The Mystery Machine stood in the same spot in the hanger where Sawyer had eventually parked it after spending hours with a group of crew members driving around in circles and passing around joints until they were all half-baked. After dealing with "Nightmare Kings", difficult deputies, a hangover, a fascist command staff, and a crew of brainless sheep, Sawyer wandered into the hangar to get away from all the levels of stupid that had permeated those that like to call themselves 'in charge.' Sawyer hated glory whores and self-anointed 'leaders.' They were nothing but walking sacks of hubris. Hubris that, like Jack and Locke, could only manage to get people hurt with their half-wit plans and knee-jerk decisions.

Hell, the entire pantheon of twits spent more time barking orders and talking at everyone that they had no clue just how deeply the resentment and distrust they had seeded in the crew had taken root. And they had no one to blame but themselves. The crew was divided, angry, and it was because of the command, not despite them.

And Sawyer had no intention of getting killed because no one could get along. So, that's why the con-man planned to get rid of the command staff--some of them, anyway. They were no longer the solution, no longer an asset. They were the problem and if their egos kept them from stepping down for the sake of the crew, for the sake of its unity, then he was going to do whatever had to be done to remove them.

But all of that could wait, for the moment. Right now, Sawyer relaxed in the back of the Mystery Machine, the door wide open, with a copy of Vonnegut's Mother Night in his lap and a lit joint between his fingers as the gears turned in his head, turning over the best means to execute his plan.

Barbaric arts of my time reveal me as outsider. Favorite poetry: epics. Popular dramatic ideal: heroism. Dances: wildly abandoned. Stimulants to make people sense what I took from them. What did I take? The right to choose a role in history.
-Leto II (The Tyrant): Vether Bebe Translation


Recreating one's homeworld on the ship wasn't the most creative move she could make, Sheeana knew. And she did her level best to avoid using the sensoriums wherever possible. She would not become dependent on their artificial comfort like so many others did.

But there were certain things unavailable in the city for her and music was one of them. So she found herself in the plaza at Arrakeen. The sun beat down on the cracked and ancient concrete, on Fremen travelling into the city to sell their goods, on pilgrims, on priests in their white robes. The heat was oppressive to most but to her it was life, and each ray that soaked in through her skin made her blood pulse closer to her skin.

She stood in the exact center. Old music, also native Rakian, came through from phantom instruments and she kicked her heels up. She went whirling, abandoning herself to the frenzy of movement, spinning until she was half blur, one leg held out to balance her like a figure skater. Arms flung out and aided her momentum, dark hair whipping about. She used this momentum to launch herself into higher and higher spinning leaps, sometimes coming down on a foot and sometimes on a hand. Everything melted away in the flux.

If left alone this way she could easily keep going until she collapsed. Luckily she'd left the door unlocked. She didn't much care either way if she were watched.

Dean stumbled around, his head still buzzing away with all the liquor he drank down.



He wiped a hand in front of his face, blinking, and gave a drunken laugh that almost made him sound more insane than drunk. At least the alcohol sluicing through his body killed some of the thoughts. The memories of Cold Oak, Hell, and thoughts about destiny and burdens. He didn't have to focus now. Hunt was done, could sleep. Oh wait, no he can't. Never slept all that much to begin with, what else is new?

He hummed Enter Sandman in a daze as he fell over to one of the organic couches in the Obs Deck. Nothing like magic fingers, but what the hell?

"Damn, I think I need another drink, haha..." he commented drunkenly to himself.

Several buildings in the City had been completely destroyed during Aang's rampage, but a few had survived relatively unscathed. It had only taken Kang two days to repair the Drunken Dragon; he'd done so by himself, not even waiting for his leg to heal up a bit first.

