Under the Influence
PhDelicious
Spoilers for Crossroads Part II

A/N: This assumes that the final Cylon model as yet unidentified is a member of the Galactica crew, but not some big "they're obviously in charge of everything" reveal.

The song has been echoing through your head for days now, growing stronger, clearer with each repetition. You haven't said a word to anyone because none of the others seem to hear it. But it's there. In the static of the now unused wireless channels. In the droning background noise of a Battlestar. You thought you heard Cally humming it in the mess yesterday and part of you wants to pin her against the nearest bulkhead and demand to know where the frak she's heard it. But the voice inside your head telling you that she is wrong is louder. Cally should not know the song; questioning her would be a waste of time.

You're in CIC when it happens. The fleet comes crashing back into normal space, heading for the next stop in the path to Earth and everyone is eyeing the DRADIS console, hoping, praying that you're alone, when the President falters and the power fails. The panic around you is limited. This is, after all CIC, and the Admiral is present. But you can hear a thread of it in the voices around you calling out reports, feel it in the way they fumble in the dark to try to restart the ship. A darkness that is filling with the song. The lyrics glow against the back of your eyes, winding off in a particular direction. The harsh glow fills your head burning through your brain, awakening senses and pathways you've never used before. And it's excruciating. You rest your head against your station and let the hubbub around you fade beneath the torment of your mind.

You want to follow the song, to stagger out of your chair and seek the answers you know will be provided. But if you do that you will be noticed even in the dark and as you wait for the power to come back on you are flooded with the knowledge of exactly why that would be a bad idea. You are a Cylon, though not in the way these people would understand. You are not the enemy; you are the proof. You are one of the missing, the outcast that even your own kind never understood.

Your mind starts to drown under the weight of it all, the accumulated knowledge suddenly at your finger tips. Even as a part of you considers the possibility that this new information changes everything, the past four years of your life flash across your consciousness. Every incident of mistreatment, misunderstanding, and misuse on both sides. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, power returns.

The lights of the DRADIS scream at you, and you are jolted back to the present as the Cylon fleet appears. Your thoughts scatter, though your body continues on autopilot, doing the tasks you've trained at for years, analyzing the data before you and reporting it in a manner that became rote back when humanity's days were measured in the 33 minute increments between jumps. The threads of your conscious suddenly coalesce as Colonel Tigh enters CIC, stronger and more commanding than you've seen him since the beginning of everything, and it strikes you, the decision was made long ago.

You may be a Cylon, but you are nothing like them and today is not a good day to die.