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 Post subject: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Thu May 28, 2009 7:15 am 
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Title: Sometimes a Stupid Notion...
Author: NT2
Rating: R
Genre: Drama/Humor
Word Count: ~1350 words this installment

Starts where the show stopped, improvising a better fate for Boomer, Tyrol and the Colonials in general. By special request, we have Empress Boomer, which will be explained and inevitably veers toward black comedy here and there. But I promise it'll be good.

Sometimes a Stupid Notion...

Basestar Celeron

“I am now confirming the report from Mobile Depot Ship #8.”

“This is some kind of joke,” she says. ”Has to be.”

“It is confirmed,” repeats one of the last Simons in the universe. “The population of the former Colonial Fleet is resident on the surface of the third planet, widely scattered. And their missing vessels were launched into the local sun.”

“What in blue hell?” She samples the data stream herself--symphonic insanity. ”That’s two for two, counting my shiny friends here. Do they want to die?”

One of the Colonial Fleet’s freed Centurions perks up: “A query. By your command, a vote shall be scheduled on the death of humanity.”

“No, no, no,” she says for the umpteenth time since this group latched on to her. Like all children, once the Centurions started talking it’s impossible to make them stop. “No votes. Nobody votes unless I say so.”

“Vote superseded. By your command, the death of humanity shall proceed as—“

“No! Absolutely no death! Okay?” Talk about literal minded. And the surviving skin-jobs don’t need any more ideas. “All right. You don’t get to say death anymore. Understand? No death, no die or dead, no destroy. In fact, no words that start with a 'D.' You don’t even think them.”

“No ‘D’s. By your comman_,” says the Centurion

Frak me. “Start with a ‘D.’ No words that START with a ‘D.’”

“By your command.”

“Now would you please be quiet.”

“Being quiet. By your command.”

“Oh, God…”

“God undetected. Please advise if a vote is—“

“No.”

“By your command, Empress Valerii.”

Empress. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a queen of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. A slight smile crinkles through. He used to say that, then laugh in that self-depreciatory way she still remembers. Before all her dreams turned bad. Maybe we are just machines. That thought is for every Cylon in this rag-tag survivor’s fleet. Idiots. That’s for the planet below. Every Cylon is going to be talking about the death of humanity again. Because it’ll be so easy now.

As if reading her mind, Terry pulls Sharon Valerii aside into the conference alcove. Her aide-de-camp is already churning: “You’ve got to get out in front of this. How about we announce your final victory over humanity. I mean, we’ve got spaceships with big weapons, and they don’t, right?”

“So it seems.”

“All right then, work with me. I start pumping a Valerii-the-merciful angle. How you’re going to determine the fate of humanity in accordance with the full scope of Cylon law.”

“Both pages?”

“Don’t be that way.” Terry gives her the look Sharon hates. It’s a classic Eight pout. “This is a win-win. Kill humanity, don’t kill humanity. We can still frame it either way.”

Wow. What a spunky little sociopath I’ve created. “Please don’t take this wrong, Terry. But there are days I don’t like you.”

“I’m good at this job. And, yes, I know that’s not a compliment. Just find me some cute guy down there, okay? I got hit on by a Doral again last night.” Terry shudders. “With the full leisure suit.”

“It could be worse,” Sharon says. “At least you’re not the best friend of 310 deranged Centurions splattered with red paint.”

“Oh, come on. Every Empress needs a Praetorian Guard. I’ll admit it was a bit much at first, but they’re actually kind of sweet.”

“Terry…” Be nice. “Never mind.”

The chatterbox laughs and scurries off to work her magic. Sharon feels ill. Spaceships into the sun. Stupidity that impressive is a deal breaker. Maybe she can’t do this by herself after all, and she’s sick of trying.

Maybe she’s just here to repay a final debt.

To do unto one as Cavil had done for her.

***********

Earth – A Cold Island

Death is close.

It tells him so.

