Children of Gods: Chapter Eight
Title: Children of Gods
Authors: miabicicletta and olga_theodora
Summary: “Never thought of you as a team player, Tory,” Kara states grimly, her small knife still pointed at Tory’s heart.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series) T+ (Chapter 8)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Thanks so much to everyone who has read and commented so far! We adore you, good readers!
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD'S END
CHAPTER TWO: BEAUTY FOR ASHES
CHAPTER THREE: THE WIDENING GYRE
CHAPTER FOUR: A SHORT SHARP SHOCK
CHAPTER FIVE: ALLIANCES
CHAPTER SIX: JUMP POINT
CHAPTER SEVEN: IN THE ARMED MADHOUSE
---
CHAPTER EIGHT: FIRST CONTACT
Starsailors [ ] and where, oh Gods, are you when they mar the sands of Leonis with the blood of innocents? The stars [ ] as Crete of old called for tributes. Gravid Athena and Fortune join the builder of mythic creatures [ ] in the weary traveler; and the dear one takes up the sword.
Unlike the majority of the Delphic fragments found in the trash heaps of Oxyrhynchus- prophecies of such vagueness and similarity so as to make it impossible to ascribe them to any one oracle with any certainty- this perplexing prophecy was quickly identified by scholars as being the work of the fiftieth Oracle of Delphi, uttered roughly five-hundred years before the beginning of the United Era. Noted for its unusual use of the word “starsailors,” a word rarely found anywhere outside of the writings of the original Pythia, the contents of the prophecy were also transcribed by the Gemenese priest who originally received her words in his journal, which for many years lay in the Gemenese Museum of History. Along with his journal were his notes, which provide a fascinating look at his forty-year attempt to explain the many questions brought up within the prophecy. Though his explanations at times derail into the ridiculous, his earnest speculations regarding the starsailors remain oft-quoted by the top academics of the day.
It is said that Father Brenik’s journal contained the prophecy in full, and that his notes are incomplete and do not touch on the true substance of the original prophecy. It is thus doubly unfortunate that not only was the journal irrevocably lost in the riots of 34 UE, any book that may have replicated his journal was destroyed in the purge of 13 UE.
This unfortunate loss aside, it should come as a surprise to no one that even in its fragmented state, the majority of scholars believe the prophecy came to pass during the 50th Colonial Games.
- From Fragments and Potshards: the Lost Prophecies of the Oracle of Delphi, translated with commentary by Marcia Case.
---
They have, at most, till dawn in the guard tower. The Gamemakers will not allow so many prominent players to hole up in a relatively safe place for any longer than that; they have a vested interest in providing blood sport to the masses. Laura cherishes every quiet minute as they sort through the contents of their various bundles. There is a bag of rice in one bag, and she sets it aside for a spartan dinner. Provided it hasn’t been poisoned, that is one less meal they have to worry about.
The rest of the supplies range from the practical to absurd: three guns of various make and range, a slingshot, a sewing kit, bandages, matches, four blankets and a set of puppets which look suspiciously like the President.
Kara regards the puppets with a dubious eye. “Maybe we could scare someone to death with them.” Cally giggles sleepily, resting her head on her arms, looking ready for a nap.
Laura thinks it more likely that the person who originally packed the bag is going to find themselves executed. She moves away from the table to the stove and examines the rice carefully, keeping it within its original packaging as she looks for any odd traces of color or powder that would indicate a suspicious product. Sam moves up beside her and lights a burner with one match, exhaling quietly in relief when he sees only a cheery ring of flame.
“It’s worth the risk,” he offers, nodding his head at the rice, which looks like every other bag of rice Laura has encountered in her life. “What else are we going to eat?”
He has a point. There is nothing else available within the building, and the chances of finding an alternate source of food outside and not running into another Tribute are slim.
It is still early enough in the Games that Laura finds herself unsatisfied with their small meal of plain rice. In a day or two- provided she is still alive- a bowl of plain rice will seem like heaven. At the moment, the memory of her excellent pre-Game breakfast is still too sharp. Most of the others seem to be feeling much the same way, judging by their reluctant yet dutiful consumption of their plain fare. The only exception is Cally, who happily scrapes every grain from her bowl.
It is fortunate, in a sense, that they decide to stand watch in pairs, else there would not be enough blankets to go around. Laura cannot imagine that many in the group would be willing to share, and with a flash of sudden amusement she allows herself to imagine how she might present such a dilemma as a logic problem to her students: If a group consisting of three men and three women of various ages possess four blankets, and the group is constituted of one stepmother and her stepson, the stepson’s female best friend/potential love interest, one twelve-year old child, one misanthropic man, and one superstar athlete who is interested in aforementioned female best friend, which are the two least awkward sleeping pairs that might result? Alternately, how long before someone dies tragically? Discuss.
The amusement disappears as quickly as it came.
---
Laura and Cally take the first shift, though as Lee wraps himself in his blanket he has to wonder how long Cally will last. The girl is obviously fatigued: her eyelids continually flutter shut even as she attempts to stay awake. She sits on the ground next to a chair, her head resting on her arms. Lee is selfishly glad that his stepmother is her partner. Laura is the only one he trusts to not only keep an impartial eye on everyone, but also one of the two people in the room he trusts not to slit his throat as soon as he falls asleep.
