Children of Gods: Chapter Eighteen
Title: Children of Gods
Authors: olga_theodora and miabicicletta
Summary: “What the frak is that?” Hot Dog asks.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series), T+ (Chapter 18)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Slightly late, because we are failbots (Numbers One and Two, thank you very much). As always, we love and adore you, readers! Thanks for putting up with us! We promise this isn't going anywhere! We're just slow now that it is summer.
---
The Story So Far...
---
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MONSTERS IN THE DARKNESS
...analysis was done in the form of interviews with (when possible): firsthand interviews with Victors; with family members such as spouses, siblings, parents and children; with close friends, extended family members, neighbors, coworkers. In the case of deceased Victors, second hand accounts were supplemented by journals, recorded interviews or articles. In the cases of a small group of Victors, autobiographies were taken into consideration (although some “autobiographical” accounts are considered stronger than others, as some are alleged to have been ghostwritten).
After more than two years of research, it is the finding of this panel that in 94% of cases, champions of the Colonial Games suffered a period of intense psychological remorse akin to or clinically diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Winning Tributes almost universally speak of the guilt that weighs on them once they have been reintroduced to society, where, in spite of the unspeakable acts they have committed, they are heralded as heroes. This kind of cognitive dissonance -- understanding that they have killed, injured, maimed their fellow competitors, but knowing they had no choice but to do so, and that in surviving, they are valued for it -- is the crux of the matter. This particular brand of survivors guilt has been observed in some form in nearly every single winning competitor of the Colonial Games.
Also true of nearly every Tribute: In the months and years following their tournament, a majority of champions entered a downward spiral of depression that was often exacerbated by drug or alcohol dependence. A full 75% of Tributes were dead before they reached the age of 30, either by their own hand (42%) or by some combination of substance abuse, violence, or self-destructive behavior.
The scars inflicted by the Cylon regime of the United Era are visible in nearly every facet of Colonial society. We are a nation that has only just begun the long and difficult path to healing and remembrance. But if ever there was a group of individuals more exemplary of the specific and haunting effects of Cavil’s administration, it is the men and women -- some only boys and girls -- whose lives were forever altered by the horrors unleashed upon them in the Arena.
From Findings of the Commission on United Era War Crimes, Part XIV: Compulsory Participation in the “Colonial Games”
---
There is nothing to do but continue up the steep path, berating himself for his fit of temper. The air is still, adding to the heat of the day; the sky a brilliant and unchecked blue. Other than an irate monkey, Lee meets no one on the path.
Below the peak of the island is a narrow stone bridge leading the path to the peak; a path of such narrow steepness that he suddenly has to re-evaluate every other path on the four islands. He climbs half-way up the path before sitting down, effectively blocking the way to all other comers.
He waits. For what- or for whom- he is not quite sure.
---
Ellen Tigh’s (or, Kara, imagines, what once was Ellen Tigh) death is no less gruesome than her husband’s. As she crawls from the small side tunnel, leaning heavily on the slimy rock, she sees Sam scream in rage and grief. The knot of silver and steel launches from his hands and sinks into the flesh below the harpy’s throat.
Between the resounding screams that echo through the cave, and the clouds of golden feathers that are kicked up in the harpy’s maddened throes, Kara feels a defined sense of surreality. Her first, oddly, since the Games began. As she studies Sam Anders’ fine, strong form, just yards away, a genetic mutant protests its last moments of life in vain.
The gods, Kara decides, must be crazy.
“Sam,” she croaks, and limps her way over to him. The shock of sunlight Sam stands in makes her blink furiously at first, and for a moment the sunspots that cloud her vision obscure the empty, haunted look in his eyes.
“I killed her.” Sam says, eyes fixed on the harpy’s corpse.
“Yeah. You did,” Kara says, wiping the sweat from her eyes. “Tough break.”
“Did you see...” his voice trails off, hand limply gesturing toward the mass of flesh and bone that remains of Saul Tigh.
“No,” Kara admits. “But I heard enough to be glad that I didn’t.”
