[ elizabeth sits in the grass, with white roses in her hair and her skirts pooled about her. she looks thoughtful and placid to most, and only those who know her passably well may note an undercurrent of sadness in her features. it is there, but not readily apparent unless one has seen and interacted with her often.

her mother's absence and the hell that awaits her family in the future have not been forgotten. they hang like a great weight about her neck, and in the way her shoulders bow a little despite being straight and stiff otherwise. she keeps her eyes averted from the camera for now, as she speaks up quietly: ]

It all began upon a lovely day in spring
A maiden fair stumbled upon a King
Beneath the boughs of a mighty oak
Whilst two boys clutch'd at her cloak

And lo he came upon them there
Stricken at once by the maiden so fair
He gaze'd at her and she at him
Love-struck and helpless to its whim

[ she releases a long breath of air, and finally looks up at her comm device. her face still appears peaceful, as though the words and the act of writing them have had a calming effect. and perhaps they have. she effects a small smile, though, for good measure. ]

I think it a good beginning. What say you, Tranquility? Putting such a tale to words has been a daunting task, indeed.

I shall continue, and add more to it. But I must ask, are there such tales whence you hail from?

[ and if poetry is not your jam, elizabeth has another query. she holds up a plastic container (a stick of deodorant) and a glass bottle (perfume) and various other sundry items she has found. all sweet-smelling, all utterly confusing to a girl from the late middle ages. ]

And I must beg another query of you, if you please: what are these? What purpose have they?

[ anyone who knows her will see that this is only an attempt on her part to distract herself. sitting idle and stewing over the heaps of negativity life loves to send her fmaily's way has never been her thing. ]

[ jax is kicked back in the gunnery, the pieces of a desert eagle spread on a t-shirt across the console in front of him, the comm propped at an angle. he's cleaning the as he speaks, his movements practiced and methodical, darting quick looks at the comm. ]

Y'know, back in Charming, we had a barber. This guy named Floyd, gave me my first haircut, and every one after that. Irreplaceable, that fucking guy.

[ homesick? maybe. jax pauses, gives all his attention to the gun for a minute, like he's forgotten he has an audience. ]

Anyway, what I'm getting at is I need a damn haircut. And I can't stroll down Main Street and get into Floyd's chair, so are any of y'all capable of giving me a hand here?

[A brief silence, and then a rather hoarse voice:] If you are near the Gardens, and capable of carrying a man-- [Wait a moment, while he gets his stomach under control, thanks.] --assistance would be appreciated.

[Could have locked that to Rebecca, feel too sick to care.]

[backdated to the 5th, during this.]

My dear Tranquility, if you would be so kind as to indulge me in another question - quite different from my last one but no less genuine.

[Something milder than anger flashes in Ichabod's eyes. He tucks a strand of long hair behind his ear before continuing.]

Is there anyone who thinks that these trousers, these...so-called skinny jeans are appropriate for a grown man!

[He holds them up, giving them a shake. See how angry they make him!!!]

Why the ship would choose to gift them to me can be nothing more than a cruel jest, but if anyone should like to have them, for whatever reason, you may collect them from me at once.

[ ned, again, is full of bright smiles. he's been tinkering with the pie hole and all of its components for quite some time now, and he is pictured unfolding a giant pie display that he found in his locker. and while he's still weak from this jump, he's excited to get a move on. baking will bring him right back up to normalcy, he's convinced. ]

For those of you who are new, or who missed my last announcement -- this. This is the Pie Hole. And it is open right now and forever after. We could all use a little slice of home, in a galaxy far far away.

[ he's always wanted to say that, but the camera slips around the room. the furnishings are meager, but passable, and everything inside is painted a pleasant green, the lights that hang from the ceiling orange. ]

I've never run a business without-- [ fat stacks of cash? ] money, before, but. I think I've worked out a system so that no one feels. Er. So that no one feels as if they're getting something for nothing or nothing for something. It will be fair.

In any case! The Pie Hole is indeed up and running, so please stop in for a slice. Which is free. The first one, anyway.

[ he spins the pie display with a look of accomplishment and puts his hands on his hips.

a dog bark and a pig snort sound from somewhere behind him and digby dog and pigby pig are looking expectantly to the feed as it pans. ]

Oh, yes. Thank you. We are located adjacent to the Oxygen Gardens, under the pie crust overhang. [ it felt so good to say that again. ]

I'll see you soon, fellow Tranquilityzens. [ oop one more thing. ] And I'm Ned.

The pie maker.

[ This could be done with more grandeur, probably. But, he's never been that kind, and given no one had said anything in lieu of him...

Life was too pointless, when those that left weren't marked in some way. ]

For those that knew him, Antillar Maximus, Tribune Auxiliaris, has left the ship.

