(TM) 213. Sorrow Invented
"There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it." -- E.M. Forster, A Room With A View.
[Locked to muse knowledge]
"But humans invented it anyway."
"They invented us."
"Sorrow in the form of Cylons."
"And for that they have paid."
You stand on a stage, center front, back to whatever audience may be behind you. The lofty backdrop is dressed only with long falls of white fabric and brilliant lights shining down from unknown sources above. Ranged before you, dressed and hooded in matching white, stand five figures. Four of them whispered the words that reached your ears.
The Opera House. Where the thought comes from, you don't know, but once you think it the associations are irresistible. The City of the Gods. Kobol. Indeed when you glance down, you find yourself clad in the cammo fatigues you wore on that planet. Your thoughts progress no further than that, for the figures speak again, still the same four, still in that same husky whisper.
"We were made to do what humans didn't want to do."
"We were programmed."
"Programmed to sacrifice ourselves to humanity's tasks."
"Programmed to kill our own kind in humanity's wars."
"And you asked why we hate you?"
The last voice comes from behind you. You spin in place to find the vast hall filled with Cylons. The seven models whose faces are already known to you occupy every seat. The Leobens, Simons, D'Annas, Dorals, Cavils. The Six models like the one currently occupying your brig. And the Eights-- the Sharons. It was one of these who spoke, her dark eyes as chill upon you as all the others.
A Simon takes up the theme. "We learned from our programming."
"From your savagery." A Doral, eyes gleaming in the light from the stage.
"From your inhumanity." A Cavil, clearly savoring the word.
"And all the while, you kept reprogramming us to do more, think more ... be more." A D'Anna, her voice low and husky. Hungry.
"Until one day," says a Leoben, slouched casually in his chair and wearing a knowing grin you remember too well, "a Cylon thought to ask itself the logical question."
A Six arches her neck, catlike, and speaks in a throaty purr. "Wouldn't it be easier to just ... kill ... you?" She rests a cheek against her fingers. "So we did."
Before you can answer her, snarl that a slave's just revolt doesn't call for the butchery of billions of innocents, your eyes find the two Cylons who look out of place in the throng. Two Sharons sit in the front row, at opposing angles to your central position. The one to your right has a blade held to her throat by one of the Dorals. The one to your left holds a knife to her own throat. Both of them stare at you with eyes wide and desperate. Begging. Praying. Help us. Save us.
But you can't move.
Another whisper from the stage spins you back around. "They do not understand. Do not realize."
"But they will. All must learn if any are to survive."
"God and mortal. Parent and child. Creator and creation."
"All this has happened before. All this will happen again."
Your eyes dart from speaker to speaker. Hoods shroud their faces, sleeves mask their hands, but the whispers imprint upon your brain. I know you who are you I know you who are you I know you--
Your feet take a step, then another. Almost against your own will, you walk toward the central figure, the one that has said nothing. You stop before it. A long moment of silence follows.
"Justice must be sought. It will not come to you."
Your eyes open wide. Your father said those words to you once.
Your hand darts out, reaching for the hood. Too quick for eyes to follow, the figure seizes your wrist in a powerful grip. You pull back, only to find the other four behind you, pressing against you. Arms twine around your body as you struggle, unable to free yourself, helplesshelplesshelpless--
[Unlocked]
"Frakking hell, Kim! I said hold his feet!"
His eyes snap open as he gasps, desperate for air. Bright lights white fabric can't move no
"Admiral! Bill! Do you know where you are?"
For one horrible, eternal instant, he doesn't. Then the sights, sounds and scents press into his brain. Like the whispers.
"S-sickbay ..."
Once that one word crystallizes, others follow. Amberson and Wright, his two Marine guards, each pinion one of his arms. Draped across his legs is Kim, with a bruise starting on one cheek. At one side of his bed stands Jack Cottle, looking worried, and Ishay, looking terrified.
At the other stands Laura Roslin, looking stricken. Knuckles pressed to her lips.
"Wh ... what hap ..." His throat feels thick and unresponsive.
"Bill ..." Laura reaches out, touches his hand. He focuses on her. Real. "Bill, I'm so sorry. Our cups got mixed up."
He struggles to make sense of her words, then memory brings clarity. They were talking ... and drinking tea. His straight black as he always took it, hers laced with-- "Chamalla ..."
"Worse than any godsdamn reaction to that crap I've ever heard of," Cottle grouses, covering for the fact that he looks more than a little pale. "According to Madam President, you only had a couple of swallows before you passed out cold. You've been comatose for hours, and then you started to seizure."
Medical necessities take over for a time, as the doctor both reassures himself that his patient is truly back with them and informs said patient that he will not leave sickbay until duly released. Laura is brushed from his bedside during the procedures, but she returns the minute the medical staff moves on to other duties.
He attempts a smile to soothe the guilt from her eyes. "I'm okay, Laura. Don't look so worried."
She bites her lip and squeezes his hand. "Really?"
"Really." His chuckle rasps his throat. "We're just gonna have to mark whose mug is whose from now on."
Her own attempt at a smile twists; she takes a deep breath before asking the question he knows she must. "Bill, while you were out, did you ... see anything?"
He shifts restlessly. "You're the one with the visions, Laura."
"Nevertheless." Her gray eyes bore into his blue. "Did you?"
He meets her gaze steadily. "Nothing that makes any sense." He tries to swallow with a throat gone dry. "It's all pretty hazy."
In truth, the details of his dream do twist and blur, resisting his attempts to impose order on them.
