Something about this whole experience feels familiar to the short, pink-haired woman padding down a side-street, arms dangling limply at her sides as she peers into shop windows, into the faces of passersby, into vehicles and restaurants, and it takes her almost four hours to figure out that it reminds her of movies from the twentieth century, of TV shows depicting happy (or miserable) men and women going about their daily, robot-free business, walking to work, eating with friends, buying a new pair of pants. She almost cries when she realizes that she, for once, is actually living that moment of normal humanity, and she takes this as a cue to sidle into the next clothing boutique she runs across and buy herself a few articles of dearly yearned for clothing: jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater (not that she needs it in this climate), and shoes.

Thus adorned, she continues her wandering, hands now hidden in her pockets, and only now does it occur to her that she has greatly missed pockets--they really do aid in her natural slump, as having her arms positioned thusly helps her spine to bend just so...

Somehow, she manages to wish Dustin--or, better yet, Chief, because cats can't hurt your feelings while they're having emotional crises--was here very rarely. The few times he flickers across her mind, she blinks and winces and sighs, and pretty soon, she finds herself sitting on a bench, a carry-out plate of Zokez II's interpretation of sushi on her lap.

How she has managed to be on-ship for... well, who knows how long (long) and not have gone on a single shore leave escapes her.

Suddenly, the usual relative peace of the ship is disrupted by a rather loud announcement from Stacy.

||Attention, Attention. All personnel please report to the Observation Deck. Attention, Attention. All personnel please report to the Observation Deck. Attention, Attention, all personnel...||

It's entirely likely that she won't stop repeating the announcement until, well, everyone reports to Obs Deck. The mouth in the huge statue on the wall opens, revealing a screen. On it, the dossier for the mission flickers into display, understandable to every person there. Smaller copies of the dossier appear in holographic form in front of everyone.

The planet's stats, right next to a rotating picture of it, blue with thousands of small islands just barely visible, are as follows:

( Mission Dossier )

--

...Waitaminute. That's no mission.

It's a goddamn vacation.

[ooc: SHORE LEAVE IS GO.]

It seems an odd day indeed when Yoshimi is as buoyant as she is, floating into the room on wings made of success, mind spinning with schematics and potentially helpful devices and maybe the desire to try her hand at building an aircraft, except for the limited on-ship supplies. A data pad is clutched in one hand, as per usual, but she tosses it onto the bed with nary a thought, tripping over to the shared desk merrily.

Humming--atonally, as is her unfortunate habit--she pulls out one of the few pieces of paper they have, and a pencil she found in the Mess--with an eraser!--and starts sketching that aircraft.

Sometime during the regular comings and goings aboard the meatship, an announcement rings out across all portions of the ship.

||Attention crew,|| Stacy's voice says, ||As significant interest has been shown for it, and enough time has passed since the Nightmare King incident to prevent unnecessary mental issues, the procedure to unlock the memories of the destruction of your homeworlds is now available to all crew members. If you are interested, please proceed to any empty sensorium and I will begin the process.||

A slight pause, then...

||If you have a history of mental issues, please use extra consideration when deciding on whether or not to take the procedure. That is all.||

Should anyone decide to take her up on her offer and head to the sensoriums, they'd find a clean, clinical-looking white room with a dentist-style chair (sans scary drills, of course) in the middle.

||Please, take a seat.||

[OOC:Instructions.]

Even on the best of days, Satori was never a particularly sociable person. However, back home, she always had the company of her myriad pets. Here, she was more or less alone, and had only had decently extended conversations with a small handful of people. Eventually, she would have to get around to talking to people on her own.

Not that it couldn't wait, of course.

And so Satori came to find herself in a corner of the mess hall, her face buried in a book she had picked up in the library (The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe). A plate of what Stacy insisted was food sat mostly finished but now ignored a short distance away from her, and upon closer observation, she had been on the same page for quite some time now. This was because she wasn't actually there to do any reading.

