DISCLAIMER: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Season Two.

She Dreams of Electric Sheep
By AsianScaper


You haven't lost the fear that comes with walking in a body that doesn't feel like your own; you're afraid of it, especially terrified when he touches your hand and pulls you into supply closets and worships every inch of you with his human lips and faulty, human fingers.

Sometimes, you want to protest. Most times, you can't, he worships so intensely that you wonder if there is any other way of touching, of being. Your mind tells you that perhaps this time, you can touch your own soul. Or God. Or the humanity that calls like a Siren on the rocks.

You'd want to dash yourself gratefully onto them.

To die, then live again. To be as fragile as he is.

There are moments that you know it's all very possible, when you know that the hands that touch you are about as close to your soul as you can imagine.

You stare up at blue eyes and touch the welding of blonde hair. You trip across the contours of a perfect face. You moan.

You fear that Helo's acceptance is a dream and you can never, ever be what he sees in you. This only worsens when the ship crowds into you, as your enhanced hearing picks up on what they say: how synthetic you are, how unreal. How so like the enemy.

She tells you, "Hush. Don't think." and your lips cease to work. She fastens her fingers to places that screw an indescribable pleasure into your gut. She kisses you, you cry out.

Her name is close to your own designation, as close as it would ever be to a heaven, to an end; no matter how constructed or devoid of color, or filled with electric sheep it is…

Her hands are wet when she withdraws. Deep, deep into the shadows of Battlestar circuitry and wiring. You know now that Colonial religion has too many gods and that you've been touched by something beyond their concepts of divinity.

The ship quivers, and the klaxons scream. You step out.

The doctor from Caprica appears at a bend. He looks at you, at the closet, and then leaves with a stare of intense, unbridled jealousy.

A chill.

You remember that the supply closet is as empty as when you stepped in.

The End

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