The beast is in full froth. Galen Tyrol has its left hind leg pinned with a snare. It writhes to face him as he seeks an opening, pinned himself by the cord straining taut over his left shoulder to wrap the arm below. The makeshift pulley mechanism rigged off a nearby tree gives him leverage, but not enough. He and the beast are too close. To force it’s other leg over, he’ll have to come in range of the claws.

“It’s time, Galen. I’m waiting for you.” Death has a woman’s voice. One woman’s voice. One woman’s face, even if he won’t look at it.

What else should he expect? It’s simple justice.

“You’re so very close.”

It’s sort of a bear, this thing that wandered into his domain. It wants to eat him; he needs freedom to move about. So like any good union man, he’s arranged binding arbitration. Extremely binding.

His left arm quakes. When his leverage mechanism finally snaps, the shoulder socket will rip. The only way out is to give up his pin. Then his prey will be all over him. Like the cliché goes, that’s the problem with grabbing a wolf by the ears—you don’t dare let go. Unfortunately, the wolf can outlast you. Advantage animal vigor.

His advantage is that he doesn’t care. He came to this forsaken place to die, just wants to do it straight up, not with his thumb on the scales any more than it already is. So he’s obligated to try. And he’s not afraid to do so when the window of opportunity opens.

It over commits to the right. He hits the release, already diving forward to come in low. The spear in his right hand pivots up as the beast lunges. Teeth hit his shoulder as it impales itself on the side, less than a fatal hit, but enough to prompt recoil. He slides over and under, all his energy concentrated in one continuous burst that ends with a wooden stake slamming home below the creature’s neck.

A raking backhand sends him flying. Luck drops him near a wooden spear shattered jagged. The beast impales itself again, driving him back to bounce his head against a tree.

“I’m here for you.” It’s a good death.

Who’d have thought Lee would be the one to nail that coffin shut. Lost in black, Galen crosses their fair-haired President again in the big non-debate. As someone who actually knows how to make things, he points out a few flaws in this hard core “back-to-nature” kick. Cottle joins him to tilt at that wind mill, to no avail. He still isn’t sure how Lee’s vision swept the masses so easily, maybe because he didn’t care enough to argue hard. He just imagines Lee with lots of zits, trying to do something with that hair. That’s worth a chuckle.

Not many chuckles for Chief on the new world. “We understand about Tory. No need to worry. We’d have done the same.” Over and over, like it was perfectly okay to feel her cartilage crackle in your grip. Gods, people! Am I the only one who feels awful about that? Just shut the hell up. Then Lee. Let’s all hold hands and go down the toilet together. Adama drunk and carrying on about that stupid cabin. Like, you know, cabins don’t build themselves, sir. Not to mention that Lee took away your best tools. Speaking of drunks, do they get any meaner than Tigh and Ellen? All lovey, dovey for thirty minutes, then it’s enough to swear anyone off marriage.

And Nicky dies. His condition. Probably could have kept him alive on the damn ship. Frakking Lee. And he’s the go-to-guy for life-and-death ideas?

Frakking colonies. Frakking Cylons, frakking humans, frakking Earth…

Frakking Boomer.

He wakes up. “Lying witch.” The beast lies beside him. So at least one more day beckons. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. He laughs.

One more night for very bad dreams.

**********


Next: A minor firefight erupts, Boomer meets Baltar, Caprica is annoying, and Tyrol has a bad dinner with Cally and Tory.


Last edited by NT2 on Wed Oct 14, 2009 8:34 pm, edited 10 times in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Thu May 28, 2009 9:23 am 
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Hi-larious. :giggles:

Thanks for the Mobile Depot Ship cameo.

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Thu May 28, 2009 1:25 pm 
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Totally groovy indeed! :bounce:
Thanks for to the references to my fic (via Bill S.) & myself ...

One of the next parts will have to explain how the Empress escaped death.

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Thu May 28, 2009 5:08 pm 
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Oh, don't worry. Her escape from death is explained near the end, albeit rather matter-of-factly by the Empress herself. You'll also get her last encounter with a Cavil (and you're right--he isn't mean to her).

