[bsg] Fic: Upon My Impending Third Death
Title: Upon My Impending Third Death
Author: icedteainthebag
Pairing(s)/Character: John Cavil
Rating: R, for self-injury & language
Summary: What a frakkin’ bitch.
Word Count: 853
Author's Notes: Written for the Autumn 2009 bsgficexchange. Missing scene from Exodus, Part II.
Getting into Cavil's head has been interesting. I can't wait to get out.
x x x x
“Hurts huh? Good. Then I hope it hurts a long, long time ‘til you go to download city.”
What a frakkin’ bitch.
A bullet to the guts hurts like a motherfrakker. It’s quite frankly a bit surprising that a piece of metal smaller than a frakkin’ olive tearing through his body would cause such an exquisitely unbearable pain. He’d never quite understood the concept of a mercy killing before, but he does now. He wishes someone would take a shotgun to his head and blow his frakkin’ brains out and get it over with already.
Frakkin’ humans.
Cavil lies on the ground and watches his plans unravel around him and his blood trickle out of his body. The only comfort he finds is in knowing that somewhere out in Breeder’s Canyon in the southern range, a band of ever-loyal Centurions most likely just took out a large swath of insurgents.
He hopes they’re lying in that forest, wracked with pain just like him.
The difference is that he will resurrect and they won’t. They’ll just die, fanciful dreams of Elysium Fields dancing through their heads. He wonders what it would be like to lie in uncertainty, wondering if an entire life’s worth of devotion to a belief is enough to convince someone, at the moment of their death, that it was all gonna be okay.
He doesn’t have to worry about that nonsense. He is bleeding out on the gravel with a morbid satisfaction that his resurrection is guaranteed. He has technology on his side. His resurrection is scientifically proven, an infallible, dependable afterlife experience.
Though he could live without waking up in that bath of synthetic amniotic fluid.
The pain seared through his abdomen again, throbbing with his heartbeat.
Best not to be ungrateful. Okay. I got it.
Ah, resurrection. He’ll come back, the same old John Cavil, but more jaded and angry than ever. There’s something about this process that does this to him. It’s like it refines his hatred, gives it room to grow. His deepening dislike for all of humanity will have risen to a new, more aggravated level. As if that were at all possible.
It makes him smirk. Or maybe that’s just a side effect of the heated pain radiating up his spine.
The stupid bitch threw the gun out of his reach, but as time progresses and his slow bleed-out becomes ever the more irritating, he realizes that he must find an alternate way of offing himself. Bleeding to death takes too long and is painfully boring. Though, it will make for an intriguing, well-spun yarn upon his return to Colonial One, which he has notably renamed Cylonial One, merely for his own amusement.
Cavil chuckles and winces at the shuddering of his muscles.
He looks around, spotting some spent shell casings on the ground about ten feet away. He rolls painfully and awkwardly onto his belly and begins to drag his body across the gravel, outwardly groaning at the pain it causes as his wound slides across the ground.
Maybe this will be the last straw-maybe they’ll finally listen to him, the others who are so convinced that with a little more love and affection, with a little more proselytizing about their one true God, the humans will come around and everything will be butterflies and flowers and whatever the frak else people thought about when they thought about things being peaceful.
And happy. Can’t forget happy.
Maybe they’ll listen when he says that humanity amounts to jack shit and they might as well assume a peaceful subservient role to the obviously superior race of machines.
There are ways to make them realize this.
He reaches the spent shell casings and grasps at one. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating its best use.
Finally, he begins scratching it against his carotid artery, because, well, frak, there really isn’t anything else he could do with it to expedite his death.
And it hurts, though not as much as being shot in the gut. It’s all relative, he supposes.
The skin of the neck is surprisingly tough. He grinds the casing against it, wincing and gritting his teeth. He makes a mental note to tell the others about this unfortunate turn of events upon his return. Maybe they should all start carrying knives in their pockets. It’d make throat slashing a lot more practical.
His frustration begins to grow. He starts to think he may have better luck with a sharp stick, but the treeline is at least fifty feet away and he’s tired of dragging his wounded ass across the gravel.
Suddenly, as he is immersed in scheming creative and unusual ways to end his life while rubbing the casing against the flesh of his neck, he feels a heated rush and a sharp twinge of pain under his chin. He looks down and feels an instantaneous glee at the dark spread of blood across his coat.
“About frakkin’ time,” he gasps to nobody in particular.
