030 ━ [ visual ] / [ location: somewhere in speares ].

[tiberiuskirk.livejournal.com]

For once, Kirk wasn't hiding out as his usual haunts, which included that one bar in Central and of course, the bridge of his ship. As the tablet feed showed, he was out somewhere that looked deceptively like the middle of nowhere; a large, empty patch of land currently uninhabited by any local or foreign structures. The only signs of civilization it had could be found in the stretch of road that was displayed in the background, off a little ways from the rock he was currently perched on.

Had he walked out there? Maybe. Probably. ...yes.

Why, though? Well, the answer to that question lied with the two other people in Taxon who knew the significance of the day, but there was no telling if Bones and Spock would talk if asked, and as for Kirk himself... Like hell he was going to own up to being depressed on his birthday and talk about what had happened in the Neutral Zone twenty-seven years ago on the day of his birth. He wasn't even going to admit that it was his birthday. For all intents and purposes, he just stepped out and got away to have a drink by himself.

A drink of a very illegal in the Federation bright blue alcoholic beverage known as Romulan Ale. Can't beat the good stuff.

It's mid-swig, straight from the bottle, that the blinking red light on the tablet caught his attention. Apparently he hadn't tossed the thing far enough away. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Of fucking course."

If the bottle weren't still mostly full and thus valuable to him, he would've thrown it at the tablet.

[ ooc | forward-dated to early morning on the fourth, as i go back to work tomorrow and wanted to get a tagging headstart on this. ♥ ]

[holo] [Sanctuary] people just get uglier and I have no sense of time

[selfmadman]

He's been feeling different in the morning—limbs looser, the wadded ball of whatever it is in his chest less noticeable. A dozen minor aches greet him when he wakes, forgotten muscles whimpering in protest. He credits the swimming. He likes it, too, the sensation of weightlessness and the solidity the world takes on after he pulls himself from the pool.

“Morning, Megan.”

“Good morning, Mr. Draper.” She stands up behind Miss Blankenship's desk—it's quite a contrast, her youth, a smile that hasn't learned to be anything but inviting, above his secretary's clutter of antique knickknacks.

“Coffee, please. Tell Miss Olson I want her in my office in an hour, and see if we can push Sugarberry back to this afternoon.” He waits for her nod, then heads into his office.

And freezes.

The room he's entered is not his office. It's not an office. It's all brushed metal, has the sleek look of an examining room or the nose of a rocket.

Don turns back to the door, the space the door should occupy, finds only the uninterrupted curve of metal.

Automatically he fishes in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, noticing as he does so the gleam at his wrist. He lights up, inhales deeply and streams smoke from the side of his mouth.

He teases back his sleeve, frowning at the band of metal that's been—he gives his wrist a shake—fused to his skin.

“Hello?” Don doesn't sound timid or frightened; he sounds like a man who's locked himself out of his house.

When no answer comes, he steps down off the platform. He walks the room slowly, pausing to ash his cigarette, to press his fingers to the wall.

“Is this...” He fumbles for an explanation that makes any amount of sense, but he hasn't been drinking and he's never had a dream this pristine. “What is this?”