this is the part where prison is more or less dave and busters

[saklas]

Passengers: Everyone who wants to come see what the weird vending machine is about for the first time it is open to them! This is an open mingle/party style log.
Location: "a corner," the location of the Commissary
Date: February 1 - 7 on year one of our cool and sexy journey
Summary: 14 space idiots squint at the ATM that can supposedly make elk meat and clown shoes for them
Warnings: Will add as needed! I'm 90% sure someone's going to ask for drugs or blades, just as a weather forecast

Comments

[rank1]

Travis Touchdown feels joy for the first time since he arrived. Holy fuck, he loves this shit. He's dropped so much cash on Earth collectibles that having things from across the universe at his disposal feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Who knows what kind of sick t-shirts can be found across the galaxy?

But then he sees the prices.

"Jeez," he groans, looking down at his paltry three tickets with a grimace. "All my ducats for one t-shirt?"

(Today he is wearing bright pink leather jacket, which he wears open, revealing that he is, inexplicably, shirtless. His treasure trail is on full display, as is his little patch of chest hair. I'm sorry. These things happen sometimes.)

[saklas]

Volk glances over. Nah, this fashion choice tracks with the name he gave. Actors be like that.

"Well, if you're completely out, I'd say it's a start."

[rank1]

"I'm not out, I can do laundry," he replies, with the vague inflection of someone trying to pump himself up: he can do it, he can accomplish that task! "I just wanted to see what I'd get. You got any extra tickets I can bum?"

[smugreport]

[ Three tickets, all of which should belong to Rhys! He is like, 80....75% sure this guy won't try and attack him again, at least not so soon. And this is trying his luck, he knows, but it's a gamble he's willing to make. He's owed, dammit! ]

Hey.

[ He's giving Travis a wide berth, enough distance between the two of them that he could hopefully dodge any kind of attack Travis might try. He holds his hand out (still keeping that distance!!) palm up and points. ]

You owe me a new shirt, dude.

[rank1]

[Travis sees that bullshit distance. Corporate dickhead and a chickenshit. It emboldens him. This guy doesn't have shit on him.

Travis shrugs openly.]

You owe me six hours of my life. I'd say we're even.

[expectaspectre]

Grace just got here a couple days ago, so she doesn't have anything to redeem, but it seems like A New Thing Being There is unusual, at least for now. Worth investigating, she thinks, if only to get an idea of the sorts of goings-on that will be happening for the foreseeable who-knows-how-long.

So she finds a moment that the hallways seem empty to slip out of her room and down to the strange chunky machine that kind of reminds her of those little photo booths they have at the mall, just way more beat up and janky-looking. Which is saying something, because those photo booths have been there since at LEAST the nineties.

Anyway. Nobody appears to be around, at least for now, so Grace takes a tentative peek at the list of items. Brain lubricant. That's a thing, apparently?

For right now, at least, she's so absorbed in the list that she stops paying attention to whether or not she's alone in the room anymore...

[nineteenfortyfive]

Well, this is new.

Claire clears her throat on approach, not wanting to cause a startle.

"Anything of interest in there?"

[expectaspectre]

Whoops: Grace jumps as if someone had prodded her with a fireplace poker, spinning around to see... oh. A very pleasant-looking woman. She's gonna go ahead and guess this is Claire, as she hasn't actually met.... really, any other women thus far.

(About now is when poor Claire ought to begin to feel the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and get a very unpleasant feeling of being watched, and its accompanying physical discomfort. Grace really can't help it.)

"Interesting to somebody, maybe..." She tries a little upward twitch at the corner of her mouth which on someone else might read as a smile, but just looks nervous on Grace's pale face. "...Wanna bejazzle your gun?"

[lessandmorethanhuman]

She's there long enough that she's attracted attention. "You must have a way more interesting set of options than the rest of us, for that thing." Alex has his hood up, and hands in his pockets, not quite looming behind her.

[expectaspectre]

Grace straightens like someone poked her in the back with something awfully sharp and immediately side-steps away from the monitor.

