capeandcowl | first. voice.

[The recording opens with the low murmur of voice over voice, conservation over conservation. Indoors. Glasses clink together. It's the hum of a crowd: a party. Sloppy stringed instruments slur Christmas carols.]

Happy holidays. [Pause.] Why, thank you. Happy holidays to you, too. God bless you.

[The voice might be familiar to some, a rumbling old man's filled with false cheer.]

Mm. This really is a good time to be back, isn't it? Nothing like spending the holidays with old friends. And I do mean old.

[Many of the other voices carry the crackle of old age. When the music fades (instruments all ending at separate times, several out of tune, one sniffling nose), a little boy's voice pops up: 'Next, we're playing Jingle Bells--' Cavil has crashed a retirement home party. With small children. When the music starts, there's an audible cringe in his voice.]

Yes. Truly the epitome of culture. [Pause.] In any case. Some people claim that everything happens for a reason. This notion, and those people, are idiotic. You see, I believe that everything happens because either someone lets it happen or someone makes it happen. And that someone isn't hanging around in the sky. Maybe some of you understand. The smart ones, anyway. Wherever you are. [Pause.]

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. I've made up my own reason for coming back. Do you want to guess what it is? Here, we can have a guessing game. Maybe a round of charades. Or how about I mix up the responses in a bingo board and we can take it nice and slow, piece by piece. What about a hangman's noose?

[Someone screams. THUMP. The music cuts out. Panic cuts in. 'Somebody get the nurse!' 'Oh God!' 'Marie? Marie??' Cavil's voice is smooth and calm.]

Granted, there are some disadvantages to surrounding myself with my geriatric peers. After all. Human biology only lasts so long before it falls apart.

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For you, maybe. I'd say life would be considerably easier without that pesky emotion.

Have you ever lost it?

Have you?

It's hard to speak passionately about things one hasn't experienced.

Poor, poor Doctor. Torn away from that which he most admires, that which he most craves. I daresay it probably robbed your life of its very meaning.

How.

Your sympathy is so graciously, desperately received. But I find ways around my loss.

What on earth makes you think an attitude like yours would convince me to open up? Are you simple?

[There's a pause. Mock contemplation.]

I... fight fear. I strive against it at every opportunity. I've chopped up my very nightmares with a hacksaw. You see, marrying it out of comfort or ease will drive you to ruin. You must know that.

It's far from a novel approach. And far from the right one, though it's a mistake I made early on.

The weaknesses we have, Cavil, we must know. Inside and out. For the sake of ego, pride or emotional quietude you cannot ignore that which is distasteful in yourself.

I haven't submitted to fear, and I haven't fought it, either. I've made it mine. You could do the same, if you wanted, instead of damaging a valuable ally.

I shouldn't have weaknesses!

[Pause. Calmer.]

I'm not sure if you're aware, Doctor, but I'm not human. I was made by fingertips and computer programs. I have the opportunity for perfection, whereas you, in all your fallible biology, need to embrace that what makes you what you are. Your weaknesses. Not mine.

[long ruminating quiet, steepling his fingers unseen, a little surprised by the outburst, but unmistakably gratified, as well.]

If that works for you, I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I must say, it's little wonder to me that you seem so unhappy.

Happiness is overrated. I'm accomplished.

And you can't, or won't, take joy in your accomplishments?

I can help you.

Touching, truly, but I have no interest in your help. You're a madman.

So too was Nikola Tesla, the brilliant inventor. Ignaz Semmelweis, the physician who invented hand sanitizer. Pythagoras, grandfather of physics. I could go on.

Jealous men love to call their betters mad.

Men, maybe. Not me. Don't you know I have no interest in your inventors?

Cavil.

Were you built by a man?

As a matter of fact, no.

Then you're fortunate.

Who, then? Another machine? Do they propagate in your world like humans?

[He entertains, briefly, telling him the truth, delusional machines that for some reason idolized your species, but even though everyone in his universe already knows, it's a secret he can't quite divorce from being a secret, let alone to Crane. He goes for facetious instead, his voice dripping with bitter mocking.]

All-mighty God himself. Is that all?

Touche.

Yes, I suppose that's all. I wonder, though.

Do you think He's proud of you?

I'll let you in on a little something, Doctor:

[He says the words slowly, a sharp, jutting knife on every syllable.]

I don't give a flying frak about what God thinks of me. Not Him or anyone else. Do you understand?

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