Fix
Who: Gaeta & ..?
What: Arrival
When: 30th Morning
Where: A storage closet in the cafe
Rating: Low
Felix pulled himself away from the console, a blaring klaxon in his ears. Insinctively he was on his feet and fumbling for buttons on the switchboard, a half-functioning mouth forming the words “Action stations, action stations!” and sounding far more slurred aloud than they had in his head.
Honestly, it worried him that he might have fallen asleep on the job. The punishment was always the same. A verbal beating from Colonel Tigh to which he could only reply with a dispassionate “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” and “Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again.” But maybe - well - things had changed after New Caprica. Felix was no longer the doe-eyed boy with his hair cropped short and a natural likeability. If not likeability, then he inspired ambivalence. After New Caprica, ambivalence turned to disgust and those who liked him came to distrust him. He no longer rushed to follow orders for the sake of them being followed. Yes, it was his job, but it used to be so much more than that.
Used to.
Which brought him to this particular moment. Felix was reaching for buttons that weren’t there, yelling sleepily at nothing. It took him several blinks to see where he was, even if he couldn’t comprehend it in the least. It was a small room, about the size of a closet and just as dark. Movement made things rustle and clatter about in a noisy fashion. And the whole place smelled remarkably of…
Coffee?
The good stuff too, not the junk they’d been filtering and re-filtering onboard Galactica the past few years. Felix saw a sliver of light peering out from beneath a door and threw himself at it, finding it his only salvation (he was terribly claustrophobic after all.) Outside was, distressingly enough, a coffee shop.
A brief fascination with psychology -- before he buckled down to the real sciences -- told him that he must be dreaming.
What: Arrival
When: 30th Morning
Where: A storage closet in the cafe
Rating: Low
Felix pulled himself away from the console, a blaring klaxon in his ears. Insinctively he was on his feet and fumbling for buttons on the switchboard, a half-functioning mouth forming the words “Action stations, action stations!” and sounding far more slurred aloud than they had in his head.
Honestly, it worried him that he might have fallen asleep on the job. The punishment was always the same. A verbal beating from Colonel Tigh to which he could only reply with a dispassionate “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” and “Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again.” But maybe - well - things had changed after New Caprica. Felix was no longer the doe-eyed boy with his hair cropped short and a natural likeability. If not likeability, then he inspired ambivalence. After New Caprica, ambivalence turned to disgust and those who liked him came to distrust him. He no longer rushed to follow orders for the sake of them being followed. Yes, it was his job, but it used to be so much more than that.
Used to.
Which brought him to this particular moment. Felix was reaching for buttons that weren’t there, yelling sleepily at nothing. It took him several blinks to see where he was, even if he couldn’t comprehend it in the least. It was a small room, about the size of a closet and just as dark. Movement made things rustle and clatter about in a noisy fashion. And the whole place smelled remarkably of…
Coffee?
The good stuff too, not the junk they’d been filtering and re-filtering onboard Galactica the past few years. Felix saw a sliver of light peering out from beneath a door and threw himself at it, finding it his only salvation (he was terribly claustrophobic after all.) Outside was, distressingly enough, a coffee shop.
A brief fascination with psychology -- before he buckled down to the real sciences -- told him that he must be dreaming.