Opening Statement: I own none of the characters or underlying backstory herein. I'm simply borrowing them for my own creative purposes, not out of hope for monetary compensation. Its set post-"Daybreak" (obviously!) and is my ineffectual effort to 'fix' that horrible conclusion of a certain pilot's saga. More substantive comments at the end here.

Wandering to a Distant Field (1/?)

Lee Adama had wandered the land for 364 days, neither speaking with nor seeing another living soul all but the first two days of it. This suited his mood, which had persisted since…since he'd started walking. Walking away from that field of grass where his father flew away, followed quickly by…

Lee knew it was exactly 364 days because he'd taken to carving little nicks into the solid branch he'd taken to using as a walking stick every five days. It was one of the many mental exercises he engaged in to keep himself halfway sane. In his quieter moments, Lee suspected such measures were all for naught and he'd cracked apart after the third day. Certainly marching off and into the hills - without telling anyone else and taking just the barest minimum of equipment and provisions - didn't speak well of his state of mind.

Not that he was demonstrably suicidal, mind. He had yet to use the sidearm he'd taken, instead relying on his knife, the bow and arrows he'd constructed, and what wilderness training he could recall. Those were enough to ensure he caught sufficient game to survive, his proficiency and confidence sharpening over time. It was nearly enough to make him forget about…

But he never really forgot. Frak, this whole world was a constant, godsdamned reminder of…of her.

In 364 days, Lee Adama had not once allowed himself to so much as think her name. Truth be told, it was Helo's asking about her that sent Lee off on this journey. Karl had said her name with such ease, as if thinking she were still there, it threatened to send Lee into a frenzy.

Instead, it sent him running – quite literally – for the mountains. Mountains he'd so rashly stated he'd wanted to climb and explore. Those same mountains were of such height and challenge that by rights they should have wiped all other thoughts from his conscious mind.

Lee would admit that going to the mountains was, in retrospect, a mistake. It was a mistake because…she…had chosen to 'leave' before hearing everything he'd wanted to say that day in that distant field. He hadn't been lying about wanting to wander and explore this new world; he'd simply been a little too slow in voicing two words that would have made the difference.

But he hadn't said the words, not when they would have mattered, so he stopped saying anything at all. He just walked, climbed, observed, hunted, ate, slept, drank, and explored this vibrant land…alone.

Was that his curse for being too slow? If so, so be it. Given his state of mind, which he suspected was devolving into something bordering obsession, it was probably just as well he'd left the rest of humanity behind. If he was supremely lucky, he'd never encounter another human and end his days falling to the claws of something bigger and fiercer than himself.

Or so Lee told himself with some regularity. It was certainly a better explanation than the simple reality that he missed…her…and wished to the gods (who, despite everything, he still didn't believe in) for just one more chance.

But she was gone, and he was left alone. It was a state he was used to, even savored in a strange way. It was comfortable, like old, worn leather. Lee paused his descent and considered the metaphor. Yeah, he was becoming like old leather: tough and resilient, but stiff and cracked and not much good for anything. Just as well he'd left when he did, otherwise who knows what might have happened or what else he'd become.

No matter what, she'd still be gone, and he'd still be alone.

It was day 359 and the mountains were far behind him, while before him lay a shallow river valley of trees and grass. Not quite as tall or wild as the one he'd left, but familiar enough to give Lee further heartache. He was profoundly grateful therefore to discover something…odd in the landscape to distract him further.

It wasn't anything exceptional really, just a trench that been carved out of the soil nearby. From a distance, it first looked like a large irrigation ditch. That theory fell apart given there were no bodies of water or rivers in evidence. As he approached, several things became clear. First, that it hadn't been recently dug; grass had begun to regrow in and around it, indicating the soil had been turned out at least a year ago.

Second, it was far too wide and irregular to be a planned earthwork; Lee doubted the natives would have come up with on their own, never mind that it didn't appear to have any practical purpose. It was nowhere near the river nearby, so it couldn't be irrigation, and the trench itself was too shallow to serve as a foxhole or hiding place.

