Obligations from a Half-Forgotten Life
You know how some stories just won't leave you alone?
The following was supposed to be a drabble. I swear.
It's currently at 75 pages.
The premise is relatively simple. For those of you in the know, the Season Three episode Hero sets up the scenario that the renewed attack on the Colonies was largely the result of the Cylon reaction to the incursion of Colonial pilot Bulldog into the Armistice zone, an incursion for which Adama blames himself, no matter the fact that it was ordered specifically by the Admiralty.
As an international relations specialist, I have a number of problems with the episode, most of which were ably covered by David Eick, should you be interested. In any case, it did make me think.
What if Bulldog succeeded? What if he popped in, got nothing, and popped out? Further, what if the civilian government found out what was going on, something which was entirely possible?
Following that train of thought, and with a great deal of time spent on the Go Train, the following occurred.
Spoilers wise, don't watch if you haven't seen Hero. The following is A/U, but still. You will learn things you don't want to.
Disclaimers apply - I don't own Battlestar Galactica or any of its wonderful, wonderful, characters.
‘Breathe. That’s right. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Frak. Where’s that aide of yours?’
‘What?’
She looked up at the unknown man standing over, the decorations glinting on his chest. She tried to remember to breathe. She tried to remember why it was important that she breathe.
‘That aide of hers’… Wait. Who?
‘Your aide. Where is he?’
He turned slightly to yell at the receptionist, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘ETA on the ambulance? And where the frak is her aide?’
He sounded angry; why was that? Oh. Right. She couldn’t breathe. Why was that again?
He turned his focus back to her, his brilliant blue eyes boring into her.
‘Focus. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Again. In. Out.’
Right. In. Out. She concentrated as he spoke firmly to her, using his voice as an anchor. She tried to focus on his words, to follow his instructions. He seemed to think it important. She looked at him, squatting in front of her, watching as he tried to funnel his will into her. She could barely hear him; it was as if she was hearing his voice echo dimly through a tunnel.
‘Just breathe. Focus… Nearly gave me a heart-attack when you keeled over, but I’ve got you now. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. ’
In. Out. Right. Breathe. In. Out. That’s how it worked. In. Out. He made it sound so easy. So simple. She tried to concentrate, focusing only on his voice and the command inherent in his eyes. She did so because it was her only option; he would accept nothing less.
‘You’re okay,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re okay...damn it,’ he yelled at the receptionist, the phone still at her right ear, ‘it’s Roslin, right?’
‘Roslin. Laura Roslin. She’s - she was… Secretary Roslin.’
She was grateful to feel the warmth of his gaze return as he focused on her again.
‘You’re okay, Laura. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Secretary Laura Roslin… Secretary of Education, right? You resigned? Faded out of sight… After you took care of the teacher’s strike… You just quit. Out of the blue… some sort of… health crisis… Frak.’ he said, swearing quietly under his breath.
She glared at him, trying to push away the sympathy in his eyes. It wasn’t his fault, but she had to blame someone, so it might as well be him. She had not faded away. She would not fade away. She had fought, would fight. Still struggling to breathe, she focused on him again. She wondered, had wondered, for months, where he’d come from. She’d seen him once a week, every Wednesday, like clockwork, for the last six months, noticed him waiting in the President’s outer office, even as she did.
‘What’d you do?’
‘Called the paramedics; they’re on their way. Michelle, the receptionist, says there’s some sort of pills in your purse, don’t want to give them to you till I know what they are. Where’s that damn aide of yours?’
‘Not my aide - ’
‘Whatever he is - son, lover, gigolo…’ he made her smile weakly at that one, ‘don’t care - where the frak is he?’
‘Friend.’
‘Whatever. Where is he? ‘
‘Sent him home,’ she wheezed, trying again to get some air into her battered lungs. 'Spends too much time taking care of me. Has to have his own life. Not what I meant - ’
‘Laura. Breathe.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Laura, I don’t…’
‘To end up here. With me. What’d you do?’
‘Laura. It’s okay. Breathe. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’m here.’
‘Who are you again?’
It was funny, she’d always been so good at placing people; who they were, where they belonged. She was distracted as the receptionist tried to get the attention of her mysterious benefactor and he momentarily took his focus off her. She tried to concentrate on the solid man in the dress uniform of a Rear Admiral of the Colonial Fleet squatting next to her, holding her hand.
‘Admiral Adama, the ambulance is 5 minutes out…’
Right. Adama. William Adama. Of the Battlestar…
‘…Valkyrie…’
The following was supposed to be a drabble. I swear.
