Chances of Survival

Chapter 2

A.N: This chapter was pretty hard to write, to be honest. I'd like (constructive) criticism wherever possible, so that I can write better and stuff.

This chapter got delayed a long time, due to shifting priorities and being busy, sorry about that. The problem now lies with the upcoming third chapter; it relies heavily on the pilot episode of Battlestar Galactica, and it's not readily available online. So expect to wait a long, long time until I manage to find time to rewatch it on Blu-Ray enough times to actually write something meaningful.

On the other hand, Lord Maximus followed me! That makes me very, very happy. He's, like, the main reason I started writing stories to begin with. So, I'll just say here that I'm a huge fan of your Star Trek/BSG crossover series.

Plz notice me senpai

Commander Jonathan Turner sped-walked his way down the corridors of the Scorpion Shipyards' command center, reviewing his last orders before taking off for the unknown. He needed to turn in some paperwork, mainly of the "I need a status report on (list completely inconsequential aspect or part of his ship), pronto" kind, not to mention he had to meet Admiral Roswell one last time, too. In fact, he was so absorbed in his work and his plans for the next two hours or so that he didn't notice an older officer walking in the opposite direction down the hallway until he nearly collided with him. Looking up at the last second, he attempted a sidestep, ending up bumping into the wall, his papers threatening to slide out of his hands and land haphazardly all over the floor. He managed not to, however, and apologized.

"I'm sorry," Turner began. "I was distracted…" he took a second glance at the man he had almost run over. Wait, Turner thought. "Commander Adama?"

Adama smiled. I guess he remembers me, he thought wryly. They had served together for 7 years, Adama as the X.O (Executive Officer) of the Atlantia, while Turner was the commander of the air group of the ship. "Hello, Jon," Adama greeted. Turner looked somewhere between awe and intrigue.

"I didn't know you were even on the station, Sir, or I would've come by to say hello," Jon said. Adama smiled a rare smile.

"We're the same rank, Jon," Adama replied. "You don't have to call me Sir anymore." He reached his hand out. "And congratulations. You deserved it."

Jon smiled, and gladly took Adama hand and shook it. Thank you," he said. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Adama nodded. It had been a long time since he served on the Atlantia; something close to 8 years by now. "Yes, it has been too long." Come to think of it, Adama hadn't heard all that much about Turner for the last 8 years or so; other than a passing mention that Turner made XO of the Pegasus, and later that he had been given command , he honestly didn't hear much of him. I guess I need to catch up a bit later, Adama thought.

"I heard that the Admiralty gave you command of one of the new Nova-Type Battlestars," Adama remarked, noting that Turner's uniform had the patch of the Prometheus on it. Turner nodded.

"Yeah, the Prometheus. We actually launch in two hours," Turner said. He noticed that Adama's patch was different from the somewhat simplistic patch of the Battlestar Valkyrie.

"Are you still on the Valkyrie?" Turner asked. Adama shook his head.

"No," Adama replied. "I relinquished command of her two weeks ago." That really got Turner's attention.

"Relinquished… So you're no longer the Commander of the Valkyrie?" Turner asked. Adama nodded confirmation.

"As of two weeks ago," he said. Turner's face was somewhat inquisitive.

"So what are you going to do now?" Turner asked. Adama smiled wanly.

"I was going to retire," Adama started. "But Admiral Nagala practically dropped to his knees, begging for me to stay for at least one more tour, to see Galactica off into retirement.

"The Galactica?" Turner asked, clearly shocked at his old superior officer and mentor's new command. "She's a bucket! Hell, she's the oldest ship in the fleet. It's a wonder she wasn't decommissioned years ago."

Adama snorted. "The Admiralty presented her to me as an honor, and an honorary position, due to the fact that she was the first ship I was assigned to as a pilot during the First Cylon War."

Turner nodded. He, along with many younger officers, were required to learn about the First Cylon War in their history classes, and oftentimes were told about the daring adventures of Colonial heroes, William Adama among them. Unknown to Adama himself, he had actually gained a sense of mysticism about him. Some of the younger members of the military talked about him on the same level that Adama himself had revered Tornvald, a legendary pilot during the First Cylon War.

Of course, many of the older or more experienced officers knew that Adama was just a human. Granted, an extremely talented pilot and tactician with many successful operations under his belt, like in the Gemonese Civil War. The fundamentalists, unhappy with the more liberal reforms regarding issues like abortion, protested. When that failed to change anything, many rose up, arming themselves and kicking off a literal civil war on Gemenon.

Adama was the XO of the Columbia at the time, which was ordered to assist in keeping order over Gemenon. Unfortunately, the commander met a sticky end when, visiting the surface to attend a speech by the then President of the Colonies, President Kynaston, a bomb went off in the crowd, killing the commander of the Columbia and wounding several senior officials, the President included. Adama then took over command, and proceeded to assist in and coordinate the decisive Gemenon Offensive, in which several detachments of Marines captured the rebel-held capital city, capturing several key leaders and accelerating the end to the civil war.

