Word Count: 818
Date: 1st Dec 2005
Category: Character, Baltar
Summary: Baltar considers his role in the fall.
Spoilers/Disclaimers: Not much unless you havent seen the mini...
For the record: I do not own, nor do I claim ownership of characters or concepts from Battlestar Galactica.
Dust, I see it in my dreams, blowing between the shattered remnants of once proud towers, slowly scarring once immaculate lawns and eroding busy roads.
Dust, twelve worlds all dust.
Because of me.
Because I, Gaius Baltar could not keep my dick under control, could not…
No, I can not say could not, I must be honest with myself at least, because I, Gaius Baltar had all the signs before, everything I needed to know that something was not quite kosher with Six and I would not believe them. I refused, in my arrogance, to think that someone so brilliant, so… genius as I could ever be misled.
Yes, I was arrogant, I was naïve and I was played and as a result, my hands are covered with so much blood, enough blood to fill at least a large sea, maybe a small ocean…
Perhaps that's arrogance talking again; I have no doubt that determined as they were, if I hadn't been so stupid, they would have found another way.
But if I had sense enough to see what was in front of my eyes, I could have informed on six, they would have investigated, they would have noticed the corruption in the CNP programming and it would have been negated, and the mere knowledge that the cylons were active and had infiltrated the colonies, perhaps that would have been enough to make a difference.
Not that it matters, after all, he more then most knew that changing the past was a fundamentally dangerous concept.
Pity, the past could seriously do with some work… because frankly it sucked, and made a rather sucky present too.
Still, though my mind might wander and twitch in its desperate search for sleep, I see the dust blowing, only its night now, the city is Caprica and the dust is glowing, malevolent, radioactive.
And each speck of dust represents a person, a being dead because of me.
I am to blame, because I was arrogant and I was blind and I refused to see the truth.
I saw only what I wanted to see.
Perhaps I still do, otherwise why else would I see Six everyday, nearly every waking hour? Surely her continued presence has to be punishment for the evil I allowed to happen?
Who am I to have been the cause, the root of such calamity?
I, Gaius Baltar am responsible for the destruction of twelve worlds…
No, perhaps that is arrogance speaking again, one man responsible for the destruction of twelve worlds?
My mind races, and boy, do I need sleep.
But I know well that sleep will not come quickly, I have too much blood on my hands, too much death on my soul for that tortured thing I call a heart to let me rest soon, it races too much for that, keeping my brain awake, aware, shifting, thinking.
Perhaps I should end it all?
Enough have done that over the last few months, and whilst it may be cowardice, I would be lying if I said I was a stranger to that emotion.
Yet, suicide is forbidden by the Lords of Kobol.
Gods, a few months ago I would have laughed at the very concept of the Lords of Kobol having some meaning, yet whilst before I sneered at, now I find myself wondering…
Is there truly something to religion?
Are there truly Gods, or as Six would say, a ‘one true God'?
The answer, its not easy anymore.
A part of me wants to believe, to have something to call to for assistance, to have something to blame when it all goes wrong. Is that why religion exists in the first place? So that, when something goes wrong, you can just throw up you arms and blame some higher power? Make the excuse that it was all out of your hands, that it had been ordained and as such, wasn't your fault, not really.
Perhaps, perhaps not.
I do not know, but I no longer find myself able to just not care, to sneer down ta those who believe such things.
Strange that it would take the destruction of twelve worlds before I could change my views so drastically. Is that why it happened?
No, arrogance again. God… Gods, whatever would not kill so many just to change one man.
Perhaps all I am is dust; blowing across the tattered streets of Caprica now, cursed into believing I am alive for the rest of eternity.
And just what is life anyway?
Random chance? A move in some puppeteers great play? Or merely a figment that we believe to be true.
No matter, questions like these are for philosophers, not scientists, not the great Gaius Baltar.
And yet, as I try desperately to sleep those are the questions that fill my mind as before my eyes, dust blows, eternally, desolately.