And Baltar will be a total loser. :D


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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Thu May 28, 2009 7:00 pm 
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Sure, but I'm sure the Empress is so magnanimous that she won't have him killed.
Will we see her coronation? With a nice tiara and maybe an ermine cloak? :bounce:

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Fri May 29, 2009 5:25 pm 
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Sure. We do requests.

Of course, Boomer's not exactly the tiara type of girl.


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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Fri May 29, 2009 5:53 pm 
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That's right. But I bet she would wear one just for the pleasure to see the look on the faces of all those who behaved like frakkers with her.

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 8:31 am 
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PART 2

A slight change in plan (we're all familiar with that :D ). Because we do requests.

Basestar Celeron

It’s an exquisite drug.

Reality bends in a Basestar’s crest, the topmost vertex at the tip of its unpaired upper prong. The void radiance of a universe streams in from above, the aching light of a bastard race from below.

Sharon Valerii loves the optical tension. The way twin illusions of light annihilate each other or glow together, flowing pitiless and perfect. This hourglass corridor mirrors her life more than anyone or anything, a singular place free of excuses and ideologies, God and Gods alike, where there’s nothing to pray to but the million pieces of her own heart.

Nothing to face but her own bad faith. To try and feel its essence, to understand how all this ends.

Life and death. Being and nothingness.

Does everyone have to die?

Cavil, the one who first showed her this, would have said yes. But he kept coming back, too. The first time she kissed him had been in a Basestar’s crest, the only time she saw him weep, felt his awful limitations knowing he felt them, too. Felt his body begging hers to make him whole, to give him what he would never accept. She couldn’t leave him after that, had to love him because no one else ever would. And he needed her silent at his side, waiting to do something awful.

She stares up into the void. It’s waiting for her, the third and final step. She’s at the second now, caught in-between. Middle of the story. One that began in the Celeron’s cavernous Assembly Bay below.

**********

First step. The most absurd moment of her absurd life.

“Oh my frakking God! It’s really you!”

Sharon’s drooping now, has already lost the battle’s razor edge. She feels faint after the lull of transit. Her head swivels slow, trailing the woman who’s already two steps ahead.

“I can’t believe this. I mean, it’s such an honor, and… Oh, listen to me. I’m so embarrassed--you probably hear this all the time. But honestly, I still have my ‘Valerii Rocks’ T-shirts from New Caprica.”

The woman is an Eight. An Eight in constant motion, now dabbing at her while waving in someone else. They back her into a chair.

“Good thing I have lots of wipes,” the woman says as something cold and damp rubs Sharon’s cheek. “You know, when they have those online polls about who’s the best Eight, I always vote for you. My room mate likes Athena, but you’re way cooler! The bad girl with a heart. I mean, voting against your own line! I wish I had the courage to do something like that.” Someone stitches up the part of Sharon's left arm that’s bleeding. “I’ll just tie the hair back and cover it. We’ll have to cut that suit off and put her in a drape.” That last bit sounds curious, but Sharon’s not sure she heard it right as she drifts into a light sleep.

“Ermine!. Not vermin! Get that thing out of here!” Sharon jolts awake to a world where voices try to soothe and calm. “Honestly, that’s the one problem with being robots. We can so totally miss the point.” This woman just won’t stop—she has the Sharon Valerii commemorative statuette, maybe a plate, too, and of course her friends wanted her to dump it after Valerii voted against the Eights, but she just hid it, and now it’s even more special and valuable, and she keeps it on--

Sharon’s got just enough focus to pop out an arm and snare the Eight: “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Eight Seventeen, B304, A1713, Mk 4, Mod 5 of Misty Meadow Court. But please call me Terry.”

“Terry. Sure. What the hell are you doing, Terry?”

“They didn’t tell you.” Sharon stares blankly from a face half-blackened, half-clean as someone finishes cutting away her flight suit above the waist. “The ceremony. It has to happen immediately, and I’m helping you get ready. Of course, I would have been delighted to volunteer, but they simply called me up off the roster and brought me here, where they--“

Sharon isn’t listening anymore. The surrender ceremony. That would be it. And if she listens to this Eight a minute longer, she’s going to scream. Her head’s filled with too much already.

