AWD #467: Seven Plus Twelve Equals Three
Seven Plus Twelve Equals Three
Summary: Log Summary
Date: 01/10/2016 (OOC Date)
Related Logs: Many. Everything.
Dropkickst Clara 
Brigs
The Brig and I'm not looking back into logs to fetch the desc.
AWD #467

The Seven and the Twelve have been shuttled back and forth to Piraeus every day for five hours a day. They always head to the same island under the same security. Nobody knows what it is that they do there, but some of the Marines have let slip that they spend a lot of time talking or reading. The Twelve has even become an avid swimmer. As a result, both of them have a golden tan that reflects it. Each one is sitting quietly in their cell, though. The Seven is reading some kind of science fiction story while the Twelve is laying on the bed with his eyes close. Clara only has to glance at the guy to know that he's projecting for himself, letting his mind take him anywhere he wants and it feels as real as if he were really there.

Clara is no stranger to routine, and the comfort it provides. Nor is she any stranger to the brig. It's with some hesitation that she nods to the MP accompanying her, signifying that she'll go on alone from here - as per Elias's orders - and approaches the cell with the Seven and Twelve. She's in off duty attire: navy BDUs with a slouchy sweatshirt thrown over top, her long hair left down to her waist. Nothing's said as she draws to a halt with her nose inches from the bars; her eyes go to the Twelve first, and then slide across to Seven, and remain there.

With the Twelve mostly out of it, off in his own mind, the Seven is the only one who is really aware enough to notice the entrant. He doesn't look up from his book right away, instead waiting until he finishes the paragraph. Someone came inside and stopped at the bars so he speaks up, "One second, darlin. Lemme dog-ear this." He folds the corner and then turns to swing legs off and slowly stand. Arms stretch before he finally looks over. There's no immediate recognition, but something clicks. His prior smile drops off his face and he turns to look at her. "Whoa." Both hands lift in front of his chest, pointer fingers held vertical. "Who the hell are you?" The Seven suddenly looks careful. The guy looks like he might start yelling for a guard any second.

Clara stands quite still, dark eyes tracking the man as he sets down his book and climbs to his feet with that casual ease. She's studying him with about as much scrutiny as he's giving her, though the intent differs, perhaps. "You know who I am," is her quiet reply. "And I don't think they'll give a shit if you yell. Me, on the other hand.." Another brief glance to the Twelve, to keep tabs on how out of it he is, before she lifts her chin to regard the Seven again. She's a tiny thing, not so much short as slenderly built. Not one of the combatant lines, that much is clear. "Why are you here?" She may give him a run for his money in the Boldness department.

The Seven stares, hands slowly dropping. Along with his jaw. It takes a few for all this to sink in before he can actually look her over and realize she's in uniform. "No- no way. This isn't possible because your ass is in a box. Your whole damned line was scrapped. Damaged beyond repair." The words are quiet before he looks over to the Twelve. "Cam. Cam." Nothing. "CAM!! Wake up your dumb frak!"

The Twelve stirs and opens his eyes. "Damnit, you have no idea where I was. She was gorgeous. What is this about?" He rubs his eyes and rises, then looking to Clara. Nothing else said, he just stands there in total shock. Twelve would probably have believed he was actually a fish than see a walking Three.

There's the tiniest hint of hesitation when Twelve wakes; she looks, just for a moment, like she might change her mind about the whole thing and march herself right back out. But she presses on, unfettered, "That's what he told you?" She suspected as much, but to have it confirmed seems enlightening to her. "When I found out what he had planned for me, I snapped his neck, and I ran." One can't be too happy about that. "He didn't suffer. Though I'm sure he wanted my line to."

Seven and Twelve look totally thunderstruck by this revelation. There's a Three in front of them. Luckily the Seven seems brained enough to speak. "Uh, yeah. He said you were definitely toast. The whole line was corrupted and we wouldn't be waking any of you up until he could fix the problem." The guy slowly approaches the bars as his hands drop to his side. The news about snapping his neck gets a curious look. Then a peer, tilting his head to the side. "Noooo. Nooo. You knew this was going to happen? He woke you up and asked you about the plan to hit the colonies? Are you kidding me?" He suddenly throws up his hands and walks away, laughing. "Ho shit, this is rich. And-" He turns suddenly and points. "And you replied by snapping his neck?" Seven leans his head back and laughs. "Ohhhhh Gods, no wonder he hates your guts."

Twelve lifts a hand like he's requesting to speak. "Uh, hey. Question." Hand drops. "Or four. How long have you been with humanity and what have you been doing with your life? I mean, no three's we know of were ever awakened. How did you end up here? …Are you military like Sergeant Knox?"

The Three remains where she is as Seven approaches, the only movement her dark eyes on his. She nods slowly, confirming that his theory of what transpired is correct. There's a slight brow raise when he throws up his hands and walks away. "He has no reason to hate me," she replies, half musing and half question. "We were on opposite sides before this war ever started." She looks over as Twelve speaks up, and closes the last few inches of distance between her and the cell. Slim fingers wrap around the bars, and her cheek rests against them as she regards him. "Six years. And until recently, no." A beat. "I've answered enough questions. I want to know why you're both here."

"You remember before the war." Seven posits. "This is unreal. Un-REAL. None of us remember anything from before the war. Not a thing. One said we're all byproducts from the same error that messed you- well, the line up. But trust me, when he talks about you, we can tell there's something else going on there. The fact that you and he have a history says SO much." He looks to Twelve and waggles a finger. "You know who is going to shit the bed on this one? Two. When he finds out One lied to all of us this badly? Ohhhh man." He chuckles again.

