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beccatoriaSo, I don't usually do this - i.e. write fic. But apparently I did today. I wonder if it will become a trend. It is unbeta'ed because I don't have a BSG beta, and because this is just my journal, and because I'm so floored that I wrote something I don't immediately want to throw away I'd rather get it out there.
I suppose I'll want to throw it away tomorrow, but that's why I'm posting it tonight. Kind of like, taking away my exit strategy.
Hollow Flight
Genre: Tory, Tory/Sam
Wordcount: about 800
Rating: I dunno...PG? PG-13 at most?
Spoilers: Up to the season 3 finale.
Summary: Tory only regrets it when she fails. And one day, there'll be no one left to forgive her when it happens.
When the first nuke hit, Tory felt it in her bones. And Tory is in a unique position to understand the blackhole cliché of this sentiment. Because Tory fixed an election, and Tory put her hand firmly on Duck's shoulder before he walked into that building, and Tory would have put a gun to Ellen Tigh's head herself if she'd known. Tory is not a sentimental person; she doesn't read bad romance fiction; she doesn't believe anyone feels anything in their bones, or their blood or any of their vital organs. Tory is a vulture. Which probably explains why she's frakking Sam Anders.
But when the first nuke hit, Tory felt it in her bones. A void, like the space between magnets, impossible to breach. Her skeleton was hollow and she thought of birds in flight until she realised she had no wings and she was falling. The void - freezerburn cold - climbed her spine, spread into her arms, her legs, her skull; every one of her thoughts was vacuum-sealed, wrapped in the inescapable failure of trying to fly when she had no wings.
She woke up screaming, every one of the people in her compartment startled, staring at her as if her eyes were truck headlights. Like rodents and antelopes and lost housecats thirty seconds from roadkill. Like carrion.
Tory is a vulture, and she's tried to manipulate every one of those people on flight 289, non-stop to Aerilon. It started the second she stormed the cockpit and insisted the captain radio space-traffic control and get a status report on Caprica. It started the second he received the result, and looked at her, reason razed by fear. She could almost hear his heart beat out the question, "Was it you?"
Nothing has filled Tory's hollow skeleton. She dreams (more often now, in Sam's arms) that when she fails again, when her vulture wings and her flesh are seared away by blinding, nuclear failure, she'll fall and smash, and shatter, and there'll be no one left to forgive her.
After New Caprica she didn't see Sam. Not for months. And when she did, the first words he said to her were, "I'm sorry."
She thought he was talking about his drink, all over the front of her shirt. But then he said, "I couldn't stop it." And then he slurred, "I wasn't even awake when it happened."
Tory said, "I'm sorry your wife is dead."
Sam broke his face with laughter; a sound and a grin that reminded Tory of dead earth split in the heat. Then he fell off his stool, and didn't move. A prone figure on the floor of Galactica's hanger-bay-bar. He looked small. Maybe she was far above him. Maybe her vision was spinning. Maybe she was in a desert, the two of them entirely alone. She could be circling at a great height. She could be drunk.
"You want help with him?" the barman - Connor, the man with a dead son - asked her.
Maybe she was drunk. She said, "No. I've got it."
She said, "Connor, on New Caprica, did you ever wonder if what we did..."
"No."
"No," she copied. "No. Neither did I."
"You ever need it," Connor called after her. "You got a tab at the bar."
Tory has always been ambitious, bent on success. It was not until the end of the world hollowed her that she began to fear failure. One day, she believes, something truly important will depend on her, and her fragile shoulders might shatter under the weight.
She let Sam fall into his bunk with the reassuringly solid sound of athletic muscle and mattress. He caught her wrist as she pulled the blanket to his chest.
Tory wondered if that was how she'd look, when she finally came crashing out of the sky. Lonely, and small as a desert rat miles from cover.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Sam squeezed the tears from his eyes.
"I forgive you," she whispered as she lay down next to him, letting him cry into her moonshine-soaked shirt. She pulled the blanket over them both, pulled the curtains to his rack, and let him fall asleep.
That night Tory felt, more clearly than she had ever felt before, how it would feel to tumble into her own shadow, to end up splayed and broken on the scorched earth.
Tory is a vulture. An opportunist. A pragmatist. Tory will do anything, pretend to be anyone, use the dead for her own means if it will win her a success. But it will not be enough. This knowledge is burned into her, it beats in her skull as her blood pulses, it fills her hollow skeleton.
No matter what she does.
Tory can't get no relief.
And there you have it. My <1000 word angsty vignette full of overly obvious imagery. Aah, I truly was born to be a fic writer! /self-conscious nervous sarcasm. ;)
I suppose I'll want to throw it away tomorrow, but that's why I'm posting it tonight. Kind of like, taking away my exit strategy.
Hollow Flight
Genre: Tory, Tory/Sam
Wordcount: about 800
Rating: I dunno...PG? PG-13 at most?
Spoilers: Up to the season 3 finale.