Post-Colony. Post-Cavil. Maybe one hour ago. The Basestar Solaris is dying. Her advantage is that she doesn’t care. She screams orders on the Solaris’ shattered bridge, firing without stop. Closing in on an enemy Basestar to clear the Fleet’s flank. Driving into a holocaust as the tide turns in her favor, her old Black Angels ironically tipping the scales with a suicide strafe. Basestar goes down with Basestar, Sharon giving orders to the Fleet until its enemies flee. Those that don’t promise their surrender to her. Her alone. It’s a lifetime away from that rattled young woman in a Raptor the day of the original Cylon attack.

She wanted to die in her old Galactica flight suit. It’s a wreck, peeled back and tied at her hips. She’s a wreck, face blackened, skin oily with sweat and soot, blood streaming down her left arm. She’s still giving orders, directing evacuation of the wounded from the Solaris’ burning hulk. She keeps at it on the acid side of an adrenaline high until the wounded themselves rebel, demanding Valerii get to safety. The order comes at the same time—bring Valerii to the Celeron. With an armed escort.

“Oh my frakking God! It’s really you!”

She wakes up again. She stinks. Still a hint of perspiration, doused under something sort of Lilac. It’s hard to breathe, too. Is that a corset? She looks down, sees the fishbone outline beneath a white vest coat cinched at her waist. Someone’s actually painting her stubby little nails. And there’s a huge thing by the mirror.

It’s freakish.

“Right on time,” Terry says. “They’re almost ready for you.”

“What’s that?” Sharon asks, pointing toward the mirror.

Terry beams: “Your cloak.”.

‘My what?”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The Cylons got it from the Caprica City museum after the invasion. It’s the original Technicolor dream coat from that famous play. We found some ermine for the trim, too, though I’m not sure if it’s real or replicated.”

“What the frak are you talking about?”

“The coronation, your majesty. Congratulations!”

No… “This is a surrender ceremony.”

“They’re going to surrender to Empress Valerii the First. It’s more efficient that way, because they’d just have to swear their allegiance again anyway. And we all want some lawful authority reconstituted as soon as possible.”

No… “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can.”

“I don’t… I’ve never… I’m not—“

“Don’t worry. I’m your handmaiden. I watched all the princess movies on Caprica when we were there. I can tell you what to do.”

Frak you, nut girl! “Get me out of this ridiculous—“

Someone sticks their head in the door: “Four minutes. Please get her going.”

Before her majesty can protest, three people sweep her up, dump her into the cloak and primp it. Nut girl drapes a white head scarf on her head and lifts a… It shimmers white, a trellis with curling flowers rising toward a honey gold, jeweled sun at the apex.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Terry nods. “It’s your tiara. All the movies had one.”

No…frakking…way! Stupid robots.

Nut girl closes in. Sharon’s about to shove her away when she tilts close to make a confession: “I know I’m probably just silly to you, but I want to say how grateful we all are. Us, the Cylons you don’t see. The nobodies. We were all so scared, the unity of the Seven gone for good, all these Warlords vying for control of the pieces. But when we see you, when we know you’re there…” Tears glisten in Terry’s eyes. “You’ll avenge us, protect us. Give us something. We know you will.”

The faith of an Eight. Sharon freezes, horrified as Terry looks her in the eyes. Because she’s seen this face before. Sharon Valerii wore it during her last days on Galactica, a nobody falling apart with nowhere to turn. In a universe where humans kill Cylons who kill Humans who kill Cylons... Paving over innocent tears forever. “That’s what tragedy is, you know? The failure to see nobility when it’s staring you in the face. When it might have made a difference.”

Cavil had been right when he said that, still was. Break my frakking heart--I don’t know what to do. She numbly cradles Terry’s head against her shoulder, stares at herself in the mirror. In this ridiculous outfit. The bastardized princess of a bastard race. Mr. Perkles. The imaginary cat of an imaginary girl named Valerii playing dress up flashes across her mind. All of it a lie. …protect us…Give us something… What else had she been trying to do on the Solaris?

