[This month, your welcome arrives in the form of your friendly neighborhood Frenchman. He looks ... Tired is probably the best word for it but he still manages a polite smile before getting straight to the important things]

Bonjour, Tranquility. My name is Guillaume Feuilly and I am with the Support Staff. While there is much we do not yet understand of the ship and her ways, let me reassure you that we are still all quite alive despite what we have each awoken from. [There's a small wry smile at that before continuing]

That said, please make yourself familiar with the following for any answers you may be seeking.

THE RUNDOWN » What happened, where you are, what to do.
SUPPORT DEPARTMENT INFO » Who we are and what we do.
REFERENCE* » Basic facts about the ship and solar system.
A TIMELINE OF EVENTS » This will take time to read thoroughly, but we strongly recommend it.
FAQ » Please read this before asking a question on the network.
SPACE TRAINING » If this is your first time aboard a space ship, please watch these helpful videos.
LOOKING FOR WORK? » If you have any questions about the departments, track down a chief officer or someone who operates within it about recruitment.
COMPLAINT BOX » Need to get something off your chest? Bring it here. We might just be able to do something about it.

If you haven't already, it would also be prudent to find quarters in the first ten floors of the ship. There is a safety in numbers, especially recently. I would not wish for anyone to be caught unaware where no aid can reach you.

If there is any more unanswered questions, please, feel free to ask myself or any of the other members.


[There's a pause as he goes to turn the video off, hesitating for a moment before]

And a question of my own perhaps. Has anyone in fact, noticed any new faces this jump?

[A somber face on the video feed. When last he addressed the people on board, it was about loss, and how to cope with it here.

Irony was indeed a cruel mistress, was she not...?]

As... no doubt you will have seen. Seraphim, who was here-- a long time. She has departed us, by more natural means that disappearance, and less natural means than a gentle and faraway death.

She was surely too young for such a fate, and far too goodly. For those who grieve her, like I, I offer condolences.

[A deep breath here, to square himself to the reality, and to keep calm in this.]

But let her passing be not in vain.

Before passing, she left for me, a message. Part of which she hoped to share with all of you. I will read that part now, that perhaps someone here knows how better to make of it than I, and can look at it and know what she meant to impart to us all.

She said you all have to know. It was her final wish.

[And so, reading from a part of that transcript, that it is much too raw and painful, too personal, to simply post the entire message she wrote to him.]

There is an entire other side and it's white...

Deutsch was right.

Tell them it's SU(3) structure...

--rallel univer--it's a compact universe--side the Jump...

[There was the mathematical notation, too, but it was much too long for him to make sense of. The begging, and the emotions still to read on page; this, he would keep to himself. That was meant only for his eyes.]

That's all.

[Bahorel can be seen in his room, which seems to have become a bit of a small forest of spider plants, most of which are still in their baby stages. A few have been potted, while some others are waiting to be transplanted, and yet more hang from the original planter in the corner of the room. Although not every surface in the room is occupied, it looks as though it may not take particularly long for such to occur if something is not done quickly. Muttering a bit under his breath,]

A whole new meaning to the word "nursery," Christ...

[Fiddling with the camera just a bit until he can finally see himself amidst all the green. A wide and welcoming grin.]

Halloo, mon amis! It seems my darling Selene has flowered yet again, and at a far more alarming rate than I have seen her do so in the past...

[It may or may not have something to do with that Christmas magic spirit in the air, but such has yet to be determined...]

So I have procured plenty of pots and soil of various shapes and sizes, in hopes that there might be a handful of you who might be interested in taking one for yourselves, or to offer to a loved one as a gift for the upcoming holidays.

If such a thing strikes your fancy, do drop by and take your pick of the litter! Floor 16, Room 132.

[Glancing back over his shoulder, before returning to look at the camera with a bit of a wry grin.]

Doesn't seem like you'll have to worry about missing out, to be honest, but you'd certainly be doing me a favour with a quicker claim.

[It is not often Combeferre has been spending a great deal of time alone, lately. He's slipped by the medical bay a few times, observing the doctors at work and taking notes, along with looking at some of the relevant passages in the texts he's found, has been spending time with Eponine, most of it, and, in general, has not really brought out his old friends for quite a bit of time.

