Title: Five surprisingly mundane things found in all of Destiny's private quarters
Author: Shenandoah Risu
Content Flags: none
Characters: Tamara Johansen, Andrea Palmer, Jeremy ranklin, Eli Wallace, Matthew Scott
Word Count: 636
Summary: Just what it says on the lid.
Author's Notes: Written for the LJ Comm sg1_five_things.
Disclaimer: I don't own SGU. I wouldn't know what to do with it. Now, Young... Young I'd know what to do with. ;-)
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Five surprisingly mundane things found in all of Destiny's private quarters
Wastebaskets. They even look like those on Earth – made out of metal or wire, tapering towards the floor, a solid bottom, an unobtrusive tasteful geometric design on the outside. TJ picks one up to get it closer to where Young is tucked in, so she can change his bandages more easily. There is a slightly raised metal ring in the floor – probably to keep it from sliding around during a turbulent ride, she thinks. So when she's finished she puts it back where she found it and nearly jumps when the basket neatly zaps the soiled bandages with something like an electrical arc, and it's empty again. "Way to go," she thinks. "At least the garbage truck still comes around."
Bedding. There are drawers underneath each bed and they are full of vacuum packed pillows, sheets and comforters that expand to full size in seconds when you open the metallic looking packaging material. The fabric is clearly synthetic – nothing natural could have lasted this long, but it still feels nice and smooth, like silk and satin. They put double layers on for everyone who's wounded, expecting to ruin the first set. But then Dr. Palmer discovers that as soon as you get up from the bed a bright light begins to glow from underneath, there is an audible vibration and a buzz, and the bed goes dark again. She sniffs the air. "It's Snuggle," she gasps in utter disbelief.
Towels. They hang out of slits in the walls in the washrooms, like giant tongues. When you tug on them, they spool out a little more. Franklin gives one a good yank and ends up with 20 feet of soft absorbent chamois, still attached to the wall. "What the-" he begins, and as soon as he lets go the towel reels back into the wall all the way, there is a bright flash of light in the gap and then the towel reappears, extending down a more reasonable three feet. Franklin scratches his head, then spits on the towel which dutifully retracts into the wall, zaps itself and comes right back out. It keeps Franklin entertained for over half an hour.
Docking stations. They are just flat metallic plates, but whatever Eli sets down on them makes something cool happen. His laptop is instantly connected to a giant view screen and a hovering keyboard slides out of a drawer. "Cool," he says. "What else can you do?" As if in response a small circular depression lights up – for the Kinos, he realizes later. And there is a series of buttons and sliders depicted on a smooth surface that lets you set and record the lighting and audio environment of each room. Eli uses every chance he gets to futz with the controls. And sometimes he lets his room just be a room.
Furniture. Matthew Scott isn't sure why he is surprised at this. The Ancients looked pretty similar to them, from what he knew, so it follows that their physical needs would fall along the same lines as well. But there are pleasant fringe benefits: even though almost all the furniture appears to be metal it is in fact quite malleable in places – chair bottoms and benches mold themselves to his butt, a desk adjusts to his height. And when he investigates the trunk-like structure at the foot of his bed he discovers it is exactly that – and full of neatly vacuum-packed clothing: shorts, tanks, socks. It's all gray and one-size-fits-all, but like the furniture it stretches or shrinks to fit. "Fair enough," he mutters. It could have been much worse – tacky prints or patterns or day-glow colors. As far as underwear goes the Ancients apparently were a pretty tame bunch.