(no subject)
Here's a 1000-word ficlet I wrote for twelvecolonies' "two characters that never spoke on the show" contest. The prompt was "Cavil and Boxey". It's PG.
Wish I'd kept the original version, before I whittled it down to 1000 words. I gotta remember to do that next time.
The war was on, and the pilots had no time for him. Boomer barely acknowledged him anymore. Skulls chased him out of the ready room. The civilians didn't want him around, either. There was only so much food and shelter left, and no one wanted to share it with an orphan.
Weeks passed, as the survivors of the Cylon attacks closed ranks against him.
Boxey was alone.
He woke, roused by hunger, and crawled out from beneath his pile of rags. Then he dressed himself. He'd lost his jacket and backpack (and a front tooth) to a gang of kids, but he still had his pants and black shirt. He kept them clean -- easy when you lived in a janitor's closet -- but the cuffs of the pants were starting to fray. He folded them under.
No one was outside as he slipped out the door. Good. He didn't want to move again. The closet was better than sleeping in a supply crate.
He went down to the hangar bay. Cally and Socinus were there, working on one of the Raptors. When they started toward the break room, he met them outside the door.
"Hey, no kids on the hangar floor," Socinus said. "It's not safe down here."
"But I--"
"No buts. Get out."
He turned to go, disappointed.
"Wait. Boxey?" Cally asked, as if she hadn't recognized him.
"You know him?" Socinus asked.
"Kind of. Hey, are you all right?"
He turned back with a shrug. "Sure. Hungry, is all."
Cally frowned. "Here," she said, digging in her bag. "Take this."
She passed him a ration bar -- a whole ration bar -- and he snatched it before she could take it back.
"Thanks," he muttered. He glanced up at her, looking away again at her expression of pity.
Beside her, Socinus was toying with a cigarette. "C'mon, Cally, we're wasting our break," he said, not unkindly. "He's got somethin' to eat now, let him go."
"Yeah, but..."
"Could I have one of those?" Boxey interrupted, pointing at Socinus' hands.
There was a brief silence.
Socinus smiled. "Will you clear out if I give it to you?"
"Yeah. I promise."
"OK. Just don't smoke it anywhere on the floor -- Chief'll have me mucking out toilets for a week."
Boxey grabbed the cigarette and ran, hollering his thanks behind him.
He found a secluded spot on the upper gangway and lit the cigarette, holding it in as long as he could. It quieted the rumbling in his belly.
Better save this ration bar for later, he thought. He pocketed it, took another drag, and then froze.
Boomer. He could see her across the gangway, walking toward the hatch.
You know something? My parents died when I was little, too.
He wet his fingertips and pressed them against the tip of the cigarette. When it stopped hissing, he slipped it behind his ear and followed Boomer.
She took a strange, circuitous route. Finally, she came to a hatch on the civilian deck.
The temple? Boxey thought. Weird.
She stood there for a long second, staring blankly at the hatch. Then she reached down, spun it open, and walked inside.
Boxey slipped in behind her.
Inside, he could hear voices. He froze. He wasn't supposed to be in here. If somebody caught him, he'd be in trouble.
He dashed into the coatroom, peering out into the temple nave. Boomer was there, and that PR guy, the one who always dressed like a moron. Boxey couldn't catch what they were talking about. In the opposite pew was a lady -- and what a lady! -- who was examining her nails. A man with close-cropped blond hair grinned at her from across the way.
"All right," came a voice. "Let's get started."
The old priest came out. Boxey had seen him around, but not like this: his fierce scowl cowed his audience into silence.
"I don't know what you idiots think you're doing, but it's not working. We've barely made a dent in their supplies."
"I poisoned a whole case of powdered milk," the PR guy volunteered.
"And then left it in storage where the rats would find it," laughed the woman. "Congratulations on your new business: Five's Pest Control."
The blond man shook his head. "God would not approve. The rats did nothing to us," he said.
Boomer nodded. Boxey stared at her, horrified.
"But Two--" the PR man said.
"Silence. This is ridiculous!" the priest roared. "The Plan demands results. It has no room for error. We..."
Boxey shuddered, tuning him out. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He had to get out, had to tell someone -- Captain Adama, maybe. Yes, Captain Adama. But he was a pilot, wasn't he?
Like Boomer.
Boxey whirled. His sneaker made a little squeak. The room fell silent behind him. He threw himself forward, spinning the hatch.
He was going to make it. There were footsteps behind him, but the nave was a good fifty yards away. Just one more spin...
The door clicked. He lunged out, but as his feet crossed the threshold, he was yanked back. Someone had his shirt. He twisted, gagging. The world lurched sideways, and the old priest filled his vision.
Boxey kicked, but his feet touched nothing. The priest had him by just one hand, holding him high up in the air. His grip was impossibly strong.
Not an old man, Boxey thought. He's not an old man at all, oh Gods he's not--
The priest grinned at him. His eyes were bright and eager, like Starbuck's eyes at the poker table, or just before she went out on a mission.
