[ One year ago Hotspur had managed to make his final transmission - a warning with no solid threat, an explanation that provided no answers. What had been said outside of that broadcast had been lost to the echoing rumbles of lost noises and untraceable signals that gurgles through the labyrinthine bowels of the Tranquility's innards. But as the old question goes: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Perhaps, and echoes can last for a surprisingly long time.

That's how the feed starts - a distant echo of a broadcast made one year (and one month) ago. A scream so soft it registers as a distant whisper, tinny and unreal. A year is quite a distance to cross but the noise, tiny and determined, refuses to be ignored. Echoes build, shout upon shout, noise layered over noise - and the tiny whisper of a human yell begins to build. It grows, organic and desperate as it bounces its way through the corridors of the ship. The vaulted walls of the Tranquility have fractured the voice, splitting and splintering it in to a dozen different frequencies in a spectrum of harmonics and noise, but the noise swells in strength. The layers of discord pull together, fractured dissonance coalesces in to one strong voice. An echo built up in to a roar that refuses to die - a man's roar, choked and heavy with painfully human anguish as it battles against the unforgivably fixed matter of his own fate.

The horror of death will make mutes out of even the bravest men, and Hotspur's laboured, choking screams of defeat do not lend themselves to words well. But eventually they form, broken and fractured with bursts of great, wracking sobs that break in to patches of white noise. ]

--But it's just the beginning...

[ And that's it. The echo and all its layers reaches its crescendo and still it rises, ringing and building and folding in and on top of itself until the noise becomes unbearably loud. The feed implodes in to a recurring spectrum of noise, a defeaning feedback loop, pitched painfully high and ringing obstinately in the ears of the listener before cutting out in to silence. ]


[ OOC: Takes places directly prior to the jump, lining up exactly with the time of Hotspur's death; no replies will come from the source (which, if tracked will seem to be somehow coming from the ship itself) but IC discussion is fine in the post. ]

[ The feeds starts with a cacophonic reverberation of flesh pounding repeatedly on metal as Hotspur slams his shoulder helplessly against a door. ]

We're jumping - this ship's about to jump and - and - I can't get out. I can't - there's... there's some kind of lock failure...

[ Nails on metal. Driven by desperation Hotspur somehow manages to rip the fascia of the door control panel off and noisily casts it to the floor. A few quiet seconds of rummaging amongst wires and ragged, harsh breathing from a man who knows he's about to die. ]

It - The lock. It's been broken. [ The audio feed lapses in to horrified silence as the realisation hits Hotspur hard. There's a dull rustle of fabric on metal as Hotspur slides miserably down the door to crumple on the ground. ] Not on purpose, surely... They wouldn't, that's... they wouldn't.

[ In the background, behind his words, the ship begins to creak. It's the noise of the metal skin and bones of the Tranquility itself - the brawny hide of a ship that's not going to stop its plotted jump just because one little life form isn't in its gravity couch. Everything begins to groan as the hulking mass prepares itself for the jump...

Hotspur isn't an idiot. He can see how this will end.

The copies of both of the transmissions he had made to his own personal datapad are uploaded on to the network with shaking fingers and a hasty explanation: ]

They said he went mad - Gallagher, the old captain. They said he killed the civilian command staff and it was all because of the jumps but--

[ A building noise, a crescendo of power. and there's just one last horrified, shaking groan as Hotspur breathes out a his final words: ]

'Don't believe everything they tell you.' Oh, Gods help m--

[ A roar of white noise, an angry rushing hiss, as the fabric of reality screams against the organic intruder in its realm as it warps around the Tranquility. If Hotspur screams then it's lost in the noise of the jump itself - a noise that ends abruptly as it started and blanks out into silence as the feed lapses into a long silence. ]

[ Hotspur's never been brilliant at encryptions and, to be fair to the man, he's having to encyrpt and transmit the message whilst moving. Moving with a purpose, too; behind the stammered words of the transmission there's the sound of booted feet against metal as he strides his way along the corridors in the direction of the Tranquility's bridge. ]

AUDIO ( "MSG-RECIPIENT: WARD, RESNIK; MSG-ENCRYP: USER MAX;" )
Sir, ma'am - I've found something. [ And he doesn't sound particularly pleased about it, either. Behind his breathless words there's a world of worry and confusion; minor crises of faith aside, Hotspur isn't usually all that easily ruffled. ] I think - I think it's really important. Can we talk?

