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Krycek braces himself against the dirty sink and peers into the mirror, bleary-eyed. He'll shave tomorrow, he thinks, stretching a bristled jaw toward the polished metal that substitutes for glass on this rusting hulk of a ship. Gotta look sharp when you're negotiating.
Or dictating terms. He grins. The old men won't be ready for that, which will make it all the sweeter.
He pulls a toothbrush from his pocket and begins to brush. Nearly 3 a.m. and, god, he needs some shuteye. Just one day: one more day where the Oil stays put, where the kid doesn't stop breathing, where colonists and rebels don't commandeer the planet for a quick game of Armageddon.
The floor below him lurches. Krycek grabs at the edge of the sink, stabilizes himself. Sees the toothbrush fall toward the muck in the corner beside the sink.
But one more day, Aleksei. Just one. Tomorrow the tide will turn.
© bardsmaid 2005 |