[ DING ~ DING ~ DING; what kind of sound do the HIGHLY ADVANCED PA SYSTEMS EVEN MAKE OKAY? The sounds of ALAN RICKMAN and a thirteen year old cool kid grace your ears, Tranquility. Unfortunately this is over the PA Systems, and you can't unhear this drivel or set it to mute.

blue = sherlock
red = dave ]

I am not reciting the lines of your Earth's slam poetry, 'Bow Chika Wow Wow', David. The premise is ridiculous.

It's Dave. David is your bible-thumping cousin who lives with his mom, christ, and dude you literally just said it. Again, with feeling.

Yes, but we've been over this. I am not rapping out the rest of the song with you, or passing air through my mouth to make noises you deem as music.

I've told you it's called beatboxing and it's one of the finest arts known to mankind.

You wouldn't know fine art if Van Gogh hit you on the head with his missing ear.

If the dude's going around whacking kids with his own severed features then he's crazier than Art Attack made him out to be.

[ The sound of a face hitting a palm]

Welcome to Radio Free Tranquility, this is Dave the Rave and co-host: Sherlock Holmes. On the list of things I am not doing, appending myself with a superfluous title, Dave is under item twenty-two. Had you bothered to read my list- Shercock Homeboy.

( Your Announcements Behind the Cut )

[ We'll both be responding and tagging around! ]

[Ataraxion, if you wanted a getaway driver from the streets of gangland, mobster-run London... well, you’ve got one now regardless.

Bob should probably be reacting with something a little more up the ‘fucking hell’ end of the scale, but he feels a bit sick and like he’s spent the last few days on a massive bender. More than that, he feels like his brain has been gathering dust, slow and sluggish where he’s expecting it to work a bit faster.

Everything seems to be just a little bit out of his reach, like thinking harder and trying to recall how he got in a weird looking pod thing with no clothes except his boxers... well, there’s kinky fucking shit and then there’s that. But even thinking as hard as he can manage despite the headache isn’t really getting him anywhere, the only thing he has managed is working out the new tattoo on his arm is a number that corresponds to a locker. And in that locker he found a jumpsuit, his lighter, chewing gum, his watch (now broken) and a car air freshener which all get shoved into the pocket of the outfit that makes him think of Formula 1 racing. At least he’s not mostly naked anymore?

But all of this culminates into the message he finally broadcasts to the network, unfiltered and unsecured. Anybody can find this if they’re looking...]

Think I might’ve fucked up somewhere back at Battersea. I... don’t exactly remember. Little help?

Let’s keep this short and very freakin’ sweet-- [There’s nothing sweet about the expression Dean’s wearing, disorientation and confusion written plainly for all to see. He looks like he’s less than impressed with this being the second time he’s come out of a grav couch -tank of goddamn goo- feeling like he’s about to fall over his own mind with how clumsy it is.]

Again? Seriously?

Fine, I wasn’t hot on bein’ splattered across the walls like a bad imitation of Slimer but... come on.

[He shakes his head and finally rubs a palm over his face. When he looks back at the feed it’s with renewed distance back in his eyes. There are new people around. New people with the potential of bringing new items on to Tranquility:]

Anybody got beer? Come see me. I’ll make it worth your while.



[FILTERED TO THE “UNOFFICIAL” SECURITY GROUP > encryption 89%]

I’m thinkin’ maybe we should re-group. See what’s what. See if anythin’ has changed. There’s new people skulkin’ ‘round the ship.

Hey, guys.

[ Hotspur's looking happy - if a little warily so. Behind him is the gunmetal grey backdrop of the main hangar deck, complete with serried ranks of broken shuttles and throughout the video he glances off screen and in to the shadows. There are noises out there – noises and things – and it is creeping him out, but hell if he's going to let it spoil his fun. ]

For those that don't know me - I'm Max, but call me Hotspur. I'm a flight lieutenant and I reckon the Tranq's pretty cool with that now. [ He juggles his comm device and raises a wrist to show the newly-changed tattoo bearing the initials OPR. ] There's a lot of beaten up old birds down here that could do with some TLC - Tali, you fancy trying your hand at one or two of these? Tony, I reckon you might be interested too... [ There's a meaningful glance in that second invitation. No homo. ]

But I kinda need some help with other things down here too - I'm not happy to let these poor shuttles lie around completely nameless. It's just not right. So if anyone's got any good ship names then let's hear them... but they've got to be related to the Tranquility somehow. So, uh, words that are a bit like Tranquility, but smaller. [ He grins; he knows it sounds a little stupid to those who don't come from a military background but names - especially well-chosen and meaningful names - are important. ] I got one of them named already. Faith, 'cause you gotta have a whole lot of faith that she's going to be spaceworthy one day...

