kixxa and the dark birdcage

Long day

kixxa — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 10:51:29 GMT

Sitting in my borrowed office and have time to kill. And it seems the more I'm bored, the hungier I'm getting. Am dreaming of a goats cheese and tomato sandwich on rye bread... Roll on 12 o'clock...

kixxa — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 08:35:58 GMT

LJ has ads now? Sheesh!!

Aso, is Ziva pregnant? Zeva? Ziva? Ace Mossad agent of NCIS fame. (Must get fannish again!)

Potted update

kixxa — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 07:12:18 GMT

Bin away a long, long times!

More health woes in my items of scintillating information. Found out I have a nice dose of rosacea, the kind that makes your skin rough. The dermatologist's creams are working a treat, and for the first time in absolute ages, my skin is nice and smooth again. Am helping things along by taking lysine, milk thistle, and olive leaf extract.

Just about the same time I found out what the hell was the matter with my face, I also found out that I had a carcinoma that needed an excision. I swear, the plastic surgeon took half of my arm (upper left outer shoulder). Prime shoulder as they quipped at work. Internal and external stitches meant I couldn't move the arm the first couple of days, and as that's the side I have to sleep on now (as the frozen shoulder is still too stuffed to sleep on), sleeping was pretty hard. Hoo, baby! The upshot will the lovely scar that will be a conversation starter, like...'who glassed your arm?'

And now, as these things come in threes, I have a lovely headcold.

On the good side of the ledger, dad made me chicken soup.
I taught a shop girl the difference between a swede and a turnip.
I'm learning the tarot.
Kala, the deep and lovely, is going to do my tarot reading.
And, there may be some news of great import coming up soon. So, watch this space! Plans are afoot, oh, yes indeedy!

kixxa — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 12:32:52 GMT

I'm in ur pot, crumpling all ur flowers.

Finally, a safe place to profess your Baltar love

kixxa — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 01:36:08 GMT

For anyone who missed it, there's been a community created for unabashed lovers of Baltar and Six, which primarily focuses on their often bumpy ride to redemption. The comm is all about rewatching BSG from the Baltar/Six pov, and their interactions with others, and how other characters interact with them, how their story affects others, and how other stories affect them...etc.

We're kicking off with the miniseries which should be watched by/on Wednesday so it's nice and fresh in your mind. We're going to have a synopsis/recap post of the ep, followed by a roundtable discussion post. Promises to be indepth, erudite and fun!

http://community.livejournal.com/bsg_journeyhome/

kixxa — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 00:46:04 GMT

Was writing out my sister's address as she's based in Jakarta for the next few months, and looked down to check my pen. It's got 'Botox, Botulinum Toxin Type A' stamped on it. I have no idea where this pen came from, but as my house is Central Station for my family, I have some healthy suspicions. And, I must say, the pen writes pretty well which is a resounding endorsement for Botox...or not.

An innocent packet of dark-chocolate-dipped Goji berries caused a major upset yesterday with the fall-out being my parents not talking to each other. However, it all seems to be okay today, and the saucer-full of really delicious morsels that I left in their kitchen have all been eaten (I presume it was them, and not the pixies in the night). God, they are totes delicious. Best $7.95 I ever spent on chocolate.

Got BSG 4.5 yesterday. The unrated version of 'A Disquiet Follows My Soul' was a revelation, and now it finally makes some sense, as it had two Baltar/Six scenes that had been cut which put Doctor Baltar's preaching into despairing and heartbreaking perspective. Frakkin' ruthless editing... *grumbles*

Tomorrow, it is August!

kixxa — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 06:06:08 GMT

I finished off my kids story and sent it out for comments/beta yesterday. (Thanks again to the guys who put their hands up!) Now, I'm feeling kinda lost and lonely. You see, somewhere amongst the dialogue and action, those rag-tag characters of mine became my friends, and I need to find out what's going to happen next in their lives. And, as they want to know too, they've clubbed together and are compelling me to write the next installment of their adventures. A bossy lot, aren't they?

In the midst of being bossed around by my characters, I managed a small - but very pretty - update of the James Callis blog. http://allthingsjamescallis.blogspot.com/ Why is this man so tastily gorgeous?

kixxa — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:28:26 GMT

I got a phonecall around 8:00pm last night. A rather crisp woman who stated that she was from 'The House With No Steps' and wished to speak to 'David Hamilton'. Now, my mind was still processing 'THWNS' part of the introduction. I'm such a visual girl that I was imagining a house floating off the ground with despondent people milling around it, and what possible good is such a thing anyway? I finally managed a 'Uh, what's that got to do with me?' kind of response, before telling her she'd obviously got the wrong number.

And, this morning, I had a phonecall from my bank. They're automating their nuisance calls it seems. Press any key to continue. So I pressed 'end'. Ha! Take that, bank!

mood: victorious

BSG fic!

kixxa — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:37:20 GMT

This fic is for Daniela, whose poking with a sharp stick really gets results!

Gaius Baltar, Doc Cottle and an OC.

“Where are you taking me? I demand to know--”

With the unexpected arrival of Gaius Baltar in Galactica's brig, Sam Lucas was relishing what he had always thought of as a dead-end job. He nodded a subtle affirmation and watched with interest as Broman grabbed the prison-issue shirt and tossed Gaius Baltar effortlessly against the bars, the thump of his wiry body – and especially his grimace of pain – settling scores and bringing a smile to Lucas' face.

“Watch out, doc,” Lucas purred, disengaging his bulky body from the hard support of the prison wall. “You're getting very clumsy of late. You're becoming a real danger to yourself.”

“Enjoy that, did you?” Baltar spat, turning sullenly, a hand straying to rub the bruise that would soon bloom upon that fragile shoulder. “You're animals. Nothing but animals.”

“And yet, from where I'm standing, you're the prime exhibit in the cage,” Lucas said. “Funny that, don'tchya think?”

Broman grabbed Baltar's hand, tugged it down and snapped on the restraint, tethering wrist-to-wrist with satisfying tightness, before starting on his ankles. Baltar grew silent, his resentment almost palpable, even to an animal like Lucas.

Baltar lifted a foot and gingerly tested the boundaries of the tethers. “You don't need to do this.”

“Regulations,” Broman murmured with satisfaction, clambering to his feet with a grimace.

“And do these regulations say to put filth in my food and wake me at unGodly hours...”

“They wrote an addendum to the rulebook when you were admitted,” Lucas explained, standing back to survey Broman's handiwork. Baltar, caught in the light, wilted under their combined glare, his moist gaze straying to the floor, to the top of his soft prison-issue shoes, to the bars that defined his own little rectangle of existence.

“Things are different now, aren't they?” Lucas muttered, barely suppressing a triumphant smile.

The former President remained silent, raising his shackled hands to rub at his shoulder, the links clinking with the movement.

Lucas indicated Baltar's cell with a wave of his hand, and it was hard to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “I bet it wasn't like this on Colonial One.”

