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"What are we doing here?" Mulder says one day, staring into his tin plate.
Sam snorts, slugging back some water. "Staying alive, if we can."
"How did we get here?"
"By truck, by foot, by sheer dumb luck," Sam says and jabs his fork into a piece of mystery meat - at least they still have rations. "Unless you're talking philosophically, and then you're barking up the wrong frakking tree, because I'm just a musclehead jock, not a brainiac."
"It takes brains to lead a revolution," Mulder says with his wry smile, like he knows something Sam doesn't.
Sam shakes his head. "No, man. It just takes willpower. Not even that. I don't want to get up every morning and lead the troops or whatever. But I gotta. So I do. Not even a choice."
"There's always a choice," Mulder says. He's kind of staring into the distance, like some moody frakker about to turn out an award-winning collection of poetry.
"Nope," Sam says firmly. "Sometimes there's not. Sometimes there's just a need. I don't know why the frak it's me who's filling it, because I've got about as much qualification to lead a military offensive as our good doctor's got to tell somebody good news, or that priest's got to make a joyful noise, but somehow it happened."
"You're tall," Mulder offers. "You make people feel safe."
"What, you got a degree in psychology now?" Sam cracks, chewing on the mystery meat, which is more gristle than anything. "Frakkin' headshrinker - that's just what we need around here."
"Actually, yeah," Mulder says, and cracks a grin. "I do have a degree in psychology."
"Shit, sorry," Sam says. "No offense. I mean, I'm sure some people do need their heads shrunk. Including me."
Mulder laughs. "I'm not that kind of psychologist."
"Right," Sam says. "You use it for justice and stuff. Catching criminals."
"Yeah, I just talk psychology mumbo jumbo at them until they turn themselves in," Mulder says. "Or shoot me. That's definitely happened."
"Hey, at least your scars are honorable," Sam says. "'I got this scar tripping over a Pyramid ball' doesn't get you a lot of sympathy. Not even in a bar."
"Were you wearing your uniform?" Mulder asks.
"Naw, that gets me kicked around by Panthers fans," Sam says. "Or they try, anyway."
"I recommend flashing your bank card, then," Mulder says, all serious, but there's a twinkle in his eye.
"Think that worked better before the worlds ended, buddy," Sam jokes. "Back when there were banks. Besides, I've got more on my mind than women these days." That's a lie: Sam dreams of Kara. He catches glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye. He prays to whatever gods still exist that she made it back, that she'll appear in the woods again one day, eying him down the barrel of her gun.
Mulder grunts. "That makes you the lucky one. Never thought I'd outlive Scully. She was the survivor."
"I bet she's still out there," Sam says. He doesn't know if he believes it - hell, he doesn't know Scully from Echo, except for what Mulder's said about her red hair and her strength - but he wants to believe. He wants to believe they're all alive out there somewhere, or at least laid to rest properly, with someone to mourn them. One of the halls is a memorial wall now. There aren't many photos, but people's names are written there, and the day they died. The facing wall is for the missing. Sam hates walking that hall. His unasked-for responsibilities weigh heaviest on his shoulders then. He can't write Kara's name up on that wall. He can't write his parents' names or his friends' either, but that's different. He's pretty sure they're gone. Even if they're alive, Picon's the same radiation-soaked hell that Caprica's become, a hole from which there's no escape. But Kara - Kara's his last hope. He can't acknowledge that she might never come back. Hell, she might never have made it out of orbit. But he's got to believe.
"She's out there," Sam says again. Mulder just looks at him, eyes crinkled in skepticism and half-amused sympathy.
"Sure," he says, getting up and grabbing his tin plate. "Sure. They're all out there somewhere, watching over us, and the stars are their eyes." He saunters to the counter and rinses his plate at the tap.
Sam slouches in his seat, mechanically shoving food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing, just going through the motions. In a little while he'll get up. He'll go on patrol. He'll come back to base and make tomorrow's schedule, and then he'll collapse into his empty cot, and tomorrow he'll get up and do it all over again, every day until Kara comes back. He's not much more than a machine now, he thinks, not any better than a Centurion except for that spark of hope.
"Catch you on the court later," Mulder says as he leaves, and Sam grunts in response. "Hey, keeps us human - there's your psychology for the day. Got to keep playing."
"Right," Sam says. "Keep it real."
Mulder nods. "Keep the faith. Just in case."
"In case what?" Sam asks, staring into the remains of his lunch.
"In case miracles happen," Mulder says. "And pray the gods one's coming."
"Pray the gods," Sam says automatically. Mulder's right. It's the same as as getting up - you keep going until you can't, and then you fight on. He gets up. He'll go on. He'll wait. He'll hope. He'll fight. He'll dream. He'll keep the faith until she comes back.