fic: blake's 7.
bednow.
disclaimer: not mine. rating: eh. 13+
fandom: blake's 7.
season: three
notes: I've been trying to write RSR fic with Cally for a while. Got this one on the way to work, then wrote during lunch. am too tired to poke at it more.
Not a Bad Dream
by ALC Punk!
It wasn't a meeting she was expecting. A backwater planet, the native populace mostly suspicious of each other and space travelers. They'd been bred that way, from pure genetic stock that was slowly causing them to lose people in odd ways. Extra eyes. Split tongues. Genetic anomalies that put proof to the theory that in-breeding was a very bad idea.
Cally was stationed in a small tavern, on the edge of the zone. The clientele straddled the two sides of the coin: shifty, dark and suspicious populace; and the slightly richer, less suspicious spacers.
Mostly less suspicious.
Later, she would wonder if he'd deliberately let her see him. A flicker of movement near the back as she entered, her eyes drawn to the swirl of dark jacket and pale face. And the eye patch, of course.
Not something she would ever forget.
Avon had sent her there to meet an arms dealer. Something about cheap weapons crystals. Not that Cally understood why Liberator needed crystal when her store rooms were full of precious things. Especially not cheap crystals.
Still, she shouldn't have abandoned her role.
The flicker of movement came again, and she slipped sideways through the crowd, easily avoiding spacers and locals alike, until she came opposite the table he was sitting at.
"Do you want me to buy you a round?" His voice was as casually arrogant as it had always been.
"In payment for my torture, or just to amuse yourself?"
Travis tipped his head back, shrugged. "Either way, Blake still won."
"Did he?" The chair was easy to straddle, and she found herself perched on it, dark eyes watching him. She found she wasn't surprised that he had survived. He'd always seemed the type to reappear when you least wanted him to. "Somehow, I think both of you lost."
"Can't have everything." His drink was empty, the glass making a thunking sound as he set it down again. "Still, I'm surprised you're still following him. He hasn't set you down somewhere to sew dissent and discord, like a good little guerilla."
"Haven't been keeping up with the news, have you." Her hand yanked the glass from his reach. And she poured a measure from the bottle the waitress left probably hours before. It's woody and pale, the taste sharp at the back of her tongue.
"Blake never did like to exchange words."
"He preferred laser pulses," she agreed, pouring more.
The leather he's wearing under the dark robe creaks as he shifted. "So did I."
"And Lazon probes, mind-games, machines which produced electrical impulses to short-circuit the brain?"
"Those, too," he acknowledged, hand reaching for the bottle.
Cally pulled it from his reach, wondering why she was only mildly angry at the man who had once tortured her. "You failed, Blake failed, Avon is failing. Who's next, Travis?"
"Servalan?"
"We can always hope." Oddly in charity, she handed the bottle to him and raised the glass. "To that happy eventuality."
They drank.
"You're the arms dealer," she said as she set the glass down. Her eyes pin him to the chair.
"Yes."
"I don't think we'll be needing you, after all."
"Don't trust me, Cally?"
Standing, she tilted her head to the side, almost scornful. "Should I?"
He didn't bother answering. She didn't bother leaving money for the alcohol she'd drunk.
And some part of her wondered just when Travis's mania had broken.
-f-
disclaimer: not mine. rating: eh. 13+
fandom: blake's 7.
season: three
notes: I've been trying to write RSR fic with Cally for a while. Got this one on the way to work, then wrote during lunch. am too tired to poke at it more.
Not a Bad Dream
by ALC Punk!
It wasn't a meeting she was expecting. A backwater planet, the native populace mostly suspicious of each other and space travelers. They'd been bred that way, from pure genetic stock that was slowly causing them to lose people in odd ways. Extra eyes. Split tongues. Genetic anomalies that put proof to the theory that in-breeding was a very bad idea.
Cally was stationed in a small tavern, on the edge of the zone. The clientele straddled the two sides of the coin: shifty, dark and suspicious populace; and the slightly richer, less suspicious spacers.
Mostly less suspicious.
Later, she would wonder if he'd deliberately let her see him. A flicker of movement near the back as she entered, her eyes drawn to the swirl of dark jacket and pale face. And the eye patch, of course.
Not something she would ever forget.
Avon had sent her there to meet an arms dealer. Something about cheap weapons crystals. Not that Cally understood why Liberator needed crystal when her store rooms were full of precious things. Especially not cheap crystals.
Still, she shouldn't have abandoned her role.
The flicker of movement came again, and she slipped sideways through the crowd, easily avoiding spacers and locals alike, until she came opposite the table he was sitting at.
"Do you want me to buy you a round?" His voice was as casually arrogant as it had always been.
"In payment for my torture, or just to amuse yourself?"
Travis tipped his head back, shrugged. "Either way, Blake still won."
"Did he?" The chair was easy to straddle, and she found herself perched on it, dark eyes watching him. She found she wasn't surprised that he had survived. He'd always seemed the type to reappear when you least wanted him to. "Somehow, I think both of you lost."
"Can't have everything." His drink was empty, the glass making a thunking sound as he set it down again. "Still, I'm surprised you're still following him. He hasn't set you down somewhere to sew dissent and discord, like a good little guerilla."
"Haven't been keeping up with the news, have you." Her hand yanked the glass from his reach. And she poured a measure from the bottle the waitress left probably hours before. It's woody and pale, the taste sharp at the back of her tongue.
"Blake never did like to exchange words."
"He preferred laser pulses," she agreed, pouring more.
The leather he's wearing under the dark robe creaks as he shifted. "So did I."
"And Lazon probes, mind-games, machines which produced electrical impulses to short-circuit the brain?"
"Those, too," he acknowledged, hand reaching for the bottle.
Cally pulled it from his reach, wondering why she was only mildly angry at the man who had once tortured her. "You failed, Blake failed, Avon is failing. Who's next, Travis?"
"Servalan?"
"We can always hope." Oddly in charity, she handed the bottle to him and raised the glass. "To that happy eventuality."
They drank.
"You're the arms dealer," she said as she set the glass down. Her eyes pin him to the chair.
"Yes."
"I don't think we'll be needing you, after all."
"Don't trust me, Cally?"
Standing, she tilted her head to the side, almost scornful. "Should I?"
He didn't bother answering. She didn't bother leaving money for the alcohol she'd drunk.
And some part of her wondered just when Travis's mania had broken.
-f-