BSG-remix Fanfic: The Small Moments II
Title: The Small Moments II
Summary: A look at Laura Roslin and Season Four through the eyes of Racetrack. This fic is a continuation.
Characters: Laura Roslin, Margaret Edmondson
Pairings: Implied A/R
Rating: T
Warnings: Profanity
Title, Author and URL of original story: The Small Moments, by runawaynun, http://community.livejournal.com/chamalla_dreams/209806.html
Author Notes: Bsg remix brought the opportunity to write for a character, and in a way, that I've never written before. Runawaynun, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for letting me play with your fic.
Huge thanks to tjonesy and somadanne for stepping out of their comfort zones and providing amazing beta work. Thanks also to sabaceanbabe for her beta, and her kind comments on Racetrack's character.
I.
The ride had been quiet. Roslin sat with her head back against the seat, her eyes closed, her skin pallid, as if it were under the harsh lighting in the hangar deck.
Margaret felt like she should say something.
How are you feeling?
Obviously shitty.
Can I help you?
No.
Instead she relaxed her grip on the stick and levelled out the Raptor. She laid off her usual small, anal, adjustments to the flight path, making the ride as smooth as possible.
In the end, it was Roslin who spoke.
“How well do you know Captain Thrace, Lieutenant?”
“We served together two years, ma'am.”
“Does she seem the same to you?”
“If Captain Apollo tells me he saw her ship blow, then I believe him.” It was a few seconds before she remembered to add, “ma'am.”
They were quiet for a long time, Margaret concentrating on banking smoothly over the Demetrius, silently gloating that she'd rendered the President speechless.
It made her bold.
Or maybe she's just trying not to puke.
“Still,” she said, cautiously, “do I think she would slam my face into a table if I spoke out of turn again?” She levelled the Raptor out. “Yeah, but it still doesn't make me want a seat on that” steaming, pile of shit of a “ship -- not for that mission.”
Roslin was suddenly sitting on the edge of the seat. Her gaze was so intense that Margaret could almost feel it on her back.
“What mission?”
Frak.
Someone's sleeping on the sectional sofa tonight.
II.
One of the Marines steadied the President's elbow as she ascended the Raptor wing. Roslin extended a hand without looking up, and Margaret took it. It was thin and cold - felt a bit like putting one foot in the grave.
They hadn't been flying long, before Roslin broke their usual silence.
“Do you have someone, Lieutenant?” Her voice was soft, and a little wistful.
“There are a lot of someones, ma'am,” Margaret replied. Easier, when no one could make any promises, when being here today didn't ensure the same tomorrow. Part of her craved the aftermath of a particularly dangerous mission, when her senses were so finely tuned that every touch against her skin felt electric, the adrenaline rush one of the last few means of getting high. Whose hands they were had never really mattered all that much.
“I see.”
No, you don't. You've never held your future in the grip of one hand, never had your life flash before your eyes only to have a wingman hand it back to you.
The President didn't offer anything further, and Margaret wondered what had spurred the question. Had something changed during her time on the rebel baseship? There was a lightness to the older woman, a smile that didn't quite leave her face, a hint of moisture in her eyes. Roslin, Prophet, President, was above all that, wasn't she? It was hard to reconcile that the powerful woman needed anyone, that she could use a good, hard frak same as anyone else, that she'd even want it, sick as she was.
Self delusion. Apparently, I'm earning a degree in it. She tried to avoid the image of Helo that had surfaced in her head, willing away the tender feeling that came with it.
III.
We've endured a difficult journey. We've all lost. We've all suffered, and the truth is I questioned whether this day would ever come, but today, our journey is at an end. We have arrived at Earth.
Margaret felt the excitement, the tension in the air. It was hard to keep her hands steady as she went through the pre-flight checks. It felt like a dream - the journey so long and dark that it was impossible to fathom that they were about to emerge into daylight, that she was still here, in a front-row seat to history.
She looked over at the two leaders from her seat in her own Raptor, knew that people would talk about them for generations to come, long after everyone who'd known them was dead.
She quietly envied Helo and Dee for drawing the assignment. Margaret knew the significance of being the first pilot to land on Earth. Their names would be taught to children in school, the day marked and remembered.
