07/28/2007: "BSG fic: Wear a Human Face (Twelve, Chief, Boomer, Seelix, Chief/Boomer; PG)"

Title: Wear a Human Face
Characters: Twelve, Chief, Boomer, Seelix (Chief/Boomer)
Rating: PG
Words: About 1700
Spoilers: General for s1
Summary: Twelve is unique.
Notes: This is for the spook_me Hallowe'en challenge. My prompt was 'shapeshifter'. Many thanks to jayneaintagirl for the beta and for telling me that it actually works!

Each time she makes the transfer, she takes the time to look at herself in a mirror. She inspects the new topography, the unknown wrinkles on her face, or the scars, or the particular arch of an eyebrow. She smiles, she frowns, she brushes her hand through her hair. It helps her to settle, to match her face, her body with the memories that are beginning to mingle with her own.

This time, she thinks she may be pretty, by human standards. She's not always pretty – sometimes she's rugged, sometimes worn and sick, sometimes plain. She's not always female either, although she prefers it when she is – it's easier, somehow, to walk like a woman, with smaller steps and contained movements. Being a man – especially a broad man – is hard. She's not always sure she's convincing, as a man. It is not her forte.

Behind her, the human is slumped, but not dead. She doesn't kill them. Killing is for the Centurions, or the Raiders, or even the Six models. She only takes their identities and their faces, long enough to collect data, gather information. She is a spy, not a killer.

And today, she's also a mechanic – pretty, tired, and dirty around the knuckles. Today she'll learn about their inventory, sabotage some of the their ships, and pretend that she's another one of them – running, running, always running.

She wonders if she'll see the Eight that they have on board.

Even if she does, the Eight won't see her. No one ever truly sees her.

*

"Model Twelve," the Six says to her, smiling her tight, powerful smile. "We've been waiting for you for a long time."

Of course, Twelve knows this. She came into existence knowing this.

"You're unique. You must understand how long we worked to perfect you."

"I understand," she says, looking down at her hand. She reaches out, takes Six's hand in hers, and looks at how they are the same – same gentle curve of fingers and carefully rounded nails.

"So quickly," Six murmurs, her voice awed and pleased. "Do you even think about it?"

"No," she says. There's no thinking in it at all.

*

"Seelix!" someone yells at her, and she turns, mouth tight. It's Cally, smiling and cheerful; Seelix is never cheerful. Maybe that's why she spends so much time with Cally.

"Are you going to the 'deck?"

"Yes," Twelve says. "I have another shift."

"Me too. Ten more hours."

Yes. Together they walk, Cally sharing gossip, talking about the lumps in her rack, the bad food, the endless work. Cally touches her, casual and friendly, and Twelve is glad that Seelix isn't the type to touch back. "I need food," she says, and they stop by the mess hall. The hunger feels insatiable, but Seelix is a light eater, and so Twelve restrains herself.

On the deck, Twelve smiles absently at Seelix's friends, and works on blending into the background. Seelix never stands out. Seelix is a follower, quiet and slightly broken. It made her an easy target.

Twelve watches Chief Tyrol and his people; she makes repairs, carefully disguising the tiny flaws she works into the engines or the weapons systems. The acts of sabotage are small; at best they will slow the pilots down during drills. But her mission is still mostly observation and data collection right now; the sabotage is just a distraction, a way to pass the time.

She notes how the Chief and the Eight – Boomer, Seelix calls her – watch each other with careful smiles; she sees how they touch, when they don't think anyone is watching. There's love between them – not the love of God, or the love for the perfection of the Cylon. It's human love, messy and breakable and sometimes bloody.

Twelve wonders if Seelix has ever known that kind of love. Only recent memories come with the transfer, and all Seelix has felt lately is despair, loss, fear, exhaustion, rotating in an endless circle. Twelve finds the emotions draining. They make her long for a clear, cool data stream.

And as she watches the Eight and Chief Tyrol circle around each other, smiling and wanting, she decides that she'll be Chief Tyrol next. When she touches the Eight, it will be Cylon to Cylon. The Eight will never know.

Or perhaps she will. Perhaps touching another Cylon will raise half-memories of home, momentarily breaking through the programming and the lies. Maybe Eight will push through Boomer, push her aside, and look at Twelve, right through the Chief Tyrol mask that Twelve will be wearing.

She wonders what the Eight will see.

*

"You glow, do you know that?" Six's smile is warmer, now, less aloof. "Everything about you. Of course, it's a side effect of your ability. But it's pleasant to see. The humans would think you were a god walking among them."

Six's hair has its own glow, a halo of soft light that falls around her face. Aesthetically, it's pleasing. That is the way Six was built. There is nothing aesthetic about Twelve, and she doesn't believe in the human gods. She shrugs. "The shifting uses considerable energy. I'm hungry."

