Polaroid/Kodachrome
for ar_drabbles challenge #19: his and hers colors
Polaroid
He was smarter than people thought. Before he'd let some bureaucrat onto his ship with a wrecking ball, he'd read up on her. He knew her resume, her published family history. He knew what she looked like and the requests sent by her office to ensure her welfare and comfort. He analyzed her patterns, extrapolated her strategies, prepared his plan of attack.
He knew the colors she'd be flying, playing up her womanliness against the drab background of Galactica. He expected the high heels, the tight, bright clothes, the flashing eyes and white smile, brittle sunburst demands.
He was immune. Years of co-ed showers had taught him how to look right at a person without seeing her. It was only a small surprise when he found himself seeking out the shock of lavender at the decommissioning ceremony. Immune didn’t mean indifferent.
He saw her next somber suited, dark hair, throwing shadows and commands in the bright light of the ward room.
He'd snapped her picture through the sights of his gun camera, prepared for battle and shot her down with his usual solution. The colors she now projected on his dradis were unknown; his weapons would have to be improvised.
Kodakchrome
She can see through people. Evaluate, judge, weigh their worth. Let her see your official portrait once and you are hers.
The photographs she was sent of William Adama are all in black and white, but she knows this old soldier. She knows him in the scars of combat reddening his temple and chest, through the gray bars of the brig, during the black Kobol night, on the brown leather of his couch.
She moves into his home and his life and finds his snapshots. She knows him through the clear disappointment of Lee, the amber of his drinking, the bright yellow of his pencil and the purple prose of his books.
She sees the picture of his life; he is hers.
The shadow of Carolanne. The crushed eggshell of Starbuck's death. She knows them all, they all fit in the margins of the files she's compiled about him.
She's doesn't know what to do with the diamond blue hopes which flew into his heart in the hold of Thrace's resurrected Viper. She picks up the gun and aims at the posed portrait, at incoming soldiers, at incomprehensible washes of light overdeveloping everything she knows about him.
She is disarmed.
Polaroid
He was smarter than people thought. Before he'd let some bureaucrat onto his ship with a wrecking ball, he'd read up on her. He knew her resume, her published family history. He knew what she looked like and the requests sent by her office to ensure her welfare and comfort. He analyzed her patterns, extrapolated her strategies, prepared his plan of attack.
He knew the colors she'd be flying, playing up her womanliness against the drab background of Galactica. He expected the high heels, the tight, bright clothes, the flashing eyes and white smile, brittle sunburst demands.
He was immune. Years of co-ed showers had taught him how to look right at a person without seeing her. It was only a small surprise when he found himself seeking out the shock of lavender at the decommissioning ceremony. Immune didn’t mean indifferent.
He saw her next somber suited, dark hair, throwing shadows and commands in the bright light of the ward room.
He'd snapped her picture through the sights of his gun camera, prepared for battle and shot her down with his usual solution. The colors she now projected on his dradis were unknown; his weapons would have to be improvised.
Kodakchrome
She can see through people. Evaluate, judge, weigh their worth. Let her see your official portrait once and you are hers.
The photographs she was sent of William Adama are all in black and white, but she knows this old soldier. She knows him in the scars of combat reddening his temple and chest, through the gray bars of the brig, during the black Kobol night, on the brown leather of his couch.
She moves into his home and his life and finds his snapshots. She knows him through the clear disappointment of Lee, the amber of his drinking, the bright yellow of his pencil and the purple prose of his books.
She sees the picture of his life; he is hers.
The shadow of Carolanne. The crushed eggshell of Starbuck's death. She knows them all, they all fit in the margins of the files she's compiled about him.
She's doesn't know what to do with the diamond blue hopes which flew into his heart in the hold of Thrace's resurrected Viper. She picks up the gun and aims at the posed portrait, at incoming soldiers, at incomprehensible washes of light overdeveloping everything she knows about him.
She is disarmed.