She watched Roslin flash a wide grin at the Admiral, before they boarded their own Raptor. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen Roslin smile, at least one that wasn't falsely reassuring or placating. It lit the President's face, and for an instant Margaret saw past the severe wig and failing body, her breath catching at the beauty of the woman that still lay underneath.
Or maybe, drunk on her own relief and joy, anything would look beautiful.
One thing she knew - this was what he saw, when he looked at her.
“Galactica, Racetrack. Two minutes to initial entry.”
Her heart pounded against her chest as she guided the Raptor toward the sparkling blue planet, the focus needed on trajectory, velocity and angle keeping her hand steady on the stick as she performed the last critical alignments before the autopilot engaged for atmospheric entry. The last thing she wanted was to undershoot and skip embarrassingly off the barrier of the atmosphere.
The orange-yellow glow of plasma surrounding the lead Raptor, already having breached the re-entry corridor, caught her eye. It looked like a small star, descending like a God from the heavens.
… and the Lords anointed a leader to guide the caravan of the heavens … the leader suffered a wasting disease and would not live to enter the new land …
Margaret's fingers clenched around the stick, her stomach sinking like a stone.
IV.
Roslin stood as still as the broken statues littering the toxic soil of the world below them.
Why don't you frakking say something? You took our faith and our blood and our tears and you led us to this radioactive shithole.
“Get me out of here.” Roslin's voice was dry and broken, like the cancer was already eating at her lungs.
In her rage, Margaret sincerely hoped that it was. She felt like a toddler, an unending litany of youpromisedyoupromisedyoupromised loud and repetitive in her head.
Frak them.
Frak the Gods.
She wanted to hit something or frak someone. Preferably both. As Roslin began to work her way through the crowd, Margaret realized that she wanted nothing more than to take out her anger and frustration on the President herself. She didn't care how sick the woman was, she wanted to pummel her until she paid for her empty promises, paid for everyone's losses with her own blood.
She found herself moving forward, only to be pushed back by the sheer bulk of the Admiral, as he tucked Roslin behind him and used his size to make a hole.
Why the frak are you protecting her? You're all we have left now. We need you.
She makes you weak, Old Man.
Margaret watched their backs as they slowly retreated, silently seething like a resentful child banished to the corner.
IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou.
V.
BB. Jo-Jo, Reilly, Beano, Dipper, Flattop, Chuckles, Jolly, Crashdown, Sheppard, Dash, Flyboy, Stepchild, Puppet, Fireball … and so many others, all dead. And now Roslin wanted them to lie down with the machines that killed them. Eat with them. Trust them with the very ships that were the only things keeping humanity alive.
Kelly had seen the two leaders. Roslin, flushed from a run, trading spit with the Admiral in the corridors. And suddenly it was like Adama couldn't think past the end of his dick, and Roslin didn't care to look up from it.
Identical faces had lined her usual route to the mess. Sharon after Sharon looked at her with those dark, puppy dog eyes. The very same gaze that had sparkled with Adama's congratulations before the machine had filled him with lead.
He didn't care.
He was spent now, dying in spirit as Roslin died in body, expecting everyone to accept it as they took Cylons into their bed.
She dragged her fork though the algae on her plate, wondering how it had come to this.
Gaeta cleared his throat.
VI.
The line on the floor looked like a long streak of blood. Margaret thought the analogy sound as she stood on the port side of the line, listening to Adama outline a suicide mission.
Let there be no illusions, this is likely to be a one-way trip, so don't volunteer out of sentiment or emotion.
Volunteers move to the starboard side, everyone else to port.
Make your choice.
The thought that this was a hell of a lot better than rotting in a cell on the Astral Queen had gotten her to board the transport they'd sent. The knowledge of how much his half-cylon daughter meant to Helo had consumed her thoughts as she'd made her way to the staging area.
But she hadn't crossed the line.
A Six, Ellen, Tory, the Chief, Saul Tigh … all Cylons, all standing on the starboard side.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Her goal had always been to send as many toasters to their God as possible, not fight with them, not die beside them.
“Excuse me.” A hand settled on her shoulder. Margaret turned when she felt weight against her, the woman using her shoulder more for support than to push her out of the way. She started when she heard the rattle of the woman's breaths, sharp and liquid sounding near her ear.
Not again.
She stepped quickly out of the President's way.
And watched.
Roslin could barely walk; her suit hung from her too-thin body, legs trembling like a newborn colt.