He finds himself a bit shocked to realize that he is, on some level, suspicious of Cally.
Beside him, Kara drapes her blanket loosely over herself and pillows her head onto an empty pack. She seems already asleep: her eyes are shut, her breathing deep and even. Lee envies her. His own eyes will not close. He stares blankly into the room, not really focusing on Cally or on his stepmother, and definitely not focusing on Saul or Sam.
Cally lifts her head from her arms and looks quizzically at Laura. “Your tags are different.”
It’s true: Laura’s dog tags have slipped over the collar of her black uniform, betraying the fact that of her two octagonal pieces, one is gold and one silver. Lee glances down at his own silver tags. It hits him a second later.
“One of them is my dad's,” he says quietly to Cally, remembering the way the gold pieces of metal clinked lightly together while his father shaved. “Was my dad’s.”
Laura doesn’t add anything to this exchange. The far-away look in her eyes says enough.
---
She’s not sleeping deeply, but her brain has gone quiet enough, is just barely relaxed enough, to dream. More memories than dreams, really, but her mind is totally in control of guiding the effortless, semi-conscious flow.
Laura feels the odd yet familiar sensation of being both in the dream yet somehow outside of it, beyond it, watching herself take part.
Innocuous flashes play out at first: the flutter of drying art projects hanging from the strings that cross her wide-windowed classroom at Athena Academy. The scene is cluttered with her fourth graders’ papers and quizzes and mobiles of the solar system that turn the simple wood-paneled room into a tidy, colorful mess.
An uncertain shift, and she’s helping Zak and Billy paint the room they insisted on sharing after Bill and the boys moved in. Zak has paint on his nose and Lee is climbing on top of a dresser to reach all the way to the ceiling.
Suddenly she's lying in the backyard with Cassandra and Cheryl, giggling at something unknown but wildly funny. Their mother waters the garden, either strong enough to do so still or not yet sick. It is a precious, sparkling moment. Laura is not sure it is a real memory.
Somewhere in her mind, synapses are firing as the chemical combinations in her brain swirl with emotionally-charged momentum. Suddenly she’s staring down at her son, hours after his birth, unable to bring herself to care much for this child she wanted no part in creating. The not-quite-asleep part of her mind winces at the shameful reminder of the many weeks and months she spent in the haze of post-partum depression, and longs to have him in her arms again.
A bright room. Recycled air, like the transport that had taken her between Colonies the times she’d been off planet. A whiteboard scrawled with numbers and a quiet hum of engines. Beyond the portside windows, only stars...
But the stars are gone, and she’s in her bedroom with Bill, and it is some lazy, sunny afternoon. The kids must be elsewhere because they’d never have this chance otherwise, and he’s kissing her in that soft, slow way that’s like bliss and agony at once. His hand tangles in her hair, massaging her scalp gently as he drags his lips along her jaw, dusting over the skin of her neck to that spot on her collarbone that sends sparks through her entire body, an electric shock that goes right to the core of her. She feels him smiling, smug at the gasp he’s always able to elicit, but she hardly cares and mumbles something incoherent about boarding schools.
He chuckles deeply, dropping his forehead to her chest so that she can feel the reverberation through her entire body. A corner of her mouth turns up at the sight of the tousled, sexy expression he wears as he smiles up at her, his cheek against her breast. “I love you,” dream Bill says, and Laura hums with happiness.
Any other time, a dream like this would make her roll over and press her body against her husband’s, causing her hands and lips to wander until he, too, was similarly inspired. But now the fading half-memory only leaves her bitter. Her husband is most likely dead, her children taken, and Laura wakes biting her lip in an effort to quell her grief and rage.
The light dripping in through the shuttered windows is pale and watery, heralding the very beginning of dawn. Sam and Kara, the current guards on watch, give her a quick glance as she pulls herself into a sitting position on the hard wooden floor. She feels jittery and uncomfortable in her own skin.
“Have we heard anything?” she asks them in a murmur. There is always some way dreamed up by the Gamemakers to relate the latest deaths or challenges to the Tributes, and the fact that they have not yet heard anything makes Laura nervous. In her Games loudspeakers had been used; in another images had been projected across the sky. Five years ago they proudly announced their most inventive method yet: chips implanted in the brain that somehow relate every shred of news to the Tributes in real time, activated at the time of the siren. Laura does not remember impromptu brain surgery during training, but she would not put it past the Gamemakers to figure out a way to do it without her knowledge. But she has heard nothing, and she waits for Sam and Kara to relay the news.
They shake their heads in denial. Kara’s hair is mussed and her eyeliner has smudged. She looks haunted. Laura finds her body language interesting: she and Sam curve slightly toward each other even as they keep a safe distance. Laura can count on one hand the number of times she has seen Kara lean toward someone rather than away, and every other time has been with Lee. Generally chaos ensued.
There is leftover rice in the pot, sticky and glutinous and hard for Laura to swallow in the wake of hazy memory and grief. Gradually everyone clambers out of sleep and joins her in the small morning meal, all looking uncomfortable and drawn as they wait for something, anything to happen in this quiet before the storm.
