Doz Finch - The Floret of Resistance
Doz Finch
((Outskirts, Witherington, Indre III))
Rain was falling. Cold and hard rain; the sort that reached deep inside a person’s body, coiling every bone with its unrelenting chill. They had found themselves in the Witherington Outskirts of Indre III, or what was left of it, bunched together to stay dry and collect their thoughts.
Toppled walls surrounded them, resigned to dirty and murky puddles within which wallpaper aimlessly floated, bearing patterns and symbols that, at one time, were bright and inviting. And somewhere in the corner, a ruined doll with scorch marks on its plastic nose, and ghostly glass eyes that had seen too much, had been left, the screaming echoes of its reluctant abandonment still ringing somehow in the air.
A perpetual stench lingered about the place; the acidulated remnants of electrics sparked by water, the residual smoke of charred brick and singed wooden furniture. Whatever happened–there in the residential block–had caused enough harm for the occupants to flee for their lives, and those who didn’t, or couldn’t, must have been laid waste. Their shattered bodies hidden in the rubble.
Or they were hidden in plain sight, in a house they once loved, now suffused with the breath of strangers. Either way, it didn’t matter. They were dead. And the dead didn’t mind. That’s what Finch believed; once a person was gone, they were gone for good. Sticking around and fumbling over them, and the what ifs, was precious time wasted. And she knew all about wasted time.
N’Al’rig-pseth had moved to another spot, lost in a compulsion to taste the water hammering down upon them—and Finch watched her. Through cold, unblinking eyes. The dunes and barrows of her face hauntingly deluged by the silhouetting rain.
Hollow and silently watching.
Then the buzz of the leader's combadge sounded inside her jacket pocket, breaking Finch’s stare, and causing the other woman to turn around and look.
Brunsig: =/\= Greenhorn. ::He paused.:: We should get you a new name. Not so green anymore. =/\=
The circumstances that led her to this point scratched at the back of her mind; here she was, in saturated wools, covered in dirt, working under the leadership of a little girl; a child. And the other woman, grinning after satiating herself in the storm, had a simmering appetite for something, and she could bet that it wasn’t anything that could be found on a plate.
After all, it wasn’t the first time she had seen a grin like that.
Tahna: =/\= It’s on my to-do list. =/\=
Alieth: ::Looking at the Finch: I guess that chore is going to fall to us.
Finch’s eyes slowly lurched to the Vulcan, and she spoke—her voice low, modulated, and yet bearing an accent that still made its presence known through her rigid and thin lips.
Finch: I can already think of a few.
Brunsig: =/\= We need your boots on the ground. Find us some allies. Look after the people. Some have already bled for our cause, see if you can find them and get them what they need. =/\=
Tahna: =/\= Right, from our overflowing stock of supplies, yeah? =/\=
Finch: She’s not wrong.
Her dark eyes looked up into a wet hole in the ceiling, through which she could see the ominous gathering clouds, and the torrential downpour that cascaded out of them.
Finch: We’ll be wanting better shelter, too.
Brunsig: =/\= I know. ::His voice, still gruff, softened just a little.:: Do what you can. Even if it’s just offering some hope. =/\=
The young leader, who’s light-hearted chuckle didn’t go unnoticed, looked toward N'Al'rig-pseth with a wide grin, and it caused Finch’s eyes to relax a touch. The girl still had hope left, and was in it for something greater than herself.
Perhaps if her own life had been different, she would have felt the same.
Instead of the... emptiness.
Tahna: =/\= Hope is my specialty. ::She cracked the slightest, grimmest grin.:: We’ll do our best. =/\=
Alieth: ::cryptically:: =/\= For we lived as slaves until we made ourselves free=/\=
Finch inhaled through her nose, and chewed on the inner gums of her mouth, as the other two did the talking. She would have said something on the comms as well, but she was sensible and knew better than to flood the radio with yet another voice.
Instead she shuffled slightly in place and glanced over at a broken picture frame. In the frame dwelled an older woman, older than Finch, with shoulder length gray hair, a hooked nose and a thin neck, clutching arms with an older and paunchier man, surrounded by the people they presumably loved—as she looked at it, a frown slowly twitched its way in between her sullen cheeks, accompanied by the tense kissing of her eyebrows.
A droplet of rain fell upon the face of the oldest woman in the picture, besmirching it, exaggerating her looks.
Finch sniffed hard and placed the frame face-down, shards of glass scratching gently beneath it.
Brunsig: =/\= I’ve more to talk to. Watch your backs and stay alive. =/\=
When the conversation ended, the chirp of the combadge–desolate sounding, as if its signal waned in the weather–caused all three of them to turn and face each other.
The girl, Greenhorn, then began to draw a map into the muddy floor beneath them, permeating the half-collapsed room with the creak of her kneeling.
Finch straightened her back and walked behind her, to get a look at the map, eyes narrowing in serious thought. Fair play to her–she was young but she had the wits to draw a map they could get rid of quickly, if lurking danger reared its ugly head.
