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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
So she just blinks, feels the wash over of his rage, and has nothing -- said it and maybe it's still true. Him and his righteousness in that single moment, is trying to adjust when she'd been looking into the dark too long. It hurts almost, wants to rub her eyes. People don't care like that, of course they don't, but he -- did.
Maybe she shouldn't see what he has to say. Fumble around back somewhere dark that doesn't hurt so much. ] Alright. [ quiet, small. unsure, terribly so. ]
no subject
The buildings are tall, cars on the street putter by every so often while folks bundled up in winter clothes form long lines. The world is large, noisy, and bright with marquee lights - and screams that melt into laughter. The whirring of machinery and tinny, mechanical music fills up the air with the sense of anticipation and excitement. You smell garbage that's been out for a few days too long. You smell the ocean. Someone shoves you into the ground and you taste blood on your tongue with a CRACK - and a crowd erupts into cheers, you're on your feet with them, hollering for the men running around on the field, running to catch that clacks noisily along the rails. Becomes the clacking of shoes against the dance floor over the band playing on the stage, the smell of smoke and alcohol -
Even as he tries to stick to better memories the images that spill from his mind are poorly curated, flickering from one to the other in the same way Angel's had reached him. Projection might be made easier with touch (it had been when Ilde grabbed his shoulder) but Steve isn't naturally a tactile person to begin with.
It all stops abruptly, and he looks at her again with a frown. He wanted to show her something less chaotic. The laws in his world weren't always fair or just, people suffered - but there had been more than just surviving. ]
I guess - [ a beat ] - there's gonna be a lot different of worlds to see out there. [ More than he could ever have realized when those memories were made. Places that are probably more exciting than all the rides on Coney Island, more terrifying than the prison world that destroyed all those people. ]
no subject
But this is something, yes, yes she watches others, and she can make up intricate worlds. But she feels nothing real from this and to that emptiness -- this is exhilarating, feeling it as he feels. The wash over of elation, of being her on feet with a crowd, feels the reaction in herself, that little hitch of her breath where she has to stop herself from doing something along with the memory ( cheering with the masses, like they did at the slaughter pits, only she can feel the bang, bang, bang, the blink against bright lights, and that shivering cold that only brings people closer ).
Then it's over and she's blinking it out of her eyes, her mind. Forcing herself to even breath and a flat-footed stance, and she's in practise for that too -- coming back down to earth. Aching for the things she never had, too as well. But that's not for now because right now she wants to tell him that's beautiful -- a flood of craving that bubbles up raw. Was it possible to live in another's memory? It might not be the worst existence if they were like that. ]
I'm ready to see them. [ Says the craving at least, and she doesn't understand what it is to miss, to want certainly, but never to miss. ] Do you want to go back? To where you came from? [ To the bright lights and comfort of others. She understands a little better now - this is far more foreign to her, and there is something to his memories that she has seen only in old records. ]
no subject
I don't know. [ He seems momentarily confused by his own answer. His jaw sets tight and he shakes his head, this time with unshakable certainty. ] Not if it means putting people in danger again.
[ What does it matter if he misses home then? There's no going back - not until he's sure.
(and, maybe not ever)
His expression softens a bit, mouth twisting to one side. ] There anyone you'll miss?
[ Even in an awful place like that. Not everyone was crazy. ]
no subject
But her answer isn't confused, she might miss the vault hunters, but what was there to really miss? She had lied to them, tricked them, she hoped she had made it up to them.
Granted, killing herself so determinedly as she was about to - without even looking back is probably the beginning and end of the answer, anyway. To miss would be to regret, and she refuses to do that. ] No. [ Shakes her head briefly, a definitive action. She wasn't going to miss Jack's pawn, she wasn't going to live in servitude to someone like that again. She wasn't going to be helpless to her own suffering or the suffering of others, again. ] I know some people would, even coming from Pandora. But I won't.
[ Softens then, because she has something to give on that end anyway, she might not miss, but in case he did -- ] We might not be able to go back, but if you really miss it one day, come find me okay? I might be able to... help.
[ She's never been able to use her powers except to hurt, but they also had been the only thing that kept her sane, that she could build worlds with her mind. For a little while, with these memories flowing back and forth, she could give him that, in return for what he's giving her. ]
no subject
He'll miss the people, few as they are. He'll miss them more than any place he's ever had to call home. ]
Help how? [ Eyebrows knit together. ]
no subject
I don't think I can do it right now -- my control isn't so great at the moment. [ she laughs apologetically, ducking her head -- when it's more than that, this blossoming headache that is her own awareness being dragged apart. It's a lie and it isn't, she thinks she could, it's not exactly the most demanding that way, but she worries, after Ares especially, she worries. A lifetime of Jack whispering it to her, they'll hate her, they'll fear her. ] But I have an ability, I'll show it when I can. It'll be a surprise?
no subject
Alright. [ A small half-smile is offered again. Deal made. A beat, and he nods at the ball. ] Wanna keep practicing?