Javert, after casting his votes, had decided not to remain with the others who were milling about. He had instead headed for the City, intent on familiarizing himself even further with its twists and turns. What use was a policeman who didn't know his beat? None at all. Therefore, Javert took it upon himself to learn.

He walked with an even, measured step; Long strides for his long legs, but not exceptionally fast or directed. He looked, for Javert, to be in a jovial mood. Of course, such moods meant he was even more tended to snap and mock, but it would be with almost a sense of humor about it, and less of his usual bitterness.

He took a pinch of snuff as he carried on his way, hands deep in his pockets and eyes on everything around him.

Everyone had their secrets- that was part of life. Some were good, some were bad, and some were so out there that people generally seemed to ignore them. Growing up on Tatooine there had been many things people being raised on the dustball of a planet were expected to be. You were strong or you didn't survive for long. Work was always needed doing when it came to living in the more remote areas of the planet with the constant sand storms that sent people scattering for shelter and devastating the moisture vaporators. Gavin had been a kid when his parents moved their large family to the old Lars Homestead finding the freedom the space brought to them needed as well as doing right by the previous owner after the Lars' had died. Finding space to be himself was beyond possible at times unless the youth found the little nooks and crannies the homestead had to offer.

No one knew that he could draw. Being artistic wasn't something that the planet could offer anyone and his parents had never known their eldest child could do it. Well they had known when he was younger until Biggs had relentlessly teased him for having bigger dreams of doing something other than staying on Tatooine. That was the day Davin had stopped talking to people or showing them what he could do. You couldn't be tough and doodle sketches, his cousin had told him. Secretly he had kept it up though taking what chances or less hours of sleep he could just to capture those little moments that would make the day.

Gavin wasn't exactly sure how he had found the supplies in the city. Poking around enough empty buildings had given him a full sketch book, various colored pencils, and some charcoal sticks. With his old books being gone the memories since leaving Tatooine, even prior to joining the Rogues, were sketchy at best. Which was the reason the young man was curled up in one of the chairs in the observation deck in a back corner facing the stars where hopefully no one he knew could find him out. In only a few hours his fingers had turned black from smudging lines and shading, the book already near half full with things he wanted to remember and faces that he knew. Wes, Hobbie, Lujayne, Corran, Mirax, Ooryl, just to name a few who weren't there, even spreading out to previous planets or combat missions. Then people on the ship with happy expressions before the battle with the Ohm to the more sober looks of near defeated crew members who were just pleased to be alive. Yes, even the cake had made it in to one doodled corner with a knife sticking out of it. Raising his hand, Gavin rubbed at his cheek with his thumb leaving a trail of black that was sort of hard to miss. He was lost in his own little world and very prone to someone walking up on him.

Javert had his arms crossed behind his back, posture straight and immaculate. He stood on a bridge on a quiet, dark night, overlooking a fast-flowing river.

It wasn't a small street-- By rights, it should have been a main thoroughfare to the city. And yet, there were no people. From the profound silence, it was possible there were no people in the city. The only sound, in fact, was that of the river and of Javert's heavy, even breathing. He looked a man possessed. His eyes were dark, his countenance grim, and the only sign of life in his dark, statuesque appearance was the rise and fall of his breast and the flare of his nostrils.

To jump, or not to jump. It was plaguing him. Was he dead? Was there some other, better hell elsewhere in the limitless waste of eternity? Could he even die in this hellish place? He had drowned once, could he do it again? Did he dare? 

He remained stock still, without a twitch or a shudder. He could remain so for hours, if undisturbed.

Javert had been reluctant to leave the relative familiarity of the ship, even for the promise of open air. However, he had had little choice and therefore had descended with the rest of the crew for 'Shore Leave', a concept he had not considered for a very long time.

He kept to the markets, largely considering clothing he wished to aquire, being quite tired of the plantsuit and wanting his old clothing, or some approximation of it. It was unlikely he would find the proper uniform, but some form of clothing appropriate to his era must be available, somewhere.

His largest difficulty with the entire holiday was the masses of people moving to and fro. Pickpockets, thieves, he spotted every one of them and could hardly restrain his urge to collect them. One had even dared to try his pockets; the boy was sent off with a smarting hand and a foul look. This, more than anything, made him miss Paris-- where the vagabonds knew him, and if they did not flee the sight of him, they at least left him well enough alone.

