hey there passengers, it's me, ya commissary

[dealwiththe]

Passengers: Everyone (get in here)
Location: Ye Olde Commissary
Date: March 1-7
Summary: Put tickets in, get knives, foam wives, and novelty t-shirts out (sorry I couldn't think of another rhyme)
Warnings: Will add as needed.


[ Ooooooooooooooh.... ]

Comments

[smugreport]

[ For maybe the first time in months, Rhys was actually excited for something. Namely, a chance to replenish his stockpile of shirts after William (rudely) took 90% of those he arrived here with as a cruel and unusual style of punishment. It'll be nice to not have to stand in the laundry room half naked every other day for an hour while his one article of upper body clothing is washed and dried.

So when he inserts 3 tickets and instead of some classy button down he's instead given this, he's perplexed. Machine error? They happen all the time with normal vending machines, and this is just a more advanced version of one. It's when he tries again and gets the same result that he starts getting pissed. ]

Uhhh Hello? Is this-

[ He starts looking around for a maintenance number or something ]

I thing this machine is broken? It ate six of my tickets! Hey-!

[ He kicks at it a couple times ]

These aren't what I asked for!

[saklas]

What did you ask for?

[It's not more funny than it is interesting. This thing has failure cases even when you're not trying to make it fail?

Good.]

[smugreport]

Shirts but like, normal shirts. Dress shirts, like this one.

[ He plucks at the fabric of the one he's currently wearing. ]

Since somebody took all my other ones.

[saklas]

What, who?

Why.

[Volk points his thumb over his shoulder. Back there, he has shirts? Some are dressy.]

I've got uh -

...You might not actually like what I have, but you can have two or three if you do? Or you could probably, like, turn those inside-out.

[smugreport]

William. Because sending me to solitary for the most boring week of my life wasn't enough for him I guess.

[ He still thinks about leaf-Rhys, how he may still have his shirts if they'd gone with that plan. Not that boking him on the head warranted this level of punishment regardless! Messing with his stuff feels beyond uncool.

Rhys gives Volk a quick, flick of the eyes once over before making a pained, grimacing expression.]

Nnnnno, that's okay. Your stuff will probably all be crop tops on me anyways.

[ And your fashion is terrible and everything smells like old cigarettes. ]

[saklas]

I like what I wear. You don't have to.

If everyone gives you one you'd end up with a normal number, at least.

Let me talk to William.

[Not joking. Volk actually cracks his knuckles.

If no wardens take him up on his game by the 7th, he'll see if he can buy Rhys something.]

shows up a week late with bedhead

[grindset]

Try kicking it again,

[is impossibly dry.]

If you break it, it might suddenly start to work.

[Viktor's expression reflects his voice perfectly: calm because he's already tired, maybe a little grouchy (or ready to be), navigating the kind of day that feels long before it's begun. All the same, he comes sloping toward the Commissary and its impatient customer, both prepared to handle whatever this is and determined not to just stare at Rhys's arm the whole time.]

What's the issue?

[He hasn't seen the shirt yet.]

only 4 days!

[smugreport]

I've built enough computers to know that sometimes a good smack will actually fix them, thanks.

[ Grumbled partially to himself, partially to this unhelpful interloper. Even if kicking it doesn't help it makes him feel better,

Rhys gives a full bodied sigh, tilting his head around and back before he faces Viktor. ]

It's broken. I asked it for a dress shirt twice and it gave me the same t-shirt both times.

an entire year

[grindset]

Hm. [One neat, clipped sound, like popping a can of interest.] Odd.

[Similar instincts: he steps up to the machine and glances over the panel, then around its corner, up the side, as if it will have become any less inscrutable since the last time he looked.]

Maybe it knows your shirts were confiscated.

[Ha ha. Really, though, maybe it does. And so does he.]

lemon it's sunday

[smugreport]

[ His head jerks up, snapping back ant forth between the machine and Viktor. ]

You think- you think William did this?

[ Ooooh my god. Oh my god! Of course. Of course Solitary wasn't enough for him, taking Rhys's PERSONAL(!!) PROPERTY(!!!) wasn't enough for him! He had to sabotage whatever work Rhys put into earning back what was taken from him too. ]

sunday 2023

[grindset]

[Predictably, this examination isn't yielding anything, so Viktor turns, and now Rhys suddenly looks like he's considering freaking out.

He performs a pitiless facial shrug in response. He performs this pitiless facial shrug while looking at Rhys's arm, which probably gives the impression he's thinking hey, not bad about it. (He isn't.) (At the moment.)]

No, I don't believe so. He'd have said something if he did. [His eyes are up here, V—there you go.] He did, however, say that you should speak to him if you want your own shirts returned.

well im the late one now

[smugreport]

[ If you think his arms is cool ask him about the eye! And the 4 feet of wires in his skull! (Please please ask please he loves to talk about it-)

The immediate spark of anger is snuffed before it turns into any kind of a fire, and Rhys's shoulders sag visibly. ]

I don't think asking nicely is going to get my stuff back, he has it out for me.

[ No he doesn't, and a part of Rhys knows this too. ]

Still doesn't explain the malfunction though, it's like I'm pressing the key for cherry soda and each time it's spitting out lime.