He does not seem to register the comment.
“Sam,” she says. Then, more forcefully,“Sam!”
When he doesn’t respond, she smacks him across the face, watching his eyes widen and come back into focus.
“Don’t lose it on me, okay Longshot? Till we find Aurora and Apollo again, you’re my only hope.”
“Kara...”
When Kara looks up, he’s so close that she can smell the sweat on his skin. Can see the tears in his sea-green shirt that fits so snugly across his broad shoulders. Sam reaches down, kissing her. The slide of his lips on hers is soft at first, then daring. His tongue slips over her bottom lip and into her mouth, gentle but insistent. She would be lying if she denied her knees buckling just a (tiny) bit, but she would deny it all the same, even as her hands crept up, lighting on his pectoral muscles seemingly of their own accord, and she couldn’t be responsible for kissing him back when he moved like that, could she?
When they break away, both breathless, it is all Kara can do not to punch him in the face.
---
Bill cannot say he is surprised when, as the roar dies down, a figure that can be described only as vaguely human lopes into the light. Apparently adapted for subterranean living, the creature with its iris-less eyes squints into the light, nose quivering. It has very sharp teeth and strong hands, and from further down the tunnel comes the echo of an answering roar.
A pack, then. He shoves Zak behind him, some part of his mind noting the need to ground his youngest son if they ever get out of this alive, and keeps his gun at the ready.
He can dimly hear Racetrack swearing behind them as she continues to cut through the bars. From the clang behind them he deduces that she has rid the culvert of one of its bars, but she will need to remove at least ten more before they will all be able to squeeze through; an impossible task when death is right at your heels.
“What the frak is that?” Hot Dog asks. Judging by the fact that his voice is roughly an octave higher than usual, he is evidently trying to keep calm and failing.
The creature turns toward Hot Dog’s voice, head cocked to the side.
“She said they were penned up.” Chief stares at the creature, gun in hand, his expression bleak. “Athena told me she had all the tunnel guards put away.”
“That frakking thing is a guard?” Bill asks harshly.
“What the hell do they use at the Treasury, if this is what they use to guard tunnels?” Kat’s voice is characteristically sharp, though he notes that her gun-hand does not so much as waver.
“Centurions rust,” Chief replies glumly. “Hybridized political prisoners don’t.”
“I am going to temporarily overlook the fact that this information would have been more useful yesterday,” Bill snaps. “Why isn’t it attacking?”
“They prefer to hunt in packs.” The only word to describe how Chief looks is defeated. “Besides, he needs to feed his family.”
“That is frakked up,” Racetrack bites out from behind them, her words emphasized by the clanging of a bar. “Only Cavil would program his tunnel zombies to breed and feed.”
Sure enough, the questing roars down the tunnel are coming ever closer. Bill sneaks a quick glance behind him- three bars are gone, leaving a space of less than a foot between the intact bar. Zak, being one of the smallest members of the group, might be able to wriggle his way through it.
“What is beyond the culvert?” he asks Chief quickly, who in turn casts a quick glance at Zak.
“We’re a few clicks from our meeting place. Theoretically just two pass-coded doors lie between the culvert and Athena-” his jaw clenches- “but gods only know if these are the only beasts out and about, and Athena may have betrayed us.”
Surprisingly, Kat shakes her head in denial. “Maybe, but maybe not. Athena doesn’t have total control of the tunnels; anyone up to Cavil himself could have triggered the release.” She, too, glances at Zak consideringly. “At the very least, the kid could run for help.”
“We can’t just shoot the frakking things now?” Hot Dog asks.
“Better to wait until they are all within range,” Chief replies grimly. “Athena told me they are programmed to wait to attack until the pack gathers- some sort of weird herding behavior- but if you shoot the leader now, the others will give up any pretense of a slow approach.”
The leader, indeed, seems content enough to wait for his pack. Bill feels disconcertingly that the creature is gathering information on them, even handicapped as it is by the presence of light. Chief pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and hands it roughly to Zak. “Kid, crawl between those bars, and try not to set your hair on fire.”
