"What would you call someone who all but proposes to a man after he breaks her jaw?" A dirty girl. A Fool. A girl unable to admit the difference between love and guilt. A girl so in love with an idea that she refuses to see the reality; a girl driven sick and mad with dissonance. A girl willing to take what she is given, because she's never been given much. A girl who thinks love means building bars. A girl who engineered her own sadness and pain out of loneliness and obsession and fits of rage and violence. A girl who'd barely learned the world, before it was destroyed, and spends every moment trying to put it back together in a way that makes sense, a girl who tried to machine the engine of the world and make it run again. A person, like you and me, and Tory and Galen. Just a girl.
"That the last time he laid hands on you?" She nods with a defiant grin into space. "You want to hear something really sick? Sometimes I wish he would. Lay hands on me. At least then I'd..." She takes Cottle's cigarette from his hands, drags on it with unpracticed fingers. Just a girl. "I'd know he had some feelings about me." He snatches it back, and begs her to get some sleep, to clear her head of all this confusion. To find her way out of that room, crawling up the stars and moons.
Not the answer she was looking for. "Will do, Doc," she says breezily. "Thank you." Not the answer she was looking for, but perhaps it points the way to an answer. Perhaps there's a way out of that room, after all, between the moon and stars.
OBSERVATIONS ON THE FEELING OF THE BEAUTIFUL & SUBLIME
(In which certain Pomegranates are shared among Lovers, on a ship named for Demeter and bound for Earth.)
Red dripping down on her arms, her bedclothes, down her cheek like tears of blood. Kara Thrace paints her vision on the wall of her rack, above her head: The gas giant, the three stars, the speeding comet. Anders enters and before the hatch door slams, he's started in on her. "Kara, what the hell's the matter with you? 'Cause the way you're holing up in here, you're making people wonder." She doesn't turn around, because he's a six-three question mark, but she almost laughs. "Let 'em. Frankly, they're starting to bug me as much as I bug them. Frak 'em." He reminds her that some of the crew actually volunteered, and there's a sneer in her voice as she wonders aloud about that, without turning to look at him. You can't catch her face; she is alien and strange. "Is that what this is about, Sam? You want to know what the deal is with us? With our marriage? Well, it didn't make much sense to begin with, makes even less now."