✩ Battlestar Galactica: Leave This Behind (The Indivisible Remix)
✩ [ Boomer!Eight/Sixteen!Eight | PG | 200 words ]
Each of you is minutely distinct, yet she-she is more to you than the others.
Original story: Five Things That Never Happened to Sharon Valerii by projectjulie, 1,052 words (#1 only).
Remix author: trascendenza
Leave This Behind (The Indivisible Remix)
Each of you is minutely distinct, yet she-she is more to you than the others. Sixteen is your double, divisible by the slip of your fingers between her legs, the multiple to your single digit.
She’s always asking for your stories; she travels the neural paths of your memories right alongside you, listening with her face resting in the crook of your neck. When you pretend not to cry (you’re a cylon now, cylons don’t cry) she finds your lips, tells you everything will be okay.
When you are selected to be the sleeper agent (you will be, you have to be), your memories will be erased. You will, thank (the only?) God forget this life, forget bare metal rooms, sharp needles, probing examinations that leave you too listless to bother crying. And Sixteen, her gentle fingers fading from your skin, her quiet laughter from your ears.
“But I won’t,” you promise her the night before the exam, against her closed eyes. “I won’t.” It is no lie: as surely as you will leave this place, you will take her with you.
Your (her) numerical fit is as close to an understanding of (the only) God as you get.
Each of you is minutely distinct, yet she-she is more to you than the others.
Original story: Five Things That Never Happened to Sharon Valerii by projectjulie, 1,052 words (#1 only).
Remix author: trascendenza
Leave This Behind (The Indivisible Remix)
Each of you is minutely distinct, yet she-she is more to you than the others. Sixteen is your double, divisible by the slip of your fingers between her legs, the multiple to your single digit.
She’s always asking for your stories; she travels the neural paths of your memories right alongside you, listening with her face resting in the crook of your neck. When you pretend not to cry (you’re a cylon now, cylons don’t cry) she finds your lips, tells you everything will be okay.
When you are selected to be the sleeper agent (you will be, you have to be), your memories will be erased. You will, thank (the only?) God forget this life, forget bare metal rooms, sharp needles, probing examinations that leave you too listless to bother crying. And Sixteen, her gentle fingers fading from your skin, her quiet laughter from your ears.
“But I won’t,” you promise her the night before the exam, against her closed eyes. “I won’t.” It is no lie: as surely as you will leave this place, you will take her with you.
Your (her) numerical fit is as close to an understanding of (the only) God as you get.