It was easy, watching the sky turn.
In the morning, when the sun stirred through the clouds that hemmed the horizon, it was a weak gold. The sky was bleached, a mass of grey and white, pure shadow and light, pierced by the fading stars. The bridge was a cavern of darkness, touched by hints of silver, pooling through the windows, slicking over the angles of the flight instruments, brushing across her face.
The day warmed as the sun arced upwards. Bright, fierce yellow, like it had been over Terra Saharr. The sky was such a blue...bright blue, the clouds burned away by the sun. The windows absorbed the warmth and the bridge smelled like old wood. Dust motes sparkled in the air, stirred by her breath. The Storm Hawks bustled around her; they were absorbed in routine, didn't notice her.
Afternoon saw the sun weary, falling slowly from the zenith. New clouds, rimmed in gold. Shadows crept back into the bridge, cloaking everything with a sense of age, a sense of tiredness. Stork was a constant, moving effortlessly in his element, muttering to himself, stroking the Condor, love at his fingertips. The sky through the windows was tainted pink, fading to a deep blue.
Weaver watched the sun trace its path, East to West, an arch in the frame of the Condor's windows. When she could, she curled up in a corner, legs crossed, head resting against the cool metal wall. She liked to watch the bustle. The Storm Hawks seemed to like this endless journey through the skies, though she could feel the tenseness in the air, the constant edge of wired anticipation.
Piper perused. When she came onto the Bridge, she ran dusky fingers over charts, had quick, efficient conversations with Stork. Aerrow stood, and watched, Radarr on his shoulder. He gazed out at the sky, thinking the thoughts of a leader; while Radarr thought the thoughts of...err. Finn...Finn ricocheted from one escapade to the next. She had watched with bewilderment as he had questioned Stork endlessly, and then switched to Piper, then...well, from somewhere, he had procured a guitar. That had been an experience. Junko filled the room with a simple ambience of joy and contentment. Bounced his personality off Finn.
And Weaver watched, and thought her own quiet thoughts. Acted human, and sociable, when required; laughed at meals, grinned, winked, helped to shift things, ventured ideas. But heavier things distracted her. When she lay, in the cool darkness, shutting doors on her thoughts, they kept coming.
She stared at the ceiling. Her body was relaxed, her hands flat by her sides, limp, numb. The Storm Hawks, with their effortless companionship, left her yearning for the familiarity of her days with Starling. Weaver bit her lip and remembered the days before Starling, the days with Gyro and her tavern. The pain had long since eased, and now she could go days before the chink of glasses, or the smell of pines, made her yearn for her father. But Starling...
Starling had a past. Weaver knew that. She knew, in fact, that the tiny spark of pain was irrational. There was no way she could expect a woman, a Sky Knight, who had Starling's past, to owe her anything. Expecting Starling to show any attachment was demanding disappointment for herself, and demanding something from the Sky Knight that was probably...so deeply suppressed that Starling didn't even realise it wasn't there.
And then there was that face. How many people had seen that face in nightmares? The sharp cheekbones, a sneer pulling on his thin nose, his lips drawn bake in a snarl over shark-teeth. Red irises, the colour of half-dried blood, boiling with a thin layer of constant emotion. Rage, she had seen, but she didn't think it would always be there. Perhaps they'd be calculating. But always, behind that sheer veil of emotion, she felt there would be the deeper thoughts, the dark thoughts that would never surface.
It swam in her mind, along with the ghost of the red haze that had filled her mind, the primal terror, the fear of her demise. And, try as she might, she couldn't understand. Knew that her basic thoughts were a hatred, a fear, a disgust. Traitor, murderer, monster. But that was so elementary. What was beyond that?
Weaver cut off the thoughts by flicking on the light. She sat up, blinking blearily, yawning. She needed to get off this ship and do something.
* * * * * * * * * *
Weaver slipped through the door and onto the bridge. They'd let her sleep. The day was grey, heavy rainclouds dashing across the windows.
"Morning, Weaver," smiled Piper.
"Morning," she yawned, clutching her forearms. Weaver followed Piper into the kitchen, breathed in the light smell of pancakes. She was familiar with the cupboards by now. She had an instinct, for finding her way around kitchens. Weaver knelt, fetching seven plates. They were mismatched and chipped, but clean and well loved. They spun a little as she put them on the table. Piper turned, flicked out the pancakes. Finn was already at the fridge, about to swig the milk when Aerrow snatched it out of his hand. He scowled as Aerrow grinned. They were all quiet, not quite awake.
Junko walked in, followed by Stork; Radarr was suddenly at the table without warning. Biting her lip at the oversight, Weaver fetched another plate. Safe, not sorry. She didn't quite understand what Radarr's status was.
"Hey Piper, these are great!" Mumbled Finn, through a mouthful.
"Thanks Finn. It's not like I haven't had plenty of practise," Piper jibed, lightly. "Aerrow, I think we should stop off at Terra Atmosia. We need more crystal fuel...and food." Finn and Junko smiled, sheepishly. Weaver stirred from staring at her plate.
"That'd be perfect for me to get off," she grinned, "and stop imposing on your hospitality, lazy as I am."
"Hah! Nowhere near as bad as Finn." Piper, of course.
The chairs scraped back together, in an aura of agreement. Like a machine, the plates were piled up into the sink, the chairs pushed in, and they filtered out of the kitchen.
* * * * * * * * * *
Weaver spared one last glance. The Storm Hawks were spread in a straggling line down the street, their attentions captured by the offerings of Terra Atmosia's shops. It must be strange, to live a life constantly in the air, never staying in any one town. She dragged her eyes away, and twisted the throttle of her skimmer. The streets whirled past, and the dominating bulk of the sky council building, and then the town faded into green forests. Weaver smiled. Something lay ahead, she knew.
* * * * * * * * * *
That was a fairly...er, thinking chapter. And I really needed to get her somewhere, and update. Therefore, not exciting =[ Buuut, next update shall be action action action!
And, thank you very much for all my lovely reviewers and message senders. You are loverly 3