Where's some Folsom Prison Blues by the man in black when you need it? No access to the media library so just have to improvise. Xander had been stuck in the precinct lockup for several hours now, and he was really bored. And trying to talk to Sam would be so beyond awkward on a million levels that he wasn't even about to try. No way. Better to have some music to take his mind off of things.

A very exaggerated bass voice then started to sing, "Nobody knows... the trouble I've seen. Nobody knows my sorrow. Nobody knows the trouble I've seen..."

He'd quit counting the days since the mini war broke out, but it hadn't been long. Not long enough to forget or be anywhere near remotely alright with it. It wasn't even long enough for him to have come up with a decent rationale that he could just...forget it and move on.

Basketball was an amazing game. One could play it solo, doubles, quads...or any number of people up until the court was too full to feasibly play the game anymore. With the Sensorium, you didn't even need an even number of people. It was a good outlet for stress, and a good distraction. It taught valuable skills, and it could teach perfect strangers to trust each other.

The ball he tossed missed the hoop completely.

He could go down and scold Ronon and Wright. He could scream at them until his throat bled, really. It wouldn't serve any point. It wouldn't make things any better. It wouldn't make it any easier, any more valid to trust the rest of Team Papa, or any of the rest of the ship.

This whole situation was screwed up. There wasn't any making it better. He wasn't in charge, he didn't get any say in how things ran. But that wasn't even the point, was it?

The ball didn't even make it close to the hoop, it smashed against the fake wall of the court, instead.

Even if they could undo all of it. Even if everything worked perfectly, and nothing went wrong? Even if everyone on the ship was the living embodiment of what it meant to be a member of Stargate Command?

They weren't. None of them were members of Stargate Command, save Doctor Lam and Doctor Jackson, and Ronon...wasn't Teal'c. This wasn't home, and he was no closer to figuring out how to get back there, or what he was doing here at all.

The hoop probably didn't even exist anymore. He'd forgotten all about it in flinging the faux-ball against the imaginary cement barrier. If he got lucky? Something might break and alleviate his frustration.

More likely than not, he figured Stacy programmed them indestructible just to piss him off some more.

Anakin stared out of the window. His thoughts drifted to many things prior. The fact that a member of his future family was here. That his former Master now knew everything. It was all surreal. He had taken the time to sneak away for a moment and collect himself. ... Not that he was meditating or anything, that was Obi-Wan's gig not his. Still, he found it calming to be alone in his thoughts.

Most importantly he thought about about her, and what she was doing. If she missed him, if there was any way to get back to her. His emotions swirled together and he found himself almost gasping for air. He had a sudden realization. What if he never found a way back? What if he was stuck here without her?

... No. He couldn't think that way. He would find a way home back to her. He would not allow himself to be trapped like some animal. There had to be a way. There always was a way.

Bringing his gaze downward, he looked at his robotic hand. Clenching his fist for a moment, he just stared at it. He didn't feel anything from his hand -- he didn't put any pain senors in them -- but he did feel something when he fought with Dooku. In a hand which should have no feeling. Even now he felt something ... but it wasn't there.

Bringing a hand to his chest, the pain struck him from the inside out. The more he thought about her the more he hurt. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they lingered, threatening to over take him.

All that he could do was stare out into open space and hopefully find a way to ease his mind.

Lister has been blissfully unaware of any going on in the City. Yes, the beds aboard Stacey may be creepy, but they're warm, comfortable, and there is a nice breeze that stops Lister's random claustrophobia kicking in.

So he's missed much of the going's on at the Yeerk Trial, the Yeerkball contest, and the general bad times down in the City.

Anyone passing the Sleeping Halls will be hearing some weird noises.

|| Dave Lister, you have spent the optimum time asleep. It is now time to get up.||

This is then followed by a loud, and drawn out snore.

There is then a squelch, similar to that made by tentacles as they come out of the walls. Then there is a thud.

"Smeg!"

There is then the sound of bare hands scraping along a squishy floor, then a damp thump, and a deep, lazy breath.

A few seconds later, the whole process starts over again.

Lister, Stacey has decided it's time for you to get up.

She was early, a whole hour early, but she used her time wisely to stretch and prepare herself in this Jed-Eye-like space.  There were no discs to fight, so she did the long meditative routine that was her own.  It was dance and form, smooth, perfect movement that wasted no energy.  It was something to be lost within with its clean lines and sweeping gestures.  She was centered, aware, and felt the Force clearly.  She understood, now, that one did not take the Force like one would take a weapon.  It was used like a sense--like the stretching of the mind to read thoughts and to sense danger.

Now, she felt as if she were playing a children's game with it, letting it lead her through her routine, letting it guide her movements.  Surrendering control.  Arha continued on even after she picked out Obi-Wan's tread.  Her final turn brought her before him, where she slid into the root position, sitting with her legs crossed.

And then flashed him a smile of greeting.

In some ways fainting had been a blessing to Chaucer. Medically, it was nothing but a nightmare, but he hadn't had to deal with the doctors or healers, or whoever had patched him up in the end. Whoever it was had done a brilliant job; Geoff had been terrified that he'd lose his arm at the very least, probably die. Instead he'd woken up to a splint and some heavy sort of wrapping. He couldn't move his arm, but it wasn't missing. A few minutes of checking it over had passed before he'd even noticed the odd pulling in his side and noticed the bandages there.

The relative lack of pain was a marvel in itself.

He needed to find out who had helped him, thank them, eventually. When he got out of the medbay. For now he was propped up slightly in his bed, struggling with the stylus for his comm. Left-handed writing was ridiculously difficult, made even more awkward by the unfamiliarity of the surface, but it was something to do. A way to write Philippa, one he could transcribe into legibility later.

While there wasn't much question in his mind as to what to do with most of the conspirators that he captured, there was one that he honestly wasn't sure what to do with.

Katara. The fourteen year old girl who by all accounts, fell backwards into the situation, attempted to kill the Yeerk along side of Sam and his group, then... gave up.

It put him in a tough position. She was just a kid who made a rash and remarkably stupid decision. Now he had to decide whether she should.

He had wanted to deal with her immediately, but he wasn't in the frame of mind to. He needed to think, but that at least came with one advantage. It would also give her time to think, which is about all she'd be able to do while being held in the brig.

Now that he finally had a chance to rest and clear his head, he decided to have a talk with the girl. He needed to see where her head was at, and what she learned, if anything. Or if she was as lost as Sam was.

He had her moved from her cell into one of the interrogation rooms. He had her wait there for a few minutes, then finally walked in.

"Miss Katara."

Claire had somehow managed to sleep through quite a lot in the last day and a half. Maybe she would've woken up sooner if she'd had any idea of what was going on around her, but whether it was the drugs or overall fatigue from blood loss and the energy it had taken to keep awake until shed been put under, she slept through the night and most of the day. She came close to waking up a few times, stirring in her sleep or voices pulling her up from her dreams, but she'd slip under again before fully waking.

After a while, she just couldn't sleep anymore, however. She wasn't particularly quick in the waking aspect, of course. She was aware first that she wasn't in her "bed" in the precinct almost immediately. Her stomach felt oddly numb, and slowly she blinked her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling above her, a look of slightly disoriented confusion passing over her face. One hand moved to her stomach, and she felt the bandage there, remembering.

I got shot. The thought was a little disturbingly calm. She briefly considered sitting up to get a better look around her, but there was a dull ache underneath the numbness, and she decided she was pretty good in the position she was currently in, for the moment. She did turn her head, though, when she caught movement in her peripheral vision.