Battlestar AU Fic: "When Muninn Became Huginn"
Yet more fic from the "Baltar-as-Cylon" 'verse. Last one, I swear to god. Um. For now, anyway. Sigh.
Title: When Muninn Became Huginn
Characters: Tigh, Cylon!Baltar
Rating: PG-13 for darkness, violence and death
Length: 1,040 words
Summary: Saul always figured madness came from living on past the point when you should be dead.
Notes: Many thanks to cerebel for assuring me this was even worth posting in the first place. Other parts of this AU:
Faulty, Think Tank, One by One, Home Again, The Kids Aren't Alright
If anybody gave a damn about that sort of thing, Saul supposed the Cylons were the biggest litterbugs in the entire universe.
Leaving their trash behind everywhere. Infected basestars. Nuked planets. And now this: a satellite left floating over a barren world in ass-end nowhere.
It looked abandoned but you couldn’t be sure. That was what marines were for. And you couldn’t trust a marine in a cockpit, so that was what pilots were for. And then someone had to go who might know what they were looking at.
That was what the Cylon was for.
The one that had been sitting in its cell in the brig for months. The one that they said was a model Ten, the one that some people actually still called Gaius Baltar.
If Saul had had his way, that thing would have gone out the airlock the minute it came onboard.
The marines had guns, but also fear and confusion in their eyes. Athena was going but damned if he was leaving one toaster to guard another, no matter what had been proven in the past. What he really wanted to know was who was taking charge of the prisoner.
He figured that was what Saul Tigh was for.
The satellite was abandoned all right: lights were dead, consoles threw sparks and life-support barely functioned.
And every corridor was littered with the lifeless bodies of Number Tens.
Cylon Nation. Cylon Legion. Maybe the bastards would do them a favor and take each other out before they even had to deal with them.
It looked like the dead hadn't gone quietly: burn marks, gunshots, bloody wounds. It did nothing for Saul, but from the corner of his eye he could see “their” Cylon white-lipped and staring. So he forced a vindictive sneer.
“Now there’s a beautiful sight.” He kicked the nearest arm for good measure.
The Cylon said nothing, but its face was ashen when it looked away. It gave him a small sense of victory.
They explored, figured out what the station was for, something about studying atmospheres, but he didn’t care about that. He kept his sight on the Cylon and knew it could feel the weight: every minute or so it flinched.
Then they found the survivor: near the center was a freezer for storing radioactive samples. In the fighting a Ten had gotten locked inside.
Circles under its eyes as dark as its hair, emaciated so it was practically skeletal. Its gaze drifted with a fevered haughty indifference, lingering on the only other Ten in the room.
“Keep searching,” Saul ordered. “I’ll stay here and watch these two.”
When he was alone, he couldn’t stop staring at the one from the station. It wore all black and had very shiny shoes and he felt like killing it on principle: that it could still dress up nicely while the Fleet was living on thrice-recycled water and pond scum.
Locked in a fridge for gods knew how long. Any human would have died long ago. Most Cylons might have, too.
Saul always figured madness came from living on past the point when you should be dead.
He had lost count of the number of times he should have died now. He knew what it meant, and he didn’t care enough to think about it.
“Would you like anything to eat?” the first Cylon offered, timid. “I’m sure we could find you something.”
But the other Cylon had eyes only for Saul; it spat at his feet and he moved back, startled.
“You actually think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Voice rough with disuse, it scoffed. “You! A putrid, pathetic human. Too flawed to even begin to see how truly worthless you are!”
“Don’t.” The other’s voice was pained. Its double whirled, eyes blazing.
“You don’t get to pity me! You’re nothing, Gaius. You were broken from the day you were made, and no one wants you at all. Least of all us.”
Saul thought maybe he should stop this but couldn’t move, struck dumb by the sight of two beings with the same face and body and one actively seeking to destroy the other. One Cylon a bristling tower of rage, the other crumbling under pain and doubt.
Then the Cylon from the freezer turned back to Saul, and he realized too late what he was dealing with: a creature locked up with itself for so long that whatever personality he had expected, there was nothing left.
The blow across his face sent him reeling. His stomach pounded twice, a hard kick to his bad knee. The Cylon had its fingers around his throat and Saul tried to pry them off but he was being strangled by a machine.
Its eyes were pure hatred and it made a noise that could have been laughing or crying and Saul found, as he felt the life start to leave him, that he didn’t recognize its face at all.
Then the other Cylon tackled it and Saul gasped for air as they grappled on the floor. The prisoner sat on the chest of the other, all desperation as it grabbed at face and neck; the feral Ten struggled and scratched but neither moved.
Finally, Saul heard the single quick snap that meant the fight was over.
The winning Ten scrambled away from the dead one, hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor. It stared at the body with unfocused eyes, shaking so hard at first Saul couldn’t even see; he thought his vision had blurred and the whole world shook.
His lungs refilled slowly. Meanwhile, he watched the Cylon. The one that had just saved his life.
Madness was living past the point where you should have died.
For just one moment, he wondered: what it would be like to be stuck living, to know that that was the only option. To know that you didn’t get to die.
Saul climbed to his feet and stood in front of the other man.
“Come on,” Saul said gruffly. The Cylon didn’t seem to hear him. “Come on, Baltar.”
