Eleanor Lamb (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
just_a_chemical) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ten_fwd2014-06-13 07:24 pm
just_a_chemical) wrote in ten_fwd2014-06-13 07:24 pm
Entry tags:
Youth Style
Eleanor has never really cared about fashion. Her mother's utilitarian philosophies leave little room for vanity; and anyway, ten years into the fall of her city, all their clothes are looted from the apartments of the dead. Nightgowns aren't as fitted, so they don't get outgrown as quickly, and they weren't as valuable a target for looters in years past, so they're the entirety of her wardrobe at home.
But the ship is cooler and less humid than the Persephone Correctional Facility, and she'd wanted to blend in better, not walk around barefoot in a nightgown all the time; so she'd asked the replicator to give her something that young people here would wear.
Big mistake.
What it vomited forth is so bad, it has actually made her have an opinion on fashion. The trousers are unremarkable, but the sweater looks like--well, like sheep had become too expensive, too demanding of resources, that scientists had started engineering clothing out of fungus, grown to order. If she hadn't gotten it from a replicator, she'd be sure that was the case, but surely wool fibers aren't more demanding to replicate than fungus.
Is this how they make their young people enlist, by offering them the choice between uniforms or this? Were the designers aiming for a strange organic beauty? Because splicer tumors have a strange organic beauty. This is just ugly. It's warm, which is why she's still wearing it, but it's so, so ugly.
And to make it even worse, three different people in the hallways mistook her for some boy she's never met. Either that or Wesley is just the local word for terrible dresser.
One moody teenager, slouched at a table in Ten Forward with a glass of cola and half a grilled peanut butter and apple sandwich she's not eating.
[picture bubble wrap rendered in brownish yarn. Ugly, ugly sweater. Feel free to laugh.]
But the ship is cooler and less humid than the Persephone Correctional Facility, and she'd wanted to blend in better, not walk around barefoot in a nightgown all the time; so she'd asked the replicator to give her something that young people here would wear.
Big mistake.
What it vomited forth is so bad, it has actually made her have an opinion on fashion. The trousers are unremarkable, but the sweater looks like--well, like sheep had become too expensive, too demanding of resources, that scientists had started engineering clothing out of fungus, grown to order. If she hadn't gotten it from a replicator, she'd be sure that was the case, but surely wool fibers aren't more demanding to replicate than fungus.
Is this how they make their young people enlist, by offering them the choice between uniforms or this? Were the designers aiming for a strange organic beauty? Because splicer tumors have a strange organic beauty. This is just ugly. It's warm, which is why she's still wearing it, but it's so, so ugly.
And to make it even worse, three different people in the hallways mistook her for some boy she's never met. Either that or Wesley is just the local word for terrible dresser.
One moody teenager, slouched at a table in Ten Forward with a glass of cola and half a grilled peanut butter and apple sandwich she's not eating.
[picture bubble wrap rendered in brownish yarn. Ugly, ugly sweater. Feel free to laugh.]
no subject
"Okay," he says, leaning back. He looks thoughtful for a minute. "Naw, that works. Yeah, I think we can work with that. So a boilersuit, nothing too tight, no heels, I'm thinking in... blue. It'll match your eyes."
See? He can totally do this girl talk thing. Wouldn't his sister be proud?