Racetrack moves to the side, clearing a space, but continues to apply the torch to the bars. A fourth clatters to the ground, and Kat stoops cautiously to scoop it up. “Take this,” she says, thrusting it into Zak’s hands. “You never know when you might need to hit somebody.”
Zak says quietly from behind him, in a tremulous voice, “Dad?”
Bill is probably going to die in the next few minutes, and he is as pissed as hell, but the boy is only fifteen and distinctly out of his element. He turns slightly, trusting the others to guard his now-unguarded side. “Zak, I want you to squeeze between those bars and run until you reach the first door. Once you’re through that barrier, you should be safe enough from this, but gods only know what you’ll find on the other side.”
Zak swallows heavily, fidgeting with the bar. Flakes of rust now redden his hands and besmirch his pants. “Dad...”
“Go,” Bill says, his tone brooking no argument. “Go find your brother, and then I want the two of you to completely disappear. Do you understand me?”
Zak nods jerkily and squeezes through the bars in record time, his hair barely missing the torch flame. He lingers on the other side of the bars, face pale. “I love you,” he says quietly, and disappears quickly into the darkness.
Racetrack disposes of the sixth bar. “Racetrack, give the torch to Hot Dog and get the hell out of here. You too, Kat.”
“No, sir,” Racetrack and Kat reply simultaneously, both sounding cross.
“Your chivalry is touching, sir, but unnecessary,” Racetrack continues. “Besides, Kat would never get her big head through this tiny little gap.”
Kat appears to have a rejoinder ready, but at that moment six more of the creatures shamble into view. The distant tunnels lie quiet; the pack has apparently been made whole once more.
As the leader lifts his voice in a triumphant roar, Bill takes aim and fires.
---
The walls still blaze, exquisitely lighting the torn and blood-soaked remains of Saul and the creature that was once Ellen. Sam averts his eyes, keeping his gaze on Kara, who appears to be infuriated.
She seems to get over it quickly, or in any case decides to channel that aggression, because seconds later he finds his attention once more diverted by the feel of her lips against his. Her hands are clenched in the torn material of his shirt, and he gladly slips his arms around her waist, pulling her closer in an effort to forget exactly what kind of hell they are standing in the midst of.
Admittedly, it is something he has wanted to so for several days now, and he does hate the fact that at least a half a dozen cameras are recording this very moment for posterity, but what the hell? Drink and be merry, for tomorrow they may die.
She releases him suddenly, leaving him reeling in the middle of the slick floor. Reality seems to rush in, leaving him unsure as what, exactly, is left to him now.
His first kill. It only took three Arenas to break him.
Kara stands several feet away, her breathing ragged in the quiet of the cave. For the first time he notices that she is covered with injuries, and one hand is tightly wrapped around the wrist of the other. It occurs to him that he should wonder where the hell she had come from, and why she is now here alone, her shredded clothing stained with blood.
“Where are Laura and Lee?” he asks, some distant part of his mind noting the broken tone to his voice.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.” Examining her hands with a rueful look, she offers them for his inspection. “I fell off of a cliff.”
He should probably find this suspicious, but Kara Thrace is one of the few people he has ever met who he can absolutely believe would fall off of a cliff and get back up again. He finds himself absurdly wanting to stroke her hair, to carry her off somewhere camera-less to count her injuries and cover her with gauze and antibiotic ointment, but he is fairly sure she really would punch him if he attempted such a thing.
He does the next best thing. She looks almost relieved when he reaches for her again, as if she, too, is unsure how to deal with their current situation.
It strikes him- an unwelcome thought, as his fingers first find the miraculously unmarred skin of her lower back- that he is not entirely sure how to get out of the cave, given that the tunnels beyond are still unlit, and he is fairly sure Saul used the last of their flares.
“I have to question your timing.”
