Nehaalista stood back and admired her handiwork. Warsong Gulch lay spread out before her, each piece carefully and slowly laid in from memory. She was a little hazy where exactly one side of the gulch turned into the Barrens, but that was neither here nor there. The fact was it was big enough to move in, and that was all that mattered.


In addition to the usual look of the Gulch, Nehaalista had added a spectators' area to the north, nested securely in the branches of one of the incredibly tall trees that lined the area. So long as no one decided to knock the spectators over into the woods, Nehaalista was satisfied.


She crossed her arms and looked around one last time before nodding to herself.


((OOC: Welcome! This is a chance to play Capture the Flag as our Warcraft Denizens are used to playing it. It is permissible to post! No, guys, this does not go towards your Silverwing Sentinel or Warsong Outriders' reputation. OOC Plotting-planning-lololols are here)

It didn't take long for Jayne to acquaint himself with the Drunken Dragon. No in fact from the moment Kaylee told him about it, fate conspired to move him there as swiftly as possible.

Because a drunk Jayne, was a tolerable Jayne...usually.

Drinking deep from his beer he hummed a little song under his breath that would be familiar to the crew of Serenity but likely no one else. In his intoxicated state he even mumbled a few of the words as he scanned the area to see who was about.

"The hero of canton the man they call...meeeeee."

( What is my motive? )

Dustin at once found himself inside the blank walls of an unoccupied pod. It remained so as he closed the door behind him, glanced about, walked to the center of the room. It was all very quiet and surreal, in a sense that anything to him could be surreal at all, but you get the idea.

A tangent of thought flickered out of the corner of his eye. Dustin turned around to face it, but already it had disappeared.

Before he realized what was happening--and especially once he had--resulting thoughts flitted forth into the space, multiplying as he pondered over each one, spinning around the room like phantom strings of angel hair pasta, molding into theories, clumped and uncompleted, wherein they spawned pictures and memories for reference that, once used, danced into the background and slithered upon the floor, snatched by the next concept that required them. Soon the room was black with strands of content, most of it incomprehensible to the normal mind; views of colors and depth that should not exist, fourth and fifth-dimensional shapes that molded time at their whimsy, fleeting glances of infinity, nothingness, an infinity of nothingness. Disused memories reared and spat upon him images of blood and specters, phobias and emotions scattered the sea of textures and lunged at insecurities, hopes. The tangled masses of indefinable junk became dreams.

Overwhelmed, Dustin grabbed handfuls of his hair and, in a display of his famous maturity, angrily stamped his foot.

"ENOUGH!"

The whirlwind halted in a splash of violent colors, then crashed to the floor.

New commentaries were already beginning to spring up, but Dustin was prepared, silencing them before they spawned a new storm. It was like defragmenting a computer drive, he'd found; it would take quite a bit of concentration and time, but the end results would far outweigh the next few hours he spent essentially meditating, thinking of nothing other than what was in front of him and where to place it. Having the physical manifestations in front of him helped immensely in case of distractions--should any occur-and it helped to get a general sense of just how much crap was floating around in his head. Mountains of unsorted, twitching calculations were waiting with much impatience all around.

Dustin sighed and sat cross-legged in the center. This would take a while.

There were 8 bombs spread around the ship. The teams were assigned. They had their orders, now they had to carry them out. And pray to whatever they held dear that they could disarm them in time.

Tick tock.

The City; to be more precises, a square therein, some fifty-by-fifty meters, not to this point used.

That poor piece of land would never be the same.

The tome stood in the center, laughing like it was in the finals for the Biggest Ham in the Cosmos Awards (which at some point in time it very well might have been). Around it, several vacant-yet-cheerful people, his loyal (created) constructs, puttered about, cleaning up debris and generally making the place grungy-yet-livable.

"Hyaaaa ha ha ha ha! Clean, you battle-monkeys! Clean, like you've never cleaned before in your lives!" Which they hadn't, it occurred to him, but he wasn't about to let that derail a good monologue. "Make this plaza a suitable domain for the great and powerful Overlord Zetta!"

