Ensign Bryce Tagren-Quinn - Wakey, Wakey, Regrets A-Bakey
Bryce Tagren-Quinn
((Temporary Personal Quarters, Deck 5, USS Gorkon))
Sprawled out and lying prone on the couch with an arm dangling off the edge, a disheveled heap began to stir. Slowly, the back of a hand with knuckles resting on the floor started to lift as a pained, pathetic groan escaped past dry lips.
Water. Need… water. Precious water.
Sitting up, slowly and carefully, the form leaned forward with his face cradled in his palms, elbows digging into his thighs. And he just sat there, hearing and feeling the irritating hum of the ship and cursing whatever possessed him to wade at the deeper end of the pool only hours before. What the hell had he been thinking?
That was the problem. He hadn’t been thinking.
Peeling away gingerly from the cocoon after a few moments, the disheveled form started to remember his name and where he was as he scanned the room, blinking sight back to his eyes. Details were painful to conjure, but he staggered to his feet and shuffled slowly towards the replicator, nearly tripping on a pile of clothes in the short but arduous journey.
A plush blazer, slacks, black and white spiffy shoes. The ensemble of an older man trying to be hip but failing miserably. Brief confusion set in his features prompting him to glance down and… feeling thankful that his snoring roommate hadn’t been around.
Ah hell.
Motivation set in, bringing him closer to the replicator – his hands resting on either side of it, his head bowed.
Tagren-Quinn: Swea—
Too much.
He cleared his throat, trying to salivate a bit to moisten his mouth so he could actually speak before trying again, a bit hoarsely.
Tagren-Quinn: Sweat pants, t-shirt…
He recited all his morning after wardrobe necessities in clipped but adequate detail. The replicator materialized the basic clothes to life and, as Bry pulled them on, he nearly fell onto the floor. He caught himself against the wall and soldiered through it, before running a hand through his tousled hair requesting a glass of water and a fast-acting hangover treatment so he could actually live.
It was just then, the chime sounded. He took a sip of the water and moved over to the door.
Namura: Doctor Tagren-Quinn, it's Doctor Namura. In the land of the living, are we?
And there she was, looking all composed and energized like they hadn’t been partying like college students, dressed sharply in a pair of jeans and t-shirt. Green eyes bright, dark hair shiny and perfectly arranged.
Tagren-Quinn: I… ::wincing:: I don’t know quite yet.
A hand went to his head as he took another sip of water, desperately waiting for his cure to start taking effect.
Tagren-Quinn: Come on in.
He took a step back, granting her space to walk past him.
Wait--
Namura: Feels a little strange to be the best dressed one in Purgatory. ::Slipping a hand into her pocket, her other fingers drummed around her mug.:: You disappeared quickly last night. When Loxley did too, I was afraid we'd lost you both to the underworld of Daliius.
The details were starting to come back to him, his labored voyage to the restrooms and actually finding them. After relieving himself, things got a little blurry from there. He did… he remembered stepping out and attempting to find his way back to the group, to only find a wall and eventually succumbing to things, slumping to the floor. From there…
Geez, they must have been worried about him. And Loxley?
Tagren-Quinn: I should really apologize for that. I hope you can forgive me, I had every intention of returning. Things just… happened.
Namura: That depends. Did you find what you were looking for? ::She hesitated for a split second, a gentle frown catching before she shifted her weight to the back foot.:: I'm not disturbing… you, am I? I can come back later, or I can meet you in Sickbay. We're on shore leave, there's really no need to...
He gave her a curious look, though there was still pain behind his eyes as he was still trying to process things.
Tagren-Quinn: I’m fine, everything’s—fine.
He glanced around at the state of the room, to the clothes on the floor and the pillows from the couch strewn near it, along with blankets scrunched up at the right end. The couch looked slept in, which it had been. A wave of embarrassment washed over him. He walked over to the clothes and dumped them quickly into the recycler and glanced over to his colleague, his boss apologetically. Behind him was the star portal, showcasing twinkling pieces of the station.
Namura: Response
Tagren-Quinn: I’m sorry for the mess. This— this isn’t…
Why did he feel like he needed to apologize or affirm things? He reasoned that he wanted to ensure his pristine public image, like it wasn’t already tarnished by his actions the night before and the condition of his quarters. Without missing a beat, Bry continued on before giving Namura a chance to respond, wanting to ensure that he could control the situation and save face.
Tagren-Quinn: What I mean is, I found the restrooms but I think I passed out right after. I think-- ::flashes of a gold dress came to mind, a pair of dark eyes:: --Gexena found me. She helped me back to—to the ship.
A faraway look settled on his face, his eyes resting on the floor as he sorted through the jumbled bits of memories coming back to him. There was a conversation, words around being lonely or being alone or not wanting to be alone, of links or Imzadis, of apologies and other things that had festered for years. It had poured out, regurgitated like vomit.
She—she had actually helped him back to the docks.
Why had she done that and not simply found his colleagues? He pondered these things like an answer would manifest from the dark abyss.
Namura: Response
Tagren-Quinn: I’m sorry for disappearing like that though. I put you all in a terrible position. How are you doing? And Loxley? Meidra?
Namura: Response
Ensign Bryce Tagren-Quinn, M.D.
Medical Officer
USS Gorkon (NCC-82293)
T238909AT0