1. Broken Machine x Blank

**Author's Note: **I signed up to write 100 fics/drabbles/somethings on 100 different moods for the general fandom of Battlestar Galactica. Each chapter will be stand alone, in a seperate universe as every other chapter unless specified. I'd love to hear feedback on any or all of them. And if you'd like to request an idea or character you'd like to see, go ahead.

**Title:** Broken Machine  
**Fandom:** Battlestar Galactica  
**Characters:** Caprica!Sharon, Helo  
**Prompt:** #009 Blank  
**Word Count:** 272  
**Rating:** PG (mention of death/murder)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Spoilers up to _2x18 Downloaded_  
**Summary:** Because she is blank. Broken machines can't feel cold. Machines can't feel love. My first for **100moods**

Blank. She is blank.

_"I don't know. Maybe I didn't want to. Maybe I wanted him to come here and blow up the whole ship. Is that what you're looking for?"_

She is a machine and her programming had a glitch. She is the flawed product of hate. Hate from her parents, hate from her brothers and sisters, hate from God.

_"They killed my baby. You think I care about you or us or whether the Admiral trusts me anymore?"  
_  
The future was destroyed. Flawed organics, flawed people less human than her had ensured their deaths with a flick of her wrist.

_"And I'm not giving up this frakkin' easy! Not after everything!"_

There is no more point in pretending. The warmth of love she thought was real was gone. Only dark, only cold remained. The same winter that made up her core was surrounding her now. She resided in the cold now. But she can't feel it.

Because she is blank.

Broken machines can't feel cold. Machines can't feel love.

When machines fail, they are disposed of. She will be air-locked. She will be murdered, just as her daughter was.

"You don't mean that. Sharon, we finally got the Admiral to start trusting us. Finally! And what?"

She would cry, but she is afraid she will rust.

_A machine is an organized group of people whose members are or appear to be under the control of one or more leaders. It is an intricate natural system or organism, such as the human body.  
A machine is a person who acts in a rigid, mechanical, or unconscious manner._

Blank. She is blank.

xoxo


	2. Joyful Imperfection x Sinful

**Author's Note: **I signed up to write 100 fics/drabbles/somethings on 100 different moods for the general fandom of Battlestar Galactica. Each chapter will be stand alone, in a seperate universe as every other chapter unless specified. I'd love to hear feedback on any or all of them. And if you'd like to request an idea or character you'd like to see, go ahead.

**Title:** Perfect Imperfection  
**Fandom:** Battlestar Galactica  
**Characters:** Three/Five (D'anna Biers/ Aaron Doral)  
**Prompt:** #086 Sinful  
**Word Count:** 250  
**Rating:** PG-13 (Kinda racy, at least for me)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Spoilers for 2x08 Final Cut  
**Summary:**: That now they had truly crossed the divide between the perfection of their mechanical race to the perfect imperfection of humanity. For **100moods**

**xoxo**

It was exciting, exhilarating. They would meet in the dark, a café that was closed for the night, an abandoned apartment, never the same place twice. They would feed each other's passion, satisfy the hunger in a way nothing else could. Every gasp, every drop of manufactured sweat, was thrilling.

Sometimes one of them would wonder which flaw had led them to sin the way that they did, but it only stayed for the briefest second, soon washed away with the calculated lust.

It wasn't always good or neat, the perfection in other areas didn't pertain to this. His hands were often cold, machinery cold, and the movements were sometimes clumsy and painful, but the sensations melted everything away.

The whispers of the collective were right, it did change you. Waves of emotion shaped more than could be measured, more than any eye can see. And when they were together, it did change them. They were separate from every other one of their model, like they had a mark across their faces that only were visible by God.

Their spines would both glow red, limbs be intertwined, souls crashing together in the night. And in those few moments, when they were immersed in sin, they would gasp each others human given names. They were Aaron and D'anna, not Seven and Three. It was the evidence of the change, that now they had truly crossed the divide between the perfection of their mechanical race to the joyful imperfection of humanity.

**xoxo**


	3. A Night to Forget x Envious

**Author's Note: **I signed up to write 100 fics/drabbles/somethings on 100 different moods for the general fandom of Battlestar Galactica. Each chapter will be stand alone, in a seperate universe as every other chapter unless specified. I'd love to hear feedback on any or all of them. And if you'd like to request an idea or character you'd like to see, go ahead.

