[HATCH LOG] IS ANYONE THERE?

[onemind]

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 )

Comments

[polyphonos]

We rarely have cause to.

[Most minds, however small or stubborn, had elements which appealed or might be made to be beneficial to the whole given time, support, and the appropriate structure. There were few exceptions but she's confident that those would either learn to be better on their own or-- well, she is not above gentle encouragement should be it prove necessary.

She drifts from the entrance of the training rooms to his bench, but doesn't move to sit beside her. There is an urge to, a tingling at the base of her neck and in her fingers, but she lets it develop no farther. He will feel it of course, that chemical taste want in her mouth, but she trusts The Prince will appreciate her self control. It's a sign of respect, a well-practiced reservation that holds even in the face that tiny thread where he feels the lingering pain of Kylo Ren's attack. His attention becomes her want for it, her desire an appealing sliver of curiosity in him.]

Agreed. A more respectable number than we expected, really. [She had hoped for just six - anything fresh to wrap her mind around; two full broods and slightly more than half of a third is more than she would've thought to ask for.

Her attention on him gentles then, her hands idle at her sides.] We know you find this process annoying, but we think the work is good for your peace of mind. It gives you somewhere to focus your attentions.

[Otherwise his options were limited to their link and-- not much else. She understands that to be difficult for him.]

[regalled]

[It is the beginning of a well-tread argument, the response on the tip of his tongue, easy to fall into pattern. His own expectations tempered, preferring to wait until they showed what he would consider to be true promise more than the simple novelty she seemed willing to accept as beneficial.

He thinks on it, over the feeling of her sharp and present just beyond the forefront of her mind, the low pitted urge there to be more. It is not some foreign thing, something new or unusual, but he bends to it no more now than he ever has. Ignoring it for unimportant, even as the want rests just there, in clear view.

Her next words give him plenty of distraction, and he lets out a sigh, clear exasperation, gaze sliding off of her and across the broad space of the Wing.]

Please do not speak on my peace of mind. This is a duty I have taken for myself full knowing, and I do not need such a shallow thing as comfort for me to see it done.

[The irritation buzzes low, clear to her for all his expression is largely unchanged. It lasts a moment longer and then, as it so often does, fades, re-directing his attention and standing where she would not sit. After a short, bare moment he raises his hand, high, clear intent, and asks-]

May I?

[His eyes don't need to leave her face for the area of his focus to be clear, the slightest tinge of red above the high collar of her suit.]

[polyphonos]

[Her mouth thins by a spare degree, some measure of his irritation finding her and settling like a film. It is an old argument, though she hasn't yet exhausted every avenue of discussion, every discussion. Today she tempers the urge to do so though: presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and makes a small noise in response to his question, ambivalent. Flippant even, about whatever edge of concern or protective tinge might come filtering through to her from him.]

If you like.

[There's a small emphasis there. You. If he wishes to be inconsiderate about her concessions to his stubborn streak, she isn't above rubbing his nose in it.]

[regalled]

[He was no stranger to that. Although in the many years they'd known each other so much of her had seemed to go, lost in the rest, her becoming like a faded portrait of herself, the sharpness she was capable of never quite disappeared. It was less common, surely, than it had been when they were younger, but it lingered.

He doesn't appreciate it, not exactly, but it fails to rise his ire any further. He could sense the fairness in the response, his own poor temper answered, and it is nearly enough to make him regret the harshness of his own words. He had not considered them carefully enough, even though he believed them to be true.

Still-

He meets her eyes levelly, ignores the odd glint in them, inclines his head the barest amount when he finally does drop them. Concession before he moves his fingers to her neck, carefully pulling the collar away from the soft pale skin there, touching only very lightly as he adjusts to better survey the damage left.]

You should be cautious with him.

[His tone is serious, words low and quiet. A conversation far more important than who was at fault.]

[polyphonos]

[Her own concession is to lift her chin by the degree necessary to accommodate his touch. In truth, there isn't much to examine visually. Even with the close cut of the suit neck eased back from her throat, it's clear that whatever Kylo Ren had used to harm her wasn't entirely physical in nature. If there is swelling or bruising, it's from her own body's reaction to the trauma and not by a hand being wrapped around her throat.

She hasn't looked at it herself, can't see what it does or doesn't look like, but the possibility of such a thing is compelling - sparks an interest in her that must be felt through the cable tangled between herself and The Prince. She excites easily; she knows this.]

We will be fine. He's been managed appropriately; we believe him to be desperate for what can easily be made available to him here. There's a danger to the young hosts, but we think that can be redirected. [She hums, a gentle noise that buzzes against the edges of his fingers. She's unconcerned.] He will do nothing to harm this one.

[regalled]

[It's an impersonal damage, which makes it no less dangerous. An interesting skill, to be sure, and unrelated to the symbiote he now hosted. With his fingers might on the surface he feels the exact extent, and seems satisfied, even as he fails to draw swiftly away.

