[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/iyi7Tpd.png[/img][/center][indent][indent][indent][color=gray]Sawyer hunched over the desk in their quarters, pince-nez glasses clinging to dear life on the end of their nose. On top of the flat surface sat their hololight pad. They waved their hand over it, flipping forward a few images. They then referenced something written on actual paper in a—what was it called—leather-bound book. They hated touching it. It felt disgusting under their digits. Every time they pressed down on the pages to flatten them, they gagged a bit. They swallowed down the bile in the back of their throat as they went back to hololight pad. They compared it to a glass-tech board that they’d hung on the wall. It was pretty much the equivalent of a space-age markerboard except it took their scribbles and turned it into legible words. It also translated it, if that needed to happen as well. They pulled out their pulsing multi-light pen and tapped the end until they got to a fluorescent purple. They stood and drew a line between two articles. 

[color=#ae35e4]“Well, Barty, touching that paper was worth it. I finally found a solid correlation between an old Imperial Law and the current ban on certain ‘fair trade’ music.”[/color] The robot cat, despite being made entirely of metal, paused in the licking of her stomach to eye Sawyer. She let out a pixelated yowl before returning to bathing her non-existent fur. The lawyer didn’t care, though. They instead turned back to the desk, took a seat again, and gingerly closed the book. It shut with a trembling grunt.  [color=#ae35e4]“This thing is as old as Imperial rhetoric. One hard sneeze and it’ll lose its shit.”[/color] They chuckled at their joke, the scraping of Bartholomew’s metal tongue on her metal body filled the room.

It was about that time the ship shifted hard, and Sawyer fell face-first into their desk. The hololight pad shot off in a different direction, pinging against the wall and sliding across the floor. The glass-tech board was fine, having weathered Sawyer banging it across every archway to get it in their quarters. Bartholomew engaged her magnetic feet to stay in place like real cats did—Sawyer assumed. Most everything could be salvaged and rearranged, even the book. It slid off the table before thudding heavily on the ground. It was entirely intact. Sawyer exhaled, leaning down to grab it. Another twist of the ship, and it collided with Sawyer’s face, erupting into thousands of sheets of loose leaf paper—covering them in that horrid sensation. 

Sawyer held back the vomit in their throat but knew it would be only a matter of time until their last dinner released itself from one of their stomachs. So, they bolted into the hallway, pages of the book coming after them like a trail of dust. They ran a hand over their shoulders and down their front, their long tail whipping to and fro, shaking the papers around with even more ferocity. They gritted their sharp teeth and oriented themselves toward the helm of the Guernica. Bartholomew trailed after them, having used her magnetic feet to scale the walls and follow them on the ceiling. 

They burst into the helm of the ship, not knowing if their pilot was there or not but not caring. If they were yelling at no one, they could just repeat it later. For now, they had to let something out.  [color=#ae35e4]“I swear to the space dust and the moons abound that you cannot pilot this damn rust bucket.”[/color] They threw their hands up, their perfectly tailored gold and black suit catching the light and scattering it around in a prismatic fashion. Why they were wearing that to research a case would baffle anyone. They looked more like they were about to attend a business meeting or a very corporate ball.  [color=#ae35e4]“Are you driving it with your ass?”[/color]
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[right][sup][color=white]𝙏𝘼𝙂(𝙎)[/color] [color=gray][@TGM] (If Ellisia is there)[/color]
[color=white]𝙇𝙊𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉[/color] [color=gray]The Helm[/color][/sup][/right]