Now, today, he's appearing on the network surrounded by a tangle of wires, some low level batteries and a few small lightbulbs, along with a scattering of the more common moths from his collection, and is squinting at the screen as the video feed begins, then looking up, almost surprised, as he remembers he's here for a reason.]

Ah, yes. It has been a while since I have had anything along these lines to ask, but I've been visited by the bestowers of ideas in a dream, and I would very much like to learn whether or not what I've been dreaming about is even possible.

[So saying, he's reaching a gloved hand to very gently pick up a moth in one hand, and a tiny lightbulb in another.]

Is it possible, does one suppose, to create some sort of electrical light source, out of the more common, and less well preserved members of my collection? It has occurred to me that a new reading light would be quite nice, and that, if I might follow up on the thought that came to me in my dream, that making it up out of miniature lights contained within these common moths would certainly be a nice idea.

I am, however, uncertain of the execution in beginning, and would as soon not waste my very old, and rather dear, friends if this is not to work. Does anyone have experience in this sort of an experiment?

[Here is a very squinty look as Combeferre looks out, er... tries to look out at the network, anyway.]


It having been a long several weeks, this may not be the best of times to ask some medically related questions, but I have been getting my headaches...migraines, you call them, in the future, with more frequency since my spectacles were, ah, destroyed in the corridors a while ago by what I think was meant to be a ghost of my...

[What exactly IS Marius to him, right now? Combeferre had never liked the man so much as he had been completely baffled by him, a bafflement that had lead to his giving Marius a cooler reception than he probably deserved, and he had wanted to like the man for a while, even here. That was, up until Eponine, and, while he will not say that Marius should have returned Eponine's love (particularly as that would leave him minus a girlfriend), he does believe that the younger man still ought to be worked harder to be kind to her, and he certainly was annoyed enough with ghost Marius to attack him, anyway. And then, he'd been just plain angry, and, well, it is a complicated situation, he supposes.]

Well, a ghost from my past, I think it suffices to say, and that has really nothing to do with my question. I've been having problems without my spectacles of any rate, and I have been wondering about...is there some way to create a new pair here, or to do the laser procedure I've found mentioned in some of the medical books I have been looking over, lately?

There IS still the method of waiting and seeing if a jump is kind to me, but if it cannot happen, I would be curious if there is anything else that might help me as well.

[Combeferre is a bit red-eyed and sniffley but, considering how he tends to look and feel after jumps, it is still an improvement. At the moment, he is glancing at the device, frowning.]

Please let it go through this time. I do not need to have another system crash.

In the hopes that this works, I am going ahead with this anyway. For anyone new out there, my name is Michel Combeferre and I am pleased to meet you. For everyone else, well, I suppose it is good to meet you too. If you did not come from my Paris at least.

[that is said in an obviously teasing tone, with a full fledged grin.]

I am attempting to make this message another time because the lovely Eponine, whom none of you are allowed to steal from me, has given me a wonderful idea. There are many of us here who enjoy theatre, yes? And Shakespeare in particular has left his mark upon it, English though he is

[There's another teasing smile, and then Combeferre is sneezing.]

Ah, sorry. At any rate, I propose that we begin a theatre group, to study and perform works of dramatic importance, which we would vote upon. There are so many places on this ship that we might do so, and I find we are not so limited in space as all of that.

Is there anyone here who might be interested in joining such a thing as that?

[His nose has started running and Combeferre disappears out of view for a moment, ducking down so he can wipe it with no one seeing.]

Once I get myself over this cold, at least.

[The video feed opens on a Combeferre who is grinning slightly idiotically. It’s a different look for in public spaces, honestly. Jehan and Courfeyrac may recognize it, but they are the only ones from home who do . Clearing his throat, he begins to speak after a bit more of setting up.]

I have rather an important bit of news to share with everyone, particularly those of you who were so good as to help me see the way out of tiptoeing around the truth.

So good to help! [That would be another voice, low in pitch and gravely.] Michel! To whom are you addressing? Tell me it was Jean and Reynaud, and no other. [By now, a rather small girl, a few years younger than Combeferre has made her presence known, frowning at the screen. Say hello to Eponine, everyone.]
( announcements, cuteness and wayward chairs! )

[ Your resident 19th century cynic is overdue for an introduction. But, in his defense, it's taken him a while to figure out how the hell to use a smartphone-- there are a lot of things to get used to for him here, okay?