**Title:** A Night to Forget  
**Fandom:** Battlestar Galactica  
**Author:** **oregonblondie**  
**Contact Info:** **Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 500  
**Characters/Pairing:** Helo, Boomer, Mention of Starbuck & Tyrol  
**Summary:** Takes place pre-miniseries. Written for **100moods**. Boomer gets Helo to come to the bar.

xoxo

It was scary what she could do to him without even trying.

"Come on Helo. I won't have anyone to talk to if you stay here." She was hanging on his arm, her slight weight making him walk a bit off-balance.

"You can drink with Starbuck. You won't even remember I wasn't there by tomorrow morning," he countered. After only a few weeks as the rookie's ECO, he knew there was going to be a problem. Just being in the close quarters of a Raptor during a regular CAP was like downing a glass of the purest ambrosia in all the Colonies. She was intoxicating, and a night of shore leave in Caprica City was not part of his plan for keeping those feeling at bay.

She sighed and hung more of his weight on his arm. "You know better than anyone that drinking with Kara is no fun. I still haven't completely forgiven her for puking on me the night we met." She turned around and moved in front of him to block his path, bottom lip stuck out and big brown eyes pleading.

He laughed and ducked his head down before giving a little nod. "Okay, I'll make an appearance if it really means that much to you."

This prompted a squeak of joy from Boomer. She stood on tip-toe to give him an innocent peck on the cheek, before racing down the corridor to the officer's rack. With her back turned, she didn't see him reach up to run his long fingers over the spot on his face where her lips had touched him.

"I'm not promising I'll stay though!" he called out to her retreating back.

xoxo

He showed up in civilian clothes, taking the chance to be out of the standard issue Colonial Military tanks. A simple tee-shirt, his favorite tattered jeans and sandals, since it was still the warm season on Caprica. He settled in to the dimly lit bar and adjusted to the thick odor of cigarettes and booze. He found himself at a table between Starbuck and another ECO he knew as Crashdown and began searching for Sharon. He was engrossed in his mission to find her, ignoring the tray of Ambrosia shots that arrived at the table. He wondered how the hanging lamps would throw orange light across her skin, or if she would be wearing an outfit that showed off her collarbone.

It took less than a minute for him to find her with his eyes. She was in a shadowy corner, defined arms wrapped around the neck of Galactica's deck chief. He watched her, mesmerized as she threw her head back, obviously laughing at something Tyrol had said, and exposing her neck. He felt queasy, and found himself biting his lip until it bled. Starbuck's hand appeared in front of him, offering a small glass of green liquid, and he took it. This was one shore leave he defiantly did not want to remember.


	4. Chasing Cars x Grateful

Written for a request someone gave over at LJ. Italics are lyrics from Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.

"46. Grateful: Dee/Gaeta, CIC officers aren't anything like pilots, so they confide in each other."

_We'll do it all, everything, on our own /__We don't need anything or anyone /_

_If I lay here /__If I just lay here /__Would you lay with me /__And just forget the world/_

_I don't quite know how to say how I feel /__Those three words are said too much /__They're not enough /_

The racks of the CIC officers are some of the quietest. Not like those of the Pilots and Deck Crew, where at any one moment you could find someone throwing back a few shots of Ambrosia. No, the only time the CIC racks were occupied is when someone is sleeping.

It's a quiet bunch. They talk all day in the tangled code of the Military with heads filled with protocol. They don't have the outlet of adrenaline the pilots do, or the sense of accomplishment the Deck Crew might feel when setting the ships out and keeping them in peak condition. No fancy names or earned nicknames. No, they have to sit alone with the voices in their ears and bottle their fear when the enemy arrives.

It's no surprise that they find each other then, because they are the same. It's nothing really sexual of intimate because that's not what either of them are looking for, and it's not what either of them really need. They just talk, mostly in the dark, when there's no one else in the room.

There was no talk of procedure. She didn't call him 'sir' and they didn't mention the enemy. It was all reliving their past lives, as though sharing it with another soul could somehow bring it back; make it more real, more meaningful. It was a connection, one that she couldn't ever share with Billy or Lee or anyone else.

Once, she broke apart and told him about her father and how much she missed his deep, gravely voice berating her and how she missed his roaring laugh even more than that. He showed her the dragon tattoo he got during a shore leave with little company and a lot of alcohol.