[ A pause as Hotspur's grip briefly tightens on what he carries in his hands: a blackbox device, salvaged from one of the shuttles. Despite his words he knows it isn't a matter of 'think'; he's convinced it's important. ]

Please?

[ The really interesting thing about this video broadcast is the fact that it's not actually coming from inside the Tranquility. Hotspur's in the pilot seat of the first shuttle - the one he affectionately named Faith all those months ago back when they all first arrived. His face is lit by the soft glow of the avionic displays in front of him and he sits back from the controls, slack-handed and staring with thick pre-occupation out of the shuttle windows instead.

His comms device - propped up on the co-pilots seat beside him - offers a profile view of Hotspur's features... and beyond him, a bit of the outer hull of the Tranquility suspended against the backdrop of deep space.

Red-eyed, ashen-faced... Hotspur's clearly hasn't been sleeping very well. Being the robust, brick-outhouse sort of fellow that isn't prone to negativity it usually takes a hell of a lot to make him feel less than 100% of his usual awesomeness but here we are. His expression is pained and with one hand he absently fidgets with the loose-hanging metal dogtags that fall around his neck. He doesn't speak up immediately but when he does it's a distant murmur. ]

...Full of them. Even the bad ones.

[ It's an off-hand comment more to himself than the video feed running live beside him. But then, as if only just remembering that it was recording, he seems to pull himself together and turn his head to address the comms device directly. ]

Look, I know not everyone out here's got much time for talk about the Gods and religion and all that but for those folk that do...

[ He pauses and exhales a brief sigh; this little crisis of faith is turning out to be pretty damn painful and he briefly struggles to hunt down the right words to express what he wants to ask. ]

Well. I'm kind of strugglin' to see how this whole... adventure fits in with whatever it is the Gods have got in store for me. For us all. I mean, it's not that I don't have faith that They know what's best, I... I just --

[ He pauses again and his gaze travels wildly around the cockpit until it fixates on the massive hull of the Tranquility beyond the shuttle's screen. ]

I'm not really sure if demons and possessions and all that is just a really really effective test of faith or that maybe we're all just a little bit too far away for the Gods to help us.

[ It's been over two weeks since Dean's put in an appearance on the network. A medium-scale demon infestation, working alongside your supposedly dead mother from the past to get rid of them and the arrival of the little brother you thought was in Hell can do that to a guy. But Dean's not really one to bitch and moan. The awful alcohol he's been working through at night has been taking care of that. He's also not one to go into any great detail over how genuinely glad he is that most people scraped through okay. That he'll express by being a little less of an asshole than usual.

This isn't a social post to the network, no questions about bodyshots to be seen, this time. Dean isn't part of the Welcome Committee for very good reasons, but it doesn't mean he can't actually offer up a little peace of mind for the new people. Yeah, make the most of this. It won't last. ]

For any of you newbies up here... [eloquent, as always,] this ship's got a Security team. I noticed a few people are askin' about family or friends and whether they're here too. Before you go wonderin' off lookin'? Keep in mind the second you get outta range of where we've already explored you don't have a snowball's chance gettin' back. [It took him three weeks the one time he went looking for survivors and that almost drove him crazy.]

You got a problem? Come talk to us. [He doesn't go as far as saying "we're here to help" out loud but... that's what he's implying.]


[ private - encrypted 95% - to anybody he knows helped exorcising the demons/keeping other people safe ]

Everybody on this freakin' ship owes you whether they realize what you did or not. [ There's a pause as he clears his throat. This isn't easy... he doesn't do motivational or heartfelt speeches. ] But I know what you did. And I won't forget. You got my thanks.


[ private - encrypted 95% - Tranquility Security team & Jim Kirk ]

Outside of that little fiesta we had with the demons... been noticin' a lot of people arrivin' and askin' where family members and friends are. I'm guessin' most of 'em are just confused because it's not like any of us had anybody here to hold our hand when we arrived. But just in case people are lost up here... eyes and ears open. Take names. Ask questions. Last thing we need right now is people wonderin' off lookin' for their family and not comin' back. Especially if they're right and they do have family and friends already here.

