[It isn't like Taylor thinks she's in a private space. The holodecks are communal, much like near everything else on the ship. But unless it's some sort of group gathering - like fight club - she'd think there'd be some unspoken thing of not interrupting someone else's shit. She could have something much bigger going on in here than a chair and a cello, right?
She doesn't recognise the girl, but there are things about her that are familiar anyway, because there's a part of Taylor that looks for the Academy in every girl she meets. It's more defence than looking for comfort in the familiar. The Academy was all fuck and fight, prove your worth every second of every day, and even with all her months on the Tranquility, Taylor still bristles to have someone looking like that and talking like that in her vicinity - spine straightening, chin lifting, eyes narrowed.]
It's a cello. [Mistaking one for a double-bass, she's dealt with that before, but what fucked up place did you have to be from to think a cello was a violin?] What do you think I'm doing with it? It's mine.
[Defensive, like she looks like someone that shouldn't be anywhere near a cello. She doesn't, really. Black hair badly cut with a razor blade, worn jeans with a knee missing, one shoulder ringed with a messy semi-circle of healing wounds (still struck through with black medical stitches), the other sporting a fresh tattoo, roses and skulls, self-done jailhouse style. She looks like a punk with an attitude problem and a temper, which she'd probably agree was a pretty accurate summation, if she knew what a punk was.]
sorry for the lateness!
She doesn't recognise the girl, but there are things about her that are familiar anyway, because there's a part of Taylor that looks for the Academy in every girl she meets. It's more defence than looking for comfort in the familiar. The Academy was all fuck and fight, prove your worth every second of every day, and even with all her months on the Tranquility, Taylor still bristles to have someone looking like that and talking like that in her vicinity - spine straightening, chin lifting, eyes narrowed.]
It's a cello. [Mistaking one for a double-bass, she's dealt with that before, but what fucked up place did you have to be from to think a cello was a violin?] What do you think I'm doing with it? It's mine.
[Defensive, like she looks like someone that shouldn't be anywhere near a cello. She doesn't, really. Black hair badly cut with a razor blade, worn jeans with a knee missing, one shoulder ringed with a messy semi-circle of healing wounds (still struck through with black medical stitches), the other sporting a fresh tattoo, roses and skulls, self-done jailhouse style. She looks like a punk with an attitude problem and a temper, which she'd probably agree was a pretty accurate summation, if she knew what a punk was.]