Sam and Kara break apart, his hands reaching automatically for the harpoon that no longer rests against his back. Laura stands at the tunnel entrance, illuminated by the flames (now dying, he notes anxiously). She looks more like a vengeful deity than he is comfortable with, and he is suddenly very aware that at the age of nineteen he should probably not be kissing a seventeen year old.
He is also confused, because out of all the things in the cavern that Laura might take issue with, he would not have expected her first comment to be on his unfortunately timed make-out session.
Kara coughs slightly, her gaze darting over her shoulder. He glances back cautiously, and realizes that Saul’s corpse now lies in shadow. The harpy is visible, but the only clue to her former identity is blonde hair gleaming in the firelight.
“Please tell me that is a Six,” Laura continues, eyeing the harpy’s remains. She seems to be thoughtfully considering the harpoon jutting from the harpy’s body, and when she meets Sam’s eyes once more her gaze is- he thinks- understanding.
Sam and Kara exchange a look. As one, they step aside, allowing the scene to speak for itself.
Laura- who had been on the verge of making some sort of quip, judging by the amused curl of her lips and her quirked brows- freezes, one hand tucking back a stray lock of hair. “Saul?”
She sounds indescribably young, and for the space of seconds Sam suddenly sees the girl from the news footage standing before him, the footage taken before Laura Roslin had ever set foot in the Arena. A slim, coltish girl with a fall of russet hair standing before the judges, bow and arrow in hand. Over her shoulder, the stern figure of Saul Tigh is visible, his fixed gaze critiquing her hold on the bow.
It had been easy to overlook Saul’s contributions to Laura’s success. Laura, after all, had always been a force to be reckoned with, both now and at sixteen. Sam suddenly realizes that his image of Laura’s character has always been shaped, to a certain extent, by her dynamic Victor portrait: strong, weary, dominant.
Beautiful, he admits, though her beauty even then had gone far beyond the physical. Hers is the beauty of a sword forged with fire and hammer: sharp, enduring, and unapproachable. A weapon to be used with the utmost of care.
The image flees almost as quickly as it came. Laura takes a few steps forward to examine the body of the harpy, rage etched in every line of her body. “They couldn’t leave well enough alone,” she says in a flat tone. “Cavil couldn’t resist the visual pun: Saul Tigh attacked by his harpy of a wife. Godsdammit.”
She sits on the ground between Ellen and Saul’s corpses, appearing unconcerned by the fact that she is sitting in a puddle of blood. Her expression is akin to Saul’s moments before the first blow. “Leave me behind,” he had said. For a moment Sam fears that he will hear the same words out of Laura’s mouth, and wonders how he can possibly honor such a request.
Instead, she contemplates Saul’s grave expression for several long minutes, the fingers of her right hand pressed absentmindedly against her lips. Kara shuffles awkwardly beside him, bouncing slightly on her toes.
Like a wild canon, he thinks ruefully. Falls off a cliff and still wants to be on the move.
Abruptly Laura stands, pushing her hair away from her face. “Do you remember the way back to the surface?” she asks, dipping her thumb in a pool of blood. She presses it onto the skin of first Saul’s forehead, then Ellen’s. “I worry about losing the light.”
As they leave the cavern and enter the dark tunnel, lacking flares and armed with only (as Sam sees it) foolhardy hope- admittedly, a weapon he has used to his advantage before- he sees her turn to glance back at Saul.
“I’ll finish it for you,” she tells her former mentor, and walks with them into the dark.
Coming soon in Chapter Nineteen...
Laura snorts, and though she doesn’t catch it, she can can hear the eye-roll in the woman’s voice. “There are many things that I would call falling off a cliff and living to tell the tale, Kara Thrace, and ‘lucky’ barely scratches the surface. Miraculous, more like. I think it must be your fate to go through more lives than a cat.”
“Perhaps,” Sam teases, “you’ve been born a hero, sent by the gods, and you can’t die until you’ve fulfilled your special destiny.” He gestures broadly with his hands, miming a swordfight, a javelin throw.
“Right,” she mutters. “‘Kara Thrace and her Special Destiny.’ Sounds like a lame cover band.”
