[indent]The clinic of the Prydwen was quiet for this time of day. That wasn’t unusual. Most people were too busy now to swing through unless they were frightfully ill or injured. Today was quiet, which was a relief for the Senior Scribe who had been on duty. 

The senior scribe was one that most knew to avoid if it could be helped. She wasn’t particularly stern or obtuse - just [i]strange[/i] and with an eerie nature to her. Her movements slow and precise and conversation whispery and seldom. While it was common to express that people had a hard shell and soft centre, for this senior scribe the opposite was the truth. She was outwardly soft, but nursing something hard and bitter inside. Like a peach, easily bruised.

Her eyes could be off putting too. At first, they had the power to draw you in. The ocean blue hue was resplendent in its quality - like a jewel both rare and valuable. But the redness in the corners upon closer inspection, and the smoky glaze told that the woman had simply seen [i]too much[/i]. She didn’t look at you, she looked right to the core of you, and shrugged off the truth of you that she uncovered with an indifferent sigh.

Today, as was the case on any other day, she wasn't sleeping, she was simply basking. Laid atop the hard solid steel of an examination table in the corner of the clinic. Knees drawn and pointed at the ceiling, a fan blowing white noise in her direction. Long and unkempt auburn hair was spread around her like a pillow. The natural light drawing attention to the few strands of silver that framed her face — only visible in the light, and retreating back to the warmth of the flames when it was dark. 

It had been approximately thirty-two minutes of shut eye. She would occasionally drift off, her mind creating banal situations that always had just enough of a strangeness about them to remind her it was a dream and not reality. Like Elder Maxson approaching her with a serving of processed cheese slapped across one cheek, his voice humming bizarre words in her ear “I don’t wear the cheese, the cheese wears me…” 

Whatever the scenario, they were always just surreal enough to draw her out of slumber. If it wasn't curious imagery, it was someone clattering apparatus - the harsh sound bursting the elusive bubble of sleep..

It was at exactly forty-five minutes that she felt the familiar cold, wet nose pressed against the hand she hung over the table. Regular as clockwork. Dr. Harper Kinsley slowly opened her eyes, letting the light from above spill in through the skylight, bright blue freckled with clouds, the slot of a window provided warmth too.

She glanced down at her happy looking dog, Chowder. A medium sized creature, his coat coarse in a mixture of browns and blues - a dark patch over his eye. He was as unique a dog as any, and still at eleven years old, as mischievous as a puppy. He dropped a stolen boot for her, nudging it closer with his nose in her direction.

Kinsley sighed and groaned; “Chowder… I can’t keep doing this…” she spoke at last - her voice laced with exhaustion and exasperation. She rubbed at her eyes. “Where’d you get this thing from?” She asked him accusingly, sitting up on the table. Chowder simply stared up, panting - his mouth so wide and the corners so high that he appeared to be grinning at her. 

As her legs swung over the table, he briefly closed his mouth and whimpered ever so quietly, placing a paw on her thigh, pushing his claws against her. 

“Alright, alright. You can get your feed when we take this back…” she said, patting him three times on his head. He panted happily again, skittering off in the direction of the door, waiting there for her to catch up. “Got stuff to plan for you know… Missions. Shouldn’t be playing treasure hunt with you, Chowder.”

[hr]

“Dr. Kinsley!” Came the cheerfully chirpy voice of a young initiate, the soles of his shoes squeaked against the alloy flooring as he hopped, stepped, and jumped to greet the Dr on her way around. She blinked in surprise, taken aback by the abundant bounciness in the boys heels. Like a coiled spring, taunting her with his youth and motion. Her blue eyes were drawn to the pad in his hands. She vaguely recalled sending the youngster off with a mathematical problem some days ago. 

“Initiate…” she croaked out quietly from behind clenched teeth. She released the grip of her thumb and forefinger so that the boot fell on the ground beside her with a clattering thud. Chowder parked himself beside it, panting happily, a wagging tail dusting the floor beneath him.

“I solved it!” He said, triumphantly, chest puffing out with pride as he handed the paper over, waiting in anticipation for her praise.

Kinsley’s eyes barely skimmed the page when she shook her head, and gave a small yawn. “No. Your answer is incorrect, actually” she said with a sigh and a tired shrug, working her jaw over the words while her fingers reached for her own pen that was spiked through her ponytail. 

“The limit as x approaches zero... Of the natural log of one minus x… Then minus the sign of x over one… Minus the cosine squared of x…” she muttered under her breath, the softness of her voice little more than a gentle whisper. For a moment, there was an uptick at the corner of her mouth, the ghost of an impressed smile. Her wide, doe eyes narrowed as she worked through an internal rolodex of equations, pressing the nib of the pen to her lower lip - her brow furrowed. 

