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ineedmyfics2011-10-12 09:29 pm
ineedmymods) wrote in ineedmyfics2011-10-12 09:29 pm
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Nothing Good Ever Comes from Earth
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lostinapapercup
Fromin_the_blue
Title: Nothing Good Ever Comes from Earth
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Couldn't resist. Could. Not. Resist. Contains Season 4 spoilers. Apologies to Cowboy Bebop for stealing Jet's dialog for the title.
On Earth he and Kara don't talk to each other at all. It's too much, way too much. Too big, too disappointing, and words he'd be happier to forget ring in his ears. Words like those four frakking Cylons just gave us Earth and if I found out you were a Cylon I'd put a bullet between your eyes and more, so many more that he can't even keep track. Thoughts spin in his brain. This whole thing, it's new and old at the same time and out of all of them, out of all four of them, he thinks he might be struggling against this the most. Knowing hasn't done him a single godsdamn favor, not one, and all it means is that a really good reason to despise himself is painted all over his frakking body like a target.
In turn, the planet's surface is painted with the invisible rattle of radiation. Tory (why did they even frak in the first place? he can't remember anything but the opportunity) moves to his side, reaches for his hand, but he wants no part of it or of her. She can embrace being a frakking toaster all she wants, but he can't. It's where their similarities start and stop, right there in that we're Cylons moment and the less he has to do with her now the better. He knows it hurts her when he shrugs her off and steps away, but gods, give him a frakking moment to deal and give it to him alone. He might be a machine (he doesn't feel like a machine) but he's still Sam, still just Sam with an added layer but peel it away (someone please peel it away) and he's the person (machine) he always was. He has the same... same passions, same desires, same goals, same loves, same likes and dislikes, same... same purpose. As far as he knows, he has the same purpose because gods know there were no sudden revelations, no master plan blinking into existence, no great shared knowledge, no great shared wisdom. It's a godsdamn joke.
Frak everything. In the periphery of his vision he sees Kara move off, Leoben hot on her heels. Dumb motherfrakker, doesn't he know when to leave well enough alone? Obviously not. The Admiral's still testing the sand for radiation and it's gotta be the hundredth time, and he wants to tell him the reading shouldn't be any different won't be any different can't be any different this time, but people have to deal with things themselves. It's why he shrugged off Tory. It's why he let his last-I-looked-we-were-still-married wife head off on her own. It's why he doesn't interrupt Galen's inspection of the wall and why he doesn't offer Laura Roslin (whose side he fought by on New Caprica but who's now as likely to airlock him for the simple crime of being here as anything) any false words of comfort. He lets Saul stare off into the dead irradiated ocean. The sky is gray and the wind cuts like a blade of ice and he stumbles blindly over the sand. Alluvial deposits, that's what Bill called the sand on New Caprica, but he always just called it sand.
By his feet, something hard rises from just below the surface. He reaches down to pick it up and for a fraction of a moment it's familiar, old and comfortable in his hands. Fingers that to his knowledge have never made a musical sound once his whole life take up residence on the broken guitar neck, forming what has to be a chord. Frak, he almost drops it out of sheer panic: he doesn't know this shit, he doesn't, has no frakking way of knowing it or how it works, but he presses gloved fingers onto invisible strings and knows it's right. He can hear the song.
He can hear the song as clear as anything and if he stretches it just so, just this way to the left like a rubber band, it's recognizable as the same one he heard at Joe's Bar, the same one that led him and Saul and Galen and Tory to the equipment locker, the same one that said surprise, motherfrakkers, you're the enemy you hate so much, didn't see that one coming, did you. Now he does drop the piece of guitar, drops it to the sand like it's burning a hole in his hands. When he's satisfied no one's watching he covers his ears with his hands and stifles the scream that wants out. Swallows it back, swallows back the tears of frustration that sting his eyes. There's no coming back from this familiar-yet-unfamiliar place and he knows it with every solid beat of his Cylon heart. Yeah, he's Sam, but he's no longer Sam. And that means he has no frakking idea who or what he is any more.
But at least he's alive. For whatever it's worth, they haven't killed him yet. Jury's out on how long that state of affairs is gonna last.
