Children of an Idle Brain
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: NC-17 for sex and horror
Pairings: Cally/Tyrol, Boomer/Tyrol, Six/Roslin, Lee/Dee
Spoilers: S3 finale
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan.
Summary: A treasury of womens’ nightmares.
Seelix has the same nightmare every time: she turns around, and suddenly she’s staring down at the long blade piercing her through the stomach, the Centurion watching her impassively while she chokes out blood bubbles and dies writhing on the weapon it’s stuck in her.
She wakes up, pats her stomach, and when there’s no blood nor hole, turns over and goes back to sleep.
Not everyone’s so lucky.
Always pregnant in her dreams, she was always pregnant, swollen and waddling and strapped to a bed with her knees pressed up almost to her shoulders. It hurt. Everything hurt.
“That’s a good girl,” Cally heard Galen say with gentle pride as she fussed and fought at the restraints on her wrists. Frankly, it was pretty creepy. “You’re doing so good, Cally.”
“Make them untie me,” Cally said, trying to breathe slowly and carefully. “I’m not going to run.”
Then Cally looked up and there they were, the shining steel polished to mirror brightness. When Cally looked at them too closely, the light from the doctor’s spotlight flashed and nearly blinded her.
Her wrists were raw and they ached, and her belly kept getting bigger, straining under the white gown someone had put her in.
“Did you know that you’re the most important woman who ever lived?” Boomer said, sitting down next to Cally. “That’s why you got him and I didn’t. Your children are important to God, Cally.”
Cally hissed and spit full in Boomer’s face. “Get away from me,” she said.
“We’re going to raise them right. Nicky and our new baby,” Galen said, looking up from where he’d been hidden, behind Cally’s belly and knees. “I think you’ll be happy.”
It was pretty obvious who we were, and it wasn’t Galen and Cally. There were Cylons everywhere, and the Cylons were going to take her baby and Galen was going to help them and Cally didn’t understand.
“I’m thirsty,” said Cally. “And I’m not ready to have this baby yet.”
“Too bad,” Boomer said, a metallic little glitter in her eyes. She put her hand on Cally’s stomach. “Push.”
A bolt of agony radiated out from that touch, and Cally screamed, arching despite her restraints. She could feel the iron pressure on her stomach, and the first contraction so hard that it made her toes curl with pain.
“Push,” Boomer ordered again. “It’ll only keep hurting if you don’t do what I say.”
The second contraction had Cally bite through her lower lip. “Galen,” she wailed. “Galen, help me.”
He looked over her belly, and Cally bit back a sob.
His eyes. He had the same silvery eyes that Boomer did.
“Cally,” he said in a voice full of love. “Push.”
Roslin’s three fingers are knuckle deep in Caprica, sliding in and out effortlessly, because Caprica is wet for her, she’s so wet for her.
That’s how Laura wants it, and so that’s the way it is. Caprica understands now.
“Tell me what I want to hear, Caprica,” the woman says in her sweet-and-vicious voice, smiling madly as she hums a little tune that catches in the back of Caprica’s head and won’t go away.
“Frak me,” Caprica says hoarsely. “Make me come. I’m yours. I want to be yours.”
“You can’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” Laura answers, genuinely pleased as she finds the right place inside of Caprica and twists her fingers.
It feels good. So good, and Caprica arches up, rubbing her own breasts wantonly as she pants and moans.
“I didn’t mean to disobey,” Caprica whimpers as Roslin’s thumb almost brushes against the side of her clit. “I’ll do what you say now. Whatever you say.”
“Yes, you will,” Laura agrees serenely. “You were always so good at pleasing me, sweetheart.”
Caprica can’t stop rocking her hips, trying to get more of those fingers, trying to feel more, even as her brain tries to process. Why does she want to obey?
“You’re one of us,” Caprica says, the pleasure building up at the base of her spine. “You were always one of us. You’re doing something to me.”
“Yes,” Laura agrees again, the side of her thumb meeting Caprica’s clit and sending spangly-hot pleasure shooting up Caprica’s spine, into her flesh.
“Oh, God,” Caprica whimpers, suddenly terrified. “You. You’re one of us. You…what are you going to do?”