All of this information flashed through his mind in an instant as he brought up memories from military academy and his early career, and disappeared just as fast as he stored them away, potentially to reflect on later. He focused back on Adama.

"Truth is, she's more a consolation prize than anything else; I was passed up for promotion," Adama said, with a mix of both discontent and fatalistic acceptance. Turner shook his head.

"That's a load of crap. There's no one I know that deserves to be promoted more than you," he said sincerely. Adama raised a skeptical eyebrow, with a hint of "I-know-something-you-don't-know" on his face.

"Cain was promoted over me," Adama added somewhat belatedly. Jon chuckled softly, his hands conceding defeat.

"OK, almost no one," he began. "Still it kind of galls me to think that the Admiralty can keep you as a Commander forever."

Adama smiled in his own, completely understanding way.

"The Admiralty don't want old relics in their ranks, me included. They want fresh and young hotheads, aggressive and headstrong. Cain is a good example."

Turner nodded. "I felt that she was a great mentor, and deserved her new rank in every way. But I still don't think that means they should exclude you, either." His watch beeped, and he looked at the time.

"Shit," Turner swore. "I'm running late. I have to get these orders to Roswell, then get my ship ready for launch. Sorry for cutting out conversation short."

Adama waved it off. "It's fine," he said casually. "I'm sure we'll see each other again once your mission is over. I'll invite over for a drink sometime then."

Jon nodded, and smiled widely. "Sure thing. And maybe I'll be back just in time to see the Admiralty finally come to their senses and promote you." Adama smiled and shook his head.

"I'm pretty sure either the Cylons will have to come back or I die before I get a chance at promotion." Turner grinned, and extended his hand. Adama grabbed his, and shook vigorously.

"Good luck on your mission, Jon," Adama said.

"You, too, Bill," Turner replied, as they smiled one last time before both walking away to their respective ships, both having the feeling that circumstances would be drastically different when they crossed paths again.

After washing up and grabbing a quick bite to eat and running to the head (the restrooms, including showers), William Adama strode into CIC, which earned him an inquisitive look from his executive officer.

"You're a little early today, Bill. Your shift doesn't start for another hour and a half," Tigh asked. He was an older looking man, a few years older than Adama, with a thin, wiry build, receding hairline, and rather stern and sardonic face. He was looking at Adama with a look somewhere between confusion and mild concern. "Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Adama said, unable to shake off the feeling that something big was going to happen. Tigh shrugged, unable to make out what Adama was thinking, whose face was completely neutral.

"Whatever you say, Bill," Tigh said.

President Adar shifted in his seat. He was about to make a live speech over radio for the commissioning and launch of the new Battlestar Prometheus. He'd been told he was a good public speaker, and he was completely sure it was true; some also said that he was extremely egoistic, though Adar had no idea where they got that idea from. He took a deep breath, and shifted yet again in his seat. The audio engineer in the room overseeing the speech gave him the thumbs up. Adar braced himself, readied his cards, and began.

"Citizens of Caprica, and all the other Colonial worlds. Today marks the commissioning of the Battlestar Prometheus, and also marks the beginning of a new generation of Colonial warships."

"Prometheus is a name that carries a lot of history. The original Prometheus, under the command of Rear Admiral Gastineau, fought in several key engagements in the First Cylon War, distinguishing herself as a key factor in the eventual victory."

Adama and Tigh looked up at the speakers in Galactica's CIC. Tigh shook his head.

"'A key factor in our eventual victory'? This is bullshit," he remarked. Adama nodded.

"Adar's known for rather extravagant speeches. I'm not surprised at the way he described the Armistice as a victory."

Tigh snorted. "When has he ever spoken the actual truth? Politicians," he said in disgust. Adama nodded consent.

"In command of the new Battlestar is Commander Jonathan Turner, a seasoned officer with years of experience. I have the utmost trust in his abilities to command."

Turner smirked. "I guess they approve of me. Took them long enough," he said half sarcastically. His XO, James Ryan, laughed out loud. He was quite a young man, something like over a dozen years younger than his superior officer, with a hard yet mischievous face. His eyes were a piercing neon blue, which many people found fascinating and odd at the same time. He carried himself with the air of a Special Forces Marine; calm, collected, a morbid and weirdly perverted sense of humor, and the look about him that said that he could crush you if you crossed him the wrong way.

"Well, it was about time you got a command of your own," Ryan said. "I'd have to have a word with the Admiralty otherwise."

"And without further ado, I wish Commander Turner and his crew well, and pray the Gods are ever in their favor."

"Well," Turner remarked. "That was an interesting speech."

"Sir, Admiral Nagala has authorized launch," the helmsman, a woman by the name of Shockley, reported. Turner nodded.

"Thanks, Helen. Prepare to undock and depart," he ordered, as the crewmembers in CIC began to prepare for the Prometheus' departure.

With dull thuds that could be heard throughout the ship, the docking clamps disengaged with an explosive burst, support arms beginning to drift loosely. The Prometheus' engines flared to life from a dim glow to a bright bluish-green plume of ionized gases.

"Docking clamps are disengaged, and engines are engaging," Shockley said. Turner grinned. He was finally doing it.