One of his people piled a variety of stuff Zetta had, after an extensive amount of metaphorical arguing as to what exactly qualified as biometric data for a freaking book, requisitioned out of the armory. Why on the ground instead of in the locker it all ought to be in? Zetta was used to it that way. Technically his loyal mooks had these things all equipped anyway, but here in their 'permanent' home they had no need.

"You!" he said to the 'leader', the green-haired girl that normally served as a transport. "Paint a portrait of the magnificent Lord Zetta! Then get me a throne! Hyaaa ha ha ha ha!"

I really need a castle. Every Overlord should have a castle. That thought came dangerously close to, I miss my castle! -- but Zetta didn't look backwards! He WOULD get his stuff back! He WOULD get his Netherworld back! And he WOULD get his body back.

"Hyaa ha ha ha! Mark my words, Ohm!" Zetta said, with the impression that he was shaking a fist at the ceiling. "Your days were numbered the moment you chose to mess with THIS Overlord!"

Let's hope no one was trying to get some sleep anywhere near this raving loon.

( I have my reasons... )
Visitors to the Hangar might encounter some bizarre sounds added to the background ambiance of rumbling motors and Stacy's pulse. Faint music, some sort of upbeat partying tune from the twenties, cackled and blared its distortions from the hull of a sleek black spaceship within a crowd of fighters. And through the open airlock, prosthetic arm firmly strapped to a thin working surface next to a mountain of tools, wires and soldering material, Dustin could be heard groaning into an improvised overcoat pillow against the wall whilst he steadily undid another screw.

Ace hadn't really said much at the little welcome meeting. It was great and all, getting their excited out and repeating what they'd found out. More like been 'told'. He wasn't sure if any of it was true.

He still didn't consider himself part of this crew, not really. His crew was worlds away, and possibly gone. But he was still Whitebeard's man.

Not...whoever was captain on this ship.

And who could call a living thing a proper ship anyway? He could see stars out the window. Not dimmed by the sky, the actual stars. And the food couldn't even be called food. this place was really starting to freak him out, he'd like to go home now, and forget about this supposed hero gig. Though, preferably not back to the location he'd just left. Back to Whitebeard's fleet, maybe? He'd love that.

Maybe he should go find and bug his little Lord of Chaos, at least he'd be entertained...

His fingers trapped against his side as he studied the garden area, trying to decide if any of the fruit or animals were toxic.

And how much he cared, after a week of tasteless slop.

For Kouji, the ship was getting weirder and weirder. From learning his world was possibly gone to finding his giant mecha in a hanger with a giant aircraft variable fighter carrier. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised at anything else anymore.

Having found his old motorcycle, Kouji drove across the City, trying to get his mind off of everything... that is, until he saw it.

The Photon Power Plant. It was home and a symbol of hope for his world. Where the greatest minds worked on using Photonic Energy to help the world, creating and refining the alloy Chogokin-Z and its derivatives.

Tearing his motorcycle towards the building, he hopped off and burst inside, finding the place somewhat of a mess. Flipping a switch, the lights inside kicked on. Kouji began looking around the place, trying to see what he could find. After awhile, he stopped and went for that omnicomm he got. He knew this place probably wouldn't do much for him, but for the others?

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.]

Bedrest in the Medbay wasn't that bad. It wouldn't be for long, after all. But it was a little boring, and Hiccup spent most of his time talking to Astrid, who had taken to hovering periodically, or reading messages on his omnicom, or reading books on his omnicom.

Mostly, he slept, because he was in dire need of it.

One his leg was finished healed up around the new dock, he'd get his automail attached to the dock for the first time, and then have to worry about the rehab.

For now, though, he certainly didn't mind visitors, whether they were were his friends on ship or new people just wandering through.

"Bored bored boredboredbored booored bored..."

Now that Nehaalista could work a little bit more naturally (her leg still ached, but at least it wasn't hard to walk on), she'd set out to find a forge. And found one she did, recently used, if the embers in the forge were any indication. With a little, strange sort of almost-grunt, she dropped her box of ore on the ground beside and relit the flame, stoking it until heat boiled from the red mouth of the forge.