[ He swings the device around in a dizzy swirl of shapes and colours before finally steadying the video feed to show off the powered-down innards of the cockpit. ]

Like I said: in need of some TLC. I can figure out a few basic faults on the controls side of things but I'm no flight techie. Any volunteers to lend a hand?

[ The camera pans back and Hotspur purses his lips, suddenly remembering that he had a bit of bad news for one person in particular: ]

Oh, and hey, Mouse - sorry, kid. Can't get you those gloves after all. Did you manage to find something else that would work?

[It's taken Raven a while to get the courage to talk on the Network, not exactly liking the fact that she didn't know who exactly she was talking to, but whatever. Charles could worry enough for the both of them, and she has questions, regarding her abilities. Plus, she has the distinct advantage of looking like whoever she wants, so. She picks a face she's used before (same coloring as her usual shift, just a brandy new face. and shorter hair. she's always wanted to try shorter hair), and flicks on her device.]

So, this might seem like an odd question, but I was wondering...

Has anyone else been feeling a bit off since they arrived here? Not from whatever they dosed us with to sleep, not that sicky feeling we woke up with, but just. After the fact? Like a noticeable difference in your physical or mental capabilities? [She clears her throat, squints a bit.]

Like me, for instance, I-- [Well, someone didn't think of a pretend mutation to use as an example.] --at home, I could run very fast, extraordinarily fast. Like a cheetah fast. [She makes a face, because this all sounds very stupid right now, she's sure of it.] Meanwhile, here? My whole body seems to feel a little off. I tried to run, but my body is sort of weakened, in a way. I use all my strength to hit the speed I used to be able to, but I can't come close to it.

Has anyone else been experiencing this kind of ..limitation? Or should I be freaking out that whatever they used to knock me out might be having some long-term effects? [Like how right now a sheen of sweat is forming along her brow from the effort it's taking to hold this physical form. Ah.]

[ A bit of silence, and the sound of someone clearing his throat.

Guess who finally decided to stop lurking? Thiiiis guy. ]

-- Can I say one thing, about the final frontier?

I thought it was supposed to be a little grander than this. [ THOUGHTFUL PAUSE. ] More lights, you know, and perhaps more windows in the ship so we could actually see things.

But as a measure of curiosity, show of hands, how many of us are just from good old Earth? Been to the moon and not much further, that sort of thing? Because an awful lot of you seem very at home on a bloody spaceship, and I'm feeling a little left out.

BORED!
Give me work. Give me problems.
My mind rebels against this stagnation.
Give me a puzzle. Or mystery.
Either will do.
Just. Give. Me. Something. To. Solve. Tranquility.
I need the mental stimulation before I result
to drinking the liquid from the grav pouches.

SH.


[ You get another text really shortly after the last one. ]


I would kill everyone of you for a cigarette. SH

[ It takes some time and positioning, but he finally gets the com-device to where he wants it before double-checking that he's posting to the network at large.

The video starts and others will be able to see a small, blonde man settled in a chair, brows furrowed with a hint of mild concern. ]

Right, yes, hello.

I've been hearing a lot of talk on the network regarding those who have recently been altered to human bodies.

[ His lips pinch a little - to be honest, John is still having a hard time believing this is all real. ]

This is a real issue, especially concerning robotic, um, persons. I understand that those of you who have been affected are pushing for getting your original bodies back, but until that's possible, if that's possible, you need to be able to take care of the one you're currently inhabiting.

My name is John Watson - I'm a medical doctor with twenty years of experience. I'm offering my help to anyone who needs help getting accustomed to their new bodies. Again, I think this is especially important to those who formally had no need to eat or sleep, and may or may not be aware of the particulars of human hygiene or diet.

[ Some humans are this way, too, to be fair. Looking at you, Sherlock. ]

Since this is a personal issue, I'm open to making an individual appointment to see you. You can come see me at my flat or I can come to whatever venue you're comfortable with. Just please contact me and we can figure something out together.

Anyone else who needs medical assistance or advice may also contact me; I'll do what I can to help.

