SAMUEL T. ANDERS
Kara stands at his side, hand creeping toward the water, shaking a little, wondering what she is. His eyes close slowly in memory; he can feel her. He is all around her, and he can feel her everywhere. She is enveloped in him, in his arms, and can't even feel it. Her mouth crumbles with disappointment and she begins to cry. This is really it. She pulls at her dogtags, holding them in her hands like Caprica, and drops them into the water beside him, like a grave. Her other hand rests upon his shoulder, like a benediction. She stands at the river's edge, still: bringing life to the river and water to the shore. She leans in closely: it's still him, somehow. She kisses his lips, so softly; her tears run down his face. "I love you," she sobs, whispering. "Goodbye, Sam." Her tears are his; he's all around her. He sees all her angles at once. His eyes close again, slowly, in memory, and she steps back and away.
Sam weeps. "I'll see you on the other side," he says quietly, with a tiny smile.
Bill heads onto Galactica's hangar bay, far above the Earth, wearing his flightsuit. He closes the last airlock and spins up his Mark II; Husker flies again, and for the last time. Acceleration through the launch tube pushes him back, to Frank Porthos in an office as blue and bright as a Baseship bedroom. "Is your name William Adama?" Always. They adjust the cuff, the leads, the lie detector. "Are you an officer in the Colonial Fleet?" Always. It's only an hour of his time. "Are you a Cylon?" Bill jerks, and Frank apologizes: they're trying to work up a proper control question: "I need verifiable yeses and nos." Bill's never been good with those. "Have you ever stolen money from a cash drawer?" Bill's fists nearly clench, in his lap. He's getting bored. (They haven't even gotten to the tortoise yet!) "Have you ever stolen money..."