It was a puzzle, one Lee was only to happy to put his mind to. The problem was there weren't any other clues beyond the ditch itself, and nothing in the surrounding area could suggest the cause. To the right of the ditch was simply more forest and the river itself. Looking towards his left, Lee spied an incline leading further down into this valley. Something told him the answer lay there, and having no other ideas, he headed in that direction.

The incline wasn't especially steep, but neither was all that gentle. Lee therefore took his time in descending, eyes alert for anything that might prove a threat. The sight of several fallen or broken trees during his descent gave him some inkling of what he might find there. It was in following the trail of damaged flora, said damage becoming more and more prevalent as he walked, a clearer picture started to form. Something had clearly...crashed through this forest, into this valley...something that did so from an angle of he judged thirty to forty degrees off the horizon...something that came down from the sky.

Except it was a picture that didn't make a lot of sense. Lee mentally reviewed the locations of the various settlements they'd established, trying to recall if any of the transports might have flown this way, only to come up blank. One of the pilots deciding to take their plane up for one last sortie maybe? A supply run gone bad perhaps?

Whoever it had been, their descent must have been only partially controlled, otherwise they'd have made their landing out in the grassland. Plus which 'hot' engines still firing would explain the abundance of scorch marks on many of the trunks and branches. Lee wondered what the pilot had been thinking when they were dropping, whether they were praying to the Lords for deliverance or just concentrating on their instruments and trying to pull their nose up. The end result would have been the same, but...

He found himself stopping short when he reached the end of the trail, his previous expectations rudely demolished at the sight of...a Mark II Viper. The wreckage of one, anyway, sitting on the muddy bank of one of the river's tributaries.

Lee approached the wreckage carefully, taking careful note of its surroundings. The plane had apparently crashed there, the pilot attempting a 'hard' landing in what must have looked from the air like a relatively dry riverbed. The forest was especially thick and by rights shouldn't have presented a serious obstacle if the pilot knew what they doing. Judging by how the Viper was comparatively intact, the pilot apparently had known their business well enough to set it down with a minimum of damage to the fuselage.

Further examination of the plane proved only more puzzling. The fuselage wasn't wrecked in the sense of having been torn apart by the impact with the ground. Sure the metal was bent here and there, with the starboard wing nearly sheared off and the landing gear torn completely off the undercarriage. Lee suspected the pilot had actually managed to eject prior to setting down, given their seat and the canopy were both missing. He couldn't help but dismiss the thought as soon as it came to him, as it would mean the Viper landed this way without human guidance, an image that was too absurd to credit.

What proved more interesting to Lee was that while the Viper had clearly landed (mostly) intact, there were now pieces of it missing. Mostly it was easily removed parts of the fuselage, but parts of the engine were likewise gone, mainly around the fuel system. He was willing to bet the fuel reservoir had been drained and some kind of container jury rigged out of the missing pieces. Tapping the tip of his finger to a length of blue-colored hose that was hanging free, Lee was unsurprised to find it dry.

Taking a step back, he regarded the plane more clinically and left pondering the hows and whys of its presence there for another day. Rather, he focused on figuring out how long it had been sitting there in the mud. There wasn't any heavy rust or corrosion to be seen, nor much overgrowth by the local plants. He guessed the plane had crashed there a year, two years ago at most, judging by the presence of a small nest perched on the upper engine's casing. That timeframe was obviously impossible given the fleet hadn't jumped into this system that long ago.

Lee squinted up at the tail-fin, trying to make out the alphanumeric stencil, but couldn't make out more than a few characters: a 5...a 7...an N...and what might have been an R or a P. He thought for a moment about climbing up to get a better look, but the sight of a mother bird flying in to settle atop its nest held him back. What would knowing the ID number mean, anyway? It wasn't like he carried a squadron roster in his head any longer.

Shaking his head, Lee backed away a half-step, then turned back towards the cockpit. Empty as it was, the nameplate was still there. Simple curiosity more than anything drew him forward. This part of the Viper has apparently suffered the least damage, although the titanium skin was still scorched in places. The plate itself was partially obscured by soot and mud, both of which were easily rubbed off, revealing…

Lee threw himself back from the Viper, pulling his hands away as if burnt. He actually stumbled several paces and nearly landed in the water of the stream. His breath started coming in heavy pants as he fought to keep from dry-heaving. His fingers fairly tingled and itched to the bone, as if they'd been brushed with weak acid. Worse, he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't get ahold of himself long enough to regain his footing…never mind approach…it…again.