[ He cuts the feed and leans back in his chair to wait and see if good sense overcomes pride. ]

[ Oh dear. That's rather a grumpy face on the other end of the feed. It's the face of a telepath with a pounding headache - not nearly as bad as he would have imagined, given the circumstances, but still rather bothersome, all the same. There is a great deal of exasperation in his voice as he speaks, as if he's a parent reprimanding an errant child that keeps making the same mistake over and over again. ]

I would like to state for the record that this "jumpsuit" is an absolute travesty. I have no intention of wearing it for extended periods of time- [ the bare shoulders visible in shot should be some indication of this ] -and God knows I am incredibly hopeful that in time it might be possible to find some alternative clothing that isn't nearly as criminal as this. I'm practically offended.

[ A brief pause, another faint wince as the headache throbs. ]

In any case, I suppose it was about time to make proper use of this little device. Good day, fellow captives, I hope you're all as delighted as I am by your existence upon this ship. My name is John Buchanan, but you may call me Oxford instead - it doesn't sound nearly quite as dull. [ He smiles, just a tad, and it's unclear why. Maybe at his little jab at his given name, maybe at something else. ]

Finally, a small request; if anyone has some ibuprofen, I'd be much obliged and indebted if they could perhaps share it before my skull cracks in half.

This is a request that if any other members of the Normandy crew have shown up here, they let me know. I'd like to know how many of us there are to work with.

[Not that she's the leading type, but it -- seems like it's going to be necessary, at least until Shepard shows up. She just has to have faith that Shepard will show up.]

[She clears her throat. She should probably say something to the rest of the people here, too.]

If any of you missed it, some of the remaining members of this ship's crew are answering questions here.

[Not that it's very informative. Still.]

[Of all the places Dean figured he’d wake up, submerged in a freaky Matrix-style pod filled with liquid wasn’t one of the top contenders. He’s woken up in far worse situations before and though that should be a comfort it’s not. All of this is supposed to be over...

What follows his rude re-entry into consciousness is a slick (literally) routine, old habits and what he knows mix, eyes, ears and hands checking out the entire medical bay. The scalpel he ends up with is more chance than anything and, though he’s got nowhere to stash it yet without risking serious injury, he keeps his grip on it tight. He has nothing else to go by aside from an itch inside his arm and it’s not until he twists it over to scratch that he reads the number tattooed into his skin. 124.

Another minute passes as he tries to figure out how stopping the apocalypse has anything to do with this, and he half considers the idea that he’s actually dead at least three times before the number and the lockers suddenly make sense. He finds 124 and opens it, stares inside at the weirdass Star Trek uniform and tries not to react to the keys he can see very clearly next to a lighter, a pack of beef jerky and his hunting knife. He’s not going to think about his baby, alone in a graveyard without him.

Once the uniform is grudgingly pulled on, his own belongings concealed in various places around his body, the device he doesn’t recognize is scooped up and flipped over twice in his hands, powered up and snorted at when it tells him to go to the blue lift. That ain’t happening anytime soon. Instead he’s messing around with every single button until he’s told he’s broadcasting to a network. Awesome.]

Who the hell’s in charge around here? And who wants to explain why I’ve got a number tattooed into my goddamn arm? I swear to that douche upstairs, if this has anythin’ to do with any of you feathery assholes I will kick your asses from here to... whatever.

I have no idea how I got here. I have a number in my arm and right now, for all I know, I’m in some kinda concentration camp for guys who the universe thought it hadn’t crapped on hard enough or long enough. Anybody with answers? I’ll trade you strips of my beef jerky for information. Maybe.

[The feed cuts out here, though anybody who’s anywhere close when he realizes where he is? Be prepared for expletives like you’ve never heard before.]

[ There's small click as the feed begins transmitting. Nothing shows up except staticky black, but there are muffled noises in the background that faintly resolve themselves into hurried words—two voices, one male, one female, pitched low. ]

—id this—

—ell is goin—

[ . . . ]

—et’s just … over with.

[ There’s a noise that might either be a sigh or a quick burst of static. ] Fine.( Q & A UNDER THE CUT. )

[ this post is not a great post to make. jenna debates saying anything at all, but the other options aren't options so much as death sentences. after steeling her nerves, a visibly ill at ease but trying to grin through it jenna has a few things to ask, o fellow passengers on this not-a-yacht. ]

Okay, everyone else is doing the 'where are we, why are we here' thing, and better than I could so... I'll take the other obvious ones. Has anyone found food? And more importantly, booze? Because I would trade the space jumpsuit off my back for a bottle of Cuervo right now.

[ pause. and this is the MOST CASUAL QUESTION WHAT. no ulterior motives here, shhh. ]

And on a different note, what's the medical situation like here? Because the first aid class I took says we should probably have bandages, Neosporin, Advil... blood bags... [ one of these things is not like the other. ] Just curious.

[ worst stealth vampire of the year award: in the bag. ]