Fic: Helpless (One-shot)
Title: Helpless
Author: NightSpank
Rating: PG-13 (violence, dark themes)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Focus: Kara, slight Kara/Leoben
Warnings: This is really, really, really dark. I'm not kidding. Take some happy pills before you read this or something.
Summary: Kara in Leoben's "dollhouse". Inner monologue, not much else.
AN: I am in a fucking weird mood today.
--
It only took two weeks for her to begin to forget.
Sure, she remembered the important things: her name, her rank, the rules of Triad, that the world had been destroyed and she was one of the ones lucky enough to be alive.
But she woke up one morning in a panic, alone, knowing that at one point she had gotten used to waking up in someone's embrace but not really remembering what it felt like to be safe and loved.
Because she wasn't either, not right now.
Kara Thrace was afraid.
--
She wasn't quite sure why Leoben was keeping her in this place - this "dollhouse". He wasn't pushing her towards anything, instead being patient, speaking with her rarely, but helping her with little things. He cooked for her, did laundry for her, made sure everything was perfect for her.
Someday, he was going to ask something from her, something she couldn't give.
It was those days when she would study her surroundings, to find what she could to hide away, to break free from this place, to join the fight that she was certain was going around outside.
The explosions would rattle the pictures on the walls, the blinds covering the windows, the chinaware on the table.
Yet, she was helpless.
Starbuck was never helpless.
--
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four knives hidden in the mattress.
Each one was sharp, she tested them on her arm, drawing the blade carefully down in a thin line across the skin. After wiping the crimson blood away, she stuck three of them back in the mattress and the fourth she tied up in the drawstring of her sweatshirt and tucked inside.
Just in case.
--
She should be happy she was alive.
She wasn't.
--
The first time she killed Leoben, he had turned his back to her. She pulled the knife out by the drawstring and contemplated the most fatal stabbing location. Sharp weapons weren't her specialty, she was better with guns. Because with a gun, she could shoot to the head, the chest, the stomach, each one would prove fatal.
With a knife, she had to be more careful and more precise.
She could slit his throat, try to go for the artery there. She could stab him deep in the chest, careful to be exact, on the left side.
Instead, she lunged at him, causing him to turn towards her in surprise. That gave her the opening she wanted, to plunge the blade deep into his stomach and pull it up to his neck. Her strength combined with the length of the blade split his skin neatly and blood gushed out so quickly, covering her hands.
After he gurgled out a final breath, she let go, her shaking arms coming into focus of her eyes.
Her hands were covered in crimson red up to the wrist. She turned them around, studying each finger and knuckle, seeing the blood shine in the light, drip from her fingertips down to her clothes.
And she smiled.
--
She punched the window once, when Leoben wasn't there to watch over her.
Actually, she punched it many times, but it was all in the same set of moments, when she thought she had a chance.
Windows are made of glass, and glass is supposed to shatter. It was a lesson she learned, if she crashed her Viper and couldn't eject, the windows were made of glass so that they would smash open.
But she formed a fist with her hand and slammed it exactly at the center of the window, and the glass didn't so much as crack. She panicked.
Again and again, she punched at the window, hoping it would eventually succumb to the force she was putting on it and break.
When Leoben found her two hours later, she was cradling her now black and blue hand, staring blankly out the window.
She was broken, just like her hand.
--
It wasn't that she wanted to die, not exactly. She enjoyed living, for the most part.
Just not like this.
--
She killed him again and again, over and over, and he kept coming back, kept tormenting her with his smile and his touch and his want for her to understand.
But of course - he was a Cylon. He would come back every time.
Once, only once did he try and force her into bed with him. His hands burned into her arms, and she felt as if her skin was melting off her bones, so warm, so horrifying, the pain was intense.
When she was able to move, she backed away from his harsh grip immediately, and he understood he was pushing her too far.
Even though he backed down after that, she would never forget.
She would wake up at night, swearing there were bruises where he had grasped her.
There weren't.
--
At first, she was wary of the meals he would serve her. He was a Cylon after all, and she was sure he was drugging her.
But after a time, after hunger got the best of her, she succumbed and tried to eat.
She kept herself awake for 52 hours straight after that, just in case, huddled in a ball on the bed he had given her. Constantly shaking, shivering, hoping he would leave her alone long enough so she could tell if it was safe.
For some reason... he wanted her alive.
But that didn't mean she was safe.
--
What do the following things have in common: A shard of glass, a blade, a broken plate?
Each can kill.
--
For some reason, she was always cold now.
Not like she wasn't used to being cold, it was cold on Galactica, in her Viper, on New Caprica.
It was different now. She couldn't tell why.
But... she felt cold inside her skin instead of out.
--
Before, after the attacks on the colonies, she would pray for the souls of the pilots she had lost, and that would comfort her. She could sleep at night then, knowing that at least in death they were safe.
She would fall asleep and then she would wake up, a new day having arrived.
But now, instead of looking forward to the day, when everything would be all right, even if only for a little while...
She wished the morning would never come.
--
When she got back to Galactica after those long months, it was a shock to her to find that she couldn't remember who Starbuck was. Because she wasn't Starbuck anymore. She was Kara Thrace.
Leoben hadn't wanted Starbuck, he had wanted Kara Thrace.
And that's what he had gotten.
