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Leoben ficlet
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liminalliz, who is having a bad day.
~
All of this has happened before.
He writes letters on truncated paper and wonders why they copy their creators in such trivial things as stationery design. There are something like four hundred and forty million atoms in the diagonal edge that he just cut his finger on and he can feel the electric thrum of each and every one of them, smothered by the blood. He sucks at his forefinger thoughtfully and writes dear Starbuck just under the dirty scarlet smear. It won't matter. She's seen his blood before. It does not seem to want to rest quiescent in his veins; but that is part of his purpose, and not his to question.
I didn't make it to God, but some day I'll show you His face.
Six is distracted, her eyes straying ever to the side as though pulled by a magnet. She does not see the patterns, but she sees something that the others do not. Sometimes he lets everything wash through him and slows his breathing to almost nothing, and then he sees: the ripple of not-being by her side, where her mind is filling in its own tortured gaps. The hairline fractures in Sharon's psyche, despite her strength, the weak spots which will snap under the right pressure again and again and again. The ego behind D'Anna's blithe remarks that keeps her from knowing the true face of God. The dark delight that crawls at the base of Doral's spine and blinds him to the importance of emotion.
They are losing the faith. Little by little they fall.
He sees the universe, and he is at its centre.
(All of this will happen again.)
He folds the letter and stands. Six is leaning against the doorway, looking away from him, the slender ornamental lines of her screaming boredom.
"Everything is going as we would wish, then?" he asks.
When she turns he sees the divine plan sketched across her face in pristine glory; he sees behind her eyes the sea of uncertainty in which she is drowning, all unknowing; he sees eternity in her cruel and brilliant smile.
liminalliz, who is having a bad day.~
All of this has happened before.
He writes letters on truncated paper and wonders why they copy their creators in such trivial things as stationery design. There are something like four hundred and forty million atoms in the diagonal edge that he just cut his finger on and he can feel the electric thrum of each and every one of them, smothered by the blood. He sucks at his forefinger thoughtfully and writes dear Starbuck just under the dirty scarlet smear. It won't matter. She's seen his blood before. It does not seem to want to rest quiescent in his veins; but that is part of his purpose, and not his to question.
I didn't make it to God, but some day I'll show you His face.
Six is distracted, her eyes straying ever to the side as though pulled by a magnet. She does not see the patterns, but she sees something that the others do not. Sometimes he lets everything wash through him and slows his breathing to almost nothing, and then he sees: the ripple of not-being by her side, where her mind is filling in its own tortured gaps. The hairline fractures in Sharon's psyche, despite her strength, the weak spots which will snap under the right pressure again and again and again. The ego behind D'Anna's blithe remarks that keeps her from knowing the true face of God. The dark delight that crawls at the base of Doral's spine and blinds him to the importance of emotion.
They are losing the faith. Little by little they fall.
He sees the universe, and he is at its centre.
(All of this will happen again.)
He folds the letter and stands. Six is leaning against the doorway, looking away from him, the slender ornamental lines of her screaming boredom.
"Everything is going as we would wish, then?" he asks.
When she turns he sees the divine plan sketched across her face in pristine glory; he sees behind her eyes the sea of uncertainty in which she is drowning, all unknowing; he sees eternity in her cruel and brilliant smile.