Given the nature of this place, I would like to speak with any medical personnel on this ship. I have been here since the last jump and would prefer to keep myself busy. I am a doctor, though if you'd like to know more about my credentials, you'll have to speak with Topher Brink. [If he's here, she might as well make this awkward. Considering whatever memories she has about graduating medschool aren't actually real.]

I have experience in surgery as well as general practitioner.

Thank you.

[ tranquility, red smiley, everyone who even remotely being a creeper and stalking, hello, haven't you missed tony? no? well that's fair he needs to keep his nose out of everyone's business anyway. but yeah, no, that's not ever going to happen. sorry guys. the red smiley putting him on the list has actually accomplished something awesome, because while tony likes using text, some of you are really stupid about using it or you just like another setting better. guess whose voice you get to hear today? tony's. send your regards to red smiley at 1005 creeper avenue, if you insist on thanking them. 

it's weird, you know, being at the top of the list and with such awesome company, but tony has been notorious way too many times in his life to really be too bothered by it. yes, the element of try not to die is bothersome, but he figures that he's three for three in the try not to die race, and he'd like to think he's good enough to be four for four. it's okay everyone, you can be jealous, after all not everyone can be him. it's a terrible privilege. ] 

Shockingly, though not to some of you, the elite few of you who have really heard it, I do have a voice. Some of you probably thought I was mute and sorry to disappoint and/or make you lose a bet if you thought that. I'd say that I'd pay you back but my money is at home and other than, like what, less than ten of you, we don't share a home world. Can't say I'm sorry about that bit though, since some of you are actually the worst company. But you probably already knew that. I'm digressing from my original point here, let me just do something.

[ and after he says that there is a text packet going to everyone with a easily read version with only the numbers of the list entitled, click me twice for i am an important list. ]

That's for those of you who haven't seen it. And those of who have been pinging me since Caffrey was nice and namedropped me as someone to go to so you could read it. It was in morse code originally, it was disgusting to decipher because morse code is stupid. In any case, yes, some of us are on here, and yes, I'm on it. In fact, I'm at the top of the list. Isn't that red smile just charming?

Rhetorical question, by the way. So don't answer it. Not even you Bacon Guy. 

Because I have a sneaking suspicion that some of you are just that paranoid, no, this is not some stupid list of people who we need to do something to prevent the red smiley from doing fuck knows what to us. Because, I'll let you in on a little newsflash, this list is filled with some people who are kind of important to the ship. Including me, because I don't know how many of you have been trying to fix up shuttles, but I have. So. Let's calm down for, oh I don't know five minutes or days or I don't know, until the next jump maybe? I'd be good with that. Think everyone else would to. Crazy idiots notwithstanding.

And if one person sends a single message of "I told you so." this is not my fault and I'll have you know it didn't talk to me this time. That confession sucked, but if you guys want to read, it, it is sitting there, unencrypted. Just saying.

( 100% stark listmate encryption to listmates (including wasnik) minus megamind + JARVIS, natasha romanoff, and bruce banner )

( 100% stark encryption to banner, romanoff and JARVIS )

[ The really interesting thing about this video broadcast is the fact that it's not actually coming from inside the Tranquility. Hotspur's in the pilot seat of the first shuttle - the one he affectionately named Faith all those months ago back when they all first arrived. His face is lit by the soft glow of the avionic displays in front of him and he sits back from the controls, slack-handed and staring with thick pre-occupation out of the shuttle windows instead.

His comms device - propped up on the co-pilots seat beside him - offers a profile view of Hotspur's features... and beyond him, a bit of the outer hull of the Tranquility suspended against the backdrop of deep space.

Red-eyed, ashen-faced... Hotspur's clearly hasn't been sleeping very well. Being the robust, brick-outhouse sort of fellow that isn't prone to negativity it usually takes a hell of a lot to make him feel less than 100% of his usual awesomeness but here we are. His expression is pained and with one hand he absently fidgets with the loose-hanging metal dogtags that fall around his neck. He doesn't speak up immediately but when he does it's a distant murmur. ]

...Full of them. Even the bad ones.

[ It's an off-hand comment more to himself than the video feed running live beside him. But then, as if only just remembering that it was recording, he seems to pull himself together and turn his head to address the comms device directly. ]

Look, I know not everyone out here's got much time for talk about the Gods and religion and all that but for those folk that do...

