Color me curious. Since we're such a diverse group of people - how many of you are from "Earth"? I don't care what version of it, I don't care what time you're from. Considering that we're all supposed to be from different galaxies and times, why is it your wonderful planet that gets picked on?

Not that I'm minding, there are so many people from my own galaxy that I'd hate to see again (though, if there's an old man called Ben Kenobi or Obi Wan still hiding out here, I still want my money), it's just odd that it's that galaxy that gets all the fun.

Or, you know, tell me where you're from. How are you? What's Earth like? Something - it's just bugging me.

I'm aware that this is about to sound terribly dramatic, but. [ But she's paused a moment, debating cutting the feed entirely. She's been too reclusive, however, and this is as good a way as any to try and connect to her fellow passengers, isn't it? ]

I've spent my whole life in exodus. It's as if my life is split into chapters, and each one ends with having to flee the place I'd been calling home. Being stuck somewhere isn't something I'm accustomed to.

[ Which brings us to the point: ] How do you all stand it? I'm discovering that I'm terrible at keeping busy without wilderness to go tromping through, noble children to drag home, or a city guard to assist. Does anyone need anything fetched? I might actually be desperate enough to play messenger and courier for someone. I can only do target practice so much before even that gets dull.

[ There's a heavy sigh. Hawke doesn't like this one bit. ]

Which reminds me, I don't suppose there's anyone around here who knows how to make arrows?

[For once, his transmission isn't coming from the Gardens. Instead Netherlands is seated in one of the kitchens - a very, very pristine looking kitchen.]

Anyone needs help moving their shit down to the second level, I can, ah. Help.

[So eloquent. Whatever. He follows it up with a jab of his thumb to the background.]

If you move down here, don't fuck up the kitchen. Keep it clean.

[That said, he shifts in his seat and rattles off the rest, tapping on the table with each statement.]

Agriculture needs people, I've got weed and tobacco to trade, and - need to talk to someone who knows how to make clothes. Or knit. And uh. Got a football if anyone wants to play.

[The real sort of football, not the American kind.]

Ovid once said, sunt superis sua iura.

[ the gods have their own rules. ]

And so does this ship - and they are always changing.

[ a pause and a smile. ]

My skill with a blade is pitiful at best. One cannot name me a warrior or a knight.

[ some would name her a queen. ]

I find it most useful to fight against armed with gioia di vivere! Such a small battle but I cannot say I have ever lost it.

I am the shieldmaiden Lagertha. I was among those who vanished into the corridors just before the nightmare began.

[ to put it nicely. ] There was no sign of my son during my wanderings.

For almost two months, several of you have told me that he isn't here. Or that giving up is the best thing to do. I never will.

[ too bad. the world has jaded her in a million ways and one. but bjorn is all she has left. without him, she has nothing. that just is not acceptable to her. it's bull-headed of her, but it isn't as though she cares. ]

However; I understand that rushing off blindly without a plan is hardly the wisest plan ever made. So, while I form one, I'd like to spar with as many of you as possible. To build up my strength.

[ if she doesn't, she'll go mad. ] Win or lose, there's still a pint or two of ale in it for you if you'd like to try besting me.

[When the vid feed clicks on, there's a nice view of Lucifer's face, silhouetted by the raging fire in the lounge behind him. Never say that the Devil doesn't know how to put on a show.]

There's something that hasn't been sitting well with me, so let me see if I've got it all straight.

[His tone is light and conversational, and he taps his chin with one finger contemplatively.]

We were pulled here to the middle of nowhere, space against our will, heading towards destinations unknown with only the word of the captain that we'll be able to return from whence we came. They branded us like animals. Took things from us, in some cases.

[Like his own, for example. His Grace has been pared down like an overgrown tree until he could fit within the confines of an inferior vessel without burning through.

There is a muffled shout from somewhere behind him.]

Personally, I find this to be a little rude.

[Thanks for the input, Satan.]