“You didn't think you were shipping out without me?” Margaret overheard her say to Adama. She had done her share of emergency medical treatment in the field; she recognised what it sounded like when someone tried to speak through pain. She glanced around. Cottle and the sickbay staff were here. Roslin had walked more than two decks alone.
The President crossed the line and took the waiting arm of the Admiral.
It looked like some kind of macabre wedding, two rows of solemn witnesses watching as Adama and Roslin walked slowly between them. Her arm in his, his hand holding hers.
Courage.
It wasn't a word that she'd ever associated with Roslin, the woman who spent most of her time in the first class section of Colonial One or in the spacious quarters of the Admiral, while others put their asses on the line.
As she watched them, she realized that this was something she could stand beside. Or die beside.
Courage.
After all, there were still a lot of Cylons to flame.
She crossed the line.
VII.
They flew out of the starboard hangar bay into pure chaos. Her vision a riot of yellows and oranges, she quickly worried less about staying in formation with the other Raptors, and more about avoiding the spiralling rocks and debris that were caught in the pull of the singularity. The bright bursts of Galactica's flak barrier left blue halos in her vision. She tried to look through everything, to catch a glimpse of the Cylon mother ship.
Skulls was talking, reminiscing, comparing the shitstorm to …
There it was. Black against the swaths of orange-yellow, almost arachnid in shape, large enough to make an infinitely satisfying target.
Her fingers clenched, palm itching to slide over the few inches and release every nuke they had.
Frak you all to hell.
The collision came without warning, cockpit glass shattering, time dilating as cracks blossomed, shredding through molecule after molecule, over the entire surface. Wind whistled loudly in her ears and suddenly the endless orange dissolved into the pale light of the sun. She stood on a rocky ridge just outside her parents' home. The wind whipped her long hair around her face. Her hands were small, the skin young and unmarked. She held a small garden snake by the tip of its tail, grinning and shrieking at her friends to come and see, pride bursting from her at having caught it, at the power she held over it, wriggling and defenceless.
“Look! Come here, look!”
A sharp pain brought her eyes back to her hand. The snake, in defiance of gravity and its own fate, had curled up and sunk its small teeth into the soft flesh between her thumb and first finger. Shrieking, she shook her hand until it fell.
Her hand was pale when she looked at it, almost bloodless but for the two small red dots of blood. And cold. So cold.
She brought her foot down on the snake and reality resurfaced. The wind was silent. Black clouded the edges of her vision. She tried to move. Enough for one more bite. One more …
VII.
The sun was warm. Margaret sat in the long grass at the river's edge, the blades tickling her bare shoulders. A sleek, white boat sat in the water, still moored to a worn-looking dock. Water lapped against the shiny metal. People milled about.
She had the feeling that she should be going somewhere, but there was no urgency, no perception of time at all. Enjoying the feel of the stiff wind against her face, she realized she wasn't hungry, or thirsty, and nothing ached. The constant nervousness, the unsteady beating of her heart that the stims usually brought on, was a distant memory.
After an indeterminate time, she turned to the woman next to her. A bright, blue scarf framed the dark skin of her face. Her soft features were open and friendly, wise in a way that made Margaret feel safe.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked, eyes following the contours of the boat, shimmering in the heat of the sun.
“We're short one,” the woman answered, not looking at Margaret. “Shouldn't be long now.”
Who? Where are we going? I can't tell what long is anymore …
“I'm dead,” she said, more to herself than the woman beside her.
And this doesn't look like hell …
The woman smiled, nodding slightly. Margaret wondered if it were seconds or years before the woman's eyebrows flicked upward, and a spark of interest lit her eyes. “There.”
She followed the woman's gaze to where a figure lay on the ground. Her body was propped on her elbows, relaxed features turned up to the sun. Long curls of red hair blew about her face, the colour blending into the deep red of the dress she wore.
I know you.
She marvelled that even in the afterlife, people waited for Laura Roslin.
“No.” The woman's voice was by her ear now. “There.”
Margaret raised her eyes. A stocky figure walked toward them, undefined and dark, backlit by the sun.
She found her view blocked when Roslin stood, the wind blowing the long fabric from her shoulders as she reached out with both arms.
“We can go now,” said the voice.
Margaret stood and followed, keeping a respectful distance from the two former leaders. As much as she'd frakked up with them in the past, it felt right. She could follow them one last time, into eternity.
