Disclaimer: I'm definitely not Ron Moore or David Eick, or even the SyFy Channel. To them be the rights and the money, to me be the alternate imaginings. I hope you enjoy!
Shortcuts
The moment he hears her voice over the comms, he knows she's too far gone to save herself. There are procedures for this, calm commands that might break through to her. He should try; he has tried – even succeeded – in a dozen situations just as bad. He knows what to do. But her thin, ecstatic whisper kills the voice of reason.
He can't save her with words. He probably can't save her at all; some deep, inchoate instinct recognizes coming death. He hits the throttle, blind, plunging the only direction he has ~ down. He races her for the gravity well, lets the G-forces funnel him toward the nearest breaking point. His wife and father try to anchor him, but Kara's out of their reach. He has to be, too.
"Please, please, please," he whispers. Lashing rain and bruised clouds scream past. A grey flicker of movement shadows his ten, and then she's in front of him in blue-white fire.
Twenty seconds to the hard deck.
The nose of his Viper pulls even with hers. He sees her face, a distant ghost under her helmet, though their cockpits are dangerously close. "Kara, I'm here, I've got you." His voice is rough and overloud. "It's gonna be OK, but you've gotta pull up RFN."
Sixteen.
She's not responding; she doesn't even see him.
"Kara! If you go out, you're taking me with you, you got that? I'm on your frakking wing."
He is; he's right on top of her.
Twelve.
"Lee…" It hurts to hear her breathe, so close and so faint. "Just let me go."
Ten.
"We're too close. Pull up now, or we're dead. Now!"
"I have to do this…" She's crying. "My destiny… my life…"
"Is it worth mine?"
Five.
Four.
Three.
She screams, and pulls up.
He follows.
Later, anguished, she tries to make him understand. She shows him a photo of her old apartment wall, covered in vibrant circles and black words too small to distinguish. She points to the mandala, speaking of fate, but his eyes are drawn to the indecipherable poem beside it. He knows without asking that she wrote about his brother. He holds the old image close, straining to make out a line or two, but in the end the confident sprawl of the verses conveys her truths without clear words.
Save one, an exclamation.
"Up!" she'd painted, years ago, right over the heart of the storm. It stands out in the center of her fated tempest, a careless stroke.
He thinks she can write her own destiny.
He tells her so, but she frowns, silent. They've never seen eye to eye on metaphysics.
He sits down at one end of her bunk. "So, you got any other little surprises from back home lying in wait?" he teases cautiously, setting the photos back in her keepsake box. "'Cause I don't know how much more excitement I can handle."
She turns her back to him, leaning against her open locker. In another old photo, Zak hugs her close. Slowly, she reaches along the upper shelf and pulls out a tape. Lee quiets, because the look on her face is rare and open.
"Have you ever heard my father's music?" she asks.
There's a radio, a piano, and an audience of four in the new bar.
The song speaks.
They find no burnt-out Viper, no beacon, no irradiated Earth. The four become Five, and Kara's music leads them all along a shorter path. Together they relearn old notes of resurrection and green grass. Together they find a world awaiting a name.
Lee follows, as always.
Standing in the pale daybreak beside him, Kara says, "I think I finally understand what you meant…about choosing a destiny."