His apology comes at the end of a statement that comes out so fluidly she’s tempted to believe him--but is he a colonist? She hasn’t heard a word of Cylons using kids, not like this, shooting them out into space?, but she knows that doesn’t mean jack shit when it comes down to it. She grabs the clipboard again (not as gracefully as a certain clipboard boner, mind) and flips through the few sheets, eyes scanning rapidly (almost as rapidly as one of those single scarlet eyes, sliding back and forth but oh yes, as organic as she - the memory of that smell would remind her of that fact forever). But her eyes catch on the word where it does, in a single mention in the middle of a paragraph describing his vessel - who the frak wrote this mess? - state a mention of the Colonies from him.
She sits back down, tossing the clipboard back onto the table with only slightly softer clatter. And his words about being jaded were true, of course, gods, she had been jaded well before fifteen, but it is so easy to detach prisoner from human (or Cylon?? Maybe even half-Cylon? the question still races through her mind, leaves a bad aftertaste in the back of her throat). She gestures to one of the guards, who brings in a tray of food. How familiar this scene is to her, but with such a different subject. She has him set it down in front of the kid, watching his face carefully, wondering if she’s taking the wrong approach. But--]
I’m not sure how much of your sweet-talking I believe, but I like what I hear. And you’re right. Rations suck.
[How very different from the Kara of the interrogation that steals her breath away when she remembers it; not that she’s being lenient. Ever since Kacey, kids just don’t piss her off as much anymore. And, aw frak, an injured one at that… but that’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? Preying on this bullshit, on me, even after all this time, even after I know the truth.
She straightens her shoulders, drawing on the strength of the steely-eyed Viper jock within, Captain Kara Thrace, best damn pilot the Colonial Fleet’s ever seen, to bring herself back to the situation at hand. She’s just offering the carrot instead of the stick this time, is all. Hoping some gratefulness will get him to talk. She puts out her hand, palm up, and in it the guard places a key.
She stands again and walks to the chair he’s in and unlocks the handcuffs, tucking them in her belt and shoving the key in her pocket. With a curt nod, she dismisses the guard again to stand outside the door that closes with the characteristic heavy slam, but she stays leaning close - she can’t lose that steel edge to her to give him any openings in her armor; if he’s a Cylon or Cylon agent and she lets it get by, Laura Roslin would be all too pleased to throw her out the airlock.]
Go on and eat, french fry. Just remember, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. It’ll give you plenty of time to choose your words carefully.
Sadly we don't have room for cowards on Galactica but I'm sure we can find some use for your sorry ass.
Re: honks your tit
His apology comes at the end of a statement that comes out so fluidly she’s tempted to believe him--but is he a colonist? She hasn’t heard a word of Cylons using kids, not like this, shooting them out into space?, but she knows that doesn’t mean jack shit when it comes down to it. She grabs the clipboard again (not as gracefully as a certain clipboard boner, mind) and flips through the few sheets, eyes scanning rapidly (almost as rapidly as one of those single scarlet eyes, sliding back and forth but oh yes, as organic as she - the memory of that smell would remind her of that fact forever). But her eyes catch on the word where it does, in a single mention in the middle of a paragraph describing his vessel - who the frak wrote this mess? - state a mention of the Colonies from him.
She sits back down, tossing the clipboard back onto the table with only slightly softer clatter. And his words about being jaded were true, of course, gods, she had been jaded well before fifteen, but it is so easy to detach prisoner from human (or Cylon?? Maybe even half-Cylon? the question still races through her mind, leaves a bad aftertaste in the back of her throat). She gestures to one of the guards, who brings in a tray of food. How familiar this scene is to her, but with such a different subject. She has him set it down in front of the kid, watching his face carefully, wondering if she’s taking the wrong approach. But--]
I’m not sure how much of your sweet-talking I believe, but I like what I hear. And you’re right. Rations suck.
[How very different from the Kara of the interrogation that steals her breath away when she remembers it; not that she’s being lenient. Ever since Kacey, kids just don’t piss her off as much anymore. And, aw frak, an injured one at that… but that’s exactly what they want, isn’t it? Preying on this bullshit, on me, even after all this time, even after I know the truth.
She straightens her shoulders, drawing on the strength of the steely-eyed Viper jock within, Captain Kara Thrace, best damn pilot the Colonial Fleet’s ever seen, to bring herself back to the situation at hand. She’s just offering the carrot instead of the stick this time, is all. Hoping some gratefulness will get him to talk. She puts out her hand, palm up, and in it the guard places a key.
She stands again and walks to the chair he’s in and unlocks the handcuffs, tucking them in her belt and shoving the key in her pocket. With a curt nod, she dismisses the guard again to stand outside the door that closes with the characteristic heavy slam, but she stays leaning close - she can’t lose that steel edge to her to give him any openings in her armor; if he’s a Cylon or Cylon agent and she lets it get by, Laura Roslin would be all too pleased to throw her out the airlock.]
Go on and eat, french fry. Just remember, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. It’ll give you plenty of time to choose your words carefully.
Sadly we don't have room for cowards on Galactica but I'm sure we can find some use for your sorry ass.