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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
When he was first invited into the fold, it made him nervous. Made his palms sweat and his heartbeat catch. A stupid reaction that makes him wince with a past embarrassment.
All of this has been flipped on its head, so far as he knows. He's hearing things with his mind, not with his ears. That much he has understood. The noise shifts like sand, sometimes loud and sometimes so quiet he has to concentrate. Hux doesn't choose to chase after the latter, already despising the headache that's blossomed behind his eyes.
In an effort to distract himself, he walks. Wanders around the halls and the stairs and rooms. Later, he'll re-do his cycle, imprinting the information into his mind more firmly. Step one of strategy: know thy surroundings. Now he follows a sloped corridor, curiously looking for the source of persistent humming. The sound isn't real, well, not in the sense he normally follows. It feels like it still vibrates down to the bone, as though they're in motion and the engines are set just behind the walls.
His path opens up, doorway open and inviting up onto what looks like a command deck (how familiar, how soothing). Carefully, he steps in, coat draped over his shoulders almost protectively, expression betraying nothing as he looks at who has addressed him. ]
You were expecting me.
[ Not quite a question, edging along curiosity and confusion. ]
no subject
[Not quite an answer. She moves patiently through her circle of the bare, silent chamber though her eyes remain on his presence just inside the doorway. The combination of the two - the movement of this body and the sight of him - serves to anchor her more effectively to this place, to this particular room, to this exact conversation. Elsewhere there are other rooms, other conversations, other bodies, but this is the one of highest importance at the moment. She does her best to prioritize it.]
Just as you felt us, we have been aware of your presence here on the Station since your hatching. [There's some mild humor there - a slight upward tip of her chin, a quirk at the corner's of her mouth.] We would have to be deaf not to.
no subject
But just with all emotion, he holds it in. Pulls the reins in tightly and breathes. The first reaction, he knows, is of utmost importance. Hux swallows his words, looking at the woman’s face, the tilt of her head and her mouth. Her words are not meant to cut deep, they’re simply another way of delivering truth.
Of course, of course they’re loud. He’s loud. Just in talking to Kylo Ren in the hallway earlier, he could tell. Whatever this power is, it’s uncontrolled and underdeveloped.
This is the logic; it doesn’t stop a flush from coloring the tips of his ears. Many years have passed since the last time anyone has spoken to him like this. All at once, he feels so young, like he was looking up to his father for guidance. Like he needed his hand held.
A mortifying realization that he barely manages to react to in a decent manner. ]
The noise, will it lessen?
no subject
[She stops then, an abrupt heel turn to face him that comes with the rasp of her small gold chains and the assortment of charms hanging from them at intervals. There's an exactness to it based on his presence there: the square of his shoulders, the precise level his chin to the floor.]
Right now you're mind is unused to the new connections. Once you and your symbiote have bonded more fully, the use of those paths will become more controlled. With patience and study, you can learn how to manipulate how much of you is shared openly and to whom. Others can go digging of course, just as you will know how to search their minds, but hosts find the violation of that offensive enough to stem their curiosity.
[There's a mild note there, a kind of flatness, that perhaps suggests she doesn't wholly approve of such division - but consensus and sensibility demands she at least respect it. Being considerate of others makes a considerable difference to morale, and thus to their odds of survival in the long term.]
no subject
He's a bit thrown when she turns to him so sharply, and he covers for his shock by glancing at the charms that dangle. Observations to make, though the jangle of them is mostly a distraction. ]
You don't agree with that notion.
[ Of privacy or walls. Hux doesn't share the same opinion, but he's new here, as she's said. Moreover, he's used to keeping to himself, to holding it in and never letting anyone see what he doesn't want them to. An amendment to his earlier thought: he will have to work very hard. While he doesn't regret his actions, there are some that would find them distasteful, he's sure. Not exactly the right foot to start off on. ]
no subject
We believe the division to be an arbitrary distinction made by small minds.
[It isn't an insult, not really - at the very least her tone is easy enough to undercut the bite of the word choice.]
Given enough time, there's inevitably no difference. We don't see the use in the pretense as it limits all our efficacy in the field.
no subject
(Too much like Brendol Hux and at the same time, not enough).
Gritting his teeth, he swallows his words. Though he's sure she could dig up his thoughts if she wanted. Because while she's just remarked on boundaries, it doesn't seem like something she puts on high priority. The very idea scrapes against his already raw nerves. ]
Efficiency. Right. [ It's the only anchor point in the conversation that he can hold onto. Every part of him wants to walk away, but showing his back to her would be weak. ]
no subject
There are many benefits to the symbiote-host connection on an individual level, but the true advantage is the connection it builds between hosts. Cooperation in the field becomes innate instead of a skill that has to be practiced. In some cases, this is a negligible benefit; in others, hosts with strong connections to one another will find their chances of survival rise significantly as a result.
[She directs a tentative smile in his direction, trying her best to be sympathetic. In a way, she manages - it's very sad to see a host young and so alone.]
We would prefer it if you lived a long and healthy life.
no subject
Being angry will do nothing for him. It serves no purpose. Better to go to feeling nothing and taking in the information objectively.
(It's difficult, in the wake of what happened before coming here. On Starkiller and–)
Hux snaps his attention away from that, focusing on her words. Hones in on logic and reason and survival. Benefits, advantages. Things that make strategical sense. She's taken a good track to regain his opinion. ]
That must take considerable effort. [ Getting everyone up to speed, getting them all to embrace this ideology. He can see it, from a rational standpoint, but he doesn't like it. Survival to him has always been looking out for one person– himself. Granted, it meant sending troopers or commanding others to do things for him, especially in his ascent to his current rank. However, no one had given him a leg up in climbing the military ladder. And if they had extended a hand, he would've refused. Weakness was not tolerated.
So his expression goes stony, cold, as she flashes him a sympathetic smile. He doesn't want her sympathy or her pity. He doesn't want any of this, regardless of how easy it had been to rebuff Kylo Ren earlier. ]
I appreciate your concern. [ And, he thinks, he can't take any more. Snapping a sharp salute, Hux then turns and strides out. Leaves her and her jangling charms behind. Wants to forget this conversation already.
(A tactical retreat; or just turning tail). ]