BSG crack ficlet, G

[lyssie]

disclaimer: not mine
crack.
wee!Cylons.
Tory is involved.
I blame blue_crow

Also? This is the reason you should join twelvecolonies. Because crackfic happens.


Two small Cylons burst into the main chamber, sounding excited as they called to the adult standing there, sorting through a pile of data cubes.

"Mama, Mama!" The little girl was slightly louder, and slightly faster, her hand grabbing onto the fabric of Tory's pants.

Tory, for her part, was resigned to being called 'mama', at this point. Stifling a sigh, she bent down, "What is it, Eight?"

Bouncing on her toes, Eight waved her hand, almost beaning her brother. Two was long-used to this, and simply ducked her hand with a long-suffering sigh that older brothers, everywhere learn to employ against smaller siblings with sticky fingers. "Mama, it followed us home!"

"Did," Two said, eyes alight as he beamed up at Tory. "It's all squiggly."

Once again, Tory wondered what Sam had put in Two's head that made him seem slightly off. She took Eight's hand, abandoning her cataloging. "All right, show me what followed you."

In the corridor, there was nothing, but Tory let Eight and Two pull her along until they came to one of the service bays.

"See?" Eight bounced and pointed, her hand flapping.

"Can we keep it?"

The it which had 'followed' them home was one of Galen's proto-type raiders. Tory eyed it, wondering, once again, what sort of brain he was giving them. "It's not a pet, kids."

"Maybe it could be?" Eight asked, her tone even more hopeful than before. "We could name it Spike, and I'd take care of it an' everything!"

As always, Tory was aware that she should have objected: building robots was one thing, creating new Cylons was another. But raising children? That was so not what she had signed up to do. "I'm sorry, kids, we can't keep the raider--Galen needs it for his project."

Eight's face fell and Two scuffed a foot at the decking. After all, if 'daddy' needed the raider, they knew better than to object.

"Want a pet," Eight mumbled, leaning against Tory.

"Yeah." Chimed in Two. "Need a pet, Mama. Wanna teach it about streams an', an'--"

"Streams are stupid," Eight informed him, interrupting with the irrepressible superiority of the young and childish. "Don't like streams. Like Spike."

Tory turned them away from the service bay, "Let's go find Sam, hrm? I'm sure he has lots of things for you to play with."

And if they asked him for a pet, Tory was sure they'd get one. And she'd make sure Sam cleaned up after it.