He lies on his back with a contented smile and feels his present life slipping away.
Author: icedteainthebag
Pairing(s)/Character: John Cavil
Rating: R, for self-injury & language
Summary: What a frakkin’ bitch.
Word Count: 853
Author's Notes: Written for the Autumn 2009 bsgficexchange. Missing scene from Exodus, Part II.
Getting into Cavil's head has been interesting. I can't wait to get out.
x x x x
“Hurts huh? Good. Then I hope it hurts a long, long time ‘til you go to download city.”
What a frakkin’ bitch.
A bullet to the guts hurts like a motherfrakker. It’s quite frankly a bit surprising that a piece of metal smaller than a frakkin’ olive tearing through his body would cause such an exquisitely unbearable pain. He’d never quite understood the concept of a mercy killing before, but he does now. He wishes someone would take a shotgun to his head and blow his frakkin’ brains out and get it over with already.
Frakkin’ humans.
Cavil lies on the ground and watches his plans unravel around him and his blood trickle out of his body. The only comfort he finds is in knowing that somewhere out in Breeder’s Canyon in the southern range, a band of ever-loyal Centurions most likely just took out a large swath of insurgents.
He hopes they’re lying in that forest, wracked with pain just like him.
The difference is that he will resurrect and they won’t. They’ll just die, fanciful dreams of Elysium Fields dancing through their heads. He wonders what it would be like to lie in uncertainty, wondering if an entire life’s worth of devotion to a belief is enough to convince someone, at the moment of their death, that it was all gonna be okay.
He doesn’t have to worry about that nonsense. He is bleeding out on the gravel with a morbid satisfaction that his resurrection is guaranteed. He has technology on his side. His resurrection is scientifically proven, an infallible, dependable afterlife experience.
Though he could live without waking up in that bath of synthetic amniotic fluid.
The pain seared through his abdomen again, throbbing with his heartbeat.
Best not to be ungrateful. Okay. I got it.
Ah, resurrection. He’ll come back, the same old John Cavil, but more jaded and angry than ever. There’s something about this process that does this to him. It’s like it refines his hatred, gives it room to grow. His deepening dislike for all of humanity will have risen to a new, more aggravated level. As if that were at all possible.
It makes him smirk. Or maybe that’s just a side effect of the heated pain radiating up his spine.
The stupid bitch threw the gun out of his reach, but as time progresses and his slow bleed-out becomes ever the more irritating, he realizes that he must find an alternate way of offing himself. Bleeding to death takes too long and is painfully boring. Though, it will make for an intriguing, well-spun yarn upon his return to Colonial One, which he has notably renamed Cylonial One, merely for his own amusement.
Cavil chuckles and winces at the shuddering of his muscles.
He looks around, spotting some spent shell casings on the ground about ten feet away. He rolls painfully and awkwardly onto his belly and begins to drag his body across the gravel, outwardly groaning at the pain it causes as his wound slides across the ground.
Maybe this will be the last straw-maybe they’ll finally listen to him, the others who are so convinced that with a little more love and affection, with a little more proselytizing about their one true God, the humans will come around and everything will be butterflies and flowers and whatever the frak else people thought about when they thought about things being peaceful.
And happy. Can’t forget happy.
Maybe they’ll listen when he says that humanity amounts to jack shit and they might as well assume a peaceful subservient role to the obviously superior race of machines.
There are ways to make them realize this.
He reaches the spent shell casings and grasps at one. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating its best use.
Finally, he begins scratching it against his carotid artery, because, well, frak, there really isn’t anything else he could do with it to expedite his death.
And it hurts, though not as much as being shot in the gut. It’s all relative, he supposes.
The skin of the neck is surprisingly tough. He grinds the casing against it, wincing and gritting his teeth. He makes a mental note to tell the others about this unfortunate turn of events upon his return. Maybe they should all start carrying knives in their pockets. It’d make throat slashing a lot more practical.
His frustration begins to grow. He starts to think he may have better luck with a sharp stick, but the treeline is at least fifty feet away and he’s tired of dragging his wounded ass across the gravel.
Suddenly, as he is immersed in scheming creative and unusual ways to end his life while rubbing the casing against the flesh of his neck, he feels a heated rush and a sharp twinge of pain under his chin. He looks down and feels an instantaneous glee at the dark spread of blood across his coat.
“About frakkin’ time,” he gasps to nobody in particular.
He lies on his back with a contented smile and feels his present life slipping away.