milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Acknowledging the potential of your own death every time you hop in a cockpit doesn't prepare you to go quietly once death's staring you in the face.

(Too bad the old man's mad at her.)

Maybe it's overconfidence or maybe she's just as stupid as her mom always implied, but for a full minute after the Raider slams into her Viper on its way down Kara's sure that she can get herself out of this, that she can just pull up and stop herself from spiraling into the moon beneath them, that there's something she can do that will stop every alarm on the ship from blaring at her.

(She deserved the anger.)

The control panel rattles, altimeter going nuts. She's spinning too much and dropping too fast. There's nothing to do.

(She knows she hit at least six of the Raiders, maybe seven. Frak of a way to go. If you have to.)

Nothing except eject for the first time in her life since graduating from the academy. It takes all her effort to reach down and pull the emergency lever.

(She hopes the parachute works.)

The Viper's hatch opens up and releases her with a jolt. Her helmet knocks against the ship's side as she's given up to the initial free fall.

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Across the way, there's a rather odd-looking fellow sitting cross-legged on the sand by the water, a bottle of rum at his side.

Jack hasn't bothered moving, but has abandoned meditation in favor of regarding the spectacle before him with open interest.

"Not sure what whether that's good or not," he comments, after a few seconds of marveling in silence.

"Sure and certain enough it's something, though, and that's interesting."

She's out like a light before the parachute even has a chance to release, but it works just like it's supposed to once it does, easing gravity's tug enough to unceremoniously deposit her body face-down at the water's edge.

No bones broken.

Damp sand cakes her helmet, and the parachute drapes over her like a blanket.

Jack watches this with some alarm. After another second or two, he rises to his feet, swaying like a tree branch in a high wind.

He takes a step toward her, then stops in his tracks.

"Ah."

He turns back, retrieves the rum from its nest in the sand, tucks it in the crook of his arm, then minces his way across the beach toward the silken shroud draped over the fallen figure.

Jack cocks his head, beads rattling, then bends down and reaches out to pull back the edge of the parachute.

"Anyone there?"

There's something that tugs on the edge of her consciousness, a voice or a light or something, and her eyelids flutter in protest.

It comes back fast: the Raiders and her ship trying not to go up in flame and the rust-colored moon rushing up to meet her, and she forces herself to open her eyes.

She's not alone. Hand moving to the holster at her hip, she scrambles to sit up in the sand. "What the frak are you doing?"

She doesn't even look at him -- really look at him -- until her gun's drawn, and whoever the hell he is he's not what she was expecting.

He's a lot less metal, for one thing.

Cat-quick, he leaps a step back and stands still, hands spread, eyeing her with wary alarm.

"Now wait just a minute, luv," Jack starts. "I was just minding me own business here when you're the one what came falling from the sky, savvy?"

A beat passes, and he gives her an enticing grin and holds out the bottle toward her. It sloshes.

"Put away the pistol and have a drink instead, aye?"

She was due for shore leave, but this is ridiculous.

"Did you just call me--"

Maybe she's not really awake.

Gun still pointed at him, she looks him up and down and then stares at the offered bottle. What's she expecting? Cylon-ade? The contents smell invitingly boozy even from here, and he looks like he belongs on a bottle.

"Okay, my weapon trumps yours, so why don't you tell me what your business here happens to be."

Jack looks insulted by that.

"I'll have you know my weapon is perfectly good! Much more than!"

"As for my business--"

He shudders at the thought.

"I've none of the sort what happens to be pressing at the moment, which is why I was having a think and a drink together but not at the same time when you came along."

He waggles the bottle in the air again, and edges a step closer.

"Don't tell me you've got something against perfectly good rum - not that you'd be the first who did, which never made no sort of sense to me whatsoever, but as long as you're not after setting the bottle on fire..."

"Hold on."

He's human.

Enough.

Those rumored Cylons who look like humans would probably be more convincing and less weird, right?

She's not putting away the gun yet. "Can we backtrack for a second here?" For emphasis, she raises her eyebrows. "Where am I? Who are you? Do you usually offer rum to people who fall from the sky?"

"The name's Sparrow," he informs her. Light gleams from the gold of a tooth as he gives her a wicked grin. "Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl."

Never mind where the Pearl may or may not be, or what state she's in at this particular moment; it's of no matter, not for this.

"Why shouldn't I offer rum? Don't you like rum? 'S not like you're the first what I've seen fallen from the sky -- done it meself once or twice, so I have."

He spreads his hands wide again, indicating all the space around them as he adds,

"Welcome to Milliways, luv."

"Never heard of it."

She raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Or you, Captain Sparrow."

Everything from the way he keeps harping about rum to the gold tooth in his grin makes her think less of the Colonial Fleet and more of those stories kids love about seafarers on Picon.

"But if you've dropped from the sky a few times maybe you can tell me the best way to get back up there." Gun steady, she spares an upward glance. "My ship's probably looking for me."

If he can do that she'll take some rum with her. Some things they shouldn't have to do without.

"Guess you're not perfect after all," he retorts, without missing a beat.

"Happens as I might be able to do that, but... "

Jack gives her gun a meaningful look, then her an equally meaningful stare.

"... if I have something you want, and you have something I want, seems like we might be seeing our way clear to negotiate so's that we can both have what we want, aye?"

Her mouth quirks, unsure whether to break into a laugh or tell him off.

