(TMR) Topic 129: Waking up
When I woke up the next morning ...
When I woke up the next morning, she was still there.
How many stories have started just like that? Of course it's usually the romance novel hero waking up to the heroine, relieved to find the previous night's events weren't a dream. Instead I found myself, a fifty-something woman, waking up with a three-year old child still in her arms and wishing the previous days' events were only a nightmare.
The transport I was on had come across the remains of a smaller ship while fleeing the Cylon destruction of the Twelve Colonies. In her haste the captain had nearly ordered it bypassed, but sensors had picked up one spinning chunk of metal that still maintained an atmosphere and a heat signature, so we took it on board. Within the dented lump we found an equally dented metal cabinet, which in turn contained the body of a horribly battered young woman, curled in a ball. When we pried her from the box, the little girl had tumbled from her protective embrace and into my arms, unconscious and bleeding from a gash in one leg.
Whether the woman who protected her was mother, aunt, sister, or no relation at all, we couldn't tell. She had hemorrhaged to death well before we had found her. The child herself opened a sloe-dark pair of eyes as I was bandaging her leg, but she didn't respond to either my questions or reassurance with anything more than a despairing look. She refused to leave my side, though, clinging close and shrinking away from others.
So it was that I woke up the next day with an armload of toddler. She remained my silent shadow throughout the chaos of the next day, as we joined a fleet of civilian ships that in turn jumped to a rendezvous with the single surviving Colonial Fleet battlestar, Galactica.
The rumors really started flying then. Galactica planned to leave us and take the fight to the Cylons. No, Galactica would be staying to protect us there at Ragnar Anchorage. I didn't want to be without the big ship's guns any more than anyone else, but I couldn't see how a single battlestar could hold out for long against Gods-only-knew how many of those Cylon basestars. Then the official word came down: With Galactica as our guide and guardian, the fleet would leave Ragnar and jump beyond the red line, both to escape the Cylons and to search for sanctuary ... on Earth.
Earth. The believer in me was awed at the idea of seeking out the fabled Thirteenth Colony. My more cynical side thought that, if we were insanely lucky, we'd find some habitable planet away from the Cylons' notice and that would be that.
The Cylons demonstrated exactly how lucky we'd need to be to escape their notice immediately after we jumped away from their attack on Ragnar. For days their raiders showed up precisely every 33 minutes, harrying us, forcing us to make jump after jump with no time to rest or regroup. Drained as I was, I worried about my little shadow's leg. I had fortunately been able to improve on my makeshift first bandage with some of the emergency supplies that had made it to our ship, but she needed medical attention sooner rather than later. The constant jumps made such needs impossible dreams ... until the Cylons stopped.
Just like that. They stopped. A whole new crop of rumors and speculation flurried about concerning why, how, what had happened and what would happen, but I gave a damn for none of them. I only had energy enough to collapse into the cabin seat assigned to me and wonder how long it would be before they came at us again. I eventually surfaced from my morbid thoughts long enough to realize that a) I still had a child clutched to my chest and b) said child had wet my shirt through with her silent tears.
I sat up, startled and alarmed. "Sweetie?"
She looked up at me, tears still flowing. "Mama's gone," she whispered, and began to cry in earnest.
I stroked her hair. "So your mama was the one holding you--" She nodded before burying her face in my chest. Anyone who thought a three-year-old could not understand death need only have looked into her eyes at that moment or imagined the time she spent, locked in her dead mother's embrace, to have that illusion shattered. This little girl had lost the center of her universe, and she knew it.
I rocked her back and forth, my own body shuddering with hers even though my eyes remained burningly dry. Too much lost, too much to deal with, too much ... Eventually, completely spent, we both fell asleep where we were for sixteen solid, badly-needed hours.
