Sixteen years before the Fall of the Colonies, somewhere in deep space, the cruelest Cylon burst through the surface of the ooze that encased his body. At the familiar surroundings, John Cavil laughed. He'd kept this little ace up his sleeve—a little do-over using the tool he'd found. This was his version of divine intervention, and he'd keep resetting the timeline until it worked out perfectly for him.
…
Laura skipped the conference on reforming Colonial education despite it being the reason she'd flown to Picon. With her life rewound to sixteen years before the Fall, she didn't feel particularly up to attending. Besides, according to her calculations, she'd returned to being simply the Director of Caprica City's schools, so her absence wouldn't be nearly as noticeable as if she'd been the Secretary of Education or the President. Ever sensible, she suspected that going would cause her colleagues and peers to notice her distress, and there wasn't a sane way to explain her situation. She felt like she'd found herself trapped in a surprising rip current that pulled her out to open water. Now she drifted alone on the high seas.
How alone am I?
Laura wondered if anyone else from her future remembered. The people milling around her carried on without hinting at a fear of the Cylons, let alone the future. How do I even find out if others remembered without sounding insane? It was all too much weight for one woman to carry alone.
Drawn to the fresh air of restored Picon, she ventured out of her room where the sun warmed her skin until it stung, and her cheeks turned a rosy color they hadn't been in years. Having long had her senses dulled by cancer treatments, now the clouds parted, and Laura felt everything powerfully. Every touch and sight was like being blinded by someone flipping on the lights.
It became apparent that the shell-shocked former president needed time to adjust; she jumped at each sound that came too close, having lived under threatening conditions for so long. Despite that discomfort, Laura also marveled at mundane things that had become lost or luxuries after the Cylon attacks. She used good-smelling soap, reveling at how her once-standard Caprican rose scent now felt decadent. A box of tissues meant to dry tears induced them. She tasted chocolate again. These creature comforts of humanity that she learned they could survive without seemed complacently normal on the Twelve Colonies.
Her mind insisted on using the detached label of "Picon" or "the Twelve Colonies" without even once thinking of this solar system as home. This wasn't a homecoming, no matter how distantly familiar. Another place called to her.
Oh, how she ached for home.
Finding Picon normal enough, she returned to her hotel room. Inside she left the TV on to fill the silence while she tried to remember this time. The broadcast sank the truth in further while showcasing how much she'd forgotten. Reporters rambled on about the problems on Sagittaron and the drought on Aerilon; it boggled her mind—she couldn't even recall hearing about the drought. A shiver ran through her body when she wondered what she'd forget about everything that happened after the Fall.
The thought of Bill at the beginning of their journey flashed in her mind. After the Cylons attacked, Laura remembered how he stood in front of his crew: so say we all, so say we all, so say we all! His voice had rallied the troops and brought them much-needed hope. She could almost hear his warm, whiskey-rich voice telling her never to give up hope. It was an impressive display, even if the man himself hadn't yet impressed her.
I miss you, Bill.
Loneliness hit her hard, gut-wrenching with its intensity. She glanced at the phone in her room, thinking of old contacts that could help her locate a member of the Colonial Fleet. She took a tentative step toward the phone but then hesitated. When Laura succumbed to love, she loved deeply. It left her bereft each time she lost the people who found their way into her heart. She'd dealt with heartache and loss before, and each time felt like a knife to the chest.
Her insides fluttering like butterfly wings, she paused at the phone. To hear Bill's voice without any warmth of familiarity for her was terrifying, and nothing gave her hope that he remembered.
She had a thought: maybe only those who'd survived the apocalypse retained memories of that time? She frowned at that theory, wondering how old Billy even was. He'd be young and running around in elementary school. Perhaps his earnest voice was warning everyone about the apocalypse and— Billy's alive. Joy bubbled in her but fizzled out too soon. My father and sisters are still dead. My nephew still never had the chance to be born. It's too late to help them.
A spark of anger ignited, hot and intense, and she curled her hands into fists. Her life wasn't a toy, and—
The phone in her room rang, and her gaze snapped back over to it. A deep feeling of foreboding sent a shiver down her spine—she knew whose voice would be on the other end. Giving herself a shake, she reined in her emotions—time to be strong and focused. Snatching up the phone, she began her first conversation since returning.
"Roslin," she answered and then grimaced, realizing the abruptness of her clipped greeting. Her habits from the future remained ingrained. While her presidential answer worked for the woman who led the remnants of humanity, the person on the other end of the line chuckled at her curtness.
