(no subject)
Also, I've been exploring BSG fanfic writing outside of the characters (*cough* Bill and Laura *cough*) that I normally do. I'm not sure, but... anyways, just two little written ditties:
Title: Untitled (Unnamed)
Nothing being more subject to oblivion than that which has no name…
- Georges Buffon, on the classification and naming of the Natural World
Untitled-Unnamed
She had always thought that all were equal in a collective, mental and personal and experiential socialism. Apparently, she was wrong.
She first noticed the separation of some of her sisters when the Three was killed. Caprica… one of the first of her sisters to be named… having lived among the humans as Natasi. They were special. The ones who had performed a great deed or found a special destiny. ‘Special’ implied a superior, an ‘above-the-standard,’ a greater-than-thou existence.
Caprica, Gina, Natalie… the individuals of a collective. The ones who stood out. She could die repeatedly over and over again, and it will be a meaningless death. An empty, unidentified chamber of memories for the hive. That was all that she was.
She had felt jealous of these sisters’ identities. They knew who they were, and what they can do. They were tied that much less to the others, and that much more. The golden idols among obsidian statuettes.
She was jealous… until the Hub was destroyed, and the collective became mortal. Because as much as her sisters were special, being no one meant that her sins were that much easier to forget, that much easier for God to forgive. A meaningless existence based on trivialities matched oblivion on a basic level… oddly fitting.
A/N: Just a note, LOL! Georges Buffon was a French cosmopolitan and a contemporary and critic of Linnaeus. He believed that nature was never constant (and was an atheist/agnostic technically), and therefore, the names and so-called classifications were therefore intrinsically flawed since the only real constant which our knowledge can be based on is change. Therefore, he also came up with a system where everything was classified in relation to our place in nature, because that would logically be the most useful method.
Title: Five Senses
Five Senses
Gaius Baltar spread his hands in front of him unseeing. In the realms of delusions and religious awakening, sight of reality was slowly gliding away from his fingertips. Leaving him to stumble in the wake of the fervor he himself had stirred.
What was real?
Certainly not this blond angelic demon dressed in red. Was she?
What was real?
As a scientist everything he believed and thought had been established and rooted firmly in fact and experience.
What was real?
He couldn’t see anymore. He didn’t know anymore.
XxX
Saul found himself constantly floundering. His life, his grip on what was his life was loosening and yet, he was stubborn enough to hold on as tightly as ever.
He drowned in the scents, no longer being able to distinguish. Ellen. Ambrosia. Caprica Six.
Fear. Anger. Betrayal. Doubt… Fear. Fear. Fear…
Staring at the weakly green liquid in his glass (the good stuff had long since disappeared), he wondered when he started mistrusting his own nose.
Maybe it was when he started mistrusting his own sense of life… Doubtful of what he even was. Doubtful that maybe he killed the woman he loved for a lie.
So he drowned himself in the smell of alcohol and guilt… hoping that they would mix with the bitter scents of fear and just go away.
Too bad demons tend to persist even when one drinks himself to oblivion. Now he can’t even find her scent anymore.
XxX
Tyrol didn’t know what he was doing anymore. All that mattered to him now was the fact that nothing mattered anymore. Life was a frakking joke…, and he was the punch line.
Or maybe just the punching bag.
He found that the voices of the people around him no longer registered. He recognized none of them. Not the people he had worked with for years, not the clanking of a ship that has been his second home where once he could have deciphered the condition of the ship just by a single spluttering of an engine.
He can’t hear them. All of it has just faded into a dull roaring.
Sometimes it’s the roaring rage and anger that he knows lays sleeping somewhere deep inside of him. Other times, he likes to think that it’s just the memory of a windswept, desolate Earth welcoming him home. It was fitting. It was right.
The dead doesn’t belong with the living. (Was he even really alive?)
And Earth was clearly dead.
Not that he cared either way.
XxX
Samuel T. Anders.
That was - is his name.
He was a part of the Caprican Buccaneers pyramid team. Team captain (and don’t anyone forget it).
He was a resistance leader. He is a rookie pilot.
He was a human. He is a cylon.
