"Nnnnice-uh mee' ya Cat'n. Fennn. Ish. Fench." Alex coughed, then flailed in a genuine attempt to catch the container he tossed her way, despite the fact in her current state she had no hope of doing so.
Asshole.
Probably threw it just so he could watch that.
Frustrated, she grabbed the packet and tore into a corner with her teeth, ignoring the more serviceable, actual opening.
He thinks I'm useless already.
That was a mindset she had to change, and fast, because as much as she couldn't bear the term herself, being useless aboard someone's ship when they didn't want her there in the first place could be infinitely worse than a spiral of self-loathing. One-way-trip-out-an-airlock worse.
So no more trying to catch things. For now. And probably I should remember how to function in polite society on the quick, too.
At least the liquid was restorative, though once he insulted her clarity on top of her present agility, she sipped infinitely more slowly. No use giving him more reasons to think she lacked wits. It wasn't a matter of translation. She understood him just fine. Her own words must have been coming out a lot more garbled than she was hearing in her head.
Three quarters of the packet were gone and the room's ceiling ceased having a spinning, strobing dance club effect by the time she tried to process what he'd said. Words almost sympathetic, but lacking any inflection one would expect in accompaniment.
And had that been a warning?
She eyed the books spread all over the table. Couldn't be that bad a person. He had hobbies, for one, and hobbies that didn't seem to wholly focused on extracting information. A slob, perhaps, but unless they were hiding under a pile of butts and haphazardly strewn papers, she didn't see an assortment of plaswhips and hooks and implements used to torture a prisoner, all laid out for her to choose from for the day. In response, she gave an experimental shrug of her shoulders that felt like someone had pounded metal spikes into her shoulderblades and flames stabbed in a line down her sides. Her jaw clamped down, gray eyes watering until the pain had returned to its usual haze of tolerable.
Alex's tolerance had increased quite a bit during her internment.
Okay. So not a whole lot of moving right now. That's...fine. Just fine.
"Thank you for the rescue." The words sounded the same to her brain as they had earlier, so she'd have to take his response for an indication of their coherency. And plunge forward anyway, because the reality of not being strapped down was glorious. "Truly, Captain Fenris. I'm Alex. Alex Winger."
Had she already given her name? No matter. He'd given her a last name, and she could respond in kind. Alex did indeed have questions, it was just that she couldn't decide what to ask first. What system am I in? What's the date? Has my father put out a ransom--no, better not ask that. What are you? Is that a suit or are you a robot--frag. It's been so long since...reasonable people.
She asked nothing instead and finally scooped up the bar he'd set before her, turning it over and over in her hands as if trying to make sense of its purpose. When she finally deigned to put it in her mouth, she almost instantly recoiled. Almost, only because her reaction time was still lagging, her muscles worn out and unwilling. "Seven bloody moons of Detrionn," she muttered, and what happened next might be assumed to be the result of months of lock-up and lack of meaningful sentient interaction. It wasn't. Licking the back of her hand to scrub her tongue clean out of old, neanderthalic habit and sheer misplacement of manners, she realized she was coated in...undesirable goo. And a vastly more undesirable flavors.
Hr tongue left a streak of clear, faintly freckled skin in its wake and she blinked at it in what might have been unrecognizing shock for a moment before returning to the problem at hand. She took a swig from the remains of the liquid, swished it around, and then, not seeing anywhere to spit without having to get up, she backwashed into the container with a grimace.
Shaking the offensive green block at him, she demanded, "What the frag is this supposed to be?"
A pause, and then an explosion of rapid problem-solving. "Is your replicator broken? Your tastebuds? I can fix at least one of those, if you like. I'm really good with my hands and it seems like something nice to offer to someone's rescuer, right?"
Stop, Alex.
Questions spilling forth had no true bearing on her current situation, reflecting her analytical nature instead, her thoughts retreating into the familiar engineering troubles--things she could control--instead of her life--and the fact she had no idea what came next.
And then, because those weren't the only two options: "Do you not know how to make it pump out edible things? Do you not like edible things? Do you not need to eat? Frag..."
STOP, Alex.
Her head dropped until she was staring at her hands, unseeing. "What if my tastebuds are broken?"
She swallowed hard at the horrible thought. Maybe they were out of shape from not actually tasting anything but blood--her own, filling her mouth during particularly rough sessions.
"Not that I have room to complain," a soft admission, now that her brain had connected an engineering problem with a living one, "They had me on IVs on that ship."
STOPSTOP.
Undeterred by a brain that was practically screaming her--second--first impression in a place of even temporary freedom was going to be insulting his tech, his intelligence, and also probably his ability to be an organic being at all, she shook the bar, lifted it toward him. "A babe gets out of the bowels of a space worm's stomach, she wants a burger, not a fraggin' brick."
Probably the visual needed as much work as her manners and her adjustment to reality, as Alex considered her hasty words and then wrinkled her nose. "You know what I mean." Her shoulders sagged as her brain finally caught up. "And I'm sorry. For complaining."
Stars...I need to remember how to talk to people.
She curled into herself, a willowy form sinking deeper into the worn couch cushions like they could swallow her up and protect her from any impending punishment, clothes in tatters, skin smeared with unfortunate things, and face draped in a look of forlorn defeat.
