[ Oh dear. That's rather a grumpy face on the other end of the feed. It's the face of a telepath with a pounding headache - not nearly as bad as he would have imagined, given the circumstances, but still rather bothersome, all the same. There is a great deal of exasperation in his voice as he speaks, as if he's a parent reprimanding an errant child that keeps making the same mistake over and over again. ]

I would like to state for the record that this "jumpsuit" is an absolute travesty. I have no intention of wearing it for extended periods of time- [ the bare shoulders visible in shot should be some indication of this ] -and God knows I am incredibly hopeful that in time it might be possible to find some alternative clothing that isn't nearly as criminal as this. I'm practically offended.

[ A brief pause, another faint wince as the headache throbs. ]

In any case, I suppose it was about time to make proper use of this little device. Good day, fellow captives, I hope you're all as delighted as I am by your existence upon this ship. My name is John Buchanan, but you may call me Oxford instead - it doesn't sound nearly quite as dull. [ He smiles, just a tad, and it's unclear why. Maybe at his little jab at his given name, maybe at something else. ]

Finally, a small request; if anyone has some ibuprofen, I'd be much obliged and indebted if they could perhaps share it before my skull cracks in half.

[Of all the places Dean figured he’d wake up, submerged in a freaky Matrix-style pod filled with liquid wasn’t one of the top contenders. He’s woken up in far worse situations before and though that should be a comfort it’s not. All of this is supposed to be over...

What follows his rude re-entry into consciousness is a slick (literally) routine, old habits and what he knows mix, eyes, ears and hands checking out the entire medical bay. The scalpel he ends up with is more chance than anything and, though he’s got nowhere to stash it yet without risking serious injury, he keeps his grip on it tight. He has nothing else to go by aside from an itch inside his arm and it’s not until he twists it over to scratch that he reads the number tattooed into his skin. 124.

Another minute passes as he tries to figure out how stopping the apocalypse has anything to do with this, and he half considers the idea that he’s actually dead at least three times before the number and the lockers suddenly make sense. He finds 124 and opens it, stares inside at the weirdass Star Trek uniform and tries not to react to the keys he can see very clearly next to a lighter, a pack of beef jerky and his hunting knife. He’s not going to think about his baby, alone in a graveyard without him.

Once the uniform is grudgingly pulled on, his own belongings concealed in various places around his body, the device he doesn’t recognize is scooped up and flipped over twice in his hands, powered up and snorted at when it tells him to go to the blue lift. That ain’t happening anytime soon. Instead he’s messing around with every single button until he’s told he’s broadcasting to a network. Awesome.]

Who the hell’s in charge around here? And who wants to explain why I’ve got a number tattooed into my goddamn arm? I swear to that douche upstairs, if this has anythin’ to do with any of you feathery assholes I will kick your asses from here to... whatever.

I have no idea how I got here. I have a number in my arm and right now, for all I know, I’m in some kinda concentration camp for guys who the universe thought it hadn’t crapped on hard enough or long enough. Anybody with answers? I’ll trade you strips of my beef jerky for information. Maybe.

[The feed cuts out here, though anybody who’s anywhere close when he realizes where he is? Be prepared for expletives like you’ve never heard before.]

[ There's small click as the feed begins transmitting. Nothing shows up except staticky black, but there are muffled noises in the background that faintly resolve themselves into hurried words—two voices, one male, one female, pitched low. ]

—id this—

—ell is goin—

[ . . . ]

—et’s just … over with.

[ There’s a noise that might either be a sigh or a quick burst of static. ] Fine.( Q & A UNDER THE CUT. )

[ this post is not a great post to make. jenna debates saying anything at all, but the other options aren't options so much as death sentences. after steeling her nerves, a visibly ill at ease but trying to grin through it jenna has a few things to ask, o fellow passengers on this not-a-yacht. ]

Okay, everyone else is doing the 'where are we, why are we here' thing, and better than I could so... I'll take the other obvious ones. Has anyone found food? And more importantly, booze? Because I would trade the space jumpsuit off my back for a bottle of Cuervo right now.

[ pause. and this is the MOST CASUAL QUESTION WHAT. no ulterior motives here, shhh. ]

And on a different note, what's the medical situation like here? Because the first aid class I took says we should probably have bandages, Neosporin, Advil... blood bags... [ one of these things is not like the other. ] Just curious.

[ worst stealth vampire of the year award: in the bag. ]

[The audio pops on and, without waiting overly long, a man starts to speak.]

This isn’t. Quite what I expected. Where is this?

… Is anyone actually here?

[He’s not exactly one for beating around the bush. Not when he can help it, anyway.
Also, if this is Peragus all over again, he’s going to scream. He cannot deal with dead silent empty places that should be teeming with people right now.]