station72 | [HATCH LOG] IS ANYONE THERE?

Entry tags:

[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! :) ))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I. HANGAR
[ the first thing anakin did was change.

a necessity. attacked in his sleep, all he had with him were his pajama bottoms, which reek of smoke and sweat. that and his lightsaber, the silver and black hilt clipped to the all-white outfit with which he was provided.

he hates his clothes. hates that he does not know where he is. hates the thing he pulled out of the back of his head. ( his skin was numbed the last time and only time he removed something from inside him. he was bid to look away, but anakin refused to miss a single moment. he watched the device removed from his arm with a vicious sort of satisfaction. ) and he hates the lack of gloves. his right arm has to be left bare. he isn’t ashamed of it — far from it, the prosthetic is stronger, surer, more durable — but the clear lack of skin and muscle invites questions.

which was partly the reason why he vacated the nesting deck so soon. there was no point to asking anyone questions. he had no need of the force to see the confusion heavy as fog. with the piercing headache behind his eyes, plunging into the middle of the upset with everything so heightened — not the force, this is something else…

he found the bridge first or was led to it. there is little difference to one who follows the force. the hangar he found on his own, and here he chooses to remain. some of the ships have a familiar design. many are wholly strange. this, anakin understands. this makes sense. and best of all, it’s quiet.

he knows when someone walks into the hangar because he can sense it — but mostly because he can hear it. he leaps, clearing five feet without difficulty to land atop a ship’s wing. the cockpit refuses to open, but that does not stop him from poking around it anyway. anakin keeps his head down, hoping that whoever it is will stay away and leave him to whatever he’s doing. ]

II. CIRCLE GARDENS
[ the headache has gotten worse.

to counter it, and attempt to get ahead of the rising tide of frustration threatening to overwhelm him, anakin turns to his absolute last resort: meditation. atrocious at it during good days, it is a doomed enterprise today. but with no other options left, he tries.

far as he can get from anyone else, anakin stands on one of the paths in the gardens, hands clasped behind his back, breathing as he was taught, trying to clear his mind as he was taught. he almost succeeds.

anakin! the dragon descends. anakin’s eyes snap open. he does not realize he grabbed his lightsaber until the electronic feedback from his grip around the hilt stabs into his shoulder. ]

III. WILDCARD
[ what it says on the tin. set up your own starter or pm me to set up one for us :'> ]

Edited 2016-03-16 04:11 (UTC)

[Nathaniel had been wandering the clean, boring hallways for a while now. Honestly, he was about to give up on finding anything relevant to his interests, until he turned the corner, and discovered a place that he knew right off the bat would be one of his favorite places in this whole station.]

Oh, nice. [He says, under his breath. It's been a while since he's had the chance to pilot anything, and as he walks among the ships, some familiar, some not, he can't help but feel like a child in a toy store. He wants to try out everything. He reaches out his hand to slide over their exteriors as he moves along, as if just touching them will help him understand each and every one in a way that his eyes can't.]

[He oohs and aahs at a couple of complicated ones that look like they could take ages to learn how to fly, before he decides, finally, to address the elephant in the room. Technically, the person in the room. He stuffs his hands in his jacket, turning his head slightly in the direction where he feels Anakin is hiding. He raises his voice.]

Come out, come out, wherever you are... [A pause.] No, but, uh, seriously, don't worry. I don't bite. I'm just here to check out the ships.

[He grins.] They're pretty cool, huh?

[ hiding? no. standing atop a ship is the opposite of trying to hide. the suggestion that he would be trying to hide — cowardice, in face of the situation at hand, implied — digs under his skin. avoiding, yes. he headed out of the way to avoid the chaos, the need to be patient with questions to which he has no answer, to comfort those who need it and calm those teetering. the act of hiding anakin will leave to the ones who should.

thus the first impression is one of a fool, and anakin has never suffered fools gladly. head down, eyes up, the glare he aims nathaniel's way is pure warning. a bad day would be an understatement for the day he has had, and his tolerance for irritations is nonexistent. no verbal answer greets either call or question.

the other has nothing for him. another of those "hatched" judging from his behavior. anakin dismisses him as he dismisses any other annoyance, refocusing his efforts on the ship under his feet. ]

[He has the urge to roll his eyes. He gives into the urge with little struggle.]

So you're not the talkative type. That's fine! That's fine. [But, unlike Anakin, there very little annoyance from Nathaniel's direction, just a sense of disappointment. Well, some people were harder to talk to than others, he knows that. He's not going to give up so easily. He clicks his tongue as he moves to give a lookover of the next ship, allowing Anakin maybe five minutes of beautiful silence before he breaks it by speaking up again:]

Are you trying to find a way inside of that thing, or is standing on top of spacecraft just a nice hobby of yours?

[He knows it's the former. He's not stupid.]

Neither.

[ head bowed over a panel he had pried open, anakin pays the other man no more mind than he would a fly. a very brightly colored, irritatingly buzzing fly.

the silence would have been golden were it silence. but what the other failed to speak translated into color and emotion. with both the force and this new connection feeding him information, anakin picked up everything about his surroundings in stereo.

the ache behind his eyes has evolved into pulsing pain. ]

I see. Well, whatever you're doing, you have fun with that.

[It's getting a bit worse for Nathaniel on his end, too, mostly because he's not used to the feeling of anger, period. He's a creature who has gotten annoyed, frustrated, but never truly angry, and the feeling that burns through the mental link unsettles him.]

[He frowns, turning away from Anakin towards the ship nearest him - he lets out a short "hup!" as he jumps and pulls himself up on its wing, moving to stand on top of it. The wing is sturdy enough to hold his weight, and he spends just a moment to admire its shape, the sleek lines, before he wanders over to where he thinks the cockpit is.]

