[Where has Griffin been for the past few weeks, one might ask. If one were to ask Griffin, Griffin would reply with a very flippant, "None of your business," followed by a less flippant, "What is it to you anyway?" The truth of the matter is that Griffin has been handling his new situation like he handles every other situation: he's been avoiding human contact whenever possible and hiding away in his quarters. It's not an entirely outlandish solution, considering that he arrived on Tranquility and was immediately smacked with serious illness.

It had been going okay until he suddenly wakes back up in his nightmare pod of terror in which he showed up. It isn't any easier the second time. Griffin's legs shake less, but the tight feeling in his chest doesn't get any better. On top of that, his normal clothes are in his room, which means he's stuck wearing that stupid space costume. He puts it on begrudingly and stomps out of the locker room without saying a word to anyone. He's close to his room when he pauses. It's one of those moments when the full weight of a situation bears down on him, oppressive with no way to escape it. Trapped, at the mercy of a faceless enemy. Without warning, Griffin lashes out and tries to damage the only culprit he can identify, the ship itself, by punching the hull.

As a deceptively small person, Griffin packs a lot of power. Sometimes he forgets that. The scream of frustration quickly turns into a shout of pain as he cradles his hand to his chest. He can't move it much and has been hurt enough times to know that it's likely broken, or a deep bruise if he's lucky. With a string of swear words, he's off in another direction. On his way to the med bay, he gets hopelessly lost. It's happened a few times as he's been getting his bearings. As it turns out, Griffin is not terribly great at getting from point A to point B. His ability cut out that process and while he never relied on it for short distances... this is a really bloody big ship. And he keeps getting distracted when trying to commit the layout to memory. So scared, in pain, and looking like a twat, he is stranded in some lonely corner of Tranquility feeling anything but tranquil. He can't even type on his dumb communicator.]

Where exactly is the med bay on this... freaking tub?

[ In response to this post.

When the picture comes on what you find is a beautiful woman with heart-shaped face and a head of curly red hair, half-done up like she's someone important (she isn't). When she talks, there's a lazy drawling quality to her voice, as well as an air of condescension and carelessness. It's hard to tell just how much she really means the things she says, whether she's actually frustrated or not. But the fact that Ros — who's never posted on the Network before — has finally bothered to speak up must be an indication of something. (Right?)

She sits with an elbow propped up onto a table, her chin settled into the seat of its palm. Despite the nature of her message, she smiles frivolously. As if she hadn't a care in the world. ]

S'not my business — all those secrets of yours you lot are hiding in plain sight. Leave cleverness to the clever ones, I say. [ Her smile widens as if to add I'm not clever at all, I'm just a whore, but that's window dressing really. Distraction and deflection. If she wasn't clever, Ros wouldn't have all her teeth, wouldn't work for Littlefinger. She'd be bottom of the barrel and Ros has managed just fine, thank you. ] But if you're going on and on 'bout how we're all meant to save our skins and the means to do it, here's a friendly bit'f advice:

Not all of us can read, dears.

Now you learned lot might come from places full'f words and numbers. Where babes come tumbling out their mothers smart as maesters 'prentices, too busy with reading to even stop for a suckle. But some of us don't. Some of us had t'work for a living. The dirty kind'f work that gets your hands messy. [ That turn of phrase seems to amuse her. She thinks of farmhands in the fields, of smiths at their forges. (Yes, terribly messy.) She thinks about how she's fucked them all — and lords too. (Yes, Ros can be clever sometimes.) ] The sweaty kind'f work.

And we dirty, sweaty, dumb lot — we want to live, same as you.

So if all your whispering's a bit of nothing — then carry on, good as you like. But if it's a bit of something, well— [ She tips her head and, for the first time in the feed, looks expectant rather than bored. ] —give us a listen, mm?

 [Well, Tranquility. I bet you're ALL OF THE THRILLED to have Topher in your lives again... now 100% less soaked in blood and vomit and sweat and all means of terrible things from his adventure in the science labs and as cheerful as... anyone can be post-jump. Given the background of the video you can assume, he's in medbay and that his comm is propped up on something. Why is he not holding it?

...Well, it might have something to do with the fact that he's trying to flip a certain fedora onto his head with concentrated hand gestures- he was not being factitious when he said that was what he wanted it for, Dave. AND NOW THE WORLD KNOWS.] This is way easier in theory-

[Oh right, he's recording. Yes, well. Moving on.] 

Okay, while we're getting all the usual existential "where am I, what is my purpose" post-jump network blues out and the "you are here, ask us how" responses and a few "oh, by the way, the creepy ship is still creepy" things thrown in just in case anyone felt all safe for a half second, I've got to bring out my contribution. 