Authors: olga_theodora and miabicicletta
Summary: “What the frak is that?” Hot Dog asks.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series), T+ (Chapter 18)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Slightly late, because we are failbots (Numbers One and Two, thank you very much). As always, we love and adore you, readers! Thanks for putting up with us! We promise this isn't going anywhere! We're just slow now that it is summer.
---
The Story So Far...
---
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MONSTERS IN THE DARKNESS
...analysis was done in the form of interviews with (when possible): firsthand interviews with Victors; with family members such as spouses, siblings, parents and children; with close friends, extended family members, neighbors, coworkers. In the case of deceased Victors, second hand accounts were supplemented by journals, recorded interviews or articles. In the cases of a small group of Victors, autobiographies were taken into consideration (although some “autobiographical” accounts are considered stronger than others, as some are alleged to have been ghostwritten).
After more than two years of research, it is the finding of this panel that in 94% of cases, champions of the Colonial Games suffered a period of intense psychological remorse akin to or clinically diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Winning Tributes almost universally speak of the guilt that weighs on them once they have been reintroduced to society, where, in spite of the unspeakable acts they have committed, they are heralded as heroes. This kind of cognitive dissonance -- understanding that they have killed, injured, maimed their fellow competitors, but knowing they had no choice but to do so, and that in surviving, they are valued for it -- is the crux of the matter. This particular brand of survivors guilt has been observed in some form in nearly every single winning competitor of the Colonial Games.
Also true of nearly every Tribute: In the months and years following their tournament, a majority of champions entered a downward spiral of depression that was often exacerbated by drug or alcohol dependence. A full 75% of Tributes were dead before they reached the age of 30, either by their own hand (42%) or by some combination of substance abuse, violence, or self-destructive behavior.
The scars inflicted by the Cylon regime of the United Era are visible in nearly every facet of Colonial society. We are a nation that has only just begun the long and difficult path to healing and remembrance. But if ever there was a group of individuals more exemplary of the specific and haunting effects of Cavil’s administration, it is the men and women -- some only boys and girls -- whose lives were forever altered by the horrors unleashed upon them in the Arena.
From Findings of the Commission on United Era War Crimes, Part XIV: Compulsory Participation in the “Colonial Games”
---
There is nothing to do but continue up the steep path, berating himself for his fit of temper. The air is still, adding to the heat of the day; the sky a brilliant and unchecked blue. Other than an irate monkey, Lee meets no one on the path.
Below the peak of the island is a narrow stone bridge leading the path to the peak; a path of such narrow steepness that he suddenly has to re-evaluate every other path on the four islands. He climbs half-way up the path before sitting down, effectively blocking the way to all other comers.
He waits. For what- or for whom- he is not quite sure.
---
Ellen Tigh’s (or, Kara, imagines, what once was Ellen Tigh) death is no less gruesome than her husband’s. As she crawls from the small side tunnel, leaning heavily on the slimy rock, she sees Sam scream in rage and grief. The knot of silver and steel launches from his hands and sinks into the flesh below the harpy’s throat.
Between the resounding screams that echo through the cave, and the clouds of golden feathers that are kicked up in the harpy’s maddened throes, Kara feels a defined sense of surreality. Her first, oddly, since the Games began. As she studies Sam Anders’ fine, strong form, just yards away, a genetic mutant protests its last moments of life in vain.
The gods, Kara decides, must be crazy.
“Sam,” she croaks, and limps her way over to him. The shock of sunlight Sam stands in makes her blink furiously at first, and for a moment the sunspots that cloud her vision obscure the empty, haunted look in his eyes.
“I killed her.” Sam says, eyes fixed on the harpy’s corpse.
“Yeah. You did,” Kara says, wiping the sweat from her eyes. “Tough break.”
“Did you see...” his voice trails off, hand limply gesturing toward the mass of flesh and bone that remains of Saul Tigh.
“No,” Kara admits. “But I heard enough to be glad that I didn’t.”