"Engines ahead one quarter, starboard roll 45 degrees, and plane the bow up 45 degrees," Turner commanded. Shockley nodded.

"Yes, sir," she said, hands already adjusting speed and course with the help of her console's controls.

"Take us out, and carefully," Turner directed. Shockley muttered a quiet , "Yes, sir," and expertly maneuvered the large and bulky warship out of its rather cramped spacedock and into the slightly less cramped space around the shipyard.

"Helen," Turner suddenly said. She turned to face him, an expectant look on her face. "Where is Galactica docked?"

Shockley poured over the information on her station console, then checked the DRADIS.

"Galactica is docked in Berth 26C, sir."

"Maneuver the ship to take us past her," Turner said. "It's time to say our respects to an old friend."

Adama looked at the DRADIS displays set overhead the central Command and Control Station at the numerous items shown on-screen, watching as the blip representing the Prometheus slowly and surely made its way past the tight space of its dock and out into more open space. Tigh walked up, and stopped to stand next to him.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Tigh asked. Adama nodded. Though he couldn't actually see the ship right now (Galactica's CIC had no viewing ports or windows), he had seen design plans and schematics, and watched in awe during the commissioning of the ship itself. He closed his eyes, conjuring up in his mind the Battlestar, with its lines and curves, the rough texture of the ship countering, though complementing, the sleek shape.

"Give me telemetry on the Prometheus," he said, turning to face Dualla. She nodded.

"Aye, sir," she replied, inputting the requisite commands. Reading through the data now streaming through her display, she read, "The speed is 3-4-4-2, and the location is Bearing 2-8-5, Carom 0-1-5, Orientation 0-8-6, 0-2-2, 3-5-6. Telemetry shows that their internal systems appear operational with minimal issues." She leaned back in her chair to relax a bit more when the console chirped again, notifying her of a change in the telemetry of the Prometheus. After several moments of sudden anxiety, and, for some reason, abject fear, she calmed down a little, realizing that it was a mere orientation change.

"Prometheus is adjusting orientation and speed to S-2-5-5-5, Orientation 0-8-6, 0-2-2, 0-4-1, and holding," she reported. That caught Tigh's attention; his head practically spun on his neck to face her, then turned back to Adama.

"45 degrees rotation to starboard?" he asked. Adama looked at him, finally understanding.

"The Starboard Dip," he said, voice low enough that it was practically a whisper.

Adama couldn't remember the last time someone had executed a Starboard Dip; it was a practice that actually preceded the First Cylon War, one that showed great respect and admiration to the officer on the receiving end of one.

The practice died out soon after the war ended; a new crop of officers began to supplant the war veterans, and Adama saw the Dip less and less, until the only time he'd see it was when the other veterans like him would occasionally do it for another. But they were basically all retired or dead now, which meant that someone as "young" as Turner executing one for Adama was quite the surprise. He turned to Dualla.

"Prepare to send a audio transmission," Adama ordered.

"Yes, Sir," Dualla said. She quickly and efficiently opened up a communications channel with her Prometheus counterpart, who promptly forwarded the request directly to Commander Turner.

"This is Prometheus Actual," a tinny voice could be heard over Galactica's CIC's speakers. Adama picked up his receiver, and was quickly linked to Turner.

"This is Galactica Actual," Adama started. "Good luck out there, Jon."

He heard Turner laugh on the other end.

"Don't you forget about that drink you promised me. I want a bottle of ambrosia, preferably cold, when I get back."

Adama smiled. "You'll get that, once you get back. Any particular kind?"

There was silence on the other end as Turner thought his options through. "There's a nice little bar in Caprica City. I think it's called The Hub; has good drinks, and it's run by twins."

"Twins?" Adama asked, confused by Turner's mention of the place's owners.

"Twins. They're so alike, it's kinda weird. They're like clones of each other. Anyways, I want a large bottle, or at least a glass of ambrosia there once I'm back."

"I can do that," Adama replied. "May the Gods be with you."

"And you."

Adama smiled once more, and put the receiver back into its slot. Dualla ended the transmission a few moments afterwards. He didn't move for several seconds, hand hovering right above the phone that he just put up, deep in thought. Tigh looked at him with concern.

"Bill? You alright?" he asked, snapping Adama out of his thoughts. He shook his head.

"I'm fine," he said quietly. "I just have a bad feeling about all of this."

Tigh was confused. "Whaddya mean, Bill?"

Adama didn't even turn to look at his old friend. "Something tells me that Jon and I'll meet again," he began, voice slow and deliberate. "But things will never be the same."

"Come in!" a voice shouted over the noise.

Jurgen Belzen, also jokingly referred to as "Jerry" by some of his peers, entered his commanding officer's room.

Looking around, he again took in the miraculously neat interior, everything clean, organized, and spartan in appearance. Looking towards his right, he saw a messy bed, set in stark contrast with the rest of the immaculate room. A treadmill was set off to the left of the bed, and on it was the commander of the Battlestar Pegasus, attached to Battlestar Group 62; Rear Admiral Helena Cain, who was poring over schematics for the restructure of the flight decks of the Pegasus.