The storm breaks with D’Anna’s cheery voice spilling out of the walls from no discernible source.
“Good morning, brave Tributes.”
Cally’s hands grip the edge of her chair reflexively, her bowl clattering to the floor.
“We began our Games with a stunning forty-eight Tributes. I am pleased to tell you that within the first exciting half hour fifteen of those Tributes were taken out of the Games, and in the hours since four more. You now number twenty-nine Tributes total! A truly explosive beginning.”
From the quick glances being sent around the room, it is apparent that everyone is calculating their current odds. Out of the twenty-nine Tributes, six sit in this small room. A little over twenty percent of the current contenders.
“Generally before the Games begin we are accustomed to dropping small, scintillating hints about what makes the newest Game unique from the others. Perhaps you are thinking that our unusually large Tribute pool was the only unique factor of the year. I am pleased to announce to you that the scope of this Game is so large, so broad, that I cannot tell you everything over this broadcast- nor am I allowed to do so.
“I know that you look forward with delight to each surprise as it is unveiled. I am here to tell you the first: the creation of team-based tasks, which will, I am sure, boost the spirit of sportsmanship and competition within each of you.
“For now, you will not seek out the tasks. The tasks will seek you.”
Kara shifts slightly, looking as if she is preparing to spring from her spot on the floor toward the doorway.
“I wish you all luck. And one small hint: for those stubbornly hiding away, intent on avoiding your glorious fates, I suggest you run.”
There is something underlying the broadcast that Laura cannot quite pinpoint. It sounds almost like a faint layer of white noise, the crackle of a bad connection.
“Frak,” Kara gasps, shooting to her feet and grabbing Cally’s arm. “It’s going to blow. Run!”
The door is locked, costing precious seconds as Kara fumbles with the rusted bolts. The open door costs yet more, as the urge to run overpowers their senses and they all try to jam through at once. They barely reach the trees before their temporary haven is destroyed in a deafening explosion behind them. There is a short cry from Cally, who stumbles to the ground, a shard of rock piercing her calf. Laura has managed to avoid large pieces of detritus, but her skin feels scored by cuts from smaller pieces of shrapnel. She glances quickly at her other companions, all hunkered down behind trees, and thinks that Cally’s injury is probably the worst.
As Kara pulls a roll of bandaging from her bag, a figure in Virgonese blue steps out from a stand of trees, something small clutched in her hand.
“Easy,” she says as they reach for their various weapons, unfolding her fingers to reveal a pot of antibacterial gel. She gestures as she talks - useful, as Laura's ears are still ringing from the blast. “I don’t suppose you have a needle and something to sterilize it with?” Tory asks calmly, pushing a loose lock of dark hair away from her eyes. “Unless you were planning on leaving her here.”
Cally lets out a small sob as Laura gently extracts the shard from her leg, examining the damage. The girl will need stitches after all.
“Never thought of you as a team player, Tory,” Kara states grimly, her small knife still pointed at Tory’s heart.
Tory shrugs, proffering the pot. “I’m willing to join a team while it can get me ahead.”
The statement sounds truthful enough, and certainly matches with what Laura knows of Tory. Laura looks up from her examination with a cross expression. “Take the pot, Kara, and thread one of those needles. We don’t have the time or the supplies to sterilize it, so smear it with the gel and count it done.”
Tory watches the proceedings with interest. “Do you have much experience with battlefield medicine?”
“No,” Laura says shortly, cleaning out the wound as best she can with water, gel, and a clean-looking scrap of cloth. “But I have mended more shirts than I wish to admit.”
As the needle glints in the early sun, Cally takes a shaky breath and clamps a stick between her teeth. Tory kneels and takes her hands.
The move does not make Cally calmer; instead, Laura notes that she grows paler and shakes all the more.
Laura is not very calm herself, at that; while her hands stay steady as she closes the wound, her face gradually grows whiter. Only when the wound is bandaged and Cally is back on her feet does some of the color return to Laura’s face.
She sees Sam watching with a critical eye as Cally limps further into the trees, most likely thinking what they are all thinking: the stitches will not hold if she has to run, that it may prove to be a waste of needed materials if her slow pace jeopardizes the entire team. Blood poisoning cannot be entirely ruled out.
She is, quite frankly, a serious risk.
“How about a ride?” Sam suddenly asks Cally with a grin that covers most of the doubt still lingering on his face. He is putting himself in danger with this offer: at best she slows him down, at worst she decides to slash his throat with a hidden knife or attack his eyes with her fingers.
Laura sees Kara scowl. As the girl roughly pushes tendrils of hair off of her forehead- more habit than necessity, Laura guesses, remembering the times Kara did the same thing during Colonial Literature classes- she mutters something uncharitable about taking the kid on as a human shield.
“You could fit in my pocket,” Sam continues with a calm smile as he hoists Cally onto his back. “Well?” he asks the group, looking very at ease with the entire situation. “Which direction?”
It scarcely matters, as long as they avoid the hospital or one of the other towers, all places where Tributes are liable to gather, provided the structures are still standing. They head south, walking up a hill.
