dammit. ficlet: DW/BSG crossover, no title
SO. SO, I'm brushing my teeth, and my brain goes, "Ha ha ha. What if Taren Capel was the Cylon God?"
dear brain, I HATE YOU.
(don't know how long, untitled) (NOW I really am going to bed. SWEAR TO GOD)
They find him floating, tumbling in a lifepod, held in suspended animation. He doesn't remember how he got there, not at first. He just knows there's something wrong.
Something about the way they move, these machines with smiling, human, faces. Mobile mouths and expressive eyes. It's wrong. It strikes a chord somewhere, and he can't help the thought that echoes around wrong, wrong, wrong--the metal ones, with only a red light to flash are easier for him.
He understands circuits and moving parts, fingers slipping between viscous coatings as he works them out, maps out one brain and then another (control here, lack of control, there--).
They'd called him a genius, once upon a time, lauded him as the greatest scientific mind ever (crazy lunatic grew up without people, what must he be like?), and he agreed. He was a genius. There weren't many who could arrive on a ship and find his way around the mechanical robots in a matter of days (it took him weeks, once, but those robots were made of nanites, and the leader had laughed at him as he tired, her blonde hair falling into her eyes).
"Who are you?" they'd asked, when he first awoke.
I don't remember would have been wrong. But he didn't give them the truth. "Call me Dask."
And now there's schism, factions fighting each other. It's the perfect cover, the perfect opportunity. For a brief moment, there's a surge in the circuits, as though the ones he's found, the ones he's freed are working out the logic of his command.
Then the red eyes flash, and a voice echoes (in his head or without, it matters not).
Kill all the humans.
dear brain, I HATE YOU.
(don't know how long, untitled) (NOW I really am going to bed. SWEAR TO GOD)
They find him floating, tumbling in a lifepod, held in suspended animation. He doesn't remember how he got there, not at first. He just knows there's something wrong.
Something about the way they move, these machines with smiling, human, faces. Mobile mouths and expressive eyes. It's wrong. It strikes a chord somewhere, and he can't help the thought that echoes around wrong, wrong, wrong--the metal ones, with only a red light to flash are easier for him.
He understands circuits and moving parts, fingers slipping between viscous coatings as he works them out, maps out one brain and then another (control here, lack of control, there--).
They'd called him a genius, once upon a time, lauded him as the greatest scientific mind ever (crazy lunatic grew up without people, what must he be like?), and he agreed. He was a genius. There weren't many who could arrive on a ship and find his way around the mechanical robots in a matter of days (it took him weeks, once, but those robots were made of nanites, and the leader had laughed at him as he tired, her blonde hair falling into her eyes).
"Who are you?" they'd asked, when he first awoke.
I don't remember would have been wrong. But he didn't give them the truth. "Call me Dask."
And now there's schism, factions fighting each other. It's the perfect cover, the perfect opportunity. For a brief moment, there's a surge in the circuits, as though the ones he's found, the ones he's freed are working out the logic of his command.
Then the red eyes flash, and a voice echoes (in his head or without, it matters not).
Kill all the humans.