There was a problem with having big, massive battles that encompassed the entire ship, aside from the whole 'OMG We're Gonna DIE!' thing. The problem: Someone had to clean up after it.

After the battlefields of World War II had disappeared, after the Nightmare King had been destroyed, and after the pissed off bald kid had dropped a damn hurricane into the ship, the city was littered with rubble and debris. Broken sections of buildings lay on the ground, blocking entire streets. Shattered glass threatened to cut open the plant suits--of those still wearing them--and lodge themselves in people's feet. And then there was the dust that had been kicked up by the winds and still hadn't come down. It was a disaster.

But someone had to clean it up--or at least try--and someone was. Sawyer, equipped with shovels, some brooms, rakes, and a couple of wheelbarrows that he'd found in a garden shed in the Vatican, was down in the city getting to the business of cleaning up the mess. With the heat of the city coupled with the physical exertion and the dust in the air, he'd long ago ripped off the top of his plant suit and wrapped it around his nose and mouth in an effort to keep the dust particles from getting into his lungs.

It was a dirty business, but someone had to do it. Although, some help wouldn't hurt.

( To hell with Batman! )


((ooc: One thread would be nice so that Dustin doesn't have to explain and/or experience the same things more than once.))

Arha had agreed to meet Mara Jade where the city itself began and they were to explore, then, for a whole day. It was possibly more liberating than she wished to acknowledge, but she had to concede that it was her own self that had placed herself in this box. She stood glancing along a long, wide street and rocked back onto her heels, plotting a course in her mind. There were many places to go, maybe nooks to get into as well, but there was an interesting structure that had caught her eye a few days prior. It was a funny sort of building, really, with a tall tower attached to it.

She had wondered if it were some sort of place where a culture went to worship its dieties or perhaps something else entirely. Arha stood, searching out the building with sharp eyes. It begged an investigation if only because it was odd, so, that was where they would wind their way to, then.

Arha was decided.

Picard was standing on the bridge of the Enterprise E. Everyone entering found their clothes shifting into Starfleet uniforms as they entered, including the observers. The captain liked it that way. He thought it was appropriate. For his part, he had only three shining pips on his neck, and when Worf entered, the Klingon would find four pips on his own collar.

"Welcome to the bridge, Captain. Why don't you sit down?"

Gauron's taken it upon himself to update the inventory lists for Weapons and Possessions, and make sure everything's in proper order - it's a task that should keep him well away from everyone else for a while, because sometimes, he just has a bad habit of grinding salt into the wounds. Usually, his ruthless pragamtism is an asset, but when it comes to mourning, there's only so much of it he can put up with before he starts being a jerkass about the fact that feeling sorry for yourself accomplishes nothing, and is likely only to lose you whatever you've got left. He's well aware that just being completely right won't earn him any friends, under the present circumstances - and, for the first time in his life, circumstances make it important that he actually try to get along with people.

So he's shut himself up with Stacy, the equipment lists he made for the zombie attack, and the inventory he's brought back from the Vatican, for now. He's pulled up several of Stacy's older inventory lists to compare against the one they've just finished compiling, along with any official or unofficial sign-out lists she might have that go beyond just the weapons she's returned to newly podpopped crewmembers. He doesn't yet have an accurate way of recording whether the ammo from the zombie fight that he didn't bring up with him was expended or is in the possession of crew members, but he supposes he'll figure something out. In the short term, though, a worrisome trend is beginning to emerge as he compares and updates the list: there are a lot of pieces that seem to have just vanished. Of course, the pirates come immediately to mind as the probable culprits, but he's checking through any video logs Stacy has of the area and trying to compile a timeline of the thefts, just in case. After all, it's not like they know everyone who's onboard; there's still that red-haired maniac who turned up briefly during the Yeerk charlie-foxtrot running around unaccounted for.

Not too long after his introduction to the rest of the crew, Lex slipped away to head back to the Lounge area. That particular part of the ship had been his main workspace for several months now. He knew he would have to share that space one day, and he was certainly prepared for it.

