MOL VI: A Story and A Music - made to be Love?
This is a bit late in terms of being "just on time" for today... *eyes clock warily*. (EDIT: Sorry, I am late.)
I'm a bit nervous about these, because, I'm not quite sure they fit. They run on similar themes to my last MOL entry - an "artisan" series of sorts. The first is a fic that is more gen than AR-centric, but IS AR (primarily part III). (The story itself was an old concept from last year, a bit adjusted, but mostly preserved as it was without knowledge of 4.5 with some adjustments made with knowledge of 4.5.) The second... the second... part is a piano piece, a sort of theme and variations on Bear's "Adama and Roslin" Theme composed and played by me (*shudders*) - called "Dancing in Variation". Therefore at its very core - I own nothing.
Title: Trompe L'oeil: A Triptych
Rating: PG (+?)
Length: 690
AN/Disclaimer: Please see above.
Trompe L’Oeil: A Triptych
I.
Saul Tigh stared at the drink in hand, glimmering in the spotlight of a dim room.
The drink - the light at the end of the tunnel - a temporary solace. He smirks before gulping down the last of the liquid. Once, as a young man (had he ever been a young man?), he might have choked. Now, the burning is hardly registered.
He is a frakking cylon. He had killed Ellen for frakking a cylon, for betraying them to the frakking cylons, and he is one himself. Frak me. This must be what they call poetic justice.
And now, the old man knows, and the Six in the brig is pregnant with his child (probably). The next shot gets knocked back before
long, even as he sits alone in this room.
He’s a cylon… but he’s a man… a human to be more specific. He’s the XO. He’s Saul Tigh. That was all he ever needed, but ever since the ship started singing the frakking song, he’s been wondering if this farce of an identity would fall apart around him at any moment.
What did it matter anyway? What he was… Who he was?
Sometimes Tigh thinks, for that reason alone, he loves Bill Adama. The Old Man - the historian of his humanity - the common link that made all those memories real. The crags mapping his face also marked Tigh’s own adventures, and sometimes, when he was drunk to the third plane of the Underworld, and time lost all meaning, he could be human again.
Maybe.
Hopefully. (Bah! Hope.)
Probably not.
II.
Blood.
Guts.
Eyes.
Cottle didn’t blink. Not on New Caprica. Not now with Sickbay filled with the writhing bodies of those humans and…
He only rushes one bed to the other, doing all he could to stay true to his oath and put these dang stupid living beings back together.
Done. Next crisis (please… heh).
The cigarette smoke sunk into his lungs, dimming and highlighting every sharp angle, every cry for help, every empty stare of those lost…
Inhale. Exhale.
He stopped looking for the line long ago. The Simon model was bleeding out from his shrapnel wounds… Cottle stared at his limited supplies: a few more vials of hemostatic agents, low on fibrin glue, dirty bundles of cloth bandages still in need of washing. A hand shoots out. A broken voice reaches his ears through the haze of dirty air and blood-sodden mud. “I’m… a doctor too… don’t bother… just resurrect... painkiller… the Six…”
Nothing to be done… Just two doctors talking (term used loosely) about life and death. Human and...
Cottle washes his hands and preps for surgery, grinding his sixth cigarette of the day into a kidney dish.
As long as he still had the cigs, he’d be fine without the line. There was really no difference:
screams
pain
tears.
III.
Black.
Red.
Blue.
Laura dreams at night - of her apartment in Caprica - of a canvas stretching endlessly in front of her. Paints and brushes litter her personal space, colors on her skin - the lingering scent of turpentine clings.
She dreams of wood - in her hands flowing in parallel motion, guiding the bristles against the tightly stretched cloth.
It only occurs to her later that the corners of the frame still exist.
The color canvassing.
The canvas colored.
Her hand guides, and the brush follows, and she fills areas and areas - volumes and volumes of empty space - with the image of Earth-that-should-have-been The images paint (the painted images?) show the ideal, not the reality (not their reality).
The process[ion] continues endlessly, a spiraling cycle, and she almost screams, but a firm, calloused hand covers hers, stopping the unceasing motion. Supporting new ones.
Another arm wraps around her waist, and together, something different is created. Not quite as much what Earth had been hoped to be, but pure colors - red, orange, yellow - blending richly and melting borders, forming horizons. Pink, rose, and the barest hint of sky-blue… Heavenly. There is warmth there, and not-quite-comfort-but-still-close-enough-to-make-do.
Together, creating something better that feels so good, she could believe that they would make it reality.
Sky.
Grass.
Earth.
Life.
Fin.
Title: Dancing in Variation
Length: approx. 4 minutes more or less
AN/Disclaimer: I had never done anything like this before, but the idea of the project came to me last year, and I started working on it a few months ago. The theme was taken from Bear's beautiful "Roslin and Adama" theme. I do not own it. (There is also a solo piano version somewhere in the dossiers of deleted BSG 4.5 footage that would surpass anything I could do.) In writing this, I attempted to re-paint an idea, through this theme, of the AR relationship. It starts off staid and slow, and tries to follow the path and development of their relationship through the seasons to where they ended up. At times, painfully slow but solid, imperfect sometimes, conflicted and frenetic and not a bit lost... I'm hoping this is okay... Please enjoy. (And of course, all mistakes in playing - sadly - are my own. Recordings make me frightfully nervous. Also sorry about the strong reverb.)
