(no subject)
Things that Wikipedia can teach you: the lyrics in the UK's opening of BSG are actually a famous Hindu mantra.
Bah, who posts fic at 12:15 at night? Oh, right, I do. So meyerlemon said, Let's write how we think tomorrow's premiere will start. And I did. This is exactly how I want it to begin, too. They can cut right from the recap to this. That would be so hot. Also, it would totally never happen.
(I have listened to the BSG soundtrack way too much.)
*
Laura has already memorized the stains on the walls around her, the distance from end to end of her cell, the width of space between the bars. It wasn't very hard. She is still standing in the middle of it all, with perfect posture and elegant composure. Arms behind her back, a hand clasped loosely around her wrist. There is a guard posted at the hatch; young, but no doubt trustworthy, with a large weapon strapped to his chest and an ensign's insignia pinned to his lapel. On the clock on the wall, the long second hand makes its second full journey around the face.
For a moment, she loses focus, fixates on that second hand's movement, and she feels her body temperature rising sharply. Lately it takes everything in power to keep herself balanced. To keep herself composed. To keep herself standing. She feels it racing up her neck, flaring for just an instant, but it's enough - her eyes flutter shutter, her breathing is shallow, and even in darkness she feels her vision spinning. The dull pain in her chest becomes sharp stab, and her breath catches in her throat.
And then it's gone; the warning klaxons blaring inside her brain cease, leaving only a faint echo in her ears. When she opens her eyes, her hands are limp at her sides and she feels condensation on her forehead. She can feel every fitted line of her suit and the ache of her feet in her shoes. She's never liked these shoes.
She breathes deeply again, and rests herself against the back wall, quickly unbuttoning her jacket and wiping her forehead. Laura does not contemplate her actions, the things that have brought her here, to the brig. Around her Galactica is humming, a sound that is unfamiliar but not foreign to her. She has only slept on this ship once, but that was a long time ago. She misses the comfortable sounds of Colonial One, but she does not regret leaving it. It had to come to this. So say we all.
Her throat feels rough. Her mouth is dry.
"Excuse me." Her voice is quiet, and too soft. The guard does not move when she speaks, perhaps because he can't her or perhaps because it's his job not to. "Ensign, excuse me."
He acknowledges her, but does not speak to her. He seems far too young to be an ensign. Laura thinks that she recognizes him from somewhere, but can't place his face. There are too many faces to place.
"Ensign, would it be possible to find me some water?"
The ensign is still silent. Lately, Laura is accustomed to being in complete command of her surroundings. But this man won't speak to her.
She attempts to stand without the wall bracing her, but feels uncertain. "Please?"
The brig is silent for what seems like forever. The ensign's posture never relaxes. And then he says, simply: "Can't leave my post. Ma'am." The salutation is an afterthought, regretful.
The real warning klaxons sound just like the ones in her head, and she reacts by clutching her suit jacket. But there are no calls for action stations or preparations for a jump. Laura has never heard Galactica make this sound before.
"What's going on?"
The guard at the door is rigid, glancing warily at the sealed hatch. In the hallway outside, there is a commotion. On the clock on the wall, another journey has been made. That's five.
"What's going on?"
Suddenly the hatch swings open into the hallway. More guards pour in. Laura thinks they coming for her, and she suddenly finds the energy to stand at attention. But they don't go for the bars; they barely acknowledge her at all. Instead, they make a formation at the door. Are they keeping her in or keeping others out?
"Somebody, please, will tell me what the hell is going on?"
The tallest in the group leans over to the original guard, whispering low in his ear. Laura watches the ensign's face go pale.
Bah, who posts fic at 12:15 at night? Oh, right, I do. So meyerlemon said, Let's write how we think tomorrow's premiere will start. And I did. This is exactly how I want it to begin, too. They can cut right from the recap to this. That would be so hot. Also, it would totally never happen.
(I have listened to the BSG soundtrack way too much.)
*
Laura has already memorized the stains on the walls around her, the distance from end to end of her cell, the width of space between the bars. It wasn't very hard. She is still standing in the middle of it all, with perfect posture and elegant composure. Arms behind her back, a hand clasped loosely around her wrist. There is a guard posted at the hatch; young, but no doubt trustworthy, with a large weapon strapped to his chest and an ensign's insignia pinned to his lapel. On the clock on the wall, the long second hand makes its second full journey around the face.
For a moment, she loses focus, fixates on that second hand's movement, and she feels her body temperature rising sharply. Lately it takes everything in power to keep herself balanced. To keep herself composed. To keep herself standing. She feels it racing up her neck, flaring for just an instant, but it's enough - her eyes flutter shutter, her breathing is shallow, and even in darkness she feels her vision spinning. The dull pain in her chest becomes sharp stab, and her breath catches in her throat.
And then it's gone; the warning klaxons blaring inside her brain cease, leaving only a faint echo in her ears. When she opens her eyes, her hands are limp at her sides and she feels condensation on her forehead. She can feel every fitted line of her suit and the ache of her feet in her shoes. She's never liked these shoes.
She breathes deeply again, and rests herself against the back wall, quickly unbuttoning her jacket and wiping her forehead. Laura does not contemplate her actions, the things that have brought her here, to the brig. Around her Galactica is humming, a sound that is unfamiliar but not foreign to her. She has only slept on this ship once, but that was a long time ago. She misses the comfortable sounds of Colonial One, but she does not regret leaving it. It had to come to this. So say we all.
Her throat feels rough. Her mouth is dry.
"Excuse me." Her voice is quiet, and too soft. The guard does not move when she speaks, perhaps because he can't her or perhaps because it's his job not to. "Ensign, excuse me."
He acknowledges her, but does not speak to her. He seems far too young to be an ensign. Laura thinks that she recognizes him from somewhere, but can't place his face. There are too many faces to place.
"Ensign, would it be possible to find me some water?"
The ensign is still silent. Lately, Laura is accustomed to being in complete command of her surroundings. But this man won't speak to her.
She attempts to stand without the wall bracing her, but feels uncertain. "Please?"
The brig is silent for what seems like forever. The ensign's posture never relaxes. And then he says, simply: "Can't leave my post. Ma'am." The salutation is an afterthought, regretful.
The real warning klaxons sound just like the ones in her head, and she reacts by clutching her suit jacket. But there are no calls for action stations or preparations for a jump. Laura has never heard Galactica make this sound before.
"What's going on?"
The guard at the door is rigid, glancing warily at the sealed hatch. In the hallway outside, there is a commotion. On the clock on the wall, another journey has been made. That's five.
"What's going on?"
Suddenly the hatch swings open into the hallway. More guards pour in. Laura thinks they coming for her, and she suddenly finds the energy to stand at attention. But they don't go for the bars; they barely acknowledge her at all. Instead, they make a formation at the door. Are they keeping her in or keeping others out?
"Somebody, please, will tell me what the hell is going on?"
The tallest in the group leans over to the original guard, whispering low in his ear. Laura watches the ensign's face go pale.