( It could be worse. That's how she reassures herself, turning the device over for a final time for snapping it on, eyeing it with a seriousness that, if you know her outside her rank as officer, might be a little surprising. She doesn't speak right away, but the hand that isn't holding the device flexes, desperate to fiddle with her dog tags and relieve some of the lurking anxieties.

When she speaks, it's clear spoken, and surprisingly polished. Very English, really, which might not be especially unusual here, but is a little odd almost anywhere but the capital, back home. )

This is Starling. Repeat: this is Starling, Kapetan Grumley of the Asgardreid igsb-3. Any members of the Midgard Corps should report to me immediately.

( Carefully enunciated, and bluntly delivered, and that's all she'll release, for now, giving the device another look and her mouth quirking a little before she snaps it off. There's more information to be picked off other posts to this device without exposing her confusion, because seriously. Seriously, you guys. )

[ WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK or not because Hotspur is way too worried for his mortal soul to be whistling right now. With the sleeves of his jumpsuit pushed all the way up to his biceps he wields an angle grinder in one hand and a roughly-sawn (or roughly-angle grinded, as the case may be) length of iron in the other. He flexes the arm with the metal in his hand, showing the bright grey serrations where the angle-grinder has sliced through the bar exposing fresh, raw metal beneath. ]

[ He's never been a particulary quiet man when it comes to talking - Hotspur's got the kind of voice that's been perfected over the generations via military parents and grandparents bawling at recruits on parade grounds and putting the fear of the Gods in to the enemies on battlefields - but now he sounds worried and hoarse. ]

Get to a purple elevator and head down to the shuttles if you need a place to hide out. There's freshly-cut iron all over the place down here, and plenty of it...

[ He twists the comms device to cast the video feed over the bank of purple elevators that mark the entrance to the cargo bay and shuttle decks. Stretched across the doors of each elevator is a mesh of iron chains - liberated from their usual employment as cargo nets - broad and loose enough to allow access if you haven't recently picked up an demonic aversion to iron, but otherwise blocking access for any of the possessed. Off-screen Hotspur sounds a little uncertain as he adds: ]

I'm reckoning that should do the trick. Right?

[ Casting the angle-grinder aside with a noisy off-screen clatter Hotspur takes his comms device with him as he parts a swathe of iron chains and enters a waiting lift. Personally, he's not going to stick around in the cargo bays whilst there are imperiled souls needing a morally good bloke with a stick of metal and a blisteringly earnest belief in the existence of the Old Gods of Earth to lend a hand. Providing a safe space to fall back to was a good start, but Hotspur's already starting to warm to the idea of hitting something ~in the name of goodness~ or whatever... and he hopes other people are too. ]

Starbuck, you around? Grab something big and iron-y and meet me by the purple elevator in passenger deck zero-zero-one.

[ End feed. ]

[ OOC: FOR THE RECORD he totally realises that telling people to take purple elevators to safety will make any purple lift a bit of an easy target SOoooo he is going to be defending the purple lift leading from passenger deck 001 until he gets any other bright ideas! ]

[ When the video clicks on, the Network is greeted with the face of a man in his late twenties — five o'clock shadow, hair mussed in a way to look absolutely careless, a bemused smirk on his face. When he tilts his head and realizes the device is recording, that smirk spreads to a smile that shows teeth, charming and beatific. For a guy who's just been through the ringer of a nasty space-time anomaly, he seems fairly good shape. Or maybe he's just good at taking things in stride. (Or maybe he just likes pain.)

Whatever the case maybe, when he tilts his head he lifts a hand and waves. A lazy, unaffected wriggle of his fingers before he puffs up his cheeks and gives a kind of blow-hard sigh. ]

So. Anybody out there feel like helping a guy out and cluing me in as to who exactly is in charge here? [ A simple enough question, punctuated by the exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. He moves to switch of the device and then thinks better of it, leaning back again to add: ] And if you're gonna say Ward, I'll stop you right there, cause I've already done some of my homework. [ A beat, a tiny shrug. As if to say well, kinda. ] I'm not looking for the guy whose on the nameplate of the bridge. I'm looking for whoever's actually in charge.

