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.

To a few onboard Stacy, some would recognize the surroundings in one of the Sensoriums.

It was Gotham City. But, not just any Gotham, it was the Gotham before the earthquake, before No Man's Land, before its rebirth. To some, it would be a bit of a nostalgia, especially after what they've learned some time earlier.

Of course, the painful screams and breaking of bones certainly something that would either creep people out or add on to it.

The source of that? One Jean-Paul Valley, the second man to take up the Mantle of the Bat, tearing through everything coming towards him. Small time crooks to those such as Mr. Freeze, Killer Croc, the Scarecrow and more - all fell to his blades. The System, the psychological brainwashing the accessed his skills, kept pushing him on, driving him more and more, not letting him stop...

...until he heard it.

"JEAN-PAUL VALLEY..." a voice called out. As the last crook dropped, Jean-Paul turned his head and looked up. Underneath his helmet, his eyes widened. Above him was a man, garbed in nothing but Crusade-era armor, a sword and shield in his hands.

"...Saint Dumas... you're okay! You're safe!" Jean-Paul said, his voice wavering.

"DO NOT PATRONIZE ME, JEAN-PAUL." Saint Dumas said. "YOU HAVE FAILED IN YOUR MISSION. THOSE YOU WERE CHARGED TO PROTECT ARE NOW GONE. THOSE ON BOARD THIS VESSEL HOLD FAITH IN THE OTHER AND YOU, WORSE OF ALL, HAVE FORSAKEN ME FOR ANOTHER..."

"Forsaken... I haven't forsaken you! I swear!" Jean-Paul said.

"YOU HAVE FORSAKEN ME FOR ANOTHER HERE. YOU DISAPPOINT ME, JEAN-PAUL. YOU WILL CONTINUE TO DO SO HERE AND FOREVER MORE..." Saint Dumas said, disappearing. Jean-Paul dropped to his knees.

"No... no I haven't forsaken you. I... I can still complete my mission, I can still protect those I am charged to protect..." Jean-Paul muttered. He lifted his head up and thrust is arms into the air "DAMN YOU, SAINT DUMAS! DAMN YOU AND YOUR WORDS! I WILL COMPLETE MY MISSION OR DIE TRYING!"

If anyone saw Jean-Paul during all this, they probably would have seen him arguing with thin air.

The door to one of the Sensorium pods has been propped open with a brick taken from the city level; it leads into a small vestibule with 'airlock' doors, set up to block out the outside light.

Past that, one can take a few steps into the darkness, eyes adjusting—and feel the weight lifting as the gravity drops to nothing, and there is only a soft floating against the stars and galaxies that stretch in every direction.

The air is thicker, almost fluid, body temperature, enough to make the boundary of the skin seem to almost fade a little, and there's absolute silence but for one's own breath: it's like stepping into a supremely thorough sensory deprivation tank, but for the stars. One could imagine floating peacefully in space, overlooking the whole universe.

Near the entrance (now hidden from the inside), only a dimly-outlined shape against the sky—as there isn't enough light to really see her properly—is Luly, curled up against herself in the zero-G environment, eyes open but unfocused and her red wrap trailing around her a little.

Stuck on a living space ship, entire universes away from home, and living with characters from Star Trek. Yeah, Loren definitely needed some down time. Which was why she was in the Sensoriums playing baseball.

Or rather just hitting a ball over and over. It was just creepy to play baseball with simulated people.

Spaurh had found the sensoriums. At first she'd merely been curious, recreating a few places from memory, trying out the zero-gravity simulation. She'd even dabbled in the piloting program (and found that she was almost as good as she had been out of training). And then she'd recreated her flagship. It had been perfect - almost too perfect. The crew acted like the real crew. Her Chief-of-Staff was so real that she'd almost thought he'd materialized next to her. Of course, that's when that worming little thought had burrowed into her head - what if? Could the battle at the Sord have gone differently? Could she have saved more of her men, her ships?

Despite her rather smug exterior, she honestly had cared for those under her command, even if in some abstract way. And even though she'd achieved a "victory" of sorts at Lobnas, the defeat had still stung. She was supposed to be rebuilding her squadron. Instead she was here. So, at a loss, she'd replayed the battle in the Sensoriums. And then again. And then again. She lost less ships, she lost more ships. But every time the losses had been crippling to her little fleet. And now she was doing it again. The ship rocked from a nearby explosion, "Looks like the enemy is stupid..."

She had made it this far into the fight - the retreat from the Sord, breaking enemy contact. But just as the first time, they were following her. Her crew, her wonderfully trained crew were giving it there all. Reports continued to stream in from the fleet. Another ship had exploded. and then-

"Mine! Incoming!"

"Evasive-"

The ship shuddered for a moment from an impact and a frantic bridge officer begin yelling as information scrolled across his screen, "Impact! Our engines are disabled! Another-"

The ship shuddered underneath her again and then the deck plating seemed to rise to meet her as the entire room turned into blinding white light. It faded out a few moments later, leaving Spaurh standing on an empty bridge. The words "Ship destroyed" burned across the viewscreen. Spaurh bit back a curse and stalked back to her command chair and slumped, sulking. There had to be some way to get a better result out of the fight....