I suppose there are a few ways to approach this sort of situation, but I'm not really one to work through passive means. Just a personal preference, of course, I've just always been disposed towards being more... direct. Really, in instances like these, I think it's important for all parties involved to communicate in a clear, succinct manner, so everyone understands each other.

[And, apparently, Satan's idea of a 'clear, succinct manner' is the liberal application of fire.]

Consider this my formal complaint.

[He cuts off the feed.]

voice;

[ he sounds as excited as might be expected from someone whose lost their entire team, flat and empty and utterly beyond caring about anything else anymore. But this deserved a little more than empty text. ]

I did my best. It wasn't enough. This might not bring any consolation, but she made me promise that I --

[ silence, again for awhile. ]

Do with it what you will. It seems pointless now, but it's what she would have... done.

[ and it cuts.

After the message, the follow is sent as an attachment, left wide open to the network: ]

( FIELD REPORT; cut for length and creepy )

( closed to anyone who had anything to do with recon )

[ ooc: threadjacking and conversation making is all a-okay, non-recon people are welcome as well. ]

Okay, I was warned this spaceship is creepy, but it goes straight for the visual distortions?

I guess I should introduce myself. Detective John Kennex. If you've come across a synthetic named Dorian with dark hair and blue eyes, a woman named Anna with dark hair and brown eyes, or a small but authoritative woman named Maldonado, let me know. It's important.

Anyway, I'm new and I could use a tour guide. Any volunteers?

[He usually wouldn't ask for a tour guide, but he really wants to learn more about this place.]

[ooc: Just in case you were wondering, in regards to the visual distortions, John's having side effects to a drug.]

And we're back. To those of you who are new, welcome to the Tranquility. For the rest of you, you know why I'm speaking to you now. It's been another month, and those of us who ventured into the hallways last month--whether we made the choice ourselves or had it made for us, here we are. This is our home now, we chose it.

On the topic of Shepard's last message, I know many of you are divided. Let me better frame it for all of you, in the hope it helps you to understand why my stance on it is so hard line. Shepard was punished for trying to pick apart the ship's secrets, held until there was no hope of her getting out. She and her team sent out messages deliberately intended to snare us into the trap - in places they didn't even know what they were saying - to get us to go in there. We resisted. We fought our way back when it threw everything it could at us to get us to stay. Now they apparently want us to go back in. Well it's not gonna happen, and I strongly advise you not to try, even if it's true that I can't personally stop you. Why am I so convinced? Because of something Shepard said.

[ A clip from the message plays, Shepard's voice: ] Formally suggest volunteer only operation. Something is different. Something’s in my head.

Ultimately it's your decision, but don't say I didn't warn you. And believe me, I know what you saw. I saw it too. I saw what I want most in the world, but here I am, and this is where I'm staying.

Javik and Shepard, as usual with those who go missing as well as those lost during the jumps, have been added to the mourning wall in the garden chapel. These were good people, their actions were the actions of heroes, not fools; but most of all, they were friends. I've got a mean streak in me, so here's the deal: you got a bad word to say about them, keep it the hell to yourself. That's my last word on the matter.

[ Nathan is pure Tranquility by now. Gone is the suit jacket and tie, last seen long months ago. He wears clothes bartered for at their last stop, a three quarter length brown leather coat and functional, hard wearing clothes underneath, space age fabrics in dark forest green and darker brown. He's still the same man, but he's adapted. And he's only half done with his talk, his expression still serious. ]

Alright; Tranquility business.

There's gonna have to be a few changes if we're gonna keep living here. Don't mistake me--the ship's gonna step up whatever it's got in store for us, and we can't keep losing unity the way we are. This is jump thirty three, that means thirty three floors; more floors than we have security. Those of you who are new will discover that fresh food from the gardens is only being distributed on floors marked 1 and 6; alternative food is still available in the kitchens on other floors. So agriculture is terrible, the security situation is equally troubling, and then medical most of all; the latter is presently, by way of seniority and...well, other things, in the hands of my brother Peter--you'll find him an apt leader, but he's no surgeon, so good luck if you get appendicitis.