Capiche?



[ ooc; Ladies and gents of the Tranquility, meet Vepar, one of the OCs for the demon plot! Unlike the possessed passengers, he was already well-settled into his host 'Evander' before coming on board. For more information on him, see his profile while he tries to get a lay of the land and maybe stir up a little strife in the process. ]

Once upon a time, [ Kasumi begins, and she sounds thoughtful as she says it, though also like this is the conclusion of her thoughts and not part of an ongoing process, ] there was a man. It doesn't really matter what his name was or where he was from, since most of you won't have heard of it anyway. He did some work for a client that seemed relatively harmless at the time. And boring too, actually. When the work was done, he delivered it to the client and collected his credits and went on his way.

But, as it turned out, the client wanted to use the man's work for something the man didn't exactly approve of, even if he thought he'd gotten over worrying about that sort of thing a long, long time ago. So when he heard about it, the man went to a friend of his and asked, "What can I do?" And his friend said, "You can start by stealing your work back." And the man said, "What happens if I can't get it back?" And his friend said, "Then you find another way to get even, first, and then you make things right."

[ There's a long pause and then Kasumi exhales an almost-silent laugh. ] I'm not really one for thinking big ethical thoughts, so let's just leave it at that, okay?

[ He's tired as hell and not exactly in the best of health yet - there are faded red blotches dotted along his bare arms and exposed face and neck in between long streaks of black engine grease where the chickenpox sores are yet to fully heal - but Hotspur's in one hell of a good mood. In fact he is practically beaming down the video feed as he makes his announcement to the ship at large: ]

Hey, crew. [ Yeah, you guys are all crewmates whether you like it or not. Deal with it. ] I know we're all feeling pretty grim after the past couple of weeks so here's a bit of good news--

[ He steps aside and the feed spins wildly as Hotspur readjusts it to focus on one of the shuttles in the hangar bay. It's beaten up and still has a few exposed panels that need to be refitted but all in all it's looking pretty good. ]

The good ship Tranquility now has a second working shuttle!

[ Said with all the pride of a new father, which as far as Hotspur's concerned is kind of accurate. A quick zoom on the name of the shuttle - Spirit - that had been chosen by Kasumi several months back and daubed with pain-staking accuracy on the flank of the little ship by Hotspur himself. ]

Thanks to Tony's input we've changed up a few things while we were fixing her up so she's way speedier than the other shuttle. I reckon she's gonna make for a bumpy ride though - but that's what you get when you go for speed over stability. [ Not that he seems to mind. At all. ] But she hasn't been tested out yet! So that's going to be... interesting.

[ 'Interesting' here equates to 'exhilerating yet vomit-inducing'. ]

Starbuck, Joker -- I'm going to let you guys fight it out over who gets the honour of flying her out on her maiden voyage and who has to sit shotgun. But you better bring her back in one piece; me and Tony have got a little game of Space Tag to be getting on with.

( OOC NOTE: if your character has volunteered to help out with fixing up any of the ships down in the shuttle bay over the past four months then VOILA here is the fruit of your labour! Feel free to blag that your character helped out with any particular bit, even if it was just passing wrenches and making coffee. c: )

Wow, so. In the last month we had evil corridors -- never been so glad to not be able to move real well, let me tell you; first time there's been an upside to being a cripple -- and a mutiny and now we've got little girls talking about putting guys out airlocks.

[he palms his face, sitting back in the cockpit where happily hides from and ignores most people, down here in the shuttle bay]

So -- just as a voice for sanity?

This isn't a military vessel, and even if it wasn't, even on an Alliance military vessel? We don't even space rapists and murderers, let alone lone mutineers. Just sayin'.

Also, last I checked, that Megamind guy was the only engineer on the roster that hadn't been eaten by the grav-couches, which means the little shit might still be useful to us, since the only other one is Resnik. Which sucks, because one of those engineers that's gone was Tali, and she was pretty hot stuff back home, and we could seriously have used her here, man.

