Are You There, Cylon God? It’s Me, Gaius.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairings: Baltar/Six, Baltar/Gaeta, canon ships.
Spoilers: LDYB II
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan.
Summary: Gaius Baltar’s ongoing letter-writing campaign with God. Or possibly someone screwing with him. Crack-y.
Dear Cylon God, or One God, or God,
Six, your apparent liaison between myself and yourself (should it be Yourself? We Colonial atheists can hardly be blamed for our lack of knowledge in divine address protocol, can we? And capitalizing your name is rather snotty, isn’t it? Anyhow, if you are much vexed about the lack of capitalization, I’m sure you will inform me via your emissary, the invisible Number Six you have sent to shadow me), has informed me that to truly know your will, I must constantly communicate with you, and seek to know your mind. She suggested any number of superstitious practices that would put my favored place as a spy and informant on the Colonial people at risk, so I’ve decided a safer method is writing “unsent letters” and then disposing of them thoroughly. After all, as the One God of All People, you must be able to read my unsent letters without putting me at risk of an airlocking. (You are, of course, aware of President Roslin’s fondness of the airlock as a punitive device and a criminal deterrent, as the One God)
Right, then. I suppose that you, being the One God, know all about me, my favorite color, food, and sexual position. I also suppose you realize that I would have never tried that thing with Lieutenant Gaeta except that this destruction of my species has made finding suitable romantic partners who are in fact, corporeal, exceptionally difficult. I blew it quite thoroughly with that she-male Kara Thrace, much of the Galactica crew, including Your operative, Sharon Valerii, have made it quite clear they wouldn’t go for it if I were the last man in the universe, which I damn near am, and there was the disasterous attempt to chat up the president.
The airlock-happy president is a rather attractive woman, though not nearly as attractive as a corporeal Six returned to my life would be. But she seems to be absolutely immune to my charms, so that went tets-up. I never thought she could insult me worse than the time she informed me that she always knew that I was a traitor to the human race — and do tell, sometime, HOW the woman knew such a thing? She terrifies me. The others have no idea of my sins, but I feel the eyes of Roslin upon me, knowing that someday I will reveal my crimes — but when she told me that I reminded her of an overeager schoolboy and that she would rather spend an evening with Billy, discussing his puppy crush on Petty Officer Dualla, well. Am I really so unattractive?
Your Six, for example, says that I am a fine lover, a specimen of perfection, and so on. Why, then, must I dally with a lovesick lieutenant like Felix instead of being gifted by your infinite mercy with an actual female lover?
Please, my Lord and my God, grant me knowledge. Or, preferably, someone long-legged, pliant, and willing to experiment.
Thy Humble Servant,
PS Ought I end these So say we all or is that hideously gauche of me? GB
Dear One God of All, Including Humans, Cylons, and Hopefully Me,
D’Anna Biers snubbed me hideously, even though Six said she would help me. I suppose that means she’s a you-know-what (Cylon), though given her attitude, and her ass-kissing documentary that made Little Miss Jumped-Up Schoolteacher happy, I have my doubts. She acted as though I was a pathetic little man that nobody liked.
Dear God, am I pathetic little man whom nobody likes? On Caprica, I was quite popular! There was always a warm body to keep the sheets hot, the real president took my calls, and I was on television all the time. How did I become a pathetic little man whom nobody likes? It can’t be because of my large gaffe, because no one knows about that.
Felix says that I am too sensitive and I take things too personally. He says that D’Anna Biers was rude to everyone. Then he went into a long story about his tattoo and how D’Anna asked all sorts of questions about it, and then he asked me if I thought his silly little cat tattoo was sexy.
I discovered that one should not insult tattoos, no matter how ridiculous. I was quite thoroughly left behind for the evening, and forced to seek out the scintillating company of one Ellen Tigh. What can I do to recover my once-thriving love life, oh creator of everything and merciful sparer of my life on several occasions? I’m starting to feel like a virgin all over again.
Anyway, I could use your help, but please don’t let Six laugh at me too many times while sharing it.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Gaius.
WHY WON’T ADAMA AND ROSLIN JUST DIE ALREADY?
I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me with his little eyes and with his little looks. I hate how he speaks to me like I’m a slow child, I hate how he favors that bitch Starbuck and his pansy, play-by-the rules, clearly had an affair with Dad’s woman, son, Lee. I hate him!
And I know that Roslin will die, soon. Soon, so that I will be the president, but it cannot be soon enough. As much as I hate Adama, and the stick he hides up his — well, you know — I hate her more. I loathe her. I fear her. I want to do horrible things to her that have actually led to very exciting sex with both Gaeta and Ellen Tigh.
(Ellen hates her, too. We both had quite a good laugh, along with Mr. Zarek, about what it would be like once the old man actually made a move on the Always Correct and Proper President. Then we asked Zarek if it was true if she had slept with Lee. Zarek wouldn’t say anything. Ellen got so upset, because Ellen doesn’t like how every man her age in the fleet has a not-so-secret jones for the Jumped-Up-Teacher.)
But honestly, once she dies, my life will be perfect. I’ll be able to rescue Gina from the hiding place I’ve got her, Adama will have to listen to me, because last time he didn’t listen to the real leader of the fleet, that mess on Kobol happened, and I can make the rules. And there will be no more Miss Scary Eyes to look at me like I’m a rotten, no-good SOB.
Maybe I can have Adama airlocked for treason. That would be excellent.
