"Alright, boys. Fan out."

Meatship? Welcome to Gotham. Today the sensoriums echo with the clapping of rain on canvas. Eleven men in standard League of Assassins' field garp file slowly through an old, disused fairground. It's hard to believe people actually came here in the recent years before it was abandoned, let alone when it first opened during Gotham's heyday almost a century ago. It's hard to imagine one of the city's own police commissioners was once held hostage here. It's hard to imagine its last owners, the rather astutely named Circus of the Strange, actually had it refurbished to look like this. Like a David Lynch movie.

The ninja detachment spread out into the soaking morass of tarpaulin and amusement rides long since rusted under decades of rain like this.

"HUTT--!!"

That's the noise of one of them disappearing painfully. There's further groaning, albeit the groaning of old machines, and the ghost train rattles into life. When it spits the first cart out, the rest of the men can see their unconcious comrade bruised and broken, strewn ominously in the seat.

On the other side of the causeway, there are three quick thudding noises. One of the men edges his way over, only to find the coconut shy, the coconuts in question having been systematically knocked from their poles.

The second man cries just like the first as he's dragged into the stall.

The game plays on and the men are picked off one at a time. Only two of them are good enough to see him coming. A few of them go down without a sound, but most do so screaming. If they're lucky, some may walk again.

Meatship? Welcome to Gotham.

Leon's day had been long, though ultimately productive. He managed to scratch a number of things off his list, and only two items of consequence remained. Those being Sherry's surgery, and spelunking through W&P, trying to relocate the Main Armory.

He also needed to take a break.

But when he got back to the Precinct, he didn't head straight to his room and crash, which is probably what he should've done. Instead he went to Claire's room and knocked on her door. He needed to talk to her, and he figured he could hide out with her for a little while. He knew she'd run interference for him if he asked her to... plus about two-thirds of the ship thought they screwing each other anyway dear god did he wish, so if they were locked in a room together, odds are people would be reluctant to bother them.

"Hey, Claire, open up. It's me."

shuffle

shuffleshuffle

CRASH

...

shuffleshuffle

These are the sounds coming from the Equipment Lockers right now, as the ship's resident little green(-ish) alien loots through it, looking for nothing in particular.

Oliver has come across a couple things he seems to like, though. He seemed to enjoy playing with an old lighter he found Yay fire!, as well as a military-style helmet (which he's currently wearing, too big even for his oddly-shaped insect head).

Yet it seems to be a lone, ratty old shoe that seems to interest him the most...particularly when he tears off the rubber from the bottom of it and starts eating it.

...He certainly seems to be enjoying himself, at least.

12 - 1700 hours - Crew Work. Check.
17 - 1800 hours - Visit Leels in the hoosegow. Check.
18-2000 hours - personal projects. In progress.

Over in the Engineering department, Allen is putting the finishing touches on a small, nondescript device. It's sleek, black, has a lense, and when he engages it, it floats, then zips over his shoulder and down Stacy's halls.

"Control, f, my wife," he murmurs as he saunters after it. He turns off as the device zips on its way and comes to a stop in the Media Lab, where he flops down to wait, either for updates, or tentacles.

In the meantime, he puts on Casablanca. For the fourth time this month.

After taking some much needed time to rest, collect their thoughts, gather information, plan, and work out the logistics of said plans, the Command Staff finally convened down in the city in the Basilica of St. Peter. The Vatican had served well as their meeting place before, so it made perfect sense to use it again. It was obviously large enough to house them all, and it was also quiet, since it seemed that the changes that had been made to the structure by a certain crew mate had led many crew members to avoid it.

There was much to be discussed. The fall-out from the battle over the Yeerk, what to do with the prisoners being held in the precinct, and--most importantly--the up-coming effort to breach Stacy's barriers, open up more of the ship, and deal with what lay in wait there.