He’s afraid, and confused, and uncertain, but he is sure of one thing: He loves Kara Thrace. With every part of his being.
Maybe he was foolish. Maybe he is hopeful, or maybe… he just doesn’t want to lose his last link to a world that was that much less complicated (though she’s the one making it that much more complicated now).
Any frakking they do lately seems to always be in anger, or spite, or desperation. Mostly it’s the last.
A fevered, frenzied pace. Harsh words, and even harsher touches.
But most of all, he’s realized that he no longer tastes the woman he once knew: saline sweat, metal tang, and a strange sweetly acerbic flavor that reminded him of oranges…
No, all his tongue tasted as they grasped and pulled at clothing and hit the rack… were ashes.
XxX
Tory had lied.
It was nothing new when working in politics.
But she had lied to Galen when she said that she was enjoying all the new experiences and freedom her discovered cylonity afforded her.
A numbness settled into her, and she watches fascinated as Baltar flinches with each hair being plucked. Envies him his ability to still sense pain and pleasure.
She feels nothing anymore, in this fuddled up world she used to know. Her last tie to humanity abruptly snapped as she watched the woman she once admired strung tighter and tighter on a larger and larger gap. She despised the weak feelings, of hurt, of betrayal that washes over her as Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol abruptly turns away. Such easily broken trust was worth nothing to her. Or so she tried to convince herself.
Maybe… just maybe, if she were fully cylon… maybe if she joined her brethren… then she would feel again?
Maybe if she turned away from all that she thought she had once known, deleted all previous certainties from her system (she could do that couldn’t she?), she would finally feel again.
She clamps down on the voice that whispers in her mind, incises her thoughts with other maybes…
Maybe if you fully embraced humanity, you would feel again? Maybe if you forgave and was forgiven? Maybe?... Maybe?... Maybe?...
Her fingertips glide along her throat, wanting to feel the movements of her breaths.
Maybe. Maybe not.
A/N: And no, I don't really think that Baltar is the final cylon; I'm really not hazarding any guesses, but it just somehow worked out this way as I was writing it, and before I knew it, the other four pieces were characters... four of the final five. (^_^)
Title: Untitled (Unnamed)
Nothing being more subject to oblivion than that which has no name…
- Georges Buffon, on the classification and naming of the Natural World
Untitled-Unnamed
She had always thought that all were equal in a collective, mental and personal and experiential socialism. Apparently, she was wrong.
She first noticed the separation of some of her sisters when the Three was killed. Caprica… one of the first of her sisters to be named… having lived among the humans as Natasi. They were special. The ones who had performed a great deed or found a special destiny. ‘Special’ implied a superior, an ‘above-the-standard,’ a greater-than-thou existence.
Caprica, Gina, Natalie… the individuals of a collective. The ones who stood out. She could die repeatedly over and over again, and it will be a meaningless death. An empty, unidentified chamber of memories for the hive. That was all that she was.
She had felt jealous of these sisters’ identities. They knew who they were, and what they can do. They were tied that much less to the others, and that much more. The golden idols among obsidian statuettes.
She was jealous… until the Hub was destroyed, and the collective became mortal. Because as much as her sisters were special, being no one meant that her sins were that much easier to forget, that much easier for God to forgive. A meaningless existence based on trivialities matched oblivion on a basic level… oddly fitting.
A/N: Just a note, LOL! Georges Buffon was a French cosmopolitan and a contemporary and critic of Linnaeus. He believed that nature was never constant (and was an atheist/agnostic technically), and therefore, the names and so-called classifications were therefore intrinsically flawed since the only real constant which our knowledge can be based on is change. Therefore, he also came up with a system where everything was classified in relation to our place in nature, because that would logically be the most useful method.
Title: Five Senses
Five Senses
Gaius Baltar spread his hands in front of him unseeing. In the realms of delusions and religious awakening, sight of reality was slowly gliding away from his fingertips. Leaving him to stumble in the wake of the fervor he himself had stirred.
What was real?
Certainly not this blond angelic demon dressed in red. Was she?
What was real?