[He splays his hands against the cool metal, trying to peer inside the darkened glass.]

I wonder if they'll let me give these a try. [He smirks, knowing he might as well be talking to himself. It's fine. He's used to it. He'll keep talking to ignore the feelings he's getting off the other man.] I used to be a pilot, you know. I need to see if I haven't forgotten anything.

[It has been hours since his brief, turbulent meeting with the creature known as Cathaway, less, for one of his own brood to find him, soothing and nauseating in equal amounts. Much, he knows, now: Snoke will not come for him, nor will he match the vast, unmatched fury the symbiotic Nest carries. It is power, if he can raise himself to grasp it, conquering the weakness that had briefly stained his composure. Han Solo's death had crippled him, he thought - bones too brittle, wounds too great. Now he realizes it was the first step to excising the last of his weakness.

He would continue Supreme Leader Snoke's vision, and he would do it without Snoke.

And in the vast sea of his own dawning realization, Ren finds something else. Something...familiar. Like his own pulsebeat echoed back, like the warmth of his skin projected through a mirror, amplified by the pull he'd felt only once before it beckons. He is many things-- Jedi Killer, Master of the Knights of Ren, apprentice to the Supreme Leader and a grieved, forgotten son-- but he is no dragon.

Bathed in blue light, breathless behind the contours of his own mask no more than a few steps away (it might as well be contact, focused and narrowed and beautiful) Kylo Ren stares down the weapon that slipped clean through his grasp.

It should not be possible...It cannot be, and yet--]

[ anakin opens his eyes not a dragon, but something far more distasteful.

the feedback has been deafening. the headache near crippling. anakin blames both for not having sensed him sooner. so close, the dark side is not cold. the opposite, in fact. the force crackles between them in a strangely familiar signature. like someone he had met. ( would have met once upon a time. )

a call sings between them, in the force he was born into ( from ) and through the connection new and troubling carved open in his head. the urge to come closer is matched by a need to put greater distance between them. action, reaction. both cancel the other. anakin holds his ground. ]

Who are you? [ reaction: this is not a sith he knows. ventress renounced her old allegiances. dooku is dead by his hand. ( in another life, he defeated a sith lord. in another life, he kept his master and his friend safe. in another life, he has — )

action comes quickly. the lightsaber angles upward. the blue light reflects off the chrome, obscuring whatever else the surface would have warped. the black, metal fingers look strangely naked wrapped around the silver hilt without a glove. anakin's blue eyes remain fixed on the black and silver mask. ]

[It's as if Anakin had said nothing at all for how Ren stares too long, ignoring the question entirely: his focus alternates between the blade, the hand that holds it and the man it belongs to-- too young, but clad in robes that are no mystery to the mind of a boy that grew up fed on stories of the old ways and its keepers. As if Skywalker truly knew anything beyond his own, blind impression of the world.

Searching, searching for a trace of something that might--]

That lightsaber, [Not held by a scavenger nor her traitorous vanguard, but a silhouette so brilliant it hardly needs the blade before it; he is too stalled, too disoriented to demand it outright.] where did you acquire it?

[His own rests at his side, inactive. For once in his life, it stays that way.]

[ as if ren's existence alone was not offensive enough. being ignored has never sat well with anakin. too much time was spent being taught to keep quiet. his opinion gone unasked and not cared for. expression hard, anakin meets the blank stare head-on. ]

I made it. [ his voice is steel colored darkly from irritation. the prosthetic is steadier than any real hand would be, the black fingers wrapped around the black handgrips like they belong there. every lightsaber is unique. crafted to a jedi's preferences and needs. anakin's is proof. a solid, heavy hilt designed to stand under an inhumanly strong grip. made for a not-human hand, and his hand alone. ]

You haven't answered. [ a note of warning rings in the air between them. ] I won't ask again.

[Somewhere behind the mask, Kylo Ren flinches imperceptibly. Somewhere behind the mask, he'd already known.

And it prompts a mental shutdown so startlingly clean that Ren feels physically ill: the filter of his helmet is stifling, their shared surroundings spin as his vision swims, and time-- so impossibly boundless as he was always led to believe-- funnels down into the only thing he's ever begged for, too vivid and too beautiful to be true. For a moment, it's silence. His heartbeat in his throat as his hands raise to find the seals of his mask, unlatching them with a mechanized hiss.

Cathaway had shown him how bound they all are here to one another. Their thoughts would merge if he's not careful, striving too hard for a bond he cannot claim--

The mask falls to the ground, clattering heavy over polished, artificial stone. It's followed by Ren only a second later: one knee, and then the other, gloved palms bared and empty at his sides. No matter how he works to suppress his mind, awe and deference bleed from the contours of his face behind the livid, swollen burn gouged across it.] It cannot be--

[Beneath his own breath, so absent and subconscious Ren barely notices anything's slipped past his lips at all. He thinks of ash, of dark, pooling black and sunken, twisted sockets - sacred in their silence. He thinks of Snoke. He thinks-- nothing. Nothing.]

Kylo Ren.

[Swallows thickly, jaw twitching from the effort.] Forgive me. I didn't know.

anakin skywalker ( castor | ota )

hangar

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II: [muffled My Chemical Romance plays distantly in the background]

thanks to you, I had to put on mcr

coycat.jpeg

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III. ILDE OPTION

excellent option

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hangar (they can... exist within each other's general vicinity ??)

steve is already doing better than others

oh no..........

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i. hangar || hello kylo ren's grandad can you please tell him to clam down

he can throw kylo out an airlock. problem solved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

what a great solution

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