A/N: This story is already completed, but I am releasing chapters as I edit them.

CHAPTER 1

I will never understand them. The killings, the deception, the abuse, the corruption. They argue relentlessly that they are justified, that they have good reasons for perpetuating their violent and abhorrent beliefs. It wasn't perpetuation, though. These beings didn't show up on our frakking doorsteps and introduce us to their beliefs. Hell, they didn't even stand on our street corners to perform dramatic rants about how wrong our spiritual lives were. They didn't ask us what we wanted; they told us what we wanted. I, however, know that they are wrong, for I am an instrument of the higher power. I interpret, I preach, I correct. Nothing, though, could have prepared me for the clusterfrak of nukes that were sent to destroy all of humanity. I thought I understood, thought I could explain all the events that had transpired. Over the course of the next few years, amongst all the continued deaths and relentless pursuits, everything that I thought to be constant and true was ripped apart. I realized that I died the day the Twelve Colonies of Kobol were bombed to oblivion, along with the rest of my preconceived notions.

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Allergies. What could that woman possibly be allergic to on a battlestar? If they're so bad that she needs to bother the fleet's best doctor, maybe she should avoid the godsdamned botanical cruiser.

Bill Adama sat in his quarters alone, after a lengthy meeting with the new President of the Twelve Colonies. He had taken orders from his mother, his father, the old farts on the Admiralty, and even from his violent ex wife. Never in his life did Commander Adama think that he would ever find himself taking orders from a schoolteacher this late in his life. Adama pushed himself from his desk and sauntered over to his bottle of ambrosia. He picked it up and contemplated it for a moment. The worlds just ended, therefore luxuries such as alcohol would be in short supply. The commander set the bottle back down with a sigh; he better save this for a special occasion, such as the declaration of martial law.

He shook his head at the thought, though he had a small smirk on his face. No, the remainder of humanity deserved much more than a military dictatorship, especially one that would be fueled by a petty superiority complex. Walking to the head, Adama unbuttoned his tunic with one hand while the other hand found solace at the bridge of his nose. Running from the fight had been difficult for him. After fighting in the First Cylon War, chickening out of defending what was left of the Colonies seemed unacceptable.

"The war is over."

Laura Roslin's adamant words rang in his head as he shucked his uniform jacket and looked in the mirror. He had already accumulated a hefty amount of stubble from the day, and his face was still riddled with slowly healing gashes, thanks to a certain cylon. The Old Man switched on the sink and picked up his razor, still frowning at the memory of the President's words. It was one thing to be outranked by the former Secretary of Education, but it was another thing to have that slimy politician be correct. And Roslin was correct.

The razor glided smoothly over his lathered face, and the Commander had to chuckle at the ridiculous situation that he found himself in. If there was any hope for the rest of the human race, then it didn't lie in the deceased Colonies, and it certainly didn't lie in the delicious revenge on the cylons. It lied in their safe escape to another world, even if that world was merely a tool for boosting morale. And of course, it lied in the fertility of the surviving humans.

Water dripped from Bill's chin after rinsing his face. Laura Roslin had only been President for barely two days, and already she increased the fleet population and gained the trust of his own son. Damn that woman.

Before Adama could squeeze toothpaste onto his toothbrush, the comm unit went off. He reluctantly placed the toothbrush back onto the sink and made his way to the comm, quickening his pace when he remembered that he was harboring the lives of whatever was left of his people.

"Adama," he spoke gruffly.

"Sir," Gaeta piped, "a cylon raider has..." there was a brief pause before he began again, "belay that, a group of cylon raiders has jumped into the system."

Adama glanced at his uniform jacket hanging in the bathroom; it was too far out of reach. He turned his attention back to Gaeta and ordered him to scramble the fighters.

"Commander, this is the second time that the cylons have found us. The last time was exactly thirty three minutes ago," continued Gaeta. The Lieutenant was about to say more about the situation, but Adama cut him off.

"I'll be in the CIC momentarily, Mr. Gaeta, and when I arrive I expect a full sitrep."

"Yes, sir," and with a click, the line went dead.

Who frakking cares how long ago the previous raider attacked? Gaeta just liked to show off, always calculating such insignificant figures. Grabbing his tunic from the head, Adama deftly buttoned it up and left his quarters. This was about to be a long ass road trip.