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

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.)

Edited 2022-02-02 03:34 (UTC)

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...

Well, this is new.

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

"Anything of interest in there?"

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?"

Given the number of people on board, she can assume this might be Grace. Maybe? Claire crosses her arms over her middle, attributing the not-so-great feeling to the machine and its contents.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," she apologizes with a quick smile. Skittish, this one. "I can't name a single thing I would want to bejazzle, least of all that. I was hoping for a can of Coca-Cola or something... normal."

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."

Edited 2022-02-02 12:39 (UTC)

"I don't think they do normal here," Grace replies, peering around her at the hallway of the honest-to-goodness spaceship they all happen to be standing in, as if that's a normal thing to do. "It has clothes and snacks, so... maybe you can still get your Coke? But I wouldn't be surprised if it's some kind of weird space-Coke for aliens, or something."

Another nervous smile. Slightly less nervous-- Claire seems a calm sort, and not yet perturbed by Grace's presence, so she's just gonna ride this wave until it crashes, and be thankful.

"Space-Coke," she echoes with a scrunch of her nose. She can't imagine it. Luckily, Claire has yet to experience Coke changing it's formula.

"Grace, isn't it?" Claire offers a more reassuring smile, stepping closer to the machine to inspect it. She's almost worried she'll shoot off like a startled deer.

Almost at the exact same time that Claire steps forward, Grace steps back, maintaining the amount of distance between them. It's a subtle thing, and seemingly very practiced. As if there's a danger in a possible point of contact.

"Claire?" A little smile flits over Grace's face. "Not a lot of ladies around, so..."

[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.

[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?]

"That's me," she confirms with a nod. "Too many men in this place, you mean."

Look, she's just being honest.

"I'm not complaining..." Not starting any battle-of-the-sexes nonsense before her first week is up would be a good goal. "Just... used to a little more balance, I guess? And less... you know. Conflict. In that guy way."

Grace does not elaborate. There is no way on earth, she assumes, Claire doesn't know what she means.

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.

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.

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!"

Her response actually brings a small chuckle from Alex, and a half-smirk. "Relax, I'm not going to eat you." Even if he could, he probably wouldn't without a good reason. "Seriously, find anything interesting for you to be that absorbed?"

Her stare slides back to the screen of the vending machine.

"Why would anyone want a Roomba with a knife taped to it?" Valid question.

Well, that hadn't been on the list of options he'd been given. Guessing she was a warden. Unless there was a third category besides 'wardens' and 'inmates'.

"Reprogram it and you'd have a form of security? Or you could just take the knife and then you have both a weapon and an appliance." That latter is what Alex would do.

That stare turns back to Alex, wide-eyed.

"Why... would you need a weapon?"

Grace briefly considers the distance between herself and the nearest exit.

Okay, that brought a full out chuckle-laugh, and Alex smiled. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you. I don't have a reason to, we're out in the open, and you're a warden. I'm smart enough to know that it would be a stupid-ass thing to do, whether I have a weapon or not." Trying to be reassuring...sort of.

"Having a weapon for self-defense would be very useful, just in case. This is, technically, a prison in some ways." Stated entirely reasonably.

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.

Ah. Well. Still, it raises further questions.

"Everyone seems so ready to be attacked all the time. I thought..." We all know what YOU thought, Grace, it was all over the network and a ton of people made fun of you for it. "Anyway. Nobody should be attacking anybody else, if we do our jobs right."

And she takes that seriously, at least.

"Maybe in a perfect world, nobody will. But you've gotta be prepared for the reality. And the practical. Some people react to trauma or triggers with violence. Some like it just for fun. Some it's used as a coping mechanism."

Alex looked her over, assessing and studying. Clinical, dispassionate but not dehumanizing. "Gotta name?" A pause. "I'm Alex."

"I'm Grace," and an awkward pause where an ordinary person would shake hands, but that's not a thing Grace does.

Here is about when he would feel it-- that nausea-inducing feeling of wrongness that rolls off of her in waves. The fight-or-flight instinct, bone-deep, screaming run as fast as you can, something is hunting you. She can't help it. She doesn't get a choice. But there it is.

"Coping is fine, but... we have to focus on what's productive, if we're going to get anyone back home." She looks perfectly ordinary. Nervous, too-thin on her frame, but ordinary. "And it's what we're here for, to get all of you back home."

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

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

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