"I'm lowering it. Slowly." Good as her word, she starts doing just that. "Don't give me a reason to shoot you, Captain, and I won't point it at you again. I'd promise, but" -- she smiles wryly -- "we've established that I'm not perfect."

It'll be another minute before she holsters it, though. "You were saying?"

He grins, and holds out the bottle again.

"Have a drink, luv. Get your land legs under you, and we'll be after seeing how to get you through the door again."

It's not the figure of speech she would've chosen, but all right. This is progress.

"If there's anything sketchy about the rum," she tells him once the gun's safely tucked away at her hip again, "that qualifies as a reason to shoot at you."

She lifts the battered helmet off her head, grains of sand flying, and shakes out her damp hair as she reaches for the bottle.

"Fair warning."

"Nothing to worry about there," he replies, clearly unconcerned.

Jack's glance has grown a good deal more appreciative as she shakes out her hair.

"What's your name, darlin'?"

He took that well. She tries the rum first, fortification for whatever comes next, and wipes the back of one gloved hand over her mouth.

"Lieutenant Kara Thrace." One title deserves another, she guesses.

The rum's one of the best things she's had in weeks, but that says more about Galactica's food than anything else. Even when they weren't running from Cylons it wasn't that great.

Another quick drink of the rum, and she hands the bottle back out to him so she can push herself up off the sand. She'll feel that ejection for days -- weeks, maybe -- but at least everything seems to be working.

"Lieutenant, is it?"

He gives her a clear once-over.

"You don't look like Navy."

Jack accepts the bottle without hesitation and takes a drink of his own before corking it again and tucking it back in the crook of his arm.

Getting to her feet isn't the painless process it usually is. An ache stretches down her back and she winces, but just as she was too proud not to drink the rum she's too proud to put voice to it here and now.

Drawn to her full height, she raises her eyebrows and reciprocates the once-over. "I'm not. Funny how that works. I'm a pilot." She tilts her head. "Is it usually your sailors falling out of the sky?"

Weird place.

"Not at all, 'cepting for when it is, which is all the times when it isn't me," Jack tells her. He raises both index fingers in the air, forestalling any attempt at interrupting him.

"Seeing as the lad -- Wellard, Henry Wellard, good lad, once sort-of-a-naval sort, not a eunuch, you'd like him -- took all sorts of precautions when building his airship, which reminds me, luv--"

He looks up at the sky and then back at her.

"Pilot, you said, aye? Would that be a sky pilot, or a star pilot?"

Mouth half-open and eyebrows reaching for the sky, she acknowledges to herself that this Captain Jack Sparrow may be less sane than she is.

It's a damn shame, but he's what she has to work with. And the good news is he's got booze.

"Star. Look, I don't know what eunuchs have to do with it, but there's a battle going on up there and I don't want to miss my ride."

Doesn't matter if this place is habitable if the Cylons already know where they are. They stick around to play nice with the natives and the Cylons will come along and wipe everybody out.

Nothing's her call. All she needs to do is get back to Galactica in one piece.

Jack gives her a quizzical look.

"Why would eunuchs have anything to do with it?" He shakes his head, causing bits of bead to rattle against each other like castanets.

"No, luv - star just means you can't be using the rope to get back up, and seeing as up's not in the way of being down here, unless you're after going to Davy Jones' Locker--"

He shudders violently at the thought.

"-- you're in need of finding another way back to your fight."

Beat.

"If you're sure you want to go back into the middle of a fight. One of those honorable sorts, are you?"

"Davy Jones' Locker?"

She feels her forehead wrinkle uncertainly, but she's gonna have to try weeding out the useless information here.

"I really don't think a rope would work." He's hit that rum hard. "I don't know about honorable, Captain" -- nobody's ever called her that before -- "but I'm the best pilot they have left. They need me." She slants her eyes upward again. "Don't you have any ships around here? The battle's probably over for now, but they won't have a lot of time to spend looking for me."

"Ah. Let me guess, you haven't heard of him either. Haven't had a reason to."

It's not exactly a question, and his tone is dry as desert sand.

"Take a spot of advice, Kara-me-luv, and keep it that way. As for the rope--"

Jack makes a grand gesture with one hand, waving at an empty space in the middle of the sky over the lake.

"--unless you're trying to get to a ship what's more of the air sort, or back up to the top of the cliff what's on the other side of that cloud there, the rope's not going to do you any good. Better you follow me to the bar, lass, and we'll see if Captain Reynolds might be around and about, unless your own ship's on your side of the door what's waiting for you there, savvy?"

Her eyes follow his gesture, squint at nothing, and then return to his face.

"All right," she plays along after a moment's pause, one hand scrubbing over her face and back through her hair, "no rope. The bar it is. I'll check the doors, make sure Galactica's not hiding in any closets."

Could be worse than dropping down near a bar. If all else fails maybe she can put away so much of their booze that they give her a lift -- or a ship -- just to get rid of her.

He eyes her.

"Luv, you're not making any sense at all, but--"

Jack shrugs, somehow managing not to dislodge the rum from the crook of his arm.

"-- suit yourself. If it's a closet you want, or if it's a ship, that way's still the way you'll be wanting to go."

He waves his free hand wildly at the building across the way, the one that's lacking the distinct whiff of stable, and then saunters in that direction, clearly expecting her to follow.