He follows the track they'd set up ages ago, weaving between more people now in the crowded halls of Galactica. He moves faster, even darting between bodies, not wanting to give anyone a chance to stop him, to talk, to express sorrow or condolence. Instead he bumps up his pace until he hits the relative quiet of another hall.

He stumbles as he sees someone in front of him. Short blonde hair, hard physique smoothed out with familiar curves. He feels something burst inside him and he rushes forward, driving himself harder to reach her. She turns the corner and he can smell her in the air - the familiar tang of musk and sweat, the soft underlying scent that he knows from tasting her skin. He follows her around the curve and she's gone, vanished like a ghost he's not quite sure he's seen.

Bending forward, he rests his hands on his knees and breathes, surprised at how painful it is, how much his lungs hurt. Still now, his legs feel weak and rubbery, so he stands and starts walking, focusing on anything but the fact that he's alone.

He feels the sweat cooling, feels his legs ache. He smells the stale air and oil that is the heart of Galactica and pulls it into his lungs. The gray walls fade past him as he moves, his pace increasing once again. He jogs this time, unwilling to surrender to the feelings of exhaustion, his body's desire for sleep.