What Ava happens to hate more than shopping is doing laundry. And while quick disposable fashion feels like a contribution to the worst parts of capitalism back home, well... there's no landfill here to bemoan. Maybe. Maybe eventually they will be overrun with the excess of their wasteful usage of mysteriously appearing resources. Maybe they'll just start tossing things into the fishless ocean.

Maybe maybe maybe...

Ava's staring at a pair of white linen pants to replace the ones she's stained because she's too stubborn to wear black, when somebody speaks. At her. The nerve. Except it's not the usual fashion question of whether or not the color suits her complexion, or will flatter her shape, the sort of thing Ava knows fuckall about. But about the captain. Which she also knows fuckall about. Ava snorts.

"I do everything possible to avoid it. So," Ava flips through the sizes, no idea which number is meant to correlate to her own. But at least it has a stretchy waistband.

"There's a cigar lounge you could probably steal one from."