What I'm getting at is a crucial need for people to join departments. Now we've been working on a volunteer basis this far and it's worked fine, but if we don't get people growing food and cleaning up medbay after the jump, fixing shuttles, protecting the halls and maintaining our communications network, survival here is gonna get more and more unpleasant. You like your conversations getting to the right people, don't you? Well so do I. How about them apples? And getting off the ship, despite being a damn deathtrap near every time we do it, that's real great when the oxygen isn't whistling out of the shuttle you're in right? Yeah, I think so too.

If more people don't sign up, we may have to start rationing luxuries...at worst people might start dying, and there'll be no escape route if the ship is gonna blow. I don't want any of that to happen and neither should you.

[ At last it seems like he's close to wrapping up. ]

Last month's losses shouldn't change how we continue to approach survival here, and believe me when I tell you that your first battle is to survive. To do that, we all need to pull ourselves together and keep doing what we usually do, irregardless of our personal feelings. Fight club, space training, weekly dinners, and above all work--routine is how you stay sane; take it from someone who's been here for a while And remember if you decide to get wasted on space alcohol nightly that when your liver fails nobody around here can do a damn thing about it.

But most of all we can get through this if you're all there for each other; we're stronger together. We'll survive together.

Petrelli out.

[ She seems uncertain, at the use of the device which records her, peering a little too close, before pulling back. Trying her best to be at ease, even if she clearly is not completely. ]

Forgive me, fellow passengers of the tranquility, which I am told is a ship, though it is not one I should ever seek to employ --

[ but that is a rant for later, and she dismisses it quickly. ] -- I have been remiss in introducing myself, quite rightly I was not sure how to do so. But this seems the way of it, so I understand it. Though I am alone neither in name nor face. [ her amusement is brittle at best for it. ] I am Elizabeth Tudor, granddaughter to Elizabeth of York, and great-granddaughter to Elizabeth Woodville.

[ and she puffs out of breath in dry laughter. ] And by more time than is flattering to count such, Queen of England in turn. [ there's a pause and the propriety of it all seems to drop, introduction done. ]

Now that is out of the way, the matter that is far more important, what must be done to procure a decent drink on this twice cursed place? Or indeed how to pass the time at all, if my skills may be put to use, though I scarcely know where to apply them here. [ and that, truly seems to amuse her, quite darkly in fact. ] In any case, you shall find me a generous friend.

[Right after Marissa's message:]

Please-

[Her voice is soft, almost desperate, and for once she looks like a vulnerable teenage girl.]

Please don't listen to her.

[She just wanted some peace on the ship and now this.]

(ooc: even if you've only talked to her once, if it was friendly, you count.)

[Marissa turns on the video the day after the jump. She clears her throat, turning the device so it frames her face just so. The first thing that's obvious is that she has a gnarly black-eye, courtesy of Hanna. The background is just a wall with no distinctive marks. It also may be strange that she's wearing dark gloves. Another strange thing is, she might look a lot like your resident psychic elf and queen of England...

She smiles, and to some it might be a reassuring smile, but to some others, it might be a little off. Her accent is Southern, and her voice is authoritative.] Hello. My name's Marissa Wiegler. I wanted to explain the debacle that was yesterday.

There is a girl on this ship. Her name is Hanna. She is a very disturbed girl. Her father has brainwashed her into thinking I would do her harm, turning her into a deadly weapon for his own selfish benefit. She is highly dangerous and manipulative. I don't recommend talking to her or interacting with her at all.

She has already assaulted me once. It won't happen again. I will be in hiding until I can be sure that I will be safe. Do not be fooled. She was genetically altered to be the perfect soldier.

Trust me. And stay safe.

[And she turns off the feed. For the curious, this is the ongoing thread of the 'debacle'.]

[Ianto looks fairly uncomfortable when he comes on screen. He hasn't addressed the network in a long time, and there are still people who aren't on great terms with him after the fiasco on Arima. Still, this needs to be said.]