Maybe it was the multiple shocks this piece of wreckage had given him, or the afternoon head that had been beating down on his unprotected head, or just the fact he'd marched half-way around this damned planet. Whatever the reason, Lee Adama couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and was quickly and thoroughly unconscious to the world.

When he opened his eyes again, Lee had held the small hope that the Viper would no longer be there. He in fact half-expected it to have disappeared, but wasn't really surprised to find it hadn't. Nevertheless, it was awhile before he could marshal his energies to rise and approach the wreck again. It was far easier to simply sit there and pretend it – and singular piece of it – didn't exist.

That strategy afforded him peace of mind enough where he could set up his camp beside the river, wash himself down and forage for supplies. He'd have to remember this place. If he remembered his cartography correctly, he was fairly close to the planetary equator, so the weather should be mild year-round. Add to that the evidence of abundant game and edible flora and it made for quite the vacation spot.

Unfortunately, it simply wasn't possible to continue to ignore the 20 ton source of his mental distress for long. It was barely a day before Lee found himself drifting towards it again. Really there was no excuse for finding the Viper so upsetting. It wasn't as if it was about to leap up and fly away on him; not that he would have protested if it did. Lee spent that morning poking around the undersides of the wings, checking if the cannons were loaded or if there was any danger of…anything. It turned out the ordinance had likewise been scavenged, the 30mm shells having been extracted and individually broken open. Picking up one of the shells, Lee tapped it onto his open palm, utterly unsurprised that no powder came out.

After that he concentrated on surveying the remainder of the plane, intending to catalogue every piece that had been removed. It proved to be a mixed bag of elements, each of which he could see some practical use of: the parachute, canopy, and chair harness could all be made into a sort of sled for example. The fuel and ordinance powder was perfect for making fire. Lee was less sure about the missing engine tubing, wiring from the HUD console, and parts from the fuselage. The pilot had even managed to detach part of the port-side cannon and presumably had taken it with them.

All well and good, but where did that leave him? Despite himself, Lee finished his last circuit around the plane, stopping to stand beside the cockpit. He closed his eyes and braced himself, then opened them and looked down at the nameplate and its impossible lettering:

Capt. Kara Thrace
"Starbuck"

Just a handful of letters that, by rights, couldn't be spelling those words…that name.

Lee briefly considered the possibility he'd finally and completely snapped, that he was just hallucinating the Viper and its impossible nameplate. Unfortunately it was entirely too solid when he experimentally kicked it, and the nameplate stubbornly refused to change its letters into something more rational. Staring and scowling at them had no effect beyond causing his eyes to burn a little and vision to blur.

Ultimately, all Lee could do was shake his head and return to his tiny campsite. The sun was approaching the horizon, meaning it was time for him to start gathering wood for a fire. He steadfastly refused to look over his shoulder again for the rest of the night, as if this alone would banish the wreckage from existence.

A result that Lee couldn't even say he truly wanted, had he been able to speak at all.

tbc...

De Author Seez: *loathe* as I am to start another story when I still owe everyone...well, several more...this one has been in the works for awhile. Since the infamous 'Starbuck *Poof*' happened 365 days ago, in fact. As Emma Frost said when she broke Cassandra Nova's neck: "There are somethings you just shouldn't be allowed to get away with."(comic book reference; don't ask) A sentiment I agree with in this case, and this story is my personal effort to correct that frankly silly resolution.

I'd actually hoped to have it ready Friday night, but alas, it was not to be. The night "Daybreak" aired, I immediately began writing my way through the five stages of grief. Sadly, it my 'internal editor' got ahold of it and - to date - hasn't let it go. Maybe "Father Apollo" will see light some day soon...maybe. Until then, here's the start of what I hope is something worthwhile. It can't begin to touch more substantive works like those of latteaddict and others, but what the hey.

Reviews and such are most welcome. More to come, I promise. Until then...