He stood to the side of the thoroughfare, watching the passerby of all shapes and sizes, looking as close as Javert could to being lost.

Javert seemed to be organizing things in a section of the Sensoriums. He had been speaking with Chaucer for some time about organizing a work session on period weaponry (Speaking being the most general term for the rather strange state of communications between the two men, who still weren't precisely friends, but were more or less civil, which was about as close to friendly as Javert was capable of being), and was now putting that idea into motion. There were polearms, pistols, longbows, and other forms of less-than-modern weaponry. The tall policeman was sectioning off practice areas, seemingly for each form of combat.

He straightened and surveyed the work done, looking rather smug and almost pleased with himself. There was also a gleam in his eye that he tended to acquire whenever he was about to make someone else's life very, very difficult.

Lone had intended to go to Weapons and Possessions to try and find some of her gear. She missed her Pip-Boy, and wanted to find something more protective than the suit made out of plants. Instead, what she found was a treasure trove.

Shelf upon shelf of stuff, some recognisable, some not. And no-one in sight.

The plantsuits ability to form pockets was being put to the test as Lone browsed, sometimes climbing up onto a shelf in order to check the top. Anyone watching her would have noticed the methodology in her movements as she swept back and forward. There was no way that she would manage to look through it all, but it looked like she was going to give it a good try.

Her hair which was loose when she entered, was slowly being pinned back by the bobby pins that she kept finding here and here. A screwdriver had taken pride of place in a breast pocket, and a thigh pocket held something shiny that she's sure will come in useful for something.

Currently, Lone is bent over a pile that has slid off a shelf, poking through it. With a happy noise, she pulls free a teddy bear and sets it aside, before diving straight back into the pile.

Leon had called for a full staff meeting for the Security team, though it was also open to whoever else wanted to attend. He had gone easy on his group since the Bridge mission, mostly giving them time to rest, recover, and deal with the things they've all been told. But now it was time to start moving forward again.

The meeting was being held in the Precinct, in one of the larger conference rooms. He gave time for people to file in and sit down where they would. Once everyone was settled, he addressed the group.

"First of all, thank you all for coming. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Special Agent Leon S. Kennedy, from the United States Strategic Command, and current Chief of Security here about Transmigration 9.

"A couple of weeks ago, we all learned some startling information. That our worlds were gone, destroyed by the Ohm, and we're all that remains. That we've been chosen to travel across the multiverse to fight the Ohm, save what remains, and possibly restore what was lost.

"All of that may or may not be true, and we have people working to verify that one way or another. The only thing we know for sure is that, unfortunately, we're all stuck here for a while.

"Because of that, there'll be a few changes around here, most of which you'll hear straight from the Captain and the Commanding Officers in the coming days. As for this department in specific...

"Security was formed with the intent to be the first line of defense for this crew; to protect them from any threats on this ship, and sometimes to protect them from each other. That hasn't changed, and never will. How we operate is going to change, however.

"For the most part, we've taken a defensive posture, waiting for something to go wrong before we deal with it. But a Fix on Fail strategy isn't going to work anymore. Now, before you get started, no, we are not going to start hunting down and locking up crew members who may be a problem someday maybe." He wanted to be clear on that point, particularly with a crew as prone to kneejerk reactions as this one. "But, acid spitting roaches, one of which was crossbred with an Ohm; a variety of class 4 viral and biological weapons, all gathered in a failed experiment to create a biological weapon to annihilate the Ohm; the Nightmare King trapped in Escherville; HAL 9000; the Yeerks... these are all threats that originated on board. Things that were left behind when the previous crew abandoned ship.

"We need to find out what else they left behind; what other experiments they had going that have been left unattended for God knows how long. To that end, we need to root through every section of this ship, search it from stem to stern to locate and deal with these problems. We'll also be working with Engineering and Neuropathy to locate threats and malicious programs in the computer systems.

"In addition, we're also going to be expanding our duties to become a full blown Emergency Services Unit. We have to be able to deal with everything from heated arguments and hazmat spills to heart attacks and hull breaches. Some people here would be better suited for certain tasks than others, but everyone will crosstrained in a number of disciplines. I don't want to be caught short handed because we only had a few people trained to handle, say, hazmat spills, happened to be on an away mission, or were busy running through a maze, looking for cake.