Her words prompt from him a low noise, unconvinced and obvious in it.]

I would not be so certain. He is mercurial. Unpredictable. There is a chance he will realize what he is desperate for is not what he needs.

[And in that case she has placed herself in danger, as the provider of a thing he may come to detest. She could handle him, regardless of his ability, but if she allowed his teeth to stray too close to her throat without care he could do damage before she could prevent it. She was always too bold, he thought, but he had never been a good pilot and she had been the best. There was a sense there, in no way overwhelming his low anxiety. She was all he had left, what little of her that remained.

He draws his hand back then, taking a half step away from her. Refocused.]

The rest seem less of an immediate risk.

[polyphonos]

[She could make an argument - that she is certain, that she feels it in her bones and in the connection drawn between them that she can keep him... not contained. She wouldn't want that. But maintain the boy at a level where he can be trusted not to harm other hosts. Not lethally, anyway and anything short of that could be managed.

But it's a moot point. She will know what she knows and he will believe what he insists on believing. In this, she trusts there's little to be done to change his mind except to simply continue with what she intends.]

Agreed. [A pause. She studies him - then reaches up, sliding her fingers beneath the collar of her jumpsuit and smoothing it with a gentle jingle of the charms at her wrist.] We dislike Adam Parker.

[A stark assessment.]

[regalled]

[The gentle ringing of her wrist draws his attention for the shortest moment, catching across the glinting there enough that her words surprise the smallest quirk of his lips, a crooked thing quickly smoothed. Something like amused for the tone and for the contrast, the boy who was a man with his hand at her throat she liked. Parker she didn't.

Difficult to blame her, and yet-]

It is a difficult time. His memories are confused, and he is stubborn. Not so different from many others.

[He raises his hand with the words, a small turn of his wrist. It wasn't as if he liked the boy, but there were few he ever did (or would admit to). But there was a necessity of balance, and where she would reject his rejection he could be nothing but a hypocrite if he pretended to find it strange or misguided.]

If he can learn to accept the exchange he may still be useful.

[polyphonos]

[His raised hand earns a flat look, some vague undercurrent of sullenness in the link between them if not her expression.]

He is diseased.

[Why the symbiote even thought to consider him capable, she doesn't know. But if any sense could have been made of the selection process, surely they would've sorted it out by now. Instead there are only mysteries: hosts with weak bodies, poor minds, a collection of flaws. Part of her wonders if the symbiote is degrading somehow - if the rarity of a brood hatch combined with the mixed quality of the hosts themselves is significant somehow. Perhaps the bottom of a barrel is being scraped.

If the thought frightens her, she does her best to forget to be concerned.]

But you're correct. Time will be the judge.

[regalled]

There are worse things for a Host to be than sick. Most illnesses have a cure.

[And as often as his words were practiced, sayings meant to settle an argument, logic set forth as truth, with something like satisfaction for what he believed to be their unassailable correctness, these are not those words. They are instead words of experience, personal and unforgettable. With every new wave of hosts there was a chance of something going badly, of one of them being dangerous in a way that was incurable, of losing what they could not afford to, of saving them only to have them dead days or weeks later. There was no surefire prevention for it, no way he could prevent every tragedy, but they weighed.

And so they are words weighted with a low anxiety, with known failures. Sick was nothing to that.]

But I will watch him.

[It is, at least, a concession. As if he wasn't already planning to.]

[polyphonos]

[She makes a small, marginal sound - a vague hum of something that isn't consideration at all, but the sound of patience running toward a finite end point. Would it not have been kinder to simply terminate him while the broods slept, to finish the matter before it had even begun? If he slipped quickly and cuts needed to be made now, his brood would feel it keenly - find a reason to distrust that which they couldn't presently afford to doubt.

But the speculation is, she'd admit, a moot point. Now there is nothing to be done but practice patience and hope for the best possible outcome, whatever her own feelings on the matter might be.]

Very well. Then he is your responsibility as Kylo Ren is mine.

[regalled]

If that is what you wish.

[Although he did not want the responsibility of Parker on his own, he would accept the exchange as fair- or fair enough. Although he had no intention of leaving Kylo Ren entirely to her hand. Certain responsibilities that he could not shrug out from.]

I take that girl found you.

[He would be speaking of those he didn't like if it were such a simple thing. She was too prideful, too assured of her own correctness. It was exhausting (familiar, perhaps).]

[polyphonos]

She did. [A simple confirmation, dry and featureless.] She is very confident of her own abilities.

[Nothing in the assessment or the pulse of the link between them feels decided on the matter. There's good to be had from a keen mind, as much as too much self assurance could doom a brood. Best to simply let the girl learn whether it was more beneficial to bash her head against a wall or not.]

In any case, we believe the matter of her people to be sufficiently satisfied for the time being. There will be trouble [of course there would be], but nothing unexpected.

