Time to Kill the King

Title: Time to Kill the King
Author: SabaceanBabe
Word Count: 537
Character: Galactica!Boomer
Setting: the last few minutes of Kobol's Last Gleaming 2
Disclaimer: Setting, song lyrics, characters, so not mine.
Authors Note: This fic was inspired by the lovely and talented dangermousie's Dualla fic, Optimist. Go read it.



Time to Kill the King

It’s time to kill the king
It’s written in the Scripture
…
So forgive me, forgive me
For I am born to be what I must be
--Tom McRae, The Boy With the Bubblegun



The stench of cordite permeates the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood. The double report of a firearm echoes in Sharon’s head. Someone jostles her arm as they rush past, toward tactical. She looks around at the familiar people, equipment, workstations that are CIC. Nothing makes sense. There is frenetic, panicked movement swirling all around her, but it’s as though she is a prisoner in a transparent, unbreakable bubble.

Perhaps the Cylons have attacked Galactica – revenge for the destruction of a Basestar…

A heavy body slams into her and Sharon is thrown to the deck, crushed beneath the weight of a man in black fatigues. The scent of garlic and onions is overpowering and she gags. Her head hits the deck hard – once, twice – and a searing pain tears through her skull, its epicenter her right cheek. She vaguely recalls an injury there.

And still nothing makes sense.

Sharon struggles against the heavy weight, tries to push the man – a Marine? – off her before he slams her head to the deck again. He shouts something at her, forces something from her hand, roughly pulls her to her feet, but all she understands is the sound of her own voice, calm and soothing. “You’re confused and scared, but it’s okay…” Her own whispering voice surrounds her. “You can’t fight destiny, Sharon. It catches up with you no matter what you do. We love you, Sharon, and we always will…”

Apollo’s shout breaks through the white noise of her own voice, frantic and strident. “Someone get a doctor! Get Doc Cottle!”

An odd sight, infinitely more odd than that of Apollo in handcuffs, penetrates the suffocating bubble: the Old Man is sprawled on his back across the tactical display. A pool of red grows beneath him, stains her vision, initiates a crimson drone in the back of her brain that slowly drowns all remaining thought.

Sharon hears nothing save the droning buzz. Her eyes focus on Dee, who holds the Commander’s limp hand to her cheek as if letting go would mean the end of the world.

But hasn’t the world already ended?

There is a cold kiss of metal at her wrists and her arms are wrenched behind her back. Sharon sees Adama’s craggy face as she is pulled roughly away; it’s strangely soft, lax. The hideous pool under his unmoving body has infected the faces of those around him with its scarlet stain.

Doc Cottle runs into CIC as though the hounds of Hades are snapping at his heels; the officers and crew surrounding tactical break before him like surf. All except Dee, who refuses to release the Old Man’s hand. Even Apollo has no choice but to back away – more Marines are there, pulling him away from the fallen Commander.

Sharon’s voice whispers inside her head, directionless and all encompassing. “We love you. You can’t fight destiny. This has all happened before, and it will happen again.”

Trapped inside herself, Sharon begins to scream.