*
In what's become a succession of grim revelations, Laura can't say she's surprised that as a dying leader she's led the people to a dead planet. She's tempted, as she often is, to sit down and hug her knees to her chest, wrap her arms around them, bury her head against them, and cry. But Presidents don't have the luxury of tears and there's nothing she can do to fix this situation. If she wasn't saddled by the mantle of authority she'd probably take the Three by the hand and commiserate. Even now that's something she can't do and so she stands by Bill's side, stony and impassive, and chalks this up to one more bad event in a never-ending series of bad events.
He looks like he wants to cry too. Everyone does. The hush over the people gathered here is palpable and it's pure shock, she knows. There was no Earth. It didn't exist. All the old stories were just that -- stories -- and if she ever put stock in them she was as much a fool as the next person and the next person and the one after that. It was their secret, hers and Bill Adama's, from the very start. She liked his rationale, though: people needed a reason for hope. They needed something to live for and it was true. It's still true.
If she's left one legacy, she wants it to be the legacy of stubborn persistence and it's in that moment, that very moment standing in this chilly nuclear wasteland where she decides it hasn't all been for nothing. Yes, Lee handled business for her and he did so well. She couldn't be more proud of him if he was her own son and that's practically the truth by now. Like any mother, she refuses to cede that they might finally have run into a dead end. This might be Earth, but it's not their Earth. This might be the home of the Thirteenth Tribe, but it's not their home. As thankless as the realization is, there's no way to deny it: their home is on a collection of ships that haven't seen better days in years, aren't likely to see better days, will never be rebuilt, won't last another frakking year. But they've made do and the one thing the Cylons underestimated was the power of human resilience and the will to survive. Against all odds, they've made it this far and they will make it to another planet and another and another until they find one that's right.
That night on Galactica, radiation scoured off their bodies, all necessary medicines taken, and with the sour taste of algae once again filling their stomachs and throats, she turns to Bill. Always dangerously close to adorable in his bathrobe, she lets one hand snake between fabric and the skin of his chest, lets his body warm her as she traces the scarred line surgery left behind.
"Admiral Adama." She's always liked the way the sound of those words fills her with a proud combination of joy and respect. "As your President, I have something very important to tell you."
Looking up from his book, hair freshly washed and combed back, he gives her a small unconvincing smile. "And what's that, Madam President?"
"To say today was disappointing is a little bit of an understatement. Bill--" she rushes on, unwilling to give him time to agree or to support her words. "--we can't let this stop us. Remember so long ago when you told the fleet that we would find Earth? Remember the hope that instilled in people?" Now she stops to breathe, the ghost of cancer cells catching in her throat and their bile swallowed back and she's glad for the steady support of his body beneath her hand. "We can't give up now. That would mean hope has lost the battle. It can't lose. We can't lose. So frak Earth and frak what we saw there today. We'll find something else, somewhere else."
Bill's finger slips out from between the pages of his book; he lets it fall to the side. "Frak Earth, huh?" Slowly, sadly, he shakes his head. "Someone painted that on the corridors of my ship today. Don't you get it, Laura? There is no hope. This was it. This was the one thing. This was the last thing. This was..."
Before his voice can trail off as promised, she covers his lips with her index finger. "Is your name still William Adama? Admiral William Adama?" She takes his nod as a yes. "A long time ago I read in your personnel record that you were too godsdamn stubborn to give in or give up, and that's why you were put in charge. That come what may, Bill Adama was the man."
"Maybe that was true once, but I've frakking had it. The thing you've been following turns out to be real, but it's only a phantom. Only a promise of what was. Your best friend, the one you've known for decades, turns out to be one of them. And your own son turns out to be a better man than you are. What's left, Laura? What's left?"
Her answer is swift and stern as a steel blade. "Humanity, Bill. That's what's left. Be proud you got us here, not for what we found when we arrived. Love your best friend for all the same reasons you loved him before. And for everyone's sake, remember that Lee is only as good and competent as he is because of you. Because when push came to shove, you were the best father he could possibly have hoped for. You put aside old enmities and helped him grow into who and what he is and for that and for all these things, you have to be proud and you have to be strong." Her voice never wavers as she leans forward so they can speak nose-to-nose. "I need you to be strong. I'm dying, Bill."