And one night, just another among all the rest, they came together in a different way. That time he talked about how he felt as though he had failed himself, only being an officer and never anything else. She talked about how she felt as though she had failed her family and now could never make it up to them. And she climbed up onto his bunk and he wrapped his arms around her, and they breathed as one. They were connected in their grief, in their failure, and in their present lives.

That next day reality settled in as the artificial dawn spread and they went back to the way things had been. But each felt a little better when talking to the voices and could fall asleep a little easier the next night, because they were grateful. Grateful for the connection, the moment and the inexplicable bit of peace it brought.


	5. Outskirts x Sad

Okie day. This has been sitting in my notebook for more than a week. I wrote it one day and never got around to typing it. So today I finally pulled it out, blew off the dust, polished it up and now it's being pushed out onto the intarweb.

This was mainly written with the songs You Found Me by Kelly Clarkson and Into the Fire by 13 Senses, which both happen to be on my Three/Five Fanmix.

Oh and cookies for the person who can name the title of a song used somewhere in the fic.

xoxo

He found her on the outskirts of Caprica City, the yellow orange sun about to dip below the horizon. She was standing on a constructed steel bridge that overlooked the river running between Caprica City and Delphi. The water below them rushed on, black and mysterious. It was too much chaos trying to be constrained by the rigid, unmovable river banks.

She was wearing white, and the fading sunlight refracted all around her as she turned to acknowledge him. She moved towards him and they exchanged a silent greeting before he noticed the dampness around her eyes, tears glistening on the cheek of a machine.

He drew her in, guided her hands into his jacket and around his waist. When they were close, not an inch of air between them, they could forget everything. Forget genocide of the human race. Forget plans and calculations and the collective. They could be boiled down to their essence, what they were made of, no matter what that might be.

After an eternity of being still, they broke apart, heads ducked down. It was almost as if they could feel the world crashing back in upon them, creating the pressure inside their chest's of guilt and sin and passion. The sun was gone from the sky now, light having been replaced with an eerie navy blue twilight.

Finally the silence that had surrounded them like a spell was broken when D'anna moved away to the edge of the bridge, eyes staring off into the night.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern plainly evident.

She gave a heavy sigh and closed her eyes, letting her cheek and forehead rest against the cool metal of a support railing, "Nothing that anyone can fix."

She felt the ambient heat from his body as he moved next to her, but she kept her eyes closed. "Why is suicide a sin?"

He didn't answer right away, and when he did his words were careful, slow and calculated, "Because God created life and it is his greatest gift to us."

Another sigh and he felt her lean slightly into him, only a small change in position, "But God didn't create us."

He snaked an arm around her waist as a cool breeze passed over them. "You know D'anna. We are a part of God's plan."

She pushed away to face him, "So what does that matter? Why would the sin of ending life be so much worse than any of our other sins?" She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his. "Why would it matter? What could it change?"

She moved away from him and climbed onto the hand railing, one arm on the metal support cable, the other stretched out into the breeze from the water.

"D'anna, please stop. Please come down," he pleaded. He reached out and placed one of his hands over hers on the cable. Even now, in this moment of grey despair and fear he couldn't help noticing how beautiful she was. Then tan skin and yellow hair he saw repeated on every copy every day on the street, now bathed in the purifying moonlight. "D'anna…"

She climbed back down, every movement simple and calculated. All the Three models had a sort of grace when they moved, but his D'anna made it her own, a clumsy sort of movement that made everything she did seem as though its perfection was an accident. A smile played at the edge of her lips and she took his right hand and intertwined her fingers with his, "Aaron, do you love me?"

Through all the programming, all the doubts and questions and the screams of the collective in his mind that told him to say no, he breathed the only answer that was true, "Yes."

The smile now spread across her mouth, but her eyes were still stormy. "Then this is for the best. There is no happy ending for us. If we continue this way it will only lead to ruin." She moved their clasped hands to her chest and he felt the truth. At some point in time, one of their brothers or sisters would catch them. Their models would be boxed, two models lost to the hive, a hole in the plan, a waste.

She lowered her voice so that it barely reached his ears before being carried off on the wind. "Come with me, Aaron. Even if it doesn't make a change, at least we will never be apart again."