From its usual perch over her heart, Satori's third eye was the only part of her showing any signs of activity. Its gaze swept around the room, sometimes fixating on someone, staring at them for a minute or two before moving on. Satori was alternately letting the minds of the people she lived with wash over her passively, and digging deeper into individuals, doing her best to get impressions of people as sort of a preparatory step before trying to actually talk to anyone.

After all, isn't it convenient to sift out the people who you won't like before ever having to talk to them? So long as nobody noticed they were being eavesdropped on by a mind reader...

Hydroponics is an interesting place. Surprisingly, the name that brings forth the image of a sterile plant-growing lab actually belongs to a massive green space unrivaled by any of the grassy stretches of the city. There are trees here. Flowers. Weeds, even. Some from Earth, some clearly not due to shape, color, or some other strangeness.

It's not entirely overgrown, though. That might be because of the abundant animal life keeping the plants in check. They don't seem hostile, however, and it's oddly serene in here. Like an open, alien zoo. And the landscape is lovely.

The Master Chief is around somewhere, though he may not be readily apparent. You might find him drifting around the lab facilities near the door. He's hesitant to touch anything, but he's curious.

You are now free to move about the park.

[OOC: Just to be clear, you don't need to address the Chief. You don't even have to acknowledge he's there. This is an open post for free mingle-y goodness. Characters may eat/mess with the plants but animals may not be killed and eaten, Stacy will tell you and stop you by force if necessary. Otherwise, you may interact freely with them.]

So, you know those times when you get really, really restless? Like, to the point where you seriously can't sit still anymore, and you just have to pace around somewhere, or suffer the consequences?

Yeah, Caden's feeling that right now, which is why, at this very moment, he can be found wandering the Hangar, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

Oh. my. God. Why is there nothing to do? There's nothing to do.

Except stare at spaceships, apparently.

In the short weeks she'd spent mourning the loss of her world and keeping her own counsel as to the unique opportunity it'd given her with its destruction (she was, if anything, opportunistic), Celes had felt she was finally ready to step out of her bubble and learn more about the denizens of the ship. Not everything could be gleaned from quietly observing the ebb and flow of faces and half-understood conversation amongst the many people of Stacy.

It was, for a woman of Celes' caliber and bearing, absolutely infuriating to simply not understand. That idea, that reality that something was going on and to not have some handhold to scrabble hopelessly onto made the young woman curse. She made her way down into the vehicle depot (it could only be a depot, what with all those weapons around) and with a little help from Stacy, Celes found one thing she could understand.

Magitek Armor.

It was ugly, true, and not as sleek looking as some of the other suits (did the one she'd just passed growl at her?) but it reeked of home, bittersweet. Of Balance. Of Vector. Celes hoisted herself up into the machine with an oomph and settled into the firm leather of the seat. The array before her looked like it hadn't been touched in ages. A fine layer of dust covered the console as she wiped it away with a finger. Wasn't that disgraceful?

Still, it started just fine, the hiss of steam and the shaking jerk of the suit was familiar and almost heartwarming.

"Well then, shall we?" Celes patted the machine and put her hands on the control stick.

CLONKCLANKCLONKCLANKCLONKCLONKCLONK.

Just like riding a chocobo!

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.

Batman was restless. Too tired, too bored to sleep. It wasn't as if there was much concept left of day and night on Stacy but if anyone could find it and abuse it, it was the Batman. With a mechanical proclivity that came with repeating the same motions every night of what on this particular night felt like a very, very long life, he donned his uniform. Like always, he paused for a few brief moments, holding the cowl between his fingers and feeling the weight of it before pulling it over his head. Lit by the battery of computer consoles that ran across the deck of the Neuropathy bay, he strode out to the school of cars that could take him up into the lofty ceiling of the enormous chamber and the sprawling spaghetti junction of neural pathways.

The crackle of a power torch. The flare of brilliant, blue incandescence. The same old scene for hours, days, weeks, months. Batman was doing the same thing he did every night, Pinky. Keeping this half-scuttled rat trap from doing something inconvenient, like killing them all. And as if anyone needed informing, he preferred it if he could do so without being disturbed.

Bats in the belfry. So it goes.

