Cathaway on the bridge or The Prince in the training wing.
((OOC Notes: Welcome to Station 72! Feel free to check out the SETTINGS page for more information about the Station. If you have any questions about the setting itself, feel free to ask them there; otherwise, please direct all questions to either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.
Happy hatchday, everyone! :) ))
no subject
There's a distinct sense of confusion; curiosity's still there, he's still trying to work it out, but she's not really making it as easy as he'd like.]
You don't look like you're the same. [Matter of fact, just a statement and not an accusation; he leans forward a bit, chin resting on top of his arm.] If it's just a secret or something, that's fine! I'm not gonna say anything about it.
[He lets that sit for just a second before adding:] And I do too have a helmet, it just wasn't on me when I left. No spear though.
no subject
But she's out of that life now, and she didn't have to be what Jack made her. ]
Sorry, I don't mean to be so vague, I've just never been allowed to talk about it. [ She presses her back into the wall and looks at him squarely, honestly. Be straight with him, she has the choice to do that now. ] What I meant to say is that I am just as fallible as anyone else, there's definitely nothing divine about me like they are in stories. What people usually call us is 'siren'. My parents were human, they didn't do anything special to have me. Just that when one siren dies, another one is born, and I guess... that's what fate decided for me when I came into the world.
[ There's bitterness in her words, it's a fathomless thing, twisting around her words, her fingers as they curl sharply into the material of her clothes. She didn't ask for this, she didn't ask to be born a siren. No more than she asked to have Jack as a father. ]
no subject
He's felt it before, with lessons he didn't want to listen to proving to be right after all, proving that he really couldn't be anything different-- but he accepted a long time ago that his path wasn't something he had a say in. It's just something that is. There's a hint of a memory there in the front of his mind, an older man's voice: there are two types of people in this world- those who are blessed, and those who are not.
Which one she is, Ares couldn't really say. Even people who were blessed could be unhappy with their lives, right? (But there's still a flicker of something bitter under the surface, an echo of hers and maybe harder to pick up on. It could always be worse, people who don't get that they have it better don't think about what they're complaining about.)
It leaves him silent for a few moments before he finally responds.]
It's like that for everyone though, you know? [Another shrug, a small smile slipping back into place.] So there's no point to being upset over it! I bet a lot of people would want to do... whatever you did earlier, so just quit being vague about it.
no subject
But at least there's no pretending what he's picking up from her, feeling it echoed back, different maybe, but she sorts it as something residual. No point getting upset, how as he to know? No more than she could how what she says might relate to him. ( though there's that bending feeling, that says if she opens her mind, she could know so many things about him. There wouldn't be this stiltedness. ) ]
Sorry. You're right, they do. [ Leaves that hang, eyes down again. ] It's a little more complicated than that. [ Vague, again, not for secret keeping this time, but she gives the feeling she doesn't want to talk about it. Because there's that second, where she breaths in the sound of purple. That she swallows to force herself to taste only the filtered clean air of the space station here. Here, not the control core. ] They had very interesting lives. The other sirens, I mean. They're all famous, not just for being... gifted. They lead armies, destroy monsters, and are considered some of the best fighters and mercenaries in the galaxy.
no subject
There are far worse topics she could've picked to change the subject, and that definitely catches his interest; he shifts to sit up a bit more instead of slouching forward, head cocked slightly.]
So the weird powers are something you can fight with, too?... Do you?
[She doesn't strike him as the type, but if being a siren means she could be that skilled... look, there's no way he can't ask. (He almost looks too interested, really. Maybe not even 'almost'.) ]
no subject
[ She might just start calling him vault hunter anyway, regardless of where he came from, give how much attention he paid her for just that little bit. ] I've never fought anyone though. Again, we're all very different, so what I can do, they can't. Other things, I can't do at all. Lilith -- she's... they call her the Firehawk? She's very gifted with fire as you probably guess. She.... liquefied a guy once? Just... melted him she burned so hot, I guess you could say.
[ With someone else, she might temper it. Pandora is violent, unforgiving, and from the few others she had spoken too, they hadn't been used to that kind of existence, that bred such casual discussion. But his eagerness is fed to easily. She hadn't ever fought, but she was as much made by Pandora as they were. ]
no subject
[His eye widens a bit, and it's hard to say whether he's awed by the thought of it or a little fearful. A mix of both, maybe; to him, something like that just confirms the fact that these 'sirens' are something completely different. Having a specific example of that power makes it even more clear-- it shouldn't be possible for anyone to melt people, no matter what.
If he hadn't seen her a few minutes ago, he'd be totally writing it off, and he's still not sure he believes it completely. (How much of an army could you destroy with the ability to just burn them up, though?)]
Bet they run everything where you're from, huh? If they're really that strong.
no subject
Not like you'rethinking. [ that she knows his thought is - odd, still, or at least, knows the impression of. ] There's only six of us. There can only ever be six of us. Another one isn't born until one of us dies. And people live on hundreds of planets, across half a dozen galaxies. No one can really run all that.
[ She shrugs, the universe is so big, she knows that out there were another two more sirens beyond what she had already met. Plus one born to replace Steele after she'd become a shish kebab courtesy of the destroyer.
