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[sub]Teacher's Lounge[/sub]
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[center][color=7A0D87][b]"GODDAMMIT!"[/b][/color] For those in the teacher's lounge who had been more concerned with what was going on outside, panicking or approaching something close to that, they might not have even noticed the school's resident troublemaking leather punk until her voice boomed out and was punctuated by a loud, sudden thud of a bang. Elliot's fist slammed into the front of the vending machine, leaving a dent right in the middle of the blown-up-image-for-detail Pepsi can. Given the situation, anger was certainly to be expected, it was a natural part of the process; those who were afraid sometimes used anger as a coping mechanism and if anyone at Stockbridge seemed the type to turn to anger at the drop of a hat it was Elliot. 

[color=7A0D87][b]"Fuckin' thing ate my dollar!"[/b][/color] Elliot gave another hit to the soda machine, clapping it on the side before giving it a shake, as if that would solve the problem of a machine taking a dollar but giving nothing in exchange. Even the little dongle that turned a dollar into quarters wasn't working which was a travesty. What kind of game was this school running? The teacher's lounge had a better vending machine than the cafeteria in Elliot's estimation but what good was it when it didn't work? Without much regard for the current state of the room, Elliot dug into the back pocket of her pants. The rustling of something plastic was almost as loud as the banging of the vending machine. After a moment, Elliot's already annoyed face let out a sigh as a squashed half triangle - the best way to cut a sandwich - of a bologna sandwich clung to its plastic wrapping, meat and mayo looking like they had been victims of a murder while the bread was crumbly and falling apart. 

Still, Elliot removed the sandwich from its prison and took a bite. It might've been ugly, but it was still food and dammit, she was hungry. Hungry enough to have eaten half of it in the auditorium with every intention to finish it there in the first place. Of course, when the menu changed for some students, what choice did Elliot have but to stash it in her pocket and leave? To think she was supposed to have a meeting with the principal - she had wanted permission to have her band play prom or at least open for whatever shit disc jockey they were sure to get, but in all likelihood the meeting was going to be how despite her achievements academically, her demerits socially would keep her from achieving anything other than increased notoriety. No prom gig, no valedictorian speech so she could say 'fuck' in front of parents and teachers with no real consequence, and in all likelihood no walking at graduation. Put into that perspective, maybe being in the lounge wasn't so bad. They'd probably get the vending machine open and then she'd be on easy street. 

Of course she was hearing what some of the other students were saying, but what did she have to contribute? They were panicking, freaking out, trying to act cool and calm when they were neither. She wondered if any had reached the acceptance stage of things. Likely not. It was a bit too fresh in the mind, seeing Mr. Roberts get attacked more gruesomely than the pit at a punk show. 

Elliot had finished half her sandwich by the time she found the teacher's fridge and a bit of optimism returned to her eyes. With a bit of miracle whip smudged at the left corner of her mouth, she threw open the fridge and pumped the air. [color=7A0D87][b]"Score. Shame it's diet."[/b][/color] The familiar 'tsssh' of a can of pop being opened followed as Elliot closed the fridge and took a healthy swig of Diet Coke. For the benefit of the room she held her belch. Wouldn't want everyone to think she was gross or something. [color=7A0D87][b]"Right then, here you go."[/b][/color]

Elliot removed the tab from the can of soda and tossed it onto the table that was presently holding supplies the others had tossed on top of before approaching it herself, Diet Coke in hand. 

[color=7A0D87][b]"You know why they call it a Phillips drive? Guy named John Thompson couldn't get people interested in his crosshead design, sold the design to Henry Phillips who refined it and got General Motors on board. Now it's damn near industry standard. Just calling it a Phillips drive is one thing, but I don't think any one really cares about the finer nuances of screw design."[/b][/color] Elliot set the Diet Coke on the table. [color=7A0D87][b]"What size is it? Is it sheet metal? Probably, it's a table, not a machine. What's her name is on the right track, we could use a coin. We could also use a soda tab. The machine ate my dollar, so if someone gives me a dime, I can show you how to unscrew the shit out of something with a coin and a cola tab."[/b][/color]

[color=7A0D87][b]"I'll take a penny but don't be a cheapass."[/b][/color][/center]