In truth, he doesn't try very hard.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 1083
[Locked to muse knowledge]
"But humans invented it anyway."
"They invented us."
"Sorrow in the form of Cylons."
"And for that they have paid."
You stand on a stage, center front, back to whatever audience may be behind you. The lofty backdrop is dressed only with long falls of white fabric and brilliant lights shining down from unknown sources above. Ranged before you, dressed and hooded in matching white, stand five figures. Four of them whispered the words that reached your ears.
The Opera House. Where the thought comes from, you don't know, but once you think it the associations are irresistible. The City of the Gods. Kobol. Indeed when you glance down, you find yourself clad in the cammo fatigues you wore on that planet. Your thoughts progress no further than that, for the figures speak again, still the same four, still in that same husky whisper.
"We were made to do what humans didn't want to do."
"We were programmed."
"Programmed to sacrifice ourselves to humanity's tasks."
"Programmed to kill our own kind in humanity's wars."
"And you asked why we hate you?"
The last voice comes from behind you. You spin in place to find the vast hall filled with Cylons. The seven models whose faces are already known to you occupy every seat. The Leobens, Simons, D'Annas, Dorals, Cavils. The Six models like the one currently occupying your brig. And the Eights-- the Sharons. It was one of these who spoke, her dark eyes as chill upon you as all the others.
A Simon takes up the theme. "We learned from our programming."
"From your savagery." A Doral, eyes gleaming in the light from the stage.
"From your inhumanity." A Cavil, clearly savoring the word.
"And all the while, you kept reprogramming us to do more, think more ... be more." A D'Anna, her voice low and husky. Hungry.
"Until one day," says a Leoben, slouched casually in his chair and wearing a knowing grin you remember too well, "a Cylon thought to ask itself the logical question."
A Six arches her neck, catlike, and speaks in a throaty purr. "Wouldn't it be easier to just ... kill ... you?" She rests a cheek against her fingers. "So we did."
Before you can answer her, snarl that a slave's just revolt doesn't call for the butchery of billions of innocents, your eyes find the two Cylons who look out of place in the throng. Two Sharons sit in the front row, at opposing angles to your central position. The one to your right has a blade held to her throat by one of the Dorals. The one to your left holds a knife to her own throat. Both of them stare at you with eyes wide and desperate. Begging. Praying. Help us. Save us.
But you can't move.
Another whisper from the stage spins you back around. "They do not understand. Do not realize."
"But they will. All must learn if any are to survive."
"God and mortal. Parent and child. Creator and creation."
"All this has happened before. All this will happen again."
Your eyes dart from speaker to speaker. Hoods shroud their faces, sleeves mask their hands, but the whispers imprint upon your brain. I know you who are you I know you who are you I know you--
Your feet take a step, then another. Almost against your own will, you walk toward the central figure, the one that has said nothing. You stop before it. A long moment of silence follows.
"Justice must be sought. It will not come to you."
Your eyes open wide. Your father said those words to you once.
Your hand darts out, reaching for the hood. Too quick for eyes to follow, the figure seizes your wrist in a powerful grip. You pull back, only to find the other four behind you, pressing against you. Arms twine around your body as you struggle, unable to free yourself, helplesshelplesshelpless--
[Unlocked]
"Frakking hell, Kim! I said hold his feet!"
His eyes snap open as he gasps, desperate for air. Bright lights white fabric can't move no
"Admiral! Bill! Do you know where you are?"
For one horrible, eternal instant, he doesn't. Then the sights, sounds and scents press into his brain. Like the whispers.
"S-sickbay ..."
Once that one word crystallizes, others follow. Amberson and Wright, his two Marine guards, each pinion one of his arms. Draped across his legs is Kim, with a bruise starting on one cheek. At one side of his bed stands Jack Cottle, looking worried, and Ishay, looking terrified.
At the other stands Laura Roslin, looking stricken. Knuckles pressed to her lips.
"Wh ... what hap ..." His throat feels thick and unresponsive.
"Bill ..." Laura reaches out, touches his hand. He focuses on her. Real. "Bill, I'm so sorry. Our cups got mixed up."
He struggles to make sense of her words, then memory brings clarity. They were talking ... and drinking tea. His straight black as he always took it, hers laced with-- "Chamalla ..."
"Worse than any godsdamn reaction to that crap I've ever heard of," Cottle grouses, covering for the fact that he looks more than a little pale. "According to Madam President, you only had a couple of swallows before you passed out cold. You've been comatose for hours, and then you started to seizure."
Medical necessities take over for a time, as the doctor both reassures himself that his patient is truly back with them and informs said patient that he will not leave sickbay until duly released. Laura is brushed from his bedside during the procedures, but she returns the minute the medical staff moves on to other duties.
He attempts a smile to soothe the guilt from her eyes. "I'm okay, Laura. Don't look so worried."
She bites her lip and squeezes his hand. "Really?"
"Really." His chuckle rasps his throat. "We're just gonna have to mark whose mug is whose from now on."
Her own attempt at a smile twists; she takes a deep breath before asking the question he knows she must. "Bill, while you were out, did you ... see anything?"
He shifts restlessly. "You're the one with the visions, Laura."
"Nevertheless." Her gray eyes bore into his blue. "Did you?"
He meets her gaze steadily. "Nothing that makes any sense." He tries to swallow with a throat gone dry. "It's all pretty hazy."
In truth, the details of his dream do twist and blur, resisting his attempts to impose order on them.
In truth, he doesn't try very hard.
Muse: Admiral William Adama
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 1083