When I woke that next morning (If it was morning. Who could tell?), I found one of the transport crew gently nudging me. He kindly informed me that medical assistance was finally able to make the rounds of the ships, and a doctor had just arrived on board. I wallowed my way out of sleep, noting distractedly that some kind soul had reclined my chair and spread a blanket over us. "A doctor?"
He nodded. "Only a few left in the fleet. Most of the people making rounds are medics or nurses, but we somehow drew Galactica's CMO. Lucky." He smiled and explained, "CMO stands for Chief Medical Officer."
I knew that, but I smiled in return and followed him to the forward observation area, where an area had been screened off. From behind the partition came a gravelly, authoritative voice that had to belong to the CMO in question. From the snippets of conversation I caught, I quickly came to understand why many of my shipmates left his company looking undecided about whether they should thank him or rip him a new one. The man apparently combined authority and competence with military brusqueness and an abysmal beside manner. I found his direct approach refreshing, but I had to wonder how well he'd deal with a traumatized child.
My first look at the blue-uniformed man reinforced my concerns. World-weary eyes set deep into a seamed face, topped by a shock of white hair, everything about the Major (for so his insignia proclaimed him) radiated a sardonic, snarky attitude. His expression practically dared you to say one word about the cigarette dangling between his lips.
The moment his gaze shifted from me to the little girl in my arms, however, something ... softened wasn't quite the right word. Calmed. Reassured. Shifted into don't-worry-kid-I-won't-eat-you mode, maybe. He even mashed out the cigarette on a nearby tray. As for my charge, she remained in my lap, but sat through his preliminary exam quietly enough, watching him with wide but accepting eyes as he moved to unwrap the bandage on her calf.
"Did you do this?" he asked as he removed my handiwork. At my nod, he offered a grudging, "Not bad." He scanned the wound before continuing. "Is she--" He took in her dusky skin and black hair and eyes and compared them to my fair, chestnut and hazel. I saw him hesitating over the word yours.
I shook my head. "Orphaned," I murmured.
"Huh." He looked her in the eye. "What's your name?"
I was about to explain that she'd only spoken once when she surprised me again by whispering, "Dora."
"Dora, eh?" He finished his pinpoint examination of her wound. "Well, there's not a whole lot to do with this. If I'd been here when it happened I would have stitched it, but it's healing cleanly now. She'll have a scar, but ..." He let his voice trail off rather than stating the obvious: A scar was the least of her worries.
I brooded on her predicament as he applied a new bandage. "She can't be the only orphaned child in the fleet."
"Far from it," he snorted. "There looks to be a couple hundred at the very least. Many have found caretakers already, but there's a significant chunk that haven't." He scowled.
My own forehead creased as well. "Something needs to be set up for them, some kind of support system. They'll fall through the cracks otherwise ..."
Another snort. "You volunteering?"
My reflex answer died on my lips as I looked in his eyes, leaving a long, considering silence. At long last I replied, "I guess I am."
I thought I'd had his attention before, but that was nothing compared to the probing, assessing regard he turned on me now. "What's your name?" he repeated.
"Kia Holtz." My eyebrows flicked up as I smiled pertly. "What's yours?"
He lifted a single brow before responding. "Major Jack Cottle. Only my friends call me Jack; which means nearly everyone calls me Doc, Doctor or Major. At least to my face." His words dripped sarcasm, but I could just detect the humor underneath. "And if you're serious about taking on a task this massive, I'm damn well going to make sure you're in decent health."
I blinked in bemusement as he gently shifted Dora from my lap to a seat at my side and started to examine me. Caught by surprise, I reacted in much the same way the little girl had, with automatic acceptance. His hands and eyes were as professional as any other doctor I'd ever been to, so I put it down to fatigue when I felt a shiver down the back of my neck. I did have to wonder if the hand holding the chestpiece of his stethoscope lingered just inside the V of my sweater a bit too long as he listened to my heart, but he removed it well before I felt the need to comment.
"You'll do," was his professional assessment. "The most serious medical issues you two have are stress-related, which currently makes you no different from most of the rest of the human race. We're getting vitamins and other supplements distributed; make sure you both take 'em when they arrive."