The first thing that appears is his dark eyebrows knitted together in a face that's obviously puzzled but intelligent looking. He's rather enjoyed the challenge of tinkering with this thing, and he shows a triumphant smile when he realizes he's done it. ]

Wonderful. A strange piece of equipment, but nonetheless remarkable.

[ Clearing his throat. ]

Hello, all of you unwilling citizens of this terrible place. You may call me Grantaire. I suppose this is an introduction of sorts since I have only arrived a few short weeks ago and this is, I'm sure, the first time many of you have seen me. I appeal to you because I'm looking for some... [ he hesitates over the word "friends," but he's not sure he qualifies for that endearment amongst some his group from home. ]

...acquaintances of mine from my previous life, who I've been told are on board but I have not met in this vast place as of yet. Given the violent and, apparently, tumultuous nature of existence we seem to be in here, I think I should find them before the next "jump" sees fit to do away with them. Odd, isn't it? How fleeting everything is. Well, at least we have use of these to find each other; it's certainly a helpful tool.

[ Tapping his screen emphatically as he speaks. The communicator makes an electronic noise as the camera turns around and back to him, making his eyes widen with surprise. He raises his hands away from it, afraid of making another error. ]

...My apologies, I'm still trying to master the use of it. I won't bother you all any more, in any case. Should you have met anyone by the name of Bahorel or Combeferre, please inform me. Or if you are one of them listening here, that would make this exceptionally easy.

[ With a smirk, the feed ends. He did figure that bit out well enough. The big red circle was certainly eye catching. ]

[A very pale Combeferre, worn out from the effects of the jump, and squinting into the camera is appearing on your screens, Tranquility, hi there. Despite being rather pale, he seems, well, well enough as anyone who was in engineering that day can attest to being, and there is a bit of a preoccupied smile on his face.]

Hello, everyone and welcome those of you who are new amongst us. I look forward to knowing you in time and hope you've had a decent time of things so far. That said, I do have a question, for, well, all of you, old and new passengers alike.

[Here is where he hesitates, shifting a bit, his face a little flushed as he considers how best to put this.]

I ah. It has been some time since I, at home, had time for seeking out romantic attentions or for seeking someone I could share them with as well.

[Given the year he's been on the ship, it's been about three years, to be precise, but, details, right?]

I think that I...that I may very well have found someone who I would much like to know better in that context, and it seems that, perhaps, the lady will not be opposed. I only wonder, I...

Ah...

[He's taking off his spectacles now, polishing them a little frantically, with the edge of his shirt, then fiddling with them a little, so that the loose screw at the temple actually drops off completely.]

Damn .

[So now Combeferre's sitting there, a side of his spectacles dangling off of his face, even as he attempts to shove them back up and keeps finding them slipping down, with his cheeks certainly going scarlet now.]

I wonder how...

What are the ways that you might woo someone you would like to know better? Ladies, what might a gentleman do, specifically, to ensure that he remains respectful to you, above everything else, even while he is asking you to potentially...

[How does he girls, ship? ]

This is awkward, perhaps I had better just...end here.

[The feed opens to Luke's face, streaked, red, and blotchy. He's obviously been crying and he attempted to clean up, but his efforts weren't quite good enough to hide it. Around him is the quiet privacy of his room where he's been hiding.]

I need help.

I need advice.

Er--... I don't even know what I need exactly. I just-- I need to talk to somebody.

[He pauses to take a deep breath and gather his thoughts, running a hand through his hair.]

My best friend woke up from a pod for the first time yesterday. He doesn't know it yet but in the time I come from he's dead. He was killed in a battle. I had to lie to him a bit and--... I don't know what to do now.

He's probably going to find out eventually and I don't think it's right to keep hiding it from him, either. If I know he'll find out sooner or later I'd want it to be from me, you know? Not-- not from someone who might not be as careful about it, or--

I just... I don't know. Then sometimes I think that maybe it'd be better if he never finds out. Maybe he never has to know. He can spend his time here without having to worry about his future because I don't even know what that would--

[Luke decides to not go any further with that thought tangent. Imagining his friend becoming an empty shell and living out the rest of his time on the ship like that isn't something Luke wants to spend any more time thinking about.

He gathers himself, sniffs, and sits up straighter, pushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes. He wants to go about this as objectively as possible, considering only Biggs' feelings on the matter, but it's difficult to near impossible to keep his own feelings in check.]