His head turned up to him slowly, like a sleeper waking from a bad dream.
Saul stretched out his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Title: When Muninn Became Huginn
Characters: Tigh, Cylon!Baltar
Rating: PG-13 for darkness, violence and death
Length: 1,040 words
Summary: Saul always figured madness came from living on past the point when you should be dead.
Notes: Many thanks to cerebel for assuring me this was even worth posting in the first place. Other parts of this AU:
Faulty, Think Tank, One by One, Home Again, The Kids Aren't Alright
If anybody gave a damn about that sort of thing, Saul supposed the Cylons were the biggest litterbugs in the entire universe.
Leaving their trash behind everywhere. Infected basestars. Nuked planets. And now this: a satellite left floating over a barren world in ass-end nowhere.
It looked abandoned but you couldn’t be sure. That was what marines were for. And you couldn’t trust a marine in a cockpit, so that was what pilots were for. And then someone had to go who might know what they were looking at.
That was what the Cylon was for.
The one that had been sitting in its cell in the brig for months. The one that they said was a model Ten, the one that some people actually still called Gaius Baltar.
If Saul had had his way, that thing would have gone out the airlock the minute it came onboard.
The marines had guns, but also fear and confusion in their eyes. Athena was going but damned if he was leaving one toaster to guard another, no matter what had been proven in the past. What he really wanted to know was who was taking charge of the prisoner.
He figured that was what Saul Tigh was for.
The satellite was abandoned all right: lights were dead, consoles threw sparks and life-support barely functioned.
And every corridor was littered with the lifeless bodies of Number Tens.
Cylon Nation. Cylon Legion. Maybe the bastards would do them a favor and take each other out before they even had to deal with them.
It looked like the dead hadn't gone quietly: burn marks, gunshots, bloody wounds. It did nothing for Saul, but from the corner of his eye he could see “their” Cylon white-lipped and staring. So he forced a vindictive sneer.
“Now there’s a beautiful sight.” He kicked the nearest arm for good measure.
The Cylon said nothing, but its face was ashen when it looked away. It gave him a small sense of victory.
They explored, figured out what the station was for, something about studying atmospheres, but he didn’t care about that. He kept his sight on the Cylon and knew it could feel the weight: every minute or so it flinched.
Then they found the survivor: near the center was a freezer for storing radioactive samples. In the fighting a Ten had gotten locked inside.
Circles under its eyes as dark as its hair, emaciated so it was practically skeletal. Its gaze drifted with a fevered haughty indifference, lingering on the only other Ten in the room.
“Keep searching,” Saul ordered. “I’ll stay here and watch these two.”
When he was alone, he couldn’t stop staring at the one from the station. It wore all black and had very shiny shoes and he felt like killing it on principle: that it could still dress up nicely while the Fleet was living on thrice-recycled water and pond scum.
Locked in a fridge for gods knew how long. Any human would have died long ago. Most Cylons might have, too.
Saul always figured madness came from living on past the point when you should be dead.
He had lost count of the number of times he should have died now. He knew what it meant, and he didn’t care enough to think about it.
“Would you like anything to eat?” the first Cylon offered, timid. “I’m sure we could find you something.”
But the other Cylon had eyes only for Saul; it spat at his feet and he moved back, startled.
“You actually think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Voice rough with disuse, it scoffed. “You! A putrid, pathetic human. Too flawed to even begin to see how truly worthless you are!”
“Don’t.” The other’s voice was pained. Its double whirled, eyes blazing.
“You don’t get to pity me! You’re nothing, Gaius. You were broken from the day you were made, and no one wants you at all. Least of all us.”
Saul thought maybe he should stop this but couldn’t move, struck dumb by the sight of two beings with the same face and body and one actively seeking to destroy the other. One Cylon a bristling tower of rage, the other crumbling under pain and doubt.
Then the Cylon from the freezer turned back to Saul, and he realized too late what he was dealing with: a creature locked up with itself for so long that whatever personality he had expected, there was nothing left.
The blow across his face sent him reeling. His stomach pounded twice, a hard kick to his bad knee. The Cylon had its fingers around his throat and Saul tried to pry them off but he was being strangled by a machine.
Its eyes were pure hatred and it made a noise that could have been laughing or crying and Saul found, as he felt the life start to leave him, that he didn’t recognize its face at all.
Then the other Cylon tackled it and Saul gasped for air as they grappled on the floor. The prisoner sat on the chest of the other, all desperation as it grabbed at face and neck; the feral Ten struggled and scratched but neither moved.
Finally, Saul heard the single quick snap that meant the fight was over.
The winning Ten scrambled away from the dead one, hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor. It stared at the body with unfocused eyes, shaking so hard at first Saul couldn’t even see; he thought his vision had blurred and the whole world shook.
His lungs refilled slowly. Meanwhile, he watched the Cylon. The one that had just saved his life.
Madness was living past the point where you should have died.
For just one moment, he wondered: what it would be like to be stuck living, to know that that was the only option. To know that you didn’t get to die.
Saul climbed to his feet and stood in front of the other man.
“Come on,” Saul said gruffly. The Cylon didn’t seem to hear him. “Come on, Baltar.”
His head turned up to him slowly, like a sleeper waking from a bad dream.
Saul stretched out his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”