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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
There's no gentleness in such an approach, but kindness is often a luxury.
Luckily, today they are in the position to avail themselves of it. Her smile softens further; the lines of her frame ease.]
You're here because the symbiote found you compatible and others find that a killing offense. While your talent may make your purpose here easier, in most cases it's merely an accessory. However, [she brightens] we do find skills such as yours fascinating. Did you know there's another host hatched with you who can change her shape? We wonder if the practice has any further similarities.
no subject
[What she says next is a little odd though, especially with her choice of words. Killing offense? How so? Who are these others she's talking about? He frowns, folding his arms as he takes it all into consideration.]
Who is offended by me being buddies with a symbiote? [He asks, eyes narrowing.] And the other shapeshifter, she's not like me, is she?
[As in, Karnonian. And he then realizes that's a stupid question in the first place, since Karnonians do not have any specified gender. Besides him, that is, and even so, he only picked it up as part of the whole "Nathaniel Horn" package. This other shapeshifter might belong to a different race.]
[He shakes his head.] Huh. Guess I'm no special snowflake.
no subject
Incorrect. You're unique - special in the sense that all who arrive here are. Not every mind is fit to host the symbiote or to complete the task we find must be done. The enemies of our kind, the ones who would've preferred you died, are counting on you thinking you're inconsequential. But they're wrong. You and anyone else on this Station, regardless of what talents you might have, are more important than you can imagine now.
[You're all special snowflakes, Nathaniel.]
But to be safe, it might not hurt to discuss this matter with the other shapeshifter. [That gentle smile persists.] Maybe you'll have something to teach each other.
no subject
[His voice sounds very small. He suddenly feels very small. Even though she's essentially said that he's important, that his abilities are useful, that he's special. But there's a weight to those things that he's not used to carrying. Karnonian society only ever saw him as a cog. Human society saw him as whatever he wanted to be. And here, he has some kind of purpose to live up to, a goal he must reach. Is he capable of doing such a thing? He doesn't know if he believes her - he's proud of himself and who he is, but is he really made for such things? She says so, but...well, he would have to see. Maybe this could make him. It could break him in half, too, but there's a certain excitement that comes with the hesitation, the drive to go and do something meaningful.]
[However, there's a part of him that remembers a simpler life, and misses it. He smiles, feeling a little bittersweet. Does him being here mean that his family, his friends, they'll never see Nathaniel Horn's face again?]
...I guess I'm never going back, huh?
no subject
Today, anyway. She cannot say what the future will bring.
She does know, however, the likelihood of his. The lines of her expression ease, the smile carefully and considerately narrowed in the face of what she suspects (knows) is a complex emotional reaction on his part. She tries to be understanding, and because of his nearness and her willingness it doesn't matter that it's been a long time since Cathaway thought of her home as anything but a system very distant and better for her presence elsewhere. In the moment, she can understand the shred of heartsickness in him.]
We regret to admit it's unlikely. Most do not.
no subject
[Of course it's going to be "no". A part of him hopes that it won't be, but his common sense tells him, as clear as day, that there will be no going back to the way things were.]
[He steps forward, watching her face. He has no reason to trust her or to believe that she honestly, truly cares. He could be a tool, as far as he knows. He shouldn't take things for granted and assume that everything will work out in his favor. He's now sharing his body with something else he never wanted to share it with. His life has been taken from him as quickly as he stole it from Nathaniel Horn. Everything has been turned upside down as far as he knows, and he's even surprised at himself that he's not reeling emotionally from it all. Honestly, he even feels a little numb.]
[He stares, and then realizes something he really should've said earlier.]
By the way...I never asked your name, did I?
no subject
[Worlds turn, multiverses change, time goes forward. No system waits for the return of a single lost person. There are mothers and fathers who cry for their missing children; there are empires which buckle from the loss and others that rise as a result. Old friends die, old family moves on. The Station is a constant.]
But no-- [a gentle smile] --no letters.
[She turns her hand then, extending it out to him: an offered handshake.]
This one is called Cathaway.
no subject
[He keeps that hope like a little splinter of light next to his heart. He will keep it there, for as long as it takes, no matter what happens. He can't lose himself. He won't lose himself.]
[He pauses before taking her hand and shaking it. He decides that he likes her. He's not going to be wholly trusting of her, no, but he likes her.]
This one? [He raises an eyebrow - it's an odd way to refer to one's self, but everything is odd here, isn't it?] It's very nice to meet you, Cathaway. I'm Nathaniel. What do you do here, exactly?
no subject
This body in this space. We are not all called Cathaway, of course, but in this particular place that's the easiest way to address us. [The least confusing.] This one oversees your safety on the Station. We nurture young hosts while they're in the nesting deck and after they've hatched and generally oversee the operation of the Station while doing our best to make sure you and others like you are prepared when they leaving for a mission. In a sense, we are your teacher or guardian, but we technically have no rank above you - simply more experienced.
[She releases his hand. It's been a long handshake.]
Have you met the Prince yet?