Fitz stood in the Sensoriums, gripping a cricket bat, and he just kept breaking things.

Smash

That was his flat.

Smash

The little building where they'd kept his mum.

Smash

That little pub he liked to drink at.

Smash

That was London.

Smash

Earth.

Smash

Espero.

Smash

Gallifrey.

There was no more Gallifrey. No more Doctor.

Well, that was it. He refused to believe it. There was no existence without the Doctor. The Doctor would come, and the Doctor would fix everything. The Doctor always fixed everything and where was he? He was supposed to be here. He was always supposed to be here!

Fitz threw the bat past the disappearing shards of vases, televisions, broken guitars.

A cosmos without the Doctor? Hardly bearable to think about.

After listening to the prosecution’s case and the defense’s case, the eight person jury was ushered into a secure and empty room to determine the fate of the Yeerk known as Schmuz-44356. The charges presented to the court were as follows:

11 counts of Kidnapping
2 counts of Attempted Kidnapping
13 counts of Conspiracy to Kidnap
11 counts of Enslavement
2 counts of Attempted Enslavement
13 counts of Conspiracy to Enslave
7 counts of Attempted Murder
28 counts of Assault with Intent to Kill
35 counts of Conspiracy to Commit Murder

Let the deliberations begin...

Fitz prowled through the darkened building, gun held high, suit perfect, and bombshell blonde at his side.

"No sign of the head Mafioso, over." He muttered, holding one hand to his earpeice connecting him to the headquarters of his Secret Super Spy agency.

He executed a forward roll to...well...mostly for the hell of it. It made him look pretty cool.

The girl-- built on completely unrealistic proportions-- hurried after him, fawning on him and not even shivering in her short skirt and tube top.

He considered feeling guilty for dragging some randomly generated bird along, but dropped it pretty fast. After all, it was his pretendy-funtimes and James Bond always had a Bond Girl.

His hand went back to his ear. "Bond to HQ, yes, I'm approaching the main office now, stay on the line."

It really would be cruel for someone to interrupt his fantasy land.

Cloneday? Dani liked it. She didn't have to hide she was a clone, so why not call it cloneday since she wasn't technically 'born' for a real 'birth.' Cloneday was fitting.

She had flown to the Sensorium, asking for a room that was quickly filled with balloons and streamers and a nice big banner that said Cloneday on it. There was even a few pinatas and birthday hats scattered about as well as empty present boxes.

Dani knew birthdays from greeting cards. So whatever she saw on a greeting card, she had appear.

And then there were the tables, covered with food and drinks. Plus a very large strawberry birthday cake and candles on it. She still didn't get why because fire being pretty meant there were candles on the birthday cake, but oh well.

Now she just had to wait for others to arrive.

((OOC: All are invited because Dani doesn't not like anyone on board. Mingling is also encouraged too.))

Team Mike, please report to the... a pause ...it's large, it's French, does everyone know what the Notre Dame looks like? Hold on, I'll send a photo on your comms.

The Doctor, seated on the steps, pauses to do as he just said. With some juggling of his communicator and omnicom and, all right, perhaps some slight screwdriver-y, he gets it done with minimal difficulty.

As I was saying. Team Mike, please report to the Notre Dame, Team Mike, please report to the Notre Dame.

He pauses again, laying down to wait, ankles crossed.

Master, that does mean you as well. No, we're not changing the name.

Anyone who ventures near the bathrooms will hear odd, strained clanking noises, to the point of possibly making some wonder if one of the Transformers is trying to go and having a hard time of it.

This is not a sign of one of the 'bots on board needing more robo-fiber, however.

Brainiac 5 is up to something.

Surprisingly, his techie hijinks are something he's been ordered to do--Jaime, the one in charge of the team trying to open up more of the ship has tasked him with building things to scout out where the waste goes, to use that to find out more about Stacy's hidden structures and ductwork, and that's exactly what he's doing--building an array in the bathroom to control and track the sensor-bots he's about to send where the sun don't shine.

"Hmm...still losing signal strength..."

Allen should probably be working. But if he has to narrowly avoid another nigh-uncontrollable outburst of nerd glee at the fact that Jean-Luc Picard and Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock are walking around the ship, eating the same sludge as him, breathing the same fetid air as he is, it's distinctly possible his brain will overheat. No, I'm not even kidding. That's a possibility.

To that end, it's time to let off some steam! Which is why Allen is currently using the Sensoriums to do what his wife has strictly forbidden him from doing under any circumstances ever - rocking out on the roof of his house, amps turned up to an ungodly level to fill the valley with noise. With an electric guitar that was signed by Superman. Hell yeah.

While he's a bit indisposed to talk, or hear much of anything, there's also a banner hanging from the house which is probably not always there. It reads:

"Wanted: drummer and bass guitarist.
Keyboard, vocals, brass section, electric violin optional.
Sitar awesome.
Electric harp if you've invented one.

Requirement 1) Applicants must not be lame and
Requirement 2) Applicants must not be dicks.

Prior to application, please assure that requirements 1 and 2 are fulfilled. Either-or not an option. Okay maybe if you rock hard enough. And leave it at the door.

But seriously, don't be a dick.

Direct all inquiries above."

The sound of obscenely complicated guitar riffs echo across the otherwise peaceful valley.

Fitz, like many others on board this big, icky, moist spaceship from hell, was making good use of the sensoriums.

He had sequestered himself in a huge mock-ballroom lined in mirrors, and was chainsmoking so heavily there was a slight haze.He had a stack of cigarette packs by him, apparently not noticing any sort of short supply like his fellow addicts, and he was tuning a guitar that didn't really exist (And thus didn't need to be tuned, but he was ignoring that.)

He could still feel the plantsuit pulsing around him under his fake old clothing, a horrendus mash of plaid and hawaiian print with a leather jacket thrown on top.

The strange fashion disaster of a young (?) man started to croon around the fag in his mouth. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."

It's up to you, oh brave observer, if you want to venture near the living sixties mess, or just stare and move on. Fitz couldn't care either way. ...Unless you're a hot bird. Yes, please.

||All crew-mates. Please report to the Obs Deck to meet your new crew-mates.||

It's time for all the newbies to get a chance to have a formal meeting with the crew. Given the confusion of their arrival, that's probably a good thing.

Word gets out among the crew mates, spreading in a game of whisper down the meat-alley, that an informal crew meeting is what's happening, free from Stacy's prying ears, and sure enough, as soon as everyone's in the room, they're gestured to move in close, and a wall of blue energy goes up around them all.

((ooc note))

The Hub spat the newly-clothed crew members out into the Weapons and Possessions Locker one by one. The place looked like a warehouse, and not a particularly well-organized one. Things were everywhere -- on the floor, stacked on top of each other, hanging off of things...

Either someone had ransacked the place, or Stacy had hired a tornado to do her filing and sorting.

||Pod Release Protocols Initating|| Stacy's familiar voice sounded out to all the podmates.

In the Pod Caverns, there were the sounds of: Pop. Pop pop pop. Poppuhpoppoppop. KASCHUNKhiiiiiiiissssss.

There was condensation and mist spraying out from cracks in the pods, as the people inside slid out onto the floors, covered in slime.

Pop. Poppop. KASCHUNKhiiiiiissss.