[ the feed switches on to show a spectacular view of the garden grounds. as in the actual floor of the gardens, mostly dirt and foliage, before it's flipped around to focus on hook's face. his expression is solemn, offering up a respectable display of sincere concern for those he's addressing. ]

This message is intended as a favour— an act of good faith, if you will. I regret to inform my fellow passengers that we've a wolf in our midst. [ the mask of civility slips slightly, giving way to a sharp grin; his voice matches, edged with hostility and amusement. ] Or should I say a crocodile.

There's a man on this ship who calls himself Rumplestiltskin. While I admit he's not much to look at, it's nothing more than the practised ruse of a monster. He's known to my world as The Dark One. Whatever kind words he's spun, any generosities he's offered— I assure you, they've been at your expense.

[ no killing allowed, but nobody said anything about gossip. anyway, after a pause to let that dramatic reveal that absolutely won't remind anyone of stupid picture books settle: ]

I've also heard word of a smithy on board. If anyone could direct me to it or to its owner, I'd be in your debt. [ there's a glint of light off the metal as he raises his hook, idly considering its condition. ] I've something in need of sharpening.

[ that last sentence would absolutely be a private taunt to gold if he knew how to encrypt anything, but he doesn't. blame emma. ]

( ooc: 4th walling on all related fairy tales/stories is welcome! )

[William had been a terrible liar years ago, when he had needed very badly to be a good one. He had answered honestly and as completely as he had known how, stated his intentions like parrots state about crackers. Eventually, it had put him in jail.

He thinks about this, pretty carefully, somewhat inescapably, as he travels through Tranquility to learn the terrain, review her records, and watch those who people her. There is such thing as overshare, and the worse the politics are, the more fatal that seems likely to be.

The fact that the Tranquility seems crewed by just a handful of abductees with therefore ostensibly similar interests is not tremendously reassuring in this way, when one reads the backlog of screaming on the network. What to say? He thinks about this cautiously as he takes himself through the flying buttresses as a wind-up bird, sleeps concealed under the bed as a spare pillow, discovers in the process of near-dehydration that the temperature fluctuations hit him approximately seven times harder when he shrinks, smokes cigarettes and burglarizes booze in a lounge decorated by a conspicuous series of smashed mirrors?? Even before he reads about the pirates, he gathers this place fucks people up. He was uninspired by murder and insanity on his homeworld, and it is no more attractive here.

It takes him approximately seventy-two hours to decide what to say, and even then it turns out just his thumbs, a text string flowering across the screen.] Hello. 你好.

This is Private William Tsang, Blackstone unit. I've got medical training and relevant psionics-- enhanced physiological recuperation, contact required for other. Also a carton of cigarettes which I cannot condone the use of. If somebody could point me at medical staff, I'd love to help out on this lovely haul to fuck knows where. Thanks.

[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.]

[ Apologies in advance to anyone listening to this but it starts off less than spectacular with just a lot of frustrated cries and cursing as he tries to figure out if it's 1) working and 2) even doing what he wants to it be doing. Eventually he just goes with it on the assumption that it is. ]

Right, I think I finally got the hang of this thing. Sure as hell hope so or otherwise I'm sounding like a complete idiot right now. [ Well, there's still a good chance of him sounding like an idiot regardless, but he doesn't want to be thinking about that right now. ]

From what I got from this thing, it's how we all communicate, ask questions, and all of that stuff... So someone mind telling me what the hell is the deal is around here? If it isn't obvious, but I don't get this stuff. I can't even begin to wrap my mind where we even are. [ Space? What is that?? ]

[Behold, all and sundry shipmates, a young woman, most likely unfamiliar to you all. She has dark hair, she's wearing expensive-looking sunglasses, she has a cigarette between her manicured fingers, and she's not smiling. As a matter of fact, she looks more bored than anything, which wouldn't be inaccurate. It's Penelope, and she's annoyed. Get accustomed to this.]

Okay, so. Quick question.

Are you seriously telling me that this spaceship is not only haunted as fuck, because it is obviously haunted as fuck, you guys, what the fuck is up with that, but nobody has tried to set up any wards or barriers or anti-evil magic protection of any kind? I mean come on, this should be like kindergarten baby shit. Surely somebody's tried something, but since there's no like, history books of this hideous floating evil space basement we all appear to be trapped in, I have to ask.

Nobody's tried magic? Seriously?

[There's a brief pause as she attends to her cigarette, and then it goes back to balancing between the fingers of her hand. She tends to gesture with it, vaguely, as she speaks, presumably for emphasis since her voice is a practiced monotone of affected disinterest. It's all extraordinarily irritating, and it's very much intended to be so.]

Apropos of nothing, since there's so many honest-to-god wolves on board, are there any werewolves around? I need a donation.

That's all. Back to your regularly scheduled cowering-in-fear-awaiting-all-our-inevitable-hideous-deaths, or whatever it is you do for fun around here.

[...That bit about the werewolves goes totally unexplained, because Penelope promptly ends the feed.]

[ hey, tq, it's dean. he's looking... well, a little more restless than normal, and mostly because now that it's been some time after the jump, he's finally accepted that yet another friend has left the ride. he rubs the knuckles of one hand anxiously before looking at the communicator. ]

Any of you ever had a friend or two in this ship who you know ain't around back home anymore? Sucks when they go back, doesn't it. Especially when home isn't just a box six feet underground, but... [ but purgatory, where you personally put them.

it hurts. it sucks. ]

But something a lot more dangerous. Guess we should learn by now to hold on to 'em as hard as we can while we still have 'em, instead of...this. [ as sincere as he is, he can't quite help the strained smirk, like it really is all some big joke. ]

But since I can't do that, I'll ask for the second best thing; anyone feel like doin' a little sparring? And I mean the off the record kind, no punches pulled stuff. You know, fun. [ it's something he's good at, something he could just lose himself in for a little while, so it's worth a shot. ]

Those easily bruised and ready for tears-- or too busy whining about the temperature need not apply. And if you ain't sure, we can even throw a bet of some kind on the winner-- whatever works. Even you freaky supernatural critters are welcome.