Ficlet: Collaborators (Battlestar Galactica)
“Ennervate.”
Felix stirs, the voice echoing as though from far above, far away, reaching just barely to him in a delicate feather of sound. He blinks, into darkness, and it hits him at once - he twists, and a hand shoves him back down, kneeling. His wrists are contorted and bound in front of him, shoulders aching, the hand digging into the back of his neck and holding him upright.
The sack is tugged from his head, the gag ripped from his mouth and Felix coughs, gasps for air, and he registers the darkness, then the rough, half-dead grass underneath him, then the figures, somber as tombstones.
Funny, because he thought he was done with kneeling in graveyards…
“Felix Gaeta,” says one of the figures -
“Lumos,” murmurs another, and there’s enough light over the scene. Enough, that is, to identify his attackers.
At each one, Felix’s stomach sinks a little further.
“You’ve been accused and found guilty of crimes against humanity by a circle of your peers,” says the speaker - Diana Seelix. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Oh, no. No, no, no -
“What?” breathes Felix.
Kara Thrace hisses a breath through her teeth. “Let’s just get on with it,” she snaps. She seizes Felix’s arm, pushes his sleeve up.
Felix wills the Dark Mark to fade, as it has ever so slowly in the three months since the Dark Lord’s downfall - but no. It’s still visible, visible enough to identify by the wandlight.
“This is all the proof we need,” says Thrace. “He’s a Death Eater. And a Slytherin.” She spits, and Felix flinches.
“Let me see.” Another steps into the light, but Felix doesn’t need the light to recognize him. Galen Tyrol. Another Gryffindor - gods, are they all Gryffindors? Gryffindors, in a death squad.
Tyrol’s hands slide along Felix’s wrist, to the tattoo. Felix looks away.
“So it’s true, then,” says Tyrol.
Felix shakes his head. “I’m not gonna beg.”
He’s surprised at the strength of his own tone. Years of resisting the Dark Lord must have left their scars.
“Too bad you didn’t grow that spine two years ago,” snaps Saul Tigh.
You were my teacher, thinks Felix. You bastard.
“Slytherins are all the same,” dismisses Jean Barolay. “Let’s just kill him and get it over with.”
“The war is over,” says Felix, so softly, “and you’ve become a death squad. Executing prisoners.” He grits his jaw, lifts his eyes. “You make me sick.”
Thrace lashes out, a boot into Felix’s ribs. Felix falls to the side, barely catching himself. “What’d you tell the Ministry of Magic, huh, Felix? Didja tell ‘em it was the Imperius Curse?” she taunts. “Did you beg them for your life?”
Felix doesn’t look at her, fixing his eyes stoically in the distance.
“Or did you tell ‘em you were a double agent?”
Something in his face must have betrayed him; Thrace lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “A double agent. That’s rich. Why don’t you tell us all about it? How much information you passed, how many lives you saved.”
“It’s true,” Felix snaps, his eyes flashing. “I passed information - like, the second round of death lists, the attack locations -”
“You were a Death Eater, Felix,” interrupts Barolay. “It doesn’t do you any good to lie about it now.”
Felix closes his eyes. He wants to give up, he does - maybe a quick, clean death would be the best option, now. Maybe he should just let them kill him, if it would help. But - but - he wasn’t guilty, he didn’t do what they think he did, and he can’t let them believe that of him.
“I passed information,” Felix insists lowly.
Thrace rolls her eyes. “He’s lying.”
“I agree,” rasps Tigh. He points his wand at Felix’s face.
“No!” calls Felix, struck, suddenly. “There was a signal! I turned over a dog bowl and I left parchment in a -!”
“Just kill him,” says Thrace.
“Wait!”
Felix looks towards the voice - Tyrol, his hand on Tigh’s shoulder. “What did you say?” asks Tyrol.
Felix shrinks. “There was a dog bowl, a yellow dog bowl,” Felix repeats, helplessly. “Turn it over, leave a message in the garbage dump.”
In a second, Tyrol is in front of him, wand in his hands. “Finite incantem,” he murmurs, tapping the ropes binding Felix’s hands together. The ropes creep away and withdraw, and Felix lifts his eyes, disbelieving, to Tyrol’s face.
“There was a source,” explains Tyrol, “high up in the Dark Lord’s ranks. We never knew who it was - not until now.” He looks to Tigh. “That was the contact procedure. There’s no other way he could have known.”
The other’s eyes are different, now. They’re measuring, but not threatening anymore. Shocked, maybe, shocked at themselves and shocked at Felix, because this has suddenly thrown everything into perspective.
Felix staggers to his feet. They nearly killed him. “I did what I could,” he says, so softly. “I don’t know what else I could have done.”
They watch him as he steps away, until he takes a breath and Apparates. Apparates as far away as he can possibly get.
