Battlestar Fic, AU: "Ice and Stones"
Okay, fine: this is the last fic from the "Baltar-as-Cylon" 'verse. Or I will be very very unhappy with myself. For serious now.
I should really mention that I think I drew some heavy inspiration for the tone on this one from reading nicole_anell's Gina character study piece, Glass Slipper. Over and over again. In a potentially unhealthy fashion.
Title: Ice and Stones
Characters: Cylon!Baltar
Rating: PG-13 for dark, unstable and unhealthy thoughts
Spoilers: AU after 3x12; passing refs to canon in 3x13 and 3x16
Length: 1,580 words
Summary: Once upon a time, he heard a story.
Disclaimer: Canon characters and series property of the SciFi Channel and Misters Ronald D. Moore and David Eick. By your command.
Notes:
All parts of this AU can be found here.
Once upon a time, he heard a story.
He doesn’t remember where or who from. It could have been anywhere, really, or anyone. He supposes it might be from his childhood, but he doesn’t have one. All he has are lies.
In this story, there was a girl (a princess: isn’t she always?) who had been given a magic stone. Every morning she put the stone in her mouth where it rested on her tongue. And whenever she was angry or impassioned and threatened to speak words too inflamed with emotion, words hurtful or careless, the stone would grow heavy so she couldn’t say them; she would be forced to pause and think through her words, letting them remain unspoken.
He wonders what the story would be like if the stone was in her throat instead. If it just sat there, like a lump, unable to get out. And not only would it grow whenever she would speak it would block the way to her heart as well, so emotions would never reach her. She would be forced into silence and incapable of feeling.
And maybe, he thinks, one day the stone would have to block too much: there would be too much emotion and too many words, it would grow too heavy, and then she would choke to death.
____
They’ve given him some things, which he supposes is nice of them.
A heavier blanket and some pillows make it easier to sleep. A table and chair is a place to work when they bring him charts and formulas.
There’s a small stack of books as well: some textbooks, some novels.
When he opens them he sees black spots on white pages: little symbols and signs he can’t put meaning to. He has to focus to piece them into words, and it exhausts him and makes his head hurt.
So the books stay in the corner, untouched.
____
He’s losing lines between realities. He has dreams, projections, memories and what is right in front of him, and he cannot see where one ends and the other begins.
He dreams the genocide never happened. He dreams he never built the Cylon detector. He dreams they’re still on New Caprica, happy and free.
He dreams Felix Gaeta tries to shoot him. Then he remembers that actually happened. He dreams he didn’t talk Felix Gaeta out of it, and that he sometimes wishes did.
Starbuck begs him to say he loves her. Six calls him by the wrong name.
He thinks he may be getting two things confused somehow.
One night he dreams of the Legion basestar. He’s roaming the halls blindly, and then he turns into a corner half-hidden in shadow.
Two model Tens are already there, and they’re occupied. He can’t look away. Tangle of hands and mouths and skin, and two sets of eyes glance at him, so full of malice and disdain.
He’s not sure what’s worse: that they glower at him or that they so quickly look away. Their indifference or their hatred.
He turns and he runs until he’s far away, and it isn’t until he feels the soreness in his throat that he realizes he’s been screaming.
He wakes up and the nightmare haunts him for the rest of the day. And then he remembers it wasn’t a nightmare.
But he pretends that it is.
____
When they give him water it’s in a metal cup, edges carefully dulled. They don’t trust him with anything else.
This is because, one day, he took the glass they’d given him and smashed it against the wall (he needed the sound, his cell was so quiet) and then just stared at the pieces (he thought they were beautiful, how they caught the light) until someone finally noticed and took them away.
And well, yes, he’d cut himself. Just a little though, on the fingertip.
He’d wanted to see the color red. He was afraid he was starting to forget.
____
They’ve started to worry about him, maybe. They send Karl Agathon because they think he’ll do a good job, somehow. He stands there and looks awkward and clears his throat three times before he speaks.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” He never is, though he gets thinner and thinner.
“Thirsty?”
“Maybe.” Water helps the headaches, and fluids are good for you.