I find that our ongoing dialogues are quite comforting, God. You’re not nearly so judgmental as Six would have me believe, and I find that strengthens our relationship proportionally. Proportionately? I can never remember the word.
Oh, my God:
I saved her! She was going to be extra-super-permanently dead and I saved her, right after I got into a fight with Gina and WHAT WAS I THINKING, GOD? I SAVED THE EVIL BITCH!
Of course, I then sent Gina a nuclear weapon, to show my undying love. But you understand, dear God, that I am simply so frustrated. Gaeta is hardly satisfactory, Ellen Tigh is likely to spread veneral disease, and there’s really no other woman that is satisfactory in the fleet.
Not when Gina, who I am in love with, exists. I adore her, dear God, and I hope she realizes soon that she and I are meant to be. I need her in my arms, so that I don’t make foolish decisions like SAVING THE EVIL BITCH.
That letter! That letter that says I am the selfish one. I saved her life. How’s that for gratitude? I don’t even know why I saved her. It was so strange; I had a flash of intuition that felt like Your Will.
Dear God, was it your will that Laura Roslin be saved? Why? I don’t understand, God, and I’m a little afraid that I even think you might want Laura frakking Roslin saved as part of Your divine plan.
And why are so many of my letters about her? It seems all I ever think about is sex and Laura Roslin. And about what Your will is. That’s how I’ve become a pathetic little man whom nobody likes, because I’m obsessed with a woman I hate for a reason I don’t understand. She gets under my skin, God. I love Gina, I love her dearly and want to save her. I am devoted to you, I want to do your will, but I have Six, your angel, to tell me so. (An angel? Really? I find that so ridiculous, by the by.) I dislike Adama, I find Boomer to be intriguing when she’s a Cylon but rather dull, despite being the carrier of my child-to-be, but Roslin. She itches at my brain like a virus. I want to do something to spite her.
Explain it to me. Explain my fate, please!
Dear God, you traitorous scum:
Why, oh lord, did you let them take my daughter?
I don’t understand any of this. Six was waiting for me, and so angry, because Your will had been thwarted. And that, again, is a mystery I didn’t want to share even with her. If it was your will that damnable woman lived, and that damnable woman killed my daughter, your servant, then was it Your will that my daughter died? Was there a flaw in the child because of the weak people (Boomer and that Agathon fellow) who engendered her?
I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all, though I know it is your will that I acede to the presidency and make that woman pay for what she’s done, make this bloodthirsty species pay, and do your will, but I don’t see the way. It all seems ridiculous.
I’m so sorry if I failed. Help me not to fail anymore.
Your faithful servant,
We don’t have anything else to discuss.
[One Year Later]
Thy plans are very long-laid, aren’t they? Gina knew the plan, and I didn’t. I’ve been reunited with my Six, my first and wonderful Six, but my sins are evident, because it seems like laying eyes on a ghost and a stranger. Roslin, my enemy and yours, has been humiliated — back to being a little schoolteacher, and now put in jail — but she seems to know something. All of them seem to know something, even as I see thy will being done, but I don’t understand.
If I am your servant, if I am your chosen, give me a sign. Help me to understand and follow your path. I’m ready for whatever you need me to do. Just stop testing me, because I’m not sure I’m strong enough to bear it any further.
[Found on a desk on Colonial One. Unsigned.]
Recognize the handwriting?
That’s a bad joke, right? RIGHT?
You have got to be kidding me. You cannot be God.
If in fact, you are God, I quit as your devoted servant. Because you are a taunting vicious bitch who does not deserve my worship.
You are not God, not not not!
If, in fact, you really really are God, I cannot believe you tried to airlock me all those times. Not on, Divine Bitch Queen. Not on.
I just reveal myself as the one God and all you can say is, “Not on?”
This is why you get into trouble.
Your Loving One God
Aren’t you in jail?
Love and kisses,
I thought you were only frakking Gaeta because there were no acceptable women. I brought your one true Six back to your side. There are multiple Cylons who adore you.
And of course I’m in jail. All true figures of righteousness are persecuted regularly. By people like you, mostly.
Teaching you slowly but surely,
Your Divine Overlord
That’s really none of your business.
And you are not a true figure of righteousness. See also: airlocking a baby.
You really think I airlocked a baby?
Really? You’re not nearly as clever as your PR, are you, beloved worshiper?
The baby’s alive?
You are a devious witch, and I salute you. Also, I loathe you, despise you, and would do horrible things to you.
That’s assuming I can’t forge anyone’s handwriting and am not frakking with you, RIGHT NOW.
PS You are incredibly easy to sway. Did you really want me to be God that badly?
Oh, give me a little credit.
PS It at least explains why I was obsessed with a woman I didn’t want to frak who was old enough to be my mother.
I can give you boils and syphilis.
You did that already.
Ellen gave you that, not me. There’s a difference.
You’re quite jealous of Ellen, aren’t you? Hardly supreme being of you, darling.
That sore on your lip must be distressing your beloved Six desperately.
YOU ARE A PETTY GOD AND I HATE YOU.
It’s still God to you.
God (currently incarnated as Laura Roslin)
All right, all right, I repent. You are an awesome and mighty God, who is quite talented at placing sores and causing plagues and making people admit drunken encounters. I repent of ever saying you were jealous of Ellen Tigh, or that you were in any way other than a just, righteous, and omniscient supreme being whose every motive is based in love.
Please remove the boils at your earliest convenience.
PS This is wonderful proof of how you were always a traitor. Thanks.