“Colonial One?” Baltar responded dully, tentatively flexing his shoulder. “Colonial One was an exclusive prison. Maybe the beds were softer but the basic premise was the same. Containment. Isolation. Intimidation. Coercion. All those comforting homely things that rock people like you to sleep at night.”

“Do you really expect me to believe you suffered?” Lucas snorted, taking a menacing step forward, but Baltar held his ground, his gaze hard and leveling. “That the so very exclusive Colonial One was a prison?”

“From a dolt like you, I really don't expect anything.”

Lucas considered, then shrugged, grabbed the sore shoulder and smiled when Baltar winced.

“Where are you taking-” Baltar began, this time uncertainly, his body-language screaming out like a reluctant child forced to do something it didn't want to do.

“You'll find out when you get there, won't you Mr President?” Lucas stated with that measured politeness that always made Broman laugh. And Broman, chuckling, propelled the former President forward, Baltar's rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor's hard-surface.

Lucas watched as Baltar shuffled past – too frakking slowly -- so Lucas rather politely thumped him in the back and sent him stumbling. “Just a little encouragement, Mr President.”

Baltar quickened his pace. “I haven't been tried yet. It may come as a surprise to you, but I have rights. As a citizen of the Colonies, I have inalienable rights--”

“Like we had rights on New Caprica? You didn't give a frak about our rights when you sold us to the Cylons. And now your rights don't mean a thing out here, inalienable or otherwise,” Lucas responded, closing the cell door with a reverberating bang. It was a nice way to end the conversation.

The brilliant scientist and former President shuffled to the hatchway, looking so small in his rumpled clothes, so frakkin' fragile without the armor of his arrogance... With two steps Lucas came up behind him, to that limp dark hair that shone dully in the light... Lucas stretched out his hand and yanked, and Baltar paused, hissed in pain, eyes closed tight. Lucas leaned in, whispered into Baltar's ear, “Maybe you forgot about us, but we never forgot about you.”

“I have rights,” Baltar repeated softly, like a prayer, like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, these rights would somehow manifest themselves, like they hadn't for the people on New Caprica -- the living, or the dead.”

“The dead don't have rights,” Lucas hissed, releasing the hair and pushing Baltar towards the brig door.

xx

Lucas had chosen the long way to the brig infirmary, with scattered on-lookers curiously eyeing the shuffling former-President who cowered from their presence like a skittery cat, gaze flicking from side-to-side, or fixed on the floor which gleamed under Galactica's lighting.

“Hey, dead man, we're here,” Lucas called casually, as Baltar, following Broman, overshot the infirmary door. “What, you wanna walk these corridors forever? I know you need the exercise, but I thought you were smarter than that.”

“'The Smart Choice',” Broman chuckled, his dull laugh loud in the metal-clad corridor.

Baltar stopped and turned, watching blankly as Lucas shoved down the infirmary handle. The heavy door creaked open, the harsh light spilling out, making Lucas cast two shadows.

“Is this another interrogation?” Baltar asked, eyes widening with something akin to panic. “Another of Roslin's torture sessions?”

Lucas stretched out his hand and had the immense joy of seeing Baltar flinch. He took the battered shoulder of choice and guided the unwilling former-President firmly into the small room.

“He's all yours, Doctor Cottle,” Lucas said deferentially.

xx

“Do you know what time it is?” Cottle growled, glancing up from his chair at the table. “And, take those restraints off. Doctor Baltar is here as a patient--”

“Am I? I'm not a test-subject this time?” Baltar asked suspiciously from his spot near the entrance, his penetrating gaze shifting to Cottle's medical bag. “What other interesting psychosis-inducing drugs have you got in there?”

Cottle's voice hardened. “I'm here as your doctor, not your inquisitor.”

“So, this is an humanitarian gesture, a minimum baseline of care? Or, is this just another ploy?” Baltar glanced up, pale face searching for a camera or a bug.

“If it were, it wouldn't be so obvious. We had a lessons learned review,” Cottle said more agreeably. “And, for all my faults, I'm not in the habit of lying. And take those damned restraints off,” he repeated, as Broman moved reluctantly to unfasten them.

Baltar rubbed his wrists and watched impassively as Broman knelt to remove the shackles from his ankles. “Why have they sent you?”

Cottle shrugged. “Because I'm not in the habit of refusing orders either,” he stated, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his bag. “You want one? Or have you taken this opportunity to give them up?”

Baltar's eyes lit up, and as the shackles fell away, he stepped across to the table, looking uncertainly at the empty chair. “If I may?”

“Be my guest,” Cottle said, taking a quick puff of the already lit cigarette. He handed it over to Baltar whose hand shook slightly as he cradled it like a new-born baby.

“These last few days, I so rarely...” Baltar began, staring at the lit cigarette in his fingers. “I mean...” He placed the cigarette in his mouth, eyes closing as he almost gulped down the smoke. He opened his eyes, plucked the cigarette from his mouth and regarded the glowing tip with reverence. “It's all about denial, isn't it?”

“In what way?” Cottle answered evasively.

Baltar's hand made a sweeping gesture. “In every way.”

“I wouldn't know,” Cottle said, retreating to the safety of the known and quantifiable, of orders given and obeyed. He pulled his medical bag closer, gazed at the rolls of tattered bandages lodged inside, at the vials of pills with their faded names of long-dead recipients. “I take drugs from the dead and dying, and give them to the barely living in an effort to make it all make sense. That's the sum total of what I do all day, more or less. Sometimes, that equation works--”

“Redressing the balance. I can understand that,” Baltar cut-in cryptically. He tapped the cigarette ash into the tray with a flick of his finger. “I can understand that all too well.”

Cottle suppressed a surge of irritation. “That knowledge makes me feel so much better.”

“I have rights,” Baltar stated in that soft voice of his. “And until the...verdict, I am entitled to certain basic levels of humane treatment. Maybe a presumption of innocence would be a novel idea, or even a good place to start.” He glanced across at Broman and Lucas who stood impassively at either side of the door.

Cottle scratched the stubble on his chin and leaned back in his chair. “Last time I looked, I was a doctor, not a lawyer.”

Baltar's gaze cut through the cigarette smoke. “And believe me, I'm grateful for the distinction. But, I have certain basic rights as laid out in the constitution...not only as a patient, but also as a human being. A citizen of the Colonies.” His fist thumped lightly upon the table top.

“You're not running for election now, Doctor Baltar.”

Baltar deflated, his shoulders slumping forward. “It's not much, just...just distractions. A book, a magazine, a cigarette...or, is Roslin killing me by degrees? Yes, that must be it. So amusing.”

“Your 'distractions' as you call them, have been limited. Suicide watch is--”

“Limited?” Baltar's voice rose in protest. “Limited? Try non-existent. Or maybe try 'endless hours of literally mindless tedium'.” He leaned forward earnestly and adopted that curiously honest tone he sometimes used. “Look, I'm not going to commit suicide--”

“Again,” Cottle interrupted, non-commitally.

“That was just a...a good idea at the time... I'm over it now.”

