[ She is far from the only one who has chosen to live on the fringes, taking solace in solitude, returning for what she needs before disappearing back beneath the shaded cupolae of the forest; who knows precisely what proportion of those stranded here have chosen to exist in the outskirts rather than the grimy press of the camp-proper? One would have to take a census.
Just one of many things that need doing. To this and other ends, Etrepa Seven has taken to the liminal space, the in-between that marks the edge of the camp and the beginning of the beyond. Tracing an invisible boundary with perfectly measured strides, the ancillary defines the perimeter with each step. She doesn't seem to mind the rain and wind much either. Certainly it is not about to keep her from her self-assigned duties.
As she walks through the storm, Etrepa is not indulging in memory. Such an exercise is bound to send her spiraling towards a grim confrontation with her own reduction. What good would it do for her to recall the heady thrill of space combat, the feeling of power and grace that came from sliding out of her self-made gates in swift strokes, striking at her enemies with missiles and radiant heat before sliding seamlessly back into the insular nowhere of gatespace? It would only serve to make her present experience of coldness and wetness, concentrated as it now is into the singularity of her one remaining segment, that much more depressing.
So no, she's not about to get lost in her own thoughts. She is far more interested in rifling through the thoughts of others.
The gift has no ready explanation, no more than the blessings that fell from the sky so lately; no one she has met so far possesses the requisite implants that would allow her to draw the detailed biometric data that once functioned, with time and familiarity, as a kind of effective mind-reading. Yet when she reaches, she finds them laid out: the sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm, sometime dense and sometimes nebulous clouds of thought, run through with the occasional bright bolt of insight or recognition. It is not at all what once she could do, but it seems close enough that she does it with some sense of comfort, and absolutely no compunction.
If confronted over the reason for this psychic intrusion, Etrepa Seven would assert that she is simply assessing anyone who approaches for potential hostility. And as Caprica Six appears in her vision, looking - indeed - rather too well-kempt to be one of the more rugged jungle survivalists who occasionally acquiesce to the need for medical supplies or simply for company, the ancillary hones in on her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity that has everything to do with staying a few steps ahead of her own thoughts, whatever the outward justification.
What she discerns - once she closes to the necessary five meter range - is confusing and attention-grabbing. She catches only the tail end of the contemplation about creators, a thought that echoes her own potential musings enough to make her wonder if her own thoughts had simply caught up with her. As the bolt in the sky pairs with the bolt in her mind, Etrepa is spurred into action- or at least to address. ]
Do you have business in camp? [ she asks, in a voice that is just slightly more modulated than her 'natural' ancillary flatness; she's been practicing. If her tone were a spontaneous expression of her feelings, Etrepa Seven would sound wary. As it is, she replicates the tone of expectant authority common to every border guard who has not given up on sounding anything more than terrifically bored. ]
no subject
Just one of many things that need doing. To this and other ends, Etrepa Seven has taken to the liminal space, the in-between that marks the edge of the camp and the beginning of the beyond. Tracing an invisible boundary with perfectly measured strides, the ancillary defines the perimeter with each step. She doesn't seem to mind the rain and wind much either. Certainly it is not about to keep her from her self-assigned duties.
As she walks through the storm, Etrepa is not indulging in memory. Such an exercise is bound to send her spiraling towards a grim confrontation with her own reduction. What good would it do for her to recall the heady thrill of space combat, the feeling of power and grace that came from sliding out of her self-made gates in swift strokes, striking at her enemies with missiles and radiant heat before sliding seamlessly back into the insular nowhere of gatespace? It would only serve to make her present experience of coldness and wetness, concentrated as it now is into the singularity of her one remaining segment, that much more depressing.
So no, she's not about to get lost in her own thoughts. She is far more interested in rifling through the thoughts of others.
The gift has no ready explanation, no more than the blessings that fell from the sky so lately; no one she has met so far possesses the requisite implants that would allow her to draw the detailed biometric data that once functioned, with time and familiarity, as a kind of effective mind-reading. Yet when she reaches, she finds them laid out: the sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm, sometime dense and sometimes nebulous clouds of thought, run through with the occasional bright bolt of insight or recognition. It is not at all what once she could do, but it seems close enough that she does it with some sense of comfort, and absolutely no compunction.
If confronted over the reason for this psychic intrusion, Etrepa Seven would assert that she is simply assessing anyone who approaches for potential hostility. And as Caprica Six appears in her vision, looking - indeed - rather too well-kempt to be one of the more rugged jungle survivalists who occasionally acquiesce to the need for medical supplies or simply for company, the ancillary hones in on her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity that has everything to do with staying a few steps ahead of her own thoughts, whatever the outward justification.
What she discerns - once she closes to the necessary five meter range - is confusing and attention-grabbing. She catches only the tail end of the contemplation about creators, a thought that echoes her own potential musings enough to make her wonder if her own thoughts had simply caught up with her. As the bolt in the sky pairs with the bolt in her mind, Etrepa is spurred into action- or at least to address. ]
Do you have business in camp? [ she asks, in a voice that is just slightly more modulated than her 'natural' ancillary flatness; she's been practicing. If her tone were a spontaneous expression of her feelings, Etrepa Seven would sound wary. As it is, she replicates the tone of expectant authority common to every border guard who has not given up on sounding anything more than terrifically bored. ]