arguing with computers [OPEN]

[sam]

Sam staggered into the mess hall, his eyes bloodshot with sleeplessness. To be honest, he was getting rather tired of being cooped up on the damned ship. His hair was unkempt, the fuzz on his chin did not denote a military man. Really, though, he was just a muzzy beat cop - he had enjoyed walking the streets and catching criminals until it became boring. Now he was part of something bigger, he didn't quite know why, and he should be satisfied with it. But he wasn't. At first he'd spent innumerable hours in the gym keeping in shape, ready for anything. But he's tired of that, and now he was allowing the low gravity to let him get soft. He was restless, didn't sleep well, hated the close walls around him, and he wanted to get off the ship for a little while, walk around. Anything, really, to break the monotony that had become his life.

"Samuel T. Viner, Tactical Officer. What would you like this morning, sir?" chirped the bio-synthesizer in a too-cheerful tone. Sam looked at it murderously for a long moment. He considered vaguely that if he said something to the fact of "human flesh" it would probably do it's best to recreate the exact taste and texture of his own muscles. There was something undeniably evil about that. "Sir?" the computerized voice - a rather pleasant female one that likely changed depending on who was ordering - repeated, rather impatiently for a machine.

"Coffee," Sam grunted, half-audibly. But nonetheless the computer gave a cheerful little chirp and a cup of coffee popped instantaneously out of the little window. Sam squinted to try and see what was beside there, but he could see nothing. The coffee had a vile, evil smell as it always did. No doubt the computer calculated the nutritional needs of each crew member at each meal and added nutrients and vitamins as needed. No doubt if he had ordered something more substantial for breakfast at any point during the voyage the coffee would not be so horrible.

Nonetheless, he took the mug, frowning slightly as he tested the temperature with one finger. Tepid at best. He was used to his coffee steaming, not besieged by half-hearted wisps of vapor. Nonetheless, he took a rather large gulp as he moved to the table in the furthest corner, shuddering automatically. Other members of the crew must be used to the taste of synthesized food, he reflected, but he would never be. He had been accustomed from an early age to prepare his own. Not quite archaically, of course, but on an early satellite colony one had to rely on coal or oil or whatever power there was in the environment - not chemicals and catalysts. Once, in his early childhood, he had cooked over a fire like only the most desperate of poor did in the large cities. He was not used to being cooped up for this long, although he did like to travel.

[Natalie Blake]

Natalie shivered as she made her way down the hall, her leather-encased arms crossed tightly across her chest in a futile attempt to warm up. For some reason she was freezing. It was probably the fact that she hadn't been sleeping properly in roughly a week. She wasn't entirely sure why she hadn't been sleeping well, however. Perhaps it was her new living conditions.

The Venia was fancy and full of amenities with a friendly crew--all of which was completely foreign to her. She was used to her family's saloon. It was nothing special, messy but comfortable. The people that passed through her polite, yes, but no one truly became close enough to be considered a friend, and before long they had to move on again anyway. Having so many other people around her, living with her... it was discomforting.

When she came to the mess hall, she shrugged and stepped inside, wandering over to the counter. "Natalie Fairholm, Engineer. What would you--?"

"Shut up and give me some freaking tea," she grumbled, cutting across the smooth, generated voice. She wasn't normally much of a tea drinker, but seeing as tea had more caffeine than coffee it would help her stay conscious through the day.

"Of course, miss."

Grabbing her tea once it had appeared, Natalie turned to consider her sitting options. There was only one other person in the room, sitting off in the far corner with a mug of his own. Not wanting to be overly rude and sit in the oposite corner, she decided to sit at a table not too far away from his. Then, if he wanted company--even though she might not be the best choice for a friendly chat--he could talk to her, and if not they could politely ignore one another.