PHD #481: Visitation
Summary: Ciro meets Yazdah and finds closure on the death of his family while struggling with the idea of finding coexistence with the Cylons.
Date: 22 Jun 2042 AE
Related Logs: None
NPC Ciro 
Officer's Brig
These pair of cells are roomier than one might expect. Each one is provided individual access by a door at the front, located on the other side of the room from the hatch. Each one essentially an armored glass cage, this area is walked and guarded by Marines day and night. Privacy not being a huge concern for prisoners, inside the cell is a single bunk and toilet in full view with nothing else. All visitors must sign-in with the Marine at the desk. Cameras are located at the entrance and on the cell itself, everything recorded onto disk in the Security Hub.
Condition Level: 3 - All Clear
Post-Holocaust Day: #481

She has the look of a young woman - some might still call her a girl. Long dark hair. Large, and rather sad, dark eyes that're far older than the twenty-something years her face and body appear. In a high-necked blouse and long skirt of conservative, homespun Gemenese design. An ordinary country girl, to look at her.

Yet not a girl. A Cylon Model 11, face like all the rest the Colonials have encountered since the war began. Since everything was obliterated by her kind. Here she sits, behind the bullet-proof glass of her cell. A pair of MPs are stationed by the door to the security cells guard her, though at present she's doing nothing more than sitting on her bed space. She's alone. The other Cylon - and the human woman they brought with them - kept in separate areas. Quietly, patiently, she waits for the visitor she's been told is coming. A fair few in the crew have come since the Cylons came aboard, and not just MP and Intelligence interrogators. Some to talk, some to spit at the glass, others just to look at one of the creatures who rained fire and destruction down on the twelve colonies more than a year ago.

But to look at her she's just a quiet, rather pretty girl, with large sad eyes. Waiting. Quiet.

The door opens and the freshly frisked, secured-access form of Ciro Sondray enters the brig. He is wearing his off-duty tank tops and fatigue pants that allow view of both the older half-sleeve tattoos on his arms as well as the newer, scabbing over ink that disappears beneath the fabric covering his left shoulder. His brass dog tags sway as he moves, eyes immediately finding the model eleven sitting behind the saliva-stained glass.

For the slightest moment, a look of sympathy registers on his face, knowing well what her time with visitors has likely involved. His brows lower and a frown creases his face as he reaches for the chair, spins it around, and straddles it. He clears his throat, reaching to the top of his head to brush his fingertips through the strange haircut that's become his calling card.

"We…haven't met, at least not that I know." He starts, not shying away from eye contact. "I guess I should start by introducing myself. My name is Ciro…" He doesn't offer his last name. "…I've come to understand we have a mutual acquaintance. She's shown me your artwork."

The Eleven is watching the door, so those large eyes fall on Ciro when he enters. "Hello," is her first, simple greeting to him. "And we haven't met…Ciro, is it? You may call me Yazdah. I wasn't born with a name. But all of my line have taken them now." Acquaintance?" Curious at that. Though mention of artwork makes her smile. "Do you draw, Ciro? Or paint? Or write, in prose or poetry?"

"Well met, Yazdah, and yes it's Ciro." He replies with a soft nod of his head, eyes blinking as he watches her closely. His neutral expression doesn't match the candor in his voice, but he refrains from looking her over as some sort of exhibit. "I sometimes journal to get my thoughts out. It's a necessary thing. I wouldn't consider myself an artist by any means, though…" He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "…how long have you been putting your mark on paper?"

"It's very…centering, isn't it?" Yazdah goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Sometimes there's so…much. In your mind. And so much that doesn't make sense. The Tens say the organic mind is…poorly organized. Haphazardly designed. Moreso than the Centurions or even the Raiders enjoy. There is clarity in programming. At times I've wished for clarity." She clears her throat softly. "After Leonis, after Kythera…that's when the dreams began. And everything seemed…not so simple as it had been. That's when I began drawing. It seemed to make things…clearer, in my mind. Things seem so much more beautiful in dreams, don't they, Ciro? So much more beautiful in your mind than they are in reality."

"It's been a long time since I've dreamed, but when I do, yeah…" He nods his head, his words trailing off in agreement with her. Breathing in quietly, he exhales slowly and braces his forearms over the back of the chair before him. "Reality is a hard place sometimes. Things are brittle. Things break, people die, and they come back to life when you sleep. We get second chances in our sleep that we don't get in the real world, and if the dream gets too bad…we can always wake up." He replies, leaning back to reach into his pocket, pulling out something small with a glossy, gray print on the back that's been marred with words in black ink. He lowers his gaze to the back of the photograph, mentally tossing a coin. "I haven't given up on reality yet, Yazdah. From what I understand, neither have you."

