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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! :) ))
ii
[Ahsoka had been seeking peace since she had finished speaking to Cathaway. Hux's odd tranquility had lead her to him, and she can feel something buzzing to life within her the closer she gets to him. It had been the same when she had approached the woman she had come to call Lexa.
But the idea that any of what they felt was natural -- its a little much for Ahsoka to accept. After all, her people were bound to the earth like no other and while she could admit that there was much of the Station that felt...alive and organic, its not in a way she would describe as comforting.
Still, she steps up to his side, glancing upward at Hux's uniformed self. The markings his attire carries aren't symbols she is familiar with, but his stiff spine and hard brow-line instantly reminds her of the Galactic Republic officers. She doesn't bother concealing the thought -- even if she held some contempt for the political affairs that had nearly had her killed.]
You can maintain uniformity without removing individuality.
[Spoken like a true child of the Clone Wars, of course.]
no subject
Bringing order to an otherwise chaotic existence is no easy task. [ And therefore, deserved respect. Moreover, he'd grown up in his father's house. In Imperial turned First Order academies. On ships and Star Destroyers and all the clean lines that accompanied them. Sterility is what he knows and it's a great comfort. ]
You think they're setting out to rid us of ourselves? Perhaps they're merely providing a foundation.
[ He doesn't see anything wrong with this scenario. Well, aside from being how many lightyears away from his galaxy. And maybe the weird emotions crawling around in his head.
Though, he does sense her discomfort– the Galactic Republic? They are no more. Not entirely. The old empire fell long ago and something else has taken its place. ]
no subject
You mean...living?
[Her tone is that of a bratty teenager, all that is missing is the 'duh' at the end. But her expression shifts a little in suspicion and confusion when he trips across her thought about the Republic, and she receives his in return. Its impossible for her to parse exactly what he's thinking, and even worse to think that she's interpreting it the way she is.
The Republic? No more? Impossible. Absolutely impossible, not with the Jedi around, so entrenched in their politics as they were.]
What, and you don't? You can't tell me you haven't felt--all of this. Its a hivemind.
no subject
(Even so, she isn't wrong– chaos creeps in at the edges). ]
I feel unnatural. [ Like he's suddenly been connected to the mysterious Force that Ren talks about often. Hux doesn't hide this from her, already having suspicions.
Speaking of, he can feel her confusion. Maybe it's time to address that. ]
The Galactic Republic became the Galactic Empire, which fell approximately thirty years ago.
no subject
[And the words are barely out of her mouth before he tries to impart truth on her. Ahsoka can't help it -- she looks at him with wide blue eyes and abruptly scoffs as her expression shifts. He must be insane. It's written all over her face.
She takes a few seconds to try and absorb what he said, like if she thinks about it that it will make more sense -- but it never does. Palpatine was far too entrenched to give power over to an Empire, and the Separatists were still matching them blow for blow. The Jedi would never allow such a thing to happen, even if she was still furious with them.
Right?]
Right. Okay. Sure.
[She shakes her head and immediately changes the subject to avoid going into full laughter. She might have tried to order him around for kicks, if she still had her Jedi military title. But the memory still stings too much.]
So you're -- [She squints at his rank bar and does her best not to think of Tarkin when she does. Her eyes widen just slightly.] -- General, huh? Fancy. Kind of young, aren't you?
[It's said with a light smile and a raise of one eyebrow. Many people had said the same thing about her. It was an off handed attempt to be friendly.]
no subject
His frown deepens at the corners of his mouth when she brushes past the topic. As if it didn't matter or that she thought it was too crazy. How unfortunate that he's telling the truth. Then again, she seems to be from the past. Fine then, he'll let it pass. ]
General Hux, of the First Order. [ Risen from the ashes of the Empire, but she doesn't need to really know that. ] Age has no bearing on skill or drive.
[ He clawed his way up the ranks and he isn't going to let go. ] You knew Grand Moff Tarkin?
[ Probably not the best topic, but he's merely curious. Has done so much studying of his leadership and tactics and anything on record from the man. ]
no subject
[What an awful title precedes the deep frown that takes over her expression. Something nasty is on the tip of her tongue, but the thought never completes itself. She exhales calmly through her nose and closes her eyes in an attempt to find something more polite to say.
First, she must correct him:]
Admiral Tarkin, yes. I know him. Our time together was...brief. He tends to remain closer to Coruscant, since--
[She pauses again to wonder why she's even bothering to answer his questions -- like he's asking about the past. It doesn't make any sense, though the "First Order" hardly rings any bells. Her curiosity starts to edge to the surface, but her better judgment has her lifting her hands and taking a step back from him.