"Sorry," she automatically apologizes, like it happens a lot. She peers cautiously at Alex, like she's trying to figure out whether she needs to run. "Didn't mean to take too long!"

cw: i managed to get a body horror mention into this vending machine log YOURE WELCOME

[saklas]

A.
Every day Volk spends on this ship, he somehow looks like he's been lost in a storage unit without food or sleep for 1 additional calendar year. He arrived on the ship in spotless black pumps and winged eyeliner like a secondary antagonist from The Devil Wears Prada and today he's in pajama bottoms, yesterday's shirt, non-matching socks, and that's it. Week one, he was trying to fix his chipping nail polish with sharpie. Week four, he didn't even bother doing that much.

"Oh boy. I can't wait to participate in this complete farce, where I pay the people imprisoning me with imaginary money for things I already bought with real money before they took them away from me."

Guess who's still mad that he lost his phone and his Juul? This dude.

B
Volk queues up, reads the item possibilities, then walks away without requesting anything. He leans against a wall, frowns. His gaze goes distant.

It's actually pretty airtight. He can't think of a wording loophole that would get him contraband, at least - though he thinks about the possibility of poisoned food (counts as a special property, doesn't it?) clothing with razors (again, that'd be special) and replicas from home of a satellite phone or some haldol(but they'd be made of foam...).

There's more than one way to prove that this whole thing is bullshit. Ask it for something it can't possibly do.

Volk feeds the machine five tickets.

"The editing block schedule for April Showers on the week of July 29th, Interregnum 92."

Two days after he vanished. Something that'll reveal what people are doing now that he's disappeared. It'll be damn tough for the machine to fake Scheherazade Saqr's distinct combination of competent scheduling and Kirby stickers, she's the one that'd be writing it. And even harder will be getting a real copy quickly, without anyone noticing.

"And - the Harris Agave collection fiftieth anniversary replica of Dorothy's ruby slippers."

Fuck around with that as a """""clothing request.""""" They're covered in actual gemstones and they're a museum piece. There's only one pair that exists and it sure as shit doesn't fit Volk. Go ahead. Break into a museum! He'll just wait here.

...

The machine churns.

...

A few minutes later, Volk is back leaning against his wall, holding a pair of sparkling red shoes, one ticket, and his own obituary. He made page two, at least. Under the fold.

He swings the shoes off of one finger.

You've always had the power to go back to Kansas.
I have?

The words from the people that knew him, eulogizing him, cut true; they're real. Saqr sounds heartbroken. Volk hadn't even known she'd liked him. He'd never been that nice to her. She was a very competent DP but the cutesy schtick had been grating.

The lurid tones his death is described in, barely concealed by newspaper-speak neutrality patter, describe the nightmare he had right before he showed up here. The one where he shattered into pieces like a broken doll and every part was still alive and still hurt until it suddenly stopped.

Well, why didn't you tell her before?
She wouldn't have believed me. She had to learn it for herself.

The shoes are useless when he puts them on. The heel crushes flat under his weight. The soles are flimsy. The rubies are fake. The man behind the curtain is Julie Andrews in pearls and she thinks he's too beneath her to even address.

It's a bad metaphor, if you think about it. It's stupid. It's not funny. He doesn't appreciate it.

"Fuck, I just want to go home."

A

[sanctus_dei]

[Theo had been avoiding the hell out of everyone. If anyone dared speak to him, he acted like they weren't even there. He even stopped responding to any comm messages going around. He had no patience or mental fortitude to deal with literally anything that wasn't laying in his bunk most of the day, facing the wall, or walking around in any empty parts of the ship he could actually access. Just one of those depressed wild animals at the zoo, walking in circles in their enclosure.

The idea that maybe, just maybe he could get something alcohol or nicotine-related with his two measly tickets was enough to bring him to the Commissary. He was hoping that the place would have cleared out by now, but there's Volk, sarcastically commenting to no one in particular. Theo drifts in next to him, not dressed all that differently at this point. He looks over the list on the screen, eyes narrowing and brow creasing deeper as he got further down the list.]

This shit is insulting.

[Congrats, Volk, you're the first person Theo's spoken to in four days. Aren't you tickled?]

[saklas]

Look at the bear. 'I WILL resist the urge to blow people up.' Like any of us have done anything worse here than punch someone.

[Volk sounds bitter.]

Like if we did, it's because we're fucking infants who just don't know any better. Like we're mad because someone took our mommy and our toys, not because we're adults with rights and boundaries.

A

[expectaspectre]

Grace is so glad she thought to bring a cup of coffee with her just in case. Before she even says anything, she offers it to Volk.