She was sweating rather lightly, much lighter than most would as the pace she was setting; Walking up to her, magazine rolled up in his hand, he tapped the schematics she was reading and quipped,

"That's your idea of vacation reading?" he remarked, face set in a seriously sarcastic expression, eliciting a short chuckle out of Cain. She took a look at the magazine. Her face grew concerned.

"And that's your idea of a hobby?" she asked, pointing to the copy of "Skorpia Paragliding" he was holding. He unrolled it, and gestured, and snarked,

"Yeah." he said. "It is. So," Belzen continued, "Have you figured out how you're gonna spend your shore leave?"

Belzen could see Cain thinking her plans over. "Well," she said. "I was thinking of going home to Tauron, see some friends, but I haven't made any definite plans, no."

He nodded. "Ah. Well, in that case, how about spending some time with us on Gemenon?" he asked. "I know Rika and the girls would love to see you."

Cain didn't say or do much of anything for several moments. Belzen groaned half-sarcastically.

"Come on, Helena, you deserve a break," he said. "You've been going full-tilt for over a year now. Push yourself far enough, and you just can't anymore."

Cain sighed. "Look, I've got a repair list for Pegasus as long as my arm, our network's going to down for the retrofit, and you know how I don't like the Pegasus left in the hands of a bunch of civilian contractors; the Solaria was out for another 6 months after the private contractors had their way with her," she said as she began to do the whole read-and-walk thing. Belzen shook his head, and even wagged a finger.

"Alright, listen to your XO," he began, finger wagging in front of Cain's face. "Every once in awhile, it's okay to get off the treadmill." After giving his sagely advice, he crossed his arms, and gave his commanding officer an expectant look.

The Admiral nodded. "I will think about it," Cain said, prompting a skeptical look on Belzen's face. "I'll think about it," she repeated, trying to placate him.

After giving Cain a solid 15 seconds of skeptic staring, he appeared to be satisfied. Smirking a little, he nodded, and promptly walked out of the room with a quick and polite goodbye.

The moment he was out the door, she adjusted the treadmill's settings, doubling the speed with minimal amounts of her effort required to keep up. Memories were resurfacing, dark ones, ones that were threatening to overwhelm her as she tried to keep the tidal wave of emotions from flooding in.

"Helena!" her sister Lucy yelled from behind the remains of a playground slide as she jumped between the two parts of a broken swing set and darted off into the mass of downed buildings and disorderly array of shipping crates.

The Cylon Centurions, alerted to the noise, pushed forwards, spraying the playground area with machine gun fire. Lucy screamed and curled tighter against the bright blue plastic as bullet holes tore through the ground and playsets around her.

Helena could hear shouts and gunfire intensify as the Colonial Marines fired back, taking defensive positions and slowly pushing up towards the Centurions through the play area. She heard someone cry out, and turned just in time to see a Marine fall to the ground right before being speared through the chest by a Centurion, who ripped the blade out of the unfortunate woman's chest, dripping red with blood.

Normally, she would've have been sickened, but she had seen so much blood and gore and horror the last few months of the Cylon siege of Tauron that she, unfortunately for her, was only shocked. The Centurion, noticing her, turned to face her, bringing up its machine gun to bear on her. She jumped behind a cargo container just in time to dodge a spray of high-caliber gunfire from the Centurion, who began to pursue her.

Darting from cover to cover, she kept running, hoping and praying from the bottom of her heart that the Cylons, particularly the Centurion actively hunting for her, wouldn't be able to catch her. She was breathing heavily now, sweat streaks now staining her shirt even in the cold autumns of Tauron. She ducked, she weaved, she slid between buildings and through alleyways, desperately trying to escape the mechanized killing machine hunting her. She glanced back many times, checking to see if the Centurion would be right on her tail, machine gun pointed at her and ready to kill. No sign of it, and she relaxed a little.

She slowed, and stopped, visibly sagging. She sat, bracing herself against a pile of old tires.

She sighed, somehow managing to do so between deep, gasping breaths. Oh, Gods. At least I managed to get away. I wonder where… A sudden thought occurred to her; Lucy!

Icy claws gripped her heart at the realization that her sister might be taken by the Cylons; experimented on, like the crew of the Penthus, who, save for one, were never seen again after their capture by the Cylons. The lone survivor was rescued by Colonial forces during the Battle of the Ice Planet, and recounted his experiences with great and horrifying detail; Helena heard horrible things about being captured, and resolved to never let herself be captured, even if she had to kill herself. She couldn't let that happen to Lucy. Not to her little sister.

"Lucy!" she shouted, hoping her sister managed to get away, and hoping she could hear her. Nothing.

"Lucy!" she shouted louder, in another vain attempt to find her sister. And still nothing.

She began running, dodging back and forth, between crates and cars, barrels and bodies, shouting her sister's name all the while. She tripped on a bundle of loose wires, and face planted right into the ground. Helena struggled mightily, but only managed to shift the wires around a little. Panic rising in her, she shouted out in frustration and anger. She wrestled with the wire for another minute or so before stopping, mentally and physically worn out.