“We decided to play god. Create life. And when that life turned against us, we comforted ourselves in the knowledge that it wasn’t really our fault, not really. But you don’t get to play God and then wipe your hands of what you’ve created. Sooner or later…the day comes when you can’t hide from what you’ve done anymore.” And that life is coming for Adama again, is mere months from cracking the jump coordinates she already knows. Nobody can stop that.

But maybe someone should take responsibility for it. While that might still make a difference.

“I won’t let you down, Terry. I promise. Just help me through this. Please.”

Terry is as good as her word. One step behind, she whispers “Step one, step two” as they advance into the Assembly Bay. Whispers which direction to pivot, how far to bow, even catching that damn tiara the two times it tries to fall. All the way to an elevated dais bathed in light where she becomes Valerii the First.

In the aftermath, Terry thanks her for the honor. No jibber jabber this time, just a faith as deep and abiding as it is undeserved. It makes Sharon feel ashamed, and maybe she needs that. “We should talk, Terry. How about you put yourself on my calendar as the first appointment tomorrow?”

Terry doesn’t get it for a second. Sharon simply nods.

“Oh my frakking God! You won’t regret this. I promise!”

Another lie. Sharon Valerii regrets everything.

**********

Second Step. The hardest thing she’s ever done. Which is saying a lot.

It all comes down to Anders’ link with the Cylon Basestars during Adama’s attack. A short-term success and a long-term liability, because communication is a two-way street. In one garbled moment, the Cylon registry recorded more than half of Galactica’s final jump coordinates. That left a child’s game--Simon says. Simply a matter of probes and permutations, four-dimensional optimization of the results.

Simply a matter of time. Because it’s not your game, humans, not your rules. You don’t get to decide when it’s over.

Sharon Valerii knew the full set of jump coordinates the moment she saw that garbled clue. She spent time talking with Hera. And Hera drew dots. Lots and lots of dots. So Empress Valerri times it perfectly. Let the survivors learn from Boomer’s mistakes, let uncertainty about their jihad seep in, racing the clock to beat Simon.

She brings them to the system ripe with doubt. Defuses one time bomb the humans set for themselves--the Centurions. She’s prepared to meet counterforce, a Fleet sufficient to force a peace neither side can hide from. A peace strong enough to talk down any of her Cylon enemies who follow clues on their own. A chance for everyone. Only to find the humans have decided to commit suicide.

Bad faith: Hers? Theirs? Everyone’s? She tries to fathom it in the vertex, how to take that third step.

Do we all have to die?

Maybe.

Terry’s waiting to brief her, has been there almost five minutes now. Sharon finally acknowledges her, notes the CyPod clipped to her one truly faithful servant’s waist. Terry is a fanatic for old Caprica music.

“What’s the program today?” Sharon asks.

“Old synth pop. Very catchy.”

“Give us a taste.”

Terry hands it over; Sharon cocks her head to one of the ear pieces. The chorus is quite hummable: “Oh, l’amour, [doi, doi, doi, doi] broke my heart and now I’m aching for you, mon amour, [doi, doi, doi, doi] what’s a boy in love supposed to do?” She tosses it back with a smile. Some days, she genuinely does like Terry.

“How bad is it?” the Empress asks.

“You’ve still got most of the grunts, the mobile depot ships, as an alum, and your Praetorian Guard. The Eights are mostly solid. The rest of the Fleet is showing stress fractures. The Six’s look particularly ugly.”

“How long before I face open opposition?”

“Three weeks, four outside. Present a solid reason for not wiping out humanity by then, or we’ve got trouble.”

“That settles it then,” says the Empress. “I’m going to the planet.”

Terry tries to make light of the moment. “You’re not really going to wear the tiara and dance on this Roslin’s grave, are you?”

“Maybe next time. This is low key. I need to find out what’s happened, what I can use. Have to put a story together.”

“Be careful. If they suspect you’re trying to justify a predetermined answer…”

“Valerii the last.” She could keep it light, too.

“I’ll go down with the ship. You know that, your majesty, don’t you?”

“I know that so well, Terry, that you can call me Sharon.”