He does not seem to register the comment.
“Sam,” she says. Then, more forcefully,“Sam!”
When he doesn’t respond, she smacks him across the face, watching his eyes widen and come back into focus.
“Don’t lose it on me, okay Longshot? Till we find Aurora and Apollo again, you’re my only hope.”
“Kara...”
When Kara looks up, he’s so close that she can smell the sweat on his skin. Can see the tears in his sea-green shirt that fits so snugly across his broad shoulders. Sam reaches down, kissing her. The slide of his lips on hers is soft at first, then daring. His tongue slips over her bottom lip and into her mouth, gentle but insistent. She would be lying if she denied her knees buckling just a (tiny) bit, but she would deny it all the same, even as her hands crept up, lighting on his pectoral muscles seemingly of their own accord, and she couldn’t be responsible for kissing him back when he moved like that, could she?
When they break away, both breathless, it is all Kara can do not to punch him in the face.
---
Bill cannot say he is surprised when, as the roar dies down, a figure that can be described only as vaguely human lopes into the light. Apparently adapted for subterranean living, the creature with its iris-less eyes squints into the light, nose quivering. It has very sharp teeth and strong hands, and from further down the tunnel comes the echo of an answering roar.
A pack, then. He shoves Zak behind him, some part of his mind noting the need to ground his youngest son if they ever get out of this alive, and keeps his gun at the ready.
He can dimly hear Racetrack swearing behind them as she continues to cut through the bars. From the clang behind them he deduces that she has rid the culvert of one of its bars, but she will need to remove at least ten more before they will all be able to squeeze through; an impossible task when death is right at your heels.
“What the frak is that?” Hot Dog asks. Judging by the fact that his voice is roughly an octave higher than usual, he is evidently trying to keep calm and failing.
The creature turns toward Hot Dog’s voice, head cocked to the side.
“She said they were penned up.” Chief stares at the creature, gun in hand, his expression bleak. “Athena told me she had all the tunnel guards put away.”
“That frakking thing is a guard?” Bill asks harshly.
“What the hell do they use at the Treasury, if this is what they use to guard tunnels?” Kat’s voice is characteristically sharp, though he notes that her gun-hand does not so much as waver.
“Centurions rust,” Chief replies glumly. “Hybridized political prisoners don’t.”
“I am going to temporarily overlook the fact that this information would have been more useful yesterday,” Bill snaps. “Why isn’t it attacking?”
“They prefer to hunt in packs.” The only word to describe how Chief looks is defeated. “Besides, he needs to feed his family.”
“That is frakked up,” Racetrack bites out from behind them, her words emphasized by the clanging of a bar. “Only Cavil would program his tunnel zombies to breed and feed.”
Sure enough, the questing roars down the tunnel are coming ever closer. Bill sneaks a quick glance behind him- three bars are gone, leaving a space of less than a foot between the intact bar. Zak, being one of the smallest members of the group, might be able to wriggle his way through it.
“What is beyond the culvert?” he asks Chief quickly, who in turn casts a quick glance at Zak.
“We’re a few clicks from our meeting place. Theoretically just two pass-coded doors lie between the culvert and Athena-” his jaw clenches- “but gods only know if these are the only beasts out and about, and Athena may have betrayed us.”
Surprisingly, Kat shakes her head in denial. “Maybe, but maybe not. Athena doesn’t have total control of the tunnels; anyone up to Cavil himself could have triggered the release.” She, too, glances at Zak consideringly. “At the very least, the kid could run for help.”
“We can’t just shoot the frakking things now?” Hot Dog asks.
“Better to wait until they are all within range,” Chief replies grimly. “Athena told me they are programmed to wait to attack until the pack gathers- some sort of weird herding behavior- but if you shoot the leader now, the others will give up any pretense of a slow approach.”
The leader, indeed, seems content enough to wait for his pack. Bill feels disconcertingly that the creature is gathering information on them, even handicapped as it is by the presence of light. Chief pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and hands it roughly to Zak. “Kid, crawl between those bars, and try not to set your hair on fire.”