Something tells her if he could seduce the spectre of death right out of her, he would. He tries, gives it a very good shot. "I have news for you, Madam President," he breathes between kisses. "We're all dying. Better get used to it."
"Spare me the sentimental claptrap, Admiral." Her fingers fold around his chin. "I'll get used to it tomorrow. It's as good a day as any."
*
Drink isn't the frakking comfort it used to be, Ellen. The last time I saw you, I handed you a drink. A godsdamn drink of frakking poison. Look at this place. It's more of a godsdamn shithole than my last apartment on Caprica, and that's saying something. Gods, I wish you were here. I wish I'd never listened to Bill and gone to New Caprica. That day, gods damn it, that day of all days. We had some pretty rotten luck, you and me.
What happened to you? What happened all those months? Didn't you have any frakking faith in me? That I'd survive their damn detention? So they took my eye: well, it's just a frakking eye. They didn't take away who I am. They didn't take away Saul Frakking Tigh. No, Ellen, you were the only one who knew how to get away with that trick, you maddening godsdamn woman, you.
I wish you were here. If anyone could make sense of this frakked-up crazy world, it'd be you. You always had that gift, were always the one who could make me smile. Yeah, I know what people said. About you, about me, about us and trust me, we deserved some of it. Most of it. But when I saw you, when I got near you, I lost the brains in my head to the one in my pants and gods know I tried to be different, woman, but there's no one else like you. There was no one else like you, ever, and I love you with every beat of my godsdamn skinjob heart. There's no way not to: tell that to all those self-righteous we're-better-than-you motherfrakkers littering the godsdamn landscape, judging who I am and what I do.
You think I should have known? Should have known something was frakked up? You think all these years I've been trying to uncover the truth? Or you think maybe I always did know the truth and just couldn't handle it, and that's why I drank? Drink? I don't know. I used to fly Vipers. I used to be pretty godsdamn good at it. They always said it was my little love affair with alcohol that held me back, but you never thought it was a problem, did you. No, you tossed 'em back right along with me, you gorgeous thing. Remember when we first met? It was at that strip club on Picon, the one near the harbor in Queenstown. I was there on leave and you were the most beautiful godsdamn thing in the place, all curves and long hair dressed in pink -- that always was your favorite color, wasn't it? -- and heels, and you had some frakking pink drink in a martini glass and I thought to myself, now there's a real woman. None of this fake tit nonsense, no godsdamn implants for me. I like the feel of a real live human beneath my hands. I get enough of the manufactured look and feel on a godsdamn battlestar. Remember? I joined you at the bar, bought you a drink, watched you lean over and pluck a frakking cherry out of the condiment case like you owned the place. I was so convinced you would tie that stem in a knot for me with that talented tongue of yours, but I wasn't disappointed when it didn't happen. You were too busy keeping me occupied in other ways. I remembered thinking I could drown in you, and when I asked you what a pretty lady like you was doing at a strip joint, you smiled and told me it was the best place to meet good-looking men, and I asked if you were talking about me and you laughed out loud and said who else, and I knew right then and there that you were the one for me. And I was right. I was right. I never knew I could love anyone as much as I love you, even now. What am I supposed to do without you?
Gods. Look at this water. Look at it. It's inkier than the frakking ocean on Picon, colder than the harbor on Caprica. When I look into it, I get such a godsdamn pang for you from right here, right here in my heart. Don't let anyone fool you, I have one. Oh, I have one, and it's a damn good one. You think if you'd known, about me being one of the godsdamn final five, you still would have loved me?
You think you could have?
I don't know what to do without you, Ellen Tigh. I don't know what to frakking do.
*
After all his talk, after all that mysticism he spouted, all his crap about her special destiny, this is his frakking reaction? Backing the frak away is his frakking reaction? Can't handle the truth, can, you, you frakking toaster, she wants to shout after him, but for once she holds her tongue. Leoben, she wants to ask, how many people get to look right into the face of their own death? She doesn't have to ask him because she knows the answer: everyone. They just don't get to hang around afterward to have to frakking think about it. They bite the bullet, it's over.
