light the fires of your own hell
Who: terminatefate and to_be_caprican
What: Not a sympathy cig
Where: Deck
When: Whenever the hell Gaius gets his butt up there.
Warnings: Cussing. Connor style.
She should have been cold, sitting out on the deck, with that cigarette hanging from her lips, the ash of it thick on the end as she stared upwards. Her honey-brown hair was loose around her shoulders, softening the severity that came with the hard set of her jaw and the way she sat as if ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. The lounge chair was next to another, lined up like soldiers waiting to watch some grand apocalypse as theiw world spun out of control.
We are hurtling through space at fuckyouverymuch speed, tracing the lines of our mistakes in clumsy childish strokes. Leaving and finding our Humanity in a breath, moving forward, moving backward--we steal time like tieves of the highest order. And piss all over ourselves in the face of all this madness. Because it is madness, we are all fucking insane.
Smoke drifted purposefully, even as Sarah's mind drifted everywhere. It was hard to keep it together--sometimes more often than not, but she kept herself in place while her thoughts were a riot of color and noise, of incoherent ramblings, and flashes of universal truths. What the hell did any of it mean? She contemplated the ash on her cigarette and tapped it into the thick clear glass ashtray she'd pulled from her room. She was dry, clean, and wore black. Black boots, BDUs, black tank, and an unbuttoned black military jacket that fell to mid knee. She had a cigarette already out and peeking from the corner of a top flap pocket.
Sarah blew smoke and ir curled upward, twisting and snaking through the air like a signal, like a beacon: Follow the smoke, fucker.
What: Not a sympathy cig
Where: Deck
When: Whenever the hell Gaius gets his butt up there.
Warnings: Cussing. Connor style.
She should have been cold, sitting out on the deck, with that cigarette hanging from her lips, the ash of it thick on the end as she stared upwards. Her honey-brown hair was loose around her shoulders, softening the severity that came with the hard set of her jaw and the way she sat as if ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. The lounge chair was next to another, lined up like soldiers waiting to watch some grand apocalypse as theiw world spun out of control.
We are hurtling through space at fuckyouverymuch speed, tracing the lines of our mistakes in clumsy childish strokes. Leaving and finding our Humanity in a breath, moving forward, moving backward--we steal time like tieves of the highest order. And piss all over ourselves in the face of all this madness. Because it is madness, we are all fucking insane.
Smoke drifted purposefully, even as Sarah's mind drifted everywhere. It was hard to keep it together--sometimes more often than not, but she kept herself in place while her thoughts were a riot of color and noise, of incoherent ramblings, and flashes of universal truths. What the hell did any of it mean? She contemplated the ash on her cigarette and tapped it into the thick clear glass ashtray she'd pulled from her room. She was dry, clean, and wore black. Black boots, BDUs, black tank, and an unbuttoned black military jacket that fell to mid knee. She had a cigarette already out and peeking from the corner of a top flap pocket.
Sarah blew smoke and ir curled upward, twisting and snaking through the air like a signal, like a beacon: Follow the smoke, fucker.