Dora had scooted back into my lap and was watching the stethoscope in Cottle's weathered hands. As he started to put it away, she suddenly reached out and snagged the chestpiece, running her fingers over it in fascination.
Cottle watched her, one corner of his mouth quirking into something that was almost a half-smile. After detaching her eager grip, he instead put the earpieces in Dora's small ears. She looked questions at him as he returned the chestpiece to where it could pick up my heartbeat. I glanced down at his hand and lifted an eyebrow, but once again refrained from saying anything. His own expression was extremely bland, except for a gleam in his eyes.
I told myself that the only reason why I didn't push his hand away was the fact that Dora was very nearly smiling herself. And when he finally withdrew, the disappointment in her eyes was the only reason why I plucked the chestpiece from his hand and placed it against his own barrel chest in turn. Obviously.
I smiled at myself as I gently disengaged the earpieces and returned the stethoscope. Dora accepted its loss philosophically, leaning against me and yawning. Glancing up, my gaze collided with Cottle's very thoughtful look.
"You're going to need help," he rumbled. "I may know someone who can get the wheels moving, get you the resources and people you need. Start you in the right direction, at least."
"Who?"
He waved the question aside. "Let me check first ... see when she can meet with you. In the meantime, I have patients to deal with, and you two don't qualify as such." He made a shooing gesture with one hand.
I got up and obediently moved toward the exit with Dora, but I paused before rounding the screen. He glanced up from the notes he was making, and I tilted my head as I looked back.
"See you later, Jack."
He opened his mouth, possibly to correct me ... but then he paused and almost smiled again. "I'll call you later when I have word on that meeting."
I nodded and left, carrying a still-yawning little girl.
When I woke up the very next morning, I got word of my meeting and found out exactly who Jack's "someone who can get the wheels moving" was ...
... but that will have to be another story.
Muse: Kia Holtz
Fandom: OC from Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 2082
When I woke up the next morning, she was still there.
How many stories have started just like that? Of course it's usually the romance novel hero waking up to the heroine, relieved to find the previous night's events weren't a dream. Instead I found myself, a fifty-something woman, waking up with a three-year old child still in her arms and wishing the previous days' events were only a nightmare.
The transport I was on had come across the remains of a smaller ship while fleeing the Cylon destruction of the Twelve Colonies. In her haste the captain had nearly ordered it bypassed, but sensors had picked up one spinning chunk of metal that still maintained an atmosphere and a heat signature, so we took it on board. Within the dented lump we found an equally dented metal cabinet, which in turn contained the body of a horribly battered young woman, curled in a ball. When we pried her from the box, the little girl had tumbled from her protective embrace and into my arms, unconscious and bleeding from a gash in one leg.
Whether the woman who protected her was mother, aunt, sister, or no relation at all, we couldn't tell. She had hemorrhaged to death well before we had found her. The child herself opened a sloe-dark pair of eyes as I was bandaging her leg, but she didn't respond to either my questions or reassurance with anything more than a despairing look. She refused to leave my side, though, clinging close and shrinking away from others.
So it was that I woke up the next day with an armload of toddler. She remained my silent shadow throughout the chaos of the next day, as we joined a fleet of civilian ships that in turn jumped to a rendezvous with the single surviving Colonial Fleet battlestar, Galactica.
The rumors really started flying then. Galactica planned to leave us and take the fight to the Cylons. No, Galactica would be staying to protect us there at Ragnar Anchorage. I didn't want to be without the big ship's guns any more than anyone else, but I couldn't see how a single battlestar could hold out for long against Gods-only-knew how many of those Cylon basestars. Then the official word came down: With Galactica as our guide and guardian, the fleet would leave Ragnar and jump beyond the red line, both to escape the Cylons and to search for sanctuary ... on Earth.
