[ Caprica's posture doesn't change, as if she were still observing Anderson through a sheet of glass even when she is hailed -- but then she moves, unfolding from her lean, moving around the weights rack. Her feet are bare, picking their way across the floor.
Her smile is practically sweet, if toothy, fleeting. No particular thought gives this away as insincere. ]
Sure. I might be a little rusty.
[ Her thoughts, instead, have shifted to a sizing up of Anderson. They do not sound rusty. ]
no subject
Her smile is practically sweet, if toothy, fleeting. No particular thought gives this away as insincere. ]
Sure. I might be a little rusty.
[ Her thoughts, instead, have shifted to a sizing up of Anderson. They do not sound rusty. ]
What's your name?