Edward sat at an empty table in the mess hall, prodding with a fork at the glob of slop slowly congealing on his edible tray. He was a big eater, sure, and not too picky about most foods (save one), but this?

He let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, sprawling out across the bench. The red cloth of his coat fanned out on both sides of him, slithered down to touch the floor. He hadn't been able to find any of the others, which meant they were still in the pods. At the very least, he'd been assured that Alphonse's soul would be safe. As long as he was in stasis, anyway. That had to be the one bright spot in this nightmare.

Come to think of it, the whole last day had been like being a front-row spectator in an inevitable, slow-motion car crash. Sure, there was stuff here he couldn't explain. And everyone seemed to believe, to varying degrees, the whole Ohm story. But then there was the mention of mysterious meetings and shadowy enemies and the laughable (to him) reassurance that as long as they played by the rules, their universes could be 'restored'.

By who? And how?

He glanced back up at the slop and made a face. At least the water here was normal.

[Ed's open to conversation, but at this point will probably be hostile towards any mentions of previous Edwards on the ship. Fair warning!]

The Temple of Small Gods was a sizable gathering place -- but more importantly, it was in one of the dead spots on the ship, into which Stacy was apparently unable to spy. It was there that Tarrant waited to address the new crew members.

[This is a briefing meeting for new crew to find out what's goin' on on the ship. Anyone can make subthreads if they want; Tarrant and Ildraniath will be explaining some Rebelliony things. Otherwise feel free to mingle, ask questions, etc etc.]

By now Kang had gotten a chance to make a comm post letting the newbies know about the Drunken Dragon Tavern, and Nima was preparing for a rush. She moved athletically around the bar, refilling drinks and recovering used mugs without jostling an elbow or spilling a drop. A barmaid well-schooled in a martial art with a heavy emphasis on dodging and weaving was worth her weight in unspilled beer.

With all her current tables attended to, she stopped by the door to be sociable as new people came in.

[OOC: If your character wants to speak to Kang, just make a note of it in your tag.]

Who: Crematia and Howard Bessem
Where: Entrance at the Hydropodics
Summary: Crematia asks for a cow, and gets both a cow and a job.
Warnings: That poor cow. :( Trigger warning for sadism on Crematia's part, but how much will that apply is undetermined.

So a deal was made. Well, she thought there was one - this place was so barbaric that there's no monetary system. If there was no money, no gold, and infighting inside the ship-beast was strictly forbidden so decorating any lair with the skulls of her enemies here was out of the question.

But first thing first: food. Not that awful slop, but actual meat, with the tender heart and delicious brain, with blood as intoxicating as liquor might be. Of course, there's the issue of a steady supply of cows for her appetite. If there were very little of cows, she might need to come up with another revenue for payment for this lowly protection offer. 

But that can be figured out soon enough.

Walking in her human form - a tall, curvy woman with long red hair and bright eyes - she approached the entrance of the Hydopordics and waited.

Good God, he needed a cigarette. Between the world being destroyed and all his friends besides John possibly dying along with it (or the entire thing being a total lie), John punching him and storming off, the talking ponies, the random superhero bringing up his cocaine addiction, and arguing with a space elf over (ugh!) politics and clandestine rebellions...actually, forget one cigarette. He needed a whole carton. Strike that, maybe a truck full.

Reaching into his many coat pockets on an instinctual search for cigarettes he knew weren't there, he found that a pack actually was there. And so was his lighter.

Maybe there was a God. Maybe there was a merciful God, or at the very least, maybe the ship really was as benevolent and merciful as she tried to make herself out to be and decided to smile upon him by snatching up a box of cigarettes with his belongings.

...Probably not, but this at least still was a fine bit of serendipity. Sherlock would take it.

Leaning into the doorway of a building in what he didn't realize was another blind spot in the city, he lit up his first post-end-of-the-universe cigarette and took a long drag from it. To be honest, it wasn't really enough, and like it always did when he least wanted it to, old cravings crawled up in the back of his skull and demanded something stronger.

"Not now."

No, not now, though the way he closed his eyes as he leaned against the door of the building and let out a lungful of smoke, would have made it clear to anyone looking that he was a fair bit more overwhelmed than he could even admit to himself.

It seemed that for now, however, he could be content with causing himself harm with only one cigarette at a time.