Earth. The believer in me was awed at the idea of seeking out the fabled Thirteenth Colony. My more cynical side thought that, if we were insanely lucky, we'd find some habitable planet away from the Cylons' notice and that would be that.
The Cylons demonstrated exactly how lucky we'd need to be to escape their notice immediately after we jumped away from their attack on Ragnar. For days their raiders showed up precisely every 33 minutes, harrying us, forcing us to make jump after jump with no time to rest or regroup. Drained as I was, I worried about my little shadow's leg. I had fortunately been able to improve on my makeshift first bandage with some of the emergency supplies that had made it to our ship, but she needed medical attention sooner rather than later. The constant jumps made such needs impossible dreams ... until the Cylons stopped.
Just like that. They stopped. A whole new crop of rumors and speculation flurried about concerning why, how, what had happened and what would happen, but I gave a damn for none of them. I only had energy enough to collapse into the cabin seat assigned to me and wonder how long it would be before they came at us again. I eventually surfaced from my morbid thoughts long enough to realize that a) I still had a child clutched to my chest and b) said child had wet my shirt through with her silent tears.
I sat up, startled and alarmed. "Sweetie?"
She looked up at me, tears still flowing. "Mama's gone," she whispered, and began to cry in earnest.
I stroked her hair. "So your mama was the one holding you--" She nodded before burying her face in my chest. Anyone who thought a three-year-old could not understand death need only have looked into her eyes at that moment or imagined the time she spent, locked in her dead mother's embrace, to have that illusion shattered. This little girl had lost the center of her universe, and she knew it.
I rocked her back and forth, my own body shuddering with hers even though my eyes remained burningly dry. Too much lost, too much to deal with, too much ... Eventually, completely spent, we both fell asleep where we were for sixteen solid, badly-needed hours.
When I woke that next morning (If it was morning. Who could tell?), I found one of the transport crew gently nudging me. He kindly informed me that medical assistance was finally able to make the rounds of the ships, and a doctor had just arrived on board. I wallowed my way out of sleep, noting distractedly that some kind soul had reclined my chair and spread a blanket over us. "A doctor?"
He nodded. "Only a few left in the fleet. Most of the people making rounds are medics or nurses, but we somehow drew Galactica's CMO. Lucky." He smiled and explained, "CMO stands for Chief Medical Officer."
I knew that, but I smiled in return and followed him to the forward observation area, where an area had been screened off. From behind the partition came a gravelly, authoritative voice that had to belong to the CMO in question. From the snippets of conversation I caught, I quickly came to understand why many of my shipmates left his company looking undecided about whether they should thank him or rip him a new one. The man apparently combined authority and competence with military brusqueness and an abysmal beside manner. I found his direct approach refreshing, but I had to wonder how well he'd deal with a traumatized child.
My first look at the blue-uniformed man reinforced my concerns. World-weary eyes set deep into a seamed face, topped by a shock of white hair, everything about the Major (for so his insignia proclaimed him) radiated a sardonic, snarky attitude. His expression practically dared you to say one word about the cigarette dangling between his lips.
The moment his gaze shifted from me to the little girl in my arms, however, something ... softened wasn't quite the right word. Calmed. Reassured. Shifted into don't-worry-kid-I-won't-eat-you mode, maybe. He even mashed out the cigarette on a nearby tray. As for my charge, she remained in my lap, but sat through his preliminary exam quietly enough, watching him with wide but accepting eyes as he moved to unwrap the bandage on her calf.
"Did you do this?" he asked as he removed my handiwork. At my nod, he offered a grudging, "Not bad." He scanned the wound before continuing. "Is she--" He took in her dusky skin and black hair and eyes and compared them to my fair, chestnut and hazel. I saw him hesitating over the word yours.
I shook my head. "Orphaned," I murmured.
"Huh." He looked her in the eye. "What's your name?"
I was about to explain that she'd only spoken once when she surprised me again by whispering, "Dora."