Her finger created lines that were meant to be roads, and tiny pieces marked locations, such as a palm-sized stone placed upon a large muddy square.
Tahna: Right. We can stick to the residential areas, see if anyone stuck around, hid out in the destruction. Or, over here ::She indicated a palm-sized stone, inward from their current location:: is what used to be the main market. It’s likely all been looted, but since it was a known gathering spot folks might go there looking for help.
The Vulcan looked around and then at the map.
Alieth: Those who stay around here will be scared, in the square, desperate. ::The dark eyes narrowed marginally, a hint of sinister amusement in them.:: Despair makes for better bedfellows.
Finch: If anyone is alive, and they have a bit of common sense, then they'll be looking for a place to stay dry—shelter.
Then the girl drew another image into the mud, and this time it was a flower. Finch sucked her lips inward, creating chasms within both of her cheeks.
She didn’t like floret—it was obviously sentimental.
Tahna: We can also follow this symbol: we think it’s a budding symbol of resistance. It’s been found on several people executed for standing up to the Spoonheads, and might point us toward allies.
For a moment her mind strayed back to cell 131, and all of the scratched and etched markings on its walls. Symbols of something. Not resistance, but persistence. Of longing; of questions unanswered, of days bleeding into weeks, into months, into years, into forever. An almost meaningless existence, if not for the alliances forged with wayward criminals, and even more wayward guards.
In deep thought, her stony face didn't betray her.
Alieth: It takes guts to wear a symbol contrary to the Cardassians openly, don't you think, Nana?
Finch: ::her drooping face stared at the Vulcan for a moment:: It does take guts. And a lot of stupidity. They are callous people, them Cardassians. They don't take these things lightly.
Tahna wiped the mud on her pants leg and stood, arms crossed and eyebrows lowered as she addressed her companions.
Tahna: I’m open to suggestions. Whichever we choose, we should draw as little attention as possible. Unfortunately, that means no killing Spoonheads yet, not if we can avoid it.
Alieth: Don't feed our blades... for now. Point taken.
Finch: Have a taste for flesh, does it? ::she said, dryly::
Alieth: ::Nodding to the white-haired woman.::Yes, it does.
Finch: Mm. ::she said through lowered eyes, before leaning down and hovering her old and wrinkled hand over the slowly disappearing map:: They’ll be looking for shelter—a place to stay dry. We could stay in this area, look in all the houses, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think you’d like what we’d find in them. ::her accent thickened:: Go towards the market square, and I think the chances are higher of finding somebody alive in there. But it’s dangerous. It’s a big place, so it may be a target.
Alieth:: I think the square is our best option, as I said, desperation is our ally. It's full of anger and resentment and they may be more inclined to listen to us.
Tahna: Response
Finch: With any luck, we’ll find a place to stockpile anything we find. A butcher's freezer is always a good, having solid doors and walls. Many a thing good for it.
Alieth: OK, let's do that.
Tahna: Response
Finch: The rain won't let up anytime soon—best we go now, if we know what's good for us.
As they exited the dilapidated building, she didn’t take a single moment to look behind; in the past, she may have swiped one last glance at the doll, or even the picture frame within which a once hopeful family foolishly smiled, but not anymore. Brunsig had made his position clear; they were Maquis, fighting for a cause, and regardless of anyone's background, the cause was what mattered.
The three women moved quickly, and with careful splashes, through the wreckage of the streets within which free people once frolicked. And aye, they were free, but they were never safe. Nobody was safe; not those here, not those on Bajor, not even those within the proud and bureaucratic Federation. Hope was a fickle thing—hope was a foolish thing. There wasn’t an ounce of it left in her body, not a scrap of it left in her soul. All that remained of Doz Finch now was a woman whose only purpose now was to survive and help others survive, just as she had done those last thirty years.
As they passed building after building, shard after shard, craters deep and with billowing smoke from the disruptors fired by the enemy, the rain continued to plummet, soaking their gray garments–indistinguishable from the locals–through to the skin. She could feel her nose running, and her ankles straining, and her lungs panting, as the thickly polluted air draped them all in ash, and smog, and dirt.
Then the Vulcan kicked something, which spun towards her shoe with a clang, causing her and others to stop.
The pointy eared N’Al’rig-pseth picked it up—and Finch closed her eyes, subtly relieved. It hadn’t exploded, or it hadn’t exploded yet.
Alieth: What do you think?
Finch: I think you’re lucky you’ve still got hands—call me a cynic, but it could be an explosive.
Tahna/Alieth: Response
Finch: What about sounds, is it making any sounds?
Tahna/Alieth: Response
Finch: No sounds—good. I’d like to keep my head.
Tahna/Alieth: Response
Finch: Wait—
Finch held a wrinkled hand out to hold it. Her nails were grotty and grey, and horribly bent. As she examined the artifact, she noticed the younger of the two looking at them, so she turned the other way. Moments later, and with filth rubbed into her sleeve, she lifted the item up to them; upon its now-shiny surface, once riddled with mucky ash, was the floret of resistance.
Alieth/Tahna: Response