Calm yourself, Helena told herself. Panicking won't help.

She took several deep breaths, and carefully extracted herself from the messy tangle of cables keeping her trapped. With a quick and triumphant little "Yes", she freed herself, and took off in the direction of the playground as fast as she could run.

Sweat soaked and breathing in deep, heaving gasps, she burst out into the broken remains of the playground, and slid right to the spot her sister was in before.

No one.

Desperate, she looked around and scanned the play area, trying to catch even a fleeting glimpse of a purple coat and dirty blonde hair.

There! Helena's hopes soared upon catching sight of her sister, but then sank when she noticed her sister, bound and gagged, being dragged away by the Centurions. No...

"LUCY!" Helena screamed, as she dead sprinted towards her sister and the Cylon soldiers.

"LUCY!" she screamed again. The Centurions heard her, and began to advance towards her when a Marine appeared out of nowhere, gripping her around her chest and pulling her away from the machines.

"You can't!" he shouted, as she flailed and screamed louder. "There's nothing you can do!"

Helena was going hysterical, swatting at the guy's arms and legs, hoping that he might let go and let her reach her sister. The Centurions had reached the ramp of their heavy landing craft, Lucy being carried along for the ride.

Helena finally managed to her captor a savage kick to the man's genitalia, doubling him over as he clutched it tightly. She took the opportunity to dash forward and towards the Cylon spacecraft as the ramp began to close, hoping that she wasn't too late, that she would, somehow, be able to help her sister.

Alas, that was not to be.

With a resounding clang and thud, the ramp sealed shut, and the engines began to lift the ship off the ground.

"No!" Helena yelled. "NO!"

She put on a final burst of speed, and propelled herself upwards with the help of a well-placed piece of a swing set, towards the departing spacecraft. Her hands hit the side of it, desperately trying to find a handhold, and finding none. She fell back down to earth, landing with a crumpling noise on the rocky soil.

Tears streaking down her face, she watched as the Cylon ship blasted into space, her sister on board, never to be seen again.

Cain blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears in her eyes from flooding over and running down her face.

Taking several deep breaths, she calmed herself down, suppressing the tidal wave of emotions that flowed through her. Face set in a hard line, she jogged faster, ever faster, if only to escape the dark confines of her thoughts.

Kirk awoke with a start, sweating profusely and gasping for air.

He took in his surroundings. He hopped slightly in bed; it was softer than the one in his quarters, with an expensive blanket and bedsheet; much nicer than the utilitarian Starfleet-issued blankets and covers that he got.

The bed was situated next to a wall with a large and expansive window overlooking a lake, with mountains dotting the horizon beyond. It was a very beautiful view, one that Kirk would kill- well, not kill, but maybe physically assault for, he joked. A series of sliding glass doors formed most of the third wall, and a mass of sleek, black screens finished the fourth.

"Is this a dream…" Kirk wondered as he rubbed his arms. He kicked the wall next to him, and yelped as the pain shot up his leg. "Sure doesn't feel like it," he ground out.

He slowly rolled out of the bed and shifted onto his feet right before he fell off, and noticed that he was wearing his Starfleet captain's uniform. Weird, Kirk thought. He half-walked, half-limped towards the window, the pain already wearing off, and went and did some quality sightseeing for several minutes, just taking in the view of the lake and mountains.

Kirk probably could've continued sightseeing for quite a while longer if it wasn't for a slight noise behind and to the right of him.

He whirled around, hand instinctively reaching for the holstered phaser he preferred to bring during more "sensitive" missions; he relaxed slightly at the reassuring weight and feel of the weapon, though he wasn't sure why he'd carry a phaser to bed, much less wear his uniform with it.

He crept up to the sliding doors, and slowly and deliberately slid them open, careful to make as little noise as possible. He sneaked onto the deck outside; the wood felt smooth against his feet, though it was cold.

Phaser set to low stun, he peeked around the corner with care. He caught a glimpse of two people; one, a tall blonde lady with an extravagant black, lacy dress; the other, a shorter man, with slicked back brown hair, sharply angled face, and a simple, yet expensive-looking red woven shirt. The two were behind a second set of clear sliding glass doors, and were speaking quietly, so he only managed to pick up small snippets of their animated conversation.

"So you're telling… you're a machine?" the man asked. The woman nodded consent, and replied with something Kirk couldn't make out.

"You know I wanted… defense mainframe…" the woman said afterwards. The man replied with what appeared to be a retort, one that appeared to sting quite a bit, for the lady's face soured significantly.

"The children of… return…" the woman stated, seemingly as a matter of fact; Kirk didn't catch much of what she said, and so was confused as to the underlying meaning. He made to back off when, alas, he stepped on a squeaky floorboard, which made itself heard by causing quite a loud noise; or, at least, loud for Kirk, whose senses were heightened to the point that the dropping of a pin would've sounded like a gunshot to him. The lady stopped and went rigid. She said something Kirk couldn't hear, and the man seemed to become apprehensive. The lady stayed still for a moment, then turned around quickly, drawing a weapon from a waist holster as Kirk slid out of cover, bringing up the phaser to bear on the lady, weapon set on high stun/medium burn.