While on shore leave, Nehaalista had been able to purchase some ore. To not do anything with her hands while stuck aboard Stacy would have driven her crazy, and Nehaalista wasn't about to let that happen to her sanity. After all, what would happen if she did go crazy? Start gyrating wildly while standing on a mailbox?

She wasn't a night elf, for Light's sake. Sorry, Choline.

Nehaalista prospected half the box, pulling away a few dozen uncut gems and setting them aside. They were strange, and Nehaalista couldn't think of names, but had arranged them by color. The rest of the ore was melted down into bars, one of which Nehaalista hefted in one hand.

Now, what to make? She pushed away a limp, sweaty curl and swished her tail against the chair, thoughtfully.

Kira was worn out from the day's Rogue boot camp, but he still made his way to Daja's forge in the City at the appointed time. Part of him wondered if he was taking the idea of encryption a little bit too seriously, but the rest of him pointed out that keeping their communications secret from the Ohm - and anyone else - would probably help keep everybody safe and alive. So in this case, it made sense to take a little bit more time in the matter.

He sat by the entrance to the building and waited to see if anyone else had cracked the message.

(ooc: If your character is talented enough at hacking/programming/encryption to read this post, then they can show up. :D)

The dead of night—or at least a simulated night, but the crew took to it in their usual patterns and created a deadness that was acceptable—that was the time, the reason. The place was the Hangar, cluttered even now and moreso than ever with parts of damaged vessels in stages of repair, their insides strewn about their bases in careful (or careless) heaps, looming shadily in the subdued lighting. One particular ship, pure black like the darkness that surrounded her, was the destination; the lone traveler hobbling amongst the piles to reach her was Dustin.

For the few days allotted for him to heal, the frail genius had been making remarkable progress. He could breathe well enough to make this journey without becoming completely winded, he was strong enough to carry his backpack full of tools, his shoulder and ribs had healed to the point where both of his arms were mostly functional—but most importantly, Dustin now had the capability (and a properly sized crutch) to sneak his way out of the Medbay in the first place. He was well enough now, considering, and though it would take another few weeks for his shattered leg to completely mend he would’ve been released within the next day or so. This was merely a test, a way to see how well the ship’s technology was holding up and combining with his own internal synthetic systems.

He was also obviously checking in on the one patient not immediately attended to after the battle.

The Dart loomed in front of him, broken and forlorn. Only a week ago Dustin had finished the final adjustments, soldered the last wires; now she was a crippled veteran. Just like her creator, yeah?

There was a movement nearby. The scraggly man stumbled and froze, piercing green eyes searching his surroundings.

The sensoriums made for a convenient training ground for all the right reasons, but most of all because they allowed Motoko to cheat. It hardly seemed fair for the world around to be controlled by whatever constituted the strongest mind, or the most established, but on these proving grounds, as ever, fairness was not part of the equation.

The world was a sleepy summer day, warm with cicada song and dry, ragged grass, knee-high in places, scorched to the earth in others. An abandoned, decrepit skeleton of a Soviet military base dominated the landscape, dotted here and there with holes like dark hollow eyes among the crumbling walls and roofless, exposed innards. Once, this place had been alive, and now it was as bleached as bones in the grass, as nature retook what man had conquered.

Here and there the rusted-out remains of tanks slumped where they had been abandoned. Red paint, incongruously fresh, marked a series of them as targets at the far end of a carefully 'makeshift' firing range, though most sat aimlessly, unmarked and unattended. The place nearest the door was dominated by one such tank, perhaps in slightly better repair than the others, and perched upon it was the reason for all the fuss and trials. Major Kusanagi folded her arms and leaned her back against the treads, casting a sidelong look at what was left of Section Nine.

It was going to be a long day.

[ OOC: Wait for Subthreads, please. OKAY, GO GO GO GO! ]

Wyn let out a deep breath and propped her feet up on the conference table, holding a mug of coffee in one hand. She had already sent out a message on the omnicoms and typed up a brief outline of the meeting for herself.