[ He pauses and exhales a brief sigh; this little crisis of faith is turning out to be pretty damn painful and he briefly struggles to hunt down the right words to express what he wants to ask. ]

Well. I'm kind of strugglin' to see how this whole... adventure fits in with whatever it is the Gods have got in store for me. For us all. I mean, it's not that I don't have faith that They know what's best, I... I just --

[ He pauses again and his gaze travels wildly around the cockpit until it fixates on the massive hull of the Tranquility beyond the shuttle's screen. ]

I'm not really sure if demons and possessions and all that is just a really really effective test of faith or that maybe we're all just a little bit too far away for the Gods to help us.

( It could be worse. That's how she reassures herself, turning the device over for a final time for snapping it on, eyeing it with a seriousness that, if you know her outside her rank as officer, might be a little surprising. She doesn't speak right away, but the hand that isn't holding the device flexes, desperate to fiddle with her dog tags and relieve some of the lurking anxieties.

When she speaks, it's clear spoken, and surprisingly polished. Very English, really, which might not be especially unusual here, but is a little odd almost anywhere but the capital, back home. )

This is Starling. Repeat: this is Starling, Kapetan Grumley of the Asgardreid igsb-3. Any members of the Midgard Corps should report to me immediately.

( Carefully enunciated, and bluntly delivered, and that's all she'll release, for now, giving the device another look and her mouth quirking a little before she snaps it off. There's more information to be picked off other posts to this device without exposing her confusion, because seriously. Seriously, you guys. )

[ the man over the network looks shabby, a little. run down, like an old shirt that somehow looks worn out no matter how freshly clean it is.

...and he is freshly clean, come to think of it. thanks, blue goo. it's been a thrill.

he stares down at his communicator, mouth tilted in a slightly awkward, out of practice smile. ]

So. This is space, huh? [ one nod, and he purses his lips. ] All right, then.

( t e x t ; s.h.i.e.l.d codes )

Request for: body count.
Not dead. Obviously.
Injured parties, report to medbay by request of JW.

Update on ship ongoings, don’t be trivial.
Emotional accounts, overly embellished stories with
words such as : ‘terrifying’ and ‘unjustified’ will be met with scorn.
We’ve gathered that the demons are ‘big old meanies’.
Now, how can they be stopped and what are we doing to stop them?

SH & JW

PS.

“No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected.”

[ There is a small addendum, a call out to specific people. The word familiar to one, the cypher familiar to the other. The quote is a clue enough. ]

RDKTCIGN

[ FILTER TO KIRK | SPOCK ]

Sorry, I missed brunch. - SH

Sherlock went missing, as suspected. Went to find him. Didn’t think it’d take so long, sorry. What can we do to help? - JW

( OOC | key is 15 and replies will come from both John and Sherlock)

[ WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK or not because Hotspur is way too worried for his mortal soul to be whistling right now. With the sleeves of his jumpsuit pushed all the way up to his biceps he wields an angle grinder in one hand and a roughly-sawn (or roughly-angle grinded, as the case may be) length of iron in the other. He flexes the arm with the metal in his hand, showing the bright grey serrations where the angle-grinder has sliced through the bar exposing fresh, raw metal beneath. ]

[ He's never been a particulary quiet man when it comes to talking - Hotspur's got the kind of voice that's been perfected over the generations via military parents and grandparents bawling at recruits on parade grounds and putting the fear of the Gods in to the enemies on battlefields - but now he sounds worried and hoarse. ]

Get to a purple elevator and head down to the shuttles if you need a place to hide out. There's freshly-cut iron all over the place down here, and plenty of it...

[ He twists the comms device to cast the video feed over the bank of purple elevators that mark the entrance to the cargo bay and shuttle decks. Stretched across the doors of each elevator is a mesh of iron chains - liberated from their usual employment as cargo nets - broad and loose enough to allow access if you haven't recently picked up an demonic aversion to iron, but otherwise blocking access for any of the possessed. Off-screen Hotspur sounds a little uncertain as he adds: ]

I'm reckoning that should do the trick. Right?

[ Casting the angle-grinder aside with a noisy off-screen clatter Hotspur takes his comms device with him as he parts a swathe of iron chains and enters a waiting lift. Personally, he's not going to stick around in the cargo bays whilst there are imperiled souls needing a morally good bloke with a stick of metal and a blisteringly earnest belief in the existence of the Old Gods of Earth to lend a hand. Providing a safe space to fall back to was a good start, but Hotspur's already starting to warm to the idea of hitting something ~in the name of goodness~ or whatever... and he hopes other people are too. ]

Starbuck, you around? Grab something big and iron-y and meet me by the purple elevator in passenger deck zero-zero-one.