Terry nods, biting her lip. “I’ll have the rebel Cylons down there tried for treason if it helps.”

“Why not? I can make up laws after the fact as well as they can. Attempted assassination of a Empress? Off with their heads!” She laughs. “You know me better than that.”

“I know you so much better than that, Sharon. Good luck. And don’t forget that cute guy you owe me.” Terry steps up to pat her on the shoulder, then leaves to start the arrangements.

Sharon lingers in silence, staring at the million pieces of her heart. Feeling for every one of them. Which ones live? Which ones die? “Oh, l’amour, [doi, doi, doi, doi] broke my heart and now I’m aching for you, mon amour, [doi, doi, doi, doi] what’s a girl in love supposed to do?” It’s damn catchy, but the void doesn’t answer.

Probably because that answer is already written.

**********

The Basestar’s hourglass corridor is empty. Still exquisite, though. Two figures glide through it.

“I know why she comes here,” says Head Six.

“Do you now?” says Head Baltar.

“It lets her indulge the illusion of choice. Women like that.”

“But is it all an illusion?”

“Of course.” She runs her hand along the part in his hair. “This story is already over.”

“Well, that’s the concern, isn’t it? She’s supposed to be dead.”

“Are you certain?”

“Please. Unlike you, I keep notes.” He rifles briskly through the air and hands a small tablet over.

Head Six reads: “Boomer dead.” She looks at him disdainfully. “Rather a minimalist approach to documentation.”

“I prefer to think of it as succinct.”

“What’s this?” She stares at the tablet’s lower right hand corner. “Is this a phone number?”

“Uh…No. Nothing at all. Give that back please.” He reaches for it.

She jerks it back. “Loving Touch Massage Parlor? You pig! Just because you look like him doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

Head Baltar snatches the tablet back and makes it vanish with a wave of his hand. “Purely for medical purposes. Uhm… Some of the people I needed to influence back on Caprica had…back problems.”

“It’s exactly this sort of thing that keeps us assigned to the pawns.” She backs him up against an opal variegated window. “So if this Boomer is supposed to be dead, why didn’t you make certain she was?”

“Oh, so that’s my responsibility?”

“Yes,” she says.

“And exactly how much am I supposed to do?” he sputters. “At the time, I was arranging for that fabulous speech in the Opera House. You may recall it—the pivotal event in humanity’s fate? Strike any bells?”

“You phoned it in.”

“How dare you! That was a beautiful, compelling, emotionally breathtaking distillation of a complex chain of events spanning thousands of years. Can you even imagine how hard it is to communicate something like that through a mere human?”

“I was there. I heard it.” She shifts to a sing-song voice. “I see angels. Angels, in this very room. Now I may be mad, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right. Because there’s another force at work here. Why, it’s undeniable.” She starts poking spots in the air. “Lame, lame, lame. Phoned in.”

“It worked!”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“Again, I was there,” says Head Six, “Cavil only budged after I used a simple glamour to get Tight to give him what he wanted in the first place.”

Head Baltar looks hurt and a little taken aback. “Well, he wouldn’t even have been open to the discussion without that speech.”

“So that would make it…foreplay?”

“You bitch! I didn’t see you lifting any mountains. You could have made certain this Boomer trollop was dead.”

Head Six glares at him. “I was busy arranging for Hera to be carried almost forty feet, thank you. That sort of thing doesn’t happen on its own.”

“Certainly not. Outside of most kindergartens, grocery stores, bake sales, bathrooms and other haunts of the dull and mundane.”

She shakes her head. “You’ve never understood performance art.”

“No, but I do understand a vision ‘phoned in’ when I see it.”

She starts to respond, then simply exhales in disgust. “Back to the point. This Boomer.”

“That one bothers me. We’ve been allowed to peek 150,000 years into the future, and I, for one, am expecting a nice promotion. But she could still mess that up.”

“How, exactly?”

“Generate some alternate time line,” says Head Baltar. “People who are supposed to be dead are tricky. Discontinuities. They can do strange stuff, you know. And it would make a complete hash out of everything.”

