Fic: Remainder 1/3
Feb. 16th, 2011 03:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bibliodragonTitle: Remainder 1/3
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bibliodragon
Rating: T
Spoilers: Daybreak
Word Count: 3021
Summary: Laura Roslin had given her all, and had reached the end of the line. What more could they possibly want from her? (Your humanity, obviously. What else is there?)
Author's Notes: This one has been ratteling around in my head since the finale way back in 2009. My promise to myself that I wouldn't post any more WIPs lasted as long as it took for this thing to take on a life on it's own, but I am hoping the time between updates won't take as long as my other one.
Between one heartbeat and the next, there was an eternity, suspended above water clear as glass and full of stars, constellations rippling to meet the sky expanding and contacting to one single point of light.
The voice, familiar only in the vaguest of senses, warm and distant, she would not leave her alone even when she turned away from the blood of the sunset flowing through the grass. It tickled against fingers that had not been there before, a blunt heat that came from far away. Echoes repeat against one another in a steady increasing rumble that remains a hairsbreadth away from coherence. Quicksilver danced before her eyes, inevitable vision blurred, and all to be heard was screaming.
Lungs burn for breath. Rising, coughing up water, once, twice, then falling back under. The water viscous, clinging to her skin as she surfaces again. Nails claw against sides slick and smooth, the back of her head cracking against, while her feet push outwards. The barrier is unyielding, confining her, while liquid chokes the life out of her.
The pain is a bright, white light behind her eyelids, flickered with red, ricocheting along nerve endings that howl their protest. It is through luck than design she finds the surface again, and she gasps at the freezing air with a desperate rattle. Ahead of her struggling brain, her legs have found themselves tucked underneath her, keeping her upright and her head above the water while she tries to remember how to breathe. Eyes closed, chin up, she breathes with growing confidence, growing stillness. The roar that pulses to the rhythm of her heartbeat begins to subside, giving way to other sounds of silence. Water lapping against her skin, the drip of liquid from her hair, the sigh of each breath, all echo around her.
There are questions. She can feel the shape of them, as if through padding, but something keeps her from prodding too hard. She focuses on the feel of the water, how it is rapidly cooling in the air, and how it is so utterly alien to her.
The ‘why’ is something for later.
She moves one hand across the surface, buoyed by the water. It falters momentarily as she lifts it to her move the hair that clings to her face. With each movement she expects pain, but there is only the dullest of twinges, twinges that quickly recede as she continues to flex each finger in wonder. She runs her hands through her hair with the same sense of disbelief. She keeps her eyes closed, she can feel ‘later’ bearing down on her, and the distant horror behind it, so she tries to hold onto the peace of sleep for a little while longer. It’s futile, she knows, but she tries anyway. It has been a running theme throughout her life.
There it is.
Laura Roslin opens her eyes. The light is harsh, and all too clear.
“No.” Her voice is strange to her ears, distorted by the echoes of the water. It can speak words louder than a weak whisper. “No, no no no!”
Only the steady thrum of the Basestar answers her.
No one comes.
She waits, until her hands are shaking and her teeth are chattering. She could catch her death of cold. She actually laughs at that, a harsh snort that echoes back mockingly.
She is grateful to be left alone, it means she is able to get out of the tub without worrying about meeting and greeting with composure after such an undignified scramble. Or what the reaction to the amount of water it sent over the pristine floor would be. She pictures a Centurion with a mop and bucket, and has to swallow down the urge to laugh again. If she does laugh she does not know when she would be able to stop.
She manages to distract herself with practicalities, and exploring the room provides some small distraction, the tub, water, the incessant lights in the walls, a ridiculously elegant lounge chair and a cupboard empty apart from a few white terrycloth robes that takes care of the first order of business. Tightening the belt around her waist, she concedes that it may not be a respectable power suit but it is an improvement over the birthday suit.
She’s going to start laughing again. Deep breaths. Deep, calming, peaceful breaths. Sitting on the chair, she listens to the sound of her breathing and tries to find solace in it.
