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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
[ Harsh coming from Aoba, but he always speaks his mind, sometimes too a little quickly. Not that this man would know (or maybe he does with their symbiotes humming between them), but he assumes that's warning enough. Besides, he wants to forget about that guy and never work with him look at him or cross paths or thoughts ever again.
Mentally pushing that aside and meeting someone new is probably just what he needs to turn this first day around. ]
Anyway, I'm Aoba.
[ It's not purely his custom, but he extends a hand. ]
I work in computer repair. Well... worked, I guess.
no subject
General Hux. [ This hand shaking thing isn't something he does often, but he takes Aoba's gesture and meets it. Being polite and something approaching diplomatic will be the way to go here, at least until he gets more established. Or gains more knowledge. Or, you know, if someone decides to piss him off in the way that Aoba's been irritated. He momentarily thinks of Ren before he lets the young man's hand go, greeting sufficient. ]
I command a battle-class space station. [ The most basic way he can describe this. ] What sort of technology did you work on?
[ It's a useful skill. ]
no subject
A general? A battle-class space station? To someone who has never been off the tiny Japanese island he was
engineeredborn on, that sounds extremely Western. Definitely out of his known world, but almost Americanbecause fuck yeah moon landing, armed forces, guns, guns, guns, etc. ]I- uh, just personal computers and allmates. Which are just another kind of personal computer I guess...
[ He shrugs and raises a hand to rub the back of his neck, a feeble attempt at masking the nerves suddenly rising in his throat. It's all he could do to keep from stuttering that reply. His job is really not that impressive. The name of the shop he worked for literally translates to Mediocrity, and he's going to do his damned best to not accidentally share that detail over the network. Were all the new hosts supposed to be this accomplished? Please someone tell him no.
At least his foul mood is swiftly forgotten and replaced with curiosity. More space stations exist than this one? Meant for battle? That's exciting. ]
Is your station as big as this one? Are there more people on it?
no subject
Allmates?
[ He's never heard of such a thing and cannot begin to fathom where he starts to explain those. A glimpse at Aoba's mind gives him nothing except a strange feeling of sheepishness. Of awkwardness. ]
I'm not sure, I don't have the full scope of this place as of yet. [ It's possible the Finalizer might be larger though. ] More people? Possibly. As of last count, we had 74,000 aboard, not counting droids. Though the number occasionally shifts.
no subject
[ Aoba can hardly contain his shock at the number. Yeah Japan is over crowded, but little Midorijima wasn't nearly so bad as the mainland. To have that many people aboard a single battle station... and to be in charge of it all! ]
That's like everyone on my entire island! How do they all fit?!
[ He's forgotten about explaining allmates, his head buzzing with bunches of questions. It has to be huge, so how would such a vessel launch into space? Is it like an island, just floating along? And what kind of person is he, to be in charge of such a massive armed force? What was he fighting before coming here? Will everyone on his ship be alright without him?
Aoba feels small and completely inadequate by comparison. Is this really the kind of person all the new hosts are supposed to be? Maybe there's been a mistake, bringing him here. Even if the symbiote wasn't giving all his surprise away, it's too late to hide it. That doesn't stop him from trying anyway, smiling a nervous smile. ]
S-sorry, that's just... that's very impressive. I've never met someone so impressive.
no subject
It's a very large ship. They were first designed by the Empire, which perfected the use of space.
[ All in all, the First Order hadn't done as much heavy lifting on the engineering side of things. Some small adjustments, sizing it correctly and all. ]
Please, I'm not very. The sole reason I'm able to do what I do is thanks to those in my service.
[ He had climbed the ranks virtually on his own, but it's the men and women on the Finalizer that makes it work. That keeps them in space, steadily setting their course. Hux feels a well of pride for them at the same time he misses them sharply. ]
Now, what are these allmates?
[ Back to his original question. ]
no subject
[ Aoba's still in lalaspacelandia, trying hard to imagine what such a massive vessel must look like, (probably like something out of an anime, or a video game, or some expensive western movie). Good thing Hux is there to bring him back. Or maybe not, because it's just making him feel inadequate again, especially when he responds so humbly about such a high rank. ]
Ah, right, allmates... they're personal computers, and companions too. They come in all kinds of models, but the most popular ones are pets like small dogs and birds. They can send and receive messages, run searches, monitor health, and pretty much do anything a regular personal computer can do.
[ So basically droids, but with fur and feathers. Most of the orders for parts Aoba helped fill and repairs he did at Mediocrity were for allmates, but he doesn't really want to bring it up unless he has to. It's would probably be super boring for someone like Hux. ]
no subject
[ That's about all the explanation he'll go into for now. Trying to detail the entire history of the Empire and the subsequent rise of the First Order is not really necessary in a first meeting. However, he senses the curiosity from Aoba as the young man tries to imagine what everything looks like. Helpfully, he thinks of the Finalizer, the outside of it as he remembers seeing it hang low in the atmosphere of Arkanis. His mind flips through the hallways, the command deck, the flight hangars– all with ease. He knows that ship from end to end. ]
Ah, we have something like that; they are called droids. Even outdated models can run quite well for a long period of time. [ And because he can feel Aoba's discomfort, he takes a tack he uses for his troopers. ]
They are not easy to maintain. Nor, I imagine, are your sort.
no subject
[ He's not just wowing about the images in Hux's mind, grand as the Finalizer is in her massive and pristine glory, but at the ease through which the images are shared in his mind. These are not his memories, but they come in clear and detailed enough to be. Aoba can practically smell the purified air, (similar to the air of Station 72, but there's an attention to detail in Hux's memory that makes it distinct). It's hard to keep focused when the images fade and they settle back to casual conversation. ]
Heh, yeah I guess so. Some people get attached to old models and would rather keep repairing them than update. I'm no different with mine.
[ His turn to share an image. A puffy little dark blue dog with big dark eyes and a pink tongue. It's an image mixed with great affection and a lingering anxiety. He could pull Ren out of his bag now, but that seems... inappropriate considering the allmate's current condition. ]
I keep him in good shape but he's... he's not really working right now. I think coming here did something to him. I'm going to fix him though, just as soon as I can access another computer to run some diagnostics. I'm better with hardware than software, but...
[ But he has to do it. There's a sense of urgency there. He has to fix Ren. ]
no subject
Regardless of whether or not he's done it very often, the details of the Finalizer hang in his mind so clearly that he'd be hard pressed to forget anything.
(It's only been in his thoughts every day since he was assigned to its command). ]
People are attached to what is familiar to them. [ Himself included. Habits are habits, even when they include belongings. Granted, if it's technology, he's more apt to continue to keep up with it– this is how they gained the edge over the Republic, after all.
Hux glances away as Aoba shares the image, feeling a bit strange for staring when he doesn't need to. There's an underlying nervousness even amidst the affection. It's pretty surprising, as well; Aoba had said they resemble animals but it looked near exact. ]
There will likely be someone you can ask about the use of a computer. [ Perhaps they had the correct technology to assist him? Still too soon to tell. ] If you've been fixing these allmates for a while, I doubt it will take you long to make the correct adjustments here.
no subject
Heh, yeah, hopefully. The technology here is a lot more advanced than what I'm used to back home. At least, it looks that way. But I'll learn how to use it, I'll work hard and do whatever it takes.
[ Anything for Ren. ]
Anyway, I'll let you keep looking around. Watch out for that one mean guy- he wears a lot of black.
[ And I heard he has an eight pack. ]