This is former Alliance Navy, arguably currently Cerberus employed flight lieutenant Jeff Moreau; callsign “Joker”; while I’ve already gotten an idea of what’s going on with the shuttles down in the hanger thanks to Hotspur, a guy’s gotta ask: why haven’t we made it a priority to get those repaired and running and ditched this floating coffin?

[He scratches at his chin – beard’s getting a little scruffy around the edges there – and shifts on camera, looking more than a little annoyed.]

Just, you know, throwing that out there. I don’t know about you, but I know I got better places to be than something out of a creepy ship like this. I mean, who designed this shit with the flying buttresses and all the funky internal architecture? It’s like some sort of Gothic antfarm in space.

[ And the video flips on to a man in need of a shave, perched on the floor in front of a veritable pigsty. It's hard to make out what's behind him, but the bed appears to have been successfully flipped over, the mattress askew. The wall, already, is absolutely littered with notes, and though the amount is paltry so far - he's only been here a week - it's still a bit impressive. Encoded, likely, though none of it is particularly legible on the camera, especially in his chicken scratch. ]

Observe.

[ As he says the word, he leans in, and even on such a small screen, his eyes are very clearly wide, dilated. He's beginning to set the communicator down onto a bureau, cradling it gently in his hands as though it's an egg. ] An ingenious way of recording one's processes, far more convenient than the written word, faster as well. Now- You'll see-

[ And he takes a flying leap away from the phone, jumping atop the opposite bureau in one fell swoop and spreading his arms wide. The camera isn't panned correctly - his head is cut off - and he takes a deep breath as though he's about to say something absolutely brilliant -- !! ] I am now taller. [ What follows is a small giggle that can hardly be construed as masculine, as he leaps back down from the bureau, catlike. ] Perhaps a rudimentary test, but one must jump before one can fly. Fly before one can fall-!

[ He stumbles on his way back to the dresser, and jars the thing, the communicator with it, and consequentially knocks the feed offline again. ]

[The video turns on to a small Japanese woman in formal military dress. Very formal. Are those epaulettes? Who even wears those anymore? Well regardless of her fashion sense, she will give the screen a small, very shallow bow of her head. There is a very serious air of business here. If you are expecting a forthcoming announcement of a death the mood would not be indicative of you being wrong.]

Good day! It is a pleasure to meet all of you, surely. You may call me the Empire of Greater Japan. I feel it should be announced that as of today the forward kitchen of deck 251 is now its own autonomous state under the protection of the Japanese empire.

Food will of course still be served, your basic rights will be observed. But in return I ask you observe the rules clearly posted on the far wall of the kitchen. As well as the simple stocking directions located on the inside of each cabinet door to maximize cabinet space and present a system of order. If these can't be maintained I am... afraid you will not be allowed within the territory of Dai-koku.

Other basic rules include no destruction of property, theft, murder or public indecency. Thank you!

Russia-san, I know you're on this vessel. Please know any aggressions against these borders will be taken as a declaration of war! ...So. Um. Please maintain your manners! ...Your better manners.

[There is a pause where she looks rather uncertain.]

Ah... And if there are any who would wish a meal who would rather not cook themselves or cannot. ...Whatever your dietary needs. Please inform me and I will see to it you receive the proper nutrition in an... appetizing fashion.

Thank you for your time!

[Another bow, this one more flustered than her opening one and the communication ends.]

[ the feed is suddenly jostled to life when it hits the floor, catching the tail end of a frustrated grunt/growl/noise of great distress/whatever/etc. please do enjoy the view of the ceiling from the floor.

offscreen there is a noise of sudden movement and then mjolnir is heavily slammed on the floor right next to the device. electrical currents fire and spark across the metal and cast out small fingers of lightning. it's nothing grand and from the look on thor's face, it's troubling. and right getting ready to piss him off. these actions are repeated in triplicate, but reach the same conclusion.

after the last time, he stands, raising the hammer above his head and tries one last time. except he's much too close to the light fixture. and while his lightning might not be as strong as it once was, it's certainly enough to cause the bulb to break and rain down electrical sparks. there's two beats of silence before he releases an angry battle cry and mjolnir is dropped, cutting the feed suddenly.


but, then a bit later, a voice...! ]

Who is responsible for this? How am I to use my weapon now—Mjolnir is useless to me in this condition. [ this is almost like new mexico all over again. ] Is there some sort of black magic restricting it's use? I demand it be fixed at once.

[ he falls silent, then there's almost an embarrassed edge to the next question, ] Where might one find replacement fixtures of light?