“Don’t worry,” says Head Six. “Boomer’s on the map. I was just messing with you earlier. I happen to know how she survived.” She cups her hand over his ear and lets it slip.

“That sorry bitch!” Head Baltar kicks at a support strut. “That’s just dirty, underhanded cricket! Especially when we’re doing this whole mystical thing. When there’s another force at work, when it’s undeniable and you’re supposed to be dead, there’s simply no excuse for a stunt like that! Miserable, cheating bitch!”

“You really need to expand your vocabulary, dear. Maybe find an upgraded epithet for women.”

“Oh what, like—“

“Don’t even think it.”

He goes bug-eyed. “She made a mockery of my speech! I want this Boomer dead!”

“Already ahead of you. She’s a clever girl, but too weak for our purposes. She actually offered herself up to die twice that day on the Colony. So third time’s a charm.” Head Six cups her hand to Head Baltar’s ear again.

“I like it” he says. “An oldie but a goody.” He extends his arm. “After you.”

“Damn straight.”

“I’m thinking the other word, you know.”

“Pig.”

***********

The hourglass corridor is empty. Still exquisite, though.

A man’s voice speaks: “They’re gone.”

A woman’s voice answers. “Thank the Gods. I can’t stand them.”

“Who can?” says the man’s voice. “Do you think we should intervene to help Boomer? After all, she did save my life once.”

“I… don’t think so. I probably would if it weren’t these two clowns, but I think Boomer’s finally got her act together. Let’s see what she does with it.”

Slightly ominous music begins to swell up. Fade to blac—

“She did look sweet in that tiara, don’t you think?” says the woman’s voice.

“Yeah.”

“Down right adorable.”

“But what about…THE PLAN?”

Clanging chords. Ominous music swells up. Fade to—

Both voices break out into laughter. Doubled over, rolling-on-the-floor laughter. That goes on for a minute, until they blurt in unison: “There is no plan!”

Laughter slowly dies out. The woman’s voice: “Ahhh, you crack me up,”

Cut to black.

Credits roll. An angry producer rants in the background. The woman’s voice is barely audible: “Hey, I’m an angel. Piss off.”

**********


Next: A minor firefight erupts, Boomer meets Baltar, Caprica is annoying, and Tyrol has a bad dinner with Cally and Tory.


Last edited by NT2 on Fri Jul 31, 2009 6:57 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 10:41 am 
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Up The Riverworld Without A Paddle

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Very nice. Lots of funny parts and references to us... and you already included Boomer's cat.
I still wasn't able to assemble all pieces, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.
Just a question: you chose underline text to suggest mind-talk, right?

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 2:27 pm 
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Wonderful!

:rofl:

:bounce:

My biggest question is: Now that Auntie Boomer has escaped death does this mean Hera will get more cupcakes?

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 5:11 pm 
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Yes, underlining signifies it's the point-of-view person's thoughts.

As far as the complete picture, that's okay. Boomer's still trying to put the pieces together herself. I'm trying to layer them in, particularly Cavil since they never even bothered to try explaining that, and I fear I may just have to ignore "The Plan." In this coda, for all the show's talk about "choices," everyone--Adama, Lee, Cavil, humanity, the Cylons (and certainly "Daybreak")--is ultimately guilty of what Sartre labelled "bad faith." Boomer was guilty of that, too, but she's the only one who's figuring it out.

And, of course, Head Six and Head Baltar are the very embodiments of "bad faith." ;)

So did you guess who the final two angels are?


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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 6:11 pm 
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NT2 wrote:
So did you guess who the final two angels are?

Hmmm. Thinking about that...

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 8:29 pm 
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She did save his life, and he has a killer line near the end of this.


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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 9:15 pm 
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Yeah, I think I found it:
Mr. Hybrid, with Mrs. "What am I?" ???

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 Post subject: Re: Sometimes a Stupid Notion, NT2, Boomer/Tyrol, Boomer/Cavil,
PostPosted: Sun May 31, 2009 9:33 pm 
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The magic 8-ball says: "All signs point to Yes." :)


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