“Tired?”
“Always.” He sleeps constantly, in fits and starts, only hours at a time.
“Bored?”
He doesn’t answer this because he’s forgotten: bored. What is “bored”? He stares blankly.
“Lonely?”
Something crumples at this word. He lies down and rolls over in his bed, wrapping the blanket around him.
“Go away, go away.”
The answer is “yes” but he can’t say it. It hurts him too much.
____
He can think of nothing else to do one day, so he projects her.
She appears immediately, tall and slender and beautiful. He takes in her blue eyes, her halo of curls, the scent of her natural perfume. She kneels down and caresses his face.
“I’m not real, Gaius.”
“You never were,” he murmurs, enjoying the softness of her touch.
“Yes.” Her smile is radiant. “But you know that for sure now.”
He sighs, sends her away, and never projects her again. Why was she always right?
____
Once he dreams he meets another Gaius.
Not another Ten, another Gaius: one that’s never been anything but human, one that can only imagine what it must be like to be anything else. The Gaius he was once, before he got shot in the head.
The Gaius that was fool enough to think he might want to be a Cylon.
“You’re free now, don’t you see?” He can see the jealousy in the other Gaius’ eyes. “You don’t have to feel guilty. You don’t have to worry. You’re freed of that, and you’re beyond all of them.”
The human Gaius doesn’t know what real anger is, and neither do the Tens. But he is neither of them.
“I sleep in a cage, and half the people I see call me ‘it’ to my face. So you can go to hell.”
He never dreams of the human Gaius again.
That’s wrong, actually; he does. Once. He dreams it’s the human Gaius that gets shot by Galen Tyrol instead, while he and the other Tens stand around in a circle, invisible, watching. When the human Gaius falls down dead, the Tens laugh. He laughs too.
He doesn’t remember why. At the time, he thought it was funny.
____
Every two days or so, they clear out the pilots’ showers and let him inside.
The marines don’t always avert their eyes when he gets undressed. They’re supposed to be watching him, after all.
He’s forgotten why he’s supposed to care, so he doesn’t.
He turns the hot water on all the way. It hisses and the room fills slowly with steam. For the first few seconds, it always stings.
Then it fades, and doesn’t feel like anything at all.
____
It’s snowing in his cell. Or at least that’s how he sees it.
He always hated the cold weather on Aerelon; hated the winter and the ice and the snow. Hated the chill winds and the drifts and having to bundle up all the time.
He’d dream about Caprica, where it was sunny and warm. He’d live on the beach and look at sand and ocean every day; which was silly, since he didn’t even like to swim. But still, he wanted the beach and the sun.
Now he thinks about Aerelon and the farm and his parents and siblings, about the neighbors and the cows and horses.
“I’m sorry,” he thinks. “I should never have left you.”
Which is even sillier, because there was nothing to leave, and in a way he never did. It’s all fabrications. None of it existed.
But even so, while he’s forgotten to miss his beautiful house on Caprica, which was real, he misses Aerelon winters, which for him were not. Life’s funny that way.
So he sits on his bed and hugs his knees to his chest, watching the flakes drift down to pile on the floor, white on white in an even whiter world.
The guard walks through a snowdrift he can’t see and brings him a tray: metal glass of water and bowl of porridge, which is green (the cook has given up pretending).
He sets it aside and goes back to the snow. Until he realizes the guard is still standing there, arms folded.
“Yes?”
“I’m not to leave until you eat that. President’s orders.”
This is different, enough to confuse him.
“And if I don’t?”
The guard shifts, somewhat uncomfortable.
“Feeding tube.”
The thought is enough to get him to pick up the tray and through those first bites. Every time he starts to feel ill, or the taste turns to ash in his mouth, he has only to look at the guard and remember.
He finishes his meal, washes it down with the water; the metal cup is cool against his hand. The guard takes it and leaves, satisfied.
He feels strangely better.
The snow has stopped falling. It doesn’t feel as cold anymore. There are no charts or formulas to work on, and he doesn’t feel like sleeping.
So he goes to the corner and picks up one of his books.
