TM 270. Thirteen
I stopped keeping count after thirteen. I realized it didn't matter how often any of us was taken away to the Cylon detention center. It happens often enough, you stop counting. Because it doesn't matter one single frakking bit. If you were in detention, you were in detention. If you weren't, you were either beneath the notice of our new Cylon overlords or you were a traitor.
I'll admit that we all kept strong at first. Went in there with my head held high and a pithy comment for every one of those frakking toasters who came in to question me. They didn't always get around to me right away, because my arrival more often than not signaled someone else's departure. A twisted roulette wheel. I'm sure I must have really pissed the frak out of them with my sunny disposition and cheery countenance, because I had a secret. I knew that the Fleet was coming back for us.
I still remember the first time they used violence. It was earlier on than it seems. It just came on so quickly. I suppose they were waiting to see if I displayed any remorse. They thought I'd killed their precious Cylon-human hybrid and they wanted to make me pay.
Keeping track of visits wasn't my first priority while I was being tied down and forcefed chamalla extract to the point of overdose. It mattered less when they started stripping their prisoners upon entry after reports started circulating that the Resistance would use a suicide bomber to level the detention facility. Numbers didn't really count while I lay in that cell, naked and shivering, trying to cover up as much of myself as I could, praying to whatever was listening that they would at least give me my clothes back before they started drugging me again.
It was the coward's way out as well, I suppose, because whenever I came back to myself, I could always count on the fact that I wouldn't be able to move without a considerable amount of pain. There were a few times when I was still... I guess you would call it sober... when they brought in the heavyweights.
Saul Tigh still remembers exactly how many visits he made to the detention facility. Maybe he found some substitute for the dignity and grace we lost in there.
She lets out a shaky breath and refuses to look at her companion, choosing instead to down the whiskey remaining in her tumbler. She nearly chokes, both on the burning liquid and the tears she can't let fall.
Can we change the subject, please?
President Laura Roslin
Battlestar Galactica
435 words