Racetrack moves to the side, clearing a space, but continues to apply the torch to the bars. A fourth clatters to the ground, and Kat stoops cautiously to scoop it up. “Take this,” she says, thrusting it into Zak’s hands. “You never know when you might need to hit somebody.”
Zak says quietly from behind him, in a tremulous voice, “Dad?”
Bill is probably going to die in the next few minutes, and he is as pissed as hell, but the boy is only fifteen and distinctly out of his element. He turns slightly, trusting the others to guard his now-unguarded side. “Zak, I want you to squeeze between those bars and run until you reach the first door. Once you’re through that barrier, you should be safe enough from this, but gods only know what you’ll find on the other side.”
Zak swallows heavily, fidgeting with the bar. Flakes of rust now redden his hands and besmirch his pants. “Dad...”
“Go,” Bill says, his tone brooking no argument. “Go find your brother, and then I want the two of you to completely disappear. Do you understand me?”
Zak nods jerkily and squeezes through the bars in record time, his hair barely missing the torch flame. He lingers on the other side of the bars, face pale. “I love you,” he says quietly, and disappears quickly into the darkness.
Racetrack disposes of the sixth bar. “Racetrack, give the torch to Hot Dog and get the hell out of here. You too, Kat.”
“No, sir,” Racetrack and Kat reply simultaneously, both sounding cross.
“Your chivalry is touching, sir, but unnecessary,” Racetrack continues. “Besides, Kat would never get her big head through this tiny little gap.”
Kat appears to have a rejoinder ready, but at that moment six more of the creatures shamble into view. The distant tunnels lie quiet; the pack has apparently been made whole once more.
As the leader lifts his voice in a triumphant roar, Bill takes aim and fires.
---
The walls still blaze, exquisitely lighting the torn and blood-soaked remains of Saul and the creature that was once Ellen. Sam averts his eyes, keeping his gaze on Kara, who appears to be infuriated.
She seems to get over it quickly, or in any case decides to channel that aggression, because seconds later he finds his attention once more diverted by the feel of her lips against his. Her hands are clenched in the torn material of his shirt, and he gladly slips his arms around her waist, pulling her closer in an effort to forget exactly what kind of hell they are standing in the midst of.
Admittedly, it is something he has wanted to so for several days now, and he does hate the fact that at least a half a dozen cameras are recording this very moment for posterity, but what the hell? Drink and be merry, for tomorrow they may die.
She releases him suddenly, leaving him reeling in the middle of the slick floor. Reality seems to rush in, leaving him unsure as what, exactly, is left to him now.
His first kill. It only took three Arenas to break him.
Kara stands several feet away, her breathing ragged in the quiet of the cave. For the first time he notices that she is covered with injuries, and one hand is tightly wrapped around the wrist of the other. It occurs to him that he should wonder where the hell she had come from, and why she is now here alone, her shredded clothing stained with blood.
“Where are Laura and Lee?” he asks, some distant part of his mind noting the broken tone to his voice.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.” Examining her hands with a rueful look, she offers them for his inspection. “I fell off of a cliff.”
He should probably find this suspicious, but Kara Thrace is one of the few people he has ever met who he can absolutely believe would fall off of a cliff and get back up again. He finds himself absurdly wanting to stroke her hair, to carry her off somewhere camera-less to count her injuries and cover her with gauze and antibiotic ointment, but he is fairly sure she really would punch him if he attempted such a thing.
He does the next best thing. She looks almost relieved when he reaches for her again, as if she, too, is unsure how to deal with their current situation.
It strikes him- an unwelcome thought, as his fingers first find the miraculously unmarred skin of her lower back- that he is not entirely sure how to get out of the cave, given that the tunnels beyond are still unlit, and he is fairly sure Saul used the last of their flares.
“I have to question your timing.”