"The dreams aren't always pleasant. But they're…less muddled. Sometimes matters are very muddled when I'm awake. But I think I understand now…that I'm starting to understand…" There's a trace of almost childlike wonderment in her voice. And it's almost as if she's not quite talking *to* Ciro, but beyond him. She blinks. "I haven't given up. I just hope it's not too late. For any of us. We've made so many mistakes, Ciro. Everyone has." She looks at the photograph in his hands, curiously, though she does not immediately ask about it.

"Yeah. We have. I guess some of us are guilty of complacency, arrogance. I guess it could be said that fighting in wars like I have I could be just as guilty for pulling the trigger as I am for the times that I didn't. Sometimes I don't understand the formula." He pauses, watching Yazdah's face as her vision dips towards the photograph. He turns it over in his hands and rises, finding a spot on the glass that isn't marred with dried saliva. He reaches for the back of the chair and turns it around, pulling it closer to the glass. "I'm sure you've gotten this a lot. I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for information or a lack thereof. It's not the only reason I came, of course, but it's an olive branch." He places the image side of the photograph to the glass so that she can see.

"To the best of your knowledge, aside from myself, are any of the people in this photograph still alive?"

The photograph contains four people. One of them is clearly Ciro standing next to an older gentleman that could only be related to him. Possibly a father. On Ciro's arm is an attractive, black haired girl, and to the girl's side is a dusty-blonde haired man with his hand on Ciro's shoulder. It's some form of family photograph.

"It was a mistake." It's not an apology, precisely, but it's said firmly. "We thought there was no other way. My sisters and I. That it would be our end, if it was not yours first. After Kythera…I knew that wasn't true." Yazdah scoots forward, to look as closely as she can at the photograph. Her eyes fix particularly on the black haired girl. She reaches up to run her fingers through her own long, dark hair. As if struck by the similarity of it. "What were their names?"

"Mistake…" He replies, eyes narrowing for just a moment. It's a logical reaction. Billions of lives wiped out over a mistake? He averts his gaze and takes in a deep breath, letting it out quietly as he sidesteps the fresh wound. "I would rather have peace than revenge. What's broken is broken. Everyone in this picture wasn't going to get an eternity anyway, that's just the nature of my species. So…don't expect me to spit on this wall or try to break through it. Anger doesn't have to mean blindness."

He brings his free hand to his head, brushing a hand over his mohawk once again. He takes the plunge after letting out another deep breath. The band-aid has to come off sooner or later. "Blonde is Troyle Dixon. You and I both know the attractive man in the mohawk, but the well lined man with the cigarette and the yellow teeth is one Tripp Sondray." He pauses, watching her eye movement like an MP trying to secure a confession. "Her name…is Vanessa Dannika."

If Yazdah notices the narrowing of his eyes, she gives no sign of it. Her eyes are fixed on the picture. Finally, she shakes her head. "I am sorry, Ciro. These are not faces I have seen. The Twos have taken those that they could off the worlds our brothers and sisters still hold. They have found…a few thousand now. But there are not many left. The air and water is poison there now. And the Threes kill for vengeance, the Sixs for the pleasure of it." There's disgust in her voice, and anger at that last. But her eyes, mostly, just look very sad.

Ciro freezes, not moving a single muscle. His eyes remain on hers, and a slow tension grows over his shoulder as the very human reaction of not knowing how to act seizes his brain. The picture slides off of the glass as his hand slowly lowers, bringing his wrist to rest on his knee. He swallows the rock that's lodged itself in his throat, and he looks away. Carefully, he slides the picture back into his pocket. The silence between them becomes as physical as the bullet-proof glass as the muscular marine rocks on an invisible fence, trying to decide between despair and fury.

"I…had more hope that my father would have made it. He was a mine foreman. Tyllium goes inert when a nuke hits it, and…would have made a bad target on warday." He murmurs, his brows lowering and his jaw squaring. He swallows his emotions down with the rock, giving it company in the aching pit his stomach has become. He looks up, offering her a bitter, flat smile. "Thank you. I can focus on doing what these people need me for, now. I just want to get them somewhere safe, Yazdah. That's all."