If that's me lying there, then what am I? A Cylon after all? It's a question she puts only to herself and realizes as she reaches out to break the dog tags away from what's left of the body's neck that this is not a time for talking. It's a good time to ask a frak of a lot of questions, but who's here to ask? The burned-out husk of who she used to be? Yeah, she can see Doc having a frakking field day with her on this one. So you had a conversation with yourself, Starbuck. You know we have a medical term for that. Schizophrenia, that's what we call it. She's not having a conversation with herself though because that's just as stupid as it is frakked up. She might be dead, but she's not crazy. At least she's pretty sure about that.
Maybe she can talk to Sam. But no, she doesn't want his so-in-love-it-hurts brand of reassurance about this. Besides, he's not her Sam, not any more. He's a frakking toaster. One of them. She can't go to Chief or to the XO -- they're Cylons too -- and she would never in a million years even want to talk to Tory. Gaius? Out of the frakking question. She's had her differences with the President, but Laura Roslin's not someone she'd ever confide in. The Admiral used to be like a father to her, but that was a long time ago and she's not so sure she has the same trust for him these days. It's just like Sam told her the first time they met: everyone's a critic.
Her mom was her first and biggest critic, and isn't that what brought her here the first time? The Leoben who wasn't Leoben told her she had to make peace with her bitch of a mother -- Socrata Thrace was a professional bitch -- and she did. She thought she did, and it wasn't even that bad. Or maybe it was and she didn't know what the frak she was doing or what the frak she's talking about now. What she does know is that she's looking at her dead mirror image and she can't stand it for much longer. She has to do something about it, or she'll never be able to forgive herself. And if she can't forgive herself, how can she possibly forgive anyone else?
What is there to forgive, the collection of singed hair and burned skin asks from the sanctity of its cockpit. Are you gonna forgive Sam for being a Cylon? Forgive Bill for not being your father? Forgive Leoben for being gutless or Boomer for being insane or Chief for losing Cally? How about forgiving Lee for wanting you or Zak for dying? Dad, what about him? Are you gonna forgive him for leaving? Mom for staying? Mom for dying of cancer? For slamming your fingers in the door? For never saying she loved you? She never once said it, did she? And because you never heard it, you don't like saying it to other people. What, are you afraid you'll use it up? Won't have any more to give? I have news for you: this is you. I'm you. We found Earth, we crashed, we died in a big frakking fireball. And you know why? So we could be a beacon and bring the rest of humanity back here, and for what? For what, Kara? To die of radiation poisoning?
"Frak you." All afterthought, she spits out one more word. "Bitch."
It takes her almost an hour to gather up enough material for the bonfire. She doesn't ask for help because gods know she doesn't need it or anything. No, she doesn't ask for help because she needs to plan her own funeral her own way. The symbolism isn't lost on her when she finally lights the pyre and watches that yellow-haired opinionated loud-mouthed frakked-up fully-flawed smart-ass bitch of a Viper pilot go up in smoke. There's something fulfilling about it, but that's squashed by the lump in her throat and that's squashed by this feeling of dissociation. Maybe she's lucky to be able to watch herself be cremated. Maybe it's the frakking catharsis everyone and their godsdamn aunt is looking for. She doesn't know; she's never claimed to be a philosopher. What she does know is how frakking weird it all is and that's it. It's just weird.
When she makes her way back to the beachhead, people are still there. Leoben isn't one of them and for once she savors the fact that she frakking trumped him. It took her special destiny's dead body to do it, but that was almost worth it. Almost. Frak you, you frakking toaster, she thinks in Leoben's direction and wherever he might be, she hopes he gets the thought loud and clear.
With the light starting to fade, she knows it's time for them all to get back to Galactica. She has even less idea who or what she is now than she did when they got here, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't. She is the harbinger of death, Kara Thrace. She will lead them all to their end. End of line.
End of frakking line. In the gathering dusk she picks the one place that makes the least sense but has the best potential for working in her favor. Wordlessly, she moves to Sam's side. When he looks at her and nods, she nods back. Neither of them says a godsdamn thing on the ride back to Galactica and she might not be sure why Sammy's so silent (although she has a couple really good guesses), but she knows why she is.
