Daniel has been on the ship a while now. Though he's kept far more to himself than he intended. Mostly due to the fact he hasn't... well. He hasn't noticed the passing of time.

He's been very absorbed in his research about anything and everything related to the ship and the universe its cruising through. He had tried to go through all this information in the Media Library... but... well. There is only so long a book worm can go without... books.

Luckily, it didn't take much to translate the media library into holographic projections of books and the computers he's used to. If anything, it made him more content in his research. Not that he expected to find much beyond what was already known. So he decided on a new approach. He got the sensorium to call up old SG-1 mission reports (and in a moment of weakness, the ones that haven't happened for him yet.). That brought him to be sitting in a simulation of a library, at a desk pilled high with books and folders. Some of said folders baring the clear classified mark... not that it mattered much anymore... at least not to him.

He looked over an old report then clicked his recorder on, "The ship does seem to possess virtual reality technology like to that found on P7J-989. Though I've yet find any indication that this is... well... all in our heads. Or if it is... it's far more advanced. But now is hardly the time to get into a debate over what is real and what's not... at least not yet anyway." He clicked it off shortly after.

Still absorbed in his work, he won't notice if anyone else enters. He flipped through some pages of a different file, this one marked for the Atlantis expedition. He clicked his recorder back on, "An interesting note... the organic... ahem.. workings of the ship do bare a resemblance to that of the Wraith. Not.. Not that that is very comforting at all. As much as I would like to know what we're dealing with here... I would hope that this more a case of convergent evolution than any connection to the Wraith. Still... I'm not ruling anything out." He let out a sigh after that note.

"I guess that brings me to the.... Ohm."

Hopefully nobody had any plans for this little building over, the one that looks suspiciously like an unfamiliar fast-food chain restaurant might if one removed all the restaurant contents and signage but left the building itself standing untouched. Hopefully, that is, because Roxie's been dismantling the non-load-bearing interior walls to roughly remove the framing inside, leaving drywall and insulation and other bits scattered around. (She made sure to turn off the building's main breaker first, at least, though she's been lucky enough not to hit any actual wiring.)

And, one awkward load at a time, she's been dragging the wood over to a building across the broad avenue, one that seems rather like a small veterinary office. The front door's been propped open with a brick, and she's been laying out the roughly-removed lengths of wood on the carpet, trying not to track too much drywall dust inside.

Today should have been weeks ago. Truthfully, he hadn't been ready for it--even on a temporary basis, it was a strange sort of betrayal to take the responsibilities of another team, when there wasn't even any members of SG-1 on it. Leading a team was always a tricky business, and it was often something Cam preferred to tackle only after long deliberation and planning. This was compounded by the fact that Stacy had essentially tossed a group of random strangers together without preamble, and chosen a leader just as arbitrarily.

Of course, the ship wouldn't have just messily thrown anyone together as was convenient, or he wouldn't have gotten an addition to the team later on. Clearly the AI had some way of gauging their skills and finding a complementary combination. However, he did not possess those personnel files. Aside from Dr. Lam, who should not have been on the field, he had no idea what array of strengths, talents, personalities, vices, and weaknesses his impromptu team possessed. That by itself was a recipe for inevitable disaster. The fact that he had no way of knowing whether they were military, or whether they would accept an arbitrarily chosen leader (presumed skills or no) meant that the disaster would very likely happen far sooner rather than later, as soon as they were expected to act as a team.

In lieu of personnel files, buying rounds of drink, and early, rhythm setting missions, Cam would have to come up with alternatives to allow the team to become familiar with one another before they needed to be. He needed to find a way to see how the team members interacted with one another, ferret out peeves, judge where they could be pushed, and determine what unique skill Stacy chose them for before they had a giant alien breathing down their necks.

Most importantly, the team would have to know to trust each other without hesitation, and how to operate together harmoniously, before someone's difficult past and stubborn nature got themselves or someone else killed. On Stacy, there weren't very many ways to prepare a team for that, especially if the team was composed of civilians unused to what would likely be expected of them, or worse, the kind of military men who'd never learned flexibility.

In his own experience, the easiest, least trauma-inducing possibility, was a game of basketball. Many, in fact, but they could start slow, especially if some of them were like the woman he'd met earlier who didn't know the game. The learning of the game could do what he needed just as well.

For now, Cameron stood outside the Sensorium, leaning against a wall and waiting. The sad fact was, he couldn't say for sure when the others would arrive. Even if they all tried to be on time, timekeeping wasn't the most accurate thing on Stacy. Or anything close to that. However, they were in a fairly visible place. He had hope for the best. Even if their watches were off, there was still a good chance they'd all migrate to the right place mostly on time.

Provided they read and listened to the announcement. Apparently it was his turn first, to trust his new team.

[OOC: Despite the fact that Cam has set this up for Team Papa members exclusively, there's no reason someone couldn't just crash the game. He wouldn't prevent them from joining, it. Still on the same side, after all. Sensorium-generated players will augment any uneven teams.]

The mists swirled in his mind, hazy figures reaching out to him and being buffeted away by the wind of his passing.  Luke was in the tan and brown of the Jedi Grandmaster, his cloak whipping back and forth behind him.  Leaning into the wind, a hand on his lightsaber, Luke walked through this dream world of shadows and phantoms.  It was what often comprised his dreams.  Sixty years of memories, battles, deaths and regrets; it all blended together after a while.

But then he paused.

In the little sleeping cubby he'd crawled into earlier after carefully reviewing the information from the trial, Luke's brow furrowed in his sleep.  If Mara had been sleeping there beside him, she'd have likely awoken and smoothed his hair back, calming him from the nightmares that sometimes cropped up.  War did that to people, made corpses of them all, even those who survived.

A distinct figure appeared in the fog, a face he knew and didn't know.  Obi-Wan looked younger than Luke remembered, his eyes less sad, his robes less careworn.  He was wearing armor that reminded Luke of a stormtrooper's molded plastoid armor, commanding stormtroopers with a silent, shouted command.  His lightsaber hummed blue in his hand.

Luke reached for Obi-Wan, shouting, Ben!  But the man didn't hear him, and a strong pull of the Force yanked Luke backwards, through the shadowy figures of those whom he loved and still did love, back through the swirling tunnel of fog, and back to his body.

Luke awoke with a start, and slithered out of the cubby so he could slide to sitting on the warm, squishy floor.  The air was too humid, and didn't cool his sweaty body at all.  He felt the suit sucking up the moisture though, and ran a finger over the pulsating, membranous thing, silently thanking it.  Suit though it was, it still had the pulse of life in it, and he would show it courtesy as he would a tree or a sentient being.  After all, it was part of how he got his power.

He would have to endure that face-sucking thing in the bathroom though, and possibly get stabbed by the hydrating needle--but he probably needed it.  Force-given dreams didn't come to him often--the last time they had, they'd been foretelling Caedus' rise and Jacen's fall, and had haunted him with a shadow-cloaked figure that resonated evil.  But why would the Force have him dream of Obi-Wan now?  Obi-Wan had died on the first Death Star, slashed through by his father's lightsaber, and his body had become one with the Force.  Luke hadn't even seen Obi-Wan's Force-ghost since they liberated Coruscant from the Yuuzhan Vong.

Shaking his head, Luke got his feet under him and made his way into the bathroom, mentally steeling himself for the experience.  The Force would make its will clear in time, and he'd learned better than to question it.