Left Behind

Pre-War snapshots of Moira's life before Orion

Left Behind
Summary: Pre-War snapshots of Moira's life before Orion
Date: 09/02/2013 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: None
Rozzen 
The Valkyrie, Caprica, Virgon, and Picon
Pre-War

Valkyrie (BS-41) - 1970s

"One more game?"

She tries, so hard, to keep the whine out of her voice.

Her father's hands show marks both fresh and scarred from where they've been bitten by metal, a silent chastisement against her crying over scraped knees and stubbed toes. Unwashable traces of grease define the etch of knuckles and fingerprints as the crisply laminated cards buzz together under his fingertips.

He keeps the giant machine that is the ship running and has many places to be, but right now he stays where he is. With Moira. She is old enough not to crawl into the cradle of his arms and sit within the cross of his legs, but she sits near. She inhales the subtle scents of sweat and grease that will linger in her memory despite the dispassionate march of time, always reminding her of him.


Caprica - 1984

It's a chaos of sound and motion throughout the canyons of glass and cement. There are so many people swarming through the streets it seems impossible to think that you could ever find the same face twice. The air is strangely heavy with moisture. It makes an overwhelming soup of unfamiliar scents: steel and flesh, fiber and foliage, dirt and diesel.

Her mother sweeps cool fingers across Moira's skin to tuck her bangs to the side and kiss her forehead. As soon as she is freed, the girl shakes her hair loose until it tickles against her eyebrows. She stares up at her mom as she musters teenage outrage and authority. "As soon as I'm old enough, I'm getting on a ship. I'm finding a ship, and going as far away as I can."


Caprica - 1992

Somehow, it had become almost like home.

Sometimes she can allow herself to believe it, to breathe it all in until she is so saturated with now that even her racing thoughts can't escape the thick presence of it all. Caprica. Kip.

Those moments were always fleeting. In the end, she always knew she didn't belong.

But now, she tries to hold on to this moment. She winds her arms about his waist as if that were enough to anchor them in time and runs her palms along the muscled planes of his back as if they're the only contours she'll ever care to map. For this moment, she lets herself be lulled by the beat of his heart under the press of her ear.

It isn't long before it starts to trickle in. The announcements over the space port's speakers. The steady passage of people, a stream of lives moving onward with their journeys. She arches back so that she can meet his eyes with a smile, half abstracted from herself once more in her consciousness of the picture they make and the role she plays. They say they'll see each other again. Soon. Even though she doubts either of them truly believe it.


Virgon - 2004

The heat of summer seems to make the street lights more glaring despite the fact that the thick glass windows keep the temperature at bay.

She is tucked into the corner of her couch in scant cotton pajamas, a clipboard of papers pulled across the fold of her bare knees. Beside the empty vase on the end table her water glass sweats cool beads of moisture that roll down to the ceramic coaster.

Even though she knows it's him coming through the door, even though she turns a smile over her shoulder, a whisper of unease crawls up her spine. She ignores it. "How was the event?"

"Good." Joshua braces his hands on the back of the couch as he leans over it to catch her mouth in a kiss. He tastes of chocolate and marzipan, cayenne and smoke. "What are you working on?"

She hums out a note as she avoids his question. Arching into a stretch against the couch, she snakes up an arm to wind fingers into the dark curls at the nape of his neck and draw him into reach of her lips. Only after, watching him with the backward tilt of her gaze, does she answer. "I'm putting in for another deep space mission."

He collapses with a huff of smokey breath, elbows folding to hit the top of the couch as his fingers drag back across his scalp. "Moira. I thought we talked about you staying here."

"We talked about possibilities, one of which was staying here," she corrects. Pausing with the catch of her lip in her teeth, she slides the clipboard off to the side so she can twists up to her knees. She pushes at his shoulders so that his eyes will lift to hers and kneads fingers into the knots at the sides of his neck. "It won't be right away," she offers, like that should make it alright.

When he says he loves her, she says it too. The words are fondant. Pretty, but they taste funny in her mouth. Still, it seems to make him happy, and for now perhaps that's enough.


Picon - 2004

She's not really conscious of where she's going until the tall stands edging The U's pyramid courts tower before her. By then, it seems foolish to go by any other route. Anyway, he's absorbed in his work out on the practice field. The student players cluster about him, intent on their coach's animated advice. Kip always has been a good teacher, she recalls with a twist of a smile.

Dreams never play out quite how you expect them to. One can not possibly account for the relentless march of mundane details nor the jarring derailments of chance circumstance. Despite his precision shot he was a little too small, a little too easily shut down by the bigger pro players to have much longevity in the league. So many things come down to millimeters. Moments.

That doesn't mean he wasn't damn near perfect. She finds herself mesmerized, watching the way he moves with the ball in demonstration for his players. The casual power of his arm seems so natural, like it's the thing he's made to do.

She twines her fingers in the chain link until her knuckles are white and the metal bites into her flesh.

She leaves before she's noticed, slipping back into the flow of students moving along the University paths.


"I'll be going away again, for quite some time. I'll be joining the Orion when she comes into anchorage." The fingertips brushing against hers are soft and warm as she takes the mug of tea. She watches her mother nod in serene acceptance while settling into the chair at the opposite side of the table.

Between them, the surface is cluttered with notes for her mother's upcoming talk at the University. Upon the woven runner down the table's center are a collection of sparkling glass globes, each holding a tidy environment in miniature. Moira watches the slow progression of a leggy bug along a leaf as she sips at her tea.


The sky is chilly steel outside the window. Her nose is filled with the sharply antiseptic scents that seem to evaporate off the cleanly gleaming surfaces. She pulls a chair next to the bed so she can sit near him, since he can do nothing but stay where he is. Her father. The bank of machines stationed at the head of the bed blink silent lights as they keep him running.

His hands seem oddly delicate and pale, no grease worked into the myriad lines that wrinkle paper-thin skin. They tremble slightly as they fold worn cards from their fan, the edges scuffing softly over one another. She remembers, she's not supposed to cry.

So, she smiles, trying to keep the tick of the clock from her thoughts.

"One more game."

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