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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
the urge to trace a matching injury across his chest is tempting. what stays is hand is kylo ren's lack of a weapon. he won't kill an unarmed man, not even a sith. ( in his ears, the screech of two lightsabers pulled together. before him, a child falls, burned through the back. ) ]
no subject
[Because even from the moment that he plunged his blade through Han Solo's heart, the light did not leave him. If it did, he'd have felt nothing in the wake of his father's grip, soft and slipping and gone in a single breath; if it did, he'd feel nothing now, each time the echo of it threatens to surface. In truth, he was not empowered by the completion of his task, only by the revelation left behind.
Snoke would have been proud.
But there is light in him. Just as there is darkness in Anakin himself - threatening too easily to boil over.] I speak the truth.
[How long must it have taken Vader to understand what the galaxy required, he wonders.] The light alone is toothless. As fragile as those that are slaves to it, incapable of true action.
Surely you must have sensed it by now.
no subject
agreement is the furthest thing from his mind. infuriated by a stranger who would dare moralize at him — at him! — as if the dark side were anything but weakness. incensed by an ignorant suggestion that cuts too close for him to perceive correctly as not referring to him, at all.
the steadiness of his grip is false, granted by the artificiality of his limb. anakin's nails are dug deeply around his rapidly shredding control. ]
I'll say this once, [ he pronounces quietly, the words stiff as they're forced through clenched teeth, ] stay away from me.
no subject
[Brimming with stubborn pride, a testament to the heat in his veins that climbs with every passing second in spite of the fact that he is, at his core, attempting to persuade the man before him rather than antagonize. (It should have been simple. It should have been obvious— easy— to bring Darth Vader to his side, and yet— )
His fingertips cinch tight against his gloved palms, audibly straining in protest. There's an urge, distant and drumming with the beat of his own heart, to reach for the metal of his own saber.]
We're not done yet, you and I.
no subject
[ not the peace-seeking ways of the jedi, preferring dialogue to violence, negotiation to fights, has anakin turn his back. nor does any sense of naïveté lead him to extinguish his blade as he begins to walk away.
the latter is purely arrogance: the self-certainty that he cannot, will not be defeated. the former: ruled by the knowledge that if he stays a fight is all but certain and he is yet not so far gone as to execute a man for insulting him. ]
no subject
How many times had his own blood turned their backs on him? How many times must he suffer the indignity of abandonment when it was his birthright.
This is a joke. A lie. A falsehood masquerading as the man he'd admired, and in that split-second decision brought on by nothing more than pain, Ren hates him. Ren hates him. Spit flecks his lower lip as he hisses in time with the spark of his saber, drawn and dragged loose from his own hip, brought down with a merciless fury towards the span of Anakin's spine. This is not Darth Vader.
This is not his grandfather.]
no subject
red crashes against blue. purple flashes to white with a hideous screech. anakin uses ren's own strength to direct his lunge away from him. a flick of his wrist, the blue saber spins out from below in a vicious slash.
alone. not to speak to his wife. not to meet his child. trapped. the force so quiet. obi-wan would urge caution. jedi do not seek battle. obi-wan isn't here. fury sings in his veins. it gives him strength; it sets him wonderfully, deliriously free. as he acts upon the current strike anakin sees and responds to the next as naturally as breathing.
( ren is not to blame for his dilemma. ren did not chase him out of his home. but ren is the only one here. and it is easy, so easy… ) ]
no subject
He feels none of it.
The air is left open between them for a moment as his block remains untouched, and Anakin's swing prevails, but Ren spurs himself forward like something driven and wild: eager to recalibrate to the amount of tenacity required to so much as meet his opponent's skill. It's been fifteen years. Fifteen years since he last turned the blade with someone capable of throwing him with trained efficiency. Beneath the hatred, it's an exhilarating high.
Ren draws on the unpredictability of his saber to disrupt even the Force's insight, throwing his arm forward and letting both gravity and the violent weight of discharged heat direct the arc of his strikes—— a flurry of blows, forward, forward——
Will it.]
no subject
smooth as water, anakin passes from offense to defense and attacks again. a block becomes a strike. a lunge twists to stop the red blade. the force is his ally, no matter how faint. experience, his shadow. hours ago he bested the greatest fencer the jedi had known, and done so with ease. anakin's lip curls.
another electric screech. a burst of purple-white light. the blue lightsaber arcs away. behind him, anakin passes the blade to his other hand. his empty hand curls. his elbow smashes into the red injury. ]
no subject
If it's any consolation he can't immediately realize (it isn't), at least Anakin will have the joy of suffering the same, immediate pain.]
no subject
Lay down your weapon. [ his own rises. ] It's over.
no subject
He doesn't bother to glance over his shoulder at Skywalker, stare fixed petulantly on the empty space before him as he lifts his saber at his side and drops it without ceremony or care.]
no subject
if he hurts ren, he hurts himself. thinks of cal; thinks of shimmering blood swallowing the setts. almost clever, pairing a jedi and sith. but the sith are defined by their treachery and anakin…anakin will live with his decision.
he'll live. ]
Consider this mercy, [ spoken as the insult it is. he has not an ounce of compassion for those who follow the dark. ] More than your kind deserves. You won't be as lucky a second time.