#228 - 3 AM
Spoilers for 4x03 "Ties that Bind" and 4x04 "Escape Velocity"
[locked]
In space, time is arbitrary. There is no single sun or moon, no dawn and no sunset. However, if my alarm clock had survived the destruction of the colonies, its hands would be telling me it was 3 AM, at least in Delphi. Now, my wristwatch tells me that in three hours, I must be up to deliver the President’s schedule to her. She gets up earlier now, now that the treatments take away the evening hours from her.
I wonder if they found her yet. I did leave a screaming child outside the airlock. I couldn’t just walk up to the Chief and hand him the kid without having to answer a few questions.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The President used airlocks to execute Cylons. Now a Cylon had used the method to protect herself. It’s a good method. Clean. Simple. No blood to explain.
It’s perfect.
Like God has made me perfect. Each of us perfect.
Humanity is flawed, weak. Kara Thrace screams like a lunatic and holds the president hostage but the Admiral in blind loyalty gives her a ship. Lee Adama in his naïve idealism tries to insert liberty where control is necessary for survival. And the strongest of them will be felled by unruly cells.
I look at my hands. The blood that flows through my veins is different from hers, from theirs. It won’t fail me. It’s perfect.
The phone rings, startling me. I look at my watch: 3:16 AM. I pick it up, feigning being woken up. “Hello?”
“Tory?” Her voice is raw. The fact that she’s calling me at 3 AM betrays her distress. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“No, no. What’s wrong ma’am?”
“Did you find one?”
One? Oh, the wig. It’s amazing what people packed at the end of the world. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I need -“ her voice catches. “I need you to bring it.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thank you, Tory.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
I hang up the phone, and run a hand through my hair. I pull a strand in front of my eyes.
It’s perfect.
Tory Foster
Battlestar Galactica
346 words
[locked]
In space, time is arbitrary. There is no single sun or moon, no dawn and no sunset. However, if my alarm clock had survived the destruction of the colonies, its hands would be telling me it was 3 AM, at least in Delphi. Now, my wristwatch tells me that in three hours, I must be up to deliver the President’s schedule to her. She gets up earlier now, now that the treatments take away the evening hours from her.
I wonder if they found her yet. I did leave a screaming child outside the airlock. I couldn’t just walk up to the Chief and hand him the kid without having to answer a few questions.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The President used airlocks to execute Cylons. Now a Cylon had used the method to protect herself. It’s a good method. Clean. Simple. No blood to explain.
It’s perfect.
Like God has made me perfect. Each of us perfect.
Humanity is flawed, weak. Kara Thrace screams like a lunatic and holds the president hostage but the Admiral in blind loyalty gives her a ship. Lee Adama in his naïve idealism tries to insert liberty where control is necessary for survival. And the strongest of them will be felled by unruly cells.
I look at my hands. The blood that flows through my veins is different from hers, from theirs. It won’t fail me. It’s perfect.
The phone rings, startling me. I look at my watch: 3:16 AM. I pick it up, feigning being woken up. “Hello?”
“Tory?” Her voice is raw. The fact that she’s calling me at 3 AM betrays her distress. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“No, no. What’s wrong ma’am?”
“Did you find one?”
One? Oh, the wig. It’s amazing what people packed at the end of the world. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I need -“ her voice catches. “I need you to bring it.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thank you, Tory.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
I hang up the phone, and run a hand through my hair. I pull a strand in front of my eyes.
It’s perfect.
Tory Foster
Battlestar Galactica
346 words