A few flakes of snow still cling to the cover. He brushes them off, carefully, and then opens it and reads.
I should really mention that I think I drew some heavy inspiration for the tone on this one from reading nicole_anell's Gina character study piece, Glass Slipper. Over and over again. In a potentially unhealthy fashion.
Title: Ice and Stones
Characters: Cylon!Baltar
Rating: PG-13 for dark, unstable and unhealthy thoughts
Spoilers: AU after 3x12; passing refs to canon in 3x13 and 3x16
Length: 1,580 words
Summary: Once upon a time, he heard a story.
Disclaimer: Canon characters and series property of the SciFi Channel and Misters Ronald D. Moore and David Eick. By your command.
Notes:
All parts of this AU can be found here.
Once upon a time, he heard a story.
He doesn’t remember where or who from. It could have been anywhere, really, or anyone. He supposes it might be from his childhood, but he doesn’t have one. All he has are lies.
In this story, there was a girl (a princess: isn’t she always?) who had been given a magic stone. Every morning she put the stone in her mouth where it rested on her tongue. And whenever she was angry or impassioned and threatened to speak words too inflamed with emotion, words hurtful or careless, the stone would grow heavy so she couldn’t say them; she would be forced to pause and think through her words, letting them remain unspoken.
He wonders what the story would be like if the stone was in her throat instead. If it just sat there, like a lump, unable to get out. And not only would it grow whenever she would speak it would block the way to her heart as well, so emotions would never reach her. She would be forced into silence and incapable of feeling.
And maybe, he thinks, one day the stone would have to block too much: there would be too much emotion and too many words, it would grow too heavy, and then she would choke to death.
____
They’ve given him some things, which he supposes is nice of them.
A heavier blanket and some pillows make it easier to sleep. A table and chair is a place to work when they bring him charts and formulas.
There’s a small stack of books as well: some textbooks, some novels.
When he opens them he sees black spots on white pages: little symbols and signs he can’t put meaning to. He has to focus to piece them into words, and it exhausts him and makes his head hurt.
So the books stay in the corner, untouched.
____
He’s losing lines between realities. He has dreams, projections, memories and what is right in front of him, and he cannot see where one ends and the other begins.
He dreams the genocide never happened. He dreams he never built the Cylon detector. He dreams they’re still on New Caprica, happy and free.
He dreams Felix Gaeta tries to shoot him. Then he remembers that actually happened. He dreams he didn’t talk Felix Gaeta out of it, and that he sometimes wishes did.
Starbuck begs him to say he loves her. Six calls him by the wrong name.
He thinks he may be getting two things confused somehow.
One night he dreams of the Legion basestar. He’s roaming the halls blindly, and then he turns into a corner half-hidden in shadow.
Two model Tens are already there, and they’re occupied. He can’t look away. Tangle of hands and mouths and skin, and two sets of eyes glance at him, so full of malice and disdain.
He’s not sure what’s worse: that they glower at him or that they so quickly look away. Their indifference or their hatred.
He turns and he runs until he’s far away, and it isn’t until he feels the soreness in his throat that he realizes he’s been screaming.
He wakes up and the nightmare haunts him for the rest of the day. And then he remembers it wasn’t a nightmare.
But he pretends that it is.
____
When they give him water it’s in a metal cup, edges carefully dulled. They don’t trust him with anything else.
This is because, one day, he took the glass they’d given him and smashed it against the wall (he needed the sound, his cell was so quiet) and then just stared at the pieces (he thought they were beautiful, how they caught the light) until someone finally noticed and took them away.
And well, yes, he’d cut himself. Just a little though, on the fingertip.
He’d wanted to see the color red. He was afraid he was starting to forget.
____
They’ve started to worry about him, maybe. They send Karl Agathon because they think he’ll do a good job, somehow. He stands there and looks awkward and clears his throat three times before he speaks.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” He never is, though he gets thinner and thinner.
“Thirsty?”
“Maybe.” Water helps the headaches, and fluids are good for you.
“Tired?”
“Always.” He sleeps constantly, in fits and starts, only hours at a time.
