Unlike certain individuals aboard the ship, Chris was not a workaholic which may be surprising when one took his family life into the picture. He had come to the Obs Deck to think about many things. Why did he do the things he did? Why when a crisis reared its ugly head was he useless? These and many others plagued the young Kamen Rider's mind.

Chris held his Advent Deck in his hands, seemingly uncaring if someone saw him today with the Deck. He had done his rounds and was now taking a break. He didn't really know anyone on the ship with the exception of Selene, Tex and Billy, and perhaps that Tenaya woman. He really should try socializing but at this point? He was just tired.

It was amazing how quickly one could get used to things. The eerie suspicions of living inside a 'benevolent' Reaper still didn't leave the commander, she couldn't exactly keep that from her normal daily activities.

One of those activities meant keeping fit. Most of the crew would probably see her at one point or another every morning.

From the minute she woke up and had her first cup of coffee, Shepard was already making her rounds. A nice, even paced jog around the ship for an hour and half. Usually she wouldn't go further than three miles, but the combat suit she wore in place of the plant suits made the exercise a little easier than it should.

Afterward her jog, came the Sensorium. She was kind of fascinated by what the section of the Reaper-ship could do. There was a lot virtual reality could do in her universe, but the experiences the Sensorium had to offer were leagues beyond anything Shepard had seen. With a few creative thoughts, it took the less than tech-savvy Shepard only a few minutes to build herself a simulated training room. The architecture wasn't too extravagant, a simple studio on top of a skyscraper. The floor of the studio was covered in mats, while the walls were lined with other athletic gear. None of it was real, but it would do well enough for now. For several hours afterward, Shepard would either use the equipment or call up various AI partners to spar against. humans, Turians, Assari, Krogan; all of them had different fighting styles and the Sensorium did well in making each virtual opponent react like they should and gave the commander quite the workout, though occasionally leave her some bruises to nurse for the rest of the day.

Shepard did this every morning almost like clockwork, a nice routine schedule that helped bring clarity to the rest of the day. None of it was private time either. If anyone wanted to talk to her, who was she to stop them?

[This log basically can take place any morning throughout the week. If you tag, be sure to point out what day they visit so we don't cause too much of a weird time-bendy thing.]

Dmitri Shostakovich—that name was what had inspired him today, or rather, several days earlier, idle talk under the influence of hormones though that brief discussion was, but it popped up in his mind when he was going through his tools and he happened upon that fateful memory card, MP3-laden and dusty. How said tracks managed to avoid Dustin’s thorough hand during other searches through his backpack was beyond him. In any case, said card was now safely within the confines of its respective music-projecting devoice, a refurbished set of tinny speakers to help the process was tucked in the crook of his arm, and a silver thermos full of slop and edible tray sat atop his bag of electronics; Dustin was off to work.

It had been some time since he first discovered his unfinished ship down in the vehicle bay, only a ramshackle mess of beams and insulation and flooring to set it apart from the others. Now her internal organs were completed, her fusion engine was already functioning and absorbing the required elements in order to provide power and air, her control panels were connected and partially framed by windows and unstained metal. The Dart was taking shape; but before Dustin could close her up for good, he needed to program her systems and finish wiring together all the necessary components so that they could communicate fluently and in all the complex ways her creator had decided she should. Thus, massive plates of metal and insulation were still exposed, and were the focus of Dustin’s scrutiny for this particular session.

He set up just outside the bridge, arms buried partway within the mass of wires and circuit boards, a soldering iron in one hand and a charge meter in the other. His phone was magnetically attached to the outside and physically wrapped to a particular chip; frames of code flashed over the tiny screen as they migrated to their new interface, seamless and perfect in their construction for even the most mundane of tasks. And, to complete the air, the first movement of Shostakovich’s ninth symphony trilled pleasantly from the speakers atop his stolen greatcoat. It helped to keep him focused—as if he required assistance to do so, the very idea—and it blotted out the rest of the ship. This included possible visitors of course. Dustin had little patience for an audience when he was programming.

Alessa was in the Sensoriums, and assumed that anyone with good sense would take a look in, immediately understand that this place was not for them, and leave unless they were Evangeline.

This was the spot she started with on the outside: while she was not unhappy with her factory, Alessa was starting to get a little homesick with what she had to work with in the City. She missed the overall creepiness that came with a house, and though she had never truly had JUST a house, she was perfectly content with this one. The appearance gave a sort of haunted vibe that she liked very much, but she did not want to stop there. She walked a bit on the outside, and made a dock with a rather eerie feel, and a skeleton hanging just above it ceiling. When that was finished, she smiled and returned to the inside of the house, looking around a moment before starting to fill in the empty spaces.

She started on the walls: what was blank and peeling now was scribbled with these images, all done in the style of a small child, and then she began to work on the inside itself: The basement was a rather bare area, filled with only scattered trash but also troubled by haunted voices. The rest of the house made it clear that Alessa had admired the place where the Nightmare King had been imprisoned.

What she was doing and why was anybody's guess, but feel free to ask.