[ He makes a face. Lime soda...bleh. ]

But it should be more complex than that right? The items aren't pre-made, they have to be digistructed or something.

🤝

[grindset]

[While Rhys talks, Viktor leans his crutch alongside the panel, slips two fingers past the cuff of his glove, and from there produces one commissary ticket, which he then holds up at shoulder level.]

Want to see if it gives me one? That is, one of, eh... what... did it give you? The wrong colour, or...

[Where's that shirt, he wants to see—

(He definitely plans on asking. About digistruction too, and eventually circling back about William. His to-do list is ever expanding.)]

[smugreport]

If you're cool with wasting three tickets, sure.

[ Why not. In the name of troubleshooting it's the best option right now. ]

I asked for a dress shirt, navy blue with a woven hexagon pattern and custom fit, Then same thing but in black with red accents. Both times it gave me

[ He holds up one T-shirt in full so "I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS" is perfectly legible, the other tucked under his arm ]

Both times.

[grindset]

[From their initial interested frown, Viktor's eyebrows make an incredible vertical leap, and seem to pull open the rest of his face along with them, mouth and all— nope, he cuts that off immediately, bows his head,

waits,

deliberately clears his throat,

and then re-engages the conversation.]

That, [is simultaneously the greatest and worst shirt he has ever seen,] is, [nothing short of heroic effort keeping his face under control, with mixed results,] definitely not what you just described.

[Nailed it.]

[smugreport]

Yeah, no kidding.

[ He crumples up the second shirt to stuff it under his arm along with the first. ]

This thing probably has maintenance panel somewhere...

[ He starts stalking around the machine again, feeling for a some kind of cover. ]

[grindset]

[As soon as Rhys turns away, Viktor allows his expression to relax and silently blows a breath through his cheeks. That shirt—

All right, banishing it from his system. Composure. Professionalism.]

I'm— [Ahem. Trying that again, it came out weirdly high:] I'll just use one ticket. Just to see. Maybe it's stuck on...

[He gestures vaguely in Rhys's direction—you know, that—and then leans his crutch next to the panel while he figures out how to engage with it.]

[smugreport]

It might just be an issue with the clothes options, but gotta start somewhere right?

[ God, Rhys misses his connection to the echonet more with each passing day. If his eye and arm were in working order, he could just scan the thing and check its diagnostics.

Actually...It's probably futile, he knows it, but why the hell not? He boots up his eye, and it glows a faint amber as he attempts to scan the commissary machine. C'mon...give him something to work with. ]

[grindset]

Exactly.

[Starting small: just one ticket. In you go, friend. Now, to select—

But first his attention is drawn by the fresh lack of movement in his peripheral vision. He holds, hand hovering above the panel, and slowly leans back to improve on what he can see past the corner of the machine.

He could ask, but that would interrupt— whatever Rhys is doing, engaging with his implants— that is what Rhys is doing, isn't it? Should he interrupt? Probably. Is he? No. He's still but for his eyes, darting looks, down and up again.]

[smugreport]

[ Like any other time Rhys has tried to scan things on this ship, all that he gets back is a big flashing yellow alert in his HUD reminding him that he ~is not permitted~

He blinks the alert away, shaking his head as if to dislodge the useless feedback before checking back on Viktor. ]

Any luck?

[grindset]

[The check is met with a rapid look away, like he's been caught, even though it makes no sense to do that because watching inmates is literally his job. Luck, right, the thing. He mashes the button.

While the machine processes, he throws another glance—just standing here awkwardly, don't mind him—and when it's ready, he slides the door open, and,]

Uh.

[Behold, the birth of chicken bag.]

Well, it's... not a shirt...

[smugreport]

It...sure isn't. Is that supposed to be a purse?

[ Though it's not like Viktor asked for a shirt, or anything else specific. ]

So I guess that rules out the randomizer malfunctioning. Maybe we can just unplug it and let it reset? That's a classic.

[grindset]

Mm, perhaps. I didn't see any power source... but... it could be tucked in behind the machine.

[He says this while turning the bag over in his hands. Rubber. Why this. Going for the zipper, cautiously looking inside, he confirms:]

It's a purse.

[Caution evaporates; he sticks a hand in, feels around. Feels like synthetic lining—oh, a little pocket—]

What, eh... what was that you were doing a moment ago? When you were looking.

[smugreport]

[ Rhys leans around the side of the machine again in an attempt to get a look at the back. It's not flush with the wall so there's a chance that there's an outlet there somewhere, but too dark to tell with out a light.

Thankfully Rhys has a built in one, and he switches on his palm light to get a better look. ]

When I was- Oh! Looking. I was trying to get its specs with my echo-eye, but it hasn't worked properly since I got here.

[ Called over his shoulder as he crouches closer to the ground and attempts to wedge his robo-hand behind the machine. ]

[grindset]

[Should he be discouraging Rhys from potentially jamming his whole arm in the mystery space behind a huge appliance of unknown origin? Maybe. Probably.]

Deliberate tampering, most likely. The Admiralty seems to have some method of neutralizing potentially problematic abilities, and I believe your... echo-eye, [cool name,] falls within that category.

[He zips up the chicken bag.]

Shame. I'd be interested to see how it functions under normal circumstances.