It’s not enough to distract her, not enough to drown out the roar in her head. She cannot think straight, she can’t, oh Gods.
She doesn’t know what to do.
She doesn’t know how long she has been there, lying curled up on the chair and staring at nothing while she tries to push down the ice cold ball of horror sitting in her chest.
This time, she doesn’t even have anything left to burn.
She was done with all this, she thinks. (All this? You mean life?) She had given her all, and had reached the end of the line. She should be allowed to rest! (You know full well it never works like that.) What more could they possibly want from her? (Your humanity, obviously. What else is there?) And what could they possibly expect her to do now? (Lay about in a robe looking like a drowned rat, which you are doing admirably.)
How did she get here? (That’s a question you have to ask? I thought it was patently obvious.) Pushing her hair behind her ears as she sits upright, tugging her robe even tighter around her she crosses her arms to give the question the exact amount of careful consideration as if it had been asked by an insistent reporter refusing to take a patient death stare as a hint.
Before she had, before she -she can’t even think the word- before she had woken up, it had felt as if she were in a dream, one that was rapidly dissolving the harder she tried to grab a hold of it, until there was nothing left but a haze of unfocused images, exhaustion and such unbelievable pain. And happiness. Such joy she had not felt since the Twelve Colonies of Kobol had been destroyed (and long before that as well, let’s be honest now).
She shuts that door as soon as she opens it. This is where she is now, she needs to figure out what needs to be done, and do it. Navel gazing isn’t going to help. So the first thing she needs to do is open the physical door right in front of her.
The corridor is the same lights-and-redline- set up as all the other corridors on the Cylon baseship (you actually managed to use the word Cylon there, well done!) she had seen on her last trip there. Complete with the same lack of useful signposts of maps with ‘You Are Here’ written in nice big helpful letters. Standing in the doorway, she closes her eyes and tries to listen beyond the ever present hum of the ship. She doesn’t know what it is she is listening for, and all she can hear is the ship and the silence. She is not surprised it is quieter than it had been before, when it had jumped away before they had destroyed the Hub. Which leaves more questions, such as her lack of surprise and what she seems to know without consciously knowing, and the more important questions of how she could- how she could get on the ship when the Hub was long destroyed?
She is not going to get answers from a corridor. Taking a deep breath, she holds her head high as she walks, with the soft pad of her feet the only sound beyond the ambient sounds of the ship.
(What are you looking for, anyway? You know what is in here, and you know what is not. And you know just how utterly frakked you really are.)
She increases her pace, longing to hear some other sound, but she will make do with the sound of her footsteps, even though her bare feet are not nearly as noisy as the regular tap of her heels, and the floor of the Baseship lacking the friendly metal clang of Galactica.
“Hello?” It feels as if the interior of the ship swallows the sound of her voice. She pulls the robe tighter around her. “Anyone there?”
She almost jumps out of her skin when she is answered with the sound of metal screeching against metal. It had to have been waiting around the corner, she can’t remember Centurions ever being stealthy. They didn’t need to be.
It walks with the same, stiffed legged gait that is bone chillingly familiar to her, even though she had spent very little face to face time with them. They did have a way of making the strongest impression in the smallest amount of time.
At least she now has the racing of her heartbeat to drown out any other sounds, real or imagined, as it comes to rest several feet away, and she is suddenly aware of plastic cutting into her wrists, the wind tugging at her hair and the sound of those metal feet against mud and gravel. Then it is gone, and she is once again in the warmth of the ship. But the cold sinking of her stomach remains.
The chrome and red of it looks back at her, gleaming under the multiple lights of the walls and the pulse of the red of its eyes. The red paint across its torso is dull in comparison. It is impossibly still as it watches her, and it is this that drives home it is not a creature of nature. As if the fact that it was a seven foot tall robot were not enough for her.
