| Just In Case |
| Summary: | A few people gather at the Memorial Wall and one of them makes sure there is a memory of her left behind just in case. |
| Date: | June 08 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Deck 9 - Recreation |
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| The floorplating along the corridors of the Cerberus are standard military. Their forged steel plates are welded seamlessly together to run nearly the entire length of each hallway. The hallways themselves are the typical load-bearing structural design of the angled quadrilateral. Oxygen scrubbers and lighting recesses are found at nearly perfect intervals throughout the angled passageways. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #101 |
There was nothing at all remarkable about this corridor before the Cylons hit, nothing at all notable about this stretch of slate grey walls held together at various intervals by sturdy A-frames jutting out like ridges from the boring, expressionless expanse.
What a difference does a genocide make.
Now, loud footsteps instinctively lighten when they pass between these rows of pictures, notes, and various sundry memorials tacked onto boards whose thin cork base is too crowded with items to be seen. Now, the quick slow to a trot to avoid disturbing those who've come here to pay their respects to the dead, and everywhere the smell of cedar lingers from sticks of smoking incense smouldering in makeshift censers bolted to the bulkheads.
It's in prayerful contemplation that Emilie Villon has come here this night, dressed in sweats, her dark hair bound into a ponytail by an elastic purple band. She's holding a pair of pictures in her hands, the fair skin of which right wrist is covered in a web of furious scars that run all the way up to her elbow. Heedless of the soldiers who tiptoe by, her eyes search in vain for a blank spot of wall on which to hang memories of her own, throat bobbing as she swallows heartbeats that come more quickly than she intends.
Rachel is just walking along the wall, her eyes slowly travelling from picture to picture, lingering here and there. Some seem more familiar than others, other members of the Fleet, or once was the fleet. She sighs heavily as she reaches one corner, eyes narrowing before she turns, beginning to head away, her footsteps heavy on the decking.
Cidra walks into the corridor, slowing as she passes the wall. It was obviously her destination. She does not seem to notice the others yet, moving to a photograph on the wall. She kisses her fingertips, touching them gently to it and laying them there for a beat.
Silent in her own head, Zosime contemplates the Memorial Wall. She doesn't have anything to add to it, doesn't want to give up hope that her friends are still alive, that somehow her family may still be clinging to life in the rural mountains somewhere. A piece of her isn't quite willing to accept what happened and what is still happening to her. The blonde deckie wouldn't qualify it as denial, she would call it hope. Faith. Something she still attempts to have even after all that they have been through.
The names, images, candles and mementos are hard on her, however. And a few tears slip down her cheeks unbidden and unnoticed as she notices how much care has been taken with the area without anyone needing to be delegated to the task. As her eyes are raptly focused on the wall in front of her, it isn't surprising that she manages to bump into one of the other visitors here to say their respects.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, instinctively putting a hand out toward the woman to both steady herself and her.
Villon steps forward as the blonde shuffles forward, her body stiffening at contact. "S'okay," she mumbles in that delicate soprano, her small fingers brushing aside a glossy photograph of a stern young man looking snappy in his dress greys as she continues her quest for a relatively unoccupied bit of wall. Half-closed eyes open more fully as she breathes in deeply above burning incense, whose spicy aroma seeps deeper into her clothes the more time she spends near the simple brazier. And then, even more softly, after a brief moment of silence: "Sorry." This to the man, it seems, displaced and condemned for the foreseeable future to remain at a slight twenty-degree angle from straight and level. "D — does — does anyone have a — a — a — pin?" Her voice hitches when she speaks, gentle as a wisp of smoke.
Rachel turns, her eyes narrowing slightly as she shakes her head. She hsa plenty of needles back in Sickbay, but she deals with enough pokey bits not to carry em around in her off hours. She actually seems far calmer than most here, or perhaps, she's just a bit cynical about the whole thing.
Cidra takes a moment to just look at the photograph she stopped by, withdrawing her fingertips slowly. She then turns and walks out of the corridor again, head bowed and pace a little quicker than it was when she entered.
Cidra leaves, heading towards the Dual Stairway [Midship Stairway].
Cidra has left.
As Zosime came here without any intention of pinning anything up, she doubts she has any pins. The deckie frowns and starts to ruffle through her pockets - still her bright orange Deck clothes - to see if she has anything sticky or pointy that may be of use to the pilot. It's strange what odds and ends she keeps on her person so she doesn't have to go running about for a tool kit all the time. With a frown, she pulls out a bit of adhesive. It's not a pin, and it's brightly colored; really, it's to mark a problem to remember there are problems that need to be fixed.
With an embarrassed, but attempting to be reassuring smile, the blonde woman hands the roll out to Villon. "This…this is all I've got," she says softly, as if realizing that the occasion requires solemnity even if what she's offering is bright red tape to stick up a cherished memory. "You're more than welcome to use if if you want."