"Hello to you too, Laura. You sound a bit like a severe headmistress at the moment. I like it," the caller teased, putting a seductive purr in his tone.
"Richard," she greeted simply, unsure how to feel as she listened to Richard Adar's smooth voice, now returned from the grave. Part of Laura basked in relief at hearing someone she cared about alive while another part of her raged in bitterness and anger. After all, the Colonies had ended under his leadership.
"Well, 'Roslin,'"—he used her terse inflection—"I noted that your conference should be over by now. So you are officially on vacation."
"That's right."
"I keep thinking of you alone on Picon. If you're lonely, I'll gladly keep you company," he offered charmingly. The man had gotten what he wanted with honeyed words and smooth-talking far too often.
Laura took a calming breath at the wave of nostalgia. "Sorry. I'm not feeling up to the company."
"Company? It's just me, and I could help you relax. How about some late-night wine sent up to your room and someone helping you unwind? I bet that would help. If not, you can even put my hands to good use."
His persuasive words confirmed that this timeline continued in line with what she remembered happening previously. Richard had called and then joined her on Picon back then. They'd begun their torrid affair in this room.
A sad smile graced her face. Laura looked down at the too-big golden band on her right ring finger and traced the smooth surface with her thumb.
"No," she said. She knew what real love felt like, and she would never accept anything less. She would never be open to anyone else. "But thank you."
"Come on, Laura. I want to see you. And I think you'd enjoy my company," he said. "Remember some of the ideas we had before you left?" Instead, Laura remembered a time when such pressure could cause her to cave in to his advances because she was vulnerable and reeling from the loss of her family. Battle-hardened now, she'd become forged steel.
"I'm not feeling well, and I'd like to be alone," Laura said, more harshly than intended.
"You really aren't feeling well."
"Sorry." She sighed and put a sweet yet tired inflection into the rest of her words. It was a tone she'd used on Richard before. "You do get to see me when I get back."
"It's okay, honey. We'll find some other time. Hope you feel better," he said, voice oozing sincerity.
"Thanks." Shaking her head, Laura hung up the telephone. Richard Adar could act caring and attentive, and sometimes he even was, but that didn't matter now. "But there are some things not worth reliving."
Again, she looked at the gold band and tortured herself by constantly reminding herself that Bill probably didn't remember her. Even if she saw him again, her Bill, the man who gazed at her with infinite love and endless devotion, might still be lost to her. Her eyes trained on the phone. A few calls, and she'd know, but an old darkness crept up on her that made it hard to act. She'd fallen down the bottomless well of despair before, and it yawned in front of her again.
Even restored and full of life, she felt so, so weary.
Laura pictured what he was like when they first met: the stern and unyielding leader, directing and taking charge, filled with military pride alongside a pig-headed stubborn streak. We were both pig-headed, though, Laura recalled with nostalgic fondness. They'd fought each other and the Cylons while creating a connection strong enough to withstand anything. Although one hell of a way to build a relationship, it wasn't something she could just walk up to him and hope to do over.
Without that shared history, what could they be? She felt like she was drowning in that rip current dragging her out to sea, her body dragged down into the cold, ebony depths of the ocean floor.
Don't let the darkness pull you in again. Heart pounding, she reached for her phone. I love him. He's worth the risk. Always. She opened the contacts and scrolled to an old college friend who worked in the Defense Ministry. After greeting her warmly and exchanging pleasantries, they switched to business.
"So, whatcha need, Red?" her friend asked.
"I'm trying to find someone in the Colonial Fleet. His name is William Adama."
Her friend promised to pass on her name and number. Laura figured that if Bill remembered her at all, that would be all he'd need.
…
Unbeknownst to Laura, Bill stumbled through the same emotional muck while trying to appear unphased by what happened to him.
He awoke aboard the Battlestar Atlantia, and it was business as usual: starched uniforms and shiny buttons, nobody acted like something was wrong with the universe. After reveille, the men and women hopped out of their bunks, starting another average day in the Colonial Fleet.
Bill sat on the edge of his bunk, the heaviness of the past crashing around him.
"Y'alright, Husker?"
Bill looked up, seeing one of his old pilots talking to him. "Bad dream."
"Cylon War or a girl?"
He swallowed hard. "Both."