Anyway, I want to hear from someone who's been in the same spot. Would you want to know? Or would you rather never find out? And then from the other side of things, have you ever had to talk to someone about this kind of thing? Let me know... if you can. Thanks.

A query, for the ship...

I wonder, with what we do know about our predicament; and I admit, my knowledge is little when it comes to the gadgetry and computations that the running of this vessel requires; and what we do know about M. 'Smiley', as he is like to be called...

Well, how to put this?

[A pause and a breath, before tilting his head just softly and staring up at the camera.]

Smiley may not be human, is it so? This has been presented to me as an option. Not human, but digital?

And he has been upon the networks, in order to mock us. But the mocking has had a defined purpose, I have seen. Threats, that we "had better" fix problems-- both technical, and human in the case of the mutineer-- before it costs us our lives. That we "had better" keep the ship running. Yet, if it were not his will that it be fixed too, were it not in his best interest also, would he not use fear as a means of making us do his bidding?

If Smiley would guide us to to save our lives by saving the ship; perhaps it may mean that it is the improper course of action, after all? Perhaps we ensure his-- or it's-- safety by ensuring our own? And in doing so, we too may be responsible in part for leaving this vessel open to stealing more lives from their homes, more people from their families...

In other words, the question I would like to pose is this: If we knew, for fact, that the only way to stop the terrors on this ship and the kidnappings seen each month was in destroying the ship, thus protecting any future targets-- be they like us, or like those pirates, who were seen to summary execution...

Would you be willing to pay that price, to see that the right thing be done?

Dulce et decorum est pro mores mori.


Forgive me, if it is too morbid in thought. The question is surely a difficult one.

[backdated to shortly after the jump]

[The feed starts as an audio post, with the occasional clicking of the keys, with long drawn out pauses between them, and the occasional 'hmm' and other such utterances, sometimes of irritation. After a few minutes, there's another pause.] No- that's not right, where are the words?

[The voice is low and hoarse. A smoker's voice, if you will. But it's female. There are a few more noises as Eponine clicks around on her device. Then, her face comes into frame, close-up on her eyes and forehead, her dark eyes narrowed as she looks at the screen, her brow creased.]

No, no, it's supposed to be the words. [She doesn't even realize it's on video yet. It's only when she takes sight of her own eyes that she gasps and pulls the device away from her, so that the audience can better see her face. Pursing her lips, she reaches a hand up and brushes her hair back behind her ear. Then, she smiles at the "reflection".] A strange sort of mirror... [She mutters again, before the screen goes blank.]

[For once, Enjolras is completely bundled up in the majority of his clothing from home, and huddled in a blanket to boot. He looks somewhat resigned -- cold isn't too much of a problem, but he has grown far too used to being on the ship and in a somewhat moderate temperature, barring the last few weeks.]

I do not much mind a respite from the heat, but this seems somewhat excessive. I do not think I have been this cold since I was in Paris. Does anyone know of a place where the climate might be somewhat more, ah, temperate? I welcome any and all suggestions.

[Here is Combeferre, starring into the camera of his device, almost seeing past it still as a scalpel, aged, by the looks of it, rests loosely in his hand and his spectacles threaten to slip down his nose and onto the desk he's seated at. His mouth is set in a line, thinner than usual, and he seems to be looking for something to say.]

I would speak to anyone who has witnessed their past...who has seen it springing up before them again, whether with the jumps or not. I do not know what to do with what I have found and learned but I know that it is bad for me, that I...

[Some hesitation there, and then it's coming out, after the result of so many jumps that he has been here.]

...cannot go on with this. It seems the crisis point of a grave illness, the eleventh hour and I fear that I may need a source of outside help if I wish to be normal, even a bit normal, once again.

[And then he's glancing up, one side of the spectacles sliding over his cheek which he ignores for now.]

In other news, this heat.Is it me or does it seem to be worse now?

[Greetings Tranquility. Combeferre is peering at the screen, a look of intense concentration on his face, a stack of datapads nearby.]

It has come to my attention that I am in need of a few items. Notably a candle and a light source for it, lead from a pencil, a flask, and the element argon. If any of them might be retrieved, I will, of course, compensate you accordingly.

[Yeah. Because none of THAT looked suspicious or anything. There's a moment longer while Combeferre smiles politely at the screen before the feed cuts. Oh. Oh Dear.]

