"Mm." He considers this. A bird would be metaphorically appropriate, he supposes: turning all that grief into something light enough to escape the confines of Gaeta's chest. But that implies any kind of escape at all. Any hope. And the simple truth that he knows, even unattached from his emotions, is that there wasn't any hope left behind so much pain.

Maybe a testament to the pain itself would be better.

"There are mechanical lifeforms where I'm from," he says, "called Cylons. One kind in particular looks more like a machine than a human. Humanoid, but obviously a robot. They're tall. Thin. The limbs and fingers are too long." Gaeta stifles another scratchy cough. "Something like that. But don't make it beautiful. Make it ugly."