He had gotten exactly what he wanted.
Author: NightSpank
Rating: PG-13 (violence, dark themes)
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Focus: Kara, slight Kara/Leoben
Warnings: This is really, really, really dark. I'm not kidding. Take some happy pills before you read this or something.
Summary: Kara in Leoben's "dollhouse". Inner monologue, not much else.
AN: I am in a fucking weird mood today.
--
It only took two weeks for her to begin to forget.
Sure, she remembered the important things: her name, her rank, the rules of Triad, that the world had been destroyed and she was one of the ones lucky enough to be alive.
But she woke up one morning in a panic, alone, knowing that at one point she had gotten used to waking up in someone's embrace but not really remembering what it felt like to be safe and loved.
Because she wasn't either, not right now.
Kara Thrace was afraid.
--
She wasn't quite sure why Leoben was keeping her in this place - this "dollhouse". He wasn't pushing her towards anything, instead being patient, speaking with her rarely, but helping her with little things. He cooked for her, did laundry for her, made sure everything was perfect for her.
Someday, he was going to ask something from her, something she couldn't give.
It was those days when she would study her surroundings, to find what she could to hide away, to break free from this place, to join the fight that she was certain was going around outside.
The explosions would rattle the pictures on the walls, the blinds covering the windows, the chinaware on the table.
Yet, she was helpless.
Starbuck was never helpless.
--
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four knives hidden in the mattress.
Each one was sharp, she tested them on her arm, drawing the blade carefully down in a thin line across the skin. After wiping the crimson blood away, she stuck three of them back in the mattress and the fourth she tied up in the drawstring of her sweatshirt and tucked inside.
Just in case.
--
She should be happy she was alive.
She wasn't.
--
The first time she killed Leoben, he had turned his back to her. She pulled the knife out by the drawstring and contemplated the most fatal stabbing location. Sharp weapons weren't her specialty, she was better with guns. Because with a gun, she could shoot to the head, the chest, the stomach, each one would prove fatal.
With a knife, she had to be more careful and more precise.
She could slit his throat, try to go for the artery there. She could stab him deep in the chest, careful to be exact, on the left side.
Instead, she lunged at him, causing him to turn towards her in surprise. That gave her the opening she wanted, to plunge the blade deep into his stomach and pull it up to his neck. Her strength combined with the length of the blade split his skin neatly and blood gushed out so quickly, covering her hands.
After he gurgled out a final breath, she let go, her shaking arms coming into focus of her eyes.
Her hands were covered in crimson red up to the wrist. She turned them around, studying each finger and knuckle, seeing the blood shine in the light, drip from her fingertips down to her clothes.
And she smiled.
--
She punched the window once, when Leoben wasn't there to watch over her.
Actually, she punched it many times, but it was all in the same set of moments, when she thought she had a chance.
Windows are made of glass, and glass is supposed to shatter. It was a lesson she learned, if she crashed her Viper and couldn't eject, the windows were made of glass so that they would smash open.
But she formed a fist with her hand and slammed it exactly at the center of the window, and the glass didn't so much as crack. She panicked.
Again and again, she punched at the window, hoping it would eventually succumb to the force she was putting on it and break.
When Leoben found her two hours later, she was cradling her now black and blue hand, staring blankly out the window.
She was broken, just like her hand.
--
It wasn't that she wanted to die, not exactly. She enjoyed living, for the most part.
Just not like this.
--
She killed him again and again, over and over, and he kept coming back, kept tormenting her with his smile and his touch and his want for her to understand.
But of course - he was a Cylon. He would come back every time.
Once, only once did he try and force her into bed with him. His hands burned into her arms, and she felt as if her skin was melting off her bones, so warm, so horrifying, the pain was intense.
When she was able to move, she backed away from his harsh grip immediately, and he understood he was pushing her too far.
Even though he backed down after that, she would never forget.
She would wake up at night, swearing there were bruises where he had grasped her.
There weren't.
--
At first, she was wary of the meals he would serve her. He was a Cylon after all, and she was sure he was drugging her.
But after a time, after hunger got the best of her, she succumbed and tried to eat.
She kept herself awake for 52 hours straight after that, just in case, huddled in a ball on the bed he had given her. Constantly shaking, shivering, hoping he would leave her alone long enough so she could tell if it was safe.
For some reason... he wanted her alive.
But that didn't mean she was safe.
--
What do the following things have in common: A shard of glass, a blade, a broken plate?
Each can kill.
--
For some reason, she was always cold now.
Not like she wasn't used to being cold, it was cold on Galactica, in her Viper, on New Caprica.
It was different now. She couldn't tell why.
But... she felt cold inside her skin instead of out.
--
Before, after the attacks on the colonies, she would pray for the souls of the pilots she had lost, and that would comfort her. She could sleep at night then, knowing that at least in death they were safe.
She would fall asleep and then she would wake up, a new day having arrived.
But now, instead of looking forward to the day, when everything would be all right, even if only for a little while...
She wished the morning would never come.
--
When she got back to Galactica after those long months, it was a shock to her to find that she couldn't remember who Starbuck was. Because she wasn't Starbuck anymore. She was Kara Thrace.
Leoben hadn't wanted Starbuck, he had wanted Kara Thrace.
And that's what he had gotten.
He had gotten exactly what he wanted.