Speaking of Resnik, has anyone heard a peep out of our illustrious leaders? Not the ones who are totally trying to organize our lame asses, which is cool and all [hint; his tone indicates this is not cool and he places no faith in you guys, at all-- but thenm Joker always sounds like that, even when he's talking to Shepard], but I mean the ones who actually were here first? Or were those bodies in that mystery room their bodies? That'd be important to know. Anybody give 'em a call, saunter down to the bridge, maybe ask 'em for a cup of sugar? Anything? Nobody?

[ Attention, Tranquility. Chase is in a hallway, a book clasped tightly in her hands, paper bowtie in place, stern look about her. She is not happy, but it's less 'someone's gone' and more like when she first arrived: cold, withdrawn and calculating. ]

Military protocol--and the standard form of my ship, the Grail Arbor, states that mutineers and those doing harm to other passengers are to be permanently dismissed. [ She lets the word 'permanently' linger before she quirks an eyebrow upwards, clearly unimpressed. ]

On top of the smiling ship, we have a scientist with missing memories--and a number of things unrelated to Tranquility's plight. The previous attacker. Megamind.

To put it bluntly: throw him out of the airlock or I'll destroy him myself.

[ That's not a threat, crew members. That's a promise.

( Jules has taken time to compose herself. Of course she has; for one, appearing in a anxious mess wasn't flattering for anyone. It didn't fly with her modus operandi of forever optimism, where people could be forgiven for thinking that every day she awoke in a waterfall of daisies, nudged into consciousness by a unicorns that carried her on roads made of rainbows.

Secondly, she is London. The capital, the overseer, and while she might still be counted as a beginner by some Order members (“not even three years yet, a bit green”), Julia Grumley was not a person to be trifled with – despite all appearances and assumption. Not anymore, and especially not when she had been on her way to a lovely, romantic weekend in Amiens and has been fucked right off into a bloody spaceship.

No. She takes her time. Make up, a silk scarf that does wonders to make this jumpsuit look better (lies) and a few minutes to compose herself. She's even got a smile, which might be considered a miracle, unless you've known her for more than five minutes.

So, here she is, clearing her throat, and eyeing the device with some curiosity. )

Um, terribly sorry to be a bother, but I seem to have wound up somewhere rather different than my intended getaway. I think I've got the hang of the basics, just about, but if there's any chance anyone's going to jump out with a big old “haha, we got you!” then sooner rather than later would be very much appreciated. Not that it isn't a lovely ship! I'm sure it's just... marvellous. Splendid, even! Fantastic.

( . . . Oh, God. Why? ) I'm Julia Grumley. Jules, actually. Only one syllable, much easier for everyone.

( Her voice is light, smile playful – you'd not think there was a thing wrong. Another beat, and Jules tilts her head a little, observing the device with sharp curiosity. )

I don't suppose there's anyone else from the UK here?
( It's not pointed, unless you know what she's talking about. ) I'm from London, myself.

( more lies )

[ Chase has been busy. She's been out of sight for a while, even to the group she normally can be seen trailing--the time of her disappearance coincides with the second wave. The arrival of the Crowing. She's been hard at work doing something, though what it is exactly is hard to tell.

She's in the room her and Capa share, both beds void of any covers, the entire thing crumpled up into the corner. Her hair's tied messily back and she's scribbled things on the walls--quotes from the religious book she's been holding onto for dear life, and the drawings of a four year old in chalk: blue stick figures with wings, a blue stick figure with horns, one in a brown trench coat and above it, a symbol all too familiar for people that have seen her holding her book. ]

More have gone.

[ She addresses the communication device with something other than concern--of cold detachment. ]

More will follow.

[ the video feed is abruptly switched on to reveal Hotspur looking quiet and pensive. For once he's not in the cavernous shuttle bay but in the pilots rec room that overlooks it. At his back is a bank of grey lockers; clearly he's sitting on the floor and propping himself up against them, head reclined wearily back and upturned towards the fluorescent strip-lighting above. For those that are looking really carefully there's a thin cut across the bridge of his nose: the recurring broken cartilage that just won't stay in one piece.]

There are some of the Old Gods on board. Old Gods from Sol Earth. [ He sounds pensive, if a little tired, and his voice is low enough that he's on the verge of whispering. ] Gods - actual gods – are coming with us...

