Sharon picked up the pad and pencils provided by the guards at Colonel Tigh's order. She thought for a minute, trying to reflect on what the past 24 hours had involved for her: the discovery of her true nature, her betrayal of Commander Adama, and what one could argue was the ultimate sell-out, giving up her own people.
She sat her tray on the floor and pushed it to the cell door. The guards didn't respond, and that was fine with her. Sharon knew her life was over. So, she started writing about it.
What did I do? Commander Adama had to call me right to the bridge, he didn't give me enough time to take care of the problem. I stole one of the ultra-fine needles off one of the meds in the emergency kit on (what used to be) my Raptor. Fortunately, I had a place to keep it until I had time to sever the connection – my hair. I knew the Cylon had a mission on the bridge, and I had to go there.
So, then in the blink of an eye, I'm in the brig. The guards left me alone for just long enough so I could end this whole thing once and for all. The procedure was bloodless, thankfully. Shove it in, snap off the end, and press. All done, and I'm not a Cylon anymore. I figured Captain Adama would come down and just shoot me, but it was Tigh. I always respected the Colonel. Even though his loyalty to the Commander was intense, I knew the man would listen to me.
What else can I tell them? Information is going to buy my survival. I've told them who the Cylons are, I've told them how to cut them off once captured. Everything else is guess work. I don't know how to fix a Raider. Starbuck did a good enough job of that anyway. I can't imagine if I'd been the one to find it, they'd probably throw it out thinking I planted a bomb in it.
I don't know what will happen to me. The Colonial Service will probably see to it that I'm executed. If I am, so be it. At least I died knowing that I'm more than my maker meant for me to be. Have I won or lost? Neither, I think I just puckered up and kissed my sister. Damn cliché. But that means I really lost, because the thought of doing that disgusts me so thoroughly that I'd probably not miss if I had a gun in my hand right now.
I need rest now. They think Cylons don't, but they do. Just not as much as they do. So, what's the term… "until next time, Dear Diary." That'll just have to do.