“Make you come,” Laura says relentlessly, and does, Caprica screaming at the white-hot pain and pleasure of her orgasm. “You’re going to do what I want, Caprica. It can be good for you–” her fingers twist in Caprica again, finding a sweet spot and sending an aftershock of hot, aching want through her again — “Or it can hurt like hell. But either way, you’re mine. Your choice.”
Caprica feels hot tears spill over her face as she decides. God, she’s a coward. She’s always been a coward. Always followed orders.
“Make it good,” Caprica pleads. “Please.”
She’s wet all over again. Because that’s what Laura wants.
Laura always gets what she wants. It’s easier now that Caprica understands that.
“Let me out!” she screams, the bay’s so cold, so cold and empty and there’s no sound except her screaming and breathing and running around, looking for a way out. “Let me out, please!”
Cylon, Cylon, you’re a Cylon, say the walls, the walls want to murder her, they’re whispering lies to kill her dead. Lies. She’s not a Cylon. She’s always been only a supporter of the Colonies. A regular human with type O blood. Type O…common as muck.
“There’s been a mistake,” her voice says, cracking on the “a” and turning it into three syllables, and it’s so dark. She can’t see them. They’re they’re behind the glass. The old man and the president, and Lee would watch too.
Watch and see them airlock the Cylon bitch who seduced him. With a pained expression on his face.
Dee doesn’t want to be another thing that’s hurt him; even though she’s left him, she doesn’t…she can’t hurt Lee like that.
“Let me out!” Dee screams again, trying to run to the glass, trying to look at the old man. If he sees her, if he sees her face, he’ll know she’s not a Cylon. “I’m not a Cylon. I’m not.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire, sitting on the telephone wire. Because the walls are out to get her. There’s something in the walls, something strange and rich and terrifying.
Dee’s brain is spinning, and she doesn’t want to die in the black. She remembers the first time she saw a body float into space. They always lie in vids; your head doesn’t explode. Instead, it’s your lungs. Then the air bubbles get into your blood and you die. After ninety seconds, your blood starts boiling, so it’s good that you die.
It’s cold and it’s horrible and Dee doesn’t want to die. She won’t come back, no matter what they think.
Or maybe they know that. Maybe they know and don’t care.
She keeps running for the glass, but instead of getting closer, the bay keeps getting bigger. No walls nearby, no glass, no bay doors. Just Dee, alone. About to die.
About to die without being able to hear her own screams. Please, gods, please, anyone, not like this. Anything but the cold and the black and her exploding lungs and boiling blood.
She sinks to her knees and starts to cry. “Please, let me out,” she whispers. “Let me out.”
But it’s just her. Alone. Alone in the cold and the dark, and her blood will boil and her lungs will explode.
Let her out, let her out, let her out, please.
“Good morning, Tory,” the president said.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Tory said with a sigh. She looked across the compartment on Colonial One, a little battered due to the recent attack, but none the worse for wear. “What’s that?”
That was a large gurney, covered in a pure white tablecloth or sheet. A small tray hung next to it, gleaming silver-bright like Tory’s own people.
“We’re going to dissect you,” the president replied matter-of-factly, as if she was planning her agenda for the day.
Which, Tory realized with a shock and then a resigned sigh, she was.
“They’re going to kill your baby, Athena,” the aristocratic, unctuous voice of Gaius Baltar informs her superciliously.
Athena knows, because you just do in dreams, who Baltar means. “They wouldn’t do that,” she says. “They’ve sacrificed everything to protect Hera.”
“I see,” Baltar says, pointing down with one manicured finger to the floor of the opera house.
Sharon’s gaze follows Baltar’s, and she sees them, tall and blonde, and shorter and sort of redheaded. Hera’s got one hand in each mother’s, being swung back and forth.
Her delighted laughter wafts up to Sharon. She shoots a glance at Baltar. He shrugs at her.
“If you want her to die, by all means, continue watching,” he says. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t trust either of those serpentine bitches.”
Athena snorts derisively. Even in dreams, Baltar pities himself. “Yeah, cuz one of them dumped you and the other hates you.”
“No, rather because one caused the genocide of the Colonies and the other…well, do you really trust a kidnapping, airlocking, election-stealing bitch not to have her own agenda?”
Hera laughs again, but under the laughter, Sharon can hear music. Strange, wild music, thrumming in her blood.