The Sphinx confronts them an hour later. Tail curled neatly around her feet, she offers them a polite grin, displaying some very sharp teeth.
“How many miles to Babylon?” she asks, flicking her tail.
Kara sums up the feelings of all by uttering a sincere, guttural “Frak.”
---
“Frak,” Bill groans as he watches the bank of screens in front of him, straining to remember his long-ago lessons on Colonial mythology. When he had been a boy the subject had been taught with respect and fondness; in the past decade he had been treated to more impassioned tirades on the sneering tones of the latest textbooks that he ever wished to hear- even if Laura did look particularly lovely when she was angry at someone other than himself.
Zak drops into the seat next to him, looking glum. His hair is mussed and there is a crease on his right cheek, evidence of his unasked-for nap. “Did I- are they okay?”
“Tory Foster's joined their team, the little Virgon girl is injured, and a Sphinx just asked Kara a riddle,” Bill sums up, rubbing a hand across his face wearily.
Zak slumps back into his seat. “Frak.”
There is a sudden commotion at the heavily guarded entrance. A man clothed in the garb of a hunter is arguing with an annoyed Kat, who seems to be under the impression that the best way to communicate her displeasure is with the use of exaggerated gestures.
“Lt. Katraine,” Cottle snaps, “I would be obliged if you would cease berating our fearless leader.” He glares impartially at the man, continuing, “Of course, if you would shave off that bush above your lip every once in a while you would be easier to identify.”
“Exactly why I have said bush.” He steps around the shocked Kat and marches directly toward Cottle with the expression of a man who does not intend to stop until his opponent has backed over the nearest cliff. “I would be pleased to rid myself of it as soon as you explain to me your latest godsdamn plan to save my child and all of her assorted limbs from the arena.”
“Can’t say I have a plan to get all of her limbs out,” Cottle snipes, fumbling for a cigarette. “Like her father, she keeps running into places she shouldn’t. Who in Hades brought you here?”
“I did.” Simon nods wearily from just inside the door as Kat bolts it behind him. “If I didn’t, he would just hitch-hike here, you know that.”
“Just proves my point.” Cottle lights the cigarette with a grimace. “Bill, let me introduce you to your wife’s partner in mayhem. Daniel Thrace, meet Bill Adama.”
Now that Bill knows his name, he can see the faint resemblance hidden beneath the beard. The clenched jaw is pure Kara. “I’ve pulled your daughter out of a lot of scrapes in the past few years,” he says, glancing at the screens out of the corner of his eye just in time to see a flicker of panic in Kara’s expression.
Understandably, Daniel does not look to be in the mood for small talk, but when his own gaze darts toward the screens he catches a glimpse of Laura, and his expression softens somewhat. “I was very sorry to hear about your wife,” he says. “We need her desperately.” He makes a slight, awkward shift in his stance, and in the space of mere seconds Bill remembers countless times he has seen Kara make that same slight shuffle. For all of her inborn mettle, she is by nature restless.
Zak is watching this exchange from his seat with a look of keen interest. “Mom is really some secret rebel mastermind?” he asks in a pleasant, no-nonsense tone, as if he already knows the answer and simply seeks public affirmation.
A small smile quirks the balance of Daniel’s beard. “Sometimes she scares me,” he admits in a low tone, and drops the bag in his hands onto the floor. “I’m glad that Kara-”
He stops, squinting. “She’s been keeping me up to date on everyone for several years now,” he says instead, turning toward the screens. Like an omniscient god, the Sphinx smiles directly into the camera, meeting their eyes and licking sharp teeth.
---
D’Anna leans languidly against a wall in the control room, a small smile wavering on her lips at Kara’s heartfelt obscenity. She glances toward the chairs in the center of the room as Leoben laughs lightly. The boy sitting near him looks as if he is about to topple over some mental precipice, his hands clenching tightly over his knees.
“Poor kid,” she hears Athena mutter under her breath, and they exchange a quick glance. Athena whispers something to the man at her side, and he moves away to take the seat next to the young man.
Whatever he says to the boy seems to make a difference. Zarek’s son straightens in his seat and looks away from the screen for the first time in hours.
“Can he talk about anything other than pyramid?” D’Anna asks Athena dryly. “I’ve often wondered.”
Athena tries, yet ultimately fails, to hide her scowl. “He’s interesting.”
“In many ways, I’m sure.” She casts a significant glance at the slope of Athena’s stomach. “Perhaps you’d care to loan him out?”
“From your mouth to Cavil’s ears,” Athena mutters.
D’Anna smirks and turns her attention back to the screen, where Kara is stamping her foot in outrage. The Sphinx smiles seraphically, lifting a paw to casually examine her glistening claws.
Somewhere, D’Anna knows, Daniel is pitching an absolute fit.
---
Coming next week:
Tory stands back from their number, her arms crossed as she considers the Sphinx coolly. “How many wrong answers do we get?” she asks the Sphinx directly.
The Sphinx considers her for a long moment, powerful wings rippling slightly. “You’re trying to cheat,” she says in an almost quizzical tone. “You’re not supposed to cheat.” Her tail lashes in agitation.