Twelve looks over with the commentary and finally seems to have a real reaction. A tilt of his head, a considered nod, and sudden agreement. "Wow. Yeah." His gaze then drfts back. "Six years is a long time, Three. I hope you don't hold your brothers and sisters forever responsible for what transpired. I'm sorry you've been through what you have, but I'm pretty glad you're here. As far as us?" He shrugs. "I came out here because I wanted to investigate the rumors about Piraeus coming off the Sixes, Nines, and Elevens. I needed to know." Justice would. "Seven trusted me enough to come back here with me after the fleet let me go the first time. We're here taking in the planet, letting it do its thing. After that, we go home, spread the good word that One is a frakkin liar and that our true home and purpose is so much greater. The word that the Cylons are and always will be the enemy."

'Let me go'. That's a curious way of wording it, but Clara doesn't press. "No," she tells the Twelve. "I don't hold you responsible. I don't hold a grudge. I don't.. hate any of you. Not even One." There's a gleam in her dark eyes, which travel back to Seven again and his waggling finger. "He's the defective one. He just doesn't know it; that makes him worthy of pity." She thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I remember before the war." It's said quietly. Six years is a long time to be in one body, for their kind. She would have been quite a bit younger when she left home. "I.. need to know something."

The Twelve and Seven nod together, glancing to each other. Back to her, the Seven seems to calm down a touch as he moves in. "Forgiveness is a virtue some of us have been told is weak. That we shouldn't trust it and that we should figure out how to take advantage of it." He crosses his arms and leans on the bars a few feet away, a look to Twelve, then back. "P has told us a lot. Shown us a lot. Twelve and I are in a pretty forgiving mood, too. Just not for One. I'm honestly not sure we can go there. Maybe one day. Today just ain't that day."

Twelve seems to be in agreement judging by the looks and his body language. There's solidarity. Brotherhood. "Can you settle something that has been debated for years… what is the idea that the Three is based on? We've a theory that the first three were made to be specific so they could be our guide-on for everyone. ..But yes, sure, what can we tell you?" The offer to help or provide information seems genuine enough.

"I guess it suits his agenda to say something like that," the Three posits, tilting her head as if to observe the Seven from a slightly different angle. She doesn't seem particularly concerned about how close he stands, or how easily he could reach her, if he wished to do her harm. No doubt the scuffle would be over, anyway, before a human could react. It's with a rare smile, though, that she answers the Twelve: "Mercy." It's more than an idea, more than a name. It's a balm, spoken from the heart. Her question next, "Do you know if it's possible to.. unbox a line?"

Seven and Twelve hear the word Mercy and give a very approving nod to each other. They even reach between the cells to shake hands. "This is outstanding," Seven tell Twelve. Twelve just grins and nods. They look back at the same time they part ways and seem casual talking to her. "Well yeah, I would assume so. One said he wanted to try and get your line fixed. It makes sense that he would say that if it were possible. I know there are storage tanks for the bodies back on the homeworlds, but I have no idea where. You want to start a revolution, Three?" This time its the Twelve who seems more cavalier, smiling.

"Careful, Twelve. You might start to dig boldness." Seven cuts a wink to Three as he says it.

"He's a liar," remarks Clara without batting an eye. "I don't believe a single word that comes out of his mouth." As for starting a revolution, she shrugs her shoulders and slides her fingers off the bars, taking a step back finally. "I don't know what I want to do. The Colonials might want me to bring them back. I said I don't know if it's possible." That's not all that has her looking so hesitant, though; she's been on her own for so long, it's not only possible, but probable that the thought of meeting the other threes is akin to an identity crisis.

"Well we don't much believe him, either. But if the three's couldn't be unboxed then why keep the bodies ready to go? I'm betting he had a future plan. Maybe wake up your line after the war was over just to torture you. But I can tell you he probably thinks you're dead." The Twelve keeps going while the Seven listens. "Surging the line would be perfect and prove to everyone that he was lying. It's an instant coup. You're the smartbomb. This is too perfect. All you'd have to do is agree to it."

"I don't know," Clara says again, even softer this time. But she listens, taking in all this information with the eagerness of one who's been without her kind for too long. Quarrelsome they may be at times, but there is no question the lines were meant to function together. "I'll talk to Knox." She's starting to use his name in place of his number, and there's fondness to be sure, beneath the tone of voice that sounds like an eyeroll. "I have to go." Another step back. "If you.. go back, before I get to talk to you again. Good luck."

The Seven and Twelve approach the bars and lean there, both watching her. They seem pleased to not just be with one of their own, but to be with her. "Tell Knox that when all this is over, everyone is going to owe him beer for eternity. He'll probably be ten thousand years old at the retirement home for skinjobs and wave his cane and be like 'Remember that time-' and someone will throw an anvil at his head out of annoyance." That, from Seven. Twelve just grins. "Good luck, Sister. Damned glad to see you in uniform, too. Hope we get a chance to see you again."

"That someone'll be me," Clara mutters, jamming her hands in the pockets of her ratty sweatshirt. "I'll tell him," she promises, gazing at both of her siblings a few moments more before giving a single nod, as if in conveyance of a pact. An agreement. And then she turns about and heads for the hatch, a jangle of keys somewhere as the MP that's still required to escort her about ship is summoned. She looks back just once, smiles, and is gone.

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