"Come," Six says, holding out her hand. "The others want to meet you."

Twelve takes Six's hand, absorbing her warmth, and allows herself to be led away. "I take it there will be food."

Six laughs. "It would only be civilised."

*

It's easier for the others. They have one of so few faces – they see themselves in each other, living mirrors. They know who they are, and who they always will be. When Twelve is with the others, she can pretend – she can take their faces, and pretend that she knows the passions of the Sixes, or the coldness of the Threes.

But the truth is that Twelve is a blank slate, inside and out. She always has been. When she stops wearing the human face, there's nothing left for anyone to see. She's a reflection, hollow and lacking, and with each new human face, she knows she slips further away from her people.

With every transfer, she hates the humans a little less. Some days, she almost pities them.

When she's alone, when she's faceless and between roles, she tells herself that this is part of her programming. She tells herself that she isn't fundamentally flawed, that she isn't a mistake.

Once, long ago, before she came to the world of the humans, to the Galactica, she might have believed it.

*

"Chief!" someone calls out, his voice full of welcome.

Twelve turns, smiling, drawn towards it. Her centre of gravity is off, and her hands feel absurdly large. But she'll get used to it, she always does. And when that happens, she'll return to the spaces between walls, the place where she keeps the bodies of her victims. She'll return the identity, let the Chief wake up, and she'll and start the cycle again. "Lieutenant Gaeta," she says, her voice low and deep. "What's the news from the CIC?"

"You know how it is," Gaeta says, and they talk requisitions and supply lists and techniques for stretching resources out a little longer. Gaeta has creative, thoughtful ideas, and it makes her wonder how he grew up, and what sacrifices he learned to make.

When they get to the hangar deck, Gaeta nods, Twelve salutes, and they part ways. She watches him walk down the hall, and thinks perhaps she'll be him next. Gaeta would have access to more tactical data than Chief, Seelix, or Dualla. Gaeta. Yes. He should be easy to lure away, easy to temporarily store.

She's only on the 'deck for a few minutes before she catches sight of the Eight. Twelve's breath catches, involuntarily and for no good reason. Boomer's hair is messy, her eyes are tired, and her uniform is dirty around the edges. Twelve should not be drawn to her, and yet she is. She can't stop watching the way Boomer smiles at Starbuck, her eyes crinkling with affection, her laughter almost joyful.

Twelve drifts closer, telling herself that she's simply listening for data, that she doesn't want – or need – to be closer to that depth of feeling. She pretends she's not overwhelmed by the Chief's passion for Boomer. Instead, she absently picks up a discarded tool, listening to the joking and easy gossip. And then the Eight – Boomer – is looking towards Twelve.

"Hi, Chief," Boomer says, her smile widening, her eyes softening.

"LT," Twelve says, feeling her unfamiliar mouth stretch wide, feeling her breath catch again. And then, abruptly, the smile settles into place; it becomes natural, unthinking. Twelve becomes Chief, that easily.

And Chief's heart still stutters with joy, some days, when he looks at Boomer. She presses her hand to her chest, briefly, willing the feeling away. Maybe Chief Tyrol was a mistake.

"You all right? Something about you looks different."

"I'm fine," Twelve manages, feeling her skin flush, wondering if Boomer can see the glow that had pleased the Sixes so much.

"Good." Boomer's expression turns stern, a mask that Twelve almost believes. "Because we need to talk about Raptor Nine. I don't know what the frak you think you're doing with –"

Twelve stops listening, following Boomer as she quickly walks away. Chief Tyrol has memories of this – manufactured problems followed by biting kisses and the smooth warmth of Boomer's skin against his hands. "There's nothing frakking wrong with Raptor Nine." They're Chief's words. Her words. His voice. Hers. "Just because you can't land worth a damn –"

They're still arguing when the door closes behind them. When it's locked, Boomer stops, smiles, and murmurs, "Galen, it's frakked up, it really is." But she's pulling open her jacket as she speaks, and her mouth is soft around the edges.

"Shut up, LT," Twelve says, reaching for Boomer, and kissing her. Twelve's hands – Chief's hands – are shaking with what she wants.

And she's certain that Chief Tyrol was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Because right now, she's wondering how long she can be Chief Tyrol, and if she ever wants to be anyone else again.

*

"You're unique," Six tells her again, before they send Twelve away. "And we love you."

"I know," Twelve says, even if that love feels insubstantial.

"You know your mission."

"Of course." She feels like she was born knowing.

Six smiles, her head tilted to one side. "I almost envy you. They'll never see you, they'll never suspect. And we'll call you when it's time to come home."

Twelve nods, and wonders what it will be like to wear a human face.

End.