Asshole.
Probably threw it just so he could watch that.
Frustrated, she grabbed the packet and tore into a corner with her teeth, ignoring the more serviceable, actual opening.
He thinks I'm useless already.
That was a mindset she had to change, and fast, because as much as she couldn't bear the term herself, being useless aboard someone's ship when they didn't want her there in the first place could be infinitely worse than a spiral of self-loathing. One-way-trip-out-an-airlock worse.
So no more trying to catch things. For now. And probably I should remember how to function in polite society on the quick, too.
At least the liquid was restorative, though once he insulted her clarity on top of her present agility, she sipped infinitely more slowly. No use giving him more reasons to think she lacked wits. It wasn't a matter of translation. She understood him just fine. Her own words must have been coming out a lot more garbled than she was hearing in her head.
Three quarters of the packet were gone and the room's ceiling ceased having a spinning, strobing dance club effect by the time she tried to process what he'd said. Words almost sympathetic, but lacking any inflection one would expect in accompaniment.
And had that been a warning?
She eyed the books spread all over the table. Couldn't be that bad a person. He had hobbies, for one, and hobbies that didn't seem to wholly focused on extracting information. A slob, perhaps, but unless they were hiding under a pile of butts and haphazardly strewn papers, she didn't see an assortment of plaswhips and hooks and implements used to torture a prisoner, all laid out for her to choose from for the day. In response, she gave an experimental shrug of her shoulders that felt like someone had pounded metal spikes into her shoulderblades and flames stabbed in a line down her sides. Her jaw clamped down, gray eyes watering until the pain had returned to its usual haze of tolerable.
Alex's tolerance had increased quite a bit during her internment.
Okay. So not a whole lot of moving right now. That's...fine. Just fine.
"Thank you for the rescue." The words sounded the same to her brain as they had earlier, so she'd have to take his response for an indication of their coherency. And plunge forward anyway, because the reality of not being strapped down was glorious. "Truly, Captain Fenris. I'm Alex. Alex Winger."
Had she already given her name? No matter. He'd given her a last name, and she could respond in kind. Alex did indeed have questions, it was just that she couldn't decide what to ask first. What system am I in? What's the date? Has my father put out a ransom--no, better not ask that. What are you? Is that a suit or are you a robot--frag. It's been so long since...reasonable people.
She asked nothing instead and finally scooped up the bar he'd set before her, turning it over and over in her hands as if trying to make sense of its purpose. When she finally deigned to put it in her mouth, she almost instantly recoiled. Almost, only because her reaction time was still lagging, her muscles worn out and unwilling. "Seven bloody moons of Detrionn," she muttered, and what happened next might be assumed to be the result of months of lock-up and lack of meaningful sentient interaction. It wasn't. Licking the back of her hand to scrub her tongue clean out of old, neanderthalic habit and sheer misplacement of manners, she realized she was coated in...undesirable goo. And a vastly more undesirable flavors.
Hr tongue left a streak of clear, faintly freckled skin in its wake and she blinked at it in what might have been unrecognizing shock for a moment before returning to the problem at hand. She took a swig from the remains of the liquid, swished it around, and then, not seeing anywhere to spit without having to get up, she backwashed into the container with a grimace.
Shaking the offensive green block at him, she demanded, "What the frag is this supposed to be?"
A pause, and then an explosion of rapid problem-solving. "Is your replicator broken? Your tastebuds? I can fix at least one of those, if you like. I'm really good with my hands and it seems like something nice to offer to someone's rescuer, right?"
Stop, Alex.
Questions spilling forth had no true bearing on her current situation, reflecting her analytical nature instead, her thoughts retreating into the familiar engineering troubles--things she could control--instead of her life--and the fact she had no idea what came next.
And then, because those weren't the only two options: "Do you not know how to make it pump out edible things? Do you not like edible things? Do you not need to eat? Frag..."
STOP, Alex.
Her head dropped until she was staring at her hands, unseeing. "What if my tastebuds are broken?"
She swallowed hard at the horrible thought. Maybe they were out of shape from not actually tasting anything but blood--her own, filling her mouth during particularly rough sessions.
"Not that I have room to complain," a soft admission, now that her brain had connected an engineering problem with a living one, "They had me on IVs on that ship."
STOPSTOP.
Undeterred by a brain that was practically screaming her--second--first impression in a place of even temporary freedom was going to be insulting his tech, his intelligence, and also probably his ability to be an organic being at all, she shook the bar, lifted it toward him. "A babe gets out of the bowels of a space worm's stomach, she wants a burger, not a fraggin' brick."
Probably the visual needed as much work as her manners and her adjustment to reality, as Alex considered her hasty words and then wrinkled her nose. "You know what I mean." Her shoulders sagged as her brain finally caught up. "And I'm sorry. For complaining."
Stars...I need to remember how to talk to people.
She curled into herself, a willowy form sinking deeper into the worn couch cushions like they could swallow her up and protect her from any impending punishment, clothes in tatters, skin smeared with unfortunate things, and face draped in a look of forlorn defeat.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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