![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[sticky entry]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/entry/sticky_entry.png){kind=small}
Please fill out and paste the following at the top of your in-character posts!:
Access Level: Is this post Invite/Friends-Only, Open to All, or between specific characters?
Who: Who is sending the message/doing the thing?
Broadcast: What kind of broadcast, if any (ex: Ship crew, Network - Unfiltered, None, etc.)
Action: What in-person element, if any (ex: Bridge of a ship, Some random way-station, Planet, None, etc.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hatesblindjokesAccess Level: Invite Only (for now)
Who: Vincent & Irahl
Broadcast: None
Action: On a ship??
[He'd like to think that they were doing okay. They'd been exploring the wreckage, starting to make some progress around the perimeter, hadn't killed each other yet--pretty good, all things considered!
But then he just kind of... Wakes up, standing in a different hallway with different sounds and smells, and he doesn't remember getting here, and he can't quite remember exactly what he was doing prior to this, so he doesn't know if he just suddenly blacked out, or if something happened, or--
What Vincent does not realize is that he has been transported to a separate, smaller ship. What Vincent also does not realize is that there's a glitch in the confetti cannon programming that's causing it to delay firing for about seven seconds.
If anyone else is on this ship, they'll suddenly hear in quick succession: a popping sound, an undignified shout of surprise, a bang of something hitting metal, and excessive swearing.]
Welcome Home
Oct. 28th, 2023 06:12 pmindigochildAccess Level: Open to All!
Who: The 13th cycle's lucky contestants...
Broadcast: None (probably)
Action: Marsiva Hospitality Deck
[Years ago, the Hospitality Deck had been the perfect image of gleaming and facelessly-neutral welcome. For a dozen cycles, this was the epitome of the airtight automation that the Drift Fleet was known for. Newcomers were ushered in, tended to, and dealt out to their respective ships like clockwork.
Hundreds and hundreds. Without fail.
Now, instead of being greeted as guests (or, at the very least, beloved lab rats,) there is only the stagnant feeling of error here. For once, this place feels as though it's in agreement with its captives: they aren't supposed to be here.
It's all still clean, but old. Some of the lights on the wall-mounted communication panel are flickering, and a few of the overhead lights are burned out completely. The air smells stale. The massive bay of windows still showcases the looming glory of space and a fleet of smaller ships--but there's a whole swarm of them now, and they float there as half-destroyed flotsam.
The lucky passengers of the Drift Fleet's thirteenth cycle are arriving, but it's hard to tell if anyone in the universe notices.]
Who: The 13th cycle's lucky contestants...
Broadcast: None (probably)
Action: Marsiva Hospitality Deck
[Years ago, the Hospitality Deck had been the perfect image of gleaming and facelessly-neutral welcome. For a dozen cycles, this was the epitome of the airtight automation that the Drift Fleet was known for. Newcomers were ushered in, tended to, and dealt out to their respective ships like clockwork.
Hundreds and hundreds. Without fail.
Now, instead of being greeted as guests (or, at the very least, beloved lab rats,) there is only the stagnant feeling of error here. For once, this place feels as though it's in agreement with its captives: they aren't supposed to be here.
It's all still clean, but old. Some of the lights on the wall-mounted communication panel are flickering, and a few of the overhead lights are burned out completely. The air smells stale. The massive bay of windows still showcases the looming glory of space and a fleet of smaller ships--but there's a whole swarm of them now, and they float there as half-destroyed flotsam.
The lucky passengers of the Drift Fleet's thirteenth cycle are arriving, but it's hard to tell if anyone in the universe notices.]
Tags:
thespaceopera[All at once, every single speaker--consoles, panels, and entire forgotten batteries of communicators--break a silence that has existed for many years. Some kick sparks into the air as they spew minutes upon minutes of static. Storming through hollow hulls and echoing along miles of empty halls, the noise fluctuates in texture as if something is attempting to search for a clearer signal.
Finally, surfacing above the din is a man’s voice. There is something fatherly about the tone, but the words are strained.]
I... I think I missed your birthday, dear...
[The quality of the static continues to tune and evolve. It’s not really static, though. It takes time for the mess of noise to resolve into a comprehensible sound, but it’s becoming clear now: it’s an ocean of applause. There is a periodic ‘pop’ of sound marking each time that the track loops.
The man’s voice returns, more difficult to hear now, from a point further from the microphone.]
Hey. Easy, darlin’... don’t–
[He trails off as he's interrupted by another sound welling up from underneath the applause. The sound of sobs, hysterical and wailing, increase in volume to drown out the man’s voice, begin to rival the roar of the crowd, ring against the metallic panels of every wall, tilt toward screaming, until the feed abruptly cuts out. The signal is still open, however. The sound of dead air is cavernous in the wake of all that, waiting--as the Hosts always have--for a response.
This time, no one is there to answer it.]
Finally, surfacing above the din is a man’s voice. There is something fatherly about the tone, but the words are strained.]
I... I think I missed your birthday, dear...
[The quality of the static continues to tune and evolve. It’s not really static, though. It takes time for the mess of noise to resolve into a comprehensible sound, but it’s becoming clear now: it’s an ocean of applause. There is a periodic ‘pop’ of sound marking each time that the track loops.
The man’s voice returns, more difficult to hear now, from a point further from the microphone.]
Hey. Easy, darlin’... don’t–
[He trails off as he's interrupted by another sound welling up from underneath the applause. The sound of sobs, hysterical and wailing, increase in volume to drown out the man’s voice, begin to rival the roar of the crowd, ring against the metallic panels of every wall, tilt toward screaming, until the feed abruptly cuts out. The signal is still open, however. The sound of dead air is cavernous in the wake of all that, waiting--as the Hosts always have--for a response.
This time, no one is there to answer it.]
