A/N: This isn't my favourite, and it didn't come out the way I intended it too. Probably I'll be editing it eventually. Still, it's pretty good, and I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: This is not mine, nor ever will be.
Normal 0 !-- /* Style Definitions */ , , {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-CARRIBEAN;} h1 {mso-style-next:Normal; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; page-break-after:avoid; mso-outline-level:1; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning:0pt; mso-ansi-language:EN-CARRIBEAN; font-weight:normal; font-style:italic;} page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} 1 {page:Section1;} -- Underestimation
I underestimated him—God, did I ever underestimate him. I can barely believe it—not only that I, of all people, would fall pray to that particular trap (I mean, I'm a five-foot woman. I'm underestimated all the time) but that he—did what he did. There was no way—no way—
Ah, hell, it doesn't matter. He did it anyway.
Maybe it was because of first impressions, though that's not much of an excuse. Still—first time I met him, he squeaked at me. Hard to respect someone who does that.
But I'd found out that he'd managed to sneak out from Jacksonian security, and keep hidden on one of their ships—no easy thing, as I well know. I shouldn't have sent him back to the Dendarii.
I really shouldn't.
But, come on, he looked like a mutant! Sure, he was impressive mentally, but if you don't have a strong physical presence, I've found it's hard to keep people following you.
How the hell he does it, I don't know. I do know that he's the most charismatic person I've ever met, no exceptions. None.
Unfortunately, I'm damned charismatic myself, and I didn't even notice his effect on me until after he was gone and I'd had time to—carefully—review my actions.
God damn it, he's a twisty little bastard! He's a Barrayaran. How…how…how the hell did he manage to threaten to blow his bloody Emperor into blasted smithereens!
And god damn me, too, for being so stupid as to fall for the, "There's more than one way to the Imperial throne" scheme. I should have studied Barrayarans—I should have realize, from Metzov's behaviour—I should have known, goddamnit, not to underestimate someone like him—
Should have.
Didn't.
And you know what?
That thrice-cursed charisma of his has an effect on me, too.
I'm beginning to believe that it was worth it, to see a mind like his in action.
It's almost enough for me to pray for the Cetegandans to catch me.
Almost.
Several Years Later…
I really hate my life sometimes.
I'd figured, back in my cell, that if the Cetegandans did catch me, I might be able to trade a little information with them. The Barrayarans had had me made allergic to fast-penta, God curse them with pain enough to last a thousand years of agony, and I'd go into anaphylactic shock if one of those hyposprays ever got its needle in me—but willingly, now, that's different. I hadn't held up much hope, but hey! The fact that Admiral Naismith presumed of Beta Colony and Lord Vorkosigan of Barrayar were the same person could be valuable information! Maybe I'd just get a quick death!
Could have been.
Should have been.
Would have been.
Wasn't.
It appeared that not only did they already know, Miles Vorkosigan was now considered one dangerous people in the entire fucking 'verse, but he was also highly awarded—the most highly, if I understand correctly.
I hate that twisty-minded bastard.
It's really god-damned ironic that he's also the only person I respect.