There's nothing to say. Not a frakking thing.
lostinapapercupFrom
in_the_blueTitle: Nothing Good Ever Comes from Earth
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Couldn't resist. Could. Not. Resist. Contains Season 4 spoilers. Apologies to Cowboy Bebop for stealing Jet's dialog for the title.
On Earth he and Kara don't talk to each other at all. It's too much, way too much. Too big, too disappointing, and words he'd be happier to forget ring in his ears. Words like those four frakking Cylons just gave us Earth and if I found out you were a Cylon I'd put a bullet between your eyes and more, so many more that he can't even keep track. Thoughts spin in his brain. This whole thing, it's new and old at the same time and out of all of them, out of all four of them, he thinks he might be struggling against this the most. Knowing hasn't done him a single godsdamn favor, not one, and all it means is that a really good reason to despise himself is painted all over his frakking body like a target.
In turn, the planet's surface is painted with the invisible rattle of radiation. Tory (why did they even frak in the first place? he can't remember anything but the opportunity) moves to his side, reaches for his hand, but he wants no part of it or of her. She can embrace being a frakking toaster all she wants, but he can't. It's where their similarities start and stop, right there in that we're Cylons moment and the less he has to do with her now the better. He knows it hurts her when he shrugs her off and steps away, but gods, give him a frakking moment to deal and give it to him alone. He might be a machine (he doesn't feel like a machine) but he's still Sam, still just Sam with an added layer but peel it away (someone please peel it away) and he's the person (machine) he always was. He has the same... same passions, same desires, same goals, same loves, same likes and dislikes, same... same purpose. As far as he knows, he has the same purpose because gods know there were no sudden revelations, no master plan blinking into existence, no great shared knowledge, no great shared wisdom. It's a godsdamn joke.
Frak everything. In the periphery of his vision he sees Kara move off, Leoben hot on her heels. Dumb motherfrakker, doesn't he know when to leave well enough alone? Obviously not. The Admiral's still testing the sand for radiation and it's gotta be the hundredth time, and he wants to tell him the reading shouldn't be any different won't be any different can't be any different this time, but people have to deal with things themselves. It's why he shrugged off Tory. It's why he let his last-I-looked-we-were-still-married wife head off on her own. It's why he doesn't interrupt Galen's inspection of the wall and why he doesn't offer Laura Roslin (whose side he fought by on New Caprica but who's now as likely to airlock him for the simple crime of being here as anything) any false words of comfort. He lets Saul stare off into the dead irradiated ocean. The sky is gray and the wind cuts like a blade of ice and he stumbles blindly over the sand. Alluvial deposits, that's what Bill called the sand on New Caprica, but he always just called it sand.
By his feet, something hard rises from just below the surface. He reaches down to pick it up and for a fraction of a moment it's familiar, old and comfortable in his hands. Fingers that to his knowledge have never made a musical sound once his whole life take up residence on the broken guitar neck, forming what has to be a chord. Frak, he almost drops it out of sheer panic: he doesn't know this shit, he doesn't, has no frakking way of knowing it or how it works, but he presses gloved fingers onto invisible strings and knows it's right. He can hear the song.
He can hear the song as clear as anything and if he stretches it just so, just this way to the left like a rubber band, it's recognizable as the same one he heard at Joe's Bar, the same one that led him and Saul and Galen and Tory to the equipment locker, the same one that said surprise, motherfrakkers, you're the enemy you hate so much, didn't see that one coming, did you. Now he does drop the piece of guitar, drops it to the sand like it's burning a hole in his hands. When he's satisfied no one's watching he covers his ears with his hands and stifles the scream that wants out. Swallows it back, swallows back the tears of frustration that sting his eyes. There's no coming back from this familiar-yet-unfamiliar place and he knows it with every solid beat of his Cylon heart. Yeah, he's Sam, but he's no longer Sam. And that means he has no frakking idea who or what he is any more.
But at least he's alive. For whatever it's worth, they haven't killed him yet. Jury's out on how long that state of affairs is gonna last.