The initiate exhaled with unmistakable disappointment, deflating like the very last, sad balloon at a child’s party.

She tilted the pad to his direction, and began drawing over his notes, the red ink creating lines over the paper that drowned out the grey pencil of his own. “When evaluating the limit as x approaches zero, it should look like this on the graph…” Kinsley’s slender fingers turned over the pen, an easy flick of her wrist to demonstrate her calculations - meanwhile, the Initiate seemed more disheartened with every level of her explanation. 

“From the left your graph should appear to be reaching positive infinity, whereas on the right it is approaching negative infinity.” His eyes glazed over, watching Kinsley’s mouth make the shapes and speak the words he didn’t understand. Her words not crossing beyond that, so whatever she was trying to teach him, fell on deaf ears. His cheeks grew a hot pink in colour, and his hands fidgeted. 

“The limit can not exist unless the graph is approaching the same point from both sides. Maybe try a table of values next time to solve this.” Kinsley handed the pad back to the boy, looking him up and down slowly - trying to remember his name. “Peter, isn’t it?” She asked, raising a brow. The boy may have been wrong, but he showed some promise, and she wasn’t entirely without respect for those who chose a scholars life.

“Paul, actually,” he said, nibbling on his lower lip. Last time she’d called him Percy, so this was... almost an improvement.

“Keep at it, anyway. Next time you won’t be so far wrong,” she added awkwardly in an attempt to reassure or encourage the boy. She gave another shrug of her shoulders again, turning her foot on the floor as she stooped to pick the boot up again. “Anyway. I have things to do, and so do you.”

[hr] 

Kinsley was busy watching Chowder make his way through the Prydwen, that she just about missed a gentleman walking in her direction. An older gentleman, perhaps only two or three years older than her. A fellow Scribe, only one of those technologically adept ones. 

He was absolutely conventionally attractive. A nice haircut, a well groomed beard. In novels, tall, dark, and handsome was an attractive trope - and frequently used for heroes and anti-heroes alike. Women swooned over such idealised fantasies. And so, when he stopped Kinsley in her tracks, her reaction was a quirked brow, and to lean out of the space - ([i]out of her own space[/i]), that he had intruded. 

“Dr. Kinsley,” he said, with a warm and welcoming smile. A perfectly straight and gleaming smile. His hands were held out in a friendly gesture. Kinsley took a step back, and Chowder took a seat again since his master was momentarily occupied.

She eyed him up and down suspiciously, “yes…?” she asked unimpressively, attempting to side step past him - a drool covered boot in one hand, and her pen in the other. She was grateful she was not empty handed. 

He eyed her up and down too, sure — she was shabby, her hair was… less than groomed. But she was by no means ugly. She had good teeth too, nice cheekbones, decent enough lips that he would have liked to see in a smile, but her aloof character was the real draw... 

“You know, I’ve seen you around so often, yet we’ve never really had a conversation…” His voice came out smooth, flirtatious. Overly so, in fact. “There is so much more to the Prydwen—“

“[i]Prud-when[/i],” Kinsley interrupted by raising a finger in front of his face, when he moved his mouth as if to laugh, she remained serious - and his smile quickly dropped. “Contrary to what just about everyone else here says. It’s [i]Prud-when[/i]. A Welsh word,” she blinked, nose twitching. “If you were to study up on your Arthurian history a little more, then you’d know that. We have to preserve cultures, you know. We can’t just make things up willy nilly…”

He scoffed, unsure of how to add to that, or what could be added. All he could do was step aside for the eccentric doctor to make her way past - in the direction she was keen to go. He’d simply been a blockade and nothing more. 

[hr]

Eventually Chowder led her to where he wanted her to be. The Mess Hall. Unlike her quiet clinic, it was as crowded and loud as it always was, and instead of working up the energy to speak to anyone, she gave a judgemental glance to Chowder. “The onus is on you to find the owner of this, dog.” Kinsley slipped down to her knees to hold the boot in front of his nose. As if he knew exactly what she wanted, the heeler took a good, healthy sniff. After that, he signalled his presence with a bark and trotted off, his head and tail held high in a smug fashion while he weaved around the crew that he passed. For the most part, he was a recognisable figure - and the crew knew him well. 

Kinsley rolled her eyes as she watched him find his victim, stopping at a table, alerting a young woman to his presence — nudging her with his nose in the side, his big brown eyes inviting, and his smile even more so. [/indent]