[ End feed. ]

[ OOC: FOR THE RECORD he totally realises that telling people to take purple elevators to safety will make any purple lift a bit of an easy target SOoooo he is going to be defending the purple lift leading from passenger deck 001 until he gets any other bright ideas! ]

[ When the video clicks on, the Network is greeted with the face of a man in his late twenties — five o'clock shadow, hair mussed in a way to look absolutely careless, a bemused smirk on his face. When he tilts his head and realizes the device is recording, that smirk spreads to a smile that shows teeth, charming and beatific. For a guy who's just been through the ringer of a nasty space-time anomaly, he seems fairly good shape. Or maybe he's just good at taking things in stride. (Or maybe he just likes pain.)

Whatever the case maybe, when he tilts his head he lifts a hand and waves. A lazy, unaffected wriggle of his fingers before he puffs up his cheeks and gives a kind of blow-hard sigh. ]

So. Anybody out there feel like helping a guy out and cluing me in as to who exactly is in charge here? [ A simple enough question, punctuated by the exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. He moves to switch of the device and then thinks better of it, leaning back again to add: ] And if you're gonna say Ward, I'll stop you right there, cause I've already done some of my homework. [ A beat, a tiny shrug. As if to say well, kinda. ] I'm not looking for the guy whose on the nameplate of the bridge. I'm looking for whoever's actually in charge.

Capiche?



[ ooc; Ladies and gents of the Tranquility, meet Vepar, one of the OCs for the demon plot! Unlike the possessed passengers, he was already well-settled into his host 'Evander' before coming on board. For more information on him, see his profile while he tries to get a lay of the land and maybe stir up a little strife in the process. ]

[Between finding out his best chick friend is a vampire and his best angel friend publicly broadcasting what sounds like a goddamn booty call in his direction,  Dean isn't having a good week. It's why he keeps this half-request short and sweet. Or... as sweet as he can ever manage.]

Know what this ship's missin'? [The question isn't really left to linger too long; he's not looking for answers and he definitely doesn't want certain smartasses he's seen on the network thinking this is an opportunity for them to bring it to his door. He's really not in the mood. The pause just gives him enough time to take a swig of the bottle of shitty looking beer he seems to have acquired from somewhere.] Body shots.

[DUN DUN DUUUUUN! A masked vigilante appears on the screen. She has some very blonde hair and-- are those bat ears? She's also talking a mile a minute.]

Okay, so.... okay. We're obviously on a ship. In... space? With assigned numbers and communication devices. This would be a lot cooler if I knew the why and the how and the potential dangers. Mostly the why. Anybody get a 'why' yet? Not expecting something for nothing here, so...

Hey! I'm Batgirl. Would anyone mind giving me a tour?

[ Let's be honest, "fucked off" is a huge understatement. Oxford is walking and talking, stomping along the corridors of the Tranquility, irritated by how familiar he finds it now. It's a tactical move, of sorts. If he's going to cope with the space induced headache, he's going to do it in the mopey privacy of his own room, and certainly not the locker rooms. ]

It seems that I was under some misguided delusion that perhaps maybe one jaunt in space would be more than enough for one lifetime, but no. Here I am, once again, covered in this obscene blue goo and - even better - this time I have been denied my clothes. This damned heap of futuristic junk has an abominable sense of humour, providing me with nothing but cufflinks, a pair of shoes and, worst of all, a damned tie. The sheer audacity of this set-up simple has no bounds.

[ The stomping stops, just for a moment, emphasising Oxford's little pause for thought. ]

How accessible are the airlocks here? I've a strong temptation to see what an Asprey tie looks like drifting around the vast vacuum of space- [ he stops for a second; the thought of the endless darkness surrounding them at this moment makes his head pound that much harder and a certain nausea bubble in the pit of his stomach ] -ah, in all its royal blue glory.

[ S I G H. ]

Good day to you, Tranquility. How lovely it is to make your acquaintance once again.

