returnjourneylogs | Just when you thought it was safe to hoard your tickets: BLÅHAJaws

He's been burned twice now to varying degrees, so he's not really planning to get anything this time around, even if he's saved up a decent number. Things have been going okay lately so he doesn't really feel the need for comfort food or a new outfit to cheer himself up. But he ought to see what's been added, right? Just in case?

Which is how his eye catches on the word blåhaj. How strange. Why is it in Swedish? After the tattoo, he can't help but wonder if it's some sort of...something. Probably not a sign exactly, given the tattoo faded rather quickly (thank the Norns). But still. The description says it's a "soft toy", but the name...

It can't possibly be a taxidermied shark, right? It can't. Right?

On an impulse his former warden would have been proud of (and likely had himself) he shoves the tickets in. He has to know.

And then the machine launches a large stuffed animal at him and he takes a step back less from the impact and more from the surprise. And disappointment? No, he's not that bothered. He gives it an experimental squeeze. Yes. This is better. Of course it is. Who would prefer a taxidermied shark, anyway?

Ever a contradiction, Loki holds the shark to his chest and silently begins brainstorming names for the toy that he will never, ever speak aloud, and starts to make his way back to his quarters.

It's been a rough month.

Claire's been a rather well-off woman more often than not in her life, though she does tend to be frugal. Old habits from the war and all. But before she knows it, she has a surplus of tickets. Tickets she could donate, or--

"What the hell," she says, giving the commissary ten for some random surprise. The previous ones had been amusing, after all. Retail therapy is needed after going to the devil himself for a talk.

The machine spits out a single key on a keyring. Claire holds it up, squinting.

"A key? To what?"

As the last two tickets are consumed, William strolls up—stops to allow the commissary to whir and churn, as though hesitant to interrupt its work. His curiosity idles while he waits, but once he's caught sight of the key his interest subtly quickens: a new keenness of eye, a smile lurking in the lay of his mouth.

Still, he manages to sound halfway nonchalant when he asks, “What do you want for it?”

Claire closes her fingers around the key as her stomach clenches. But she can still greet William with a lift of her brow and a teasing smile.

"You don't even know what this goes to. I might be open to a trade once I solve that mystery."

His mouth wrenches into an answering smile—cool, just shy of annoyed. He wants the mystery. She must know that.

“What makes you think it belongs to anything?”

She remembers. She's sure that's true to any William.

"I'm hoping it belongs to something, or else I just foolishly wasted my tickets." Her hands slide into her pockets, key and all. "I'll let you join me on the hunt."

His expression smooths out. He gives a slow blink, stares her dead in the eye before almost reluctantly flicking a glance to the pocket containing the key. "Let me see."

Claire stared back at him before taking the key out of her pocket and holding it up for him to see. Just out of arm's length.

He did just want to see, he said.

"What do you think?"

It's an ugly thing, blunt: no intricate handle, no single dangling tooth. He steps forward without thinking, head tipping to the side. “Looks like there was some writing,” he says, his voice abstracted, barely a murmur. It's worn to illegibility, only the edges of the letters visible. “A name?”

He takes one last contemplative look and turns to leave—unhurried but decisive, expecting her to follow.

She follows, of course, long strides easily able to keep up with his own.

"Are you going to tell me what thought you've had, or shall I wait and see?"

She perhaps doesn't sound as annoyed as she would have before the last month. Go figure.

He's heading, unsurprisingly, in the direction of the elevator—though he hesitates as they pass solitary, spares it a backward glance. “I think it's one of those old chests. Sea-stained, clasped in iron. The key would rattle in the lock like the breath of a dying man.”

He presses the button for the elevator, gaze set on the doors. “When you opened it,” he says, as the doors part, “beneath the lid there'd be a watercolor of a peregrine in flight. Meticulously detailed. And you'd look down, and see a spread of white cloth.”

He presses the button for the center axis, waits for the elevator to begin moving to continue. “You'd plunge your hands in and come out with a shirt—one of a dozen, two dozen. And on it would say—” He takes a breath, and says with perfect gravity: “'I shaved my balls for this?'”