He's obviously trying to confuse her. He can't actually be from the future. That's crazy. Almost as crazy as the Republic falling. It makes her headache unbearable from the struggle of trying to wrap her head around the ideas he had presented her with.]
You--you're talking in past tense. Stop doing that. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but there is enough going on here that doesn't make sense without you adding to it.
no subject
[ He senses she's going to say something mean-spirited and is relieved when no such retort happens. Seems like she has more control over herself than Kylo Ren, which is hilarious. ]
He was Admiral a long time ago. [ That rank had been surpassed years ago. But then, she still thinks of the Galactic Republic as standing. Not even the Galactic Empire, when Palpatine had fully broken away and gone his own route. When Vader and the Empire was at its height.
Hux's expression is creased only some as he looks at her, less with confusion and more like sympathy. ]
I'm simply telling you what my reality is. [ Honest. ] Grand Moff Tarkin died when the Death Star was destroyed. With it, the Galactic Empire crumbled– Emperor Palpatine included.
That is– well, it seems to be in a future you have not experienced yet.
[ That's the only explanation, even if it has him frowning. This place, these people; they have the power to do this? To pull beings from different timelines? ]
no subject
[The indignation in her voice is only amplified by the way her voice cracks in horror, eyes wide in disbelief. Betrayal ripples off of her in waves. How could the Council have allowed Palpatine to abolish democracy? It went against everything they ever stood for, it couldn't be fathomed---
And worse, it meant all of her creeping horrific feelings to be true. The Jedi had become military pawns of the Chancellor. She supposes there must be some solstice in the fact that his reign is cut short but--]
No. No, that can't be right. The Jedi would never allow that--
[She's angry, she's hurt, she doesn't know where to direct it and so she starts pacing, her thoughts overloaded and making both of their headaches worse. She can tell he isn't lying -- which is what makes all of this so hard to accept. Something has to be wrong. She can't have lived a lie her whole life.
Should she cry? Should she yell? The urge to hit something overwhelms both desires.]
That--can't be the future. S-something must have changed.
no subject
Indignation turns into horror and subconsciously, there's reminders that those feelings are not his. Not at all. He doesn't feel the same way about Tarkin or Palpatine. ]
The Jedi order was not left with much choice. [ This part is tricky to convey– after all, she's already taking this very hard. Why is he hesitating? Truth is truth. This is all history to him. ]
There was an event; it's still a tactic that is reviewed and spoken about in academies.
[ Order 66. Infamous in every corner of the galaxy, whether one was affiliated with the New Republic or the Empire turned First Order. ]
no subject
Its the antithesis of everything she stood for. And there's nothing she can do about it.]
Stop.
[Its half a plea, half a refusal. Her voice breaks, she sounds like she's just seconds away from crying. Its too much information, too soon and too raw after finding herself staring down the guillotine just a few hours ago.
And before Hux can respond, she's swinging at a wall with all of her might, enough that the hull echoes and vibrates with the dent that is left behind. Were every other emotion not so powerfully raging within her, her surprise at her strength might have had more of a calming effect.
Instead, pain shoots up her arm, and she's forced to still. Forced to breathe (breathe heavily through her pain, to prevent the almost seductive urge to keep hitting), even though half of her is screaming to stop. Her skin is certain to have split, there is already blood dripping down the metal steadily.]
no subject
Taking a deep breath, he tries to dispel some of the emotion. To collect himself and stand up straighter.
Her confusion and anger flows over him and it makes it difficult. He can feel it eating away at his control, something that makes his stomach churn. Hux will not lose himself here, not like Kylo Ren does on a regular basis. This is below him. Swallowing, he turns his thoughts away from the past. From the history books and the many hours spent studying them. Instead, he thinks of the pristine deck of the Finalizer. Quiet, serene. Looking out onto blackness and stars. ]
Here. You should have that looked at.
no subject
Robotically, she leans back and pulls her fist from the wall with a groan from the metal. Her knuckles, while in tact, were skinned deeply from the force of the blow. Seeing the blood brings her back to reality.]
I--will be fine. Its just a scratch.
[And then she turns from him, intent on leaving and getting as far away from him as possible. She can't accept his reality. It can't be true, the truth of it burns away at the fringes of her sanity, and he's too much like Tarkin and how she hates that man--
No. She needs to go.]
no subject
Her knuckles look raw but not serious. And then she's turning away, every thought focused on what he's told her. How much she sees Tarkin instead, or maybe alongside. How much she needs to be far away. Hux says nothing, quietly regarding her and then stepping away. If she wanted distance, he wasn't going to begrudge her– after all, he could use the same. ]