That is all.

[ He's going to go drink, quietly and by himself, for as long as possible. ]

 
So!! Okay, hey everybody. How's it hanging? It's Marty here, and I've got some pretty bitchin' news. 

[He's hanging out in a kitchen (where else), and he's got what appears to be something under a sheet, protected under the thin fabric. Judging by the smug look on his face and the twinkle in his eye, he's pretty damn proud of whatever he's concocted. People who have been watching him in the gardens may not be all that surprised by this.]

So, engineering - really screwed some of us up, right? People who went in there got pretty sick, and I'm noticing it's a trend after the jump, too. Meanwhile, here I am, making potato chips. So I think 'Marty, why not make this the best of both worlds?' With that in mind, I present to you my lovechild:



[WA-BAM. He removes the blanket to show a table full of bowls, with sexy potato chips filling every bowl. This is a labor of love, people. Months and months of turning into a stoner farmer, all for this moment. Hell yeah. But wait! There's more!]

I present to you:

Marty's Medical Marijuana Chips!!

Feeling super nauseous right now? Well, these chips here have the goods baked right in; a few of these bad boys and you'll be riding a nice high for a few hours while your sickness clears up. Plus, they taste fucking delicious, and that's the second most important thing when it comes to a little jump vertigo. Granny T ain't got shit on me.

[....]

They're not all gonna be marijuana chips. Just. Jump ones. 

Promise.

[Nobody tell Edgeworth.]

[ Maybe going to poke around floor 19 wasn't exactly wise -- after all, she'd read up on the jump and how it hadn't really happened, how the only person with a 019 on their arm was a man from this universe, and Rebecca didn't trust the whole thing. After a failed mutiny, being forcibly expelled from engineering, and being horribly sick, however... well, she wanted to feel useful. And so a quick look at floor 19 it was.

Honestly, the floor was pretty... normal-looking. Not a bad place to look for supplies, though; that revelation had led Rebecca to the kitchens in order to raid the cupboards. But there was just one thing... ]

Is someone missing a pig?

[ On camera is one pot-bellied pig, sniffing and snorting around the kitchen floor. ]

I think she's hungry.

[ The whole post is broken up by static, Rebecca's voice quiet, like she's speaking more to herself than to the network. They're not words anyone is going to want to hear, and she doesn't know most of the people on the ship; they're not words necessarily meant for them. But somehow, she feels like she has to share. ]

It's easy, killing. [ At least, in comparison to the other thing on her mind. ] People do it all the time. Maybe not most of the people here, maybe not on purpose -- but people do it. They kill to protect themselves, to eat, for a cause. They even do it on accident. How many times a day do you think you kill insects, back home -- without even trying? It's a lot, I bet.

Dying... that's hard. People are scared of it. People don't want to die; there's more they could do, things that they never got around to. Plenty of people die before their time, on accident or because something or someone killed them.

Dying for someone is the hardest, I think. It's easy to be selfish. It's easy to let someone else do it, to not act. It would have been so much easier for all of us not to walk into the bridge, to try and find things out. And yeah, we could have done a better job. But we didn't do it for no reason.

I'm not saying that, if we die, we died for all of you. I'm not saying that I want to die, for all of you or for one of you. But... if you think about it, later -- if we do die -- then maybe that's how you'll think of it.

[ A pause, then a slight laugh, broken up by static. ]

Or, you know, you call us stupid. Guess we deserve that, too.

[A burst of static opens the contact, then followed by the image of a woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She half-smiles as she leans on a wall, a wall she swears was trying to disintegrate not a moment ago. The little issues with the bridge are beginning to gnaw at the edges of her senses here and there, but her main problem is the condition she has. Rampancy. The deterioration of function and logic in an elderly AI. And all this overstimulation is starting to make it worse, to push her into places she thought she could hold off.]

It's loud, and it's small. No, it's big. Very strange in here.

[The feed ends. Later, another message is sent, her voice higher, more strained. Fear, anger.]

I only had the best of intentions. I wanted to do to them what they've done to us because I can't take it anymore and you shouldn't help me because what if they do it to you, too? No, don't. Don't tell them who you are. It's them and they know. They have the weapons, we don't.

[There's a loud sigh, and another burst of static distorts the image, and the feed ends. A few minutes later, it begins again, her voice calm, face placid. Sometimes she thinks she can control it. Sometimes she can. But sometimes it sends her to dark and dangerous places.]

The human mind is fragile, fragile like mine, it sort of... there's a hum, a buzz, static in my head and I can't process everything. Did you know I can think myself into nothing? I can. I probably should. It's too hard to do this, too loud, too much to want to know and not be able to think about because thinking hurts.

Pain is strange.