He breathed slowly and looked out across the night. He gave a slight nod and they fell into one last kiss, sad and slow and longing to stretch on forever. After an eternity together, limbs intertwined the same way they had always been with them, their final kiss was over.

She took the first step up and he followed, this time his hand on the cable. With one final squeeze of their intertwined fingers, the two of them fell into the darkness, finally free, finally woken.

xx

They would find them a week later, a Three and a Five, bodies washed downstream to Delphi. The rebirths were watched carefully after that, trying to find the consciousness, but they never surfaced. The wrinkle in the collective fabric of their society was erased, forgotten. No one ever suspected, and not one of the thousand units in the system ever detected that loss of three of their own.


	6. Anywhere Away From Here x Touched

So, I saw the Season 3 promo yesterday, and ever since I've been itching to write something. Something that takes place a least a little on New Caprica, and involves my favorite (and made-up) ship Doral/D'anna. And since I couldn't think of anything new to write, I decided to go ahead and type this up, because it's been sitting in my journal for more than 4 months.

Background for this is probably needed. I think it may make sense even if you haven't read Outskirts (which is the chapter before this one), but it would probably help to go read that one first.

Thanks goes to RDM for giving us all that beautiful promo and Snow Patrol for making the song Run, which I listened to while writing this and stole from for the title and cut text.

xoxo

A face never seen, a soul never known. A future unimagined and lost in the blink of an eye. A lifetime's hope and work, all in vain.

A terrible sadness could be felt, like the icy fingers of the ocean in the morning, through all their models. A dull aching that made every Three and every Five feel hollow, sleeper of not. A Three on the fugitive fleet's barren new world felt it when she was talking with the former president. Between small talk about the ever-gray weather and whispers concerning the ineffective government, she had a feeling as though she had been hit in the stomach, of having her insides scooped out and tossed into space. She had to excuse herself, had to scramble outside to feel the ashy air around her and fill her lungs with the chilly air. She felt it hit her too, except this time it was the tears from an unexplainable place that ran down her cheeks and were chilled by the cool breeze.

There was a Five in a drab, spare transport. Flanked on both sides by a Six and an Eight, and he was Aaron in the middle, who suddenly felt as if he wasn't there any more, as if his consciousness had escaped the craft and was now floating around between the stars. Everything was black and cold, no past, no future and no present. Nothing to keep living for.

And finally, one of each in the Birthing Unit, bringing a special new Four into their world. There they were, crouched next to each other and next to the tank, almost but not quite touching. And each could feel the other's muscles and thoughts tense for the briefest moment before the cold. Afterwards, once their new brother was on his way into life, they found each other, in a dark corner of the unit and shared the overwhelming sadness.


	7. Losing My Step x Stressed

He's there to her, everywhere, in everything. He told her that God was in all of them, but now he has replaced that. She sees his gray blue eyes in the bottom of the shot glass and can feel his words burn as they slide down her throat and into her blood. The last green drop in the glass turns to the color of his synthetic blood.

She sees his smirk in the scanning eyes of the Raiders. Taunting, smug; all-powerful and yet oh-so-powerless at the same time. It makes her want to shoot all day, and hit at the worn-out punching bag all night. Sleep was not even an option.

The sound of impact reminds her of the time she spent with him. Words, disparate phrases and his rambling about God flooded in and out of her brain with every pulse, beating out a frustratingly even rhythm in her head.

Every drop of sweat that pooled in her ears or flew off her stomach was another blow. She could remember how striking it was that he could sweat. And it made things much harder. None of this haunting would be happening if she could have been ignorant and think of it all as just hardware and software, not a living thing made up of blood and tears and sweat. Just like her. Just like she wishes she wasn't.

She thinks she passed out once. It must have been about a month after she met him. No sleep, almost no food and constant stress and exercise. She can vaguely recall Helo picking her up off the dirty, cool floor of the gym. She probably remembers that because she liked the coolness of the metal against her skin, like the dull cold of her hand pressed against the glass of the airlock division.

She can also remember her friend's strong arms, supporting her, carrying her in more than the literal sense. She could close her eyes and in delirium, pretend that it was the enemy's defined arms around her instead.

His words in her head began to form on her lips, as Helo laid her down on her bunk. She didn't like the scratch of the wool blanket against her skin, it's contrast to Helo's soft, resilient skin.

And it just makes her remember those hours of that one day, and how she never actually touched him.


End file.
