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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
She's taller than him by a good couple of inches. Not that she needs height to catch his attention, between the touch and something else - even when he lowers his gaze to wipe his arm on the side of his shirt, he finds his eyes wanting to slide back to hers, nothing to do with how she's got the face of an actress straight out of the pictures. It's the same feeling as before - drawing him like a magnet, and he would've resisted again if not for the fact that she looks like she's been crying. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyebrows knitting together at what he's seeing on her face. His voice is rough. ]
Are you - alright, miss? [ Ignoring that he's the one that was just hunched over and the fact that he's got a little less than half a clue about where this place is. ]
no subject
No. [ There is a subtle tone of indignation in her voice. Why would you ask that. ] No, I am not well, nor you.
[ Her voice quavers where she would have liked it to be assertive, but it is hard to assert anything when your sense of yourself reels in your own mind. ]
no subject
I'm fine. [ Automatic response, absent rather than curt. He's well enough to move, so he can make it the truth. There's a sheen on sweat still over his skin. He stops himself from rubbing it aware with the back of his arm. ] I don't think we oughta stick around here.
[ This room. Whether the space is actually making things worse or the size of it just makes him feel exposed, he's not sure. Or, maybe, whatever's drawing him to her is making it worse. ]
no subject
When they die... The certainty of their deaths is not something she can hide, her anticipation for them to be ripped away and when she imagines that feeling within the context of this horrible new weaving... More tears drip from her eyes. ]
We are born anew to this. [ Not a modern woman, a girl of superstitions and magic and dogma. ] There is no walking away now.
no subject
He shakes his head. ]
Walk away from what? [ a beat, frown deepening ] Did something come after you too?
no subject
Walk away from what has changed. It will now be inside of us wherever we go, and those creatures will know us now by its pulsing.
[ Her clawed grip tightens and she raises her other hand to her head, as if that can somehow ward off the headache caused by her mind overflowing with the thoughts of the Hive. ]
no subject
Hey - it's gonna be alright. [ He keeps his voice low and calm, but his own distress is climbing with hers, and echo chamber connecting them. Hollows out his words. Keeping his thoughts straight is difficult, the throbbing in his head giving no indication that it intends to let up. ] You just... need to calm down.
[ Mid-sentence he remembers that the last thing you should say to someone to help them calm down is calm down. ]
no subject
I cannot.
[ She says so with frustration. Overwhelmed and awash with thought and feeling, like a dam overburdened and her long years of careful repression crumble under the pressure. A numb heart and mind now burn raw. ]
no subject
He shakes his head, sucking in a breath of sterile air and swallowing back bile. Steve's got no idea how to shut any of this out. He forces his focus on the cold floor beneath his feet, the feel of it against his skin. ]
no subject
Sweat stands out on her skin, and she feels sick to her stomach but she hasn't the energy left to bring anything up, nor to continue crying. ]
It cannot always be like this.
[ A whisper. They would grow used to this pressure, this noise? Somehow? ]
no subject
Don't think it's meant to be.
[ But even if it is, there's always a way to endure. Somehow.
He closes his eyes tight enough to see stars, then opens them again, letting his gaze fall on her. ] What's your name?
[ He thinks he knows it already, sitting on the tip of his tongue. All he'd have to do is reach - but he shies away from it. ]
no subject
Ilde. My name is Ilde Vilmaine.
[ The surname is practically meaningless, a tradition from a time when family's thrived, something she recites out of habit not of any real connection to it. Her parents had named her it, she remembered it, even long after they died and all others forgot. ]
no subject
[ He rubs away the sweat on his brow against his knee, pausing before he continues: ] Someone picked me up from Jersey.
[ There's something like wry, self-deprecating humor in the way he says that, faint as it is in his voice. His arms pull around his legs, chin resting on his knees. ]
no subject
[ That's all she can really parse from what the consensus presents to her. ]
no subject
I'm from Brooklyn - New York. U - S - of A. [ A beat, then: ] Earth. [ He eyes her questioningly. ] Where you from?
no subject
I come from the Godking's land.
[ She does not need to describe it aloud, its desolation is clear in her thoughts, a wasteland with a great shadow thrown over, a man's shadow, cast by a fire blazing hotter than the sun. ]
no subject
A silence follows, the question of what is he? kept from passing Steve's lips. What he can't help is how it slips to the forefront of his thoughts, bubbling without answer.
Instead, another question leaves his mouth - ]
You want to go back there? [ Disbelief in his voice, his mouth clamping down as soon as he hears his own words. ]
no subject
No. That world is done.
[ What other choice was there? Dreus would not have allowed those alien things to take his world from him, he assuredly incinerated the last of it, taking everything with him to be consumed in flame. ]
no subject
You're sure.
[ More statement than question, but it's hard for him to comprehend that amount of destruction. ]
no subject
Yes. To be consumed in flame... is his destiny.
[ Even if he had not immolated to stem the tide of the aliens, he will one day. It is fate. ]
no subject
He's not sure he believes in destiny either, his mind balking at the word. ]
Can you stand? [ Pulls himself out of the daze of her thoughts to ask. There's got to be somewhere else for them to go. ]
no subject
I... will be fine.
[ He didn't ask, and she didn't want him to, so she cut that off at the quick. ]