Usually, he didn't bother lighting any candles or using the fireplace in the tavern unless it was a period when the artificial sun had set. He could see perfectly fine in the dim light. For the celebration, though, he'd thrown the windows open wide, scrounged up every candle he could find, and started up a fire, knowing that human vision wasn't as good as his own. The tables surrounding the stage had been cleaned, as well as the tankards, and the door was propped open. The bozak had even wrestled two of the 60-gallon barrels from the back room into a corner of the main room for easier access, one of cactus juice and one of ale. If more was needed, he was sure he could get someone to help bring out another.

Tess had commandeered the kitchen to make her food, bringing in her own equipment. Kang had been slightly afraid at first that she was going to burn the place down, but nothing had happened yet. She seemed to know what she was doing, even if she'd given him a few scares.

The sunlight glistened on the old sword blade teeth and dinnerplate eyes of the comical-looking wooden dragon grinning above the entrance. Come in, relax, have a drink and a bite to eat!

[OOC note: Both drinks are alcoholic, and the cactus juice has twice the kick of the ale. :D;]

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.

The Nightmare King has been defeated. Those crew members who were touched by his madness have been taken down.

The City is a mess. So is the rest of the ship. As is most of the crew.

But it's all over. Finally.

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.]]

Elsewhere on this ship, a war was being waged. A war for the hearts and minds, the souls and very sanity of this crew.

A war that Stacy wasn't certain that all would survive, hence why she released you. Replacements would be needed.

But that war is miles away from where you are. Or at least, so it seems. There are no screams of agony to greet you, no monsters trying to claw at you.

But that doesn't mean the Nightmare King can't reach you.

Prior to your arrival here on the Obs deck, reality had been shifted. Constructs of the current crew grew out of nothing. All of them look, sound, feel, behave, and scan as the crew member they're copying. They're as real as you are. And with smiling faces, they await your arrival.

They can't wait to welcome you. To your doom.

Won't you say hi?

[ooc: Nightmare plot is still on, people, and this is the newbie portion. For all current players, as stated above, the Nightmare King made copies of your guys, who are still stuck fighting nightmares elsewhere in the plot. You can tag in as the copy of your character, have them be friendly, get the newbies to let their guard down, and then the real nightmare can begin. Newbies, you can tag in, have fun, and suspect nothing until its too late.]

[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 the copies of your guys greet the newbies.]

It begins. It happens very suddenly. Shadows moving up the hallways where shadows shouldn't be. For a moment, as they all stand where they stand on the ship, the ship--the universe--moves around them, and they're transported somewhere far away. Just for an instant.

On some worlds that were, some versions of Earth, a man tormented by night terrors wrote of it once, wrote of things revealed under the light of a greenish moon: corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness.

There are pipes, pipes in the darkness, the whine of droning flutes, and far off, the muffled, mad beating of drums.

There's a bright white flash, blinding, and those that have tongues will taste static, and then reality boils and runs and reshapes around them as their nightmares and worst fears become reality.

[roster: Leader - Mal Reynolds, Grim Eyes, Kate Bishop, Kaylee Frye, Princess Projectra, Sawyer]

Hisk runs. She saw it. She knows what she saw, and the omnicom and ring are so new to her it doesn't even cross her mind to warn others.

Werewolf. Here. On the ship. Running.

She has to kill it. It's what she does. She's a monster hunter, and this is a monster that needs hunting.

It leads her down to the city, just staying on the edge of her vision as it steals around corners. She pours on a burst of speed and finally comes tearing out into a courtyard.

The thing turns to face her here, a snarl rattling deep in its throat. Long bared fangs, slaver, wild yellow eyes. Clawed hands. It's the size of a tall man, but slouched as it stands with long limbs and a slightly short muzzle.

Hisk doesn't stand down, she coolly raises her spear into a fighting stance. Her heart's hammering in her ears as hindsight informs her that it would've been a good idea to find backup.

Too late. She gathers her courage.

"A'right y' mangy, skegging son of a slack-jawed hag! Get back here an' fight me like the man y' ain't!" she yells. The profanity and insults help brace her for the coming fight.

The werewolf barks and charges, and so the fight begins. There's much yelling and snarling.