“You haven't lost that talent for putting folks at ease,” Cottle said, smiling as he lit a cigarette for himself. “And, against my better judgment, I'd trust you.” He took a puff and blew the blue smoke into the air. “I even think the Admiral will be glad to hear that you want to stick around.”

“Will he? Will he really? Then it's joy all round,” Baltar muttered, voice thick with mockery. He lifted the cigarette, took another long drag. “And now that we've ascertained that I have no intentions of setting my mattress straw alight, if I could just make a formal request for a few basic necessities.”

“Such as?”

Baltar shrugged. “Books, a sheet of paper, a writing implement of some kind, a cigarette from time to time. The basic human necessities.”

“I'll pass that along too.”

“I can't kill myself with a paper-cut,” Baltar whined, withdrawing a little. He watched the smoke meander, eyes following the trail upward. His hand rose involuntarily to the bandage that could be seen under his shirt collar.

“How is it?” Cottle asked solicitously, flicking his own ash into the tray. “Still giving you pain?”

Baltar shrugged, watchful now. Wary.

“Even from here I can see you're a fast healer,” Cottle continued, the consummate professional.

Baltar smiled wryly. “You make that sound like an accusation. Another crime to add to my ever expanding list.”

“It's just an observation.”

“Which happens, by the way, to be true.”

Cottle tilted his head to the side in assessment. “You know, I never thought you'd make the ideal patient.”

Baltar suppressed a snort. “Well, you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”

“I've heard that, but I don't know if I subscribe to it. I always think that a man either has talent, or he hasn't. No end of learning can fill that void.”

“A talent for what? Or am I just being unnecessarily sensitive,” Baltar grumbled, dragging the ashtray closer to the center of the table, “due to my less than ideal circumstances.”

“I've already said that I'll pass your requests along.”

“Thank you.”

There was an awkward pause, a sudden realization from both men that they didn't want to be there.

Cottle slipped into his professional persona. “You're losing weight.”

“Am I?” Baltar sounded almost bored now. He looked down at his scrawny body. “Yes, that appears to be true.”

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Actually, not too bad...considering,” Baltar mumbled evasively, gaze flicking to the silent guards. Then, he leaned forward again and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Doc? What's the feeling out there? Is there any chance that... Will things...well, when the time comes, will things be fair?”

“I don't know,” Cottle said after a pause. “I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller.”

“So, it's really that bad?” Baltar's voice was dull with resignation.

“I'm not paid to make idle speculations.”

Baltar paused, then looked away. “You always were an honest man. Brutally honest.”

Cottle coughed at the physicality of the word. “I just do as I'm asked.”

“Maybe the last of the brutally honest men,” Baltar reiterated, carefully drawing down the last of the cigarette before reluctantly stubbing the slim remnant into the ashtray. “How very poetic. How very apt.”

Reaching into his bag, Cottle withdrew a battered cigarette pack and tossed them to Baltar. “Doctor's orders...”

“Thanks,” Baltar responded, hunkering into his chair and slipping them furtively into his pocket, as if he was guilty of something.

Guilty... Cottle wasn't in the habit of making assumptions. Still, the word lingered in his mind, washed over him, tossing even the last of the brutally honest men in its endless ripples of association. Had Cottle been honest? He'd certainly been brutal, but had it been his choice? Had he ever really had a choice? Or was Baltar right, was it all about denial...?

Opposite him, Baltar shivered in the infirmary chill, drawing his slim arms about himself protectively, closing his eyes. Then Baltar's hand strayed to the crushed packet in his thin pants pocket, reassuring himself they were still there. As if he could anchor that slim comfort there, for ever. He almost looked content...

Cottle coughed, and wished he was somewhere other than here, where a throwaway gift of cigarettes became a substitute for some kind of humanity. When a crushed box of tobacco became a lifeline and an out of proportion comfort. Was that the sum total of what they had left, after all that running and dying? Was this endless blame and pathetic revenge what he'd obeyed orders for?

Cottle coughed again, stubbing out his own cigarette before rising to his feet, chair scraping on the metal floor. The movement made Baltar open his eyes, that dark enquiring gaze spearing through the veiling smoke.

“It's more than time I examined that wound, Doctor Baltar. When I last looked, I also happened to notice that you were not the only patient on my list.”

xx

end

kixxa — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 22:51:46 GMT

Next week they wanna take my work computer and wipe its memory. Like strap it down for electric shock therapy and blast away her synapses. My poor baby being left in the care of the IT Nurse Diesels! It has to be done, as for some probably inane and esoteric reason, software licenses cannot be transferred between departments. Still, my baby has her own character, her own personality. She loves James Callis (just like me), for example, and is an avid collector of art, illustration, and funky design she'd like to try some day. She's quite a fan of Tony Fitzpatrick's tattoo collages, and has a fondness for Homer Simpson and silent movies. And, if she had arms and functioning hands and fingers, she would be an avid crocheter. She'd wear scarves all thru the winter and make blankets for charity. I really think that post-op I'm gonna have to nurse her back to health and remind of who she really is. Poor baby.

In other news, don't change your name and get MoGged across to a new department, as there will be many phone-calls in your future to service desks, IT desks, and to general people who are individually very lovely, but collectively don't have a clue.

I have just worked 12 days straight and am having my first free weekend in an age. My house looks like a bomb has hit it, and I haven't had a chance to reply to my friends as much and as fully as I would have liked. So, please forgive me for that. Now, off to have a shower and contemplate what to tidy-up first. It's a toss up between the dishes and the kitchen floor...

kixxa — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 03:46:36 GMT

It's the weekend, and it's sunny! And I wanna go a walk to the local Asian shop and buy lots of noodles. Vietnamese cooking is so light and yummy, and I'm quickly becoming a dab hand at wrapping rice paper rolls. (And, I'm actually beginning to learn to like mint!)

Just wanna thank everyone for the birthday wishes. My postings on LJ have become a wee bit erratic of late, due to Twitter mostly, but also just the draining work time of the year for me. So, wow, that was really lovely and quite unexpected! Thank you so very much!!

Workwise, I cannot wait to get out of this department (they're keeping me here until 1 July) and leave the Budget crap behind. I've been doing this for ten years now, and I wanna do more interesting work. I'm actually a pretty good graphic designer -- I love what I do, and I still have a burning ambition to do it well. I care, dammit!! The day I don't care, well, I shouldn't be doing the job. It's that simple. And, to that end, for my birthday I bought myself a Wacom tablet, so I can get back into digital illustration. For a gal who was brought up drooling over the ink-lines in my Tintin books, the Wacom tablet is gonna suit me really well. I have to wait a week for it, as this is deepest darkest Brisbane we're talking about, but it's gonna be freeing. I just know it.

Updated my James Callis blog with sexy wizardy pics from 'Book of Beasts'. (see icon!) http://allthingsjamescallis.blogspot.com/ I'm getting quite a lot of visits lately, so I'm glad it's providing a resource for James lovers everywhere. Now, if he could only find a film worthy of his considerable talents... Have fingers crossed for 'Re-uniting the Rubins'.