There was something very wrong with this picture. No, the swagger in his step was usual, the messiness of his hair was a little more defined but otherwise unrecognizable from the norm, the fact that he was wearing only one sock might’ve been rather odd—but that smile on his face was definitely new, splitting not just with arrogance and pride, but with genuine happiness that was quite uncharacteristic of Dustin Silver.

His mindset as he strolled into the Observation Deck was also rather new and frightening. He’d come here because he was expecting to meet Lash, but that was a little more than an hour ago, she’d probably lost patience forty-five minutes previous—she had his gun and could’ve made a powerful ally, but did Dustin care? Not in the slightest! He’d just given Daja several packages of rare metal plates (his own creation), part of his quickly dwindling personal stores for production of the Dart, but why worry? The Bleed spiraled past the windows, Stacy’s flesh pulsed under his bare feet, constant reminders in the faces of other sad, angry, mournful crewmates continuously reminding him of why he was here, what he must eventually accomplish, all those that he lost—and he could’ve cared less!

It was a beautiful day even if it was just like all the others, there was tasteless sustenance waiting in the Mess Hall and booze fermenting in the City, and Dustin was in one of the best moods he’d ever experienced since he was fourteen. He was humming to himself, a jovial, improvised tune, almost bouncing into the center of the Obs Deck, as if the stolen greatcoat scraping the floor and resting heavily on his shoulders weighed naught an ounce.

Things were looking up.

[[Bendytimed to right after the above post.]]

Yoshimi is seated in the middle of the floor, her book forgotten on her bed, left leg stretched out in front of her, frown fixed on her face.

You may or may not be wondering what in all hell she is doing, especially when she starts swearing for no visible reason.

Here's your answer: The Robots Slayer's prosthesis isn't cooperating, and even as she tries to wiggle the five little piggies on her left foot, all she can get the damn thing to do is twitch oddly at the ankle.

"Figures that it'd start misbehaving eventually," she mutters, shifting to bend it at the knee.  She spends a few moments poking at the joints on the bottom of her toes, the muttering becoming a constant pretty quickly.

One toe twitches, and she freezes.

The rest of the crew assembled on the Observation Deck to meet the latest editions to their numbers. After the revelation that their worlds are gone, many of them are even more eager to see people they knew from home.

Several people are set up near the doors to provide the new people with omnicoms and comm rings. New crew-mates might see a green-skinned alien and snake girl among their number. There are also several authoritative-looking figures ready to introduce themselves.

There's a lot to tell the new people. It's going to be a lot to take in.

[ooc: Only new characters and Command Staff can start new threads for introductions, to limit the number of threads. Everyone else, just tag in and have your guys greet the newbies.]

Daja had once again cleaned up her forge in preparation of a customer's arrival: the table and chairs were all neatly set out, a small plate of biscuits to one side, and a few tea cups. If her customer wanted tea, this would be some of the last of her supplies. Daja hoped she would be able to acquire more soon.

She set about boiling some water, and waited for him to arrive.

Yoshimi is suffering an odd phenomenon - stir-craziness.  She has been alone in the room for the last day and a half, Dustin having been... elsewhere, presumably involved in one of his mysterious, illicit projects, and though solitude rarely bothers her, it has her itching right now.

Consequently, she paces out of her room, looking displeased and ruffled.  It's also notable that she's grumbling inaudibly as she stomps the path to the Lockers.  A few more moments see her armed (and probably dangerous) with her rather antiquated SMG, slung across her back.  The lights glint off the polished metal, the faint, worn engravings catching shadows.

Predictably, she stops walking when she reaches the Sensoriums.  Whether or not it's a wise idea to be involving herself in anything physical after so few days of recovery barely crosses her mind - her body wants to do this, and that's all the initiative she needs.

Rolling her shoulders, she blinks and the room configures itself into a nondescript factory, fully equipped with hellspawn tech and rampant robots.  A few clicks have the conjured clip going home, and after a few breaths she pads towards her targets.

If you hear gunfire in the hall, do not be alarmed - it is simply a bored Japanese woman wishing she still had a job to do.