He stood, finger combing his hair into a semblance of order while his bunkmates teased him harmlessly. He remembered being liked well enough as CAG, but nobody taunted him like this in years.
Laura did. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. His thoughts swirled with images of her, and he felt a weight on his heart pressing him down into the hard metal deck plate. Deciding to treat this situation as a crisis, he kept the stoic Admiral's persona wrapped tightly around him. It fit like well-used armor.
But when Saul Tigh appeared, Bill nearly jumped out of his skin.
From up above, his best friend's face jutted out suddenly from the bunk. Swallowing a yelp of surprise, Bill's gaze darted between Saul's two good eyes, both of which brimmed with excitement.
"Freedom!" the not-so-bald man yelled.
Bill stared at him in what must have been open confusion.
Saul noted his friend's reaction. "Shore leave. Today."
"Uh—"
"Remember? We got a hot date with cheap whiskey at this little strip club I know," Saul chuckled, delighted at his idea. When Bill didn't reply, Saul swung out of his bunk. He landed with an undignified thunk on the deck.
"Bill, you look like someone chewed you up and shat you out. Frak's wrong with you? C'mon! You're divorced. You're free. You promised to relax," he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Bill tried to smile and nod, but a vital realization flared in his mind.
Saul doesn't remember. All we went through, and it's down the drain. What the frak is going on?
"Just a strange night," Bill said in a tight voice. Irritation spiking, Bill decided to act like nothing was wrong. Better play it safe and not sound like an armageddon doom mongerer. Besides, Fleet mental institutions weren't nice. He rubbed a hand over his tired face, feeling like he'd been plopped down in the middle of a sci-fi drama. Sure he worked in space, but whatever was happening to him went beyond the straight-and-narrow path he preferred.
Saul clapped his friend on the shoulder in brotherly camaraderie. "You hit the showers, and then we'll hit the dryland. That'll fix you up."
Bill could only nod.
"Mail call," a young private said from the hatch, and several officers perked up. There was nothing for Bill, not that he expected anything. At this point, Carolanne and the boys had stopped writing to him years ago. Hearing from Carolanne was not high on his list of things he wanted, but there were voices he'd give anything to hear again.
"Meet you on the hangar deck," he said to Saul, who'd just received a letter from Ellen at which he somehow grinned and glowered at the same time.
Bill decided against asking why his friend looked like he'd swallowed a bushel of lemons and made his way to a communication station instead. He grabbed a phone and dialed a familiar number.
"Hello?" a young voice answered, and Bill's heart skipped a beat.
"Zak," Bill breathed. "Zak… this is dad. How... how are you, son?"
…
The sun rose, set, and rose again, beginning another ordinary day for many. No call came through, and Laura remained alone on Picon.
She sat in a coffee shop, writing down everything that she remembered. She purchased a new journal specifically for this task, and now her pen ran across the page, cataloging everything about the future she could remember. Memories fade; the journal wouldn't. She tried to remain composed in public, deliberately choosing to acclimate herself to humanity again. Nothing threatened to end her life unceremoniously, and nobody accosted her for the decisions made as president—that required adjustment.
The flavor of her tea exploded across her tongue, and she sighed in pleasure at the lack of an algae aftertaste. There was just cinnamon, masala, and clove. Laura swore that not allowing their food supply to get contaminated was a priority, and it didn't matter how much the Adama men enjoyed the algae noodles.
She even smiled at some memories. Her first term sounded like an epic odyssey with great ships, heroic soldiers, and fair leaders: a mythical time when humanity still had its spark of hope. Her mood darkened when she described New Caprica, Nuclear Earth, and mutinies. Feeling heat behind her eyes, she flipped the page and wrote about the last months of their travels when they were tired, bitter, and angry; humanity's hope faded like a dying ember.
Meanwhile, in her lap, her other hand fiddled with a certain gold metal band.
She devoted many pages to the attacks and how they'd happened. In an ideal world, she'd help prevent that horror altogether. But when were things ever ideal? Her gut warned her that the attacks would still happen no matter what. So she noted the most crucial turning points and preserved them on paper, jotting down ideas.
If the Lords of Kobol wanted to play games with her, Laura Roslin had conditions for this new round.
She reached for her tea again after discreetly wiping away a tear.
So many memories.
...
The next day, Bill woke up in his hotel room with a splitting headache. The sun blazed into his room, letting him know that the day was well underway. His plan of "go with the flow" turned out to be an unsound tactical decision, and he groaned at the pain in his head.