"You had 'brain repellant' at home?" It's a genuine question. Will someone please tell her what the hell that even is.

B

[smugreport]

[ Guess who can't participate in this fun little function because he was denied his right to more tickets? This guy!

That's why this poor, disheveled and depressed looking mess of a man (woof, he looks real bad) is gonna get Rhys approaching him, all buddy-buddy and jovial. ]

Heeeey, there he is! My oldest buddy on the S.S. Hostage Holder!

[ Rhys is grinning, but there's clear strain in his voice behind that million dollar smile. His eyes flick down to the sparkling shoes now adorning Volk's feet. ]

Those aren't seriously what you spent your tickets on, are they?

1/2 cw: unreality

[saklas]

[Volk is corporate. Not like Rhys is. A little different. A little 'if you sound desperate, you're going to get taken advantage of.' The movie industry runs through pretty, young people like a sausage factory runs through pigs, because it's convinced them that sausage is immortality.

Volk thought he was different, because he cheated. Because he invested in his writing and directing, not his face, or voice, or tits.

The tone of voice has him turning immediately, eyes flashing.]

WE AREN'T FRIENDS. No one here is your friend, Rhys! Back the FUCK off.

[Volk recognizes him enough - enough - but the truth is that Volk is stressed enough that Rhys looks like a swarm of flies with fire inside of it. The wall behind him has psychedelic, nightmarish patterns on it that he's positive don't exist in real life.

He wants, very much, to just get his hands on someone and hit them until it's not funny any more. Until the amount of control he's been exerting on a daily basis, up to this point, becomes apparent and people stop PUSHING. It's prison, so why the fuck not. Why should he still keep managing his reputation? Hasn't the worst already happened?]

2/2

[saklas]

[He crumples the obituary instead. They're fucking with him. They're trying to get into his head. By keeping him here, they're hurting his family, and Hera, and everyone else who knew him, and now they're making sure he knows that they did it. That they're going to keep doing it.

...The obituary is also made of foam, and springs back into shape.

He takes a deep breath and fixes Rhys with an icy, doll-eyed, Stepford Wife smile.]

And just what is that supposed to mean, hm? Say what you're thinking. I love taking constructive criticism.

[sanctus_dei]

[The drying out process has hit Theo very hard. Here he thought dying and being resurrected would break those chemical dependencies, but it didn't do anything to soothe those psychological cravings that were driving him up the wall. The lack of alcohol was worse to start, but now it's the nicotine cravings that was making him want to peel and eat paint chips off the the damn wall.

He's spent the few days absolutely talking to no one and doing nothing. Anyone who attempted to approach him, Warden or Inmate alike, we're pointedly ignored. He spent his time just laying in bed, or once everyone else was asleep, pacing the halls where Inmates could actually go. Maybe once or twice in there he ate something. Showers? Not enough.

For a young man who always took pride in his appearance, this was a pretty severe cry for help. But Theo wouldn't respond to anyone anyway and besides, he figured no one here knew him so they didn't know how he actually acted. Why would they care?

Thay changes when the Commissary opens, although he waits until it looks like the area is mostly empty. Theo managed to earn a whole two tickets, and he wants to see what that will get him. The idea that maybe two tickets could even get him anything that might help was enough to get him out of bed. Theo looked really rough upon arrival, but somehow now, he's even more pale and gaunt.

The options... suck. What the fuck is a Roomba? Clothes? To wear where, exactly? Shit made out of foam? What was the point to that? He's growing increasingly agitated as he reads further down the list. Unicorn cigarettes felt like they were mocking him personally, really.

Anyone who approaches Theo, Wardens especially, will be turned to with a sudden desperation that surprises even him. He makes a move to grab you by the shoulder, but stops. Is he so far gone that he would just touch a stranger? This IS bad.]

HEY. Hey. Here. I have two tickets. That's it. C'mon. They're yours if you can just get me a pack of cigarettes. And any future tickets, I don't care, just plea-- [He stops, the intensity of his own voice catching up to him. He's also not a man who saysplease.] Just. Do this for me.

[omniavincit]

[ He doesn't know what it is. Maybe it's being paired with Rhys—who seems, at his worst, like a grotesque exaggeration of everything William hates, a slavering cartoon with dollar signs for eyes. Who keeps proposing harebrained schemes to turn a dimension-hopping spaceship into a rigged carnival game. Maybe it's the way Theo looks, dull-eyed and alone. The way he almost reaches for William—who steps back automatically but can still imagine Theo's touch, boney-fingered and desperate.

