wisteria (wisteria_) wrote,

Twelve Days of Pilots: 3 French Hens

All of the previous ficlets are here.

3 French Hens
For dualbunny and all her kickass Starbuck vids!

* * * * *

No matter how hard she sucked on that thing, she couldn’t get in a decent lungful of air. She hadn’t been this filthy in ages, which was saying a lot. And the ship smelled like – frak. She paused, thought that over. Yeah, it smelled like a bad frak, the kind you couldn’t wash off the next morning. But if this Raider got her off the damned rock, then she’d wallow in the muck for as long as it took.

Searing pain shot up from her knee as she attempted the pedals again. A wave of cold rushed through the airless ship, and it felt like the sweat was going to freeze on her skin. But her knee still hurt like a bitch, so she focused on the pain, made it work for her and get the adrenaline pumping. Never had a shortage of that, and she knew a little something about soldiering through pain. And then –



Power, roll, pitch and yaw.

She laughed.

Finding that old roll of gaffer tape shoved in the leg of her flight suit had been a shock, and taping her callsign on the bottom of this thing was a shot in the dark born of oxygen deprivation and her usual brand of stupidity. But damned if she wasn’t going to make it pay off now. Her voice sounded even more ridiculous in her ears as she squawked, “Take me home!” But the laughter bubbled up through her along with the liftoff.

It was clunky at first, like those flight simulators with shot-to-hell hydraulics back at the Academy. Not the sleek bird of her Mark II. More like a chicken. A big, fat chicken that plopped along as it skimmed the rock. But she pressed harder with her bad leg and – whoosh – there she was. In the air. Breaking atmo was going to be a bitch, not that she cared much right now because she was in control. Powerful. Kicking some serious ass.

Once she finally punched through the deck, the Raider plummeted slightly and juddered all over the place, nearly giving her whiplash. It was colder than a motherfrakker in this thing, and the sweat on her skin was definitely freezing now; she could almost feel beads of it on her eyelashes. Guess the Cylons didn’t have to worry about frostbite, huh? She tried to steady the thing, but it was like speaking another language to an illiterate moron who couldn’t make up its damned mind: the most amazing flying machine ever built in one moment, then back to a chicken with its head cut off. But wow, the good moments more than made up for the crap ones.

Up to now, she hadn’t let herself think that the fleet might give up and move on. Couldn’t really blame ‘em if they did. But she kept on flying, relying on gut instinct as a homing device, through the void of space like a swath of black paint on a tarred road. Forward. Keep moving forward. Just keep going. Going.

And there he was, just waiting there for her like he had nothing better to do. Her whole body began to thaw, and she grinned. Time to have some fun. Apollo was going to love this baby.

* * * * *
End (3/12)
Tags: fic - 12 days of pilots

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