“Congratulations, it’s a boy,” the doctor said as the baby’s cries filled the delivery room.
Duchess Catherine, caked in sweat and exhausted, looked up at her son, wrinkly and bright pink and closely resembling Winston Churchill. Prince William stood by her side, clutching her hand tightly, looking clammy and on the verge of fainting.
The doctor was an unconventionally handsome man with long brown hair and intense eyes. He seemed a bit jittery and in his own head as he cut the umbilical cord and handed the baby off to the shapely and statuesque blonde nurse at his side.
The two shared a knowing glance. At least, Kate thought they did. Maybe it was just the exhaustion setting in.
The nurse cleaned up the baby and walked it over to Kate. Euphoria overtook her as she prepared to hold her infant son for the first time.
Then suddenly, she felt a piercing pain in her skull. Her whole head felt like it was on fire. It was the most intense migraine she had ever experienced. The room seemed wobbly. The lighting seemed too bright. Everything just felt … wrong.
“Do you hear that?” she cried out.
It was the opening cords to “All Along the Watchtower.” But not the Bob Dylan version or even the Jimi Hendrix version. Instead, it was a nondescript cover that sounded like something a television producer threw together at the last minute when he couldn’t secure the rights to the original.
William, the doctor and the nurse all looked confused.
“Hear what, darling?” William asked.
“The music. How can you not hear it? It’s blaring.”
“Why don’t we let you get some rest,” the doctor said.
Kate was wheeled from the deliver room back to her private hospital room by the shapely nurse. The lights were dimmed and she was left in there all alone.
Faintly, Kate could hear the doctor and William talking in hushed tones outside the door. She heard words like “stress” and “exhaustion” thrown about and a genuine concern in William’s voice that shook her to her core. But she was so tired and felt herself fading fast.
Then, just as she was drifting off to sleep, the music picked back up. Louder this time. And the headache returned in full force.
Just as the refrain was about to kick in and her head felt like it was going to explode, the song faded and Kate had a moment of true clarity. It felt like a switch in her brain was flipped and something deep inside of her that had always been there, but had remained dormant until now, was suddenly awakened.
“I’m a Cylon,” she whispered softly to herself. And a huge smile crept across her sweat-covered face.
The paparazzi was out in full force as Duchess Catherine and Prince William prepared to exit St. Mary’s Hospital with their still-unnamed bundle of joy to make their first public appearance. The nervous energy of the crowd was palpable as the two got closer to the door.
Kate clutched her newborn son, who was wrapped snuggly in a cream-colored blanket, close to her breast. As they opened the door, a cacophony of screams erupted from the crowd and they were momentarily blinded by the photographers’ flashbulbs.
But she kept her composure, as she was expected to. She smiled and waved for the crowd and soaked in their adulation.
If they only knew, Kate thought. If these fools had any clue what it was they were cheering. They were so engrossed in the pomp and circumstance that they had no idea what this baby signified.
This wasn’t just the heir apparent to the British throne. This child signified the dawning of a new era. Soon, the human oppressors would be overthrown and their unwanted robotic children would claim their rightful seat of power. The age of man was soon coming to an end. Kate’s half-human, half-Cylon offspring would change everything.
“He got her looks, thankfully,” Kate heard her husband joke to reporters. A smile crossed her face. That’s right, eat it up you gullible saps, Kate thought. Take your photos and write your little articles.
As long as the masses continued to focus their attention on her, they would remain oblivious to the Cylon Raiders currently orbiting the earth, awaiting the signal to attack.
Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. Follow Joel on Twitter @FreeMisterClark or email him at firstname.lastname@example.org.