Authors: miabicicletta and olga_theodora
Summary: “Never thought of you as a team player, Tory,” Kara states grimly, her small knife still pointed at Tory’s heart.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series) T+ (Chapter 8)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Thanks so much to everyone who has read and commented so far! We adore you, good readers!
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD'S END
CHAPTER TWO: BEAUTY FOR ASHES
CHAPTER THREE: THE WIDENING GYRE
CHAPTER FOUR: A SHORT SHARP SHOCK
CHAPTER FIVE: ALLIANCES
CHAPTER SIX: JUMP POINT
CHAPTER SEVEN: IN THE ARMED MADHOUSE
---
CHAPTER EIGHT: FIRST CONTACT
Starsailors [ ] and where, oh Gods, are you when they mar the sands of Leonis with the blood of innocents? The stars [ ] as Crete of old called for tributes. Gravid Athena and Fortune join the builder of mythic creatures [ ] in the weary traveler; and the dear one takes up the sword.
Unlike the majority of the Delphic fragments found in the trash heaps of Oxyrhynchus- prophecies of such vagueness and similarity so as to make it impossible to ascribe them to any one oracle with any certainty- this perplexing prophecy was quickly identified by scholars as being the work of the fiftieth Oracle of Delphi, uttered roughly five-hundred years before the beginning of the United Era. Noted for its unusual use of the word “starsailors,” a word rarely found anywhere outside of the writings of the original Pythia, the contents of the prophecy were also transcribed by the Gemenese priest who originally received her words in his journal, which for many years lay in the Gemenese Museum of History. Along with his journal were his notes, which provide a fascinating look at his forty-year attempt to explain the many questions brought up within the prophecy. Though his explanations at times derail into the ridiculous, his earnest speculations regarding the starsailors remain oft-quoted by the top academics of the day.
It is said that Father Brenik’s journal contained the prophecy in full, and that his notes are incomplete and do not touch on the true substance of the original prophecy. It is thus doubly unfortunate that not only was the journal irrevocably lost in the riots of 34 UE, any book that may have replicated his journal was destroyed in the purge of 13 UE.
This unfortunate loss aside, it should come as a surprise to no one that even in its fragmented state, the majority of scholars believe the prophecy came to pass during the 50th Colonial Games.
- From Fragments and Potshards: the Lost Prophecies of the Oracle of Delphi, translated with commentary by Marcia Case.
---
They have, at most, till dawn in the guard tower. The Gamemakers will not allow so many prominent players to hole up in a relatively safe place for any longer than that; they have a vested interest in providing blood sport to the masses. Laura cherishes every quiet minute as they sort through the contents of their various bundles. There is a bag of rice in one bag, and she sets it aside for a spartan dinner. Provided it hasn’t been poisoned, that is one less meal they have to worry about.
The rest of the supplies range from the practical to absurd: three guns of various make and range, a slingshot, a sewing kit, bandages, matches, four blankets and a set of puppets which look suspiciously like the President.
Kara regards the puppets with a dubious eye. “Maybe we could scare someone to death with them.” Cally giggles sleepily, resting her head on her arms, looking ready for a nap.
Laura thinks it more likely that the person who originally packed the bag is going to find themselves executed. She moves away from the table to the stove and examines the rice carefully, keeping it within its original packaging as she looks for any odd traces of color or powder that would indicate a suspicious product. Sam moves up beside her and lights a burner with one match, exhaling quietly in relief when he sees only a cheery ring of flame.
“It’s worth the risk,” he offers, nodding his head at the rice, which looks like every other bag of rice Laura has encountered in her life. “What else are we going to eat?”
He has a point. There is nothing else available within the building, and the chances of finding an alternate source of food outside and not running into another Tribute are slim.
It is still early enough in the Games that Laura finds herself unsatisfied with their small meal of plain rice. In a day or two- provided she is still alive- a bowl of plain rice will seem like heaven. At the moment, the memory of her excellent pre-Game breakfast is still too sharp. Most of the others seem to be feeling much the same way, judging by their reluctant yet dutiful consumption of their plain fare. The only exception is Cally, who happily scrapes every grain from her bowl.
It is fortunate, in a sense, that they decide to stand watch in pairs, else there would not be enough blankets to go around. Laura cannot imagine that many in the group would be willing to share, and with a flash of sudden amusement she allows herself to imagine how she might present such a dilemma as a logic problem to her students: If a group consisting of three men and three women of various ages possess four blankets, and the group is constituted of one stepmother and her stepson, the stepson’s female best friend/potential love interest, one twelve-year old child, one misanthropic man, and one superstar athlete who is interested in aforementioned female best friend, which are the two least awkward sleeping pairs that might result? Alternately, how long before someone dies tragically? Discuss.
The amusement disappears as quickly as it came.
---
Laura and Cally take the first shift, though as Lee wraps himself in his blanket he has to wonder how long Cally will last. The girl is obviously fatigued: her eyelids continually flutter shut even as she attempts to stay awake. She sits on the ground next to a chair, her head resting on her arms. Lee is selfishly glad that his stepmother is her partner. Laura is the only one he trusts to not only keep an impartial eye on everyone, but also one of the two people in the room he trusts not to slit his throat as soon as he falls asleep.