She hoped the one that replaced her would be happy. Let her body burn, she never used it anyway. Not like the others had. Let the next one get to truly live, for whatever that was worth.
Turns her thoughts sharply from it, she has no interest in dwelling on her own death now she truly got to live. Blinks quickly to dismiss it and then continues a similar vein without stopping to consider it too much. ] I never got to develop my abilities for that kind of combat though. But I can do something else, do you want to see?
no subject
Whatever she has to shove aside, he quietly ignores-- he's not going to pry in anyone's head or invite anything too serious-- and turns his attention towards her question. It's hard to miss the initial fascination or the wariness that creeps in right on its heels, and while Ares leans forward a little, there's the distinct sense that he's fully prepared to move back.]
Yeah, sure. What else can you do?
no subject
[ This is about showing him something different, because she so truly wanted to make others happy, to be wanted because of it. But there's also the test of her own abilities in a safe way. A fairly mild use, to what she's used to. Suspects without the eridium, she couldn't do what she used to anyway. Didn't particularly lament that loss, anyway.
Crosses her legs under her, straightens her shoulders. Takes a deep breath, and faintly, the marks change, as she closes her eyes. They begin to glow white, showing a map up under the clothes that weren't thick enough to smother the light where it builds. Down from her chest, across the skin of her stomach, tops of her thighs, down to fingertips and toes. Once she has it built, she opens her eyes, and they're spilling out with the same light, burning, burning burning. ]
Just a second.
[ Almost, almost unaffected, but the calm of her body is at odds with the feelings that roll of her. That burning is euphoric, to her, the world is not solid, it is not real, it's shifting, churning. Here, it is water, here it is the seasons ever in transient, here, one strange other realm bleeds into another, and here, she feels truly alive. The faint taste of purple as there's a crackle that is building under her skin, a real sense of power she so willing shares. She is this, siren, and in the words of another woman they should all be running. Betrayed more in the curl of her mouth when she looks back at him, that any other reaction. She has wrangled this a long time down to manageable. ]
Do you like forests?
[ Because the corridor they're sitting on them, is now lined with grass. Above them, is the ceiling is a sky. What he leaned against is now a tree, huge and hanging heavy and low with leaves that protect from a morning sun. It's just one more lie in a life full of them, but these, she hopes are forgiveable one. It's not real, and the details are wrong. She doesn't know what grass feels like, or how sun warms the skin, so she can't give the details of how they feel to him. But she had taken hours to perfect the way leaves mottled it, how the branches would sway in a breeze that's lightly cooling. ]
no subject
It has him wary even before her marks start lighting up, and when she opens her eyes-- god, that's unsettling. He presses himself back against the wall, tense, and the sense of something like adrenaline that creeps in doesn't help. Whatever she's doing, he's more on edge the longer he watches.
Then it's finished, and everything is suddenly different. His eye widens as it flicks between the sky and the grass and he's on his feet in a flash, glancing quickly over his shoulder, pressing the palm of his hand to the tree-- but she's right. It doesn't feel real.]
What the hell-?
[He has no idea what to think of this. It's a stranger display than he'd ever think to expect, and even knowing he must still be in the same place doesn't put him at ease.]
Did you mess with my head?
no subject
Sort of. Think of it like... wallpaper? Everything is still there, I just made you think it looks like something else.
[ She's still glowing, the marks gone completely white as she shifted, but she could feel the mistake of it already. Without the Eridium, this was hard to hold, keep steady and little by little, it began to fade away again. Peeling away just like old paint even as he looked at it. Wore on her too, her breathing picking up, prickle of exhaustion on her skin. Quite obviously straining with the pressure of keeping it up. ]
no subject
-don't.
[It comes out strained, fingers curling in and nails biting into his palms. This connection between all of them is enough to deal with on its own, but someone messing with his head, his thoughts? Making him think things look different? That's on a different level.
There's a feeling bleeding through their connection that's too raw to really be thought, an instinctive sort of fear blended with adrenaline that borders on anger-- the fight half of the 'fight-or-flight' response, though he's managing not to act on it. The fact that she can't fight and the strange link that makes him drawn to her both hold him back, but it's very much there.]
no subject
Maybe a good thing that she couldn't hold it too much longer it felt like. The world drops, sharp and quickly. No more grass, no more sky, just him standing there alarmed, ready to fight things that weren't real, and her sitting there, the same as before, like none of it ever was. She herself turning away from that violence he seems so ready to perpetrate, never had it directed towards her. ]
I'm sorry. I didn't think it would... [ scare him like that. make him react like that. People were harder, when she wasn't a satellite away. ]
no subject
[Don't put things in his head that aren't supposed to be there, don't make him see things that aren't actually in front of him-- there's the briefest flicker of an image that slips across their connection, there and suppressed again so fast that all that's visible are indistinct bodies reaching out with desperate hands. An image that he can't say for sure wasn't real.
Ares' eye fixes on the wall for a good few moments, as if making sure it stays the way it's supposed to be, and even when he's satisfied that it's normal again he can't relax. The practiced ease is hard to pull back into place, after that.]
Stay out of my head.
[Muttered without looking at her, his voice low. It's not quite a threat despite the tone, despite how he wants it to be, and with that out of the way-- he's getting the fuck out of here before anything else can happen.]