	Home Archives July 2007 BSG fic: Wear a Human Face (Twelve, Chief, Boomer, Seelix, Chief/Boomer; PG) [Previous entry: "BSG fic: When you've got it, you've got it (Helo/everyone; PG-13)"] [Next entry: "BSG fic: One Yu Bun Duh Planet (BSG/Firefly crossover; Jayne, Helo; PG-13)"] 07/28/2007: "BSG fic: Wear a Human Face (Twelve, Chief, Boomer, Seelix, Chief/Boomer; PG)" Title: Wear a Human Face Characters: Twelve, Chief, Boomer, Seelix (Chief/Boomer) Rating: PG Words: About 1700 Spoilers: General for s1 Summary: Twelve is unique. Notes: This is for the spook_me Hallowe'en challenge. My prompt was 'shapeshifter'. Many thanks to jayneaintagirl for the beta and for telling me that it actually works! Each time she makes the transfer, she takes the time to look at herself in a mirror. She inspects the new topography, the unknown wrinkles on her face, or the scars, or the particular arch of an eyebrow. She smiles, she frowns, she brushes her hand through her hair. It helps her to settle, to match her face, her body with the memories that are beginning to mingle with her own. This time, she thinks she may be pretty, by human standards. She's not always pretty – sometimes she's rugged, sometimes worn and sick, sometimes plain. She's not always female either, although she prefers it when she is – it's easier, somehow, to walk like a woman, with smaller steps and contained movements. Being a man – especially a broad man – is hard. She's not always sure she's convincing, as a man. It is not her forte. Behind her, the human is slumped, but not dead. She doesn't kill them. Killing is for the Centurions, or the Raiders, or even the Six models. She only takes their identities and their faces, long enough to collect data, gather information. She is a spy, not a killer. And today, she's also a mechanic – pretty, tired, and dirty around the knuckles. Today she'll learn about their inventory, sabotage some of the their ships, and pretend that she's another one of them – running, running, always running. She wonders if she'll see the Eight that they have on board. Even if she does, the Eight won't see her. No one ever truly sees her. * "Model Twelve," the Six says to her, smiling her tight, powerful smile. "We've been waiting for you for a long time." Of course, Twelve knows this. She came into existence knowing this. "You're unique. You must understand how long we worked to perfect you." "I understand," she says, looking down at her hand. She reaches out, takes Six's hand in hers, and looks at how they are the same – same gentle curve of fingers and carefully rounded nails. "So quickly," Six murmurs, her voice awed and pleased. "Do you even think about it?" "No," she says. There's no thinking in it at all. * "Seelix!" someone yells at her, and she turns, mouth tight. It's Cally, smiling and cheerful; Seelix is never cheerful. Maybe that's why she spends so much time with Cally. "Are you going to the 'deck?" "Yes," Twelve says. "I have another shift." "Me too. Ten more hours." Yes. Together they walk, Cally sharing gossip, talking about the lumps in her rack, the bad food, the endless work. Cally touches her, casual and friendly, and Twelve is glad that Seelix isn't the type to touch back. "I need food," she says, and they stop by the mess hall. The hunger feels insatiable, but Seelix is a light eater, and so Twelve restrains herself. On the deck, Twelve smiles absently at Seelix's friends, and works on blending into the background. Seelix never stands out. Seelix is a follower, quiet and slightly broken. It made her an easy target. Twelve watches Chief Tyrol and his people; she makes repairs, carefully disguising the tiny flaws she works into the engines or the weapons systems. The acts of sabotage are small; at best they will slow the pilots down during drills. But her mission is still mostly observation and data collection right now; the sabotage is just a distraction, a way to pass the time. She notes how the Chief and the Eight – Boomer, Seelix calls her – watch each other with careful smiles; she sees how they touch, when they don't think anyone is watching. There's love between them – not the love of God, or the love for the perfection of the Cylon. It's human love, messy and breakable and sometimes bloody. Twelve wonders if Seelix has ever known that kind of love. Only recent memories come with the transfer, and all Seelix has felt lately is despair, loss, fear, exhaustion, rotating in an endless circle. Twelve finds the emotions draining. They make her long for a clear, cool data stream. And as she watches the Eight and Chief Tyrol circle around each other, smiling and wanting, she decides that she'll be Chief Tyrol next. When she touches the Eight, it will be Cylon to Cylon. The Eight will never know. Or perhaps she will. Perhaps touching another Cylon will raise half-memories of home, momentarily breaking through the programming and the lies. Maybe Eight will push through Boomer, push her aside, and look at Twelve, right through the Chief Tyrol mask that Twelve will be wearing. She wonders what the Eight will see. * "You glow, do you know that?" Six's smile is warmer, now, less aloof. "Everything about you. Of course, it's a side effect of your ability. But it's pleasant to see. The humans would think you were a god walking among them." Six's hair has its own glow, a halo of soft light that falls around her face. Aesthetically, it's pleasing. That