[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

[insurrectum]

[ He does not move from where he stand. He keeps his eyes on her, tired. Dark circles under his eyes. Pale, unhealthy. A constant exhaustion beating in a slow, low hum deep inside him. Even if gravel is ground to dust, it is clear this is a rock hard to break. He holds against storms. He holds against the sea. He has to. He always does.

Her answer gets a prickle of annoyance. His shoulders tense. He doesn't-- can't-- Remember. It is a nothingness in his mind. A hole. It is hard to think about it. Like a sharp pain forcing him away. His jaw clenches. He keeps trying to remember but the only thing that comes to mind is the taste of rotten flesh from within. The sick of it. The blurry and clouded mind of an infected. His mind. He has forgotten some things and it leaves him so scared, so afraid. He pushes it down, down, down. Under a mask of anger and a shield of defensiveness. ]

Yeah, I did. [ Spite to his words. He holds her gaze unflinchingly, but inside him there's a struggle to trust. Don't trust. Ask. Don't ask. Like he's losing his footing on his own instinct.

Parker has seldom known to be sensible. ]

Where's the way out?

[polyphonos]

[She raises a hand--

and points directly back the way he came.]

There's only one way for you to reach the bridge.

[Helpful, Cathaway. But there are other matters to turn her minds to; if he doesn't wish to be here, to know the hum of the line which stretches between them, then she won't force him to stay. There's time yet for him to tire himself out. If he's lucky or smart, he'll do it before it becomes necessary to do the job for him.]

[insurrectum]

[ He follows the slow rise of her hand, the way she points behind him. He doesn't turn, because he never enjoyed keeping his back to anyone, especially not one that seems to wrangle around in his mind without his consent. Not in a literal way-- her presence does. He doesn't want this. He wants out.

(And he doesn't want to be infected, doesn't want to die, doesn't want to live, doesn't want to be here. Want, want, want.) ]

Does it have a way out or not?

[ He almost doesn't even blink. He is freaked out. He is afraid. He pushes it all back. Down, to the pit of his stomach, where there is only bile and regret. He makes himself taller.

He does not trust her (wills himself not to, stubborn, stubborn). Why should he? He is in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, with strange thoughts. It is a hand around his throat. ]

[polyphonos]

[Patience. She fixes him with a flat look, neutral from the top of her head through to the easy set of her feet on the bare, polished floor.]

If you mean the Station, of course there is. If you would rather leave and be murdered by the thing that chased you here, you're more than welcome to do so. [A smile, a gentle tip of her head that has the sheet of her hair shifting and the charms at her waist whispering a small note.] But if that's your intention, we'd prefer if you simply did it here. The fuel to get you back would make the loss a double waste.

If you're merely looking for the way back to the nesting deck or your quarters, we would be happy to assist you with that.

[insurrectum]

[ That's the thing, isn't it? The way she carries herself. Like hot air. Light, ascending. Nurturing, warm presence. He doesn't want any of it. He tries not to recoil (tries to while trying not to, a vortex of rejection and acceptance). An unassuing presence, but a constant in the back of your mind.

He wants to scratch it out.

Then, his eyes narrow. His jaw tenses more (it would break if possible, hurting to the point it hurts to be so tight and clenched), as his shoulders set. A prickly thing. ]

Not my quarters. [ He is quick to snap back between gritted teeth. ] Nothing chased me.

[ Not that he remembers. He doesn't remember much. He has been trying to but it feels his head is splitting open every time he does. Like trying to pull something out of the void. A blackness in his mind covering lost memories. It has been erased, along with others. He doesn't want to think about it yet. He's afraid of the notion that he has forgotten something important. ]

[polyphonos]

[The look she flattens on him is open - blank - stiller than it should be to register as entirely comforting, the too-reflective light in her eyes boring back at him like a sharp point. He hasn't asked a question; he's said nothing that deserves explanation, and so for a long moment she is as silent as the dead.

Then:]

Perhaps you should make your way to the training wing and see The Prince there. We suspect he may have more for you than we would.

[insurrectum]

[ Hers is the presence of an undead with a conscience and that leaves a coldness spreading slowly in the pit of his stomach to the front of his chest. But Parker has never been one to recoil in fear. Too much of an idiot to listen to that primal surviving instinct. But neither has he ever been one to want to understand it. He would avoid it by destroying it.

Whenever possible, that is. ]

Perhaps you should just point me the way out instead of walking in circles.

[ It is annoying. ]

[polyphonos]

It's back the way you came. As we said, you are on the bridge. There is only one way to and from here for you.

[That, said short and sharp - there is nothing of value to glean from him as he is now, so better to send him off and let him bash his head against a wall a few times and see if that does anything to improve his mind.]

Beyond that, we cannot help you. If you wish to remove yourself from the Station and go hunt your own death, you will need this one or The Prince's assistance. Today, this one denies that request. Now leave us and go elsewhere if you have nothing left to say or ask.

[insurrectum]

[ There is nothing but a ball of anger inside him, growing and growing, like a yarn ball getting tangled with strings of frustration and hate and fear and confusion - and loss. He doesn't belong him, even if his mind seems to want him to be at ease. This is not his thought. This is not his sentiment.

This is not what he desires. He wants home. Where it's dangerous but familiar. Where is fear is better hidden. Where is secret is better kept. Where his hope is as realistic as it is farfetched. He forces himself to push everything that feels comfortable away. Not from here.

His fingers tighten angrily around the strap of his backpack. ]

Oh, I do not need anyone's assistance. I'll find my way out.

[ Even if it means bringing this whole goddamn station down. ]

[polyphonos]

[She levels him with a look: impassive, still, fractionally predatory. All the warmth in her slips away and for a moment she is as a stone - cold, dispassionate, waiting.]

Go then, Adam Parker. Find your way.

[She nods to the doorway. You're excused, child.]