*
In what's become a succession of grim revelations, Laura can't say she's surprised that as a dying leader she's led the people to a dead planet. She's tempted, as she often is, to sit down and hug her knees to her chest, wrap her arms around them, bury her head against them, and cry. But Presidents don't have the luxury of tears and there's nothing she can do to fix this situation. If she wasn't saddled by the mantle of authority she'd probably take the Three by the hand and commiserate. Even now that's something she can't do and so she stands by Bill's side, stony and impassive, and chalks this up to one more bad event in a never-ending series of bad events.
He looks like he wants to cry too. Everyone does. The hush over the people gathered here is palpable and it's pure shock, she knows. There was no Earth. It didn't exist. All the old stories were just that -- stories -- and if she ever put stock in them she was as much a fool as the next person and the next person and the one after that. It was their secret, hers and Bill Adama's, from the very start. She liked his rationale, though: people needed a reason for hope. They needed something to live for and it was true. It's still true.
If she's left one legacy, she wants it to be the legacy of stubborn persistence and it's in that moment, that very moment standing in this chilly nuclear wasteland where she decides it hasn't all been for nothing. Yes, Lee handled business for her and he did so well. She couldn't be more proud of him if he was her own son and that's practically the truth by now. Like any mother, she refuses to cede that they might finally have run into a dead end. This might be Earth, but it's not their Earth. This might be the home of the Thirteenth Tribe, but it's not their home. As thankless as the realization is, there's no way to deny it: their home is on a collection of ships that haven't seen better days in years, aren't likely to see better days, will never be rebuilt, won't last another frakking year. But they've made do and the one thing the Cylons underestimated was the power of human resilience and the will to survive. Against all odds, they've made it this far and they will make it to another planet and another and another until they find one that's right.
That night on Galactica, radiation scoured off their bodies, all necessary medicines taken, and with the sour taste of algae once again filling their stomachs and throats, she turns to Bill. Always dangerously close to adorable in his bathrobe, she lets one hand snake between fabric and the skin of his chest, lets his body warm her as she traces the scarred line surgery left behind.
"Admiral Adama." She's always liked the way the sound of those words fills her with a proud combination of joy and respect. "As your President, I have something very important to tell you."
Looking up from his book, hair freshly washed and combed back, he gives her a small unconvincing smile. "And what's that, Madam President?"
"To say today was disappointing is a little bit of an understatement. Bill--" she rushes on, unwilling to give him time to agree or to support her words. "--we can't let this stop us. Remember so long ago when you told the fleet that we would find Earth? Remember the hope that instilled in people?" Now she stops to breathe, the ghost of cancer cells catching in her throat and their bile swallowed back and she's glad for the steady support of his body beneath her hand. "We can't give up now. That would mean hope has lost the battle. It can't lose. We can't lose. So frak Earth and frak what we saw there today. We'll find something else, somewhere else."
Bill's finger slips out from between the pages of his book; he lets it fall to the side. "Frak Earth, huh?" Slowly, sadly, he shakes his head. "Someone painted that on the corridors of my ship today. Don't you get it, Laura? There is no hope. This was it. This was the one thing. This was the last thing. This was..."
Before his voice can trail off as promised, she covers his lips with her index finger. "Is your name still William Adama? Admiral William Adama?" She takes his nod as a yes. "A long time ago I read in your personnel record that you were too godsdamn stubborn to give in or give up, and that's why you were put in charge. That come what may, Bill Adama was the man."
"Maybe that was true once, but I've frakking had it. The thing you've been following turns out to be real, but it's only a phantom. Only a promise of what was. Your best friend, the one you've known for decades, turns out to be one of them. And your own son turns out to be a better man than you are. What's left, Laura? What's left?"
Her answer is swift and stern as a steel blade. "Humanity, Bill. That's what's left. Be proud you got us here, not for what we found when we arrived. Love your best friend for all the same reasons you loved him before. And for everyone's sake, remember that Lee is only as good and competent as he is because of you. Because when push came to shove, you were the best father he could possibly have hoped for. You put aside old enmities and helped him grow into who and what he is and for that and for all these things, you have to be proud and you have to be strong." Her voice never wavers as she leans forward so they can speak nose-to-nose. "I need you to be strong. I'm dying, Bill."
