I've got some weed that needs growing: it's special, you might even call it magical, and it takes a delicate hand to grow.

[ The clinking of glass rings through the speakers, before the video snaps on, broadcasting Amory, mussed up hair and an inebriated gleam to his eyes. He tops off a glass of scotch, before addressing the camera. ]

You'd think growing up on a vineyard, I would've learn how to grow something— but then again, that's why we hired help.

And that's why I'm looking for an elf.

You guys have that Disney princess thing going on, right? Best friends with animals, flowers, bugs, other tiny, pathetic creatures. Think one of you can sing my weed to grow?

A fairy might work too.

[ Is this a joke, or is Amory being serious and vaguely racist... who knows. Or maybe he does. ]

The hors d'oeuvres and pirates are great and all, guys, but have you ever really considered the consequences of this multi-world space party?

If we're lucky, then we're not from different universes. We just share different addresses in the same infinite space. Maybe your neighbor is 10 to 20th to the 40th light years away from you, and whatever took us here was somehow able to cross that sheer distance of space-time to bring us all together.

And if we're unlucky?

Then each of our universes exist independently. Each universe is its own bubble, a false vacuum governed by its own laws. Laws like energy level, the particles that make up what we are, et cetera, et cetera. In other words, we shouldn't be able to interact.

One of the times where we might interact is if one of these universes were to subsume the other. In my world, we call it a false-vacuum decay. In an instant, the poor bastards of Universe A find themselves functioning under an entirely new set of laws, but wait--

They can't.

There are specific conditions that allow you and the physical world around you to exist. Change any of those conditions, and you're fucked. Either you're gone in an instant, or if you survive, it won't be long. Gravity is going to pull everything together until we've got one giant mass. And seriously, I don't like anyone that much to be that close to them.

I'm not saying that is what's going to happen to us. The fact that we can coexist within the same space implies that the laws of our universes aren't so far off. In fact, it explains the wonky powers issue. But think about it: if a bunch of people are being pulled from different universes, aren't we poking holes in each of these bubbles? Could we be compromising the integrity of each separate universe, until the borders weaken and ultimately everything collapses into each other?

Could it happen? I don't know. I'm not sure if anyone could really know for sure, and all of this? It's pretty damn humbling. Even the most powerful of us are just shitstains on the great toilet bowl of the multiverse. Cheers!

TL;DR: All our universes could collapse into each other. Discuss.

[The video transmitter clicks on with a view of the ceiling, until Luke picks it up and rotates it to show his face. He looks tired and perhaps like he only woke up a few minutes ago.]

Does anyone on board know how to get rid of certain dreams? There's one I've been having night after night-- well, I suppose it's more of a nightmare. It's getting harder and harder to sleep.

[transmission is now locked to Anakin Skywalker]

Fa- uh, Dad. [He's still not used to calling anyone that and it's difficult to get into the mindset that he can address someone he hardly knows so casually.] Maybe you can help me. I don't know if there are any Jedi techniques that can help with dreams but someone else was talking to me about meditation. Maybe that would work? I don't know. At this point I'll try just about anything. I just want it to stop.

[It starts with a close-up of his face. But he remembers such things from once before; namely, how he doesn't need to be so close to be heard. So he leans back, jaw clenching before he speaks.]

My name is Ichabod Crane. I have been - remiss in introducing myself, and for that I am truly sorry.

[More sorry that he's still here at month #2. He sits with a thin makeshift bandage wrapped around the knuckles of his hand and a broken mirror behind him. His patience with the ship wore thin for a moment. But then he's still concerned by thoughts of the Apocalypse and the fact that his wife still sits in Purgatory.

But for the moment, he's collected.]

I have a query, queries, if you will, for my fellow passengers. Do you believe that we are brought aboard this ship in some indiscriminate fashion? Or are we chosen, our fates intertwined for some greater...perhaps sinister purpose? Was anyone on a mission of utmost urgency only to have it suddenly interrupted?

