Death, be not proud... Those words were inscribed on a plaque at the entrance to the graveyard, the resting place of Colonial Warriors who had taken their final journey. The fragment of poetry was so ancient that none claimed to know its origin, yet it still lived on. Apollo took some comfort from the endurance of the human spirit- the race had gone on, for untold milennia. Surely it could not have reached the end now.

He surveyed the bleak and blasted landscape before him. The fires had died out at last, leaving nothing but smouldering ruins where once a great city had stood. Somehow untouched, a banner fluttered from a pole- all that remained of the great celebration. Ten years, it had been... the tenth anniversary of their arrival on Earth. Ten years of learning to adapt to the new homeland, of learning how to live a normal life, without being constantly on the alert for Cylons or other threats. Of growing complacent in a cushy job at the new Academy, teaching classes with his old friend Starbuck... Apollo's throat clenched, tight with unshed tears at the thought of Starbuck. He hadn't made it. There was no way he could have made it- surely Apollo would have been able to find some sign of his survival. But there had been nothing. As far as Apollo could tell, he was the only survivor. He had searched- oh, he had searched. Smoke tearing at his throat, heat searing through even his heavy boots from the scorched ground, stumbling upon scenes of horror and carnage unimaginable...

And through it all, not one sign of Starbuck.

There had been nothing, no hint of warning. Only the ships, blasting down out of the sky in a display which strongly resembled the destruction of the colonies so many years before. But this time, the Cylons were taking no chances- they completely obliterated everything. Apollo could only assume, given the thoroughness of the destruction here at his own hometown, that the entire world was in the same state. He didn't think the Cylons would leave any survivors this time, beyond perhaps an occasional fool like himself who simply refused to die.

And why had he survived? His mouth twisted with shame at the memory. He had survived because he was mad at Starbuck. His best friend, the man who'd stood by his side through thick and thin, was getting married. He had planned to do it that fateful night, along with nearly a hundred other couples in a vast combined ceremony which would have gone down in history as the most unique of its kind. Apollo cringed, remembering how his last words to Starbuck had been of anger and jealousy. And now here he was- alive and alone, rather than dead at his friend's side as would have been proper. Together in life, together in death- wasn't that how these things were supposed to go?

Apollo sighed, resting his head on his arms, which in turn were supported by his updrawn knees. There was little he could do about anything out there, but he still could not quit gazing at the devastated city.

Eventually, hunger roused him from his apathy. He struggled to rise on numb legs, cursing the unforgiving stone of the cave which sheltered him. Smoke, left over from the fires which had burned for nearly a week, turned spectacular colors as the dying rays of the sun touched it. A cool breeze blew as he entered the mouth of the cave, sparing a moment, as always, to appreciate the irony of a man who had once held command over a fleet of spaceships taking shelter in a cave. But it was a sturdy cave, and it had survived- a testament to the forethought of one of the Academy professors. People had thought old Greenfield was mad, with his insistence upon building survival shelters with a minimum of technology. Now, too late to tell the old man, Apollo was grateful for the wisdom which had provided him with the means for survival. But what good did the store of rations and supplies do him, when Starbuck was dead?

Apollo broke out a ration pack and settled against the cave wall. He couldn't bear to gaze at the destruction of all hopes and dreams any longer. Apathy held him in a tight grip as he chewed the tasteless food mechanically. Why had he survived? What was he to do now, alone in a world of devastation?