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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 stays where she is -- up high, she has the advantage if he tries anything particularly stupid. He already reminds her too much of Ventress -- trying to gain trust where there was none to be had.
Something about the word 'prisoner' makes her throat feel thick, and the ugly itch in the base of her spine grows stronger. Its forced down quickly, and she keeps her hands ready in case she finds herself in need to defend herself.
He feels far away, farther away than many of the other minds she had brushed against. Thank the stars for that.]
What kind of prison allows its prisoners to wander the decks freely?
no subject
[Agreeing to their terms as the walls split at strained seams hardly equates to shackles or chains, but there is much they have yet to know and discover - much more that could be hidden, waiting for complacency to set in. Cathaway had felt like nothing he'd ever known beneath the surface; an ocean contained in a single, half-forgotten bottle. He would be a fool to forget that.
Still, there is more to his grim promise than simple fear: she is the first he has found here like him-- more importantly, she knows of the dark side of the Force. Coaxing her down, or even into tolerating his presence, will take more than just shared circumstance.
And the enemy of her perceived enemy could easily be her friend.
So he reaches up, gloved fingers splayed broad across the inhuman features of his helmet, tugging it loose to meet her stare with a face that (despite the ragged, swollen wound currently marring it) is far from monstrous. Sentient and clear - fine features, bright eyes. ]
I can help you.
no subject
He's definitely inclined to the dark side, even if he doesn't feel like Ventress or Dooku had, but the term 'Sith' doesn't feel quite right.
It feels even more incorrect when she sees his face. He's younger in facial features than any of the darker icons she had been introduced to through the holocrons and other media. Even with that horrid scar across his face, something about the clarity in his expression feels -- different.]
I don't need help.
[She's very clearly rankled by the idea that he thinks of her as someone who needs refining.]
no subject
But that doesn't mean she has no use for him-- and more importantly, it doesn't mean he has no use for her.] You aren't a child in need of guidance.
[Placating, his tone. Without the mask between them it's easier to offer an expression that's nothing short of innocuous. Persuasive, even.] Which means you must feel it, as I have. How weak it is in this place, how the connection between us all fights it.
[Whatever cause they now serve, whatever the will of that limitless expanse that called to him behind Cathaway's glinting eyes, they are made weaker for its attempts to assist.]
no subject
What makes you think you can do anything about it, shiny?
[Her tone softens just slightly. He is right about one thing -- she knows the temptation of the dark side, and she could not be swayed. Not by him and not by anyone else.
So she slides down and lands with grace, making the height discrepancy between them even more obvious. Even when she approaches, she keeps distance between them.]
Who are you? Where is your master?
no subject
[Not forever, perhaps, but in the moment there is only one remaining bottom line: this is his world now, and its confines-- its limitations-- are his own.]
But my bond with the Force is not. [He tips his chin downwards to match her stare (she is small, ignoring the fact that he nearly doubles her height) eyes only briefly flicking upwards and then back again.] If we were to combine our abilities, there is a chance the barrier that separates it from us might lessen.
[The Force, after all, was drawn like a beacon to certain places, certain people: where one link is amplified, it grows - why would the same not hold true here?
After a moment, he adds, plainly:] My name is Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren.
no subject
[He didn't ask, but she doesn't really care. He will no doubt remember her name after this conversation is done. She folds her arms and continues to stare upward with her bright blue eyes straight into his dark black pits.]
You can keep your bond. I'd rather suck rocket fuel than combine forces with you, or any other Sith.
[She had already tried that, and Ventress had betrayed her. She won't be making the same mistake twice.]
no subject
But he needs that bond.]
I serve the dark side, yes. [Minute shifting as he speaks, tense enough to look restless for how unrestrained he truly is by default.] But that's not all there is within me.
--I'm like you. [Her conflict is nothing like what he endures, but she's not a Jedi; she's been educated, but not converted. Something else must exist there to exploit. It has to.] Between sides. Divided.
no subject
Oh how she wishes she still had her lightsabers. She'd show him just how strong the Light was within her. Instead, she laughs at the incredulity of his claim, a high pitched scoff that she makes no effort to bite back.
Manners? Not for a Sith. Her mirth disappears immediately, replaced with pure contempt]
Alike? You don't know the first thing about me. I live my life for others before myself. For the weak who cannot defend themselves from evil like your's.
[She steps forward and jabs her finger into his chest. She can see he's just as unarmed as he is -- so she's not afraid of him.]
You are a selfish coward who's given into the Dark Side. We are nothing alike.
no subject
Weak.
He bristles for it. Height drawn up in an instant, features twisted into a vicious, hateful grimace only made worse by the seething line across his face.] Fine.
If self-righteousness means so much to you, wallow in it. [Teeth catching and click over one another with every consonant, sharp enough to cut.] You'll see-- when you no longer feel your precious light, when you're blind and desperate for its touch, remember that I was the one that tried to help you!
[One step closer, quick and conflicted, like an animal set to pacing before he turns on his heel to leave-- and then rounds back again for one last flinch of a bitter scowl, chest still burning from contact. Stupid, senseless child. She'll drown in her own misery, he'll make certain of it.]
no subject
Having a Sith aboard is dangerous, especially with all of their minds linked to one another. She might have won this battle -- but there would be others, where he would use the Dark Side to tempt them. Its sabotage at its worst.
It puts her faith in Cathaway and the Nest in question. And even though he is gone, she can still feel his anger sizzling somewhere in the back of her mind, and it makes her ill enough to turn back to climbing the ships in the hanger.]