“Hello.” Anything else approaching a full sentence stubbornly refuses to form in her mind. Automatically she smiles, the self-same smile that had stood her in such good stead against anything from political opponents to exhaustingly eager assistants, while she clutches her hands in front of her. The Centurion gives no reaction.
“I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my way.” In her experience, politeness never hurt. Even if such experiences had never run to asking for help from reticent robotic Cylons. The closest she had ever gotten had been having to deal with obstinate Admirals.
The thought hurts her more than any physical pain.
It feels as if her legs have been cut out from under her, and she puts her hand up to the wall. Underneath her fingertips there is the faintest of vibrations, as if from something far away.
The Centurion continues to stare. Perhaps there is the slightest of twitches of its head. Perhaps she is imagining things. Perhaps it has turned itself off to save power.
But it is not shooting at her, so she decides she is going to take that as a positive sign.
The best thing that has happened to her so far is not getting shot.
(You really are screwed.)
“Can I...is it alright if I walk around?” She looks away and then back again. She really should have learned Cylon Centurion etiquette last time she was here, she was just so busy, and those other Cylon models did have a way of monopolising her time. Them and Baltar (frakking Baltar!).
There aren’t going to be any humanoid models on the ship. She knows this from the same vague soup of memories that tell her that the Fleet doesn’t need her (and you don’t dare probe any further than that, do you?). She knows she is alone.
Practicalities. What she knows is that she is trapped on a Cylon Baseship, and while these particular Cylons were recently their allies, there is no getting away from how unquestionably unhuman these particular Cylons are.
Do they even need a breathable atmosphere? Old memories of old reports, irritatingly clearer than more recent ones, of the Cylon Raiders and their mix of flesh and machine. There is the fact she has not asphyxiated yet, the air fresh if sterile, so she can only assume life support systems are active.
If she stops breathing she’ll have to make sure to check on that.
The Centurion makes no move to detain her as she tentatively takes a few steps to the side of it, and then around it. It does not turn to follow her movements, it just continues to stand there, looming in its impressive way.
There is a door a few steps down, and she approaches it for something to do. Her hand hovers above the handle, as if she expects it to be burning hot, she then looks back over her shoulder, ready to snatch her hand back. All she can see is the same unmoving back of the Centurion. Her fingertips brush the handle with the lightest of touches, and when this brings about no response she boldly closes her grasp and turns it with a confident flick.
It’s a cupboard. An empty one.
Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, does not go in for histrionics, not in front of the press, the Quorum, and certainly not in front of Cylons, but she does slam the door shut with a fair amount of force behind it. She rests her forehead against it and there’s that overwhelming sense of loss again. It is not going to help matters.
The door opposite also leads to an empty cupboard. As she makes her way down the corridor, with each door opened with increasing venom, she comes across another cupboard containing one right shoe that doesn’t fit, a larger room completely bare, another cupboard, another cupboard and surprise, surprise, another cupboard, this one full of impractical looking electronics of varying designs. She closes the last door with care this time, and with both palms resting flat against it she closes her eyes and breathes.
They stay closed even at the echoing clunk announcing the movements of the Centurion as it turns around. It moves slowly, as if it finds the manoeuvre awkward in the narrow space. As if it were not perfectly capable of gracefully twisting round and running down its prey. It halts just out of reach and pushing back from the door and turning to face it she opens her eyes. For the first time she can see it is as confused and lost as she is.
“I don’t suppose you know where I should go?” She manages a small wry smile as she speaks.
The Centurion continues with the strong, silent act, yet as it continues to stare she gets the strong impression that it is thinking. She can almost hear the cogs of its brain whirling, before there is the sound of actual whirling as it’s joints begin to move in a step forward. It gives her enough warning to sidestep out of its way, then lumbers to the junction of hallways and turning its head stares down the right, and then to the left, and then it turns so its full body is face on staring down the left corridor.
For what must be an age she is staring at a Centurion staring down a corridor, until it looks over at her for a quick moment then back down the corridor again.