Lex was, at the end of the day, a businessman. As any good businessman would tell you, the biggest deals are never negotiated in the board room. They're done on the golf course, the tennis courts, but more often than not, in the smoke filled backroom of a high end bar. Alcohol was always good for soothing frayed nerves, loosening tongues, and getting people to agree on things they normally wouldn't.

And now Lex had his own bar to conduct business. Actually, he had his own bar and lounge as a business now. Yes, a business. That meant that the booze and smokes that he had were not free anymore.

This is Lex Luthor here, did you think he'd give away all his booze for nothing?

Luckily, he was aware that people are running low on cash, but money isn't the only thing of value around here. His asking price was simple. He'd make any drink you want, even non-alcoholic ones (and given that he had spent some time mixing and matching liquor and juices from different universes, he can mix dozens drinks you never even thought of), and all you have to do...

"So, tell me about yourself."

...is have a conversation with him.

The Vatican had a lot of ground to cover. Normally covered in expansive gardens (just empty plots on the ship) and comprised of a multitude of buildings, holing up there meant holing up in simply a part of the Vatican. The group was therefore in St. Peter's Basilica, which had had most of its entrances sealed off. Now they had to work on small windows and a few other entrances left neglected, but overall, it was a very defensible position. There were no exits other than the ones leading to the sacristy and treasury--which was their main avenue of escape, and heavily guarded. The prisoners were being kept in this area, and guarded by the rear guards, as leaving them in the prison was deemed too dangerous for their safety. As bad as they'd been with the Yeerk conflict, they were crew, and no one wanted them to die.

The courtyard was a chokepoint. Gunners could sit on the roofs of the buildings running alongside the courtyard to strafe St. Peter's square from the sides.

The various chapels and vestibules along the sides made excellent areas for food, medical, and weapons supplies to be gathered, and most were clustered in the middle of the basilica. The Medical area was in the Chapel of the Column, the main weapons and ammo caches, and Food storage areas were in the two Transepts, respectively, to the sides of the Papal altar. Pews all in the main areas had been converted to sleeping areas, right in the center of the whole place.

There was still work to be done, before the other group could leave. Last minute barricades, blocking more windows, moving the last of the medical supplies, inventorying the food, and so on. Then it would be time to hunker down.

So push up your sleeves and lend someone else a hand, folks.

[ooc: Read instructions for these threads here!]

Daimon had chosen the location ahead of time. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was sacred, perhaps more so than the Vatican. It was the place where Jesus Christ was crucified and buried. It had also not been descrated.

Many months had passed since Daimon spoke before a group of people. His palms sweat and he wiped his brow. Silently, he asked God for the strength to not simply speak but to speak on behalf of the Lord.

When the time came, he walked up before the assembled, Bible in hand. While he was nervous, perhaps on the verge of a panic attack, his words were strong and passionate and grew surer the more he spoke.

( Meatship, I give you your first sermon )

As usual Ghani slipped away while most of the crew was sleeping and had headed straight to the Sensoriums. As soon as the doors slid open a warm wind caressed her face and the soft subtle smell of Cinnamon assaulted her nose. Spice. It was a smell that she had grown up with and over time had grown accustomed to.... And now a smell that she was dearly missing.

Sighing she stepped inside, her feet sinking into the soft sands that were oh so deceiving. It was here, this fake Arrakis, that momentarily quelled her sense of homesickness. And then it hit her again.

What she'd give to actually see her brother... To touch him, to laugh with him... But all she has for now is a maker that is part of him...

She moved swiftly over the dunes of sand, keeping her steps irregular and not making any sort of pattern - she doesn't even think about it... It just happens. Safely at an outcropping of rocks, she climbs to the top, not an easy feat, but one she was use to.

Sinking down, she swings her legs over the ledge and looks out over the expanse of the desert and frowns. This ship.. This Stacy was all wrong. They had... what was the word? Computers... Something she'd been taught to believe were wrong and... Well it just.. It was strange. Leto, she knew, would have dealt with all of this much better.

And the others on the ship? It was very peculiar. Luckily she was able to draw on her Other Memories so she knew what they talked about and didn't come off as ignorant.

But even though she was settling in, and getting use to the ways of the ship, she missed Arrakis... She missed her Dune, and she wished for nothing more to return there.