[She fixates on him then - actually looks at him with a stripped down directness that feels singular: innumerable attentions pointed here, now, to him. Cathaway smiles. It has a coy edge.]

I hope being called a liar doesn't still bother you.

[regalled]

[He sighs, a thing he has stopped himself from for the entirety of the day. For the time being, but doubtfully forever. She was a leader, and as such she viewed her people's lives as in her hand. She would not be able to let that go so quickly or cleanly, even if there was nothing she could do for them now better than simply keeping away.

They would survive, even without her. When she would be willing to believe that, he didn't know. It had taken him long enough.]

It does not surprise me.

[Cathaway's narrowing attentions are impossible to ignore. She had once been a woman capable of singular focus. Now, capable of more attention than she had been then it could almost be a fearsome thing, if she didn't so often use it for such petty things.]

I am sure it is foremost of your concerns. [The sarcasm shows itself only in a delivery more flat and devoid of emotion than usual. The feeling fails to radiate, however, no anger humming along the cord that stretched between them.] If I were injured every time a new Host refused to believe simple truths I would not still be living. Am I to believe she had nothing but kind words for you?

[polyphonos]

Of course. She was nothing but kindness and patience with us. [A blatant lie and there's no pretending otherwise between them. His sigh delights her, bright like a star.] If only you were more patient and gentle with the young hosts, you'd never have a single disagreement or moment of frustration.

[She pats his cheek for good measure.]

[regalled]

[There was no point in pretending between them that Cathaway isn't lying, and there is no point in pretending that he doesn't flush with embarrassment at the touch of her cool hand against his face, even if it's barely visible. His lips thin, chin tipping to shift out from under her hand with as much dignity as he could muster. Not enough.]

Then perhaps I should leave Parker in your patient and gentle hands.

[And he does sound irritated then, but clearly more for his own reaction- embarrassing to be so affected by simple teasing at his age.]

[polyphonos]

[She reaps out a thin, easy noise so like a laugh it must be one and then drops her hand.]

We hope it doesn't come to that.

[Cavalierly said, as light as the turn of her wrist or the casual slope of her shoulders. It'd be a joke if there wasn't some bitter, brutal undertone lurking in it. Maybe it still is. Either way, she past it without a shred of hesitation and - smiling still - places her hand in such a way between them that it would be easy for him to take if he wished to. A dangling line. A hook.]

In any case, we are unconcerned. She will learn and adapt or she will grind herself down to dust. We have seen it before.

[Her gaze doesn't waver from him, but her attention does - that razor sharp hone gentling as some disparate pieces of her thin away elsewhere.]

[regalled]

[The layered meaning behind her words is clear to him as the warnings he spoke to the Hosts. He understood her attitude towards it, even if he doesn't share it. One of them had to see it as she did, one of them had to be steeled enough for it to be something they could speak easily of, and it was not him. He had taken the responsibility himself before, when there was no other option, and every time weighed on him. He wouldn't wish it not to, but he knew he could not accomplish what she could and still be useful. And still serve the purpose he had set himself to.

So he cannot even bring himself to feel disgusted for it, for her, not anymore. The hand between them a clear and obvious offer. His eyes flick down to it, the gentle sliding ring of the charms at her wrist, and then back up for her words, flush fading from his neck and ears even as the fingers at his side twitched lightly in her direction.

But he doesn't reach out. The hesitation lasts just long enough for him to feel her attention falls away in slivers, re-directed here and there, the loss of her clear and present straightening his spine and stilling his hand. A simple thing to resist with her gone.

Even so, her words were true, he would do what he could to see she followed the gentler path, though there was no guarantee]

Still, I do not like to see it. In any case, there is work to be done. If you will excuse me.

[polyphonos]

[If there is disappointment in his denial, it's so minor as to be inconsequential - there and gone like a breath of air passing through the room. Elsewhere there are other, greater things to be concerned about, bigger things withheld. If the ache of him weren't such of a familiar one, maybe it would be the thing to reel her back.

But it is familiar - as known to her at the lines of her own hand or the labyrinthine corridors of the Station -, so it does not. He excuses himself and she takes it in turn: a simple nod, the greying sheet of her hair rippling, and then Cathaway steps back from him and rolls her shoulders around, as graceful as a banking ship.]

Should you need anything--

[There's no need to finish the sentence. He will know it regardless - that if he should desire her assistance or simply her company, all he need do is ask. If it was his intention to draw back from her, she has beaten him to it; it takes little more than turning from him for her to slip away in thought if not form: the cord of their link between them thinning into the delicate, lonely filament of a spider's web.]

[regalled]

[It had been his intention and it had not, as typically fickle as he was when his wants came to a head with the expectations he had, for himself and for others. It doesn't leave him any more heartsick than he has grown accustomed to.

He blinks at her retreating back, silent for her offer, and then turns away, back to his tasks. The cold comfort of duty.]