“Oh. Oh, of course.” She should have gotten its meaning sooner (of course you should have, it’s frakking obvious for Gods sake!), and she smiles at it as she approaches. It continues to stare impassively down the corridor, though she is sure she imagines there is the slightest to movements to its posture as she passes.
The corridor looks like all the other corridors. After a quick sideways look at the Centurion, who is very carefully not looking at her, she takes a step forward and reaches out to the nearest door handle. The door is starting to click open when she looks back at the Centurion, but it does not make any move to stop her. Its still not even looking at her.
This one is not a cupboard.
Her eyes are immediately drawn to the king-sized bed in the centre of the room, the mattress may be bare but suddenly she feels she would be able to fall asleep in the goo tub. Sitting on the edge, it is comfortable enough, and she lies down on it for just a moment, drawing her knees up as she rests on her side. The edges of her robe tickle against her feet as she moves, and her head is suddenly so heavy.
Opening eyes she did not know she had closed, there is no outward sign that any times has passed. She is greeted by the same ever present lights of the ship watching her from the walls. She hasn’t woken from the nightmare yet. Her hair has dried into sharp dark points, and she spends some time running her fingers through to turn it back to unfamiliar familiar curls. (However did those Threes, Sixes and Eights always manage to look so impeccable?)
A search of the room reveals first a cupboard (another of the frakking things) where she is able to find neatly folded linens and then a fully furnished bathroom (oh thank the Gods!). Its elegant cream and chrome (of course) fittings are a universe away from the purely practical she has been used to.
She’s awake now, more so than when she first woke up in this place. So she is not going to allow herself to be distracted (my Gods, is that a bath?). She needs to ignore the vague nagging at the back of her mind, get herself to the lounge that passed for a CIC in this ship, and get whoever or whatever is in charge now to turn around and put her back where she came from.
(I can tell you right now, that is not going to work. You are so utterly, utterly screwed. But why listen to me.)
Author:
bibliodragonRating: T
Spoilers: Daybreak
Word Count: 3021
Summary: Laura Roslin had given her all, and had reached the end of the line. What more could they possibly want from her? (Your humanity, obviously. What else is there?)
Author's Notes: This one has been ratteling around in my head since the finale way back in 2009. My promise to myself that I wouldn't post any more WIPs lasted as long as it took for this thing to take on a life on it's own, but I am hoping the time between updates won't take as long as my other one.
Between one heartbeat and the next, there was an eternity, suspended above water clear as glass and full of stars, constellations rippling to meet the sky expanding and contacting to one single point of light.
The voice, familiar only in the vaguest of senses, warm and distant, she would not leave her alone even when she turned away from the blood of the sunset flowing through the grass. It tickled against fingers that had not been there before, a blunt heat that came from far away. Echoes repeat against one another in a steady increasing rumble that remains a hairsbreadth away from coherence. Quicksilver danced before her eyes, inevitable vision blurred, and all to be heard was screaming.
Lungs burn for breath. Rising, coughing up water, once, twice, then falling back under. The water viscous, clinging to her skin as she surfaces again. Nails claw against sides slick and smooth, the back of her head cracking against, while her feet push outwards. The barrier is unyielding, confining her, while liquid chokes the life out of her.
The pain is a bright, white light behind her eyelids, flickered with red, ricocheting along nerve endings that howl their protest. It is through luck than design she finds the surface again, and she gasps at the freezing air with a desperate rattle. Ahead of her struggling brain, her legs have found themselves tucked underneath her, keeping her upright and her head above the water while she tries to remember how to breathe. Eyes closed, chin up, she breathes with growing confidence, growing stillness. The roar that pulses to the rhythm of her heartbeat begins to subside, giving way to other sounds of silence. Water lapping against her skin, the drip of liquid from her hair, the sigh of each breath, all echo around her.
There are questions. She can feel the shape of them, as if through padding, but something keeps her from prodding too hard. She focuses on the feel of the water, how it is rapidly cooling in the air, and how it is so utterly alien to her.