Now, off to the shops where I'm gonna peruse Asian groceries and buy myself a banana. :)

kixxa — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 11:54:46 GMT

Finally posted my glaring 'Bucket Kitty' pic. She was just getting used to it at the time, (I think this was day two of the bucket torture). Have to report that she's fully recovered and tearing around the garden during the day, though she's being kept in of a night-time. This met with a few mewling howls of protest, but she's since settled down. At the moment, she's fast asleep on my Afghani rug.

Oh! And finished the first draft of the kids story! It comes in at a nice 47,000 words. After rewrites, I expect it to creep up to 50,000. I'm getting kinda excited!!

kixxa — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 10:25:42 GMT

First in a series of Gaius Baltar's prison visitors. Baltar pov.
Just over 1,100 words. Gaius, Brother Adrian, and Head Six.

“’With Zeus leading them, they began to seed Gaia with life and Uranus with a swathe of stars. And, so they did, and when they looked down to see what they had done, Earth lacked only two things: man and beasts. And, on seeing that, Zeus summoned his two sons – Prometheus and Epimetheus. And then he bade Prometheus set to work, forming mankind in the image of the Gods—‘”

“I'm bored, Gaius.” Six's hand cupped his cheek and turned his head to her cold-hearted perfection. To her perfect skin, to her perfect blue eyes, and that perfect mouth that nuzzled his unwashed face.

“Why are you here?” Gaius asked bitterly, turning away, focusing on the fool with the book on the chair, who looked up and peered through the bars that separated them.

“I've come to offer comfort and succor,” Brother Adrian murmured, blushing behind his greasy glasses.

“What is it about you, Gaius?” Six asked, slipping her cold arm around his hunched shoulder. “Are you really so needy?” Her lips slicked down his cheek, while her hand played with his hair.

“That's very nice,” Gaius responded, “but, really, from where I'm sitting, isn't that a little impractical?”

“Faith in our Gods is never impractical,” Brother Adrian replied. His face lapsed into earnest and Gaius tried to suppress a sigh.

“He's right, Gaius,” Six sing-songed, hand straying to his pants. She toyed with the string that held them up, fingernails worrying the loosely tied knot. “You should know by now that Faith is God's will. Or in your terms, the catalyst in the crucible of belief.”

“Oh, that's rich,” Gaius spat, struggling to his feet and stepping away from his thin straw mattress, and that cold Six with her white dress and her blonde hair, and her plans and agendas that tossed him around like a ship in a storm. “What other nonsensical platitudes are you going to bore me with?”

Six's face grew hard. As hard and as cold as an alabaster statue. And just as beautiful and perfect.

Gaius sighed. Acquiesced. “Just say something 'real', please...?” Six blinked and Gaius imagined warn blood pumping through those porcelain veins, imagined the beat of her heart.

“You should use him. Bend his faith to your will.” She yawned and stretched, her long arms and legs making that ridiculously uncomfortable mattress look warm, seductive...inviting.

“Let faith become your guide,” the Brother intoned, his weak gaze following Gaius as he paced along all two hundred and seventy-six bars of his cell.

“How?” Gaius asked, turning to the Six on the mattress. “But, more imperatively, why?”

Brother Adrian came to a decision, closed his grubby-paged book and dragged his chair closer. “Brother, I can see you're conflicted,” he began, leaning forward as if addressing a friend. “Even a little confused...”

“How perspicacious of you,” Gaius said, hardly sparing him a glance.

“My mother once told me that only a fool would hide his faith behind intellect.”

Gaius blinked, rubbing sore eyes that watered under that persistent light. “Only a fool would think that faith is a substitute for vocation.”

Brother Adrian choked on an in-breath, and metaphysically reeled backwards, the victim of a king-hit.

Gaius stopped his pacing and raised a conciliatory hand. “I'm sorry, Brother. It's been so long since I had a vigorous discussion...any discussion, really.” He shrugged, and put on his best contrite face. “Is this really what you want?” He shot a glance at Six, curled sinuously upon his grubby mattress. There was the faintest hint of a smile upon her face.

“Where's my guarantee?” Gaius continued, turning his full attention to the man in front of him, voice heavy with accusation. “I believed in you once before...”

Brother Adrian blinked, fingers clutching his handwritten Book of Zeus with its copious underlinings, high-lightings and scrawled annotations, as if it was a lifeline. “It's true that I can only offer intangibles, but upon their complete acceptance comes the promise--”

“And with this promise, is it foolish of me to aspire to something more than this? Is something better even possible?” Gaius gripped the cell bars for added emphasis, and added the hangdog look he did so well, gaze sliding to the recumbent blonde of the knowing smile. “If you're here simply rehashing your wares, when are you you going to tell me that improvement is inevitable.”

Six tipped her head back and laughed, her red-lacquered fingers covering her mouth.

Brother Adrian considered then smiled. “Faith is merely a bridge that enables the unknown to become known. It's the first step towards belief.” He waved his space-pale hand at the cell, the bars, the mattress and the unseen God who watched him as one would watch a fly crawling up a wall. “The Gods love us, but they love us more when we strive to be perfect. Zeus ordered us to be made in His image but Prometheus could not make us complete. That's something we have to do for ourselves.”

“They're trying to improve you,” Six intoned. “Make you into a better man.”

Gaius flashed her a black look. “Before they kill me?”

“There's still time,” Brother Adrian said, voice bright with false reassurance, his hand stretching out to rest on the bars. “Embracing faith is the first step towards spiritual growth. Faith's acceptance enables a transforming illumination to enter the dim dark corners of the soul.” He opened his book, fingers flicking through the pages. “Yes, here... 'And, upon seeing the wonders therein, all will be revealed to the supplicant of the pure heart. He will trace the contours of Their faces, his lips shall sing Their words... and upon his complete surrender, he will revel in the joy of Their will.”

“See, Gaius?” Six purred, rolling onto her stomach, dress hitching up those long, long thighs. “With a little application...a little self-improvement... A man could go far with your talents...”

“So, I'll get to revel in joy?” Gaius asked, barely keeping the contempt from his voice.

Six patted the mattress in reply, the unspoken deferred payment for acquiescence and surrender.

“That's a compelling argument,” Gaius relented, stepping closer to the fool on the chair with his half-open book. Taking Brother Adrian's limp hand in both of his own, Gaius looked earnestly into that doltish face and squeezed the hand tightly, until Brother Adrian nodded, actively imbibing the sum total...of nothing.

“How can I help you? Brother Adrian asked, watery eyes lighting with a kind of fervor. He lifted his free hand and placed it on top of Gaius' own, the clammy promise of another soul's salvation.

Gaius looked furtively around his cell, then beckoned Brother Adrian closer with a nod, head dipping as Gaius sought his ear to whisper, “You, er, wouldn't have a cigarette on you, would you?”

xx

kixxa — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 03:06:30 GMT

After the longest nail-biting wait of my life, I was finally able to unveil my Aaron Doral and Gaius Baltar story over on BSG ficexchange. Time to post it here for safe-keeping!

Roughly 3,000 words. Doral pov. Takes place on-board Colonial One during the New Caprica arc.