"Dora, eh?" He finished his pinpoint examination of her wound. "Well, there's not a whole lot to do with this. If I'd been here when it happened I would have stitched it, but it's healing cleanly now. She'll have a scar, but ..." He let his voice trail off rather than stating the obvious: A scar was the least of her worries.
I brooded on her predicament as he applied a new bandage. "She can't be the only orphaned child in the fleet."
"Far from it," he snorted. "There looks to be a couple hundred at the very least. Many have found caretakers already, but there's a significant chunk that haven't." He scowled.
My own forehead creased as well. "Something needs to be set up for them, some kind of support system. They'll fall through the cracks otherwise ..."
Another snort. "You volunteering?"
My reflex answer died on my lips as I looked in his eyes, leaving a long, considering silence. At long last I replied, "I guess I am."
I thought I'd had his attention before, but that was nothing compared to the probing, assessing regard he turned on me now. "What's your name?" he repeated.
"Kia Holtz." My eyebrows flicked up as I smiled pertly. "What's yours?"
He lifted a single brow before responding. "Major Jack Cottle. Only my friends call me Jack; which means nearly everyone calls me Doc, Doctor or Major. At least to my face." His words dripped sarcasm, but I could just detect the humor underneath. "And if you're serious about taking on a task this massive, I'm damn well going to make sure you're in decent health."
I blinked in bemusement as he gently shifted Dora from my lap to a seat at my side and started to examine me. Caught by surprise, I reacted in much the same way the little girl had, with automatic acceptance. His hands and eyes were as professional as any other doctor I'd ever been to, so I put it down to fatigue when I felt a shiver down the back of my neck. I did have to wonder if the hand holding the chestpiece of his stethoscope lingered just inside the V of my sweater a bit too long as he listened to my heart, but he removed it well before I felt the need to comment.
"You'll do," was his professional assessment. "The most serious medical issues you two have are stress-related, which currently makes you no different from most of the rest of the human race. We're getting vitamins and other supplements distributed; make sure you both take 'em when they arrive."
Dora had scooted back into my lap and was watching the stethoscope in Cottle's weathered hands. As he started to put it away, she suddenly reached out and snagged the chestpiece, running her fingers over it in fascination.
Cottle watched her, one corner of his mouth quirking into something that was almost a half-smile. After detaching her eager grip, he instead put the earpieces in Dora's small ears. She looked questions at him as he returned the chestpiece to where it could pick up my heartbeat. I glanced down at his hand and lifted an eyebrow, but once again refrained from saying anything. His own expression was extremely bland, except for a gleam in his eyes.
I told myself that the only reason why I didn't push his hand away was the fact that Dora was very nearly smiling herself. And when he finally withdrew, the disappointment in her eyes was the only reason why I plucked the chestpiece from his hand and placed it against his own barrel chest in turn. Obviously.
I smiled at myself as I gently disengaged the earpieces and returned the stethoscope. Dora accepted its loss philosophically, leaning against me and yawning. Glancing up, my gaze collided with Cottle's very thoughtful look.
"You're going to need help," he rumbled. "I may know someone who can get the wheels moving, get you the resources and people you need. Start you in the right direction, at least."
"Who?"
He waved the question aside. "Let me check first ... see when she can meet with you. In the meantime, I have patients to deal with, and you two don't qualify as such." He made a shooing gesture with one hand.
I got up and obediently moved toward the exit with Dora, but I paused before rounding the screen. He glanced up from the notes he was making, and I tilted my head as I looked back.
"See you later, Jack."
He opened his mouth, possibly to correct me ... but then he paused and almost smiled again. "I'll call you later when I have word on that meeting."
I nodded and left, carrying a still-yawning little girl.
When I woke up the very next morning, I got word of my meeting and found out exactly who Jack's "someone who can get the wheels moving" was ...
... but that will have to be another story.
Muse: Kia Holtz
Fandom: OC from Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 2082