![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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
Angel was very clearly too pure to harbor the Dark side. It must be something else.]
Are you familiar with the Force?
no subject
No, I've never heard of it. [ Wonders, if that's what she feels in return, feels echoed back. ]
no subject
[At least, it was complicated to explain to someone who had not already seen it in action. Ahsoka isn't up to providing a demonstration with how lightheaded she still feels, so an attempt at a verbal explanation will have to do.]
It's...energy. Life and death. It flows through everything in the universe and binds it together. I feel...that it is strong in you. Or something like it is.
[And judging by the way the other girl is smiling, it's a very good thing to feel.]
no subject
She knows, but issue is -- when you are one of six, and die to be reborn, issue is when your father is mad and made her lie even when she wanted to ask the others how it had been for them. ]
I don't know what it is. I've been this way my whole life, and I've never... been able to talk to anyone that knows.
[ Suddenly, she grips her hand around Ahsoka's tightly, yes, consumed, or maybe consumptive, sick in her heart with fear for what she is, but pressed with a need to understand it, because it had defined her, marked her, with the marks that even as she thinks about it, change, glow like whatever it is can't be kept within skin. ] I just knew it was always connected, some how. [ But that could as easily be put down to a need to try to make meaning out of so much suffering -- at least until Tannis's mad ramblings confirmed something she realised she always knew.
But it's too much, so much, too quickly, and her loneliness makes it feels fitfully overwhelming. Tries to even her breath, loosen her hold somewhat. Keep that perfectly maintained calm where she keeps herself in check. It's hard to do without the collar, and her eyes turn back to it, hitching softly. she doesn't want to wear it ever again but - she looks back. ] But you're not a siren, are you?
no subject
It was too easy to get engrossed in one's compassion. Too easy to fall prey to pure emotion, even if it made her feel warm and wanted so soon after being thrown to the wolves by the people she once called family.
She might not have been a child anymore, but there's no curbing it entirely. Ahsoka's other hand rests over Angel's and she finds herself halting in her attempts to leave the area. There is a hesitation -- like she doesn't want to tell her no, wrestles with emotion she doesn't understand the root of.
But she has to tell her something -- even if it might hurt her.]
N-no. I'm not. I'm sorry. We...call it something else, in my part of the Galaxy.
[Idly, Ahsoka pets over her hand, because -- its a small indulgence, even if she wants to do more for her. But the logical piece of her, small in volume and voice, understands that Angel is essentially a stranger. Impressing more comforting gestures should be reserved for--family. Family she doesn't have anymore.
Ahsoka understands that lonliness now, and she wishes more than anything that she didn't.]
Every living being has potential to feel the Force. But some of us are sensitive to it, and we are able to channel it through us into physical form.
[Very strong is what she feels, but doesn't say. A kindred smile finds its way to her face. A bit of sarcasm might lighten the mood.]
You're special. That's what the Jedi told me that when I was young. "Special" doesn't quite cover it.
no subject
The humour doesn't quite make it all way up to her eyes when she looks at Ahsoka, though she tries to smile. ] No it really doesn't, does it? [ Feels the comfort that she's offering up, that warmth of her hand that in return Angel grips tightly. Holds her like she's not real, the lace of gentle fingers around Ahsoka's. ]
And it's not trick? [ Wait, that sounds -- bad. Like she's doubting it, and she is, but not that the Force exists, just that people can be kind for the sake of it. ] Sorry I don't mean that you're lying to me. I take it that there are a lot of other... Jedi women? [ it's only ever women, to her knowledge, Ahsoka wasn't disproving that. ] And they're not trying to hurt you? Bind you to use you against others? Hunt you down?
[ It wasn't just her and Jack, and his hundred different abuses of her and her abilities. It was the way Maya's first words when meeting people was that she'd destroy them if they tried to capture her. It was the way Lilith had to lie and hide half her life. People were as greedy about something like that as they were quick to destroy what terrified them. Being a siren never saved them, it just dictated the course their life would taken before they ever got to make a choice about it.
She's not looking at the collar, but it's sitting there, heavy on the table beside her, in her mind. Trap, is what comes off her, no freedom, just entrapment. ]
no subject
Bind her to be used against others? She balks at the idea. But their worlds were very clearly different from one another, so she tries to gather her thoughts and explain properly.]
Anyone can possess Force sensitivity -- not just women. There's an entire Order, filled with hundreds of races of many different ages. Usually, those with enough sensitivity are sent to the Jedi Temples when they are still toddlers to be raised and trained in their ways -- like I was. They were a force of good, peacekeepers in the universe...dedicated to protecting those who could not protect themselves.
At least...that was the idea.