"As for dealing with the crew themselves, Stacy has generally handled that, but we do have a bit more leeway now. We can interfere physically in conflicts between crew members without worrying about violations, provided you're not using excessive force. If you feel the behavior of a crew member has warranted something more than just a violation, you can haul them down to the brig where they can sit and cool off for a day or two, and any other additional penalties will be handed down by senior command, if necessary." Because that whole trial thing worked out ever so well last time.

"We have a lot of work to do, people. None of us want to be stuck here, but so long as we are, we need to make sure everyone stays as safe as possible."

((OOC: Beneath the two subthreads, people are free to talk to each other and free thread however they wish.))

Javert was waiting patiently in a large, open field. There's an ominous promise of physical activity in the air. This is the sort of area that carries the foreboding feeling of target practice, exercise, physical drills, wall climbing, and other unfortunate things.

Equally ominous is the fact that Javert appears to be smiling.

Nicholas Angel was, by nature, not the happiest of men. There was no doubt about it from anyone that knew of him that he loved his job, that he was married to the service. Official vocab guidelines say "the force" is seen as too aggressive. The notepad was the greatest weapon any officer could ever have—that was one of his most fervent beliefs about his entire training, all of his school, you could catch lies if you wrote everything down.

He'd managed to put Danny to the back of his mind as he took in the new surroundings, hated the organic, living, undulating, pulsating, sick and twisted and disgusting suit that was apparently the only thing he had to wear. Or anyone had to wear, for that matter. He had no pocket to put his notepad in. This meant he felt silly just walking around in the ugliest thing he could ever imagine without a place to put his greatest weapon.

There was a deep exhalation of stiff breath as he came to an area he didn't know. As a matter of fact, he didn't know any of the areas around this place. He hadn't asked, too busy taking in all the surroundings and memorizing them for later. He'd know his way around this breathing, moving, living "ship" in a few hours if he walked around even more.

He put his hands on his hips and stared up at the "ceiling" if it could be called that, not oblivious to the sounds of the ship and any others who might pass by, but completely lost in thoughts of...a Greater Good.

Javert has been walking ever since he learned his universe no longer exists. Slow, steady steps carry him around the city, past Notre Dame, past the Precinct. The careful, measured policeman's beat helps him to think.

His world was gone. He couldn't quite wrap his head around that. His entire world. France was gone. Well, he'd never truly liked France. He had served France, yes, a royalist to the core. France had been his territory, but he felt no particular affection for it. Paris was gone. Well, that was unfortunate. Paris had become his city, and he was a possessive man. But he was dead. He had already resigned himself to these losses.

Perhaps it all was a lie, then, and perhaps this was some twisted form of afterlife. Punishment, maybe, for never being a fully and truly devout man.

His feet came to rest at the Sensoriums. He looked inside, into the filthy streets of his Paris, a rat scuttling one way and some young gamin scuttling another. In this Paris lurked Patron-Minette, every dandy around the corner was Montparnesse. This Paris was home, full of danger and purpose.

He passed it by to stand outside the Sensoriums. Now was the time to decide; would he dwell on what had been, or would he accept his duties here?

He was almost open to speaking his mind; he would at least perhaps offer more conversation to passers-by than his usual stony silence.

Bella's been exploring since she's been given freedom to roam a zombieless ship again. Lots of strange new places to investigate, to smell, to look at.

Mostly to smell.

The werewolf's wandering all over the ship, investigating new smells and refamiliarizing herself with the conglomerate scent of "crew", now that it has a few new members.

It's also helping her relax. They're here with her. She is not alone. They're like a sort of almost-pack, and that helps her hold on. Things will be okay as long as she isn't alone. Her thoughts are a little agitated still, but she's adapting and moving on.

To anyone else's eyes, there's a wolf wandering around without any sign of a collar or other restraint. She seems calm.

After spending some time in detention, Sam found himself being handcuffed once again and taken from his cell. He kept his head high and his shoulders back. Not out of pride for what he had done but more out a need to silently express that, while he felt horrible that people had gotten injured during the fighting, his spirit was not broken. He was then taken out of the detention hall and led down a long corridor to an interrogation room. Whether it was the same room where Leon had questioned him after his first 'arrest', Sam didn't know. But, it did look remarkably similar. Then again, one interrogation room wasn't much different than another.

He was aided into a chair, his wrists still cuffed behind his back, then left alone for a few moments before the interrogator entered and the questioning began.