[A lengthy silence, filled with lines and static. Her voice is flat, as though she's merely curious.]

Am I going to die again?

09:07
Bridge is ours. No resistance encountered.

09:12
Doors locked. Not opening from the inside. Attempting manual release. Request assistance.

[ 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. ]

[Godric sits on an open, grassy area in the gardens, contemplating a... thing he holds in his hands. It isn't very large, perhaps the size of his hand, and looks very much like a small horse with a single horn on its head. Sadly, it isn't alive, but permineralized into a fossil.]

I received this in my locker during the previous jump--

[Before Godric can continue, he glances up at something just off-camera, a restless shadow falling over him. There's a sound like a chirrup just before a large, straight beak noses into the picture, snatching the fossil cleanly out of Godric's hands.

The communicator falls over, disturbed from its resting place by a clawed foot, allowing for a bug's-eye view of Myfanwy the pteranodon awkwardly gnawing at the remains. It only lasts a moment before she makes a sound of clear disgust, dropping the little creature with an indignant shake of her head. Shooting a look at Godric, she takes off again with a great flap of her wings.

Retrieving the communicator, Godric looks dryly amused.]

It seems that wasn't at all what she expected from a unicorn either.

[Guess who totally refuses to take off his long-sleeve shirt? This nerd. He can't handle people looking at his scrawny bod, okay. His self-confidence is at an all-time low in terms of physical prowess. Leave him alone. More importantly, he's covered in dirt from the gardens and is a sweaty mess -- a mix of weed smell and Ferngully, or something, with a doofy bandana tied around his forehead like he's an 80's break dancer or something. He sighs out a big dumb breath.

Also this is playing in the background from his mostly-fixed CD player. No regrets.]

Gardening's fuckin haaard, guys. Maybe it's just the heat talking, but damn.

But -- I think I got it. I think I'm getting this shit down pat. Soon, I'll be done with phase 1, and then I'll finally be able to harness the power of the ye' olde Space Potato. Marty's Potato Chips'll be a bigger hit than -- okay, no, sorry. I know I overdo the marijuana jokes. Whatever. Point is, I think gardening and making stupid junk food might be my life's calling. Anybody have any ideas for other foods from home we're all desperately missing? What kinds of food supplies do we have around here, anyway? We got blueberries; I made some bitchin' sorbet, which is plenty close to ice cream. 

We're learning. Adapting. Getting faster, better, stronger. Sure, this place sucks on many occasions, but at least we can sit around in trepidation with munchie foods. 

...

Who's gonna be my guinea pig for potato chip flavors? 

Also, Topher [that guy below him in the network posts who has his face and vice versa; hi topher] just reminded me, weird shit's been going on here this jump, too. Anybody else been getting creeper vibes from things in the halls? I mean, maybe I'm missing out because I hide under my blankets and shake my head until things aren't creepy, but I think the ship's fucking around again. 

...

Beyond the usual heatstroke or frostbite issue.

...

Also sorry about Topher's intensity, newbies. He's the mad scientist one between the two of us.

[Bran's smile is only a little wan--and that is only because he is distracted, because Summer is distracted. The great direwolf is sitting at his feet, but Summer has grown large enough that he is still visible in the video feed. Something is ailing the direwolf, making him skittish. He huffs a whine as the video begins, and Bran looks down at him, and lays a hand atop Summer's head.]

Be still.

[Summer's ears flick, nervously; he blinks, and whines again. Bran looks to his device, his hand still resting atop his direwolf's head.]

I am looking for paper--perhaps twenty or thirty sheets of paper, that is not being used. Most things on this ship are written by typing, but there must be some paper somewhere. I can make a trade for it, if it is necessary. And I will need tape-- [That is a new word, but he says it smoothly.] --and scissors, with which to cut. They must be able to do fine work, I think.

[Restlessly, Summer raises his head. The video jars a little, and Bran quickly reaches to steady it, as he gives his direwolf a slightly anxious look.]

In Westeros, great tourneys are often held, where knights prove their merit in the lists. That means a joust, though there is sometimes melee fighting as well. I have never seen a tourney, only heard tales of them--and we have very few knights here. So we are going to let our direwolves race instead, and have a feast, just as if it were a true tourney. [Summer whines again, more plantively. He shrugs out from beneath Bran's hand, turning in a tight circle.] Summer, quiet. It is only a shadow.

There must be a prize, at the end, and I have been trying to think of something good. I have ideas, but they aren't very good, so I thought--

[But what he thought is never realized, because Summer moves quite sharply then, twisting away from Bran and the video with a sharp growl. Bran's face pinches in worry, and he grabs hastily for his device, to steady it again, before he shuts it off. It is an ungainly end to the message, but his concern trumps his good manners.]