Thanks again to sabaceanbabe for the stellar beta. :)

Aaron Doral had grown to hate most things. He hated the Eight who shared his bed. The Eight who made sex the same way, over and over and over again -- that dread ennui of each pushing thrust, each matching moan, each raking scratch across his shoulders and back. She would lie in the same position, eyes lowered, same black hair framing her face, same leg carelessly wrapped in the sheets.

And, when they were finished, she'd yawn and fall asleep, just like that. Fall asleep with the irritating hint of a tolerant smile, as if she forgave him for...something. As if it had all meant...something. This spent Eight, sprawled out and as lifeless...as inanimate, as a ragdoll.

And, eventually, she'd wake up, would stretch and yawn, and slip soundlessly into her clothes, all the while staring at him sullenly. “You've made me late,” she'd complain, a throwaway line as she walked out the door, but Doral had never asked, 'Late for what?'

**

Aaron Doral hated Colonial One. Hated the tin-can pocket-size of it - he was always bumping his head on an overhanging this or that. He hated the fully-carpeted, overstuffed, overupholstered smell of it. Hated the stifling pressure-cooker cling of it. It was insufferably hot when the sun bore down, and when it rained (as it so often did) you could barely hear yourself speak for the din.

Today it was hot, stiflingly hot. Hot enough for the shades to be haphazardly drawn, slicing thin shafts of sunlight into the dim interior. Hot enough for Doral to unbutton his jacket and loosen his tie. The overburdened airconditioners shuddered and whined, directing their weak stream of cool air over to the corner where Gaius Baltar hunkered like a cockroach caught in the light. His dark eyes rested on Doral, heavy with accusation before he caught himself, gaze and hand straying to a well-thumbed glass which an optimist would find half-full, but which Doral suspected Baltar would find half-empty. His observation delighted him, and as Baltar took a desultory sip at the contents, Doral smiled brightly and sat down on the chair opposite him.

Baltar replaced the glass on the stained table and looked pointedly out of the half-shuttered window. The scene was striking only for its lack of movement, most of the humans taking refuge from the baking sun in their respective hovels. Doral slipped off his well-tailored jacket and laid it over his knees. He didn't trust it to the worn chair, or the stained carpet. Baltar caught his action and snorted a little, and the disdain he injected into the sound was...irritating.

Baltar leaned across his chair, and looked up and down the aisle in feigned surprise. “Where are the rest of you?”

“I'm here alone. Why?”

“Because, you're a pack animal...” Baltar hesitated, tipped his head to the side in assessment, and decided to abandon caution, “and you hunt with the pack.”

“You still have a death-wish, I see.”

“But the question is, are you here to oblige me?”

Doral let the question slide. He shifted into a more comfortable position in the chair and resisted the urge to take the handkerchief from his shirt pocket and run it across his face.

“What do you want?” Baltar asked when the silence had become uncomfortable, reaching once again for his glass. He didn't drink from it, just swirled the contents around, staring down at the liquid as if measuring its viscosity. “What can I help you with? I mean, no offence intended, but you need something, don't you? Isn't that why you're here? Isn't that why you're always here?” He tipped back the contents in three large gulps, then laid the glass down, matching the base to its corresponding sticky ring as if it meant something.

Doral slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small white jar with a neatly printed pharmacy label. He shook it and watched as Baltar straightened, struggling to keep the hunger out of his eyes. The sound of the fat little capsules was unmistakable, and the bottle was full.

“How would you like me to prostrate myself this time?” Baltar asked, bitterness hardening his voice. “Would you like your conscience salved, your sins absolved, or are you just here to feed the animal?”

“You know, I can't quite decide if your life is a comedy or a tragedy,” Doral mused, opening the jar and tearing off the seal. He laid a capsule on the tabletop. Half cream, half white, it spun and rolled from his fingers, shiny with promise.

Baltar didn't pick it up. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as if all he wanted was to sleep forever. Doral took the opportunity to study him as one would a specimen under a microscope. Gaius had lost weight, the high cheekbones jutting through his pale skin, face framed by an ever-present graze of black beard, and topped with unkempt dark hair that Gaius had pulled back and carelessly tied with ravelling black string. His shirt was yesterday's, ash speckled, rumpled, and missing a button.

“At least I have a life, or did have once,” Baltar said suddenly. “Not a faded copy of a faded copy, but a one-shot life all of my very own. And, for a time, I was actually doing quite well. But, of course, that was before I met the collective you.” He opened his eyes and contemplated the capsule on the table with the same intensity he usually reserved for Caprica Six.

“We're all individuals,” Doral stated, leaning forward to pick up the pill. He rolled it between his fingers, then placed it into his mouth and swallowed.

“And, I'd like to believe you, but I make it a point never to trust someone I have no particular interest in seeing again.” Baltar reached across and picked up the pill bottle, tossing it back at Doral. “By the way, did your mother tell you those things can kill you? You do remember your mother, don't you? And, if not, would that be a comedy or a tragedy? This critic is too bored to write a review.”

Doral merely smiled, noting with satisfaction the flash of irritation that briefly lit Baltar's gaunt face. “These drugs are the same as Caprica brings. Anti-depressants, mood enhancers, whatever her little Gaius desires. But she's yet to come, isn't she? When a death is...messy, regeneration can take time. So, here you sit, hour upon hour, waiting for her return -- not quite numb enough to still those voices, not quite disassociated enough to escape your guilt. The guilt that creeps in, and--”

“Why are you here?”

“You're not looking good, Gaius. When did you last take a look at yourself in the mirror? Or, can't you do that now on account of the...let me see if I can remember...oh, yes, negotiating the genocide of your own people.”

“I thought you'd come to feed the animal, but I see you've come to bait it instead.” Baltar's voice was flat, disinterested, and he slumped into his seat. “Well, I'm sick of biting, so go away.” He turned his head aside, tinkering with the shade like a child.

Doral sat up, placed the pill bottle down on its side and rolled it across to Baltar's end of the table, its clatter loud in the silence. “You know, sometimes I ask myself what I'd do in your situation. How would I play such a losing hand? Would I begin to bargain, or would I begin to beg?”

“You think about me?” Baltar laughed and patted his pants pockets, pulling out a thin cigar and a battered lighter. “How very interesting. Really, how very, very interesting, because I never think of you at all, unless the conversation turns to the subject of misfits and psychopaths.”

He lit the cigar, left it hanging lazily in his fingers, leaning back to watch the smoke curl up to the ceiling. Smothering a yawn, he closed his eyes before taking his first puff. Gaius Baltar was a man with a lot of time to kill and he wasn't going to kill it with Aaron Doral.

Doral tugged his handkerchief from a pocket, passing it over his face. He was not feeling well. His clothing had begun to stick to his skin, and sweat ran in a ticklish trail down his leg. In contrast, Baltar, sprawled opposite, looked comfortable and relatively carefree despite his circumstances. A man who fully inhabited his environment however extreme, no projection required. Eyes closed, the cigar in his hand beating time to an unshared song, a half-smile flitting across his face... A spike of anger made Doral lean across and strike the cigar from Baltar's fingers. It spun through the air, rolled into the aisle, and began to melt a tar-black hole into the Presidential carpet.