is the way Six was built. There is nothing aesthetic about Twelve, and she doesn't believe in the human gods. She shrugs. "The shifting uses considerable energy. I'm hungry." "Come," Six says, holding out her hand. "The others want to meet you." Twelve takes Six's hand, absorbing her warmth, and allows herself to be led away. "I take it there will be food." Six laughs. "It would only be civilised." * It's easier for the others. They have one of so few faces – they see themselves in each other, living mirrors. They know who they are, and who they always will be. When Twelve is with the others, she can pretend – she can take their faces, and pretend that she knows the passions of the Sixes, or the coldness of the Threes. But the truth is that Twelve is a blank slate, inside and out. She always has been. When she stops wearing the human face, there's nothing left for anyone to see. She's a reflection, hollow and lacking, and with each new human face, she knows she slips further away from her people. With every transfer, she hates the humans a little less. Some days, she almost pities them. When she's alone, when she's faceless and between roles, she tells herself that this is part of her programming. She tells herself that she isn't fundamentally flawed, that she isn't a mistake. Once, long ago, before she came to the world of the humans, to the Galactica, she might have believed it. * "Chief!" someone calls out, his voice full of welcome. Twelve turns, smiling, drawn towards it. Her centre of gravity is off, and her hands feel absurdly large. But she'll get used to it, she always does. And when that happens, she'll return to the spaces between walls, the place where she keeps the bodies of her victims. She'll return the identity, let the Chief wake up, and she'll and start the cycle again. "Lieutenant Gaeta," she says, her voice low and deep. "What's the news from the CIC?" "You know how it is," Gaeta says, and they talk requisitions and supply lists and techniques for stretching resources out a little longer. Gaeta has creative, thoughtful ideas, and it makes her wonder how he grew up, and what sacrifices he learned to make. When they get to the hangar deck, Gaeta nods, Twelve salutes, and they part ways. She watches him walk down the hall, and thinks perhaps she'll be him next. Gaeta would have access to more tactical data than Chief, Seelix, or Dualla. Gaeta. Yes. He should be easy to lure away, easy to temporarily store. She's only on the 'deck for a few minutes before she catches sight of the Eight. Twelve's breath catches, involuntarily and for no good reason. Boomer's hair is messy, her eyes are tired, and her uniform is dirty around the edges. Twelve should not be drawn to her, and yet she is. She can't stop watching the way Boomer smiles at Starbuck, her eyes crinkling with affection, her laughter almost joyful. Twelve drifts closer, telling herself that she's simply listening for data, that she doesn't want – or need – to be closer to that depth of feeling. She pretends she's not overwhelmed by the Chief's passion for Boomer. Instead, she absently picks up a discarded tool, listening to the joking and easy gossip. And then the Eight – Boomer – is looking towards Twelve. "Hi, Chief," Boomer says, her smile widening, her eyes softening. "LT," Twelve says, feeling her unfamiliar mouth stretch wide, feeling her breath catch again. And then, abruptly, the smile settles into place; it becomes natural, unthinking. Twelve becomes Chief, that easily. And Chief's heart still stutters with joy, some days, when he looks at Boomer. She presses her hand to her chest, briefly, willing the feeling away. Maybe Chief Tyrol was a mistake. "You all right? Something about you looks different." "I'm fine," Twelve manages, feeling her skin flush, wondering if Boomer can see the glow that had pleased the Sixes so much. "Good." Boomer's expression turns stern, a mask that Twelve almost believes. "Because we need to talk about Raptor Nine. I don't know what the frak you think you're doing with –" Twelve stops listening, following Boomer as she quickly walks away. Chief Tyrol has memories of this – manufactured problems followed by biting kisses and the smooth warmth of Boomer's skin against his hands. "There's nothing frakking wrong with Raptor Nine." They're Chief's words. Her words. His voice. Hers. "Just because you can't land worth a damn –" They're still arguing when the door closes behind them. When it's locked, Boomer stops, smiles, and murmurs, "Galen, it's frakked up, it really is." But she's pulling open her jacket as she speaks, and her mouth is soft around the edges. "Shut up, LT," Twelve says, reaching for Boomer, and kissing her. Twelve's hands – Chief's hands – are shaking with what she wants. And she's certain that Chief Tyrol was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Because right now, she's wondering how long she can be Chief Tyrol, and if she ever wants to be anyone else again. * "You're unique," Six tells her again, before they send Twelve away. "And we love you." "I know," Twelve says, even if that love feels insubstantial. "You know your mission." "Of course." She feels like she was born knowing. Six smiles, her head tilted to one side. "I almost envy you. They'll never see you, they'll never suspect. And we'll call you when it's time to come home." Twelve nods, and wonders what it will be like to wear a human face. End.