And that was why she was currently sitting alone, staring out at the seemingly never ending dunes of sand.

As private a person as Leon is, it may come as a surprise that he comes from a rather large family. His father is a cop, and most of his uncles and cousins are either police or military. Big Damn Heroism runs in his blood.

The youngest of four kids, he has three older sisters. None of them are zombie-killing badasses like him, but they each know how to handle a gun, and can be absolutely brutal with nightstick. They also enjoyed torturing Leon when he was younger.

Since he was a boy, his wasn't allowed to hit them when they messed with him. Play fighting and wrestling was ok, but punching them in the nose was out of the question. His folks were raising a gentleman, not a redneck, thank you. Anyway, because of that, he ended up devising some rather devious and indirect methods of revenge. In doing so, he also developed a mischievous streak that ran a mile long.

It was a side few even suspected he had, given his rather straight-laced nature, but it was a good non-violent way for him to blow off some steam. Violence was for work, this was pure play.

And today, he decided he'd play a little.

( Read more... )

Daimon had not resisted arrest, nor did he threaten Leon. Though he was loath the hand over his trident, he did. He did not hand over his Bible, keeping it hidden in what little plant suit he had covering his body (he had ripped most of the pulsing suit off but, to his dismay, it was regrowing).

He was a danger to others. This was the best for everyone.

He opened his Bible to Psalms and started reading.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

A howl rings out through Stacy, an eerie and almost unearthly noise that'll make the hair stand on the back of your neck. Bella can use comm rings, but doesn't. They're Weaverish, and no proper Get lupus will use a darn Weaverthing! Or at least not Bella.

Through Stacy's onboard translation, there's a creepy effect going on where you can hear the howl but also instinctively understand it as if it were words.

"THIS ONE IS BELLA, THIS ONE IS AHROUN, THIS ONE IS GET OF FENRIS. THIS ONE HUNTS IN SENSORIUM-PLACE. THIS ONE IS ALONE. COME HUNT WITH THIS ONE IF YOU HAVE TEETH AND CLAWS. TOGETHER WE KILL. TOGETHER WE FEED."

It'll carry a good long way, Bella has a strong voice. Whether it reaches the ears of any potential members of a hunting party will just have to be seen. She'll be sitting outside the sensoriums waiting for a bit, sitting and looking excited. So, ship, have a wolf in a podsuit!

(OOC: Feel free to come talk to the howly wolf! If you're going to join in on the hunt, please keep to one thread for better organization!)

After being released from stasis, having the slime removed from their bodies and clothed in the creepy, pulsing leaf-suit that everyone wore, and being taken to the Weapons & Possessions lockers to collect their belongings, the new arrivals would find themselves standing in the Observation Deck. Round windows lined the fleshy walls, revealing the bright display of lights that was inter-dimensional travel. They would also discover that there were people--members of the command staff and crew that had woken earlier--waiting for them.

Sharp Tongue has everything she owns spread out in a corner of the Obs Deck, where she's hovering over it jealously and arranging it with loving care as she makes sure it's all in order. The entire contents of her shaman's bag, and the bag itself, are here. Strange pastes and dried herbs and oddly shaped bits of stone, bone, and occasionally metal. Tools. All the mixtures and some dry ingredients are contained in various ways. Glass bottles are frequent, most of these in still-usable pieces with the few that are whole and stoppered containing some kind of mysterious liquid. Also common are things that at least appear to be the round bowls formed by the insides of broken skulls. Something whitish and about the consistency of cold butter is held in a sizable sea shell.

The bag itself is designed to hang across Sharp Tongue's back and against her left side, it's made of thick brown triceratops hide. Strange sigils have been apparently branded into it, usually in three claw slash motif. There are smears of paint in similar markings across it, in yellow and white and red. Hanging from the edges of the bag are teeth, feathers, and some claws. The biggest of these are two velociraptor hunting talons near the front.

It's a grisly assortment of things and doesn't smell all that great, but they all clearly seem to have a meaning to Sharp Tongue.