Fin.
Summary: A look at Laura Roslin and Season Four through the eyes of Racetrack. This fic is a continuation.
Characters: Laura Roslin, Margaret Edmondson
Pairings: Implied A/R
Rating: T
Warnings: Profanity
Title, Author and URL of original story: The Small Moments, by runawaynun, http://community.livejournal.com/chamalla_dreams/209806.html
Author Notes: Bsg remix brought the opportunity to write for a character, and in a way, that I've never written before. Runawaynun, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for letting me play with your fic.
Huge thanks to tjonesy and somadanne for stepping out of their comfort zones and providing amazing beta work. Thanks also to sabaceanbabe for her beta, and her kind comments on Racetrack's character.
I.
The ride had been quiet. Roslin sat with her head back against the seat, her eyes closed, her skin pallid, as if it were under the harsh lighting in the hangar deck.
Margaret felt like she should say something.
How are you feeling?
Obviously shitty.
Can I help you?
No.
Instead she relaxed her grip on the stick and levelled out the Raptor. She laid off her usual small, anal, adjustments to the flight path, making the ride as smooth as possible.
In the end, it was Roslin who spoke.
“How well do you know Captain Thrace, Lieutenant?”
“We served together two years, ma'am.”
“Does she seem the same to you?”
“If Captain Apollo tells me he saw her ship blow, then I believe him.” It was a few seconds before she remembered to add, “ma'am.”
They were quiet for a long time, Margaret concentrating on banking smoothly over the Demetrius, silently gloating that she'd rendered the President speechless.
It made her bold.
Or maybe she's just trying not to puke.
“Still,” she said, cautiously, “do I think she would slam my face into a table if I spoke out of turn again?” She levelled the Raptor out. “Yeah, but it still doesn't make me want a seat on that” steaming, pile of shit of a “ship -- not for that mission.”
Roslin was suddenly sitting on the edge of the seat. Her gaze was so intense that Margaret could almost feel it on her back.
“What mission?”
Frak.
Someone's sleeping on the sectional sofa tonight.
II.
One of the Marines steadied the President's elbow as she ascended the Raptor wing. Roslin extended a hand without looking up, and Margaret took it. It was thin and cold - felt a bit like putting one foot in the grave.
They hadn't been flying long, before Roslin broke their usual silence.
“Do you have someone, Lieutenant?” Her voice was soft, and a little wistful.
“There are a lot of someones, ma'am,” Margaret replied. Easier, when no one could make any promises, when being here today didn't ensure the same tomorrow. Part of her craved the aftermath of a particularly dangerous mission, when her senses were so finely tuned that every touch against her skin felt electric, the adrenaline rush one of the last few means of getting high. Whose hands they were had never really mattered all that much.
“I see.”
No, you don't. You've never held your future in the grip of one hand, never had your life flash before your eyes only to have a wingman hand it back to you.
The President didn't offer anything further, and Margaret wondered what had spurred the question. Had something changed during her time on the rebel baseship? There was a lightness to the older woman, a smile that didn't quite leave her face, a hint of moisture in her eyes. Roslin, Prophet, President, was above all that, wasn't she? It was hard to reconcile that the powerful woman needed anyone, that she could use a good, hard frak same as anyone else, that she'd even want it, sick as she was.
Self delusion. Apparently, I'm earning a degree in it. She tried to avoid the image of Helo that had surfaced in her head, willing away the tender feeling that came with it.
III.
We've endured a difficult journey. We've all lost. We've all suffered, and the truth is I questioned whether this day would ever come, but today, our journey is at an end. We have arrived at Earth.
Margaret felt the excitement, the tension in the air. It was hard to keep her hands steady as she went through the pre-flight checks. It felt like a dream - the journey so long and dark that it was impossible to fathom that they were about to emerge into daylight, that she was still here, in a front-row seat to history.
She looked over at the two leaders from her seat in her own Raptor, knew that people would talk about them for generations to come, long after everyone who'd known them was dead.
She quietly envied Helo and Dee for drawing the assignment. Margaret knew the significance of being the first pilot to land on Earth. Their names would be taught to children in school, the day marked and remembered.
She watched Roslin flash a wide grin at the Admiral, before they boarded their own Raptor. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen Roslin smile, at least one that wasn't falsely reassuring or placating. It lit the President's face, and for an instant Margaret saw past the severe wig and failing body, her breath catching at the beauty of the woman that still lay underneath.