Something tells her if he could seduce the spectre of death right out of her, he would. He tries, gives it a very good shot. "I have news for you, Madam President," he breathes between kisses. "We're all dying. Better get used to it."
"Spare me the sentimental claptrap, Admiral." Her fingers fold around his chin. "I'll get used to it tomorrow. It's as good a day as any."
*
Drink isn't the frakking comfort it used to be, Ellen. The last time I saw you, I handed you a drink. A godsdamn drink of frakking poison. Look at this place. It's more of a godsdamn shithole than my last apartment on Caprica, and that's saying something. Gods, I wish you were here. I wish I'd never listened to Bill and gone to New Caprica. That day, gods damn it, that day of all days. We had some pretty rotten luck, you and me.
What happened to you? What happened all those months? Didn't you have any frakking faith in me? That I'd survive their damn detention? So they took my eye: well, it's just a frakking eye. They didn't take away who I am. They didn't take away Saul Frakking Tigh. No, Ellen, you were the only one who knew how to get away with that trick, you maddening godsdamn woman, you.
I wish you were here. If anyone could make sense of this frakked-up crazy world, it'd be you. You always had that gift, were always the one who could make me smile. Yeah, I know what people said. About you, about me, about us and trust me, we deserved some of it. Most of it. But when I saw you, when I got near you, I lost the brains in my head to the one in my pants and gods know I tried to be different, woman, but there's no one else like you. There was no one else like you, ever, and I love you with every beat of my godsdamn skinjob heart. There's no way not to: tell that to all those self-righteous we're-better-than-you motherfrakkers littering the godsdamn landscape, judging who I am and what I do.
You think I should have known? Should have known something was frakked up? You think all these years I've been trying to uncover the truth? Or you think maybe I always did know the truth and just couldn't handle it, and that's why I drank? Drink? I don't know. I used to fly Vipers. I used to be pretty godsdamn good at it. They always said it was my little love affair with alcohol that held me back, but you never thought it was a problem, did you. No, you tossed 'em back right along with me, you gorgeous thing. Remember when we first met? It was at that strip club on Picon, the one near the harbor in Queenstown. I was there on leave and you were the most beautiful godsdamn thing in the place, all curves and long hair dressed in pink -- that always was your favorite color, wasn't it? -- and heels, and you had some frakking pink drink in a martini glass and I thought to myself, now there's a real woman. None of this fake tit nonsense, no godsdamn implants for me. I like the feel of a real live human beneath my hands. I get enough of the manufactured look and feel on a godsdamn battlestar. Remember? I joined you at the bar, bought you a drink, watched you lean over and pluck a frakking cherry out of the condiment case like you owned the place. I was so convinced you would tie that stem in a knot for me with that talented tongue of yours, but I wasn't disappointed when it didn't happen. You were too busy keeping me occupied in other ways. I remembered thinking I could drown in you, and when I asked you what a pretty lady like you was doing at a strip joint, you smiled and told me it was the best place to meet good-looking men, and I asked if you were talking about me and you laughed out loud and said who else, and I knew right then and there that you were the one for me. And I was right. I was right. I never knew I could love anyone as much as I love you, even now. What am I supposed to do without you?
Gods. Look at this water. Look at it. It's inkier than the frakking ocean on Picon, colder than the harbor on Caprica. When I look into it, I get such a godsdamn pang for you from right here, right here in my heart. Don't let anyone fool you, I have one. Oh, I have one, and it's a damn good one. You think if you'd known, about me being one of the godsdamn final five, you still would have loved me?
You think you could have?
I don't know what to do without you, Ellen Tigh. I don't know what to frakking do.
*
After all his talk, after all that mysticism he spouted, all his crap about her special destiny, this is his frakking reaction? Backing the frak away is his frakking reaction? Can't handle the truth, can, you, you frakking toaster, she wants to shout after him, but for once she holds her tongue. Leoben, she wants to ask, how many people get to look right into the face of their own death? She doesn't have to ask him because she knows the answer: everyone. They just don't get to hang around afterward to have to frakking think about it. They bite the bullet, it's over.