[ Grantaire makes a point of clearing his throat right into the device. ] A-hem. Is there a meaning, do you think, to the items we find in our lockers? If some can find a language in flowers, then surely our gifts must provide a wide vocabulary. I've received nothing since my first jump but from it was an exquisitely adequate bottle of brandy and a deck of my best cards. What does this say? I have gone over these clues for months, and yes, I've found my answer. For once, I will allow Scotus to peek his head and say, "Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate." That is right, I must indulge myself in every mixture of alcohol I can attain—which I am well on my way to doing, if I may say—and find a group with which I may gamble, as well as goods that will make it worthwhile.

Now, solely to fulfill my given purpose, who will accompany me in this? I have cards, but I will also accept dominoes, dice, whatever foreign method you could desire. My only request is that we play honorably, or the spirit shall desert us. [ Was this entirely to ask for gambling partners?? Yes. ]

[Good morning-- Is it morning? Evening? Day! Good day! Courfeyrac still has a hard time determining this on this ship. There must be some sense of time, after all, even if not by the sun and moon. Regardless, here’s an early 19th century dandy who has writing all over his face in sharpie.

Yes. That’s correct. Not just writing, but terrible poetry and double entendres and all of the innuendo. All over his face.

But he’s still grinning all the same, because he knows exactly why this is the case. He rubs his eyes for a moment before actually addressing everyone, his smile mischievous.]

It should seem that I awoke this morning with writing all over my face. Alas, my mysterious scribe is nowhere to be found. Perhaps someone would be so kind as to read it for me? Everything appears reverse when I look into a mirror.

What’s more, if someone finds the culprit, please do return him to me, won’t you? I imagine he is wandering the halls with a permanent marker in hand looking particularly devious.

[In light of all this... mess, really, going on with everyone's minds (it did seem to be contagious), perhaps now was not the time to explore new things. Perhaps now was the time to really hold in place what one's personality ought to be, and to cling to it.

Despite that, Jehan and Courfeyrac have decided upon now to finally take the foray into modern fashion. Jehan can't say he's thrilled with the result, but the clothing items they have lifted from the Cyllene at least fit... for the most part.

Being rather dismal with technology still, he'd meant to put in a call to Combeferre, whom he thought might be amused with the antics (...and might tell them what he planned to do with those dresses, finally.)

Instead, network, have a man in his early twenties, from 1832, in front of the camera wearing a streamlined, white jacket. Which might not have been so bad, if he had not insisted on wearing it with a bright tie, which he had fashioned into a bow around his neck.

Courfeyrac had done... something to his hair, with some form of goo he'd found in one of the bathrooms on the other ship, and he had not liked it. It was sticky. He'd tried to comb it out with his hands, and the result was that it now more-or-less stood straight up, tilted to the side violently, and had frozen like that, as if in shock.]

Is this-- is it recording?

[A pause.

He had no time to be embarrassed. He had a few questions.]

This is absurd. The buttons on these costumes-- they have no button holes, the half of them. Are they meant to connect to nothing?

[In his attempt to figure out why on earth a jacket would have buttons that were only for show, he's fastened two into the same hole, in a few places; with a herculean amount of effort.]

And some of these pockets are stitched shut.

Is all clothing like this, past our day? Do men really wear pants quite so tight; and how do you go about fitting suspenders onto pants that have no buttons in the back?

[He has figured belts... to an extent. As the pants he'd taken sat much lower than he was used to, he'd used the belt to fasten them nearly to his waist, putting it through only one loop and pulling tight. Over the jacket.

The result is more or less a disaster, and he'd readily admit it leaned towards more; the clothes simply didn't make sense.]

Really, I cannot say I imagine I am wearing this... absolutely correctly. But is it made correctly? These are pieces we have found, and I've seen all manner of clothing on board this vessel.

Are such things really comfortable? I can't say they seem useful, exactly...

Are all pockets in the future stitched shut?

[Someone has to ask the Serious Questions, Tranquility.]

[Have a beaming Combeferre, onscreen, wiping his hands on an apron. From the looks of things, he has been in the kitchen.]

Greetings, everyone!

I am pleased to update the entire ship on my progress in learning your new technological cooking methods, which have finally resulted in an edible, and delicious meal. You are all invited to a dinner party in the next few weeks, prepared entirely by myself.

I do hope many of you can make it.