In some ways fainting had been a blessing to Chaucer. Medically, it was nothing but a nightmare, but he hadn't had to deal with the doctors or healers, or whoever had patched him up in the end. Whoever it was had done a brilliant job; Geoff had been terrified that he'd lose his arm at the very least, probably die. Instead he'd woken up to a splint and some heavy sort of wrapping. He couldn't move his arm, but it wasn't missing. A few minutes of checking it over had passed before he'd even noticed the odd pulling in his side and noticed the bandages there.

The relative lack of pain was a marvel in itself.

He needed to find out who had helped him, thank them, eventually. When he got out of the medbay. For now he was propped up slightly in his bed, struggling with the stylus for his comm. Left-handed writing was ridiculously difficult, made even more awkward by the unfamiliarity of the surface, but it was something to do. A way to write Philippa, one he could transcribe into legibility later.

Team November, report to the Precinct immediately.

Javert is not particularly skilled with the omnicom,  but he's double and triple-checked the short message and is fairly sure everything is correct and clear by the usual standards, cursing the small, awkward keypad.

He stands firmly outside the Precinct, ideally easy to spot, for once not lurking in the background but allowing his height and stature to make him a clear and obvious landmark, and waits for his team to find him. He's fairly sure it won't be that difficult.

Javert's not fond of the Sensoriums, but he needed space to practice shooting; so there he was, at an old-fashioned gun range, practicing with imaginary powder and shot so as not to run low on his own sparse supplies. 

Anyone is free to approach him and ask why on earth he's still using single-shot, slow reloading, antique pistols that even when carefully aimed could barely hit the broadside of a barn.

He might even answer.

Worf, Kousaku, River, Billy, Javert, and Leon all set off in the direction that Leela had indicated. They skirted the deeper parts of the forest, and seemed to have pretty easy going.

Something had broken them a trail in mostly the right direction, but what?

Or perhaps a better question was: Who?

With no layout of the ship to go by, and no escort for now, Picard was winding his own way through the strange living ship, learning and memorizing the hallways and doors, teaching himself where every section led, and what awaited at the end of each corridor. It was difficult work, but it gave the older captain something to do to keep himself occupied while the current command staff began the easy transition between COs.

"Certainly a remarkable ship," Picard remarked, running one hand against a wall curiously. "I've little doubt her crew is equally remarkable, if half of what Captain Bennet says is true."

Not long after the last pod-pop, the more observant among the crew might have noticed a rather slight change in the ship's decor:

Spider webs.

In the dark corners of the rooms and underneath some of the "furniture", there were several fairly unassuming webs.

Perhaps the strangest part about it, though, is that while one can find these webs all over the living area, there seem to be far more in the areas people frequent more often: The Obs Deck, the cafeteria, the sleeping areas...in all of these places, one could find webs in almost every corner of the room.

If you were lucky, one might be able to even catch a glimpse of one of the spiders who spun said webs, though as soon as you saw them, they'd scurry back into the darkness, almost as if they knew you noticed them.

Now, however, no matter how hard you looked, nor how much you scanned, you wouldn't be able to find the spiders anymore.

Instead, there is a man, standing in Obs Deck, staring out the window. He certainly wasn't among the recent wave of new arrivals...so who could he be?

While the newly pod-released members of the crew happened to mostly miss each other in the Pod Caverns and the clothing chamber, they all happen to congregate in the Weapons and Possessions Lockers at the same time. This cavernous warehouse of a chamber has shelves and shelves and racks of belongings and weapons that go off as far as the eye can see. Everything from massive sidearms to impossibly huge swords, to Hello Kitty lunchboxes.

Their own belongings are here near the front--they've been moved to make finding them more easy, but it will take a bit of hunting.

Either way, they won't be searching alone. Everyone's piling in at the same time.

"Listen up! Everyone gather in close. There's something we need to discuss."

She turns to Jaime and the telepaths. "Ready?"

There's a vorp and all of a sudden, everyone on Obs deck is surrounded by a blue shield, protecting them from the watching eyes of Stacy's (functioning sensors). The telepaths are standing by to make sure Stacy doesn't try to read their minds and to block her if necessary (although at the last meeting, she didn't try it).

"Do not be alarmed by the blue shield. That is one of the ways we're currently being shielded from Stacy so we can talk without being overheard."

( Let the meeting get underway... )