[ There's a sharp noise off screen from the dark reaches of the seemingly never-ending depths of the shuttle bay and Hotspur's gaze is instantly torn away from the device. A pipe creaking as it cools maybe, but the sound is sharp enough to echo in the cavernous room beyond where Hotspur is sitting. He shifts uneasily before slowly turning back to the device in his hand. ]

You see, people always reckon space is empty and barren and everything, but it's not. Actually, space isn't empty at all. Where I'm from the ashes of the thousands of humans that died during the exodus from the old Earth were cast out in to the stars. Plenty of other space-faring civilisations do it too. Sometimes there's no other way to bury your dead in space but to return them to the stars... And bodies are made of bits of carbon and space dust, right? So space is full of spirits. Mainly the quiet kind.

[ Mainly, he said. ]

And now the Old Gods are coming with us. Having them on board can only be a good thing, I think.

[ the feed is suddenly jostled to life when it hits the floor, catching the tail end of a frustrated grunt/growl/noise of great distress/whatever/etc. please do enjoy the view of the ceiling from the floor.

offscreen there is a noise of sudden movement and then mjolnir is heavily slammed on the floor right next to the device. electrical currents fire and spark across the metal and cast out small fingers of lightning. it's nothing grand and from the look on thor's face, it's troubling. and right getting ready to piss him off. these actions are repeated in triplicate, but reach the same conclusion.

after the last time, he stands, raising the hammer above his head and tries one last time. except he's much too close to the light fixture. and while his lightning might not be as strong as it once was, it's certainly enough to cause the bulb to break and rain down electrical sparks. there's two beats of silence before he releases an angry battle cry and mjolnir is dropped, cutting the feed suddenly.


but, then a bit later, a voice...! ]

Who is responsible for this? How am I to use my weapon now—Mjolnir is useless to me in this condition. [ this is almost like new mexico all over again. ] Is there some sort of black magic restricting it's use? I demand it be fixed at once.

[ he falls silent, then there's almost an embarrassed edge to the next question, ] Where might one find replacement fixtures of light?

This is former Alliance Navy, arguably currently Cerberus employed flight lieutenant Jeff Moreau; callsign “Joker”; while I’ve already gotten an idea of what’s going on with the shuttles down in the hanger thanks to Hotspur, a guy’s gotta ask: why haven’t we made it a priority to get those repaired and running and ditched this floating coffin?

[He scratches at his chin – beard’s getting a little scruffy around the edges there – and shifts on camera, looking more than a little annoyed.]

Just, you know, throwing that out there. I don’t know about you, but I know I got better places to be than something out of a creepy ship like this. I mean, who designed this shit with the flying buttresses and all the funky internal architecture? It’s like some sort of Gothic antfarm in space.

[ Good morning, Tranquility. If you hadn't been down to the hangar deck yet then over Hotspur's shoulder you're getting a glimpse of what it's like. A cavernous space, designed much in the same style as the rest of the ship, full of thick shadows and plenty of dead air space stretching out towards the elevator platforms. It's largely deserted – Hotspur has a bad habit of working the night hours, regardless of however creepy it is down there – except for the sleek hulks of shuttles in various states of disrepair. Post-jump, Hotspur looks animated, excited; he knows each jump is getting them a little closer to where they need to be – and if it's bringing in new potential crewmembers then all the better. ]

Hey, crew. How are we all doing? I know a whole bunch of you have had friends and family from back home turn up in the latest jump so I just wanted to check in – have we had anyone from Midgard Corps turn up? [ He's hopeful; gods, he's so freaking hopeful, it's written all over his face. ] Anyone from the Asgardreid? Hell, if there are any kind of pilots brought in from the new jump from anywhere it'd be good to have you down in the hangar decks. Flight engineers, too. We got a whole load of busted birds down here and I reckon we'd be doing a world of good if we got 'em all fixed up and flight ready. If anyone's interested then take the purple elevators and come find me – Hotspur. I'm filling in as flight officer until the rest of the old crew returns.

[ Yeah, crew returns. That's exactly what he believes is going to happen here. And then, because he really wasn't paying attention to the creepy door while he was busy being disappointed at the stowaways: ]

Talking of which, did anyone figure out who wrote 'hello' on that door?

[ ooc note : open to action tags if people would like to come and explore! ]