[Her eyes are drawn to the collar and she frowns, something ugly sliding down her spine. It reminds her uncomfortably of the shock collars the Zygerrians had used on Anakin, Obi-Wan and herself to keep them in check. How Obi-Wan and the rest of the togruta had looked when they were pulled from the mines. Slavery.
Righteous anger fills her heart and her head jerks back toward Angel.]
They put that on you because of your power?
no subject
The best they could hope for was Maya, given to people interested in training and control. But even then, they only wanted to use her for their own gains. She doesn't look, just brings her fingers up to her throat, feeling the shiver that comes from touching bare skin she hadn't been able to get at it. Later, when she's allowed to be alone, she'll scratch at it until it's raw, scrape it with red lines like getting at some kind of itch she couldn't for a long time. Hers, is what she'll mean by it. This body, this skin, these things are hers. ]
It allowed me to be controlled and to stop me lashing out. My abilities were very volatile when I was young, it seemed safer. [ To begin with, it had been a relief to the raw energy of her power fluctuations, and with the trust of a child, she accepted Jack putting it on her. To keep them safe, to not kill anyone by mistake again. Doesn't bother to explain about the injector ports in her spine or the plates in her head, it's not a discussion she realises she wants to have, she just wants to move on. It's done, it's finally done and she'd been promised that she would never have to go back.
Rather, like ever, she's curious, to know of these differences. She considers it, what it sounds like is a more genuine version of the monks of Athenas, just they weren't using a siren to extort and keep a people enslaved by fear. ] It's only women, and there is only six of us. One of us is born when one of us dies. There's no real understanding of it, it just happens at random. But it becomes obvious quickly, we start manifesting these young -- [ She leans back, catching the white material of her shirt under her thumb to slide up the line of her stomach. Exposing where the markings curl around the frame of hips and ribs. ] -- and they grow as we get older, come into our powers. Makes us easy to recognise, right?
[ Shakes her head a little like it's all some great oversight. It's there, Maya and Steele and Lilith, powerful and terrifying, but that was the problem. The force of will to bend elements to them, they are glowing and brilliant and their skin is fire and acid and light. Touch them, touch them and you'll burn as payment for it. ] We scare people, and no one explains it to us, we just have to... work it out, and that means people can and do get hurt. People are either terrified of us, worship us, or see in us an opportunity to harness a lot of power. Sirens are hunted down, sought for capture, or like I was, kept. Not always, though. A lot of them still find a place in the world, anyway. [ Tries to say something pleasant, a happy end to this morbid tale, a need to make up for that much misery. ]
no subject
That's...
[She struggles to find words for it -- for the myriad of emotions she feels for Angel. None of the words she knows are appropriate for someone of her discipline. She breathes around a few of them, lets her eyes drop as she concentrates and finally settles on the most prominent:]
...sad.
[What if there were only six of the Jedi? Six women? What if, instead of celebrating one's strength with the Force, it was condemned and feared? Her thoughts round back to what the First Order general had tried to imply and feels sickness well upward in her stomach.
She's forced to shove it down, stubbornly. Ahsoka's exhale is a determined, protective one. Even if Angel claims great power, she was clearly outnumbered and believed herself to have no power at all.
It was always her job to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. She reaches up to the collar, searching it with what power she can muster for any kind of mechanism she can use to force it to open.]
Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore. Not here.
no subject
Then she reaches up to catch her hand, fingers curling around her wrist, not forcefully. Just keeping her from going further. ] Don't.
[ Her fingers are soft, no callouses, no little roughened sides. ] Not yet. I need to know what they've done to us first...
[ It's curiosity, but her thumb brushes across her skin, before she tells herself it's not the time to go poking and prodding at some else like the starved thing she is. ] I just met you, I wouldn't want to melt you by mistake. [ It's a poor attempt at joke, the Pandoran way, laugh at what's horrifying, make light of the worst of it, it's just too much otherwise. ]
no subject
The brush of her thumb doesn't even get a second glance. By now, Ahsoka somewhat understands the life Angel has had to live -- one of isolation, and of fear. Curiosity like that is natural.
The humor of her morbid joke isn't totally lost, but Ahsoka doesn't laugh. She looks lightly amused, and perhaps slightly exhausted.]
You wouldn't. Togruta have a high boiling point.
[Not necessarily true -- but if she's going to try and joke about it, she may as well play along. At least for the moment.]
no subject
Togruta. [ Slips across the obvious of what she means, rather she says to roll the word around carefully in her mouth, in her mind. Like she's filing it away meticulously, recall it later when she needs to. ] Guess that'll have to wait until I find a good piece of elemental tech.
[ Because she's assuming, a place with the technology she's seen so far, will have the same level of ridiculousness that she's used to. ]