She leaves Baltar behind and goes running down the stairs alone, crying out her daughter’s name.
It’s at the door she sees her. Hera. Not a baby anymore, no. Instead she’s tall, with curling black hair that falls to her shoulders, eyes as dark as Athena’s own, with very red lips.
There’s nothing human about her daughter now.
“Hello, mother,” she says, with a smile that makes Athena’s stomach recoil.
Behind her, Sharon can just make out the fallen bodies, and her heart begins to pound.
“Hera. What did you DO?” Sharon asks in an agonized whisper.
“I’m the firstborn of God’s children,” Hera says. “And children must always kill their parents to thrive.”
She leans forward, pulling Sharon in for a kiss. Despite knowing it’s a mistake, Sharon’s caught in Hera’s iron grip, unable to get away or struggle. Her baby’s lips are very red. She thinks it’s blood, maybe.
“I love you, mommy,” Hera says, a split second before her lips press against Sharon’s mouth.
There’s no time to answer before Hera breaks her neck and lets her fall to the ground.
There really were things worse than death, after all.
“Hello, Laura,” the drowned little girl said, water streaming off her, blood on her mouth, blood pouring from the angry gash on her head, skin pale, and lips blue. “You grew up.”
“Hello, Laura,” the President of the Twelve Colonies replied, face drawn and hand bandaged from another chemo treatment. “You didn’t.”
“I died,” the little girl said flatly, apparently unfazed about her death, her immortal youth, or the blood and water she dripped on the floor indiscriminately. “I think it’d be awful unfair if I had to grow up dead, don’t you, Laura?”
“We didn’t die,” Laura said gently, looking at the eight-year-old girl who had drowned, at the bullet’s angry track, the swollen ankle, the unearthly dead look of childish lips. “I didn’t die.”
“That’s a lie! You know we died twice!” shrieked the angry murdered child. “And now we’re old. I didn’t think we’d look all mom-faced when we got old. Plus, you look like you’re gonna cry. Am I scary?”
“Yes,” Laura said faintly, the memories crowding past her defenses, choking her with tears and horror. “You’re bleeding.”
“So are you,” the little girl who was Laura replied. “Why are you here? I’ve been here a long, long time and you didn’t come here even once. So why are you here now?”
Laura looked down at the Cylon God, the dripping, terrified, bleeding little girl who had been shot by her own grandfather’s Cylon security guards.
Herself. She was looking at herself. The enemy she had been fighting had been inside her all along.
Her enemy. A child. A dark-haired, freckled, canny-eyed little bit of a thing in her overalls and plaid blouse with the Peter Pan collar who had then been experimented on, lied to…maybe, Laura thought, we have a point, thinking that I’ve died twice.
“We have to stop this,” Laura said softly. “We have to let them be free, Laura.”
The little girl laughed, shaking her head. Blood and stagnant water fell onto Laura’s hands, clammy and cold and horrible. “Stop it? You don’t want to stop it. They let us die, then they did this to us, and this is our destiny. We have to do this. You heard Grandfather. You heard all of them. This is our job.”
“Did you make Boomer shoot Bill?” Laura asked herself, weird connections coming together in her head with every word she told herself in this place where there were no walls left to hide her secrets.
“He put us in JAIL. He would have made us kiss his stinky feet. He needed a big lesson, and didn’t he stop? He never dared fight me again!” and Laura discovered that sometimes, she and her specter spoke with the same voice. Us and me weren’t really that far apart. “And Cain. That was a good thing I did. That poor Six. Raped and tortured, and she was practically MARRIED to Cain. We brought her peace.”
Another furious shake of the child’s long braids, and thick, black blood fell splat on Laura’s wrist, spreading like a stain over her skin.
“You can’t keep me a secret anymore,” the child growled in a low voice. “The boundaries are thinner and thinner and I’m going to get out.”
Laura didn’t look at her child-self. Instead she stared at the black, clammy blood that was staining itself into her skin. Thinking of that frightened, angry child clawing her way out. Of what she had done, eternally trapped in that skinny, dead body, seeing everything as a tortured child would.
“I won’t let you,” said Laura, closing her eyes and willing for the nearly-dead ghost of her past to stay down.
“You can’t stop me,” Laura whispered back, and not in a child’s voice, as she woke up.