Chapter Text
The first time Ensign Felix Gaeta entered the CIC on Battlestar Galactica, suspecting he smelled rust, he had to repeat his recent mantra. Three years, then grad school. Too many syllables to be dead end.
His fathers' excitement—legendary William Adama. The best hands-on opportunity in the fleet. Calculating bearings and jumps by hand. You love math, Felix. Also too many syllables.
Back straight, salute precise, Felix mentally stomped on the speculation that a console explosion had caused Adama's facial scars. The gravelly voice directed him to his station—as if he hadn't memorized the entire battlestar. DRADIS—two syllables.