Title: Five Moments on the Satellite of Love
Fandom: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Rating: G
Length: 500 (five 100-word drabbles)
Content Notes: The general suckage that comes with being marooned on a satellite by a pair of mad scientists.

Summary: Life isn't awesome for Joel Robinson, but this is it now, for better or worse. He deals with it pretty well, all things considered.


---

"Crow, buddy, you know there's not enough space for you here," Joel mumbled, rolling over and coming nose-to-beak with the robot.

"But I had a nightmare," Crow whined.

Joel rubbed the sleep from his eyes, staring at Crow through the half-dark. Stars glinted outside the porthole, throwing odd, oblong shadows across the room. "You don't sleep," Joel reminded him.

Crow rolled his eyes. "You don't have to sleep to have a nightmare," he muttered.

Joel opened his mouth, then glanced around the tiny bedroom on his satellite prison.

"Yeah, okay," Joel conceded, and Crow grinned, snuggling close beneath the sheets.



---

Joel stared out the porthole, eyes on the tiny planet below.

Earth looked like a marble from here, prefect and pristine, a swirl of green and blue and white. Clouds were gathered across North America while Europe and what he could see of Africa looked pretty clear. The sun was setting over Asia and tiny pinpricks of light were beginning to flicker to life, setting the dark side of the world aglow.

"What'cha looking at?" Tom asked, pausing to hover at Joel's shoulder.

Joel shrugged. "Nothing," he said, before pushing away from the window and following Tom into the mess.



---

Joel rung out his jumpsuit, the faded material soft between his fingers. Water dripped down his arms, speckling his bare feet with soap suds.

He hated laundry day, hated it nearly as much as the constant stream of bad movies. He hated squeezing himself into the tiny bathroom, bucket of water perched on the toilet while he stood half naked in the shower and rinsed his clothes, one by one.

It was monotonous and tedious and it took hours for everything to dry.

At least he didn't have any maroon-mates with functional bowels, Joel thought. Thank heavens for small miracles.



---

The food was subpar at best, all freeze-dried and stacked in large boxes in the cargo hold.

The Mads had been considerate enough to give him some variety, at least. There was a decent selection of breakfast, lunch, and dinner options, though if he was honest they all tasted about the same.

Joel stared down into his bowl of goo. The packet had been labeled 'cornflakes'.

It had been a while, but from what he remembered cornflakes weren't supposed to be grey.

What he wouldn't give for a slice of pizza right about now.

Sighing, Joel pushed his bowl away.



---

"You write with your left hand?" Tom asked, hovering over Joel's shoulder.

"Uh, yeah," Joel said, pen making neat, tiny marks across the page.

"What are you, some kind of deviant?" Crow asked, popping up on the other side of the table.

"Yeah, I heard teachers used to slap their students' knuckles if they wrote left-handed," Tom added.

"Maybe a hundred years ago," Joel said. "But I think left-handed discrimination is pretty well dead."

Tom hummed. "Of course, of course," he said, before turning to Crow and dropping his voice. "Bring me the ruler."

Crow dashed away and Joel sighed.



---

End.