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I wrote this at writing retreat this past weekend, when challenged to write a letter explaining why I wouldn't be writing anymore. So I wrote BSG fic.


Dear Doctor Baltar:

This is the last time that I shall be communicating with you. I shouldn’t have to say why, especially to someone as clever as you, but I’ll spell it out, so that things are clear between us.

First of all, you’re a liar. You lie compulsively, irrepressibly and shamelessly. I don’t know exactly what you are hiding (I don’t think you do anymore, either), but it’s dirty—it’s horrible—isn’t it? You had more to do with the Attacks than you’ve ever let on, and you’ve done more since then. You never talk about it, but it’s your fault the Cylons found us on New Caprica, isn’t it? The explosion and resultant radiation burst that exposed us came from the nuke in your lab. No one seems to know exactly how that happened, but you do, don’t you? You’ve never explained, and wouldn’t even allow an investigation.

Second, you are selfish. You only care about other people when we’re useful to you. I’m not just talking about all the women you frak, I mean all the people you let down with your presidency. You appealed to our civilized values and offered us a vision of safety and normalcy, a second chance for life on a new planet. You got me to leave my post, the job I’d pursued for years, the one thing from my old life that I could still have in the new. We traded you what was left of our lives, and in return you gave us mud and disappointment, followed by tyranny, torture, and death.

Third, you’re a coward. You have, once or twice, saved some or all of us from certain death—like the time you
cured the president’s cancer, or shared Cylon algorithms that kept us from getting lost on the road to Earth. None of this matters, though. When the chips were down, we couldn’t count on you, long before the Occupation started. I spent most of my time as your chief of staff putting out fires and cleaning up your mess, while you just did interns.

I could, perhaps, let all this go, without writing, and just trust your shame and gutlessness to keep you from crossing my path again, but I saw you lurking in the sick bay the other day, listening to me sing. I don’t know why you came, and I don’t really care. It’s over between us, Doctor. I’m not the starry-eyed junior officer who’d read all your papers when you first came aboard the Galactica. I’m not the idealist whose faith you crushed on New Caprica. I’m not the ardent young man you took to your bed when you needed me to dance to your tune. I’m older, wiser, sadder, and missing a leg. I don’t want to deal with your shit anymore.

So goodbye, Doctor. I won’t write again. I won’t speak to you. I won’t call. I won’t answer if you do. It’s over.

Goodbye.

Lt. Felix Gaeta
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