The first sound to caress his ear, as the pod door opened, was one he recognized, but one which brought no homely comfort to him; not the crackling of a hearth, and neither the giggling of a little girl. This was a hiss he heard, but not the hiss of that cat his daughter so liked to torture, with a feather at the end of a string; that white and black cat, terrorizing the velvet of his favorite chair.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he remembered all these sounds and sights, encompassed in a musky smoky smell; yet as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his skin to the brisk chill, his bones to the tight restraints of the pod, he knew; like geese flying north, like turtles born to dry sands, he knew this place was no home of his. Far too lifeless, too sterile was this, the flight simulation chamber; where no cedar soothed his nose, whiskey his stomach, a warm flannel blanket his youthful flesh.
I'm rather in the mood for all that, he thought; and once Anders opens the chamber, I'll head to the pub at once.
Yet as he waited, Anders' voice did not crackle over the intercom; only a low buzzing drone accompanied him, as if Jonah's whale had swallowed him, only to continue on its ceaseless journey. And as he absorbed this silence, he noticed too his jumpsuit, which flapped with a sort of weightlessness, and his head which swam in color. Blinking himself out of his apathy, he succumbed soon to hypochondria, wondering just where all his extra flab had gone; but as he realized he was neither drugged nor dreaming—indeed, this was a real room filling his senses, small and dark and metallic and empty—he mustered the bravery to release his restraints. Like a feather from a sparrow's wing he floated out, following some whimsical wind which led him to the only window: a round porthole, leading only to a hallway, equally dull. And on the opposite wall, he saw, through his little window, another identical to it.
Gripping the door release, it conformed to the twist of his wrist, yet the obstacle did not budge.
"HANS BÖTTCHER—" the voice startled him—and though he tried to flinch away, still he hovered near the door— "30 YEARS OLD. MALE. BORN IN BRAUNSCHWEIG, GERMANY, ON JUNE 16, 2152."
The door opened. The hiss which accompanied him as he hatched from his nanodiamond egg, did not follow him as he left his steel nest.
"WELCOME ABOARD THE L.H.M. ASK."
Your character is an aeronaut; one of anywhere from three to twenty, all awakening from the same model of hypersleep containment pod. Greeting you: only your own crewmates, the automated pilot of the ship, and the empty void beyond the walls of your zero-G prison. The last he remembers is entering a test chamber, training for some sort of voyage; but why? Somehow, the administrators have done a marvelous job of wiping your memory from the last few weeks. Though they always seemed less than eager to share their secrets.
This roleplay will delve heavily in themes of dependence, isolation, and trust. Rarely will you leave the same 8-9 rooms of the ship; thus, you will find inventive ways to pass the time, and to tolerate the different personalities sharing these small confines with you. Perhaps the captain has some answers. (Edit: though there is a mission being fulfilled. Don't worry about this RP having no action whatsoever...the action simply isn't the focus.)
Your destination: unknown. Your mission: unknown. Probability of success: indeterminate.
"Nomads" - A Celestial Character Study
- Advanced
- Slice of Life
- Small Group
- Sci-Fi
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