Or maybe, drunk on her own relief and joy, anything would look beautiful.
One thing she knew - this was what he saw, when he looked at her.
“Galactica, Racetrack. Two minutes to initial entry.”
Her heart pounded against her chest as she guided the Raptor toward the sparkling blue planet, the focus needed on trajectory, velocity and angle keeping her hand steady on the stick as she performed the last critical alignments before the autopilot engaged for atmospheric entry. The last thing she wanted was to undershoot and skip embarrassingly off the barrier of the atmosphere.
The orange-yellow glow of plasma surrounding the lead Raptor, already having breached the re-entry corridor, caught her eye. It looked like a small star, descending like a God from the heavens.
… and the Lords anointed a leader to guide the caravan of the heavens … the leader suffered a wasting disease and would not live to enter the new land …
Margaret's fingers clenched around the stick, her stomach sinking like a stone.
IV.
Roslin stood as still as the broken statues littering the toxic soil of the world below them.
Why don't you frakking say something? You took our faith and our blood and our tears and you led us to this radioactive shithole.
“Get me out of here.” Roslin's voice was dry and broken, like the cancer was already eating at her lungs.
In her rage, Margaret sincerely hoped that it was. She felt like a toddler, an unending litany of youpromisedyoupromisedyoupromised loud and repetitive in her head.
Frak them.
Frak the Gods.
She wanted to hit something or frak someone. Preferably both. As Roslin began to work her way through the crowd, Margaret realized that she wanted nothing more than to take out her anger and frustration on the President herself. She didn't care how sick the woman was, she wanted to pummel her until she paid for her empty promises, paid for everyone's losses with her own blood.
She found herself moving forward, only to be pushed back by the sheer bulk of the Admiral, as he tucked Roslin behind him and used his size to make a hole.
Why the frak are you protecting her? You're all we have left now. We need you.
She makes you weak, Old Man.
Margaret watched their backs as they slowly retreated, silently seething like a resentful child banished to the corner.
IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou.
V.
BB. Jo-Jo, Reilly, Beano, Dipper, Flattop, Chuckles, Jolly, Crashdown, Sheppard, Dash, Flyboy, Stepchild, Puppet, Fireball … and so many others, all dead. And now Roslin wanted them to lie down with the machines that killed them. Eat with them. Trust them with the very ships that were the only things keeping humanity alive.
Kelly had seen the two leaders. Roslin, flushed from a run, trading spit with the Admiral in the corridors. And suddenly it was like Adama couldn't think past the end of his dick, and Roslin didn't care to look up from it.
Identical faces had lined her usual route to the mess. Sharon after Sharon looked at her with those dark, puppy dog eyes. The very same gaze that had sparkled with Adama's congratulations before the machine had filled him with lead.
He didn't care.
He was spent now, dying in spirit as Roslin died in body, expecting everyone to accept it as they took Cylons into their bed.
She dragged her fork though the algae on her plate, wondering how it had come to this.
Gaeta cleared his throat.
VI.
The line on the floor looked like a long streak of blood. Margaret thought the analogy sound as she stood on the port side of the line, listening to Adama outline a suicide mission.
Let there be no illusions, this is likely to be a one-way trip, so don't volunteer out of sentiment or emotion.
Volunteers move to the starboard side, everyone else to port.
Make your choice.
The thought that this was a hell of a lot better than rotting in a cell on the Astral Queen had gotten her to board the transport they'd sent. The knowledge of how much his half-cylon daughter meant to Helo had consumed her thoughts as she'd made her way to the staging area.
But she hadn't crossed the line.
A Six, Ellen, Tory, the Chief, Saul Tigh … all Cylons, all standing on the starboard side.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Her goal had always been to send as many toasters to their God as possible, not fight with them, not die beside them.
“Excuse me.” A hand settled on her shoulder. Margaret turned when she felt weight against her, the woman using her shoulder more for support than to push her out of the way. She started when she heard the rattle of the woman's breaths, sharp and liquid sounding near her ear.
Not again.
She stepped quickly out of the President's way.
And watched.
Roslin could barely walk; her suit hung from her too-thin body, legs trembling like a newborn colt.