He has the decency not to laugh at his own joke, but after a moment or two he sidles a look her way, unable to keep his grin in check.

Like the breath of a dying man? Claire doesn't hide the look of what the fuck on her face, simply unable to do so, but crosses her arms as they wait for the elevator. Those arms remain crossed as they step inside the elevator, and William continues, and Claire wonders just how deep this fantasy of his will go.

And then he says the words that, admittedly, she already found pretty funny when on Rhys.

She snorts before she can stop herself.

Her arms uncross so she can lightly smack William's arm.

"Jesus Christ, the set up for that," she says, trying not to laugh, but it's in her voice. "Shut up."

His smile shrinks to something pleased and private—shared between them—and then passes, like a shift in weather. The elevator doors open to the ship's center axis. “I figure the infirmary. It's”—the only place he ever sees her—“your headquarters.”

Walking toward it, he can't resist asking: “Are there any cabinets that won't open, that kind of thing?”

She leaves to eat, sometimes. Claire follows beside him and into the infirmary. Sterile, neat, and tidy--save for a corner that she's seemed to claim as a desk of her own, a spot she spends more time in than her cabin.

"No," she says with a shake of her head. "I've poked around every inch of this place. Anything locked can be opened by wardens."

Well. Claire nods over to the auto doc.

"Unless she has a secret."

He slips along the fringes of the room—examining the lock on the nearest cabinet, hovering at the bioprinter without moving to touch it. Imagining someone waiting to be sprung from a stasis pod. “She?” he repeats, attention drawn back to Claire. “That's presumptuous.”

There's no real bite to it; already he's turning to the room's central fixture, approaching the Auto-Doc with a focus that's both determined and deferential. He gazes through the spotless glass, lays a finger on the accompanying screen, bringing it to life. “We should put it in here,” he muses—head jerking toward Claire as the idea takes hold. “Run a diagnostic.”

"I spend the most time in here. I'd know," she says, with a lift of her brows. Does she maybe talk aloud to the Auto-Doc, when she hasn't forced someone like Loki into keeping her company? Absolutely.

She wanders over to join him beside the machine, maybe actually considering that idea for a moment.

"Or, we take a walk to the loading bay. One more guess."

[Someone buying something at the Commissary isn't unusual. It's not even unusual to see Theo, who has previously said he wouldn't participate in the ticket system, stopping by when he thinks no one else is around. What is very unusual is the earnest smile he has, slight as it is, as he receives his item: a tiny travel chess set, a foam recreation of the one he had back home.

And also, some strange small orbs of crocheted yarn. He can't even imagine what these are supposed to be.]

Edited 2022-05-02 16:19 (UTC)

A. (closed to Travis)

[ After a moment of staring at this months offerings, and briefly bemoaning that he cannot afford more (why had he gotten that stupid hand puppet last month?! Maybe someone will trade? Worth considering taking a shot at that) he approaches Travis, two tickets in hand. ]

We still doing this?

B. OTA

[ Rhys will approach anyone who looks indecisive about what to get and seems to have tickets to spare. ]

Pickings are pretty slim this month, huh? I mean, edible deodorant? You're never going to get over the association of that stuff being for under your smelly arms.

Buuuut you're in luck! I got last months exclusive, if you're looking to trade. It can just be with me instead of the machine.

[Travis's gaze is hidden by his aviators –– mirrored, today –– but there's a little quirk to the corner of his mouth when he approaches. He's got no purchases today but this one.]

Yeah, let's do it.

[He puts out his hand for the tickets. Gimme.]

[ Part of him can't really believe he's doing this, teaming up with the guy who he'd had repeated beef with since arriving here. But on the other hand, this could be really valuable information for the future. Sometimes sacrifices to the ol' integrity had to be made in the name of progress (and money.)

He drops the tickets into Travis's waiting hand, realizing a second too late that he could use them on something else and totally useless instead. ]

If this thing's as accurate as advertised I bet given some time, resourcefulness and a few palms greased we can make a poor mans version of our own.

[ Please let that be enticing enough to not screw him over if Travis is considering it. ]

Just when you thought it was safe to hoard your tickets: BLÅHAJaws

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will she punch him...

disgusting

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A

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