BSG: Lucky Charm (pg)
Title: Lucky Charm
Rating: PG
Word count: 550
Beta: lyssie
Character: Margaret "Racetrack" Edmondson
Summary: The rational side of her brain occasionally mocks her for it, but the superstitious side always points out that she is still alive, even after all that the fates (and the Cylons) have thrown her way.
Author's note: This was originally written for the Galactica Ladies ficathon last fall for the prompt "bullet," but this morning I realized I had never posted it anywhere but as a comment to the ficathon thread at karathracelives. Oops. It was also never previously betaed, nor was I completely happy with it, so it has now been cleaned up and betaed and set free to fly as it will. Kinda like Racetrack. *sniffle*
The weight of it in her pocket is almost non-existent; she’s carried it for so long that it’s become almost a part of her, like the ponytail that swings with her strides and tickles the back of her neck or the dog tags sandwiched between her skin and her tanks. A single bullet she’d found on Kobol, centuries ago, smashed flat on one side where, almost spent, it had smacked into a cliff face before tumbling to the ground near her Raptor.
Maggie remembers the glint of sunshine on metal, nearly buried in the too-green grass. She had crouched down to pick it up, murmuring a brief prayer to Hermes as she did so, and she had carried that bullet with her ever since. It’s a talisman of sorts, she supposes as she manipulates it between her fingers, a reminder of how capricious the gods can be regarding who they favor and who they don’t. The rational side of her brain occasionally mocks her for it, but the superstitious side always points out that she is still alive, even after all that the fates (and the Cylons) have thrown her way.
Closing her eyes, she pulls her hand from her pocket, leans her head and shoulders back to rest against the cold metal of the cell wall. Standing beside her, Narcho shifts a couple of inches to the right, giving her a little room. She considers dropping down to sit on the equally cold metal floor, but rejects the idea; something about the thought of sitting feels like giving up.
“Why are we even here?” she whispers, not intending for anyone else to hear, but Narcho answers anyway.
“I’m here because I am done with the mother frakking Cylons and their mother frakking allies.” His tone is vicious, angry. Once upon a time, she had agreed with him. But when Starbuck shot Skulls, something had snapped inside Maggie, had released her from a web spun of lies and hope, of rhetoric and dreams, and now she just feels tired.
Raised voices and the shuffle of boots approaching the filled-to-capacity brig send a shiver down Maggie’s spine. She opens her eyes, straightens, and comes almost instinctively to attention as the Admiral himself stops in the middle of the brig. He turns slowly, surveying the men and women incarcerated there, her fellow mutineers.
“Listen carefully,” he begins. Maggie never thought she’d hear that gravelly voice again. “You have a choice…” As she listens to him speak of a suicide mission to rescue a little girl, Maggie’s fingers close tightly around the bullet in her pocket, her lucky charm. She finds Skulls, watching her from the cell across the hall. Their gazes lock and he nods.
The Admiral finishes speaking and there is silence. No one moves for a moment, until Maggie breaks the tableau by stepping toward Adama with a crisp salute. “Lieutenant Margaret Edmondson, reporting for duty, sir.”
Behind her, Narcho asks, incredulous, “What the frak are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to for she owes him nothing. But she knows she’d rather die in service to the Fleet than rot in this cell. At least she’d be doing something. Besides, it isn’t the kid’s fault her mother is a toaster, and Helo has always been Maggie’s friend.
Rating: PG
Word count: 550
Beta: lyssie
Character: Margaret "Racetrack" Edmondson
Summary: The rational side of her brain occasionally mocks her for it, but the superstitious side always points out that she is still alive, even after all that the fates (and the Cylons) have thrown her way.
Author's note: This was originally written for the Galactica Ladies ficathon last fall for the prompt "bullet," but this morning I realized I had never posted it anywhere but as a comment to the ficathon thread at karathracelives. Oops. It was also never previously betaed, nor was I completely happy with it, so it has now been cleaned up and betaed and set free to fly as it will. Kinda like Racetrack. *sniffle*
The weight of it in her pocket is almost non-existent; she’s carried it for so long that it’s become almost a part of her, like the ponytail that swings with her strides and tickles the back of her neck or the dog tags sandwiched between her skin and her tanks. A single bullet she’d found on Kobol, centuries ago, smashed flat on one side where, almost spent, it had smacked into a cliff face before tumbling to the ground near her Raptor.
Maggie remembers the glint of sunshine on metal, nearly buried in the too-green grass. She had crouched down to pick it up, murmuring a brief prayer to Hermes as she did so, and she had carried that bullet with her ever since. It’s a talisman of sorts, she supposes as she manipulates it between her fingers, a reminder of how capricious the gods can be regarding who they favor and who they don’t. The rational side of her brain occasionally mocks her for it, but the superstitious side always points out that she is still alive, even after all that the fates (and the Cylons) have thrown her way.
Closing her eyes, she pulls her hand from her pocket, leans her head and shoulders back to rest against the cold metal of the cell wall. Standing beside her, Narcho shifts a couple of inches to the right, giving her a little room. She considers dropping down to sit on the equally cold metal floor, but rejects the idea; something about the thought of sitting feels like giving up.
“Why are we even here?” she whispers, not intending for anyone else to hear, but Narcho answers anyway.
“I’m here because I am done with the mother frakking Cylons and their mother frakking allies.” His tone is vicious, angry. Once upon a time, she had agreed with him. But when Starbuck shot Skulls, something had snapped inside Maggie, had released her from a web spun of lies and hope, of rhetoric and dreams, and now she just feels tired.
Raised voices and the shuffle of boots approaching the filled-to-capacity brig send a shiver down Maggie’s spine. She opens her eyes, straightens, and comes almost instinctively to attention as the Admiral himself stops in the middle of the brig. He turns slowly, surveying the men and women incarcerated there, her fellow mutineers.
“Listen carefully,” he begins. Maggie never thought she’d hear that gravelly voice again. “You have a choice…” As she listens to him speak of a suicide mission to rescue a little girl, Maggie’s fingers close tightly around the bullet in her pocket, her lucky charm. She finds Skulls, watching her from the cell across the hall. Their gazes lock and he nods.
The Admiral finishes speaking and there is silence. No one moves for a moment, until Maggie breaks the tableau by stepping toward Adama with a crisp salute. “Lieutenant Margaret Edmondson, reporting for duty, sir.”
Behind her, Narcho asks, incredulous, “What the frak are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to for she owes him nothing. But she knows she’d rather die in service to the Fleet than rot in this cell. At least she’d be doing something. Besides, it isn’t the kid’s fault her mother is a toaster, and Helo has always been Maggie’s friend.