letters from a dead woman [closed]

[worm_dancer]

Sheeana was becoming uncomfortably acquainted with the mistakes of Jessica Atreides. In a way she'd been doing this most of her life, but in the past couple months it had been increasing in pace exponentially until she felt herself overwhelmed by her world's distant past.

This was what she thought as she regarded Alia Atreides over her bowl of goo. Blue-within-blue eyes met like ones as she gulped the disgusting stuff. She could have taken it to the sensoriums of course, fooled her senses into thinking it was the finest slig stew and spicebread.

That was not the Bene Gesserit way though. They were here, conscripts and refugees in an interdimensional war, not dining in the finest halls of [Arak]Keen, not sorrounded by the scent of incense and the whispers of courtesans. This organic yet utilitarian cafeteria was their reality now.

She put the bowl down on the bonelike table and grinned up at the imposing Atreides. She was sure Alia knew that. The woman was known for the lovers she took. She had other ways of distracting herself, ones even the best simulations could not truly provide.

She waited, drawing out the tension to see what she had to say.

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Alia's face was calm, even. Her eyes seemed to look past everyone around her. What ever was going on here, she was determined to not lose her composure, holding onto to her Bene Gesserit training for the power to maintain such a lofty air.

The girl that sat with her now was a strange beast. She unnerved Alia deeply, this girl that knew things that she did not.

It was obvious the girl was waiting, toying with her.
Fine.
Alia would play back.
Lowering her eyelids, and raising her chin gracefully, Alia looked to cast her eyes down at the Fremen girl, and make her scrutiny obvious. Only her distaste and irritation showed in her expression.