Five clumsy Raptors fly them back to the Basestar, like ambassadors going home, with a coterie: coughing deckhands; sharp, nasty Vipers; sharp, nasty pilots, with death in their eyes. Humanity covers her glorious deck like an infection, swarming everywhere you look with their dead machines and stupid, silent motherboards; the beeping and the vulgar flashing and the words that blink across. They crawl across her flesh like a colony of ants, devouring. Grimy hands touch everything; they crash and muddle and take up space. Taking five to do the job of one or two, and always the screeching shrieks of them: Their conversations, inefficient, ring out across that smooth expanse in a thousand ugly voices, every one of them different. Every single one of them alone, calling out across that vast and lovely space to each other, like lonely, angry beasts in the night. And in the middle of that cacophony and jumbled, ugly movement, the three rebels are very small indeed. They've invited death into the only home they ever knew. It is very loud.

Labels: tv: battlestar galactica

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