There's not a whole lot to do, when you're marking time in a jail cell.  Tim has paced every inch of it, calculated the estimated area of his new living space (small), and counted the ceiling tiles (42 and 1/4).

He hasn't tried to escape, though he thinks he might be able to, if he really tried.  But he won't. 

Right now, he's lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling, and hoping that no one comes to visit him.  He's not sure he can face their disappointment.

Arha sat in the observation deck, mulling over the work she had done with Obi-Wan, though they had finished for the day (and though she wanted to continue), she needed the reflection and review.  The ball had not moved.  Not even a hair.  Not even less than a hair.  She felt as if she had been pulled inside out, wrung like a Harkkonen water-towel, and her moisture set among the street women of Arrakeen.  Tired was not adequate a description.

She was not even sure there was one.

But she sat, her back straight, and meditated on the day.  Clarity would come in time, she supposed, but the attempts had left her with a strengthened sense of the Force itself.  This was better than it had been the previous day.  It would continue to become better as they days progressed, she would not leave herself any doubt in that.  Only the fully committed would be honored with progress, all others would be abandoned to the fruitlessness.  All things she had set her sights on she had accomplished through her own blood, through her own sweat, through her own error and trial.

Arha would not be discouraged.

The morrow would come and she would embrace it as fully as she had begun the day that was now at its close.  She watched the colors swim, drew a breath in, and let it out once more.  The motion made her less uneasy, now.  She found that, too, acceptable.

Today, Zuko's slop is EXTRA sloppy.

"No pepper. At all. Really?"

Even the Earth Kingdom had something in the way of condiments.

"This is no way to live."

Sherry had gone to the media library for some relaxation. Sure, other people ran off to the sensoriums, but Sherry liked reading. It relaxed her, even if the pages weren't paper, and she found something calming in the series of words on paper. Besides, her mother wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon, and Sherry was tired. Purplish smudges from too many hours trying to stay awake decorated the skin under her eyes. She had lost some sleep over Claire, and knew she'd fallen asleep awkwardly over a chair in a way that had probably looked uncomfortable.

She hadn't been, but that was beside the point. Sherry removed her headband and put it beside her, fluffing her hair and combing it out with her fingers. She was thinking too much, and that wasn't relaxing at all. She returned to her book of short stories and blinked at the screen.

May 16. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have, continually, that horrible sensation of some impending danger, that apprehension of some coming misfortune, or of approaching death; that presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.

Sherry looked down at the screen in sympathy. Guy de Maupassant, I know exactly how you felt. She continued reading The Horla, but soon, her eyes drifted closed and she slumped over, her cheek pressed against her omnicomm.

The last words she read still repeated slowly in her mind, She was already half asleep on a reclining chair, overcome with fatigue.

Kyle has been oblivious to the miniature civil war that had erupted, but it's likely that even if he had known, he would have taken no part in it. He's had enough of war for a while, especially considering he wasn't around for the events that precipitated this particular fight, and he's not about to go jumping into any fray without a good reason.

Instead, he's been holed up in the Sensoriums, in a replica of his old workroom, finally making all the half-baked concept weapons that he just never had time for back where he comes from. At the moment, he's got a small, working railgun prototype sitting in the middle of a clear space. A search through the media library had turned up some interesting facts about superconductors, and after running tests on the various suggestions, he's fitting the prototype with superconducting wires. They still require some cooling, but not as extensively as other superconductors, eliminating the need for liquid nitrogen.

He's completely engrossed in the delicate work, and has almost forgotten why he'd come today in particular -- Yoshimi is going to try out the SMG he rebuilt.

Inside of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, before the Stone of Anointing, Daimon Hellstrom, the Son of Satan, knelt. "Ave Maria, gratia plena..." He continued the Hail Mary softly. He tried to focus solely on God but other thoughts intruded.

Daimon missed the fight over the Yeerk creature but he heard about what happened. He was not pleased, not at all. He knew what his next sermon would be but he had not the strength to even attempt to string together his thoughts for it. After all, what could the Son of Satan say about murder? But then what could the Son of Satan say about God?

What was this desire to serve the Lord in ministry? Sacrilegious or devout? He wished that there was someone, anyone, who could take his place but there was no one. And if no one else could serve the Lord then perhaps...

Perhaps he had an exaggerated view of his own importance.

Daimon closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed for the well being and enlightenment of all on this ship. He prayed for deliverance. But most of all, he prayed for strength. The strength to lead and guide, as Father Gosset once guided him. The strength to resist and subdue his dark soul. The strength to follow the Lord.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto..."

Picard was in the Sensoriums. It wasn't an unusual spot to find him by any means, but unlike much of the time when he relaxed in a smoky jazz club, or walked along the streets of Old Chicago or New York, the captain was not dressed as Dixon Hill. He wasn't smoking or drinking, either. Instead, he simply stood on the bridge of the Enterprise, listening to old reports, Captain's and Senior Officers' logs, and even going so far as to recreate some of the memorable moments on the ship. Now wanting to try and use the hologram as some kind of emotional crutch, he even had the simulation make an artificial version of himself, playing through the events exactly as they'd occurred.

Taking a sip from his tea, the captain gazed out of the viewscreen to the expanse of space before him. It made for a very pretty picture, no doubt about it, but it was not why he was here. No, Picard had the unfortunate self-assigned duty of reacquainting himself with every case of temporal discrepancy and every judicial dispute and every interdimensional boondoggle the Enterprise and her crew had ever been involved in.

He did laugh, however, when he read the regulations and operating procedures for the Department of Temporal Investigations. He almost pitied them, having to deal with so many temporal disputes involving James Kirk.

Even Smashers needed sleep, and Pikachu was no different. The small electric mouse was curled into a ball on one of the bench/couches on the Observation Deck, and a gentle hum could be heard from the Pokemon as he snoozed. Occasionally his tail twitched and his cheeks sparked, as though fighting in his sleep, but nothing major came from it, and Pikachu continued to sleep happily, eagerly accepting the first full sleep he'd had since arriving on the ship.

He couldn't bring himself to sleep in those holes in Stacy, not with the way they looked. Never mind the claustrophobic sensation of being confined; Pikachu just didn't want to chance being slimed again. This way was much easier, and more enjoyable as well. Grinning in his sleep, Pikachu rolled partly on to his back, his body still curled in on itself.

"Chaaa," he sighed, sinking deeper into his enjoyably restful slumber.