The ‘why’ is something for later.
She moves one hand across the surface, buoyed by the water. It falters momentarily as she lifts it to her move the hair that clings to her face. With each movement she expects pain, but there is only the dullest of twinges, twinges that quickly recede as she continues to flex each finger in wonder. She runs her hands through her hair with the same sense of disbelief. She keeps her eyes closed, she can feel ‘later’ bearing down on her, and the distant horror behind it, so she tries to hold onto the peace of sleep for a little while longer. It’s futile, she knows, but she tries anyway. It has been a running theme throughout her life.
There it is.
Laura Roslin opens her eyes. The light is harsh, and all too clear.
“No.” Her voice is strange to her ears, distorted by the echoes of the water. It can speak words louder than a weak whisper. “No, no no no!”
Only the steady thrum of the Basestar answers her.
No one comes.
She waits, until her hands are shaking and her teeth are chattering. She could catch her death of cold. She actually laughs at that, a harsh snort that echoes back mockingly.
She is grateful to be left alone, it means she is able to get out of the tub without worrying about meeting and greeting with composure after such an undignified scramble. Or what the reaction to the amount of water it sent over the pristine floor would be. She pictures a Centurion with a mop and bucket, and has to swallow down the urge to laugh again. If she does laugh she does not know when she would be able to stop.
She manages to distract herself with practicalities, and exploring the room provides some small distraction, the tub, water, the incessant lights in the walls, a ridiculously elegant lounge chair and a cupboard empty apart from a few white terrycloth robes that takes care of the first order of business. Tightening the belt around her waist, she concedes that it may not be a respectable power suit but it is an improvement over the birthday suit.
She’s going to start laughing again. Deep breaths. Deep, calming, peaceful breaths. Sitting on the chair, she listens to the sound of her breathing and tries to find solace in it.
It’s not enough to distract her, not enough to drown out the roar in her head. She cannot think straight, she can’t, oh Gods.
She doesn’t know what to do.
She doesn’t know how long she has been there, lying curled up on the chair and staring at nothing while she tries to push down the ice cold ball of horror sitting in her chest.
This time, she doesn’t even have anything left to burn.
She was done with all this, she thinks. (All this? You mean life?) She had given her all, and had reached the end of the line. She should be allowed to rest! (You know full well it never works like that.) What more could they possibly want from her? (Your humanity, obviously. What else is there?) And what could they possibly expect her to do now? (Lay about in a robe looking like a drowned rat, which you are doing admirably.)
How did she get here? (That’s a question you have to ask? I thought it was patently obvious.) Pushing her hair behind her ears as she sits upright, tugging her robe even tighter around her she crosses her arms to give the question the exact amount of careful consideration as if it had been asked by an insistent reporter refusing to take a patient death stare as a hint.
Before she had, before she -she can’t even think the word- before she had woken up, it had felt as if she were in a dream, one that was rapidly dissolving the harder she tried to grab a hold of it, until there was nothing left but a haze of unfocused images, exhaustion and such unbelievable pain. And happiness. Such joy she had not felt since the Twelve Colonies of Kobol had been destroyed (and long before that as well, let’s be honest now).
She shuts that door as soon as she opens it. This is where she is now, she needs to figure out what needs to be done, and do it. Navel gazing isn’t going to help. So the first thing she needs to do is open the physical door right in front of her.
The corridor is the same lights-and-redline- set up as all the other corridors on the Cylon baseship (you actually managed to use the word Cylon there, well done!) she had seen on her last trip there. Complete with the same lack of useful signposts of maps with ‘You Are Here’ written in nice big helpful letters. Standing in the doorway, she closes her eyes and tries to listen beyond the ever present hum of the ship. She doesn’t know what it is she is listening for, and all she can hear is the ship and the silence. She is not surprised it is quieter than it had been before, when it had jumped away before they had destroyed the Hub. Which leaves more questions, such as her lack of surprise and what she seems to know without consciously knowing, and the more important questions of how she could- how she could get on the ship when the Hub was long destroyed?