It was all because of Saul frakkin' Tigh.
Saul had remained oblivious to Bill's disquietude and only cared about the cute brunette on stage and the drinks in their hands. If Bill had any lingering doubts, he was confident that this Saul Tigh had absolutely no idea that he was a two-thousand-year-old Cylon. In fact, this Tigh still had some growing up to do.
He felt tossed into an alternate reality while trying to sort out all of the pieces on the fly, so drinking with his best friend had been surreal. With no memories of the future weighing him down, Saul had pounded back shot after shot of whiskey like it was water. He'd threatened to become a rowdy patron, bemoaning whatever Ellen had written to him in her latest letter, but a glare from Bill kept him in line.
Just like old times, Bill thought, getting up to get water. I still feel too old for this.
Bill sat at the bar quietly, yet tempted to drink and ease the burden he carried. Wouldn't anyone want a break from these memories? He imagined Laura telling him that the answer didn't lie in the bottom of the next glass. The confusion, pain, and anger that dominated its existence weren't going to go away with enough ambrosia or brunettes.
At one point, Saul Tigh slapped Bill on the back in congratulations and asked the not-so-old man where he'd thrown the damned ring. Bill looked down and noticed the lack of a wedding band on his finger. He'd stared at the tan line left behind, having not noticed it missing. He hadn't worn it since burying Laura. An uncontrollable physical ache settled into Bill's very bones, grieving her loss.
Bill wondered what happened to the ring. Saul was convinced that his friend had hurled the ring deep into the oceans. He ordered another round of drinks. Bill downed his. In the morning, nothing stopped the images his mind conjured up from memory: the paleness of Laura's skin as she lay in sickbay covered in tubes, the stark contrast of the darkness of the dirt falling on her face as he buried her on Earth, the breathy voice in which she'd told him that she loved him.
So many memories.
Bill shook his head and decided he wouldn't be repeating last night's drinking. With his water, he looked out at the planet of Picon and let his thoughts organize themselves. If Saul didn't remember, it was a pipe dream to hope that the Laura of this time would. So he seemed the only one to possess knowledge of the future, and he wasn't sure what good he could do. There were things here and there that might give humanity a chance, and he decided to spend time puzzling some options out instead of acting rashly.
Bill's thoughts never strayed far from Laura, and he wondered if it hurt so much because he felt like he'd lost her again. Without the memories that made her the person she was, Bill knew that his Laura was gone. What he'd forged with Laura had been built over time and in the fire of extenuating circumstances. It had been unique, irreplaceable, and he was thinking of finding her anyway.
He scoffed—the Laura of this time probably wouldn't look twice at an insignificant member of the Colonial Fleet. At this time, she was a refined and rising Caprican politician with very little love lost for the Colonial military. Even if he found her, why would someone like Laura Roslin want a relationship with the divorced, scarred man without much to offer.
Chiding himself for being a coward, he decided to do something. Laura was too important to him for him not to take a chance. He racked his brain, thinking of their many conversations, and made a decision. After a long series of calls and connections, he was put on the phone with an aide who served Caprica City's Director of Education. The Director wasn't in her office, but the young girl dutifully took his message and contact details. If it meant something, she'd call.
Days passed, and he didn't hear from Laura. His only solace came from calling up his young sons and listening to Zak talk about Pyramid and Lee talk about school. His boys, uncertain about the change in their father, loved this newfound attention. He realized that his knowledge of the future would change how this timeline unfolded. As Bill contemplated trying to change the future, he knew that he would neither let Zak near a Viper nor tell Lee that "a man isn't a man until he wears the wings of a Viper pilot." He'd grown from his mistakes.
Out of the ashes can spring a new flame; Bill, although angry at yet another trial, decided to make the best of it.
...
Cavil was furious at how events had played out. How dare the Final Five, half the Cylon models, and even some Centurions chose to side with humanity. It was insulting, he thought. He maintained that his intentions were noble; he'd wanted to show the Final Five the truth of humanity's depravity.
Well, if at first One doesn't succeed, One must try again. He had another chance now—a slight rewind.
It wasn't quite a fresh start. When Future Cavil regained his memories just over sixteen years before the Fall, he contended with events already in motion. By this point in time, the One models had already inserted the Final Five into Colonial society. Cavil decided that he could still make plans and do some tweaking. Machines were good at upgrading.