I'm a bit nervous about these, because, I'm not quite sure they fit. They run on similar themes to my last MOL entry - an "artisan" series of sorts. The first is a fic that is more gen than AR-centric, but IS AR (primarily part III). (The story itself was an old concept from last year, a bit adjusted, but mostly preserved as it was without knowledge of 4.5 with some adjustments made with knowledge of 4.5.) The second... the second... part is a piano piece, a sort of theme and variations on Bear's "Adama and Roslin" Theme composed and played by me (*shudders*) - called "Dancing in Variation". Therefore at its very core - I own nothing.
Title: Trompe L'oeil: A Triptych
Rating: PG (+?)
Length: 690
AN/Disclaimer: Please see above.
Trompe L’Oeil: A Triptych
I.
Saul Tigh stared at the drink in hand, glimmering in the spotlight of a dim room.
The drink - the light at the end of the tunnel - a temporary solace. He smirks before gulping down the last of the liquid. Once, as a young man (had he ever been a young man?), he might have choked. Now, the burning is hardly registered.
He is a frakking cylon. He had killed Ellen for frakking a cylon, for betraying them to the frakking cylons, and he is one himself. Frak me. This must be what they call poetic justice.
And now, the old man knows, and the Six in the brig is pregnant with his child (probably). The next shot gets knocked back before
long, even as he sits alone in this room.
He’s a cylon… but he’s a man… a human to be more specific. He’s the XO. He’s Saul Tigh. That was all he ever needed, but ever since the ship started singing the frakking song, he’s been wondering if this farce of an identity would fall apart around him at any moment.
What did it matter anyway? What he was… Who he was?
Sometimes Tigh thinks, for that reason alone, he loves Bill Adama. The Old Man - the historian of his humanity - the common link that made all those memories real. The crags mapping his face also marked Tigh’s own adventures, and sometimes, when he was drunk to the third plane of the Underworld, and time lost all meaning, he could be human again.
Maybe.
Hopefully. (Bah! Hope.)
Probably not.
II.
Blood.
Guts.
Eyes.
Cottle didn’t blink. Not on New Caprica. Not now with Sickbay filled with the writhing bodies of those humans and…
He only rushes one bed to the other, doing all he could to stay true to his oath and put these dang stupid living beings back together.
Done. Next crisis (please… heh).
The cigarette smoke sunk into his lungs, dimming and highlighting every sharp angle, every cry for help, every empty stare of those lost…
Inhale. Exhale.
He stopped looking for the line long ago. The Simon model was bleeding out from his shrapnel wounds… Cottle stared at his limited supplies: a few more vials of hemostatic agents, low on fibrin glue, dirty bundles of cloth bandages still in need of washing. A hand shoots out. A broken voice reaches his ears through the haze of dirty air and blood-sodden mud. “I’m… a doctor too… don’t bother… just resurrect... painkiller… the Six…”
Nothing to be done… Just two doctors talking (term used loosely) about life and death. Human and...
Cottle washes his hands and preps for surgery, grinding his sixth cigarette of the day into a kidney dish.
As long as he still had the cigs, he’d be fine without the line. There was really no difference:
screams
pain
tears.
III.
Black.
Red.
Blue.
Laura dreams at night - of her apartment in Caprica - of a canvas stretching endlessly in front of her. Paints and brushes litter her personal space, colors on her skin - the lingering scent of turpentine clings.
She dreams of wood - in her hands flowing in parallel motion, guiding the bristles against the tightly stretched cloth.
It only occurs to her later that the corners of the frame still exist.
The color canvassing.
The canvas colored.
Her hand guides, and the brush follows, and she fills areas and areas - volumes and volumes of empty space - with the image of Earth-that-should-have-been The images paint (the painted images?) show the ideal, not the reality (not their reality).
The process[ion] continues endlessly, a spiraling cycle, and she almost screams, but a firm, calloused hand covers hers, stopping the unceasing motion. Supporting new ones.
Another arm wraps around her waist, and together, something different is created. Not quite as much what Earth had been hoped to be, but pure colors - red, orange, yellow - blending richly and melting borders, forming horizons. Pink, rose, and the barest hint of sky-blue… Heavenly. There is warmth there, and not-quite-comfort-but-still-close-enough-to-make-do.
Together, creating something better that feels so good, she could believe that they would make it reality.
Sky.
Grass.
Earth.
Life.
Fin.
Title: Dancing in Variation
Length: approx. 4 minutes more or less
AN/Disclaimer: I had never done anything like this before, but the idea of the project came to me last year, and I started working on it a few months ago. The theme was taken from Bear's beautiful "Roslin and Adama" theme. I do not own it. (There is also a solo piano version somewhere in the dossiers of deleted BSG 4.5 footage that would surpass anything I could do.) In writing this, I attempted to re-paint an idea, through this theme, of the AR relationship. It starts off staid and slow, and tries to follow the path and development of their relationship through the seasons to where they ended up. At times, painfully slow but solid, imperfect sometimes, conflicted and frenetic and not a bit lost... I'm hoping this is okay... Please enjoy. (And of course, all mistakes in playing - sadly - are my own. Recordings make me frightfully nervous. Also sorry about the strong reverb.)