He finds himself a bit shocked to realize that he is, on some level, suspicious of Cally.
Beside him, Kara drapes her blanket loosely over herself and pillows her head onto an empty pack. She seems already asleep: her eyes are shut, her breathing deep and even. Lee envies her. His own eyes will not close. He stares blankly into the room, not really focusing on Cally or on his stepmother, and definitely not focusing on Saul or Sam.
Cally lifts her head from her arms and looks quizzically at Laura. “Your tags are different.”
It’s true: Laura’s dog tags have slipped over the collar of her black uniform, betraying the fact that of her two octagonal pieces, one is gold and one silver. Lee glances down at his own silver tags. It hits him a second later.
“One of them is my dad's,” he says quietly to Cally, remembering the way the gold pieces of metal clinked lightly together while his father shaved. “Was my dad’s.”
Laura doesn’t add anything to this exchange. The far-away look in her eyes says enough.
---
She’s not sleeping deeply, but her brain has gone quiet enough, is just barely relaxed enough, to dream. More memories than dreams, really, but her mind is totally in control of guiding the effortless, semi-conscious flow.
Laura feels the odd yet familiar sensation of being both in the dream yet somehow outside of it, beyond it, watching herself take part.
Innocuous flashes play out at first: the flutter of drying art projects hanging from the strings that cross her wide-windowed classroom at Athena Academy. The scene is cluttered with her fourth graders’ papers and quizzes and mobiles of the solar system that turn the simple wood-paneled room into a tidy, colorful mess.
An uncertain shift, and she’s helping Zak and Billy paint the room they insisted on sharing after Bill and the boys moved in. Zak has paint on his nose and Lee is climbing on top of a dresser to reach all the way to the ceiling.
Suddenly she's lying in the backyard with Cassandra and Cheryl, giggling at something unknown but wildly funny. Their mother waters the garden, either strong enough to do so still or not yet sick. It is a precious, sparkling moment. Laura is not sure it is a real memory.
Somewhere in her mind, synapses are firing as the chemical combinations in her brain swirl with emotionally-charged momentum. Suddenly she’s staring down at her son, hours after his birth, unable to bring herself to care much for this child she wanted no part in creating. The not-quite-asleep part of her mind winces at the shameful reminder of the many weeks and months she spent in the haze of post-partum depression, and longs to have him in her arms again.
A bright room. Recycled air, like the transport that had taken her between Colonies the times she’d been off planet. A whiteboard scrawled with numbers and a quiet hum of engines. Beyond the portside windows, only stars...
But the stars are gone, and she’s in her bedroom with Bill, and it is some lazy, sunny afternoon. The kids must be elsewhere because they’d never have this chance otherwise, and he’s kissing her in that soft, slow way that’s like bliss and agony at once. His hand tangles in her hair, massaging her scalp gently as he drags his lips along her jaw, dusting over the skin of her neck to that spot on her collarbone that sends sparks through her entire body, an electric shock that goes right to the core of her. She feels him smiling, smug at the gasp he’s always able to elicit, but she hardly cares and mumbles something incoherent about boarding schools.
He chuckles deeply, dropping his forehead to her chest so that she can feel the reverberation through her entire body. A corner of her mouth turns up at the sight of the tousled, sexy expression he wears as he smiles up at her, his cheek against her breast. “I love you,” dream Bill says, and Laura hums with happiness.
Any other time, a dream like this would make her roll over and press her body against her husband’s, causing her hands and lips to wander until he, too, was similarly inspired. But now the fading half-memory only leaves her bitter. Her husband is most likely dead, her children taken, and Laura wakes biting her lip in an effort to quell her grief and rage.
The light dripping in through the shuttered windows is pale and watery, heralding the very beginning of dawn. Sam and Kara, the current guards on watch, give her a quick glance as she pulls herself into a sitting position on the hard wooden floor. She feels jittery and uncomfortable in her own skin.
“Have we heard anything?” she asks them in a murmur. There is always some way dreamed up by the Gamemakers to relate the latest deaths or challenges to the Tributes, and the fact that they have not yet heard anything makes Laura nervous. In her Games loudspeakers had been used; in another images had been projected across the sky. Five years ago they proudly announced their most inventive method yet: chips implanted in the brain that somehow relate every shred of news to the Tributes in real time, activated at the time of the siren. Laura does not remember impromptu brain surgery during training, but she would not put it past the Gamemakers to figure out a way to do it without her knowledge. But she has heard nothing, and she waits for Sam and Kara to relay the news.
They shake their heads in denial. Kara’s hair is mussed and her eyeliner has smudged. She looks haunted. Laura finds her body language interesting: she and Sam curve slightly toward each other even as they keep a safe distance. Laura can count on one hand the number of times she has seen Kara lean toward someone rather than away, and every other time has been with Lee. Generally chaos ensued.
There is leftover rice in the pot, sticky and glutinous and hard for Laura to swallow in the wake of hazy memory and grief. Gradually everyone clambers out of sleep and joins her in the small morning meal, all looking uncomfortable and drawn as they wait for something, anything to happen in this quiet before the storm.