[And, while not the most important, there is one other thing that he'd like to know:]

And does anyone find themselves missing Starbuck's coffee? Given the size of this vessel, there should be no less than five on board.

[Ichabod shifts his gaze, almost abashed about it.

But damn, those baked goods.]

[Sam lasted approximately 3.8 days resting in a bed after getting sort of kind of stabbed in the back (well, at home, then it sort of... followed him here). He's mostly healed thanks to the powers that be and Castiel, but he's still slow on his feet, all sore and stitched up and sort of exhausted from losing most of the blood in his body (or whatever Dean would claim he lost; he thinks it's not that bad anymore, so whatever). He sort of rests himself in the garden with his network comm, wincing a little to get comfortable against some old gnarled tree trunk.

He wants to get his mind off home. Dad's dead — dead dead, not coming back, no hope of fixing that — and he's got demon blood pumping inside his veins, and Ava and Andy and so many other kids are dead by now... And Sam is pretty sure he's dying back home, regardless of how his conversation with his brother goes. Basically, life sucks, it's a shitfest, and we're all gonna die eventually. But hey, he tries to keep the topic light and his faith a little high.]

Well, everyone from the bridge — I'm glad you're all okay. That was a terrible idea, but. I'm glad anyway. [And he is. His voice is light when he says that.] We'd rather want you guys all alive and kicking, y'know, even if I get why you guys took that risk. I mean, where I'm from? That sort of thing is something I deal with a lot, so... I'm not about to wag any fingers. But did anything in particular happen in there that would be good to note for the future? I know everyone just about tore their own arms off trying to get the doors to open from the outside; how was the inside, though? Any sort of visions, ill omens? Possibly changes in the setting that might imply something spiritual or omnipresent there with you? There were a few distorted voice and video posts, and I'm sure it's been brought up, but humor me.

[It's important to note these kinds of things.]

The ship seems to be warping itself a lot lately, so I figured best to ask. Like — the numbers. I don't know the implication or importance of them, but I know some of you've been talking about them... and the masks are a new thing for me, technically. I wasn't around for that, so I guess there's none to worry about for the newer arrivals, but I've heard it wasn't exactly rainbows and candy canes, though.

The mirrors were freaking out the last time I checked, the previous jump; on the bright side, I'm 100% sure that it's not Bloody Mary. Already had a hell of a time dealing with that particular ghost. [but we did it cuz winchesters. savin ppl. hunting thangs. family bidness. He shrugs. Where was he going with this before he got distracted by old cases? He must be getting too used to this place if he's okay with chatting about them to begin with. Then again, nothing wrong with admitting you deal with vengeful spirits on occasion in a place full of supernatural issues. It's when you admit you kill vamps and werewolves on a ship full of them that's a problem.... Anyway...] I don't know. It just seems like little things are building up. We're getting more information, sometimes literally through someone else's point of view in memories - but I get the feeling it's not gonna continue on like this without something big happening.

[For anyone interested in Offline. threads, Sam will be resting in the gardens; he's been sleeping a little more until he feels more up to speed, or will otherwise be combing his father's journal and some of the books he'd received from home to see if there's anything on 'haunted mirrors'. Just because they dealt with Bloody Mary doesn't mean this is the same kind of application of lore. He'll probably just end up nodding off here for a while until he's energized enough to drag himself back to his room. Maaaaybe he should be resting there. Whatever, hunter thug, don't need no sleep.

Library it is. Maybe he can find an e-book with anyyyy information on numbers and the importance of numbers in cultures from this universe. Chances are he'll find squat he can apply to the numbers on the walls, but it's better than having to sit still for a full week or something. And then maybe go to the med bay and make sure his nasty little row of sutures are doing okay. Hygiene is important mkay. Though he might be hobbling along like an old man until his back feels better. What a loser.]

[ When the feed comes on, everything is in its place. The Comms device is set squarely on to a view of a desk, a large American flag hangs on its pole in the space behind Nathan, decked out in his best suit. A painting hangs on the wall behind him. This may be the last time he addresses the ship, in which case he’s going to do it right. ]

Good afternoon, Tranquility.