“Bored?”
He doesn’t answer this because he’s forgotten: bored. What is “bored”? He stares blankly.
“Lonely?”
Something crumples at this word. He lies down and rolls over in his bed, wrapping the blanket around him.
“Go away, go away.”
The answer is “yes” but he can’t say it. It hurts him too much.
____
He can think of nothing else to do one day, so he projects her.
She appears immediately, tall and slender and beautiful. He takes in her blue eyes, her halo of curls, the scent of her natural perfume. She kneels down and caresses his face.
“I’m not real, Gaius.”
“You never were,” he murmurs, enjoying the softness of her touch.
“Yes.” Her smile is radiant. “But you know that for sure now.”
He sighs, sends her away, and never projects her again. Why was she always right?
____
Once he dreams he meets another Gaius.
Not another Ten, another Gaius: one that’s never been anything but human, one that can only imagine what it must be like to be anything else. The Gaius he was once, before he got shot in the head.
The Gaius that was fool enough to think he might want to be a Cylon.
“You’re free now, don’t you see?” He can see the jealousy in the other Gaius’ eyes. “You don’t have to feel guilty. You don’t have to worry. You’re freed of that, and you’re beyond all of them.”
The human Gaius doesn’t know what real anger is, and neither do the Tens. But he is neither of them.
“I sleep in a cage, and half the people I see call me ‘it’ to my face. So you can go to hell.”
He never dreams of the human Gaius again.
That’s wrong, actually; he does. Once. He dreams it’s the human Gaius that gets shot by Galen Tyrol instead, while he and the other Tens stand around in a circle, invisible, watching. When the human Gaius falls down dead, the Tens laugh. He laughs too.
He doesn’t remember why. At the time, he thought it was funny.
____
Every two days or so, they clear out the pilots’ showers and let him inside.
The marines don’t always avert their eyes when he gets undressed. They’re supposed to be watching him, after all.
He’s forgotten why he’s supposed to care, so he doesn’t.
He turns the hot water on all the way. It hisses and the room fills slowly with steam. For the first few seconds, it always stings.
Then it fades, and doesn’t feel like anything at all.
____
It’s snowing in his cell. Or at least that’s how he sees it.
He always hated the cold weather on Aerelon; hated the winter and the ice and the snow. Hated the chill winds and the drifts and having to bundle up all the time.
He’d dream about Caprica, where it was sunny and warm. He’d live on the beach and look at sand and ocean every day; which was silly, since he didn’t even like to swim. But still, he wanted the beach and the sun.
Now he thinks about Aerelon and the farm and his parents and siblings, about the neighbors and the cows and horses.
“I’m sorry,” he thinks. “I should never have left you.”
Which is even sillier, because there was nothing to leave, and in a way he never did. It’s all fabrications. None of it existed.
But even so, while he’s forgotten to miss his beautiful house on Caprica, which was real, he misses Aerelon winters, which for him were not. Life’s funny that way.
So he sits on his bed and hugs his knees to his chest, watching the flakes drift down to pile on the floor, white on white in an even whiter world.
The guard walks through a snowdrift he can’t see and brings him a tray: metal glass of water and bowl of porridge, which is green (the cook has given up pretending).
He sets it aside and goes back to the snow. Until he realizes the guard is still standing there, arms folded.
“Yes?”
“I’m not to leave until you eat that. President’s orders.”
This is different, enough to confuse him.
“And if I don’t?”
The guard shifts, somewhat uncomfortable.
“Feeding tube.”
The thought is enough to get him to pick up the tray and through those first bites. Every time he starts to feel ill, or the taste turns to ash in his mouth, he has only to look at the guard and remember.
He finishes his meal, washes it down with the water; the metal cup is cool against his hand. The guard takes it and leaves, satisfied.
He feels strangely better.
The snow has stopped falling. It doesn’t feel as cold anymore. There are no charts or formulas to work on, and he doesn’t feel like sleeping.
So he goes to the corner and picks up one of his books.
A few flakes of snow still cling to the cover. He brushes them off, carefully, and then opens it and reads.