Baltar sat sullenly, watching it smoke and smolder. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Is this where I bargain, or is this where I beg?” Baltar finally asked, turning to Doral and really looking at him for the first time. “You see, I'm never really sure what your little collective requires.”

“We're all individuals,” Doral corrected, placing his jacket on the armrest before standing to stub out the cigar with his boot, nose wrinkling at the carpet fumes.

“You see, you gave yourself away right there. Unbelievable...” Baltar rose too, straightening his rumpled clothes, looking thinner and more haunted than Doral had ever seen him. “As lovely as this has been, may I have permission to leave, or is this where you shoot me in the forehead for my transgressions? You did bring your gun, didn't you?”

Doral caught him by the arm before he turned away. “Why do you really think I'm here?”

Baltar looked down at Doral's hand, and couldn't hide his surprise. “I assume it's because you want something. And want it badly if you're prepared to dirty that soft, clean hand of yours.” Baltar pulled his arm away, his body tense and his attitude wary. He risked a quick glance behind him as if Caprica Six would magically appear, and tearfully intercede on his behalf.

Doral snorted. “You're pathetic, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Maybe I'm just fulfilling expectations.”

“You're not that good an actor, Gaius.”

“And you're not my judge, jury or executioner, whatever you may think.”

“You really don't care, do you?”

Baltar suddenly snapped, voice rising in anger. “Why would my 'caring' matter or not matter? Why the frak are you here? Do you need validation? Is that it? Validation? Justification?” Baltar's voice dropped into a glib conversational tone. “Oh, good old Doral. He's so misunderstood. Such a nice person under that bland exterior. Why, I once saw him kiss a baby--”

Baltar didn't see the blow coming. He yelped, clutching his cheek, reeling backwards before scrambling to an aisle seat for support.

“I could take you outside right now, watch you fade in that dry, bright sunlight, parade you in front of that stinking humanity you claim you're so fond of... And, how would they judge you, Gaius? Would they be lenient? Fair? Or might their judgement be a little clouded due to your...less than adequate leadership?”

Blood dripped down Baltar's chin, staining his shirt. He lifted his hand, gingerly touching the cut with his fingers, eyes filling with their customary accusation. “You wouldn't do that, that's too much like spontaneity for a model like yours. Recklessness is not part of your program.” He held up the blood-stained fingers of his hand. “But this...yes, this I can believe... For you it's rational. One might even say it's natural.”

Doral stepped so close that Baltar took a stumbling step backwards. “And who made you my judge?”

Baltar sighed and closed his eyes, as if wishing he were somewhere else.

“It's a little late for circumspection.” Doral took out his gun and laid it against Baltar's forehead. “As if your transgressions mean anything to me...”

He smiled as Baltar winced and turned his face away. Satisfied with the reaction that was his due, he moved the gun to Baltar's throat with a sharp jab that made Baltar tense into stillness. Doral studied the human again. “Have you killed, Gaius? I don't mean that vague genocide-type of death you slip into like clothing, but a real and immediate death that stains more than your hands.”

“Yes,” Baltar whispered.

“It's a sweet thing, isn't it? Did it make you feel...alive?” Doral closed his eyes, tilting back his head, savoring the remembrance.

Baltar said nothing.

Sighing, Doral leaned forward and pushed Baltar away. “You know, I believe you're out of options.” He motioned the human back to the chair with the sticky tabletop and the empty glass, and watched him slide in reluctantly, glancing at the bottle of pills as if they offered a life-line. Taking the chair opposite, he casually placed the bottle into his jacket pocket. “All out of options.”

There was a scattering of cards on the table, dog-eared and worn, laid out in a wavering line. “A friend would explain how to play this game,” Doral said, placing the gun on the table top. “Might point out that every action spawns its own unique set of consequences. That each choice leads inexorably to an outcome, to resolutions neither good nor bad, or one or both. It's the nature of the game we've chosen to play. And so, we sit,” Doral grinned as he picked up the worn card, “and we play our cards over and over and over again. And so, we find ourselves here, at this time and in this place.”

Baltar sat hunched over, drawn in on himself. The blood was beginning to dry on his face like an accusation. Such a lot of blood for such a little cut. Humans and their inherent guilt.

“There was a time when I thought the join between my two natures was seamless,” Doral continued, though Baltar gave no sign he was listening, “when I lived amongst you, and was accepted by...the collective you. I had friends, good friends. I had a profession where I was respected. Where I had trust. I walked among all those people, those ordinary little people. So oblivious, so unsuspecting. Only you saw through me - only you denounced me.” Doral looked up sharply. “What was it you saw? Is it still there now?”

But, Baltar was looking out the window, his fingers smearing blood and sweat on the shade. “There's a child out there...” he murmured.

Outside Colonial One, a child had wandered onto the baking ground. Tottering on chubby legs and balancing a loosely tied diaper, the child sobbed, then opened its mouth and screamed, a silent wail that seemed to go on forever. Wobbling a little, it stood uncertainly, bewildered, lifting a hand to rub at its eyes.

“Life is so easy for you, isn't it? So unplanned, so accidental, it happens in spite of you,” Doral said, bitterness edging his voice.

“And sometimes it happens to spite us,” Baltar responded, voice a harsh whisper. He was reaching for a thin cigar, pulling out a lighter, though his eyes never left the scene outside.

“I don't believe that.”

Baltar laughed as the lighter clicked and flared. “And, I don't believe you, Aaron. Not for one minute.”

Doral moved closer, took the grubby shirt in his hand and tugged Baltar closer. “What don't you believe?”

“I don't believe in you, Aaron.” Baltar shrugged and a ghost of a smile tilted his lips as he met Doral's eyes. “Because you're a flawed end-product. The pathetic result of basing your conclusions on all the wrong criteria. How tragic...no, how ironic to have become your own glitch in such a perfect system. A system that works despite you, and yet here you are, still doing your best to spite it.”

Outside the window, a thick-set middle-aged mother stumbled into view, arms outstretched in recognition and relief. Doral watched her throw herself to her knees, watched her hug the child to her. Watched it cling as she wiped the face clean with a scrap of rag before bending for a kiss. Scooping the child up in her arms, she turned and strode away - this soundless mother and her soundless child. The cracked ground wavered in the heat haze, as empty and sunbaked as it had been before.

Baltar tugged his shirt out of Doral's grasp and settled back in his seat. “All your answers are out there. Forty-odd thousand of those ordinary little people -- God's greatest puzzle, and I sincerely...yes, I sincerely wish you good luck with it.” He placed his elbows on the tabletop and tapped cigar ash into a small ashtray. “I mean, isn't that why you stay? It's not for the weather, or the one-sided conversations, or your fascination with Cavil's detention center. Even I know there's more to you than that, or even I know there should be.”