Summary: Tory only regrets it when she fails. And one day, there'll be no one left to forgive her when it happens.
When the first nuke hit, Tory felt it in her bones. And Tory is in a unique position to understand the blackhole cliché of this sentiment. Because Tory fixed an election, and Tory put her hand firmly on Duck's shoulder before he walked into that building, and Tory would have put a gun to Ellen Tigh's head herself if she'd known. Tory is not a sentimental person; she doesn't read bad romance fiction; she doesn't believe anyone feels anything in their bones, or their blood or any of their vital organs. Tory is a vulture. Which probably explains why she's frakking Sam Anders.
But when the first nuke hit, Tory felt it in her bones. A void, like the space between magnets, impossible to breach. Her skeleton was hollow and she thought of birds in flight until she realised she had no wings and she was falling. The void - freezerburn cold - climbed her spine, spread into her arms, her legs, her skull; every one of her thoughts was vacuum-sealed, wrapped in the inescapable failure of trying to fly when she had no wings.
She woke up screaming, every one of the people in her compartment startled, staring at her as if her eyes were truck headlights. Like rodents and antelopes and lost housecats thirty seconds from roadkill. Like carrion.
Tory is a vulture, and she's tried to manipulate every one of those people on flight 289, non-stop to Aerilon. It started the second she stormed the cockpit and insisted the captain radio space-traffic control and get a status report on Caprica. It started the second he received the result, and looked at her, reason razed by fear. She could almost hear his heart beat out the question, "Was it you?"
Nothing has filled Tory's hollow skeleton. She dreams (more often now, in Sam's arms) that when she fails again, when her vulture wings and her flesh are seared away by blinding, nuclear failure, she'll fall and smash, and shatter, and there'll be no one left to forgive her.
After New Caprica she didn't see Sam. Not for months. And when she did, the first words he said to her were, "I'm sorry."
She thought he was talking about his drink, all over the front of her shirt. But then he said, "I couldn't stop it." And then he slurred, "I wasn't even awake when it happened."
Tory said, "I'm sorry your wife is dead."
Sam broke his face with laughter; a sound and a grin that reminded Tory of dead earth split in the heat. Then he fell off his stool, and didn't move. A prone figure on the floor of Galactica's hanger-bay-bar. He looked small. Maybe she was far above him. Maybe her vision was spinning. Maybe she was in a desert, the two of them entirely alone. She could be circling at a great height. She could be drunk.
"You want help with him?" the barman - Connor, the man with a dead son - asked her.
Maybe she was drunk. She said, "No. I've got it."
She said, "Connor, on New Caprica, did you ever wonder if what we did..."
"No."
"No," she copied. "No. Neither did I."
"You ever need it," Connor called after her. "You got a tab at the bar."
Tory has always been ambitious, bent on success. It was not until the end of the world hollowed her that she began to fear failure. One day, she believes, something truly important will depend on her, and her fragile shoulders might shatter under the weight.
She let Sam fall into his bunk with the reassuringly solid sound of athletic muscle and mattress. He caught her wrist as she pulled the blanket to his chest.
Tory wondered if that was how she'd look, when she finally came crashing out of the sky. Lonely, and small as a desert rat miles from cover.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Sam squeezed the tears from his eyes.
"I forgive you," she whispered as she lay down next to him, letting him cry into her moonshine-soaked shirt. She pulled the blanket over them both, pulled the curtains to his rack, and let him fall asleep.
That night Tory felt, more clearly than she had ever felt before, how it would feel to tumble into her own shadow, to end up splayed and broken on the scorched earth.
Tory is a vulture. An opportunist. A pragmatist. Tory will do anything, pretend to be anyone, use the dead for her own means if it will win her a success. But it will not be enough. This knowledge is burned into her, it beats in her skull as her blood pulses, it fills her hollow skeleton.
No matter what she does.
Tory can't get no relief.
And there you have it. My <1000 word angsty vignette full of overly obvious imagery. Aah, I truly was born to be a fic writer! /self-conscious nervous sarcasm. ;)
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-14 08:03 am (UTC)Anyway, the apology was originally filmed as her apology for being involved with Zarek's plans for the Circle and knowing that Roslin was so against that and feeling terrible. But that whole subplot was cut so it ended up being her apologising like *crazy* for Maya and Isis even though it really wasn't her fault.
(Which, again, doesn't completely explain where her regard for Laura's forgiveness and loyalty to her comes from, but makes more sense than what we actually SEE).
Still, as it plays, I think it's...better really. It's a more subtle piece of characterisation even though it came about by accident. Also, of course, it plays into my cracked out love of the idea (for which I sadly cannot claim credit) that Tory's secretly in love with Laura and was apologising for getting Laura's current girlfriend and surrogate baby killed down on the planet. Because, seriously, the subtext that Tory's in love with Laura is awesome. Especially since I think Laura probably knows but won't act on it
because she's in love with Lee....someone get me help.
Oh forgot to add: glad the last line worked for you :)