For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Nathan Petrelli. I arrived here on the sixth jump, and I’ve been working in Communications ever since. I was here when we all still reported to Resnik to keep the ship running, and I was here when Ward executed the prisoners we took from the Scylla. I’ve been here through most of the worst things that the Tranquility has thrown at us, and never once - not once, in almost two years - have I thought to stop cooperating with the whims of this damn ship.

That ends today.

At 0900 tomorrow morning I intend to take the Tranquility’s bridge. I make this post here, now, because this isn’t just about me, this concerns all of us. So, perhaps against my better judgement, it seems only right that those of the rest of you that are as restless as I am should have the opportunity to join me in this endeavor.

Some of you will call me crazy. You’ll think that makes you sane. You’ll call this mutinous. But let me ask you--how willing are you to carry on the way we have been so far? The distortions we see in the mirrors; the people that are watching; no longer just out of sight; our secrets, no longer secret; the weight of paranoia that is weighing all of us down, month after month. How long do you want this to go on without making a stand, without feeling like you’ve actually done something about it?

I don’t know that this is going to be safe. I don’t know if any of us are going to come back, and maybe some of the less morally indulgent types around here are gonna see it as good reason to lock us all away. I’d like to remind those people that in the absence of an actual captain, this isn’t really a mutiny. We can argue about it lawyer style if you like. Might as well, it might be the last argument we ever have. But please don’t feel as though you’ll alter my resolve.

We have to change what we’re doing. We have to make a stand. And you can shut your mouth right now, Neal Caffrey. I haven’t forgotten what you said; this is about weighing the risk.

[ At last Nathan takes a deliberate pause, steepled his hands in front of him. ]

If you’re going to volunteer, then please consider the risks. You may die. You may go mad. The rest of this crazy crew might decide to throw you into space. This isn’t a decision that you should be making quickly, but I’m sorry, this is all the time we’ve got. If you have even the slightest of doubts, you should stay behind.

Some of you--I know you’re gonna volunteer, and I reserve the right to veto your offers. You know who you are, and you have responsibilities. I’m not tearing apart the infrastructure of this ship if I can help it. Others...well, I need you where you are. Plan B.

Hopefully the next time I speak to you, it’ll be from Tranquility’s bridge. Be safe, and good luck to all of us. Petrelli out.


[ OOC: This is the corresponding network post to the volunteer sign up here on the OOC comm. If you don’t know what’s going on yet, then take a read through. ]

[ It's all just black. For a few seconds.

And then there's suddenly an all encompassing flash of yellow light, filtered through fabric, followed by some muffled grumbling.

YUP. Somebody's done a butt dial. More like a pocket dial, but whatever. And it all goes back to black for a couple more seconds before it happens all over again, a distinctive crackling added to the soundtrack along with a 'shit!', the light turning an ambient orange as it flickers angrily.

.. Hey. You. Stop guessing that someone is a pyro. Because he isn't.

After another second, Peter goes for his comm with the intention of- oh. Double shit. That would be some awkward staring right there ]

Sorry. [ awkward… ] Wasn't trying to give anyone a show. Or anything at all, I'll just- [ but he hesitates before cutting the feed, brows furrowing by way of sudden light-bulb inducing ideas. ]

Is anyone maybe interested in doing a little trial and error experimentation? I promise that you won't die in the process or anything and the worst that'll go wrong is you'll need an... injection at the end of the day. Sounds worse than it is. It'll even end up making you feel better than when you even agreed to help. [ Because someone’ll totally agree to help after that little intro. He clears his throat, starting somewhere else. ]

But if you know anything about physics or... or radiation. On how to just control atoms? The atoms that make up anything in particular. [ God he's going so far out on a rope right now it's not even funny. In fact, it's making him cringe. ] Especially someone with an ability where you can control an element... more than just use it, but manipulate all the parts that make it up. On it's actual atomic level- I could use the help. The science behind it's a little above me, but if you've got your ability fine tuned all the way down to a molecular level.