Doral rose, slipped on his jacket and straightened his tie, Baltar's dark eyes following him through veils of cigar smoke. Doral reached for the gun and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

The sun had grown hotter, or maybe the airconditioning had stopped altogether. There was a sour smell on the air, an acrid taint from the blocked toilets at the end of the corridor.

He felt hot and sick and tired, and as anchorless as a bird. And if that meant anything today, it would mean nothing tomorrow.

x

end

kixxa — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 08:35:05 GMT

Still thrashing it down. Over 60mm where I live...and more to come tonight and tomorrow. Petrie's beginning to flood. Luckily, I live in a higher suburb.

kixxa — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:14:19 GMT

It's like really really raining...

kixxa — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 02:15:07 GMT

Sorry, yeah sorry, just been having too good a time on Twitter. And sorry to my LJ/Twitter friends who now realise just how deep my JC obsession is. And, speaking of Mr Callis, he's set to appear in the Numb3rs finale airing on May 15. He will play a charismatic sociopath who also happens to be a cult leader (who may or may not have kidnapped someone). The ep is called 'Angels and Devils' so someone in Numb3rs is obviously a big BSG fan.

So, little Blossom had her op and she came home with one of those 'Elizabethan Ruffle' plastic collars attached to her neck. I call it 'the bucket'-- and it's so, so cuuuuuuuute!!! Bucket Kitty. And, she was walking backwards and really hated it at first, but now, she's okay with it. She has to wear this thing for two weeks until her stitches come out, or she'd have them out in ten minutes flat.

But, rather amazingly, personality-wise, it's like she's been born again. She wants her pats, and her loves, and her cuddle-sessions, and her lying on kixxa while she's exercising, and following kixxa into the bathroom and watching on solemnly as kixxa brushes her teeth. What's come over her? Maybe she was oxygen starved when she was under the anaesthetic. That's the only explanation.

There will be Bucket Kitty pics eventually, but still can't find the camera to computer download cable. Sorry guys...

And...I've been immortalised in Jay's comic strip! Here's the link... http://jaymarcy.livejournal.com/492438.html. If you don't follow Jay, you should. He posts an excellent strip every day (and is a rather nice guy too!)

I'm so hoping Jay's book prints well.

Blossom and the abscess

kixxa — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 10:38:13 GMT

My rather wonderful cat has just cost me between $500 and $600 to repair. The joys of the abscess that goes horribly, radically wrong. "Yes, it's quite rare for an abscess to be that bad," the vet said cheerfully, bending to inspect the gigantic hole in my cat's furry side, "usually, they burst and heal themselves." In this case, the cat bite required anaesthesia and stitches to close the gaping wound and overnight stays...not to mention the initial consultation of over a week ago when The White Devil first began limping.

The White Devil is now 'resting comfortably'. More comfortably than I'll be resting, you can rest assured.

The White Devil is gonna be the monetary death of me...

She actually purred while on the vet consulting table. She never EVER purrs... Well maybe once every two months, she may purr if she's really in the mood. Maybe it was a purr of 'yaaay! kixxa's spendin' all her monies on me!' purr. All my monies for the next two years, at least. There goes my two year plan... *waves to fbf*.

Whatever. The White Devil's soon gonna turn into the 'Prisoner of Zenda' and no more night wanderings. Ever. No matter how much she wails, how many sofas she strops in frustrated anger, how big the moon is, or how many glares she gives me...(and this baby has the glare down pat, I've never known a better glarer than Blossom).

Hoo, baby. No way am I spending that much money on kitteh freedom again.

Anybody want a Birman? Going cheap...

ETA: The story's now up at 38,500 words. I'm just over one third through chapter nine. This chapter's in two parts. Bring one team home in the first half, and the other team home in the second half, and start chapter ten with everyone meeting in the same spot for the two chapter resolution. Well, that's the plan, we'll see how 'wordy' kixxa gets...and she can get wordy -- yes, she can, she can indeedy!

kixxa — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 10:32:40 GMT

I've been having a heap of fun with Twitter today! *waves to kazbaby, scorpy808, and Baltarstar!* I've been thinking about Twittering for a while...

Here's me! http://twitter.com/kixxa

My chicken stew btw was lovely!!

Oh, and story's now at 35,000 words (I didn't write last weekend because the BSG finale left me too emotionally wrought for wacky comedy writing). Anyway, 35,000 words was my target amount when I started, and I've still got three-ish chapters to write. So, about 43,000-ish before it's finally finished? *grimaces*

kixxa — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 06:22:30 GMT

Pious Gaius. (Photo by Denis Ilic) For some reason, this pic makes me think of Russell Crowe when he was a young and very tasty pacifist preacher in The Quick and The Dead. A film that when I watch, I watch obsessively.

Mmmm. My brother just bought me some Lindt ball chocolate eggs and, I've eaten them all already. :(

Rambo Baltar!!

Did you click on the clicky text for some inspired and decisive metalytic analysis? Well, you ain't gonna get that here, 'cause I'm not hardwired that way. However, my first thoughts were -- oh dear! So everything was all pre-ordained? If that's the case what happened to free will and the choices that were made by our band of characters all through. Are they lessened in that context? Are they less valid? Did we genuinely pass the tests that the higher realms sent our way, or were we always going to pass those tests to fulfill God's plan, and arrive at our destinies? Or, were we sent those trials and obstacles to see if we were worthy of salvation, that if we crossed the 't' and dotted the 'i', we'd eventually find the chance to clean the slate and start again? See, even now, there's no definitive answer, and really, isn't that how it should be?

In general...lovely character back-story fleshed out the characters and brought the wheel full circle.

Baltar is my baby, my human touchstone. Funny and vulnerable, vain and earnest. Stupid and brilliant by turns. When Gaius turned to Caprica Six and said "I know how to farm" and broke into tears as he touched on his roots and family and the guilt... well, that was the best and most definitive moment for this Baltar-lovin' babe. And it was a tiny moment in the whole, but it was finely judged and...enough. I can imagine him farming his little patch, and there's long unkempt hair and acres of beard, and brown skin and sinewy arms... (ahhhhh....)

And, he always did love Caprica Six -- he let it slip out, right at the beginning, but love scared him. He ran away from it, and now it's one of the only things he has. *sniffles* Love will make them strong...

Laura's death (and Bear McCreary's music! *shakes fist at the Bear!*) had me sobbing like a little'un. I thought for a minute that Adama was going to crash the raptor into the side of a hill, but he's a survivor through and through. Beautifully done... Nicely underplayed, spot on acting. Kudos...

Kara just disappearing... Well, I'm lucky in that I'm not a Kara and Lee/Anders shipper. I'd be pissy if I was. And, to be fair, it's not as if the writing wasn't on the wall for Kara -- along with her picture. Baltar as much as said it when he stated that 'angels walk amongst us'. That there is life after death. There was even life after death for her viper, but that's another story... :)

Lee! He finally got some measure of happiness in the freedom to just...live. For so long he's lead half a life, walking in the shadow of death, negotiating the pitfalls of politics, always putting duty first. In my mind, he takes off with Nurse Ishay, and they go and climb some mountains, and have lots of little brown-berry children under the hot African sun. Jaime Bamber looked pretty hot towards the end there. I do like my men shaggy it seems...