It's currently at 75 pages.
The premise is relatively simple. For those of you in the know, the Season Three episode Hero sets up the scenario that the renewed attack on the Colonies was largely the result of the Cylon reaction to the incursion of Colonial pilot Bulldog into the Armistice zone, an incursion for which Adama blames himself, no matter the fact that it was ordered specifically by the Admiralty.
As an international relations specialist, I have a number of problems with the episode, most of which were ably covered by David Eick, should you be interested. In any case, it did make me think.
What if Bulldog succeeded? What if he popped in, got nothing, and popped out? Further, what if the civilian government found out what was going on, something which was entirely possible?
Following that train of thought, and with a great deal of time spent on the Go Train, the following occurred.
Spoilers wise, don't watch if you haven't seen Hero. The following is A/U, but still. You will learn things you don't want to.
Disclaimers apply - I don't own Battlestar Galactica or any of its wonderful, wonderful, characters.
‘Breathe. That’s right. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Frak. Where’s that aide of yours?’
‘What?’
She looked up at the unknown man standing over, the decorations glinting on his chest. She tried to remember to breathe. She tried to remember why it was important that she breathe.
‘That aide of hers’… Wait. Who?
‘Your aide. Where is he?’
He turned slightly to yell at the receptionist, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘ETA on the ambulance? And where the frak is her aide?’
He sounded angry; why was that? Oh. Right. She couldn’t breathe. Why was that again?
He turned his focus back to her, his brilliant blue eyes boring into her.
‘Focus. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Again. In. Out.’
Right. In. Out. She concentrated as he spoke firmly to her, using his voice as an anchor. She tried to focus on his words, to follow his instructions. He seemed to think it important. She looked at him, squatting in front of her, watching as he tried to funnel his will into her. She could barely hear him; it was as if she was hearing his voice echo dimly through a tunnel.
‘Just breathe. Focus… Nearly gave me a heart-attack when you keeled over, but I’ve got you now. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. ’
In. Out. Right. Breathe. In. Out. That’s how it worked. In. Out. He made it sound so easy. So simple. She tried to concentrate, focusing only on his voice and the command inherent in his eyes. She did so because it was her only option; he would accept nothing less.
‘You’re okay,’ he reassured her. ‘You’re okay...damn it,’ he yelled at the receptionist, the phone still at her right ear, ‘it’s Roslin, right?’
‘Roslin. Laura Roslin. She’s - she was… Secretary Roslin.’
She was grateful to feel the warmth of his gaze return as he focused on her again.
‘You’re okay, Laura. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Secretary Laura Roslin… Secretary of Education, right? You resigned? Faded out of sight… After you took care of the teacher’s strike… You just quit. Out of the blue… some sort of… health crisis… Frak.’ he said, swearing quietly under his breath.
She glared at him, trying to push away the sympathy in his eyes. It wasn’t his fault, but she had to blame someone, so it might as well be him. She had not faded away. She would not fade away. She had fought, would fight. Still struggling to breathe, she focused on him again. She wondered, had wondered, for months, where he’d come from. She’d seen him once a week, every Wednesday, like clockwork, for the last six months, noticed him waiting in the President’s outer office, even as she did.
‘What’d you do?’
‘Called the paramedics; they’re on their way. Michelle, the receptionist, says there’s some sort of pills in your purse, don’t want to give them to you till I know what they are. Where’s that damn aide of yours?’
‘Not my aide - ’
‘Whatever he is - son, lover, gigolo…’ he made her smile weakly at that one, ‘don’t care - where the frak is he?’
‘Friend.’
‘Whatever. Where is he? ‘
‘Sent him home,’ she wheezed, trying again to get some air into her battered lungs. 'Spends too much time taking care of me. Has to have his own life. Not what I meant - ’
‘Laura. Breathe.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Laura, I don’t…’
‘To end up here. With me. What’d you do?’
‘Laura. It’s okay. Breathe. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’m here.’
‘Who are you again?’
It was funny, she’d always been so good at placing people; who they were, where they belonged. She was distracted as the receptionist tried to get the attention of her mysterious benefactor and he momentarily took his focus off her. She tried to concentrate on the solid man in the dress uniform of a Rear Admiral of the Colonial Fleet squatting next to her, holding her hand.
‘Admiral Adama, the ambulance is 5 minutes out…’
Right. Adama. William Adama. Of the Battlestar…
‘…Valkyrie…’