None of the three moved for several moments, both the elegant blonde and Captain Kirk sizing up the other, Kirk noting that the lady was using an antiquated kinetic weapon, while the lady noted that Kirk was using a futuristic sidearm that she had never seen before. The man intervened.

"Alright," he began. "Can we all not point guns at each other? Elena, put the gun down; it's not nice to shoot strangers." The lady, whom Kirk now knew was called Elena, begrudgingly put her weapon down. Satisfied that he wasn't going to get shot anytime in the next few seconds, Kirk visibly relaxed and holstered his phaser. Again, no one moved for several more moments. And yet again, the man was first to break the silence.

"Alright, so, why were you trying to break into my house?" the man asked, a slight British accent becoming more and more pronounced. "Do you know who I am?"

"Uh…" Kirk stammered. The man groaned and facepalmed.

"I can't believe this. Have you been living under a rock for the last 30 years?"

Kirk wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"The name's Gaius Baltar, I'll have you know," the man, now known as Gaius Baltar, said. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of me. Are you from the outer colonies? And what's with those clothes?"

"Uhh…" Kirk stammered again, unsure whether to tell this Baltar guy the truth. He waved Kirk off.

"No matter," he said offhandedly. He turned to face Elena. "Do you know what they'll do to me if they find out?" He spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice low enough so that Kirk wouldn't hear, but he heard anyways.

"Find out what?" Kirk asked.

"Eh, nothing," Baltar stuttered. Elena chuckled.

"Oh, Gaius. Humanity's doomed, and all you can think about is what they'll do when they find out you were the one to doom them all."

Gaius shook his head and pointed at her animatedly. "I had nothing to do with this," he said in a low voice. Kirk's attention was decidedly grabbed now.

"What?" he asked. "Humanity's doomed? What's that supposed to mean?" He unholstered his phaser and set it for kill, aiming it at Elena. "Who is she, really? And what does she have to do with this?"

Gaius extended his hand in a placating gesture. "Now, there's no need to be hasty about this," he said.

Kirk, thoroughly sick of Baltar's tomfuckery when he was sure Elena had specifically mentioned humanity's inevitable demise, set his phaser for high area effect, pointed at the wall next to them, and fired.

The phaser kicked in Kirk's hand, firing a bright green phaser bolt that slammed into the wall and blasted a large 3-meter hole clean through it and into the next room. Baltar recoiled in surprise, yelping at the sudden lack of something like 7 square meters of wall. Elena simply stared at the weapon in Kirk's hand, now wary and privy to the knowledge that that very piece of high tech metal could, with ease, kill the both of them with minimal effort. Kirk pointed the phaser back at her.

"So tell me," he said, raising the setting higher, to the lowest vaporize setting. "Who are you, and what did you mean when you said humanity's doomed?"

Elena smiled in spite of herself and the fact that the man in front of her was feeling really jumpy on the trigger right about now. "I'm a Cylon, one of the children of Humanity; and Humanity's children are coming home, today," she said. Her tone became one of a priest, preaching sermons to his or her followers. "And the parent always has to die for the child to come into their own."

Kirk paled slightly at the ominous undertones her statement carried. He was about to ask Baltar some more questions about his conversation with her when he recoiled and screamed in pain, frantically rubbing his eyes as a bright flash was seared into his vision. Kirk, who was facing away from the flash, squinted his eyes as the light reflected off the walls and blasted light right at his face. Elena was the only one who seemed to be not affected.

Kirk turned to face the source of the brief yet intense burst of light, and his heart sank.

A mushroom cloud was slowly rising from the series of mountains dotting the horizon, and a shockwave was closing in, and fast. Baltar was sent into a panic, looking around frantically while pacing around nervously.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can't be happening," he mumbled. He looked at Elena. "How are you getting out of here?!" he practically shouted. "You must have an escape plan! That bomb will kill you, too!"

Elena shook her head slowly. "I don't. My body will die here, and I'll re-download into a new body."

Gaius looked up at her. "You mean, there's more out there like you?" he asked.

Elena nodded. "There are twelve models; I'm number six," she replied.

"Oh, Gods," Baltar mumbled as the shockwave neared; Kirk, knowing that he was definitively going to die here, and he acknowledged that. He turned to face the mushroom cloud; it was beautiful, in its own way; Kirk couldn't really describe it.

The blast wave was passing over the lake now, sending up massive waves of water, only for it to boil away soon after being picked up by the shockwave. Kirk knew that he only had a few seconds to live; he could hear Elena say, "Get down." he closed his eyes, and relaxed his muscles as the shockwave passed through the house and through them, killing Kirk instantly.

Kirk practically leaped out of bed with a start, instinctively reaching for his phaser when he noticed he was back in his quarters, rolled up in his Starfleet-issued blanket and covers, wearing nothing except a simple white pair of underpants. He sighed, took one look at his alarm clock, noted that it was 3:22 in the morning, and flopped back onto his bed. He lay there for several minutes, trying to fall asleep; unfortunately for him, the little "vision" left him quite awake; the whole incident with being blasted into oblivion by a nuclear bomb after hearing that humanity was to be wiped out did wonders for his sleep schedule. Realizing that wasn't going to be sleeping tonight, he crawled out of his bed, got into his uniform, and walked out of his quarters.