I could use your help?

 [Welcome back to Conspiracy Theory Hour with Topher Brink, who is currently in medical wearing a parka. He is the worst Stark Bannerman ever.]

When Bennett Halverson was here [he has to swallow a bit, because having Bennett here, however awkward it might have been, was nice and he misses her], we got into our brains to do some research on the nanites. It... didn't get too far, because the problem with these little beasties is they're everywhere and they kinda control how we get in and out of places and, personally? I don't wanna sleep in the hallway. But the fact is, we don't know a whole lot about them and we can't crack 'em without being worried that they're gonna... do something weird or explode our brains. And that's bad on numerous levels.

And I didn't realize until just now how bad. 

Let's think for a second. We've got the whole memory share business with each other, which is now, apparently, extending into memory share with the old crew. We know for a fact the nanites are deeply ingrained into the brain's thought processes. Think about it, guys- when you sign on to become a member of one of our lovely teams, do you go out and get a new tattoo with that shiny three letter badge of honor or do you fall asleep and wake up with it permanently stamped to your arm. [He holds up his own, showcasing his MED « 002 « 195 tattoo.] 'Cause I think I woulda remembered the tattooing process- I'm just saying.

[He sucks in a breath.] So the nanites know the difference between idly thinking "Hey, I'm in medical" versus "I am really and truly in medical." That means they're receiving data from the brain. We already know they can transmit it, because that's how we get around here. It's like any good computer, but here's the thing. We don't- and kinda can't for the aforementioned brain asplode reasons- know how much data these things are actually getting off of us. 

[He rolls his chair over to his computer.] And-and the thing is, all the nanites operate on the same network. Receiving, transmitting, whatever- we're all connected through them- so what if the memory links were a nanite malfunction. What if we saw a little glimpse behind the curtain of what's really going on here. Remember that line from the subnetwork? "It wants to keep you?" I know you remember that if you were for it, 'cause I still have nightmares about it. 

[A bitter, manic laugh.]

You can't delete a program- not really. If these nanites were in the original crew- doing their whole receiving and transmitting thing, then whatever they got off of them is still here. Floating around in the ether. Guys, what if we've been approaching this whole Smiley thing from the wrong perspective. Smiley's not one guy or an AI or Gallagher's freakin' ghost- Smiley is everyone. The whole crew. A literal ghost in the machine- the collective memories, feelings, whatever, of the entire former crew that somehow merged to create this one... composite. We die? We'll still be here. Floating around with the old crew. Boom. Prophecy fulfilled or whatever you wanna say.

[Basically, Smiley is a composite event without a host body or complete personalities. Just fragments. It makes a lot of sense to someone who has seen some shit. It's the only thing that can make sense. The ship's crew is just... gone, but they're still here.]

I mean... People have seen Smiley act outside the ship, right? And the only thing we bring with us when we leave the ship are our nanites. There's gotta be something to that, right?

When you’re a kid, maybe you say to yourself:

"I wish I could go to Disneyland."

"I hope I'll get my cock sucked by fifteen. By sixteen, I better be banging someone in the back of dad's favorite car.”

"One day, I’ll get into Harvard and become a brown-nosing yuppie making bonuses bigger than my insecurity complex. I’ll get married even. Have a kid, maybe two. A dog. And if I'm really lucky, I won’t be miserable.”

Those are the sort of wishes that come true. The mundane ones. You don’t say: "Well, one day I’d really like to go up into space. Maybe spend a night or two in a space ship. A journey through space? Oh man, why not? Not like we've only gotten as far as the moon. ”

And then, bam. Space.

Life doesn’t work like this. You don’t get what you want and when you do, it never comes free. So, what’s the catch? Probing, space slugs taking over our brains, being sold as human cargo to a far away planet, a floating menagerie? The options are endless.

((ooc: If you guys could hit up this permissions post, it would be much appreciated. ))