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Author Topic: All Work and No Play Does...What Again?  (Read 251 times)

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Marakai2.0

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All Work and No Play Does...What Again?
« on: August 08, 2017, 04:26:28 pm »
[Open to Haviah Inquisitors if they want....]

Thirty-eight hours solid since he'd stepped into that office. Thirty-eight hours and then some since he'd last slept - he could scarcely remember actually dragging his hungover ass out of bed to come to work.

Normally, he was unstoppable at work, and in the field. A well oiled machine behind the desk, and a cool and level head behind a gun, utterly efficient at both...he was good at his job. He loved his job.

Today, and yesterday however, that statement began to look very untrue.

His office, normally kept impeccably clean by his hands and his hands only, was chaos. On three of his four walls, there were no less than seven identical maps of Haviah tacked up. Each one was marked differently, though all seven had the same circle on it in the same place, 'Cinnamon Rook' scrawled hastily above each.

Notes were scribbled almost illegibly, hurriedly, different ones on each map. One denoted a series of numbers: 18-15-15-11. This was followed at first by simple, flowing script.

'R.O.O.K.' Their missing Pilots name, obviously, but also the corresponding letters that those numbers would place in the alphabet. Underneath this was several combinations of the numbers, as if he were searching for some hidden meaning.

181. 515. 11.
18. 151. 511.
18. 151. 51. 1.

Each combination marked with a note beside it - possible location coordinates, and whatnot. Each one more and more illegible as his steel trap of a mind slowly began to lose its grip on the waking world.

His desk was cluttered with notes much the same, many pages full on both sides. His computer was on, and had been since he'd first arrived here, many communication links opened and left that way - one could even see the Pilot Chat and Blog, both left open as he monitored everything for some sort of clue.

Piled atop and around the small wastebasket he kept were coffee cups from Manolin, sandwich wrappers from various restaurants, energy drink cans, proof that he'd been trying his best to continue on here, sequestered into his office. Lying there on the floor, oddly enough, was a tape measure, though the purpose of it would be a mystery to most.

His large full-wall window was covered in even more notes, drawn in dry erase marker. This, he could be seen standing in front of, back to the room. Tall, broad in the shoulders. Head, shaved completely bald on one side, the other long and straight, though now a mess after so long. Glaring and green on the shaved side was a tattoo of a dragons eye, dominating every inch of skin it could.

He wasn't wearing his jacket - his black leather friend was slung carelessly over his office chair, leaving him in a blank and skin tight black t-shirt, leaving his tattooed arms bare to the world. Plain blue denim jeans completed the outfit, along with a pair of nondescript black shoes.

From behind, he was a sight to see. When he turned around though, one could perceive just how badly he'd been handling himself. His dark green eyes, sometimes so hard and cold, others so soft and expressionate one could get lost in them, were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles - one, however, was completely bruised, a 'parting gift' from a co-worker of his. His face, a sight that often won him much attention in public, appeared haggard with dark stubble growing across his cheeks and chin.

Karuzo Seiteki was tired.

Tired from this case, but not of it. A pilot was missing - his maps reminded him of this, as illegible as his tired and cramped hand had so lovingly noted.

Tired of everything else, though everything else was what had driven him to plow into his work as he had. Tired of thinking on what he'd been a part of, what he had been made a part of.

Needless to say, it hadn't taken him long to figure out he'd been used, and the fact that he had been had pissed him off. That, coupled with the constant throbbing of his eye, was more than enough to drive him away from 'life' and into 'work.'

He hasn't been out of his office in more than a day and a half, other than to meet someone delivering food or coffee to him or to use the bathroom. Always, he was in front of the computer or, when it ceased offering answers, scribbling his own analyzed thoughts of the case on bits of paper or the walls.

Anything, but think of how angry, how hurt he'd been.

After a moment of gazing off into space, his tired brain finally on the very edge of sleep, he stumbled toward his office chair. His computer. His foot hit the tape measure, and it went bouncing across the floor to bang against the wall - he didn't even notice.

He sat, heavily, made dizzy as his chair began to swivel completely against his wishes. Groping hands pawed at his desk to stop his spinning, and even as he stopped he felt as if he hasn't, inertia very nearly toppling him. When he finally, safely righted himself, he stared into the computer screen.

And stared. Looking at the chat, only half attentive to the scrolling text. Re-reading the communication channel for the case, the words not making any sense anymore. Nothing made sense.

Nothing. Made. Sense.

With a furious grunt, he swept the scattered items from his desk, his keyboard flying, papers fluttering toward his closed door. The wireless keyboard bounced once, twice, stopped halfway to the door. Didn't appear broken, but he could care less.

His head slammed down onto his newly cleaned desk, his hair falling to cover his face.

"....Damn you...." he mumbled, a headache slowly spreading from that point of contact. He remained that way for several minutes, staring into the woodgrain of his desk. He didn't even notice falling asleep.

 

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