[ there's a crackling stream of static in the video as it bursts in to life - Cambridge is attempting to do her usual technopathic shit by mentally logging in to the network but she's not really giving it her all. Probably on account of the fact that her attention is half-drawn by the fact she's having to bicker irritably with someone off-screen as she does so: ]

Do shut up - no, just shut your mouth, Justin Bieber, I am trying to transmit here, for the love of God--

[ the feed adjusts itself and Cambridge's face - petulant, frustrated and visibly worried - swims in to view. The backdrop to the feed is one of those hideously never-ending corridors and in the crook of her elbow is an over-sized black leather handbag containing one (1) cat. Which definitely doesn't belong to her. And she's largely ignoring. Guess who hates small furry creatures. ]

Listen here, all of you: for God's sake, don't go out in to the corridors. Evidently someone is playing silly buggers with the ship because it's certainly not making any sense. It's all rather ridiculous out here right now...

[ There's a quaver of fear in her voice that she quickly swallows in an effort to keep a stiff upper lip and SHOW NO FEAR etc etc. ]

Dearest Aberdeen - if you're not dead or sulking or what-have-you then I do believe I've found your horrid cat.

[ A quick shot of the newly-christened Cat the cat in Cambridge's handbag; needless to say this is not that particular Motherfucker. ]

If it survives this horrible door-less ordeal then someone had better take it off my hands before I turn it in to gloves.

[ There is a very flat note of boredom in Oxford's voice, and the video is focused on his profile as he idly stares at the wall of his room, slouched in his seat. ]

Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; conspiring with him how to load and bless with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run... [ He trails off, looking momentarily rueful. ] It's no mystery as to why Keats and his many wonderful contemporaries chose to roam the countryside and marvel at the ever changing landscape. [ HUFFS. ] They weren't trapped on a spaceship where every corridor makes you wonder if you're merely wandering about in circles. There are only so many trips one can make to the oxygen garden before you start recognising individual leaves, for God's sake.

[ He finally sits up, with a quick, smooth movement, the subdued quality of his voice becoming suddenly more efficient and business-like as he looks squarely at the camera feed. ]

In the interests of quelling a certain sense of raging boredom that occasionally grips me - and others, I'm sure - I would like to propose a poker night. I imagine there must be a fair number of us who fancy themselves good with cards. [ He raises his brow curiously. ] Do I have any takers?

[ Good morning, Tranquility. If you hadn't been down to the hangar deck yet then over Hotspur's shoulder you're getting a glimpse of what it's like. A cavernous space, designed much in the same style as the rest of the ship, full of thick shadows and plenty of dead air space stretching out towards the elevator platforms. It's largely deserted – Hotspur has a bad habit of working the night hours, regardless of however creepy it is down there – except for the sleek hulks of shuttles in various states of disrepair. Post-jump, Hotspur looks animated, excited; he knows each jump is getting them a little closer to where they need to be – and if it's bringing in new potential crewmembers then all the better. ]

Hey, crew. How are we all doing? I know a whole bunch of you have had friends and family from back home turn up in the latest jump so I just wanted to check in – have we had anyone from Midgard Corps turn up? [ He's hopeful; gods, he's so freaking hopeful, it's written all over his face. ] Anyone from the Asgardreid? Hell, if there are any kind of pilots brought in from the new jump from anywhere it'd be good to have you down in the hangar decks. Flight engineers, too. We got a whole load of busted birds down here and I reckon we'd be doing a world of good if we got 'em all fixed up and flight ready. If anyone's interested then take the purple elevators and come find me – Hotspur. I'm filling in as flight officer until the rest of the old crew returns.

[ Yeah, crew returns. That's exactly what he believes is going to happen here. And then, because he really wasn't paying attention to the creepy door while he was busy being disappointed at the stowaways: ]

Talking of which, did anyone figure out who wrote 'hello' on that door?

[ ooc note : open to action tags if people would like to come and explore! ]

[ Nigel isn't a luddite in any way, shape or form, though he's never been fond of technology in any strong sense. For a young man who liked to spend his time wrist-deep in the insides of once-living things, far too often technology and all of its trappings struck him as too clinical, too detached. Too bloodless. And so, it's with a fair amount of fiddling that he finally manages to get his communicator to work, choosing the video options after scrolling through one and then the other, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of each.

When the image clicks on, the Network is greeted with a young man in his late teens — strong-jawed and handsome, tidy and in a jacket and tie, his bangs pushed across his forehead in a damp swipe of dark hair. He looks, for all intents and purposes, perfectly harmless. And when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly low and oddly lulling despite the way it seems to lie flat over certain phrases. ]

Hello, Tranquility, [ the young man says simply, revealing himself to be English and with quite good diction. ] I've questions and it seems there are some of you who may provide answers.

So.

Where might I inquire about the dead?