The storm breaks with D’Anna’s cheery voice spilling out of the walls from no discernible source.
“Good morning, brave Tributes.”
Cally’s hands grip the edge of her chair reflexively, her bowl clattering to the floor.
“We began our Games with a stunning forty-eight Tributes. I am pleased to tell you that within the first exciting half hour fifteen of those Tributes were taken out of the Games, and in the hours since four more. You now number twenty-nine Tributes total! A truly explosive beginning.”
From the quick glances being sent around the room, it is apparent that everyone is calculating their current odds. Out of the twenty-nine Tributes, six sit in this small room. A little over twenty percent of the current contenders.
“Generally before the Games begin we are accustomed to dropping small, scintillating hints about what makes the newest Game unique from the others. Perhaps you are thinking that our unusually large Tribute pool was the only unique factor of the year. I am pleased to announce to you that the scope of this Game is so large, so broad, that I cannot tell you everything over this broadcast- nor am I allowed to do so.
“I know that you look forward with delight to each surprise as it is unveiled. I am here to tell you the first: the creation of team-based tasks, which will, I am sure, boost the spirit of sportsmanship and competition within each of you.
“For now, you will not seek out the tasks. The tasks will seek you.”
Kara shifts slightly, looking as if she is preparing to spring from her spot on the floor toward the doorway.
“I wish you all luck. And one small hint: for those stubbornly hiding away, intent on avoiding your glorious fates, I suggest you run.”
There is something underlying the broadcast that Laura cannot quite pinpoint. It sounds almost like a faint layer of white noise, the crackle of a bad connection.
“Frak,” Kara gasps, shooting to her feet and grabbing Cally’s arm. “It’s going to blow. Run!”
The door is locked, costing precious seconds as Kara fumbles with the rusted bolts. The open door costs yet more, as the urge to run overpowers their senses and they all try to jam through at once. They barely reach the trees before their temporary haven is destroyed in a deafening explosion behind them. There is a short cry from Cally, who stumbles to the ground, a shard of rock piercing her calf. Laura has managed to avoid large pieces of detritus, but her skin feels scored by cuts from smaller pieces of shrapnel. She glances quickly at her other companions, all hunkered down behind trees, and thinks that Cally’s injury is probably the worst.
As Kara pulls a roll of bandaging from her bag, a figure in Virgonese blue steps out from a stand of trees, something small clutched in her hand.
“Easy,” she says as they reach for their various weapons, unfolding her fingers to reveal a pot of antibacterial gel. She gestures as she talks - useful, as Laura's ears are still ringing from the blast. “I don’t suppose you have a needle and something to sterilize it with?” Tory asks calmly, pushing a loose lock of dark hair away from her eyes. “Unless you were planning on leaving her here.”
Cally lets out a small sob as Laura gently extracts the shard from her leg, examining the damage. The girl will need stitches after all.
“Never thought of you as a team player, Tory,” Kara states grimly, her small knife still pointed at Tory’s heart.
Tory shrugs, proffering the pot. “I’m willing to join a team while it can get me ahead.”
The statement sounds truthful enough, and certainly matches with what Laura knows of Tory. Laura looks up from her examination with a cross expression. “Take the pot, Kara, and thread one of those needles. We don’t have the time or the supplies to sterilize it, so smear it with the gel and count it done.”
Tory watches the proceedings with interest. “Do you have much experience with battlefield medicine?”
“No,” Laura says shortly, cleaning out the wound as best she can with water, gel, and a clean-looking scrap of cloth. “But I have mended more shirts than I wish to admit.”
As the needle glints in the early sun, Cally takes a shaky breath and clamps a stick between her teeth. Tory kneels and takes her hands.
The move does not make Cally calmer; instead, Laura notes that she grows paler and shakes all the more.
Laura is not very calm herself, at that; while her hands stay steady as she closes the wound, her face gradually grows whiter. Only when the wound is bandaged and Cally is back on her feet does some of the color return to Laura’s face.
She sees Sam watching with a critical eye as Cally limps further into the trees, most likely thinking what they are all thinking: the stitches will not hold if she has to run, that it may prove to be a waste of needed materials if her slow pace jeopardizes the entire team. Blood poisoning cannot be entirely ruled out.
She is, quite frankly, a serious risk.
“How about a ride?” Sam suddenly asks Cally with a grin that covers most of the doubt still lingering on his face. He is putting himself in danger with this offer: at best she slows him down, at worst she decides to slash his throat with a hidden knife or attack his eyes with her fingers.
Laura sees Kara scowl. As the girl roughly pushes tendrils of hair off of her forehead- more habit than necessity, Laura guesses, remembering the times Kara did the same thing during Colonial Literature classes- she mutters something uncharitable about taking the kid on as a human shield.
“You could fit in my pocket,” Sam continues with a calm smile as he hoists Cally onto his back. “Well?” he asks the group, looking very at ease with the entire situation. “Which direction?”
It scarcely matters, as long as they avoid the hospital or one of the other towers, all places where Tributes are liable to gather, provided the structures are still standing. They head south, walking up a hill.