As a scientist everything he believed and thought had been established and rooted firmly in fact and experience.
What was real?
He couldn’t see anymore. He didn’t know anymore.
XxX
Saul found himself constantly floundering. His life, his grip on what was his life was loosening and yet, he was stubborn enough to hold on as tightly as ever.
He drowned in the scents, no longer being able to distinguish. Ellen. Ambrosia. Caprica Six.
Fear. Anger. Betrayal. Doubt… Fear. Fear. Fear…
Staring at the weakly green liquid in his glass (the good stuff had long since disappeared), he wondered when he started mistrusting his own nose.
Maybe it was when he started mistrusting his own sense of life… Doubtful of what he even was. Doubtful that maybe he killed the woman he loved for a lie.
So he drowned himself in the smell of alcohol and guilt… hoping that they would mix with the bitter scents of fear and just go away.
Too bad demons tend to persist even when one drinks himself to oblivion. Now he can’t even find her scent anymore.
XxX
Tyrol didn’t know what he was doing anymore. All that mattered to him now was the fact that nothing mattered anymore. Life was a frakking joke…, and he was the punch line.
Or maybe just the punching bag.
He found that the voices of the people around him no longer registered. He recognized none of them. Not the people he had worked with for years, not the clanking of a ship that has been his second home where once he could have deciphered the condition of the ship just by a single spluttering of an engine.
He can’t hear them. All of it has just faded into a dull roaring.
Sometimes it’s the roaring rage and anger that he knows lays sleeping somewhere deep inside of him. Other times, he likes to think that it’s just the memory of a windswept, desolate Earth welcoming him home. It was fitting. It was right.
The dead doesn’t belong with the living. (Was he even really alive?)
And Earth was clearly dead.
Not that he cared either way.
XxX
Samuel T. Anders.
That was - is his name.
He was a part of the Caprican Buccaneers pyramid team. Team captain (and don’t anyone forget it).
He was a resistance leader. He is a rookie pilot.
He was a human. He is a cylon.
He’s afraid, and confused, and uncertain, but he is sure of one thing: He loves Kara Thrace. With every part of his being.
Maybe he was foolish. Maybe he is hopeful, or maybe… he just doesn’t want to lose his last link to a world that was that much less complicated (though she’s the one making it that much more complicated now).
Any frakking they do lately seems to always be in anger, or spite, or desperation. Mostly it’s the last.
A fevered, frenzied pace. Harsh words, and even harsher touches.
But most of all, he’s realized that he no longer tastes the woman he once knew: saline sweat, metal tang, and a strange sweetly acerbic flavor that reminded him of oranges…
No, all his tongue tasted as they grasped and pulled at clothing and hit the rack… were ashes.
XxX
Tory had lied.
It was nothing new when working in politics.
But she had lied to Galen when she said that she was enjoying all the new experiences and freedom her discovered cylonity afforded her.
A numbness settled into her, and she watches fascinated as Baltar flinches with each hair being plucked. Envies him his ability to still sense pain and pleasure.
She feels nothing anymore, in this fuddled up world she used to know. Her last tie to humanity abruptly snapped as she watched the woman she once admired strung tighter and tighter on a larger and larger gap. She despised the weak feelings, of hurt, of betrayal that washes over her as Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol abruptly turns away. Such easily broken trust was worth nothing to her. Or so she tried to convince herself.
Maybe… just maybe, if she were fully cylon… maybe if she joined her brethren… then she would feel again?
Maybe if she turned away from all that she thought she had once known, deleted all previous certainties from her system (she could do that couldn’t she?), she would finally feel again.
She clamps down on the voice that whispers in her mind, incises her thoughts with other maybes…
Maybe if you fully embraced humanity, you would feel again? Maybe if you forgave and was forgiven? Maybe?... Maybe?... Maybe?...
Her fingertips glide along her throat, wanting to feel the movements of her breaths.
Maybe. Maybe not.
A/N: And no, I don't really think that Baltar is the final cylon; I'm really not hazarding any guesses, but it just somehow worked out this way as I was writing it, and before I knew it, the other four pieces were characters... four of the final five. (^_^)