A Cuss a Day...
Who: Sarah Connor, ALL
When: Whatever. I mean. All day works!
What: Connor meet & greet? She's taking in the Barge deck by deck, so, she could be anywhere.
Where: All over the Barge, to be honest. Connors get the lay of than land before doing any settling. She's stopped for now, though.
"I need a fucking cigarette," Sarah snarled under her breath, her back against the nearest wall. It didn't matter if she'd agreed to be here, to help people, this fucking bucket put her on edge with its unfamilar angles and spaces. Her eyes were everywhere, flicking from wall to wall, memorizing, taking the layout in, looking for exits. The exits came first, they always came first.
This is for John, I'm doing this for John. John.
The mantra cycled around and around in her mind. Everything for John, her life, this Barge, this deal. She would survive, she could do that. Pescadero had prepared her for closed walls. But she wasn't an inmate. She was a Warden. She was a Warden and she needed to clam the motherfuck down. How long ago had it been since she walked through that door? A minute? Ten? No guns, no bullets, no grenades. She might as well have been naked. Her fingers closed around the communicator in her pocket and brushed a thin tape recorder. She pulled the tape recorder out, turned it over in her wet hands, and put it back into her pocket. Wiping her hands against her pants did a fat lot of good.
They were soaked.
She needed a shower. Warm clothes, maybe food. Definitely coffee. The last thing she remembered was the hard, driving, Mexican rain and the earthy scent of water saturated soil. The heady, pungent spice of the jungle still clung to her skin, soaked into her hair which was still dripping from the rain. She thought she'd been dreaming, but this wasn't a dream. Her right hand pressed down against the wall just to be sure, and it was solid beneath her trembling, creaking fingers.
A Warden.
"Fuck." The word came out sharply exasperated, but distinctly weary as she slid down the wall to half crouch and contemplate her options. There weren't many safe for picking a direction to walk. She'd agreed to this. "Fuck, fuck, fucking, goddamn, fuck." Cussing didn't relieve the pent up unease, but it felt better than crouching there and silently stewing.
When: Whatever. I mean. All day works!
What: Connor meet & greet? She's taking in the Barge deck by deck, so, she could be anywhere.
Where: All over the Barge, to be honest. Connors get the lay of than land before doing any settling. She's stopped for now, though.
"I need a fucking cigarette," Sarah snarled under her breath, her back against the nearest wall. It didn't matter if she'd agreed to be here, to help people, this fucking bucket put her on edge with its unfamilar angles and spaces. Her eyes were everywhere, flicking from wall to wall, memorizing, taking the layout in, looking for exits. The exits came first, they always came first.
This is for John, I'm doing this for John. John.
The mantra cycled around and around in her mind. Everything for John, her life, this Barge, this deal. She would survive, she could do that. Pescadero had prepared her for closed walls. But she wasn't an inmate. She was a Warden. She was a Warden and she needed to clam the motherfuck down. How long ago had it been since she walked through that door? A minute? Ten? No guns, no bullets, no grenades. She might as well have been naked. Her fingers closed around the communicator in her pocket and brushed a thin tape recorder. She pulled the tape recorder out, turned it over in her wet hands, and put it back into her pocket. Wiping her hands against her pants did a fat lot of good.
They were soaked.
She needed a shower. Warm clothes, maybe food. Definitely coffee. The last thing she remembered was the hard, driving, Mexican rain and the earthy scent of water saturated soil. The heady, pungent spice of the jungle still clung to her skin, soaked into her hair which was still dripping from the rain. She thought she'd been dreaming, but this wasn't a dream. Her right hand pressed down against the wall just to be sure, and it was solid beneath her trembling, creaking fingers.
A Warden.
"Fuck." The word came out sharply exasperated, but distinctly weary as she slid down the wall to half crouch and contemplate her options. There weren't many safe for picking a direction to walk. She'd agreed to this. "Fuck, fuck, fucking, goddamn, fuck." Cussing didn't relieve the pent up unease, but it felt better than crouching there and silently stewing.