space balls but with less legal balls

[scupper]

[It's not that he's exactly reckless or particularly careless. The fact of the matter is Duo's luck really fucking sucks. Which is why he was marooned on a shuttle with zero thruster power, his Gundam long gone, the colonies nowhere in sight and communications silent as the grave (how very ironic for the god of death himself, lifeless, endless space stretched out in front of him with a carpet full of stars).

That is until he struck a spot of luck- that ended up not being very lucky at all. A ship, a battle ship to be exact, rescued him and promptly seized him for questioning and the like.

It goes without saying that questioning is the universal language for "beat the shit out of Duo until he sings or makes a quip and passes out" out here in space. Which is where we find our braided hero in a startlingly familiar setting:

A darkened room, handcuffed to a chair with bruises zinging and stinging up and down his ribs and across his face. He wrenches his wrists against the cuffs to no avail; they merely rattle against the chair and give little. Well, he's had worse.]

Maaaan, this sucks. Hospitality sure ain't what it used to be in the colonies. Guess I can't blame 'em but a little grub would be nice.

Comments

i sho'l hope this ain't dooky

[badcoverband]

[Kara blinks down at the paper, smooth against metal clipboard under her thumb, anchored cool against her fingers on the other side. She wonders if she’s losing her vision as the number by age pops out on the page--she better not be, or she’d be pulled off Viper duty faster than she could throw back another shot of her favorite Aerilon liquor. So she goes to the window of the interrogation room and stares through to confirm what she saw on the page.

Nah, she’s just surprised is all. Surprised Galactica crew would go to all this trouble over a kid, but when she remembers the attitudes of some of the pilots she’s gotten she can easily understand. But really, how much of a threat could he really be?

But Kara can only ignore the stiffening of her own spine for so long, and finally she nods once, curtly, to the guards on either side to her before she pushes down the handle and breezes into the room, head held high, smirk in position in three, two-- as she turns toward the boy (all in time to hear the tail end of his whining).

The guards slam the door shut behind her and she tosses the clipboard onto the metal table with a loud clatter, resting one hand on top of her sidearm at her right hip. She makes a gesture in the direction of the window and a light comes on over the top of the boy’s head, shining down bright, casting some of Kara in luminance but mostly throwing more shadows over her features.

She takes her sweet time taking in the sight of this bruised and battered kid, trying not to be doubtful of his guilt. If Kara Thrace had learned one thing from this whole Cylon war experience, it’s to never trust Cylons. They’ll utilize even the smallest of children--obviously, she thinks with a bitter taste at the back of her throat--to seek the ends to their means. He’s no different. If he’s a Cylon then he’s the enemy, plain and simple.]

Well, well. Looks like we got ourselves a little Junior League of toasters now, huh?

Tough luck, kid. Up here you don’t get a say in room service-- [she cocks her head, smirk widening as she recalled the long plait at the back of his head] --or hair stylists.

[So down she sits in the chair across the table from him, folding her fingers together and leaning forward on her elbows.]

Tell me. Do the big baddies recruit straight outta kindergarten now? Or are you some special child prodigy they couldn’t wait to program? Newest model we don't know about?