Run!
His feet hit the concrete evenly. No obstacle broke his pace. In fact, nothing in his way registered enough to present a difficulty. There was nothing before him, nothing that mattered. Only what was behind.
They're coming. They're behind you. Run! Grasping his burned shoulder, he moaned briefly and quickly drew his hand away. He staggered as he rounded a corner. He reached out automatically to balance himself and found his stride again. He ran as fast as he could. His lungs burned like fire.
But he kept running. Noises dwindled into almost nothing. Not perceiving his surroundings, he kept running, and running, and running.
Suddenly, a sharp noise. Hypersensitive to such sounds throughyears of intensive training, his head snapped around to assess the danger. And he found himself a mere ten feet from the ominous form of a Cylon Centurion.
The boy looked around, quickly. Nobody was around. Not a soul. This was good- nobody else would get hurt. His gun had been dropped somewhere in the confusion and running- which was also just as well, he had used up all the ammunition in the sawed-off shotgun he'd scavenged, and it wouldn't have done him any good here. Not at this range, not against a well-armored Centurion.
He looked around quickly, for anything that might aid his escape. Something to distract the cybernetic demon- something to save his life! But it was to no avail. Nobody else was even around to see him meet his demise- Minerva would know, though. She told him not to go out raiding for food. She said they had enough, and to stay put and the Cylons would leave them alone. And, of course, like an idiot, he hadn't listened. They hadn't had anything to eat in over a week, he'd pointed out. They couldn't survive much longer anyway. This miserable planet... why had they ever thought it was a good idea to stop here, to land here? At least in hard vac they had a fighting chance! His left shoulder was apparently still on fire, or so the pain receivers in his brain were screaming- of course, that was not uncommon when a six-millimeter osmium spike met human flesh.
His biggest regret at the moment was not being able to do anything for his beloved Minerva, who would certainly starve to death now, or be murdered by the Cylons. That, in and of itself, would have normally brought him to his knees. The thought of Minerva suffering because he'd faild her. But it was totally irrelevant now.
This wasn't good. He suddenly realized he didn't want to die. With an extreme passion. This is not good, the boy kept thinking over and over again. He started to breath faster and faster. Have to think, have to get out of this, have to live, have to save Minerva...
Time stretched out into inifnity. The Cylons gun-hand wrist began to flick upwards, but sllooowwwllyy, as it prepared to fire. He closed his eyes. It'd be all over in a moment. Wouldn't be time to feel anything.
Strangely, his mind wandered to the beginning of this whole ordeal, almost three years ago...
- - - - - - - -
It was a miserable summer night along the ocean. The temperature was hovering somewhere around thirty-two degrees, the humidity so high that it was misting. The prevailing winds came off the land instead of the ocean, which might have helped make things a bit more tolerable. Alas.
An old, petroleum-fired bus drove down the narrow coastal higways. The occupants of the bus were unconcerned with the weather; indeed, it was one of the last things on their mind. Some slept (or tried to), some talked nervously amongst themselves. Two were kissing. Some stared out the windows at the dimly-lit trees and houses that were blurs alongside the bus, wondering exactly what they'd gotten themselves into. Some tried not to wonder about exactly what they'd gotten themselves into, knowing they would find out soon enough.
One of the people on the bus that fit firmly into the last group was Daníel Arcturus Squire. He was nervous- no. He was scared. He was as scared as he'd ever been in his life, and he knew that the only reason he was getting through it was the fact that he had nowhere to go. Nothing else to do.
The bus got off the highway, and turned into a small, sleeping fishing village, where it began to weave it's way directly towards the ocean. The bus' occupants began to realize how close they were to their final destination, and all noise on the bus ceased immediately. Twenty-three pairs of eyes peered into the darkness just beyond their windows, waiting apprehensively.
Finally, the bus slowed to a stop in front of a traffic gate attended to by a single guard. A sign was displated prominently near the guardhouse.
COLONIAL NAVAL TRAINING CENTER CAPE RAKISS it read.
The bus rumbled through the gate and past the guard, winding it's way towards one of the buildings. This building wasn't as non-descript as the others. Giant murials were painted on the side of the building, lit up so everyone could read them. HONOR, one said. COURAGE. RESPECT. A phrase was painted above the door, reading THROUGH THESE DOORS PASS THE FUTURE GUARDIANS OF THE COLONIES. Lights glared overhead, casting weirdly moving shadows and making it light enough to see a block of yellow footprints painted on the ground, neatly spaced, each set of footprints in a precise forty-five degree angle.
The bus stopped in front of the building. Every person on the bus sucked their breath in collectively, and prepared for the worst. The bus door opened, and a man climbed up the steps and stood at the front of the bus. The man was... wow. Daní felt in awe of the man the moment he strode into their presence. His blue ODU uniform was crisp and immaculate, his wide-brimmed drill instructor cap precisely straight. Two nametapes on his uniform read "WASHBURN" and "NAVY".
"Welcome to Cape Rakiss," the man said gruffly, and then suddenly, "FILL IN THIS BUS FROM THE FRONT!" He'd transitioned from gruff to a navy-blue screaming machine in an instant, so quickly it momentarily startled the bus' occupants into inaction. "NOW!" In an absolute chaotic flury, twenty-three bodies filled the
"—look straight ahead, DON'T EYEBALL ME ... you're gonna do WHAT I say t'do, WHEN I say it t'do, and HOW I say t'do it," he yelled, walking up and down the bus. After letting his welcome speech sink in for a few brief seconds, he yelled again."YOU'VE GOT TEN SECONDS TO GET OFF THIS BUS, AND YOU'VE JUST WASTED THREE! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
Daní stumbled down the bus' steps as fast as he could, only to encounter another hat-wearing screaming machine. "GET YOUR BAGS AND FALL IN! I said, FALL IN, damnnit! Feet on prints! STAND AT ATTENTION!" Daní spun around, looking through the luggage storage container that had popped open on the side of the bus. Spotting the tote bag containing everything he owned- a pen and some paper, envelopes, stamps, and as many pictures of his girlfriend as he thought he could get away with bringing- Daní grabbed it and whirled back around, finding a pair of yellow footprints and planting his feet on them. The footprints on the ground were closely spaced, so close that everyone was shouldered in tightly to the left and right, ahead and behind. A single, anonymous mass of nervous energy.
"On behalf of Commander Hermes P. Odom, commanding officer of this installation, and on behalf of the Colonial Navy, WELCOME to Cape Rakiss. I am Petty Officer Washburn, and while you're in forming company here at Sextus Hall, you civilians are my responsibility!" Daní stood rigidly in line, eyes fixed on the murial in front of him, reading the words "HONOR" and "RESPECT emblazoned on it over and over again. Petty Officer Washburn strolled around the formation of bodies standing before him, his arms clasped behind his back. "And just so there's no confusion, YES! You are CIVILIANS. You ARE NOT SAILORS!" He whirled about to face the group.
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
A ragged chorus of answers followed this question, ranging from "Yes, sir" and "Yes, Petty Officer" to "sure" and "okay".
Petty Officer Washburn exploded. "NO! NO! The FIRST and the LAST words out of your mouth WILL be 'sir'! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Again, Petty Officer Washburn exploded. Daní was sure he should have given himself an anuerism by now.
"NO! When I ask if you understand me, WHEN I give you an order, the correct and PROPER response is 'Sir, aye aye, sir!' DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"Sir, aye aye, sir!"
"LOUDER!"
"SIR, AYE AYE, SIR!"
What the hell have I gotten myself into, Daní thought to himself.