Now all she had to do was wait for her minions coworkers to arrive...

Trudy walked down the corridors with her general wide stride, her dogtags jingling and her rifle bouncing against her back. She'd slung it on the other side from her healing rib - which was also why she wasn't moving really fast. Of course, she was on her way to visit the ship that had kept her alive. She had to see what all those near-misses had done. At least scratched the paint, maybe more. She thought a shot had skimmed her astromech, and then there had been the blast that had crippled the Dart.

The hanger, unsuprisingly, was fairly busy. She figured she'd run into at least a couple of the squadron's mechanics, and probably even more of the squadron. It would be good to see the guys - and she especially wanted to talk to the General.

As she crossed over to her X-wing, she passed her Samson and paused. It was still in the same state it had been before she started training with Rogue Squadron. It took up a big chunk of her time, and getting caught up in the media library on her ship's specs took up the rest of it. "Sorry bebe," she said under her breath. "Guess I've left you after all."

She walked over to the X-wing, trailing her hand along its underside. It definitely showed that it had been in a firefight. There were a couple of blaster marks hellishly close to her engines, that made her start grinning like a fool. "Guess it could have been a whole hell of a lot worse," she said, tapping the cross around her neck. "Good on you, big man."

The battle against the Ohm raged on, and the casualties on the ground were mounting. Injured crew members got emergency treatment in the field, which largely amounted to patching them up so they wouldn't die sometime within the next fifteen minutes. After that, they were quickly picked up by shuttle and brought back to the ship, where they were sent to a medbay that was getting progressively more crowded.

The situation was growing increasingly dire, to the point that Stacy activated one of the AI's to help out.



"Please state the nature of the medical emergency."

As soon as the Ohm appeared, Wedge had begun moving. He practically sprinted off the Obs deck, yelling at Stacy as he headed for the hangar bay.

“Stacy, I need our fighters prepped now..” He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead lifting his comm ring to his lips and speaking into it, the message transmitted across open channels to everybody in range with their own rings.

“Attention, Rogue Squadron. Scramble, scramble, scramble! All pilots report back aboard Stacy and to your fighters. This is no drill! Again, Rogue Squadron, scramble! All pilots to your fighters!” He glanced back at the others who had been close enough to the Obs deck to accompany him back aboard Stacy.

“This is it. We’ve trained. We’re as ready as we can be now. This is for real this time.” With that he headed deeper into the ship.

As he arrived in the hangar, he was already discarding the civilian clothing he’d picked up and was half-running, half-hopping across the bay to his fighter as he struggled into his flight suit. His helmet was waiting in the cockpit. He clambered up into the cockpit, kicked the ladder free to be caught by a tentacle and tugged his helmet on. No time for a walk around. He simply had to trust that the ship was in shape to fly. He keyed the comm system on the fighter, as well as speaking into the comm ring.

“This is Rogue Leader to all fighters. Launch as soon as you’re ready. Form up in wing pairs and engage the enemy. Our primary objective is to keep additional Ohm fighters from reaching the planet and from attacking Stacy. Fly your best out there, everyone. May the Force be with us.” With that he, began a quick-start check of his systems, and punched the throttle as soon as he was sure that his fighter wouldn’t explode when he launched.

“Rogue Leader is away, four lit and green.” His fighter slashed out into space, free of Stacy. And the Ohm were everywhere.

( OOC Stuff beneath the cut )

Morale was high, and everyone had their share of fun, but now it was time to part ways with Zokez II.

As everyone made their way back to the spaceport to be picked up, they could see the Obs Deck waiting for them with ramp open, and large tendrils eagerly moving vehicles and cargo back aboard.

It's about time to say goodbye to this planet...but fate, it seems, has other ideas.

[OOC: PLOT BEGINS! Here's how it goes: A handful of techies and a couple fighty people (as escort) will be on the reactor end of this part of the plot, while everyone else can help out with the evacuation.]

[OOC pt 2: Also, sorry, it apparently wasn't clear that they hadn't actually gotten back onto the ship yet. Plot is obviously taking place on the planet.]