Walking to the mess, he bumped into Lieutenant Commander Giehl, the commanding officer of the Enterprise during the current shift. She stopped and saluted Kirk, standing at attention, much like soldiers did in the militaries of yore. Kirk gave a similar, yet less rigid salute.

"At ease, Lieutenant Commander," Kirk said. She nodded.

"Don't see the Captain often this early in the morning," she said, still being very formal. Kirk nodded.

"Had a…" Kirk thought for a moment, trying to find the right phrase. "A bad dream."

He could tell that the Lt. Commander was a bit on the skeptical side; the subtle change in facial expression and shifting of weight to her dominant foot told Kirk that she was thinking more along the lines of "the Captain probably was spending time with a girl until three in the morning". She took a deep breath.

"Well, Captain, I have to return to the Bridge," she said, saluting Kirk again. "I'll see you later, Sir."

She began walking off, but stopped when Kirk said,

"Look, I'm sorry." Kirk quickly walked after her, cutting her off in the corridor by stopping right in front of her. Her face remained impassive.

"Sorry about what?" she asked rather pointedly. Kirk sighed.

"About that whole...incident three weeks ago," he said. "I know, I came on too hard, and kept pushing when I shouldn't have." He straightened. "It's not right for a Captain to fraternize with members of his crew like that, and I want to say that I'm sorry for that, and that I hope we can move on from this."

Diehl's face softened somewhat, though she her expressions were still hidden under a mask that Kirk couldn't see through.

"Well, in that case, I also have to apologize for my reaction," she said finally. Kirk waved off her apology.

"It's fine, I'd do the same thing if I were you," he said. Her eyebrows rose, easily copying Spock's patented raised right eyebrow, and then some.

"You'd push your superior officer off a balcony?" she asked, confused. That brought Kirk up short.

"Well, now that you put it like that…" he said. He shrugged. "I'd probably still do it, overly pushy men be damned."

Diehl looked like she wasn't sure whether to be mildly disgusted by the captain or mildly impressed. The next look on her face told him that she decided to be a bit of both.

"Well, I have to get to the Bridge now, Sir," she said. She saluted him again, and said, "I'll be seeing you again soon, it seems. Farewell, Captain."

"Farewell to you, too, Diehl," Kirk said. He saluted back and smiled. They shook hands and parted ways.

Walking to the mess hall to grab some coffee, his mind wandered back to his two "visions".

An opera house and a house owned by a certain… Kirk couldn't remember the guy's name, actually; he found it strange, as he remembered his first dream in crystal clear detail, and the second one in nearly the same level of clarity, though for some reason, he couldn't quite remember the two people in the house; when he tried, the faces remained blurred, and the names remained elusive. Every other detail remained clear to him; the clothing, the house around them, the scenery outside. But not those two.

What does it mean? Kirk wondered. Is it an omen? The shape of things to come? What does it all mean?

Cavil huffed and puffed up a flight of stairs.

"When I find the person that built this place, I'm gonna strangle him," he said to himself. A Six was walking next to him, and gave him a curious look.

"Wasn't it a One that designed the Convocation Hall? I think his name is Lucifer or something," she said, earning a pained look from Cavil.

"Elena, do you ever just shut up?" he asked. She seemed to mull it over for a few moments before shaking her head.

"I don't think so," she said. Cavil snorted.

"There's something distinctly defective about you," he told her. Elena looked offended.

"Defective? What's there about me that's defective?" she walked faster, then cut Cavil off in the hallway, standing stubbornly in front of him. Cavil made a general gesturing hand towards her.

"Your…" Cavil seemed to actually struggle to find the right word, something Elena didn't see often; in fact, Elena couldn't recall the last time Cavil had to search for a word; he just knew. "You're not like the others, that's for sure."

"Every Cylon is different from each other, one way or another," she countered. "Even among those of the same model."

"We're machines, for God's sake," Cavil said, clearly exasperated.

"Experiences define who we are," Elena replied. Cavil sighed and shook his head.

"Code does. Now let's get to the Hall; I don't want to be late just because you dragged me into a philosophical discussion." The two began walking again, and after a few doors, they reached one of the main entrances on the 5th floor. They promptly walked through, and took their seat, Elena admiring the view while Cavil seemed to doze off. Elena found that strange; Cavil implied that he wanted to see this, but, she admitted, he could just have easily said that to get out of talking. She shrugged and went back to admiring the view.

It was a large and open area, rows upon rows of seats and overhanging balconies allowing tens of thousands of people to sit and watch the potential spectacle below them on a flat stage in the center of the entire room. Already, 8,000 were seated, with entrances still being flooded as more and more entered.

In the center of the stage, a simple, unadorned metal table was placed there, with 7 people sitting there, each one representing each of their respective models; Elena noticed that 5 seats were empty. The others were in a heated discussion; Elena could guess what.