"Somewhere safe…" Yazdah echoes the words. There are tears standing in her eyes as she repeats them. "I hope you find that, Ciro. I truly do. Your people on Gemenon believe they might find a road to a new home there. For you. For my brother Two and I…I do not know if there is any safe place left for us. All I think I want some days is to be left alone. To make beautiful things with ink, if I can't do anything beautiful with things that are real. I hope I still can. Even a little bit. I've done so much ugliness, Ciro…"

"So have I, Yazdah. I'm not playing one-ups, I'm just…agreeing I suppose. When you look through a scope to see someone's face in such detail, sometimes unable to see the uniform, you're faced with being responsible for that life you're taking." He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Afterlife or not, fate or not, I survived this far. There's people in this fleet that trust this plan on Gemenon. There are hopefuls, skeptics…I'm sure you've met a mix of the two for these visitation sessions. My opinion is that if there's a way to end this war and live in peace, then whoever helps us get there deserves to live in it. Frak it." His eyes go sharp and his head nods, it's a pointed look. Yes, even Cylons if that's what it takes, he seems to gesture.

He goes quiet, continuing to watch her from the other side of the protective barrier. After a short moment, he breaks the silence once more. "While you're in here, why don't you draw me something?" He glances down to his tattooed arms. "Leave a different kind of mark on me."

"My sister, who was among you before, called herself Atropos. Named herself. More than Eleven. There is only one Atropos. She did not resurrect. She died a final death. Over Sagittaron. Ending the work of my brothers and sisters there, with her blood and…soul. If we have them. That was a beautiful thing. Believe me or not, Ciro, but that is why I came here. Because I envy her, because of what she became. Perhaps it means I can be…more than just Eleven…" She doesn't finish that, her eyes going back to the Marine's face. Ciro's request brings a smile to her face, even if her eyes are still sad. "I would like to draw for you, Ciro. I would be very honoroed. I will try to make it something you will want to look upon, that speaks to you better than I am able. Art speaks to our souls. It is what makes me hope I have one."

"Consider it a peace offering." Ciro replies, the obvious ache in his soul making it impossible for him to smile, but it's a friendly gesture nonetheless. "We shouldn't exist. I've thought long and hard about this. Existence itself doesn't make any sense, yet here we are, good and bad. There are things that I miss and…who knows, maybe those things I'll find again. The point I'm trying to make is that all we really ever have is the present until the present stops existing." He clears his throat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Draw what you feel, nothing less." His brows lower, changing gears. "Yazdah, I'm not going to lie. I came here to speak with you to understand. To hope to trust is just as likely fatal as to lose hope altogether, and if you're being truthful to me…that's a leap of faith now isn't it? If you want to make your mark on humanity…now's your chance. I'll gladly go the rest of what life I have left with your art on my skin if it means that you and I took a step in the right direction." He pauses. "But if you can't be trusted and your actions kill me. I want your word you'll bury me yourself."

"The Threes will likely Box my brothers, the Twos, and my sisters and I, if they win out amongst my kind," Yazdah says. There's a finality to the way she says the word 'Boxed.' Like death, only moreso. "I am not afraid of it anymore. I only hope, if it comes to that, I will still dream. But I hope, too, that there can be more than an end for all of us. I will sleep tonight, and dream of something beautiful for you, and if you will wear it when I am finished…if it speaks to you, then I will take that as good hope."

The Cylon, who looks so much like a human girl, adds softly but with firmness, "If harm comes to you by our actions, I shall bury you with my own hands. Believe or no, it is the farthest thing from what we hope to achieve here. But if it comes to that, I will see you laid to rest. This I promise."

"Bury me by the sea. That's where we planned to grow old together." From his position on the other side of the glass, Ciro carefully digests the tone and cadence of the Cylon sitting across from him. Unfolding the arms that act as an emotional barrier, he brings his hands to the side of his chair and pushes. Rising, he gazes down at her in silence, slipping his hands into the back pockets of his fatigue pants. He's preparing to make his leave of her.

"I'll try to come back if they let me to see what you come up with. If not, I'm sure one of the MPs will get the artwork to me. You know my last name now, Yazdah." He pauses, absentmindedly scratching his chest. "Take care of yourself. Something tells me this isn't the last time we'll see eachother."

"I will see you later, Ciro," Yazdah says simply in parting. It has an air of a promise to it. She settles back into her cell, watching him with those large, dark eyes as he takes his leave.

His eyes find hers as he turns, keeping their eye contact tight and unbroken on his way to the door. Without another word, he turns his back to her and lets the MP knock twice on the secured door, allowing it to be opened from the other side. Ciro steps through and the door closes behind him once more, trapping Yazdah in her solitude.

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