Ellen 'frakkin' Tigh. Why, oh why did we have to have that useless 'if the love isn't real, the baby will die' episode? Maybe, in hindsight, it's nice to know that Gaius and Six can have babies and that maybe there's a little bit of Baltar in all of us. But, was that enough to justify those wasted 40 minutes of a raving Ellen 'frakkin' Tigh? (If I watch that ep again, I'll poke my eyes out...) Anyway, she finally calmed down and became the mother goddess she was starting to be before that stupid and nonsensical episode blasted her character development out of the water. How much nicer would it have been for Caprica Six to lose the baby through the normal course of events, and for Baltar to go and offer some comfort and be rebuffed right then and there? Jane Espenson needs a basic lesson in plotting.

Saul Tigh. My love for Michael Hogan rises unbounded. Best one-eyed actor EVAH!!

Tory!! Her past finally came back to haunt her. I think everyone cheered, or would have if the F5 hadn't been downloading resurrection technology that would have continued an uneasy status quo at the time.

Chief!! Just looking for somewhere to live where his heart wouldn't be broken. Poor chief... *sniffles*

Romo!! With Jake!! Secretly, I had a wish that Romo was God's agent, his director of the little soap opera that was the Battlestar Galactica. That didn't come to pass, but seeing Romo again was so good! Love Mark Shepherd.

And, the old girl. The dying leader. Battlestar Galactica. The fragile vessel that held so many lost and hopeless souls. The scene where she made the last jump to earth and broke her back was absolutely jaw-dropping. Her fiery death, and that of the fleet, was like a viking funeral.

Just so much! And, there's so much I've forgotten already. It's a very rich pudding, and I'm going back for seconds tonight.

Love to all the cast and crew. Love to RDM and David Eike, and Michael Rymer. Love to the writers (even Jane Edmonson), and love especially to James Callis who hooked me at 'Six Degrees of Separation' and wouldn't let me go.

*sniffles*

kixxa — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 13:39:46 GMT

I finally got the last bit of official paper to prove that I exist (apparently a flabby cohesion of atoms is not proof enough), and trundled off to the registry office today to change my name. After forking over $130 to the rather lovely island girl behind the counter, she kinda shamefacedly let me know that there's a wait of TEN FRAKKING WEEKS before I get my official 'change of name' certificate. Or one week's wait if I was prepared to spend an extra $75 frakkin' dollars. I told her I'd wait the ten weeks. Bloody priority fees... Why can't they just do it for you without sending you to the poor house?

Sisty did a numerology check on the new name, and says it's a master key number, or key master number. I can't quite remember. But, it's really rather awfully good, and augurs well, and should bring me luck and success. WhoooT!!

This computer actually died over the weekend. But, I shook it, and thumped it, and slapped it around a bit, and it started to work again. So, because its new nickname is most definitely 'Limpy', I took that stimulus money, and those Myers vouchers and bought a new 20 inch iMac, because I love my iMacs (even though I will slap them around when they get old and crotchety). Luckily, I got the new stock iMac, not the old stock, so it's got a tad more memory and the upgraded graphics card. WhoooT!! The big transferoony will take place this weekend. You thought my house was bad for clutter, wait until you see the crap on my computer. Time for a houseclean, methinks.

God! Did you see the newly discovered Shakespeare painting? Shakespeare was a HOTTIE!!!! A total HOTTIE!!! *drools* I'll have to track down an image of it and make an icon out of it. Hot genius types are all too rare.

ETA:Is this what Shakespeare looked like?

kixxa — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 09:34:21 GMT

BSG lifted the hair on my arms tonight, and also made me cry.

How many times does a tv show do that to you?

Loving it again.

Baltar, though, is still forsaken.

kixxa — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 09:04:56 GMT

Huge big hugs to 50mm! You rock, chicka.

My computer is dying. No, scrub that. My baby is dying! My little trusty doughty iMac who's been through storms and heatwaves and the spattering lamb grease of my grilled kebab binges in a smoke-filled kitchen. I guess my little iMac would be about five years old now...and those new ones do look awfully nice...and glossy...and fast. It's just money, y'know? So, I'm getting a $900 economic stimulus cheque from the government in March. Spend on new computer? With my $200 credit card bonus I've managed to accrue over two years frugal shopping, I could buy the thing from the Apple shop in Myer, and wipe-out half the cost of a new iMac in one fell swoop.

(Please hold out for a few weeks more, my doughty baby)

And, my kids book is up around 20,000 words as of today. (I'm typing that on my cheapie Dell lappie so that's okay, otherwise I'd be pinging around the walls and flipping off the ceiling). I had a belated brainstorm, went back and did a humongous rewrite. Mucho better now. *g*

kixxa — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 02:27:18 GMT

Are you guys seriously telling me that Caprica's baby died in a snap because of a lack of love? Especially when you went out of your way to set-up Nurse Ishay as the red-herring a coupla eps back? Now, if nice Nurse Ishay had slipped something into Caprica's saline drip, that I could buy. And, that is what I'm hoping for in the coming revelations. I mean, I like my meta, but that's a bit too much.

All of sudden, Baltar's cult, which was a mix of all sorts of people (remember the mixed bunch of people listening to his broadcasts in Galactica's corridors, waving Baltar's manifesto? Anyone?) is now populated 100% by rather scary female types bent on their own agenda. And then you have the Sons of Aries, a nice lusty bunch of lads. Now, if you got the Sons and Baltar's 100% female cult together...well, why hasn't it happened before this? I mean, are hormones and pheromones dead in Dogsville?

So, Baltar makes some garbled speech/appeal to Roslin and Adama -- most of which is implied, which bloody infuriates the hell outta me. I mean, cut one of the tedious and very tiresome Ellen Frakkin' Tigh's pouting scenes, (somebody...please shoot her...please) and let's have something real and substantial in its place. And this place right here was where an extra few minutes were desperately needed. But no, let's have Ellen bloody frakkin' Tigh instead and her swirl variations). So, garbled speech, strange reasoning that I can't make sense of, and Baltar brings home the very heavy bacon. I think you guys know I love Baltar, but, as in the words of the inimitable Pauline Hanson 'please explain'.

kixxa — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 11:58:32 GMT

A very big thank you to the very kind and thoughtful person who sent me a valentine heart! It was lovely to wake up to...and now I'll be endlessly wondering who this mystery person is. Anyway, thank you!

BSG was good (if expositionary) last night but it really pissed me off bigtime

Gaius wasn't in it, at all. And I'm gonna have to wait until next week for my Gaius fix. In the interim there was the delightful Cavil in full-and-evil throttle, Ellen who'd morphed into a mother goddess, and...and... heaps of exposition from Sam who very unwisely let the PC man tinker with his brain. Of course, the upshot was the blue screen of death.

I loved the sane bits, like Adama and Tyrol fixing the ship. The way she groaned and shuddered under their touch. She's becoming a bit like Moya, actually. I think she will end up a living entity. Farscape strikes again!