| Due Process |
| Summary: | Pallas gives Sawyer a warning in the News Room. Things escalate quickly. |
| Date: | 18 Sept 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| News Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #204 |
| This room isn't huge by any means, but it does have all the updated equipment and a small news staff that runs the area. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
The news room is quiet. In truth, it hasn't seen much action since before the Holocaust as most of the QUODEL was left on Picon Anchorage that fateful day. That doesn't seem to apply to Sawyer, however, who is sitting at her desk stationed back by the Dark Room. She's burning the midnight oil, with a single lamp casting a pool of illumination on the page which she writes on. Her computer is dark and silent.
How long has Pallas been watching her from the doorway? Moments, maybe, or many minutes - but those who enter a room unannounced and keep their silence in solitude aren't always the most savory type of visitor. The darkness in the room, save the pool of light on Sawyer's desk, adds to the almost sinister atmosphere as Pallas approaches her, bootfalls clearly enunciated though his visage remains obscured in the shadows. The silence remains.
Sawyer raises her head wearily, fingers combing back through her hair to pull it out of her eyes as she tilts her chin up. "I'm sorry, while I don't normally say this…I'm sure whatever it is can wait until morning." Her tone is mildly exasperated, but no doubt tinged with a true exhaustion. She doesn't even have the presence of mind to make the obscured visitor identify him or herself, she merely wants them gone.
There's no reply to her protest to Pallas' presence. Just a dull gleam in the darkness - the dim light reflecting off his eyes, the only real visible part of him except for his silhouette. "I'm a great fan of your work," he says finally, his voice flat. "I've read everything you've published since you came aboard." He begins to pace in a half-circle, his path taking him in an arc behind her. "You sound weary. It must be getting tiring, trying to find material to undermine this ship and her command."
"If that's really what you think of my work, then you truly aren't literate. What is this about?" Sawyer's not the type to play games, and as she's tired, she has little patience. Her hand reaches out for the metal shade of the lamp, twisting it to change the direction of the light in the hopes of catching the man - surely that voice is a man's - in the slant of light.
Pallas smiles mirthlessly at her comment, just in time to be caught in the light. "Just a friendly visit from a long-time admirer," he replies, tone anything but friendly. He takes a couple paces forward, bringing him just behind her right shoulder. "You see, we know what you're doing, Miss Averies. We've been watching you for a while now." His voice is low and quiet. "So I thought I'd come down and give you a warning. We've got our eyes on you. You'd do best to remember that, because we haven't forgotten who the enemy is."
"A warning?" Sawyer turns her head slightly, looking back to the man out of the corner of her eye. "So that's what this is? If you think I'm something to be afraid of, you better take a good hard look at yourself. And whoever this 'we' is. Vigilante shit." She plants her hands on the lip of the desk and pushes her rolling chair back, hard and abrupt.
Pallas stops the chair with his foot, causing it to jerk to a halt. "Take it or leave it how you want," he says, his voice all but a snarl now. "But everyone who supports the Cylons are going to find themselves accountable for their words and actions very… soon. And guess who's at the top of that list, Miss Averies?" There's a low-throated chuckle as he starts to walk away toward the door, taking his foot off the base of her rolling chair. "You and all your Cylon-loving friends are in for a rude awakening."
Sawyer isn't going to leave it at that, oh no. She wouldn't be Sawyer if she just let sleeping dogs lie. She's up out of her chair, stalking after Pallas. "You've seriously got your wires crossed if you think for one second that half your accusations hold a grain of truth. I'm sick of you little frakkers turning around truth anyway you see fit, just so you can go on your gods damned witch hunt. Come back here when I'm talking to you." She seems hell-bent on following him.
"'You little frakkers'?" Pallas echoes. His volatile temper's been set off, evident by the way that his voice goes from a low threatening murmur up to an enraged bellow in three clipped words as he spins around to face her. A hand shoots out with surprising speed and grabs for the front of her shirt to pull her in close.
A frightened swallow is hidden cleverly behind the movement of a jutted chin as Sawyer is gathered up and hauled by the man with a few pounds of extra muscle over her. Her hands reach up to clasp at his wrist as his fingers curl in her shirt. "That's right. I'm generalizing you with the same ones who shot Lauren Coll. The same ones who threw out things like due process and innocent until proven guilty, taking law into their own hands, and therefore being a walking contradiction. Try having a shred of frakking proof beyond your own lame conjecture."
Pallas's lips curl in disgust, his face taking on a contorted and hateful look. "Keep trying to hide behind the bureaucracy - it won't last you much longer," he hisses. "Innocent until proven guilty - what a frakking pile of bullshit." She's released again - or more accurately, thrown backwards as he shoves her away toward the wall. "You Cylon sympathizers might think Colonial law will protect you, but it won't. So tell all your little friends to watch their asses, or they'll end up like Coll. Because we aren't gonna wait for more good men and women to die before we start launching you out the airlock." That appears to be all he came to say. He turns again and stalks out the door.
Sawyer is tossed aside like yesterday's garbage, or more specifically, she's shoved back against the wall where her shoulders connect before her head, softening the teeth-clattering jolt. This time, blissfully, she has no intention of following. "You're misinformed!" Is all she manages to shout after him before he has a chance to disappear. When he's good and gone and the reporter is left with only the pounding of her pulse in her ears and the ragged edge of her own breath, she slides down the wall and just sits there for a good long while before dialing up the MPs.