And Felix wonders if it might not have been better if they’d killed him, after all.
Felix stirs, the voice echoing as though from far above, far away, reaching just barely to him in a delicate feather of sound. He blinks, into darkness, and it hits him at once - he twists, and a hand shoves him back down, kneeling. His wrists are contorted and bound in front of him, shoulders aching, the hand digging into the back of his neck and holding him upright.
The sack is tugged from his head, the gag ripped from his mouth and Felix coughs, gasps for air, and he registers the darkness, then the rough, half-dead grass underneath him, then the figures, somber as tombstones.
Funny, because he thought he was done with kneeling in graveyards…
“Felix Gaeta,” says one of the figures -
“Lumos,” murmurs another, and there’s enough light over the scene. Enough, that is, to identify his attackers.
At each one, Felix’s stomach sinks a little further.
“You’ve been accused and found guilty of crimes against humanity by a circle of your peers,” says the speaker - Diana Seelix. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Oh, no. No, no, no -
“What?” breathes Felix.
Kara Thrace hisses a breath through her teeth. “Let’s just get on with it,” she snaps. She seizes Felix’s arm, pushes his sleeve up.
Felix wills the Dark Mark to fade, as it has ever so slowly in the three months since the Dark Lord’s downfall - but no. It’s still visible, visible enough to identify by the wandlight.
“This is all the proof we need,” says Thrace. “He’s a Death Eater. And a Slytherin.” She spits, and Felix flinches.
“Let me see.” Another steps into the light, but Felix doesn’t need the light to recognize him. Galen Tyrol. Another Gryffindor - gods, are they all Gryffindors? Gryffindors, in a death squad.
Tyrol’s hands slide along Felix’s wrist, to the tattoo. Felix looks away.
“So it’s true, then,” says Tyrol.
Felix shakes his head. “I’m not gonna beg.”
He’s surprised at the strength of his own tone. Years of resisting the Dark Lord must have left their scars.
“Too bad you didn’t grow that spine two years ago,” snaps Saul Tigh.
You were my teacher, thinks Felix. You bastard.
“Slytherins are all the same,” dismisses Jean Barolay. “Let’s just kill him and get it over with.”
“The war is over,” says Felix, so softly, “and you’ve become a death squad. Executing prisoners.” He grits his jaw, lifts his eyes. “You make me sick.”
Thrace lashes out, a boot into Felix’s ribs. Felix falls to the side, barely catching himself. “What’d you tell the Ministry of Magic, huh, Felix? Didja tell ‘em it was the Imperius Curse?” she taunts. “Did you beg them for your life?”
Felix doesn’t look at her, fixing his eyes stoically in the distance.
“Or did you tell ‘em you were a double agent?”
Something in his face must have betrayed him; Thrace lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “A double agent. That’s rich. Why don’t you tell us all about it? How much information you passed, how many lives you saved.”
“It’s true,” Felix snaps, his eyes flashing. “I passed information - like, the second round of death lists, the attack locations -”
“You were a Death Eater, Felix,” interrupts Barolay. “It doesn’t do you any good to lie about it now.”
Felix closes his eyes. He wants to give up, he does - maybe a quick, clean death would be the best option, now. Maybe he should just let them kill him, if it would help. But - but - he wasn’t guilty, he didn’t do what they think he did, and he can’t let them believe that of him.
“I passed information,” Felix insists lowly.
Thrace rolls her eyes. “He’s lying.”
“I agree,” rasps Tigh. He points his wand at Felix’s face.
“No!” calls Felix, struck, suddenly. “There was a signal! I turned over a dog bowl and I left parchment in a -!”
“Just kill him,” says Thrace.
“Wait!”
Felix looks towards the voice - Tyrol, his hand on Tigh’s shoulder. “What did you say?” asks Tyrol.
Felix shrinks. “There was a dog bowl, a yellow dog bowl,” Felix repeats, helplessly. “Turn it over, leave a message in the garbage dump.”
In a second, Tyrol is in front of him, wand in his hands. “Finite incantem,” he murmurs, tapping the ropes binding Felix’s hands together. The ropes creep away and withdraw, and Felix lifts his eyes, disbelieving, to Tyrol’s face.
“There was a source,” explains Tyrol, “high up in the Dark Lord’s ranks. We never knew who it was - not until now.” He looks to Tigh. “That was the contact procedure. There’s no other way he could have known.”
The other’s eyes are different, now. They’re measuring, but not threatening anymore. Shocked, maybe, shocked at themselves and shocked at Felix, because this has suddenly thrown everything into perspective.
Felix staggers to his feet. They nearly killed him. “I did what I could,” he says, so softly. “I don’t know what else I could have done.”
They watch him as he steps away, until he takes a breath and Apparates. Apparates as far away as he can possibly get.
And Felix wonders if it might not have been better if they’d killed him, after all.