Some of you know me, some of you don't. My name is Ianto Jones, and I've been here since the first jump. Back in the beginning, there was a whole group of us who were very seriously dedicated to unlocking the mystery of this place, and I think it's fair to say that we came a good distance. Most of the others are gone now, but we put together a guide that I kept updated for a long time after the organization was disbanded. After a while, though... Well, I suppose like I felt people weren't reading it any more. But we've lost quite a few of the old hats and gained a lot of new faces, and what used to be fairly common knowledge has been lost.

I've been convinced to revive the guide, but in the meantime, one of the things many of you may be unaware of is the subnetwork, buried directly beneath the one we're using here, and how it's been used before. Smiley, the entity you saw leave us that passage before the rescue mission, has given us nuggets of information on that subnetwork before. He left us another one, and we cracked it just a few minutes ago.

The contents of the message are as follows:
( SPOILERS if you're still trying to solve the tumblrs! )

[The feed opens on Tyke in the SEC offices. Her expression's set steady, only some thin sharpness at the edges betraying any strain. Mostly she just seems busy and pissed off.]

This is Tyke, head of Security. Most of you will be aware of the situation. We've got seventeen people reported missing in the ship, approximately seven that have followed in the last two days. I'm not gonna stop any of you trying to go after them, but you go prepared, and you don't go alone.

We're putting together supply packs. Come down to the SEC office, floor 001, pick one up. We can arm you if you don't have any weapons, and put you in teams if you're on your own. [A beat.] Got four hours before I take SEC out.

[A deadline for anyone joining them or coming to get packs. She almost looks like she's done there, but seems to reconsider.]

Don't listen to anything you hear out there. Watch each other's backs. Want as many of us coming back from this shit as possible.

[Including the missing.]

You're not alone. People you care about are calling for your help, and you want to go help them. I'm going to ask you to be a little more patient before you run off into the dark. We know they're lost, we know there's something pursuing them, we know they need help. But we also know that the most recent post on the network, the one talking about warnings from the captain - a captain we don't have - wasn't made by one of us. That means this problem is bigger than you think; it's bigger than all of us, and it's important we get a clear image of what we're facing before we leave. Shepard's team has gone missing, and other comms have started going off the radar too--we'll start where they disappeared, and if we do this together, we might even succeed. The last thing we need is more of you lost out there because you chose to do this on your own.

Right now I need your help in a different, but just as important way. If you've received a message from someone, we need to hear them. That way we can establish a thorough list of who's missing, and try and piece together what they were all trying to say.

Tyke, as Head of Security, is going to coordinate the rescue. I imagine she'll speak to you shortly herself. Rest assured we'll need bodies on the ground for this one, and I know there's going to be no telling some of you to stay put, so forgive me if I - at least - save myself the effort of trying. The corridors are dangerous: bring weapons, ammunition, your communicator, but don't worry too much about rations--you won't need them.

[ He seems about to sign off, but he has to address that post, the grinding static and the screams underneath it, all of it so familiar to him by now. ]

...

"They're getting closer." I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound like a coincidence. Whatever we find out there, whatever is after our people, try not to kill it unless you have to. Don't get killed, but bear in mind the risk that we may be deceived into murdering people who would be our allies. I can't shake the feeling that we're being set up. Alright. Hang in there, everyone.

Y'know, it really fuckin' sucks to be homesick. I can handle the space craziness 'n all, and the people here are pretty nice, but. Shit. I want to go home, already. I miss my mom, I miss my dad, I miss Pollo, I miss-

[Helios. The oldest of the Crius triplets, the one that couldn't stand the sight of his own family anymore and ran away to use the dark crafts for his own benefit.]

... What does that mean for you when the golden child turns out to be the black sheep of the family? Huh? Must suck to be a parent then.

[Must suck to be stuck with the other two kids you never had much hope for, too.]

How many of you have kids, anyway? I'm guessing none of 'em are stuck in this shithole. Don't look like it's bringing in entire families or whatever.

[... Which in turn, makes him wonder:]

Wait. Shit. Are there families here? Like - did anyone meet, get married 'n have kids? Then they'd be space babies. Holy fucking shit. Has that actually happened?