“You didn't think you were shipping out without me?” Margaret overheard her say to Adama. She had done her share of emergency medical treatment in the field; she recognised what it sounded like when someone tried to speak through pain. She glanced around. Cottle and the sickbay staff were here. Roslin had walked more than two decks alone.
The President crossed the line and took the waiting arm of the Admiral.
It looked like some kind of macabre wedding, two rows of solemn witnesses watching as Adama and Roslin walked slowly between them. Her arm in his, his hand holding hers.
Courage.
It wasn't a word that she'd ever associated with Roslin, the woman who spent most of her time in the first class section of Colonial One or in the spacious quarters of the Admiral, while others put their asses on the line.
As she watched them, she realized that this was something she could stand beside. Or die beside.
Courage.
After all, there were still a lot of Cylons to flame.
She crossed the line.
VII.
They flew out of the starboard hangar bay into pure chaos. Her vision a riot of yellows and oranges, she quickly worried less about staying in formation with the other Raptors, and more about avoiding the spiralling rocks and debris that were caught in the pull of the singularity. The bright bursts of Galactica's flak barrier left blue halos in her vision. She tried to look through everything, to catch a glimpse of the Cylon mother ship.
Skulls was talking, reminiscing, comparing the shitstorm to …
There it was. Black against the swaths of orange-yellow, almost arachnid in shape, large enough to make an infinitely satisfying target.
Her fingers clenched, palm itching to slide over the few inches and release every nuke they had.
Frak you all to hell.
The collision came without warning, cockpit glass shattering, time dilating as cracks blossomed, shredding through molecule after molecule, over the entire surface. Wind whistled loudly in her ears and suddenly the endless orange dissolved into the pale light of the sun. She stood on a rocky ridge just outside her parents' home. The wind whipped her long hair around her face. Her hands were small, the skin young and unmarked. She held a small garden snake by the tip of its tail, grinning and shrieking at her friends to come and see, pride bursting from her at having caught it, at the power she held over it, wriggling and defenceless.
“Look! Come here, look!”
A sharp pain brought her eyes back to her hand. The snake, in defiance of gravity and its own fate, had curled up and sunk its small teeth into the soft flesh between her thumb and first finger. Shrieking, she shook her hand until it fell.
Her hand was pale when she looked at it, almost bloodless but for the two small red dots of blood. And cold. So cold.
She brought her foot down on the snake and reality resurfaced. The wind was silent. Black clouded the edges of her vision. She tried to move. Enough for one more bite. One more …
VII.
The sun was warm. Margaret sat in the long grass at the river's edge, the blades tickling her bare shoulders. A sleek, white boat sat in the water, still moored to a worn-looking dock. Water lapped against the shiny metal. People milled about.
She had the feeling that she should be going somewhere, but there was no urgency, no perception of time at all. Enjoying the feel of the stiff wind against her face, she realized she wasn't hungry, or thirsty, and nothing ached. The constant nervousness, the unsteady beating of her heart that the stims usually brought on, was a distant memory.
After an indeterminate time, she turned to the woman next to her. A bright, blue scarf framed the dark skin of her face. Her soft features were open and friendly, wise in a way that made Margaret feel safe.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked, eyes following the contours of the boat, shimmering in the heat of the sun.
“We're short one,” the woman answered, not looking at Margaret. “Shouldn't be long now.”
Who? Where are we going? I can't tell what long is anymore …
“I'm dead,” she said, more to herself than the woman beside her.
And this doesn't look like hell …
The woman smiled, nodding slightly. Margaret wondered if it were seconds or years before the woman's eyebrows flicked upward, and a spark of interest lit her eyes. “There.”
She followed the woman's gaze to where a figure lay on the ground. Her body was propped on her elbows, relaxed features turned up to the sun. Long curls of red hair blew about her face, the colour blending into the deep red of the dress she wore.
I know you.
She marvelled that even in the afterlife, people waited for Laura Roslin.
“No.” The woman's voice was by her ear now. “There.”
Margaret raised her eyes. A stocky figure walked toward them, undefined and dark, backlit by the sun.
She found her view blocked when Roslin stood, the wind blowing the long fabric from her shoulders as she reached out with both arms.
“We can go now,” said the voice.
Margaret stood and followed, keeping a respectful distance from the two former leaders. As much as she'd frakked up with them in the past, it felt right. She could follow them one last time, into eternity.
Fin.