If that's me lying there, then what am I? A Cylon after all? It's a question she puts only to herself and realizes as she reaches out to break the dog tags away from what's left of the body's neck that this is not a time for talking. It's a good time to ask a frak of a lot of questions, but who's here to ask? The burned-out husk of who she used to be? Yeah, she can see Doc having a frakking field day with her on this one. So you had a conversation with yourself, Starbuck. You know we have a medical term for that. Schizophrenia, that's what we call it. She's not having a conversation with herself though because that's just as stupid as it is frakked up. She might be dead, but she's not crazy. At least she's pretty sure about that.
Maybe she can talk to Sam. But no, she doesn't want his so-in-love-it-hurts brand of reassurance about this. Besides, he's not her Sam, not any more. He's a frakking toaster. One of them. She can't go to Chief or to the XO -- they're Cylons too -- and she would never in a million years even want to talk to Tory. Gaius? Out of the frakking question. She's had her differences with the President, but Laura Roslin's not someone she'd ever confide in. The Admiral used to be like a father to her, but that was a long time ago and she's not so sure she has the same trust for him these days. It's just like Sam told her the first time they met: everyone's a critic.
Her mom was her first and biggest critic, and isn't that what brought her here the first time? The Leoben who wasn't Leoben told her she had to make peace with her bitch of a mother -- Socrata Thrace was a professional bitch -- and she did. She thought she did, and it wasn't even that bad. Or maybe it was and she didn't know what the frak she was doing or what the frak she's talking about now. What she does know is that she's looking at her dead mirror image and she can't stand it for much longer. She has to do something about it, or she'll never be able to forgive herself. And if she can't forgive herself, how can she possibly forgive anyone else?
What is there to forgive, the collection of singed hair and burned skin asks from the sanctity of its cockpit. Are you gonna forgive Sam for being a Cylon? Forgive Bill for not being your father? Forgive Leoben for being gutless or Boomer for being insane or Chief for losing Cally? How about forgiving Lee for wanting you or Zak for dying? Dad, what about him? Are you gonna forgive him for leaving? Mom for staying? Mom for dying of cancer? For slamming your fingers in the door? For never saying she loved you? She never once said it, did she? And because you never heard it, you don't like saying it to other people. What, are you afraid you'll use it up? Won't have any more to give? I have news for you: this is you. I'm you. We found Earth, we crashed, we died in a big frakking fireball. And you know why? So we could be a beacon and bring the rest of humanity back here, and for what? For what, Kara? To die of radiation poisoning?
"Frak you." All afterthought, she spits out one more word. "Bitch."
It takes her almost an hour to gather up enough material for the bonfire. She doesn't ask for help because gods know she doesn't need it or anything. No, she doesn't ask for help because she needs to plan her own funeral her own way. The symbolism isn't lost on her when she finally lights the pyre and watches that yellow-haired opinionated loud-mouthed frakked-up fully-flawed smart-ass bitch of a Viper pilot go up in smoke. There's something fulfilling about it, but that's squashed by the lump in her throat and that's squashed by this feeling of dissociation. Maybe she's lucky to be able to watch herself be cremated. Maybe it's the frakking catharsis everyone and their godsdamn aunt is looking for. She doesn't know; she's never claimed to be a philosopher. What she does know is how frakking weird it all is and that's it. It's just weird.
When she makes her way back to the beachhead, people are still there. Leoben isn't one of them and for once she savors the fact that she frakking trumped him. It took her special destiny's dead body to do it, but that was almost worth it. Almost. Frak you, you frakking toaster, she thinks in Leoben's direction and wherever he might be, she hopes he gets the thought loud and clear.
With the light starting to fade, she knows it's time for them all to get back to Galactica. She has even less idea who or what she is now than she did when they got here, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't. She is the harbinger of death, Kara Thrace. She will lead them all to their end. End of line.
End of frakking line. In the gathering dusk she picks the one place that makes the least sense but has the best potential for working in her favor. Wordlessly, she moves to Sam's side. When he looks at her and nods, she nods back. Neither of them says a godsdamn thing on the ride back to Galactica and she might not be sure why Sammy's so silent (although she has a couple really good guesses), but she knows why she is.
There's nothing to say. Not a frakking thing.