"Well you won't be needing a ruler for mine, I'm sure you remember well enough. Give it an hour, though, and I doubt you'll need a ruler for his either, seeing as that's what you do best, am I right?”
@KalasMarga’s face froze for a second, before her left eye gave an involuntary twitched and her expression morphed from one of smugness into one of sheer vexation. For a split second she was tempted to retort back the she’d need the magnifying spectrum on her googles, but the childish response died in her throat before it even had a half decent chance of being voiced. The biting comment didn’t perturb her as much as the fact that Mez could still call her out on her shit when she was being full of herself; that he could still tell when her behaviour was an act she put on. Besides her former paramour, there were only two other beings which had ever been able to tell when Marga was being fake, when her actions and words were part of a performance meant to conceal something. Those two individuals were her brother and her mother. With the exception of Mez for one short stage in her life, Marga had never been closer to another person than she was to her brother. Her mother however was another matter. While her brother knew how to read her demeanour from years of practice from raising her from childhood and then working alongside her when she became an adult, Marga’s estranged mother instinctively knew when her daughter's conduct was a sham, a pre tense that was filled with posturing. But they shared the same blood as her, something therefore bound them together, connected them. How Mez could tell performance from actuality was still unknown to her. Even back when he was no more to her than a possible fling, someone to waste a few hours with between the sheets, to escape from reality for a short while before she had to head back to the
Armada and deal with a bunch of arseholes who gave her the absolute minimum respect they could get away with without receiving any punishment, Mez had been able to call her out on her shit. When she’d entered that bar all that time ago and clocked Mez standing near the bar nursing a drink, she had sauntered over to the handsome stranger, full of cockiness and confidence, her seductrice mask had just automatically fallen into place. Seduction was a game and Marga always won. Seduction was about manipulation and control. Seduction was power. And then that bastard had seen right through her facade and knocked her whole world off its axis. Suddenly it was a situation that Marga couldn’t control, where there were unknowns that she couldn’t anticipate. Suddenly she was unsure of herself. The feeling had blind-sided her then, and it had the exact same effect on her now.
Uncertainty got you killed. Uncertainty made you vulnerable. Uncertainty led to failure. It was an emotion Marga couldn’t afford. She had fought tooth and nail for her position in the
Armada and she knew that all it would take was one slight crack in her metaphorical armour and it would all be wrenched from her grasp. She worked with thugs, ruffians and murderers. If she gave in to them even a single inch, they would see her as a weak link. Weak links were disposed of - or worse. Yes, Marga knew there were worse things that could happen to her than death or mutiny at the hands of the outfit of pirates. And hence the need for her mask and if she had to be perceived as a bitch to maintain it, so be it. Until she had met Mez, Marga had been positive that her mask was flawless. With the exception of family, no one had ever seen through it before. It had taken her several weeks to realise that instead of annoyance at having been found out, what she actually felt was pleased. The ramifications of that self-discovery was what had eventually sent her right back to Mez.
Standing just inside of the Navy shuttle, Marga ground her thoughts to a halt. Her mind had a strong tendency to wonder, her emotions getting the better of her. But now wasn’t the time to reminisce on such things. Marga had a decision to make. With the astroid field closing in on them within the next thirty seconds, the thief knew she didn’t have the necessary piloting skills to make a successful getaway without being torn to shreds. As Marga eyed the umbilical tunnel, her attention was caught by the only unopened locker on the other side of the Lone Star’s docking entrance.
Locked. Marga liked things that were locked. It meant someone had taken the time to place something they valued into the locker, box, vault, etc to keep it safe. People regarded items differently - as they said, one man’s rubbish is another man’s gold. Marga felt a familiar tingle starting at the tips of her long, slender fingers. The more she pondered the mystery that was the Lone Star, she further up her hands and arms the sensation traveled.
Locked. In its essence, the dreadnought was one massive locked box… And Marga had never been able to resist peeking inside a locked box. So, despite her reservations, the thief turned back to where she had spied a set of naval issue environmental suits, quickly slid into it, placed the helmet over her head, grabbed a pair of small laser-beam guns, then turned and put one foot in front of the other and walked down the connecting tunnel and stepped into the Lone Star.
Kalas
Izurich
hawkmoth
MegaraFoxfire