[Where has Griffin been for the past few weeks, one might ask. If one were to ask Griffin, Griffin would reply with a very flippant, "None of your business," followed by a less flippant, "What is it to you anyway?" The truth of the matter is that Griffin has been handling his new situation like he handles every other situation: he's been avoiding human contact whenever possible and hiding away in his quarters. It's not an entirely outlandish solution, considering that he arrived on Tranquility and was immediately smacked with serious illness.

It had been going okay until he suddenly wakes back up in his nightmare pod of terror in which he showed up. It isn't any easier the second time. Griffin's legs shake less, but the tight feeling in his chest doesn't get any better. On top of that, his normal clothes are in his room, which means he's stuck wearing that stupid space costume. He puts it on begrudingly and stomps out of the locker room without saying a word to anyone. He's close to his room when he pauses. It's one of those moments when the full weight of a situation bears down on him, oppressive with no way to escape it. Trapped, at the mercy of a faceless enemy. Without warning, Griffin lashes out and tries to damage the only culprit he can identify, the ship itself, by punching the hull.

As a deceptively small person, Griffin packs a lot of power. Sometimes he forgets that. The scream of frustration quickly turns into a shout of pain as he cradles his hand to his chest. He can't move it much and has been hurt enough times to know that it's likely broken, or a deep bruise if he's lucky. With a string of swear words, he's off in another direction. On his way to the med bay, he gets hopelessly lost. It's happened a few times as he's been getting his bearings. As it turns out, Griffin is not terribly great at getting from point A to point B. His ability cut out that process and while he never relied on it for short distances... this is a really bloody big ship. And he keeps getting distracted when trying to commit the layout to memory. So scared, in pain, and looking like a twat, he is stranded in some lonely corner of Tranquility feeling anything but tranquil. He can't even type on his dumb communicator.]

Where exactly is the med bay on this... freaking tub?

[ There’s a very serious if rather haggard looking boy on the network. His appearance could be due to not getting enough sleep, enough food, or both. It’s hard to say. ]

My name is Miles – uh, Morales. Sorry Mr. Edgeworth, I forgot for a second. I wanted to ask – there aren’t real police here, are there? Not the kind that put people in jail. [ H’s already frowning at his communicator, but that frown gets a little deeper. He’s already got a pretty clear idea of the answer just from reading the network and watching the goings-on in the ship for the last couple of days. Still, he could be wrong… ] There aren’t any jails, either.

Though I don’t know if colony ships are supposed to have that kind of stuff or not. [ Or even if they are, if this one ever did. There’s still too much that he doesn’t know – even if some of it is more mundane and awkward to deal with. Which is why he’s back a little bit later: ]

But there’s, uh…a place to clean your clothes, right?[ An uncomfortable pause. ] And a place to take a shower by yourself?

[ And last but not least, to try to cover up the embarrassment from those last two questions and before he loses his nerve: ] Is there anybody else here from New York?

Uh. Hello. Since everyone's sort of introducing themselves and we're all stuck here, I thought I should probably... also do that.

I'm Rory Williams, I'm from Earth and I'm a nurse. Was a nurse. [ Technically never was one, also I'm a security guard on the lookout for threats these days more than anything. Ha. No. Way too much to get into. ] I mean, it's a little complicated. But I'm definitely still qualified and I'm always awake, so. If anybody needed a nurse for... some reason. I'll be around.

[ Annnnnd so tempted to ask, so tempted. Ever that should I/shouldn't I dilemma, only it's not a very big one, he's asking anyway. ] Sorry, really need to clarify something. The universe isn't ending right now, right? You can't exactly fly a ship through something that doesn't exist, so I've kind of been assuming it's all clear. Just for the record. Um. Thank you.

[Hello, ship. Have a Scotsman. A Scotsman who is no longer covered in goo, has had plenty of time getting more familiar than he'd like with the ship's towels, and is feeling marginally better for having had a shower and getting dressed.

Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be wary of using an unknown communications device to contact an unknown group of people who may or may not be responsible for the waking-up-in-goo fiasco, but Scotty's never exactly been known for his common sense.]

I don't suppose anyone'd be interested in tellin' me what's goin' on. [Do you see this angry pout? Do you?] An' if you're no' interested in tellin' me what's goin' on, would you mind directin' me t'the nearest source of a good stiff drink? [Because demanding alcohol from your captors is sure to work, Scotty.]

[ The video is switched on, yeah, but there's complete darkness right now on the screen. Silence too, except- the scrape of something like wood against steel floors.

Then a click. Smokers, you should know this sound. A lighter. Then there's the crackle of burning paper. An exhale.

When the voice finally comes, it's dry, more than a little taunting, and very, very Russian. ]

Looked through this. [ A tap on the side of the comm. ] Think I've got list now.

Idiots. [ Tap. ] Show-offs. [ Tap. ] Strange fuckers from past. [ Tap. ] People making PSAs. [ Tap. ] Corpses. [ Tap. ]

Thought space would be more interesting. Looks like people never change. Still can bleed. [ Completely, utterly casual. ]

[ Another soft click. He tips the comm over. There's just a glance of his right hand, with the Russian north inked to the back. Then he switches hand, smoke trailing over his fingers- but it doesn't obscure the symbol of St. Petersburg on his fourth finger or the three dots below the thumb. Or the other two symbols on his forefinger and pinkie. He lets the camera linger slowly on the tattoos before he reaches out with the St. Petersburg finger and tips the camera further up.

If there's anyone who looks less like Aragorn when he has the same face, it's this man. ]

Anyone else on this ship? [ Beat, and he smiles. With teeth. ] Not me. [ Oh yes, he knows he's showing off. ]