overlooked | Perfect Officer Material // Farscape // Bialar Crais

Fandom: Farscape
Claim: Bialar Crais
Theme: Set 1 - #1 - Beginnings
Words: 628
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Farscape is not mine. Unfortunately neither is Crais.
Summary: Their father might have failed to protect him but Bialar will not.

The inside of the Carrier is poorly lit, the air stale. It smells of sweat and fear. Children stand in little huddles, silent, eyes wide, hands grasping hands. Helmeted soldiers ring the group, their hands on the pulse rifles.

Bialar Crais stands to one side of the main group and watches. The anger that has carried him this far still simmers, though he is careful to keep his expression bland. There is an officer working his way through the children, a clipboard in his gloved hand. He eyes each child and then writes something down. Bialar is uncomfortably reminded of his father sorting through the herds and feels the hair at his nape prickle.

Swallows hard, determined not to show fear or anger or anything else that will set him apart.

Tauvo clutches tightly to his right hand. He draws his brother closer and slightly behind him. Their father might have failed to protect him but Bialar will not. He is unsure of how or whether it is even possible, but he at least will try.

He at least will not stand aside. He is not resigned to his fate.

The officer comes over and he looks directly at the man. Surprise flickers, boredom turning to interest.

“Who are you?” the officer asks.

“What’s it to you?”

A faint smile tugs. “Attitude,” he says and marks that down. “Name.”

“Bialar Crais.”

The man looks from him to his brother. Bialar lifts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. Just try it, he thinks, wanting an excuse to fight. His free hand fists.

“This is your brother?”

“Yes.”

“You seem determined to look after him.”

Bialar frowns, not sure what the man’s tone implies.

“I am,” he says firmly. “He is my responsibility.”

The man turns to the faceless soldier. “There you see – it was not a waste of time. He is perfect officer material.”

“A recruit?” The soldier’s distain is clear and Bialar takes a step forward before Tauvo has chance to yank him back. The officer’s eyebrows shoot up and then he laughs.

“Easy there Bialar Crais. Let’s not start your undoubtedly illustrious career with an assault on a superior officer, hm?”

“Superior in what way?” he mutters and then reels as the officer claps him on the shoulder.

“Assign these… recruits quarters,” the officer orders the soldiers.

Wailing and crying fills the air as the children are separated. As the oldest amongst them, Bialar feels a sense of horror, of frustrated responsibility. He should do something – anything – but what escapes him. He looks at Tauvo, meets the wide-eyed stare and shakes his head minutely.

A hand grabs Tauvo’s shoulder. A wordless shout rips from Bialar’s throat and he throws himself at the soldier. The man is twice his height, wearing body armour and armed, but he does not care.

“No! He stays with me!”

Pain lances up his arm as the butt of the rifle impacts on his wrist. His fingers spasm and in that instant, he looses grip of Tauvo’s hand.

“Bialar!”

“No!”

He is hit in the stomach, the force enough to drive the air from his lungs. A blow to the back of his knees takes him to the floor. His vision blurs and through the tears of pain he sees Tauvo dragged away.

No.

He pushes up, trying to stand, but a hand settles on his shoulder and holds him down.

“The first rule of war is to know which battles you can win,” the officer says in a low voice. There is a gentleness to the tone, a sympathetic understanding. “This one is lost, my young friend. Let it go.”

Bialar shakes his head and dashes the tears from his eyes impatiently.

“I haven’t lost,” he says. “The victory is simply postponed.”