Sam and Kara break apart, his hands reaching automatically for the harpoon that no longer rests against his back. Laura stands at the tunnel entrance, illuminated by the flames (now dying, he notes anxiously). She looks more like a vengeful deity than he is comfortable with, and he is suddenly very aware that at the age of nineteen he should probably not be kissing a seventeen year old.
He is also confused, because out of all the things in the cavern that Laura might take issue with, he would not have expected her first comment to be on his unfortunately timed make-out session.
Kara coughs slightly, her gaze darting over her shoulder. He glances back cautiously, and realizes that Saul’s corpse now lies in shadow. The harpy is visible, but the only clue to her former identity is blonde hair gleaming in the firelight.
“Please tell me that is a Six,” Laura continues, eyeing the harpy’s remains. She seems to be thoughtfully considering the harpoon jutting from the harpy’s body, and when she meets Sam’s eyes once more her gaze is- he thinks- understanding.
Sam and Kara exchange a look. As one, they step aside, allowing the scene to speak for itself.
Laura- who had been on the verge of making some sort of quip, judging by the amused curl of her lips and her quirked brows- freezes, one hand tucking back a stray lock of hair. “Saul?”
She sounds indescribably young, and for the space of seconds Sam suddenly sees the girl from the news footage standing before him, the footage taken before Laura Roslin had ever set foot in the Arena. A slim, coltish girl with a fall of russet hair standing before the judges, bow and arrow in hand. Over her shoulder, the stern figure of Saul Tigh is visible, his fixed gaze critiquing her hold on the bow.
It had been easy to overlook Saul’s contributions to Laura’s success. Laura, after all, had always been a force to be reckoned with, both now and at sixteen. Sam suddenly realizes that his image of Laura’s character has always been shaped, to a certain extent, by her dynamic Victor portrait: strong, weary, dominant.
Beautiful, he admits, though her beauty even then had gone far beyond the physical. Hers is the beauty of a sword forged with fire and hammer: sharp, enduring, and unapproachable. A weapon to be used with the utmost of care.
The image flees almost as quickly as it came. Laura takes a few steps forward to examine the body of the harpy, rage etched in every line of her body. “They couldn’t leave well enough alone,” she says in a flat tone. “Cavil couldn’t resist the visual pun: Saul Tigh attacked by his harpy of a wife. Godsdammit.”
She sits on the ground between Ellen and Saul’s corpses, appearing unconcerned by the fact that she is sitting in a puddle of blood. Her expression is akin to Saul’s moments before the first blow. “Leave me behind,” he had said. For a moment Sam fears that he will hear the same words out of Laura’s mouth, and wonders how he can possibly honor such a request.
Instead, she contemplates Saul’s grave expression for several long minutes, the fingers of her right hand pressed absentmindedly against her lips. Kara shuffles awkwardly beside him, bouncing slightly on her toes.
Like a wild canon, he thinks ruefully. Falls off a cliff and still wants to be on the move.
Abruptly Laura stands, pushing her hair away from her face. “Do you remember the way back to the surface?” she asks, dipping her thumb in a pool of blood. She presses it onto the skin of first Saul’s forehead, then Ellen’s. “I worry about losing the light.”
As they leave the cavern and enter the dark tunnel, lacking flares and armed with only (as Sam sees it) foolhardy hope- admittedly, a weapon he has used to his advantage before- he sees her turn to glance back at Saul.
“I’ll finish it for you,” she tells her former mentor, and walks with them into the dark.
Coming soon in Chapter Nineteen...
Laura snorts, and though she doesn’t catch it, she can can hear the eye-roll in the woman’s voice. “There are many things that I would call falling off a cliff and living to tell the tale, Kara Thrace, and ‘lucky’ barely scratches the surface. Miraculous, more like. I think it must be your fate to go through more lives than a cat.”
“Perhaps,” Sam teases, “you’ve been born a hero, sent by the gods, and you can’t die until you’ve fulfilled your special destiny.” He gestures broadly with his hands, miming a swordfight, a javelin throw.
“Right,” she mutters. “‘Kara Thrace and her Special Destiny.’ Sounds like a lame cover band.”