Engineering, for once, seems pretty quiet. Most of the workers are sleeping, maybe, or trying to calm themselves after their encounters with their nightmares. It will take time for everyone to recover, they all know that. They're trying, though, and that's what really counts.

Kaylee has found her way down to do some work, banged up arm or no. Her fingers have been itching to work for far too long. It's all fine to socialize--one of her favorite things, really--but a mechanic can only go so long without needing to get her hands onto some engine parts and her elbows into some grease.

Precautions have been made. Goggles are worn, and she's keeping her distance from the core. She wouldn't be able to climb around down there right now, even if she wanted to, not with her arm still in a sling. Frustrating, maybe, but it would just be all the more rewarding when she finally did get to do some real work with both hands.

That's in the long-run, though. For now, Kaylee has settled for sliding around under control panels, double-checking that everything is hooked up the way it should be. She already knows that most of it is, but it never hurts to check. Not like she has much else to do.

Indigo stands in the hallways, hands clasped behind her back. She doesn't pace, she doesn't weave or bob around. It's like she's a statue, waiting for someone to pass before her disdainful look. She's outside the Spacewalk's doors.

She doesn't expect that many people. Perhaps three Science personnel. Two or three from Security. Not much trouble. A small part of her wishes that more people were here to observe the opening of both the Spacewalk and Hydroponics, but the more logical part crushes that. If the creatures are dangerous, it would be wiser not to have any other crewmembers around.

So, she waits.

One of the cold facts of life is that it was temporary. Medical science was an amazing thing. Where once the smallest scratch or sprain would fester and become fatally infected, now even failing organs could be replaced. Everything was artificial, fake, and what kept people alive was no longer a flow of goodwill and the trickle-down hand of god, but the flow of money.

Of course, Motoko had known that her entire life, as far as she could remember. It had been explained to her in detail, when she'd been still a child, still learning to walk again in her new body. We've put a great deal of money and time into you, miss. You had better not fall and ruin everyone's hard work. When that had failed under her growing frustration, they had bribed her.

It was easy to contemplate the happy unhappiness of the past when you were reduced to picking the droplets out of your joints by hand.

Motoko was standing, leaning on a fleshy wall because none of the furniture she might have dragged over from engineering would have held her weight. Every seam and panel in her right arm was popped open— the joint had come up warm. It needed lubrication and Stacy's humid interior was playing havoc with her success rate. Back home, she'd have shrugged and paid a small fortune for a replacement, but here she had no such luxury. Her buffer of safety was gone. So, she awkwardly held her own arm to the light, fragmented from wrist to elbow in pieces like the ruffled feathers of a bird and examined the coverage. Good enough.

 Yoshimi never thought she would be as glad to leave a room as she is when she hobbles out of the MedBay.  Her shoulder is puffy with gauze, and her legs are still weak from overexertion and blood loss, but the pink-haired woman actually looks rather pleased with the world.  She had been privy to a lot of the goings on in the last few hours - a first for her - and was glad that things seem to have turned out so well.  Especially that kid conked out a few beds down from her - Aang or whatever his name was.  She'd heard vague things about him through whatever grapevine she had access to (admittedly not much of one, being such a recluse as she is), and there was a lot to be said for being able to watch that brunette with the hair loopies pay that much attention to the kid she'd been allegedly looking for for... Kami-sama knows how long.

Still, Aang is far from her mind - as is the rest of the crew - as she stumbles into the caf, her stomach growling.  Food is in order, in her mind, and though she probably ought to be worried about where the hell Dustin has got to, she can't quite bring herself to care right now.  Never has slop tasted so good...

People say that war is hell. This looked it.

Buildings and cars and bodies are scattered like broken toys as far as the eye can see, stretching out toward a dirty horizon. Even the clouds seems streaked with mud and blood, and they're taking it out on everyone below with a constant stream of cold, soaking rain.

The sounds of fighting seem to come from all directions, but at this moment, there's no one else in sight.

A breather. The calm before the storm.

[[OOC: This is for everyone who was involved with "The Lurking Fear". Questions go to Milo or Kaylin.]]