He heard it coming before he saw it.
Or at least, that's what he liked to tell himself.
For once, his office was empty.
Somehow, people had managed to keep from injuring themselves long enough for him to kick the rest of the idiots out.
It was a quiet day, a holiday, actually.
Rahday, the twentieth of Martius.
The day that marked the end of winter, and the beginning of spring.
Or at least, it would have been, back on Caprica.
But this was New Caprica, and though they shared the same name, the two planets couldn't have been more different.
The festival celebrating Persephone's home-coming was supposed to be a day of joy.
Children should have been running the streets wild, paper daimons tied to their arms, floating behind them as kites.
Icons of Cerberus should have had a place in every doorway and gate, warding back winter's chill and offering the goddess sanctuary in every home he guarded.
Those homes she visited would find a drop of golden ichor on their doorstep, a gift of blood from the goddess herself, with the power to bring to life the frozen earth, making way for the crops that were to be planted.
The sun should have been shining, the grass green, the birds and rodents returning from their migration.
The sky was grey, the sun hidden behind a cold wall of cloud, and the pale dirt was like slush underfoot.
No birds sang, no pikas poked their heads out from under houses, or climbed up electric poles to better survey their territories.
New Caprica was devoid of any familiar life, and what indigenous life there was, none of it was friendly or brave enough to walk among them.
Only the staunchest of merchants had ventured into the marketplace, fruitlessly trying to sell their wares to customers that weren't looking to buy.
He could hear them calling out to passersby, advertising hand-woven blankets, baskets, newly-made clothes, roasted rabbit haunches, fertilized and unfertilized chicken eggs, and bottled, purified water.
Some of the Cylons had taken an interest in Human crafts and food, but even they seemed to have stayed in their ships and buildings to avoid the chill in the air.
New Caprica had never been warm, but this cold was different.
It bit through clothing and seemed to follow you wherever you went, like an animal nipping at your heels.
He wasn't sure that even Cerberus himself would be able to drive this chill out of his office.
He was sitting in his chair behind his desk when he heard it.
Or at least, that's what he told himself.
He knew it was coming.
By the time he heard the hydraulic hiss of its footsteps, it was already outside his door.
It walked through the flaps in the tent, and the cold came scuttling in with it like a cat following by its master's feet, leaping over toward him and wrapping around his legs once, twice, before going off to explore the rest of his office.
He was standing, but wasn't conscious of getting to his feet.
"What in hell-!" The growl burst from his mouth without thought.
A Centurion was standing in front of him, and Kara Thrace lay unconscious in its arms.
Blood was running down her legs, and had dripping off the Centurion's metal plating.
The red eye fanned across the room, left right, left, right, left, right, before it slowed, and stopped.
It stared at him.
"Kara is hurt."
The voice was electronic, flat, devoid of emotion.
"It was ordered to protect Kara. Two told It not to take Kara to Four. Mek must help Kara."
Emotionless.
He could feel it's fear.
It was talking to him, he didn't recognize the word Mek, but it was talking to him, talking about him.
He knew it without a doubt.
"What-" He couldn't speak. He could still feel the cold from outside wafting around his feet even through his shoes. "What happened?"
Her hair was long, her skin pale, her arms skinnier than he had ever seen.
Blood had stained grey pants almost black.
He was moving before the thought had even entered his mind.
"Don't answer that." He whispered.
He knew the answer.
He'd never forgotten.
Reality snapped back into focus, and his heart began to pound.
What was he doing, just standing there like an idiot?
He snapped at the Centurion, "You want to help her? Get her over to that gurney, quickly!"
It obeyed without question, and he darted towards the door.
He'd given Maia the day off to be with her wife after she was injured in a construction accident, which left him with very few choices left.
And none of them were pleasant.
The market forum was only a few feet away, and he spotted the woman that sold the chicken eggs, hurrying to pack up her stand.
No one in their right minds would stick around while Centurion's were carrying bodies.
"Marta!" He called.
The woman stopped, one hand still reaching for her basket of eggs.
She was afraid of the Centurion, but no one would ignore him.
"I need you to bring Aspasia to my office immediately! Just-go to the watchguard and tell them that I have a medical emergency and I need assistance! Ask specifically for Aspasia!"
Marta hesitated for a single instant, and he knew that she was calculating the risk involved.
The gods damned rebels couldn't tell the difference between surrender and betrayal, cooperation and sabotage, and and for their sake, it was a damned good thing they never dared show their faces to him.
Marta's fingers twitched toward the handle of her basket, but her other hand moved toward her stomach as though she weren't even aware of moving.
Then she straightened, hesitation gone.
There was a new fear in her eyes.
"I'll get her for you!" She called back, clutching her shawl to her chest so it wouldn't impede her movement, "You take care of that girl, 'Tor!"
She took off down the path.
He ducked back into his tent.
The cold followed him.
He stared at the Centurion, standing over the unconscious woman.
The Cylons had taken away his medical instruments after the rebels had started stealing them. Without Aspasia, there was nothing he could do but basic first aid and bone setting.
"Frak!" He snarled, snatching up one of the few clean towels he had, and grabbing gloves and a mask from his desk drawer.
What he would give to be back in the infirmary on Galactica.
"It!" He ordered.
The Centurion jerked, and its eye turned to follow his movement.
"You said you were ordered to protect her, right?"
Something about it seemed to nod.
"Then get outside that door, and don't let anyone in but Six, and only if she's wearing her blue scarf with the yellow flowers. If anyone else tries to get in, unless they're seriously injured, keep them out and tell them to go to Hesperos!"
He could almost see the metaphorical gears turning in its head.
For a moment, he wasn't sure it was going to listen to him.
Then it seemed to nod again-without doing anything-and moved for the doorway.
He watched it go, the cold still swirling around his feet.
The Centurion walked right through the flap, pushing the fabric out in front of it so that all he could see was the metal of its back in the doorway.
A soft, mechanical hum filled the air.
Warmth washed over him, chasing away the cold and settling over him like a blanket.
He shivered, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold running down his spine.
A memory suddenly rose to the surface. A painting he had seen as a child, on a Rahday from his childhood so long ago.
Persephone, her face hidden behind a shawl of black spider webs, hugging a wall of rock as she peered out of the dark confines of the earth and into the light.
One hand held onto the rock for balance, and the other was reached out to the guardian that stood next to her.
It was a hound with silver fur, and piercing red eyes that glowed out of the darkness, illuminating the hundreds of broken swords that littered the ground from all of the warriors who had tried to enter the Underworld before their time.
Its teeth were bared at an unseen enemy, and the golden blood that dripped off of the goddess's injured feet turned mortal red when it touched its shadow.
He blinked, and the memory vanished as soon as it had come, leaving him staring at the Centurion guarding the door as though it was the first time he'd ever seen one.
He shook his head weakly, and turned back to Kara.
He didn't have time for daimontales.
He had a job to do, damnit.