"No one will ever find your body, you little shit."
They were the last words Boxey ever heard.
Wish I'd kept the original version, before I whittled it down to 1000 words. I gotta remember to do that next time.
The war was on, and the pilots had no time for him. Boomer barely acknowledged him anymore. Skulls chased him out of the ready room. The civilians didn't want him around, either. There was only so much food and shelter left, and no one wanted to share it with an orphan.
Weeks passed, as the survivors of the Cylon attacks closed ranks against him.
Boxey was alone.
He woke, roused by hunger, and crawled out from beneath his pile of rags. Then he dressed himself. He'd lost his jacket and backpack (and a front tooth) to a gang of kids, but he still had his pants and black shirt. He kept them clean -- easy when you lived in a janitor's closet -- but the cuffs of the pants were starting to fray. He folded them under.
No one was outside as he slipped out the door. Good. He didn't want to move again. The closet was better than sleeping in a supply crate.
He went down to the hangar bay. Cally and Socinus were there, working on one of the Raptors. When they started toward the break room, he met them outside the door.
"Hey, no kids on the hangar floor," Socinus said. "It's not safe down here."
"But I--"
"No buts. Get out."
He turned to go, disappointed.
"Wait. Boxey?" Cally asked, as if she hadn't recognized him.
"You know him?" Socinus asked.
"Kind of. Hey, are you all right?"
He turned back with a shrug. "Sure. Hungry, is all."
Cally frowned. "Here," she said, digging in her bag. "Take this."
She passed him a ration bar -- a whole ration bar -- and he snatched it before she could take it back.
"Thanks," he muttered. He glanced up at her, looking away again at her expression of pity.
Beside her, Socinus was toying with a cigarette. "C'mon, Cally, we're wasting our break," he said, not unkindly. "He's got somethin' to eat now, let him go."
"Yeah, but..."
"Could I have one of those?" Boxey interrupted, pointing at Socinus' hands.
There was a brief silence.
Socinus smiled. "Will you clear out if I give it to you?"
"Yeah. I promise."
"OK. Just don't smoke it anywhere on the floor -- Chief'll have me mucking out toilets for a week."
Boxey grabbed the cigarette and ran, hollering his thanks behind him.
He found a secluded spot on the upper gangway and lit the cigarette, holding it in as long as he could. It quieted the rumbling in his belly.
Better save this ration bar for later, he thought. He pocketed it, took another drag, and then froze.
Boomer. He could see her across the gangway, walking toward the hatch.
You know something? My parents died when I was little, too.
He wet his fingertips and pressed them against the tip of the cigarette. When it stopped hissing, he slipped it behind his ear and followed Boomer.
She took a strange, circuitous route. Finally, she came to a hatch on the civilian deck.
The temple? Boxey thought. Weird.
She stood there for a long second, staring blankly at the hatch. Then she reached down, spun it open, and walked inside.
Boxey slipped in behind her.
Inside, he could hear voices. He froze. He wasn't supposed to be in here. If somebody caught him, he'd be in trouble.
He dashed into the coatroom, peering out into the temple nave. Boomer was there, and that PR guy, the one who always dressed like a moron. Boxey couldn't catch what they were talking about. In the opposite pew was a lady -- and what a lady! -- who was examining her nails. A man with close-cropped blond hair grinned at her from across the way.
"All right," came a voice. "Let's get started."
The old priest came out. Boxey had seen him around, but not like this: his fierce scowl cowed his audience into silence.
"I don't know what you idiots think you're doing, but it's not working. We've barely made a dent in their supplies."
"I poisoned a whole case of powdered milk," the PR guy volunteered.
"And then left it in storage where the rats would find it," laughed the woman. "Congratulations on your new business: Five's Pest Control."
The blond man shook his head. "God would not approve. The rats did nothing to us," he said.
Boomer nodded. Boxey stared at her, horrified.
"But Two--" the PR man said.
"Silence. This is ridiculous!" the priest roared. "The Plan demands results. It has no room for error. We..."
Boxey shuddered, tuning him out. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He had to get out, had to tell someone -- Captain Adama, maybe. Yes, Captain Adama. But he was a pilot, wasn't he?
Like Boomer.
Boxey whirled. His sneaker made a little squeak. The room fell silent behind him. He threw himself forward, spinning the hatch.
He was going to make it. There were footsteps behind him, but the nave was a good fifty yards away. Just one more spin...
The door clicked. He lunged out, but as his feet crossed the threshold, he was yanked back. Someone had his shirt. He twisted, gagging. The world lurched sideways, and the old priest filled his vision.
Boxey kicked, but his feet touched nothing. The priest had him by just one hand, holding him high up in the air. His grip was impossibly strong.
Not an old man, Boxey thought. He's not an old man at all, oh Gods he's not--
The priest grinned at him. His eyes were bright and eager, like Starbuck's eyes at the poker table, or just before she went out on a mission.
"No one will ever find your body, you little shit."
They were the last words Boxey ever heard.