BSG: drabble
Here's a triple-drabble I wrote for twelvecolonies' ship drabble challenge -- 300 words.
When the time comes, his brother doesn't speak. He just looks up at Cavil, with sad, knowing eyes.
Afterward, Cavil takes a stroll. He feels good, as if there was something in that launch tube -- or just outside of it, maybe? -- that he needed.
It's nothing. Every machine needs a reboot now and again, right?
It comes to him, anyway: a vague, comforting feeling. Another model might have described it as "a good dream", but not Cavil.
He doesn't sleep. And he's never had a good dream.
His hand still feels warm, too. Which is nuts: it's not even the same hand! He rubs it, frowning.
Around the corner, there's an Eight -- his Eight. She doesn't look happy. Evidently, the humans haven't returned her kindness.
He could have told her that.
"Eight?" he asks.
She turns around. Her eyes go wide. She's afraid he's going to tell everyone what she did aboard Galactica.
That's exactly what he ought to do. Sound the alarm, expose the traitor. No more Hero of the Cylon.
He doesn't. Instead, he puts out his hand.
She looks at him for a long time, like she's measuring whether he's serious... or whether he's hiding a wooden elephant behind his back.
Or maybe she's confused because it's his left hand.
She takes it, though. "It's... good to see you," she says.
"Yeah. You doin' all right?"
"Well enough. You?"
"It's a long story. You wanna hear it?"
She hesitates. Then shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"
This can still work. We can do it: kill the humans, become machines together. I know we can.
Her hand is warm.
When the time comes, his brother doesn't speak. He just looks up at Cavil, with sad, knowing eyes.
Afterward, Cavil takes a stroll. He feels good, as if there was something in that launch tube -- or just outside of it, maybe? -- that he needed.
It's nothing. Every machine needs a reboot now and again, right?
It comes to him, anyway: a vague, comforting feeling. Another model might have described it as "a good dream", but not Cavil.
He doesn't sleep. And he's never had a good dream.
His hand still feels warm, too. Which is nuts: it's not even the same hand! He rubs it, frowning.
Around the corner, there's an Eight -- his Eight. She doesn't look happy. Evidently, the humans haven't returned her kindness.
He could have told her that.
"Eight?" he asks.
She turns around. Her eyes go wide. She's afraid he's going to tell everyone what she did aboard Galactica.
That's exactly what he ought to do. Sound the alarm, expose the traitor. No more Hero of the Cylon.
He doesn't. Instead, he puts out his hand.
She looks at him for a long time, like she's measuring whether he's serious... or whether he's hiding a wooden elephant behind his back.
Or maybe she's confused because it's his left hand.
She takes it, though. "It's... good to see you," she says.
"Yeah. You doin' all right?"
"Well enough. You?"
"It's a long story. You wanna hear it?"
She hesitates. Then shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"
This can still work. We can do it: kill the humans, become machines together. I know we can.
Her hand is warm.