From time to time, Kara wonders what happened to the clear blue sky, the fluffy white clouds, the yellow sun bright enough to burn that she still remembers from the day of the groundbreaking.
She thinks—once and only once—as she looks out the impenetrable windows and sees the plumes of smoke trailing from the small explosions around the city, that maybe her life would be quite different now had it been overcast that day.
But then a new Leoben comes down the stairs, spouting those same old platitudes about patterns and rivers and streams, and she thinks: maybe not.
The apartment looks like her old one on Caprica (they must have done that on purpose) but it is monochrome, monotone, and that monotony is what slowly drives her crazy. Every day, the same grey box, the same dance with the cylon, the same scrabbling for sharp edges unseen to snatch and hide and bide her time with.
In between, she wishes for her paints, craving the primary colors: the blue of the sky, the yellow of the sun, the red of…
When she stabs him in the neck at dinner that night, the blood (how can they bleed so much these frakking metal things?) spills onto her hands. Kara smears it on the rug, leaving big bold fingerprints behind. She surveys her handiwork and she smiles.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Primary Colors, monotony, Everything’s Grey Here
Date: 2009-07-15 04:19 am (UTC)From time to time, Kara wonders what happened to the clear blue sky, the fluffy white clouds, the yellow sun bright enough to burn that she still remembers from the day of the groundbreaking.
She thinks—once and only once—as she looks out the impenetrable windows and sees the plumes of smoke trailing from the small explosions around the city, that maybe her life would be quite different now had it been overcast that day.
But then a new Leoben comes down the stairs, spouting those same old platitudes about patterns and rivers and streams, and she thinks: maybe not.
The apartment looks like her old one on Caprica (they must have done that on purpose) but it is monochrome, monotone, and that monotony is what slowly drives her crazy. Every day, the same grey box, the same dance with the cylon, the same scrabbling for sharp edges unseen to snatch and hide and bide her time with.
In between, she wishes for her paints, craving the primary colors: the blue of the sky, the yellow of the sun, the red of…
When she stabs him in the neck at dinner that night, the blood (how can they bleed so much these frakking metal things?) spills onto her hands. Kara smears it on the rug, leaving big bold fingerprints behind. She surveys her handiwork and she smiles.
The red gleams bright against the grey.