puppydogeyes: (ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ | ᴄʜɪɴᴇsᴇ ᴄʜᴏɴɢǫɪɴɢ ᴅᴏɢ)
36411- ᴛʏᴋᴇ × ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ᴋᴇᴇ ([personal profile] puppydogeyes) wrote in [community profile] ataraxionlogs2015-03-09 10:00 pm

( OPEN )

CHARACTERS: Taylor "Tyke" Kee ([personal profile] puppydogeyes) & open
WARNINGS: Swearing, discussion of alcoholism
SUMMARY: A series of late night scenes
NOTES: Post starters cover various occasions over March 8-15. Feel free to interrupt scenes at whatever point you prefer!


[They still call it paperwork for ease, the stacks of data tablets co-opted from the libraries and used to temporarily store reports. They need to be organised, transferred to proper storage, but at the moment they make up an ever-growing mountain on the corner desk that used to be Miles Edgeworth's workspace.

Taylor shouldn't be here so late. She's not on shift, and she'll always be the first to press her team to keep to their hours. Not push themselves too hard, burn themselves out. But rest evades her, has done for weeks, and so she's back down here, dogs sprawled on the couch and in the corners of the office, sleeping while she shuffles through report after report. She feels like she's looking for something, some answer in amongst all the standard patrols, a feeling that weighs like an ache in her gut, makes her eyes skitter over the text.

She has to take breaks, occasionally, step away and pace the length of the room as she waits for her mind to allow focus again. Each time takes a little longer, til eventually she wears herself down into a numbness that lets her settle on the couch, curled behind two dogs, and fall into a light sleep.]


[There's always an eerie calm around the pools, no matter the time. Not enough people on board the ship to ever fill one, to have the echoing space bubble over with clamour and the splash of water. Taylor finds the water soothing, always has, but it's never been quite right. She's been feeling that more acutely recently, swimming lengths and laps until she has to pull herself out, sit on the side until she feels steady enough to walk back to her room.

It's better than the times she lets herself float, drift in the middle of the pool and stare at the high metal of the ceiling, imagine blue skies and sunshine, the crash of waves around her and salt on her lips.

But she's been away too long, and even closing her eyes doesn't make the images clearer. Those nights she still doesn't get any sleep when she heads back to her room, like it's just out of reach, blurred like fading memories of the ocean.]


[Floor four, at one point, had the least amount of people on it. It was something she'd become aware of, in her patrols, in her observation of numbers on the network. She's taken advantage of it several times, hides certain food items in the kitchens, used the holodeck when she wanted to play her cello. It's still underpopulated, so she comes to do the same. But somewhere on the way to the holodecks she takes a turn, finds herself in the bar, instead.

She's seen so many empty that it's hard to ever imagine there were enough people to use them as they were designed, to fill all the strangely shaped sofas, the dance floors, man the bar. Hopping over it takes less than a thought, fetching one of the (still plentiful) bottles of space booze. This one's clear, tastes like vodka; she knows, she's had it before. But it's been a long, long time since she had a drink, and thoughtless momentum rolls into inertia.

She sits, at the bar, and watches the bottle and the glass like she's waiting for something - something to stop her, or something to give her that last nudge to do it.]

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