She is not going to get answers from a corridor. Taking a deep breath, she holds her head high as she walks, with the soft pad of her feet the only sound beyond the ambient sounds of the ship.
(What are you looking for, anyway? You know what is in here, and you know what is not. And you know just how utterly frakked you really are.)
She increases her pace, longing to hear some other sound, but she will make do with the sound of her footsteps, even though her bare feet are not nearly as noisy as the regular tap of her heels, and the floor of the Baseship lacking the friendly metal clang of Galactica.
“Hello?” It feels as if the interior of the ship swallows the sound of her voice. She pulls the robe tighter around her. “Anyone there?”
She almost jumps out of her skin when she is answered with the sound of metal screeching against metal. It had to have been waiting around the corner, she can’t remember Centurions ever being stealthy. They didn’t need to be.
It walks with the same, stiffed legged gait that is bone chillingly familiar to her, even though she had spent very little face to face time with them. They did have a way of making the strongest impression in the smallest amount of time.
At least she now has the racing of her heartbeat to drown out any other sounds, real or imagined, as it comes to rest several feet away, and she is suddenly aware of plastic cutting into her wrists, the wind tugging at her hair and the sound of those metal feet against mud and gravel. Then it is gone, and she is once again in the warmth of the ship. But the cold sinking of her stomach remains.
The chrome and red of it looks back at her, gleaming under the multiple lights of the walls and the pulse of the red of its eyes. The red paint across its torso is dull in comparison. It is impossibly still as it watches her, and it is this that drives home it is not a creature of nature. As if the fact that it was a seven foot tall robot were not enough for her.
“Hello.” Anything else approaching a full sentence stubbornly refuses to form in her mind. Automatically she smiles, the self-same smile that had stood her in such good stead against anything from political opponents to exhaustingly eager assistants, while she clutches her hands in front of her. The Centurion gives no reaction.
“I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my way.” In her experience, politeness never hurt. Even if such experiences had never run to asking for help from reticent robotic Cylons. The closest she had ever gotten had been having to deal with obstinate Admirals.
The thought hurts her more than any physical pain.
It feels as if her legs have been cut out from under her, and she puts her hand up to the wall. Underneath her fingertips there is the faintest of vibrations, as if from something far away.
The Centurion continues to stare. Perhaps there is the slightest of twitches of its head. Perhaps she is imagining things. Perhaps it has turned itself off to save power.
But it is not shooting at her, so she decides she is going to take that as a positive sign.
The best thing that has happened to her so far is not getting shot.
(You really are screwed.)
“Can I...is it alright if I walk around?” She looks away and then back again. She really should have learned Cylon Centurion etiquette last time she was here, she was just so busy, and those other Cylon models did have a way of monopolising her time. Them and Baltar (frakking Baltar!).
There aren’t going to be any humanoid models on the ship. She knows this from the same vague soup of memories that tell her that the Fleet doesn’t need her (and you don’t dare probe any further than that, do you?). She knows she is alone.
Practicalities. What she knows is that she is trapped on a Cylon Baseship, and while these particular Cylons were recently their allies, there is no getting away from how unquestionably unhuman these particular Cylons are.
Do they even need a breathable atmosphere? Old memories of old reports, irritatingly clearer than more recent ones, of the Cylon Raiders and their mix of flesh and machine. There is the fact she has not asphyxiated yet, the air fresh if sterile, so she can only assume life support systems are active.
If she stops breathing she’ll have to make sure to check on that.
The Centurion makes no move to detain her as she tentatively takes a few steps to the side of it, and then around it. It does not turn to follow her movements, it just continues to stand there, looming in its impressive way.
There is a door a few steps down, and she approaches it for something to do. Her hand hovers above the handle, as if she expects it to be burning hot, she then looks back over her shoulder, ready to snatch her hand back. All she can see is the same unmoving back of the Centurion. Her fingertips brush the handle with the lightest of touches, and when this brings about no response she boldly closes her grasp and turns it with a confident flick.
