'Minimalist, you KNOW it's treatment time.' Aaand more pounding at the door. Minimalist ignores the commotion outside, instead glancing at the distorted model on his desk. He'd rather jump off the ship than turn in this design for a New Zeruertzan landmark as it is! He averts his eyes from it as fast as he can. Like it or not, he made that model himself, and it burns him—it leers at him. <i>What now, proud architect?</i> Tasking him with 'fun' was an exercise in self-defeat. 'I can't do it.' Can't he defend his dignity in any way? He dithers in circles, growing all the more agitated. No, now he feels like he's being lassoed along. He once chased after his departed 'design representative' with all the same agitation, and the harder he held on, the harder that title threatened to tear him in two. Like his right leg, the responsibility stung relentlessly: a reminder of how short his life was, how every standstill was a step forever lost. He can't stop now. He roots around everywhere he can, dying for some flash of inspiration to save him. Sketches fly into the air, models tumble to the ground, and still... still no eureka moment. He claws at his head in annoyance, and then, he comes face to face with the very last thing in the room. A barrel of berry tomato wine. From Catch. His fellow Durin are all big drinkers—where they're concerned, booze and fun more or less go hand in hand. Still, he recalls his mentor languidly staring out the window at the dome from time to time, sitting with a glass at the table. He resists the idea, but the thought of trying is hard to stifle once it surfaces. He strains to pry the barrel open, then fills a glass. The scent of it actually stuns him for a moment. His reflection in it ripples with memory. 'If you're curious, you may as well try.' He did as his mentor said, accepting the bottle proffered and pouring the entire thing. The fierce bite of it made him dizzy, threatening to write off the rest of his workday. He scratched at the tiny rocks on his right leg as hard as he could, just hoping the pain would keep him sober still. But his mentor laughed at that. 'Enjoying life is our finest trait, and what we founded our homeland on. You're no exception, Stitch. You'll understand one day.' Hearing that voice from long ago wakes him back up. He's startled to find himself reclining carefree in his chair, glass in hand just like Catch and his mentor and all the other Durin, quietly gazing out the cabin window. He subconsciously moves to scratch at his leg's stones, but his hand freezes. He has no throbbing pain beneath the stones. He didn't feel it when he eyed the wine barrel. He hasn't felt it for a long, long time now. 'Gavial, finally! He's been hiding in his studio forever!' 'Alright, alley-oop—' The door bursts open, and Gavial's fist stops just a finger's width from his nose. 'Gavial? Perfect timing. Take me to the Medical Department—it's time for my treatment. What are you all staring at?' Gavial gawks at the model rec facilities on the table behind him, a simple and surefire crowd-pleaser. Also, the bare and empty glass. It all clicks in her head, and a smile creeps onto her face. 'Gavial! Why are you hitting me? I was NOT drinking before my appointment! I poured it all back!'