Starbuck has a reputation. You’ve heard the rumors. Most of them are true. But one couldn’t be further from it.
You’re not nearly as lucky as they all think. ___
After your first real combat flight, after the chief strips another piece off you by telling you about Lee and you take a piece back by asking about Sharon, after you pray to the gods in a bunkroom that will never be full again. After. You take a pen and make the list, writing more carefully than you have in a long time. It fills the front of one whole page and half of the back. You read it carefully, twice. Then you rip it up.
Days after the last cycle of 33 minutes ticks down, after the Olympic Carrier, people keep telling you how lucky you were to be in hack. Lucky.
Sure. Because all it cost you was six hours in the brig and a list of names carved more permanently than ink and pulp could ever manage. ___
There are lots of ways you should’ve died on Caprica:
1) Fighting that toaster for the arrow 2) Trying to kill Sharon Valerii v. 2.0 3) Radiation poisoning 4) Bleeding out with a gunshot to the gut in a forest 5) Getting sliced and diced and plugged into a frakking baby factory in that hospital
But against all odds, you make it out and through and the next thing you know you’re saying goodbye to Sammy as he presses that damned arrow into your hands and you watch the hope die in his eyes even as you make your promises. Six hours later you’re back with the fleet (or part of it anyway) and regretting you ever left in the first place.
But the president thanks you and you just nod. Wasn’t any trouble m’am, you think as the stitches pull at your abdomen. All it cost you was an a piece of yourself and a chance at happiness. ___
Six months later and Sammy’s still dogging you whenever you close your eyes. And Kat’s dogging you whenever you open them. It’s like she’s holding a chisel to you, banging incessantly, chipping away all the pieces that make you up. The nugget pep talks, the top gun slot, the punching a superior asshole bullshit, and you let it all slide because you might be off your game on the ground but no one can catch you in the air.
But then you’ve got Scar in your sights and you could take the shot, you could, but…you don’t. For once, you roll out of the line of fire.
After, you raise your bottle and reach for that old list. You stumble and try not to see the pride in the admiral’s eyes or the sympathy in Helo’s or worse, the understanding in Lee’s. You bite your tongue till you taste blood so you don’t cry out that you let her have the shot. She just got lucky.
Luck that you gave her.
And all it cost you was your pride. ___
It takes a while, longer than you thought it would to be honest, but you finally get clearance for the mission. You make good on your promise and drag Sammy’s ass off Caprica. A bunch of others too. Better than that, the cylons turn tail and run.
You’re grinning and laughing and the Admiral tells you you’ve done good. Hell, even Tigh looks proud. You’ve never felt luckier.
A few months pass and your luck holds. It’s quiet in the sky now and you’re tired. Tired of being Starbuck. There’s a new planet, a new world down below. Second chances and new beginnings.
But you’re the fleet’s good luck charm and you’re not sure you’re ready to give that up for civilian life. You mull it over for weeks, even as you visit Sammy and think about cabins. All the while, you do the sums in your head, adding and subtracting, weighing what you gave against what you gained.
And in the end (as you tell yourself it doesn’t really matter why), you do it. Muster out. You trade your wings for feet of clay.
You have no idea what it will cost you when your luck runs out.
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timeasmymeasure
The Cost-Benefit Analysis of Being Lucky, Fleet's Magic Luck Charm
Date: 2009-07-21 06:05 am (UTC)You’re not nearly as lucky as they all think.
___
After your first real combat flight, after the chief strips another piece off you by telling you about Lee and you take a piece back by asking about Sharon, after you pray to the gods in a bunkroom that will never be full again. After. You take a pen and make the list, writing more carefully than you have in a long time. It fills the front of one whole page and half of the back. You read it carefully, twice. Then you rip it up.
Days after the last cycle of 33 minutes ticks down, after the Olympic Carrier, people keep telling you how lucky you were to be in hack. Lucky.
Sure. Because all it cost you was six hours in the brig and a list of names carved more permanently than ink and pulp could ever manage.
___
There are lots of ways you should’ve died on Caprica:
1) Fighting that toaster for the arrow
2) Trying to kill Sharon Valerii v. 2.0
3) Radiation poisoning
4) Bleeding out with a gunshot to the gut in a forest
5) Getting sliced and diced and plugged into a frakking baby factory in that hospital
But against all odds, you make it out and through and the next thing you know you’re saying goodbye to Sammy as he presses that damned arrow into your hands and you watch the hope die in his eyes even as you make your promises. Six hours later you’re back with the fleet (or part of it anyway) and regretting you ever left in the first place.
But the president thanks you and you just nod. Wasn’t any trouble m’am, you think as the stitches pull at your abdomen. All it cost you was an a piece of yourself and a chance at happiness.
___
Six months later and Sammy’s still dogging you whenever you close your eyes. And Kat’s dogging you whenever you open them. It’s like she’s holding a chisel to you, banging incessantly, chipping away all the pieces that make you up. The nugget pep talks, the top gun slot, the punching a superior asshole bullshit, and you let it all slide because you might be off your game on the ground but no one can catch you in the air.
But then you’ve got Scar in your sights and you could take the shot, you could, but…you don’t. For once, you roll out of the line of fire.
After, you raise your bottle and reach for that old list. You stumble and try not to see the pride in the admiral’s eyes or the sympathy in Helo’s or worse, the understanding in Lee’s. You bite your tongue till you taste blood so you don’t cry out that you let her have the shot. She just got lucky.
Luck that you gave her.
And all it cost you was your pride.
___
It takes a while, longer than you thought it would to be honest, but you finally get clearance for the mission. You make good on your promise and drag Sammy’s ass off Caprica. A bunch of others too. Better than that, the cylons turn tail and run.
You’re grinning and laughing and the Admiral tells you you’ve done good. Hell, even Tigh looks proud. You’ve never felt luckier.
A few months pass and your luck holds. It’s quiet in the sky now and you’re tired. Tired of being Starbuck. There’s a new planet, a new world down below. Second chances and new beginnings.
But you’re the fleet’s good luck charm and you’re not sure you’re ready to give that up for civilian life. You mull it over for weeks, even as you visit Sammy and think about cabins. All the while, you do the sums in your head, adding and subtracting, weighing what you gave against what you gained.
And in the end (as you tell yourself it doesn’t really matter why), you do it. Muster out. You trade your wings for feet of clay.
You have no idea what it will cost you when your luck runs out.