It’s a cupboard. An empty one.
Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, does not go in for histrionics, not in front of the press, the Quorum, and certainly not in front of Cylons, but she does slam the door shut with a fair amount of force behind it. She rests her forehead against it and there’s that overwhelming sense of loss again. It is not going to help matters.
The door opposite also leads to an empty cupboard. As she makes her way down the corridor, with each door opened with increasing venom, she comes across another cupboard containing one right shoe that doesn’t fit, a larger room completely bare, another cupboard, another cupboard and surprise, surprise, another cupboard, this one full of impractical looking electronics of varying designs. She closes the last door with care this time, and with both palms resting flat against it she closes her eyes and breathes.
They stay closed even at the echoing clunk announcing the movements of the Centurion as it turns around. It moves slowly, as if it finds the manoeuvre awkward in the narrow space. As if it were not perfectly capable of gracefully twisting round and running down its prey. It halts just out of reach and pushing back from the door and turning to face it she opens her eyes. For the first time she can see it is as confused and lost as she is.
“I don’t suppose you know where I should go?” She manages a small wry smile as she speaks.
The Centurion continues with the strong, silent act, yet as it continues to stare she gets the strong impression that it is thinking. She can almost hear the cogs of its brain whirling, before there is the sound of actual whirling as it’s joints begin to move in a step forward. It gives her enough warning to sidestep out of its way, then lumbers to the junction of hallways and turning its head stares down the right, and then to the left, and then it turns so its full body is face on staring down the left corridor.
For what must be an age she is staring at a Centurion staring down a corridor, until it looks over at her for a quick moment then back down the corridor again.
“Oh. Oh, of course.” She should have gotten its meaning sooner (of course you should have, it’s frakking obvious for Gods sake!), and she smiles at it as she approaches. It continues to stare impassively down the corridor, though she is sure she imagines there is the slightest to movements to its posture as she passes.
The corridor looks like all the other corridors. After a quick sideways look at the Centurion, who is very carefully not looking at her, she takes a step forward and reaches out to the nearest door handle. The door is starting to click open when she looks back at the Centurion, but it does not make any move to stop her. Its still not even looking at her.
This one is not a cupboard.
Her eyes are immediately drawn to the king-sized bed in the centre of the room, the mattress may be bare but suddenly she feels she would be able to fall asleep in the goo tub. Sitting on the edge, it is comfortable enough, and she lies down on it for just a moment, drawing her knees up as she rests on her side. The edges of her robe tickle against her feet as she moves, and her head is suddenly so heavy.
Opening eyes she did not know she had closed, there is no outward sign that any times has passed. She is greeted by the same ever present lights of the ship watching her from the walls. She hasn’t woken from the nightmare yet. Her hair has dried into sharp dark points, and she spends some time running her fingers through to turn it back to unfamiliar familiar curls. (However did those Threes, Sixes and Eights always manage to look so impeccable?)
A search of the room reveals first a cupboard (another of the frakking things) where she is able to find neatly folded linens and then a fully furnished bathroom (oh thank the Gods!). Its elegant cream and chrome (of course) fittings are a universe away from the purely practical she has been used to.
She’s awake now, more so than when she first woke up in this place. So she is not going to allow herself to be distracted (my Gods, is that a bath?). She needs to ignore the vague nagging at the back of her mind, get herself to the lounge that passed for a CIC in this ship, and get whoever or whatever is in charge now to turn around and put her back where she came from.
(I can tell you right now, that is not going to work. You are so utterly, utterly screwed. But why listen to me.)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 09:11 pm (UTC)Awesome - I'm excited to read more!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 10:11 pm (UTC)Simply wonderful.
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Date: 2011-02-18 04:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-17 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-17 05:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 04:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-14 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-14 02:13 pm (UTC)