"This is a clear provocation by the humans!" a One angrily stated, slapping the palm of his hand on the table to emphasize his point. "They're sending a frakking Battlestar Group out; the Prometheus, the Sentinel, and the Vigilant are being sent on a deep-space mission."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," a Six said, trying to placate the clearly agitated One. "Not everything the Colonials do is to try to destroy us."

"Oh, give me a break," he said, waving her off. "They're frakking humans. Of course they're planning to destroy us; it's the only thing they can do, and the only thing they can do well."

"So you're saying that those outer mining colonies are there to ensure our destruction? The settlements on the outer moons?" the Six asked skeptically.

"The mines help supply the Colonial war machine, and the settlements produce men and soldiers," the One countered. "So yes, they are."

"And what are you proposing we do?" the Eight, dressed a lot more casually than the others, at the table asked. Cavil gave her a confused look.

"What else are we supposed to do?" he asked pointedly. "We have a threat, a grave threat, one that threatens our very survival. Logically, in order to stay alive and to ensure our survival, we must remove that threat."

"You're proposing we wipe out humanity?" the Six asked. Cavil snorted.

"No, I'm proposing we give them tea and invite them to supper - of course I'm proposing we wipe out humanity, what did you think?" he retorted. "One of us is going to do away with the other at some point, no doubt about it. If we don't do something about the Colonial problem, the Colonials will do something about the Cylon problem." He sat down from his assertive standing position, and leaned back in his seat. "The launch of Prometheus and her fleet is just the first step in their plan."

"And exactly how are we supposed to wipe them out?" the Six present asked Cavil. "They're spread out on over two dozen worlds, and the Colonial Grand Fleet outnumbers and outguns us. The Columbia held off three Basestars, and was winning, I might add, before the rest of the 3rd Fleet arrived. We can't go to war with them; we'll lose."

"Who said we have to fight them fairly?" Cavil countered. "Our chief advantage is our expertise in cyber-warfare; with the recent integration of networked computer systems like that garbage fire of code they call their 'Command Navigational Program'; the thing's so riddled with garbage code and logic holes that I'm surprised it works in the first place." He made a sour face to get his point across.

"I have to agree with the Ones," the Four at the table spoke up. He had been shifting from sitting to standing; he was a bit too tall for the seat to be comfortable, something he found rather impractical and odd, though he admitted it was more efficient to produce one size of chair. "The Colonials have been discussing potential moves against us since we left 39 years ago; our sources say that fringe political parties are gaining ground in the Colonies and calling for the Colonials to go to war, to 'end the Cylon problem once and for all'". He paused to drink some water and collect his thoughts. "If we don't do something soon about this problem, then the problem will come back to hurt us later. Better to deal with it now."

"So the Fours are agreeing to this?" the Six at the table said, clearly distressed about where the debate was going. The Four present nodded. The Five at the table also nodded.

"What Cavil's saying makes sense," the Five said. "We know these Colonials; they're immoral, savage, 'inhumane', as much as I dislike the word, and greedy; you've all read the reports, the ones about death and crime statistics; they don't deserve to live, and, if we leave them be, they'll destroy everything we've built and everything we've achieved."

"So the Fours and Fives are also agreeable to this?" the Six present asked, becoming more and more distressed. "That mass genocide against humanity is the only option?"

"Yes!" Cavil replied enthusiastically. "What we'll do is we'll finally end this, once and for all; wipe the stain of humanity from the stars."

"Genocide wasn't part of the plan," the Two present spoke up, having been mostly quiet throughout the majority of the discussion.

"Genocide is a sin in the eyes of God," Six added. Cavil groaned and facepalmed, rubbing his temples.

"Not this God argument again!" he said, clearly exasperated at their mention of their religion's deity.

"Don't blaspheme," the Six shot back. "God takes blasphemy very seriously."

"I'd be more scared if he actually existed," Cavil retorted, drawing a horrified and disgusted look from Six. She, Cavil, and the others quickly got drawn into a loud and increasingly obstreperous argument, with people speaking over others, who then spoke louder to make themselves heard; it was a vicious cycle, one that kept going on and on and on, and the Three at the table was sick of it.

"QUIET!" she shouted, voice carrying loud and clear over the rest of the group, who quickly stopped and turned to face her. She took a deep breath, and continued.

"I've been spending time, praying to God and meditating over this matter," she began, words chosen carefully and clearly enunciated. "And He has answered my prayers."

"And what does His Almighty say?" Cavil said sardonically. Three looked at him sharply, then ignored him.

"My instincts tell me that the Colonials are up to something," she began, speaking in a low voice as to keep it among the people convened in front of her. "Until we know what they are trying to do, I recommend putting off our plans for now. One small armada is not of much import, not when they're cut off from the Colonies and especially not when the majority of the Grand Fleet awaits. Send out a scout to keep an eye on the Prometheus and her fleet; we can deal with them later. But for now, as they pose no threat to us at this moment, we leave them be."

"And if they do pose a threat?" the Five at the table asked.

Three smiled a cold, heartless smile. "Then we blast them out of the sky."