Use it she does. "Th — thanks." Lidded eyes drift closed once more as Snag bites her bottom lip with her teeth, slipping the pictures into the waistband of her sweatpants so she can tear off a bit of red. It's folded over with methodical precision before she tacks it to the wall, one eye opening to guide her hand. "Do — do you have something here?" she wonders as she tilts her head to the side, examining her handiwork before pronouncing it sufficient with the smallest of nods. "I — I couldn't. Until now."
With a solemn nod, Zosime watches Villon for a few moments, and then realizes that this may be a personal gesture - a private one - and dutifully averts her eyes as the pilot takes the utmost care in making sure her picture is placed in the proper manner. It's only when she's asked another question that she responds, somewhat uncomfortably. "No, not really." As she's been hoping for some word from family members, or friends, or anything, she can't bring herself to part with her hope. If she gave them up as lost and then found out they were still alive, it would tear her apart. "I just…" How can she explain her need to walk down this hallway every once in awhile? It's a reminder, just as it's supposed to be. With a glance down at her feet, she frowns, adding softly, "I still can't."
"Oh," is the girl's eloquent response. Tape in place, the first of those pictures is withdrawn from her waist — showing only a quaint little houseboat amidst a row of quaint little houseboats, her hull painted a brilliant canary yellow flecked with droplets of water that gleam in the legendary Virgan noon. Without much pomp or circumstance, it's placed beneath that severe young man: a dash of color; a splash of sun. "I almost died," she says when she's done, voice hushed but somehow matter-of-fact. "So — you know," Emilie adds lamely, turning once more to face the tall woman beside her. "I — I couldn't let — " Hands gesture helplessly in the air. "Without coming."
"I know." Zosime doesn't really have much else of a response to Villon's confession. She doesn't know how she feels about that. While the deckhand wasn't actually there when Villon crashed, she had since heard about it. It's hard not to when you're working on the very birds these pilots get damaged in. "I'm sorry." That's all she can really think of to say. Though the brunette tensed when Z put a hand on her before, this time she attempts to put a comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder. They're all in this together, and while she doesn't know the right course of action here, this is all she can offer.
Yup — more tension, though Emilie can't really flinch with terribly much in the way of feeling. Instead, after the initial twitch, she relaxes, shoulders slumping forward as her scarred knuckles linger on the bow of that ship. Restless fingers on her other hand worry the edges of the other photograph, which she's kept quite safe in that pocket of hers, and her lips have started to whiten given how hard she's biting. "Strangers," she murmurs after a while. "All — all of them, here." All those rows upon rows of faces, all those columns upon columns of stories — nothing but ciphers individually but overwhelming collectively, gathered together in these multitudes — and then, suddenly, earnest gaze seeks out the other woman's as with hesitant motions she's taking that second picture from its hiding spot and smoothing it out on her palm. "C — can I ask a favor?" A plaintive whisper.
It's not like Zosime can blame her the tension. Not only is everyone all wound up beyond their normal capacity, the two don't truly know each other well. Her own eyes drift along all the faces of people killed she doesn't know, can't identify, but they all still make her sad. None of them deserved to die as they had and she can't figure out how they managed to make it through all this, still. As the young woman feels Snag's gaze on her again, Aemilia returns Emilie's stare at the question. Though her glance flickers down to the picture the other woman still smoothes out in her hand for just a second, her eyes quickly finding the other's again. "Yeah…sure you can." It's such an offhanded response, but her tone is still sad, thoughtful.
It's with something akin to shyness that the picture is handed over — old and weathered, its ragged edges fraying as flecks of dye crumble to the deck. And the subject? None other than the pilot herself, caught in an unguarded moment with but the barest hint of a smile on her face, white tank top creased as she turns to the camera. "There's someone who should have that," says Villon, fingers pressing the old photograph into the other woman's hand. "I th — she's — I think she's in the brig. Lieutenant Rime. She gave me tea one night and then I painted some bases for some of her little war figures and then we talked about home and Meridien and — " Rapid-fire words, now, as with almost mechanical precision she rattles off what happened, her light Virgan accent growing thicker as she speaks, speaks, and finally peters off at the mention of the place of her birth. "Would — would you give it to her?" finishes Emilie at length, drawing back as smoke from incense whirls like feathers around her slender frame. "So if I — you know — " A weak, wan smile. "Y — yeah." And just like that, she turns to go, light steps growing quicker the further she goes from that brilliant yellow boat and the faces all around.
With surprise, Zosime takes the picture from Villon. Curiosity wins out overall and she quickly takes a peek at what she's been given before her eyes drift up again. Though Emilie is talking faster and the accent is getting thicker as she continues, it's not hard to catch the gist of what is being asked. If Rime is in the brig, it may be hard for Zosime to get to her, but she did say she'd do a favor for the younger pilot. "S--Sure. Of course." The acceptance to do this is out of her mouth before she even has a chance to think it over. What else can she say to her? "You're not going to, though." Do what, they don't say - it doesn't really need to be spoken aloud - but, she feels like she has to say it. Has to give the optimism. She glances down at the picture again when she says that, adding, "But, don't you want to--" However when she looks up, the pilot is already high tailing it down the hallway. Aemilia let's her unasked question drift off, much like the incense still wafting across the faces and mementos.