My name's Topher Brink and I'm the med bay's neurologist. And you're probably wondering, "Topher, how often do you actually need a neurologist.?" Surprisingly, more often than you think. Space crazy can happen to anyone, so consider this your PSA about that. If you feel weirdly homicidal, please tell someone before you flip your biscuits and kill everyone. If you always feel homicidal and this isn't a new development or anything... Thanks for not already flipping your biscuits and killing us all. And keep not doing that for the foreseeable future.

But the real reason I'm putting this out there is neural implants. How many of you actually have them- if you don't wanna say it out loud and you don't have it on the med bay's records for a reason, please filter to me and it'll be strictly patient-doctor confidentiality. I ask, because I'm pretty sure if anything in your coconut gets hacked, screwed with, or otherwise messed with, McCoy, the Watsons, and the rest of the staff are gonna go, W-T-F and it's gonna be a big mess. If I know ahead of time and can run diagnostics, check to make sure everything's the way it's supposed to be working, then we can cut out any sort of horrible side effects being in space could have on them, 'cause frankly, I've never been a space neurologist, but I know implants, while amazingly durable, can break down or stop functioning. ...Don't panic about that though. It's not likely, but it could happen.

That's... pretty much it. Unless you've got questions or concerns regarding brain science and you, 'cause I'm the guy for that. And completely at your service. [He holds up the hat.] And, apparently, I've got too much time on my hands right now.

[MED BAY FILTER// ENCRYPTED 100%]

Speaking of brains... Aberdeen's still in a coma, so... How 'bout we all get together and put our thinking caps on and brainstorm a little on fixing that.

[[OOC: LITERALLY HEADING OUT THE DOOR FOR WORK. But I will hit tags when I return. Blah, blah, blah. I wanted to get it up.]]

[After finding herself still here now almost a week hence, Anna decides it is time to stop lingering about in hope she'll pop back out.

Thankfully clean now, she is silent for a moment as if she is deciding what to say...but in truth the more astute will note it is the exact opposite. She is just impossibly tired.]

My name is Anna.

[Simple enough for now.]

I see no need to hide it, so I will speak freely. I am an Angel of the Lord and I am tasked with continuing to serve a-- penance. As such I have had experience in both military and law enforcement, but I find myself wanting different employment.

[Another long pause. Again it is not for lack of words however as she rallies herself, putting away exhaustion and sitting straighter.]

Hire me and I'll protect you. Keep you alive. Murderers and those of any other unsavory backgrounds need not apply. And to make it clear, this is temporary. If I decide at any time you were dishonest or are heading down such a path I will nullify our agreement.

[Heaven's guardian for hire. That wasn't exactly something they taught in Sunday school.]

Penances don't get served acting as a hired gun. So do not consider me such. But what I do do, I am very effective at. If you are interested, do contact me and we will discuss any particulars.

[The feed cuts promptly.]

[The voice sounds fairly young and possibly a bit too loud. Although he still doesn't quite understand how the communicator works, Issun sounds self assured.]

Hey! Ammy, are you there? This thing's supposed to be a communicator, so let's communicate!

[Still operating on the assumption that the strange craft he finds himself currently on is the Ark of Yamato, Issun assumes that Amaterasu must be on board somewhere.

After some silence he begins to speak again, sounding somewhat defeated.]

I bet that god of weirdness was lying to me. Or maybe he doesn't know what this thing's for either. It doesn't seem that great at communicating.

[ back in Zombieland, when things got incredibly boring or incredibly scary, Wichita and Little Rock played the same few games to keep themselves occupied or distracted, and right now she's ( not only fiercely missing her sister, but ) in the mood for some distraction from the scary. and getting a little fuzzy on cheap cooking wine isn't cutting it today. so she flicks on her network device, clears her throat, and starts to ramble. ]

I've got three games I'm gonna throw out there, and somebody better play or I'll completely lose faith in this ship being able to get over all the bullshit that goes on around here. [ says the girl that's holding onto a notebook of drawings that she has no right to keep, but well who the hell asked you ]

Okay.

Game one!
Would you rather: only speak in questions, or only be able to yell everything you say?

Game two!
Two Truths and One Lie:
1) I've never blacked out from alcohol or whatever the hell else.
2) I can name almost any film just by a single quote.
3) I don't believe in love.

Game three!

--Here's the big one, people.

Truth or Dare.

[ she's nodding really big here, eyes wide, because oh yeah she knows how offering to play Truth or Dare with some of these people is like offering to completely ruin your own life, willingly, but well. ]

And nobody give me any of that "those are kid games" crap. You can either play or not play, but I gotta say, if you don't play, you're a goober. And I'll call you that. I will call you a goober. [ her mock-serious expression breaks a little so she can give the camera an honest(ish) smile, letting them know it's ridiculous, but godfreakingdamnit she needs ridiculous right now. she needs it. and she's pretty sure some of you sticks-in-the-mud need it to. ] Game on, Tranquility.