He looks from the machine to Theo—worse now than ever, less a person than a twitching, exposed nerve. Remembers promising he didn't want to see him broken, abject. He'd probably lick the floor if he thought there were tobacco flakes on it.

He doesn't approach the machine to read what's on offer, doesn't look at it again. He wants no part of this.

Posture tightening, he thrusts his tickets—there are only two, still in the envelope—at Theo. If Theo doesn't take them quickly enough, they'll flutter to the ground as William turns to walk away. ]

[sanctus_dei]

Hey--! [William definitely drops the envelope, because Theo wasn't expecting that reaction. Not that he was sure how anyone would have reacted, since he wasn't thinking very clearly. He can't help himself from dropping to his knees and grabbing the envelope, either, and is disappointed by what's inside. Four tickets wasn't enough for much of anything either.

What was he going to get if he even asked for what he wanted anyway? Candy cigarettes? A carton that was just empty and made of foam? A bottle of wine filled with fruit juice? Theo presumed Wardens could just get whatever they wanted, but he only deserved foam garbage dressed up to look like the real things.

Still kneeling on the tile floor, he shouts after William.] This isn't enough--!

[But he stops himself, because this whole idea was stupid and ridiculous. Theo's bullet wound was fixed up when he arrived, but he still felt like he was dying, still felt like the untamed magic was eating away his insides, still felt like his brain was caving in from the lack of his chemical dependencies.

Honestly, this whole Commissary farce really just made him feel like they were mocking him. His voice is quiet and distant again.]

Fuck it. Forget it. I'm not letting them win.

[lessandmorethanhuman]

Well, Alex wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he was still disappointed. Somehow, he'd hoped to be impressed. And in concept--he could get any food?--he was. In practice, the offerings were a bit disappointed.

The therapy bear just looked sad and amusing. And he was tempted to get it to troll people with. But until he figured out just what mechanism was used to determine ticket amounts, he kind of wanted to hold on to his own. Especially since clothes would be a good option. Stupid lack of powers also meant stupid lack of shapeshifting. Which was probably a good thing for everyone else.

So cue him going through the available menus, to try and memorize what the options are.

[saklas]

Volk, behind him, sighs through his nose.

"None of it's real anyway. Come on, it's a list, not 'War and Peace.'"

[lessandmorethanhuman]

"If it's not real, why are you so impatient?" Alex pointed out. It was looking like he'd definitely have to figure out how they earned tickets, and maybe bargain for some. None of the monthly stuff, on second thought, sounded useful. A nicer pillow and blankets would be good though.

[shiftedshape]

The tickets and this whole...machine are among the most novel elements of this new ship, and while Loki is game to try them out, he can't help but be a little insulted. Hasn't he earned his way back to normalcy? At least comparable to when he was an inmate, anyway.

What exactly did he do (or not do) to be worth only three tickets? The equivalent of, Loki discovers as he squints at the readout, a single article of clothing and it can't even be armor or magical? What is even the point, then? He can illusion up whatever else he wants!

He's grumbling about this to himself when his eyes alight on something at least somewhat interesting. He's not sure what a Roomba is (other than likely not a weapon) but he could always use more knives. Particularly Navarch-approved knives, although something about this machine does feel a bit...other. Not up to pearl-necklace standards, at the very least, and here he is feeling insulted again.

Well, it's not as if he has anything more worthwhile to buy. He'll get a knife, at least, yes? So he makes his selection, standing back as the machine spits out...another little robot?

"Ah." Loki hums. "A friend of William's."

A decidedly more threatening one, with the knife strapped to the top of it and all, but still. It scoots forward on whirring wheels, and Loki sighs, crouching down to retrieve the knife and let it loose to be with its other little friends, when it. Proceeds to spin. Rather fast, actually, and the knife nearly catches Loki's hand as it comes back around. Reflex has him springing backwards, clutching his hand like he'd actually been nicked instead of simply, again, kind of offended.

"Really?" Loki huffs.

The roomba doesn't respond.

basically not here

[saklas]

Volk, on the other side of the room, just takes out his communicator and starts filming.