Okay, I don't wanna sound like a total insensitive jerk, or a whiny brat or anything? I mean, I get that people have died and gone missing and stuff and it's super concerning and all- [ one palm lifts to rub at the back of her neck, only to fall a beat later, when her hands flutter demonstratively as she speaks. ] and I totally get that most of you guys are busy like- running the ship and saving people and doing cool-futuristic-space stuff?

But would it be too much to ask to maybe get a calendar running around here?

[ she squints briefly, one finger lifted as a preemptive shush. ] -In before but Hayley that's just totally depressing because we've already got space tats with our dates on them. So, time's already racked up. No blaming a calendar for sulking.

Okay hang on, what was I sayi- Oh right. Yeah, a calendar.

I mean I've been here, what- [ her cheeks puff out when her gaze drops, checking the digits on the inside of her arm before she continues, shrugging carelessly. ] six runs now? Seriously, every day is like, the same stuff over and over again ad nauseum. Why not bust up the routine a little? We can have space Christmas. And trick or treating. And whatever other non-human totally random holidays you guys have.

No but really. It's getting boring.

And I know this is kinda lame, but I'm pretty much desperate, and then there's that whole proverb, desperate measures etcetera etcetera. I mean, if all else fails we can waste some time. And if it goes over well then, hey, you have at least three socially acceptable calendar excuses to get wasted and make terrible life decisions. Right?

[private to jesse pinkman and miles edgesworth | not encrypted | video]

[The Libby--and it's just Libby, even if her face is clean and her hair is gently washed and flowing smooth and purely blonde--who appears in the video is relieved. Not drunk, not jittery with tension, not panicked or cornered or twisted by anger. Just relieved, smiling with an old, recently missing quirk to it, wrapped up in an oversized black jacket and smoking with a hand that shakes but only slightly.]

Hey, guys. Guess who I can't find? Um--do you want to like. Watch a stupid future movie or whatev, some time? I've got--I've got a lot of free time. So. You know. Or anything.

And, um--maybe we should all check in. Every morning and tonight. Your girls too, Jesse. I just ydon't want--well. A lot of people have been going missing. [She ruffles her hair with her free hand, but still. For the first time since she got here she can breathe.] But yeah. Anything you want.

[private to james rogers | not encrypted | voice]

Um. Hey.

[Nervous, but that's fine, right? Everything is fine today.]

[public | voice]

Loki's gone. I don't know who of you care, but unless he shows up and calls me an idiot on this thing--he's gone. So. Tally that up, I figure.

[A quiet, disbelieving laugh, her voice mellow and soft, and Libby falls back on her bed.]

You know what I miss? I miss getting drunk.

The simple pleasures of life. Perhaps the taste of peanut brittle! Or the view you get when a gal in a particularly short skirt bends over to flash whatever's underneath. Flowers in spring or some stupid shit like that, whatever people get their jollies off on. Scratch the peanut brittle thing, actually. In retrospect, peanut brittle is fucking disgusting.

[ Bartleby's sitting at one of the kitchen counters it seems, an elbow propped on the surface, his head tilted against a fist. He looks thoughtful, and yet sounds aggravated. Sardonic. ]

You know what I don't miss? Assholes who get lost for weeks inside a never-ending corn maze with less corn and more maze without even bothering to leave their phone on. Can you believe the damn cretinism that has to go into something so careless as that? Is it retardation, I ask of you? No, for that is too simple an answer. I don't miss Wisconsin. Nobody misses Wisconsin.

Also the Spice Girls. I really don't miss the Spice Girls. I'm probably pushing my luck with saying that one aloud.

A few items of business.

First: We need to start tracking ourselves more precisely. Two people in two months have perished because because they caught outside of the gravity couches at the time of a jump. What I propose is a simple check-in list for the jumps and someone to take roll. If anyone hasn't shown up one hour prior to the jump, then a search party can be organized. Is there any preexisting framework for such a system?

Second - [And here Edgeworth looks perhaps just a bit self-conscious - ] I'm looking for someone adept at construction. Please speak up if you have such skills and are willing to barter for labor.

[He recovers but frowns, just a bit hesitant before the next item.]

Third, a general question; bear with me if it sounds odd or intrusive, and responding to this is, as ever, completely optional. [He looks down; it's clear he's now reading off a page that he's prepared.] Respond in the affirmative or negative: "I would describe my life as 'peaceful' - id est, a life in which I have not witnessed or been subjected to violence."

[He looks up again.]

Your responses are appreciated.

...Did I make it to the next level?

[Anna is all too familiar with these strange devices, appearing in a video clip with her red hair tied back as best she can with how sticky it still is from the pod fluid. She's half dressed, the uniform on, but unzipped low in the front as she peeled off a layer of blue goo from her chest where it got caught in a hand print shaped scar deeply marked in her skin. Frowning she flicks it off unto the floor.

There is a badge pinned to her waist though, clearly police force by the shape with the words S.T.R.I.K.E. visibly embossed at the top.]

At this point making it to a shower would be enough. Purgatory did at least provide them in the past.