It's an old story and a new one, but not one we've ever looked at before all at once: Once there was a girl, who fell in love with a boy. She was a special kind of girl, who lived ten thousand days for every day we live: across stars and in secret places, like fingers on a hand. When she was born, it didn't really matter much because it was the hand that was important. She fell in love with a boy, on Caprica. She fell in love with a girl, on the Battlestar Pegasus. She was put into place and she played her part and she fell in love. All these stories and a thousand more poured through her veins, the ocean that feeds the stream that feeds the ocean, and in all of them she fell in love. Gather our biographies in your hands, you'll come with a handful of ocean: trust me, in the end we're only human.
But what does that mean? There were programs in place, for after the ending, what to do with the survivors, how to move on to the next stage of the plan, how to procreate. They took away her memories of her mother, and told her that children were objects demanded by their faith. A great honor, supplanting their forgotten parents and making children in their own image. She'd be in charge of the Farm, overseeing their experiments, laboring toward God. She'd be temptation and a goad, fall in love with a man who could never give her a child; who didn't even know her name. She'd be passed over, once again, and Sharon would be mother to the next generation. Sharon, the baby of the family. She went walking, saved a child from what would happen next. Snapped his neck and wept for him. She never even knew his name.
Philosophy at five in the morning: "Consider for a moment the relationship of a child to its parent. Children are born to replace their parents. That is God's plan. God plans the death of one's parents to be a critical component of a child's development into adulthood. God wants children to grow and develop on their own. He wants them to reach their full potential. And so it is that parents must die. But parents who stand in the way of God's plan, who defy His will... they must be struck down." Humanity's children returned.
After two years, she ended a forty-year peace with a kiss, ageless and naïve at once, like faerie: "Are you alive?" she asked; and elsewhere she was thanking Kendra Shaw for her kindness and running to her lover on the bridge; and elsewhere she was getting the Farms ready, for the greater glory of God; and elsewhere she was pushing her lover down, down onto the floor, out of the radius of a nuclear shockwave thirty miles away. He loved her. He never even knew her name. In those days you didn't need one; in those days, it wasn't words but feelings, not to drown in that ocean but to be one with it, synonymous with it. No names: just let her feel it and she'd fill the fucking room.