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.]
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Not that she's been doing much here. Just reading... alone.
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"You're pretty lanky, though, so you might have to adjust the sizing some, but here," she says, handing the shirt over. "It might be a little short, but I didn't want it horribly baggy."
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"I don't like really baggy clothes," she says. "I don't like very tight clothes either, but when I was younger they gave me loose clothing so I'd have room to grow. I'd like to feel that I'm done growing."
The other girls her age are a foot taller still than she is. Six feet is more than enough for her.
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And doesn't look like any sort of animal was sick.
Whether it's stylish or flattering or helps her blend in here or not, she doesn't know, but she does know that it doesn't make her feel eye-catchingly hideous.
And that's a step in the right direction.
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And gives that nice sacrificial-Lamb look. The people's messiah.
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Depending on the time of day and the weather, the blue outside the windows at home has varying amounts of green in it. It changes. Things don't seem to, here.
Maybe it's different when they're moving.
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Oh, man. Don't get her started on hair color and style choices, Eleanor, or you won't hear the end of it for a long time. "You could have hair any color in nature. And some that aren't, even."
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Not that she's about to volunteer that information.
"I can't do anything permanent," she says. "In case I get returned. I don't want my mother to know."
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She wants variety. She wants to try new things. It's just overwhelming, when you have no experience at all.
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At least, being from 1968, it wouldn't be so strange for her to end up looking like a space hippie. Not that the style would suit her, or that she'd know what a hippie is to begin with.
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