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 is no tide but his own here.
The first purpose of the question falls rather flat. His memory is, at best, very fuzzy. He barely remembers anything before coming here. He remembers tastes and scents and he remembers panic drowning him as the infection ate away at his body (corpse), his mind. He remembers the pain crawling through his body from the the σ-virus. There is, in he back of his head, the faint feeling of a hand pulling his rotting body to safety. A warm hand around his cold one. ]
None of your business.
[ The safest of answers. The one that feels the best-- that feels like himself. Nothing else does. The thoughts in his head are not entirely his own and it's confusing, disorienting and Parker wants to get away from it. His mind is important to him. It is the most important thing you have in a time of survival. To feel your grip slipping from it can be a death sentence. Many people succumb to it.
Parker does not want to be like them.
He also does not want this comforting peacefulness trying to writhe its way in him. He is not a peaceful person. He is never at ease. This is not him. Parker is a constant stream of thoughts and struggles and defiance and never at rest. But his own, not this... cacophony of echoes. Neither the fleeting spirit as Prince seems to have pegged him for. But to be fair, the way he is acting might give off that impression. ]
no subject
The way out of the training to wing is back the direction that you came, or further on. Leaving the station alone is not yet in your power.
[And the way out of this life, as most lives, was death and only that. Something this one had more knowledge of than most, if the report on him was to be believed. And it was, of course.]
Do you know where you are?
[It was not unheard of that he would have resisted Cathaway's call and come across him first. Troublesome, but not unheard of or beyond understanding.]
no subject
The first dry reply is not appreciated. The second, much less. Not yet in his power? What a terrible thing to say to a stubborn boy with his heels digging into sand. His resolution of being an uncooperative little shit is here to stay, and he is very committed to the role. Fair enough, he has always had a knack for defiance. Giving him a reason to grow even more opposed is just icing on the cake (then again, with the way that he is looking at things, it would be fairly easy for him to pick any reason at all to be against, well, everything).
He doesn't move nor answer for a while, just staring back at Prince. What he wants to do is hurt him. Anger and violence and starvation still lingering in his system, a side effect of the infection crawling within. Even the faint sound of his own blood in his ears is distracting, bringing queasiness and-- something like hunger. He wants to throw up for a second.
But mostly, his anger is his own. It fuels him to try to will the whisperings that he does not hear but are still there in his head. And-- that's the thing. He can't hear a whisper from this man. Which-- well, it's the normal thing to be happening. He shouldn't be hearing voices. Shouldn't be going crazy.
If he grits his teeth more, they'll go flat. ]
Not where I am supposed to. [ It's the asshole way of saying "no." ]
no subject
And do you know who you are?
[Why did none of these rude children introduce themselves?
He wasn't the same person as he was before, but he doubts any of them were yet ready to face that truth.]
no subject
But if he knew that he was being frustrating, then Parker would feel a little less shit about this situation. He's a wonderful human being.
He doesn't answer the man, though. He just stares at him.
Maybe he is not the same person. Maybe. But he very well will do his utmost to keep himself the way he has always been, regardless of consequences.
Instead of complying, Parker instead demands again. ]
Where's Arthur? [ And then, in that name there, carries an trembling note, concealed but barely so. Hidden underneath anger and disgust, there is concern for the name. Worry. Attachment. Respect. Love. The one person he might regard as the most important in his life. ]
no subject
More than that, he knew himself to be a poor hand at comfort despite whatever sympathy he might have felt. And he did feel sympathy. He did not need to be in their minds to know what their loss felt like. It had been his own. There was no platitude strong enough to erase the magnitude of their loss.]
I am sorry, he is not here. He remains on your planet, with your people. If it brings you comfort, it is very likely he is as well as he was when you last left him.
[Which may bring him no comfort at all.]
no subject
It doesn't make it easier. But it does make it expected.
It does however annoys him the most are his words. Parker's eyes narrow, fixed upon his face, clearly unhappy with the whole situation. ]
Great. Then you know where he is. [ The driest sarcasm. ] Take me back.
no subject
[It comes across as pedantic. Unnecessary clarification in the face of obvious sarcasm, but Prince makes the distinction anyway in the way of one who finds half-truths to be distasteful.
The demand he is more familiar with. He isn't sure how many times he's heard it- too many, but there was no avoiding it. Sometimes he wished they awoke with a primer, but the situation required a personal touch, or so he had been told.]
If I take you back you will die. The thing that nearly succeeded in killing you will finish its task.
[And Prince, with masterful self control he had managed through the entire day, avoids saying the next truth- if Parker wished to die, it would he more convenient for him to do it here.]
Is that what you are seeking?
no subject
That is what is killing him, anyway.
Still, his response is as quick as it is rude. ]
Still none of your business.
[ His fingers tighten around the rucksack, suddenly heavier on his shoulders from the weight of the antidote in it. ]
no subject
Then I will leave you to your business, as it is none of mine.
[Which is all he says before he takes half a step back towards the bench, lowering himself back down again and tapping the wall to bring forth his datapad yet again, as if the conversation had ended with his words.]
no subject
Yeah, sure. I'll find my own way out.
[ It is clear he has not one single problem in seeing no means to an end. It will matter very little to him whatever he must do to go back, on his own terms. His own hand. He is used to push through obstacles. He will do here as well, with no care for this place or these people (while he fights the pulse underneath that tells him to care, because he is not part of some hivemind, such a repulsive fucking thought; he banishes it out, rejection of the we and the us, victory of the self). ]
no subject
In the end he had found a balance, and he had found a purpose, but surely he had found little approaching peace.]