She's muttering to herself indistinctly as she goes over them, occasionally growling or hissing. She appears to have restored her body paint, having drawn long white and red slashed up and down her sides and legs, and a few across the muzzle for good measure. They're not sacred paint and they weren't done by Narrow Face, but they will have to do.

Red Snout roamed the halls of the ship, muttering to himself. His attempt to win leadership had failed (failed!) against the old human, who had proved more formidable then he expected.  It was no shame to lose, he knew, not against a chief (he knew now why the old one was chief. He was wily, tricky and even possessed some physical strength) but the humans did not see it that way, he could tell. They laughed at him. And the one thing Red Snout hated was to be laughed at. He was a skilled warrior, a good hunter, and enjoyed a decent position of respect at home. Here? Here he was a stranger among strangers, made even more different by the fact that he was a raptor and not human.

It angered him so to be laughed at. He must rectify his humiliation, he decided, and soon. Preferably by beating up another crew member where others could see and then they would know his abilities were not a joke. Then they would know why the Swiftclaw tribe had lived in the same land for generation on generation, why nobody, not even a T-rex, had driven them from their hunting grounds. Yes, they would learn to respect Red Snout.

"Stupid humans..."

For the newbies, there are people waiting for them in the Obs Deck. A whole gaggle of people. Behind them is the nasty statue, and the beautiful sight through the windows of the stars streaming past and the swirling vortex of collars that was interdimensional travel.

There are more questions than answers, but the crew is willing to help, especially the Command Staff and greeters.

"Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you walked in? I think that is how dogs spend their lives."
- Sue Murphy

Those first hours, after he got back from meeting the returnees from the mission--he slept. In the warm, soft hollow of his tiny sleeping nook he slept the sleep of the dead, and Stacy left him with the firm knowledge that no one would disturb him, he wouldn't be woken for a mission or testing, and he could just rest. For as long as he wanted. He slept until he couldn't anymore, until his legs and body felt cramped beneath him, and the need to stretch was unbearable. So he went exploring. Nose to the ground, with that permanent fleshy scent filling his nostrils, he went about the myriad caverns of the meatship.

The only possession he'd reclaimed was a bright red collar; there was a faded copper tag, with the name 'BANDIT' in big, blocky letters. On the flipside was the name of his owner, but the letters were smaller and faded with wear. John? Jane? And a telephone number: 5something5-23somethingsomething. The collar had come with a box. A big box. But Bandit knew what was in the box, and so he left it alone. He never wanted that again, and Stacy knew. He went back there only once--and the box was gone. So maybe it was for the best.

His first stop had been the mess hall--the food dispenser was his new best friend for life. It scanned him once, and produced the same good-sized portion of kibble it had given him previously. Once that was done, some three-odd seconds later, he made it scan him again, but the ration was smaller this time. I refused to scan him again, stating sufficient fulfillment of nutritional requirements. It would not be swayed--not even by puppy eyes. Made by an actual puppy.

This thing was on to him. So Bandit moved on.

Bandit found his way to the media library, and was busily examining the various terminals. They weren't coughing up anything of note, however; they just did things like play music or start talking at him, which he was pretty sure was a Bad Thing because the last time he'd made something make too much noise he had been punished. Cautious dog is very careful.


ooc. Feel free to come upon Bandit either in the mess hall, the sleeping halls, or the media library.

Picard was sitting, watching television.

To be precise, he was watching episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. He remembered the Farpoint mission, remembered Q and his 'trial for humanity'. He only grew more sullen when he switched it ahead many episodes to First Contact with the Borg. He watched as a model of the Enterprise was bombarded with weapons fire, glaring when an actor dressed as him came on screen, pleading with Q to help him.

"It's entertainment to them," he said, his voice flat. "It's just entertainment to them."

Na na na na na na na na na na Bat Team!

Nightwing, Terry, Robin, Wonder Girl, Stature, Hawkeye, and Wednesday set off in the direction of the third pod. They were headed deeper into the forest, where the trees got taller and closer together. There were places where they'd have to push their way through the underbrush.

After being de-slimed--for the most part--and wrapped in discomforting, dark green, plant-like body-suits--that not only left little to the imagination, but also seemed to be breathing--the newly pod-popped crew 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.