All he had wanted was some peace and quiet. First, he had found a way to rig the TVs in the hotel to link to the ship's library. Second, he had convinced Stacy to just let that be, and explained how odd "pulsing walls" were to most of them. Finally, he had found a couch on the far wall in the lobby that had the best view of the big screen TV the lobby had, and marked it. Above it on the wall was a plaque that read as such: RESERVED FOR FORMER YJERS/TITANS WHO WERE DECLARED DEAD IN THE LINE OF DUTY.

However, these were not exactly detractors in everyone else's mind. Every time he tried to relax and just read his back issues of "Crazed Merc" magazines, someone came in, sat down in the nearest chair, and asked him about... whatever was on their mind. He couldn't stop it, he knew it from the first. When the crazy japanese kid who he had previously lead to the sensoriums had shown up asking him about whether he should go to a dance, he had given advice. Then the priest showed up, asking about what the Outsiders were about. Now, Slobo was just waiting for the next person to come asking him, of all people, for information or advice. So he was more waiting than relaxing...

Everyone had been so nice to Ryo since he had awoken a day prior. He wanted to show his appreciation to his friends and the crew, and get a chance to meet others. So, he walked back into the sensoriums and imagined a place. As he opened his eyes, there was the Milk Dipper. Wood finish, stars decorating the place, rough hewn wooden tables and the telescope in it's pedestal at the center. Everything was as it should be, except for one thing. Behind the counter, looking very confused, was a green-skinned demon who bore no resemblance to Airi. Ryo registered his shock as the demon spoke.

"This... is NOT my bar..." The green one said, his own shock evident. He looked at Ryo. "And you're not Peter..." Ryo, not knowing what to do, bowed quickly.

"I'm sorry, Oni-san, I just wanted to throw a party for everyone, with karaoke and dancing, and I didn't mean to summon you!" The demon shook his head, waving Ryo off.

"It's Lorne, and you had me at karaoke. Now, this place.... I like it. Kind of a kitsch-meets-class thing going on... It does need to be bigger, though..." Lorne snapped his fingers and the cafe expanded, now as large as an auditorium. The telescope pedestal sat firmly in the center of a well-polished dance floor, underneath a disco ball and lighting set up. To the left of the counter was a stage with a karoake set-up, and behind the counter was now a lot more than just coffee. Otherwise, the decor remained the same.

"Alright, Ryo-kun." Lorne said with a smile. "Give everyone the heads up and get this party started." Ryo nodded, amazed by the demon's abilities, and gave a call on the omnicomms.

[[ OOC: It's karaoke dance party time! Start a sub-thread with your character singing a song, socializing, or just being a wallflower, and let the CR flow! Especially great for newbies to meet folk and influence people!]]

Setting her data padd off to the side, Jo picked up the shot gun lying in her lap and smiled. She placed it on her desk and breathed in deeply, centering herself. Reaching over she started the timer and expertly stripped and then reassembled the gun. Stopping the clock, she smiled in satisfaction at her time.

It wasn't as good as what she normally did, but it was just the start of the day. She was sure that today she'd beat her record time.

Sawyer had been avoiding the city ever since Bella had told him that the Vatican had been all but destroyed during the fighting with the zombies. No one had died, which Sawyer--rather immodestly--accredited to himself and all the work he put in getting the basilica ready for just that kind of occasion. But with the basilica trashed, Sawyer had lost the spot on the ship that he had adopted as his own little castle--even if other, more religious crew members had tried to mosey in on his turf. So, in an effort to familiarize himself with some of the newly opened areas of the ship, Sawyer had been walking around and poking his head into the command deck, engineering, neuropathy, and, eventually, the flight deck.

He spent at least an hour wandering around the deck, looking at all the different fighters, bombers, mechs, frigates, and shuttles before his eyes landed on something that most definitely didn't seem to belong. In one untouched corner of the flight deck stood an object covered up with a protective tarp. It wasn't large, especially in comparison to all the other machines around it. It, in fact, looked rather reminiscent in size to a normal vehicle from Earth.