The Sphinx confronts them an hour later. Tail curled neatly around her feet, she offers them a polite grin, displaying some very sharp teeth.
“How many miles to Babylon?” she asks, flicking her tail.
Kara sums up the feelings of all by uttering a sincere, guttural “Frak.”
---
“Frak,” Bill groans as he watches the bank of screens in front of him, straining to remember his long-ago lessons on Colonial mythology. When he had been a boy the subject had been taught with respect and fondness; in the past decade he had been treated to more impassioned tirades on the sneering tones of the latest textbooks that he ever wished to hear- even if Laura did look particularly lovely when she was angry at someone other than himself.
Zak drops into the seat next to him, looking glum. His hair is mussed and there is a crease on his right cheek, evidence of his unasked-for nap. “Did I- are they okay?”
“Tory Foster's joined their team, the little Virgon girl is injured, and a Sphinx just asked Kara a riddle,” Bill sums up, rubbing a hand across his face wearily.
Zak slumps back into his seat. “Frak.”
There is a sudden commotion at the heavily guarded entrance. A man clothed in the garb of a hunter is arguing with an annoyed Kat, who seems to be under the impression that the best way to communicate her displeasure is with the use of exaggerated gestures.
“Lt. Katraine,” Cottle snaps, “I would be obliged if you would cease berating our fearless leader.” He glares impartially at the man, continuing, “Of course, if you would shave off that bush above your lip every once in a while you would be easier to identify.”
“Exactly why I have said bush.” He steps around the shocked Kat and marches directly toward Cottle with the expression of a man who does not intend to stop until his opponent has backed over the nearest cliff. “I would be pleased to rid myself of it as soon as you explain to me your latest godsdamn plan to save my child and all of her assorted limbs from the arena.”
“Can’t say I have a plan to get all of her limbs out,” Cottle snipes, fumbling for a cigarette. “Like her father, she keeps running into places she shouldn’t. Who in Hades brought you here?”
“I did.” Simon nods wearily from just inside the door as Kat bolts it behind him. “If I didn’t, he would just hitch-hike here, you know that.”
“Just proves my point.” Cottle lights the cigarette with a grimace. “Bill, let me introduce you to your wife’s partner in mayhem. Daniel Thrace, meet Bill Adama.”
Now that Bill knows his name, he can see the faint resemblance hidden beneath the beard. The clenched jaw is pure Kara. “I’ve pulled your daughter out of a lot of scrapes in the past few years,” he says, glancing at the screens out of the corner of his eye just in time to see a flicker of panic in Kara’s expression.
Understandably, Daniel does not look to be in the mood for small talk, but when his own gaze darts toward the screens he catches a glimpse of Laura, and his expression softens somewhat. “I was very sorry to hear about your wife,” he says. “We need her desperately.” He makes a slight, awkward shift in his stance, and in the space of mere seconds Bill remembers countless times he has seen Kara make that same slight shuffle. For all of her inborn mettle, she is by nature restless.
Zak is watching this exchange from his seat with a look of keen interest. “Mom is really some secret rebel mastermind?” he asks in a pleasant, no-nonsense tone, as if he already knows the answer and simply seeks public affirmation.
A small smile quirks the balance of Daniel’s beard. “Sometimes she scares me,” he admits in a low tone, and drops the bag in his hands onto the floor. “I’m glad that Kara-”
He stops, squinting. “She’s been keeping me up to date on everyone for several years now,” he says instead, turning toward the screens. Like an omniscient god, the Sphinx smiles directly into the camera, meeting their eyes and licking sharp teeth.
---
D’Anna leans languidly against a wall in the control room, a small smile wavering on her lips at Kara’s heartfelt obscenity. She glances toward the chairs in the center of the room as Leoben laughs lightly. The boy sitting near him looks as if he is about to topple over some mental precipice, his hands clenching tightly over his knees.
“Poor kid,” she hears Athena mutter under her breath, and they exchange a quick glance. Athena whispers something to the man at her side, and he moves away to take the seat next to the young man.
Whatever he says to the boy seems to make a difference. Zarek’s son straightens in his seat and looks away from the screen for the first time in hours.
“Can he talk about anything other than pyramid?” D’Anna asks Athena dryly. “I’ve often wondered.”
Athena tries, yet ultimately fails, to hide her scowl. “He’s interesting.”
“In many ways, I’m sure.” She casts a significant glance at the slope of Athena’s stomach. “Perhaps you’d care to loan him out?”
“From your mouth to Cavil’s ears,” Athena mutters.
D’Anna smirks and turns her attention back to the screen, where Kara is stamping her foot in outrage. The Sphinx smiles seraphically, lifting a paw to casually examine her glistening claws.
Somewhere, D’Anna knows, Daniel is pitching an absolute fit.
---
Coming next week:
Tory stands back from their number, her arms crossed as she considers the Sphinx coolly. “How many wrong answers do we get?” she asks the Sphinx directly.
The Sphinx considers her for a long moment, powerful wings rippling slightly. “You’re trying to cheat,” she says in an almost quizzical tone. “You’re not supposed to cheat.” Her tail lashes in agitation.