With furrowed brow, Sawyer wandered over to the "mysterious" vehicle and cautiously took hold of the tarp and gave it a sharp tug only to reveal....

( ZOINKS!!! )

An hour or so later, anyone stopping by the hangar deck would find Sawyer, driving in circles in an empty corner of the hangar at five miles at hour. The windows were rolled up, and a cloud of smoke filled the vehicle as the meatship's resident a$$hole puffed away on something that was not a cigarette.

[OOC: Please keep to one thread. Thank you!!!]

It was a calm, quiet hallway. It was still and serene and appeared untouched. For all intents in purposes, it seemed like no one had been in this particular hallway for quite some time. Several hours at least. In the distance there was the sound of someone coming down an adjacent hallway, but they were still some minutes away from this particular hallway. This hallway was empty, not a soul passed over its floors. It was the perfect hallway. With no one in it, there was no one to get hurt when...

"OH SH********************T!!!!" a voice called out, echoing through the corridors as the source--the meatship's one-time resident dickhead--was spewed out of some secret panel in the far wall and flew down the length of the hallway like a giant spit-wad and slammed into the opposite wall before sliding down the floor again in a heap.

He lay where he landed for several moments, catching the breath that had been knocked from his lungs on impact before he finally climbed to his feet. His chest heaved as his heart raced and his lungs pumped rapidly in a mixture of shock and outright rage.

"Ohhhh...that settles it, you disembodied b*#ch!" he growled, frantically looking around for something--anything--he could use as a weapon or as a means to pry his way back into the compartment from which he'd been so quickly ejected.

A mass of zombies has laid seige to the Vatican.

Time to fight for your lives!!!

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!]

After taking some much needed time to rest, collect their thoughts, gather information, plan, and work out the logistics of said plans, the Command Staff finally convened down in the city in the Basilica of St. Peter. The Vatican had served well as their meeting place before, so it made perfect sense to use it again. It was obviously large enough to house them all, and it was also quiet, since it seemed that the changes that had been made to the structure by a certain crew mate had led many crew members to avoid it.

There was much to be discussed. The fall-out from the battle over the Yeerk, what to do with the prisoners being held in the precinct, and--most importantly--the up-coming effort to breach Stacy's barriers, open up more of the ship, and deal with what lay in wait there.

Sawyer emerged from the Vatican the day after the Yeerk Battle--he'd been in the basilica, reclining on a pew with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a pack of Camels, and a copy of The Canterbury Tales when everything went down--and surveyed the damage. A few buildings had been riddled with bullets, there was a large pillar--the one that had been hurled at Ms. Marvel--laying shattered on the ground several hundred yards from where it had originated, and another boulder was blocking the entrance to one of the buildings.

"Well, hot damn, when the folks are away...," Sawyer commented, whistling at the wreck that had been wrought upon the City. "When you people throw a party you really throw a party...."

Another day, another podpop. The crew and command crew has gathered on Obs Deck to greet the newbs, but right now the atmosphere is tense. People are taking turns on rotations to alternately hunt for Sam--who'd been kept in prison during the trial to present his assassinating the Yeerk-- and guard said parasite so it can have a fair trial. The Jury is in recess, for the moment, but will be deciding the Yeerk's fate very soon. A bunch of new people thrown into the mix is tremendous complication.

Meanwhile, the newbies are waking up to a strange, new world, one unlike anything they may have ever seen before. In the Obs Deck, the light of stars--and parallel universes--streaks past in a sleek, transcendent sheet of multi-colored lights in the large, eye-like windows. (They're inside the eyes, looking out, it seems). The statue in the center of the room, going up the domed ceiling is intimidating--and seems to be looking at them.

The tension is palpable, though a few individuals are trying to cut through it with friendliness for the benefit of the scared and bewildered new people now waking up from their gooey slumber.