He turned the knob to the off position, pushing the top drawer of the chest it rested on closed before dropping the last piece of clothing on top of an open duffle bag on his bed.  Before doing the straps up he took the time to drink in his surroundings; a recently abandoned set of schoolbooks and his diploma for the lyceum were pushed to the side of his desk to make way for the carefully arranged pile that was his wallet, watch, travel documents and enlistment papers.  On the wall behind, covering the faded floral pattern was pinned an assortment of team pennants and varsity boxing ribbons.  All of which seemed so important only weeks before but now had become trappings of a life that he was about to leave behind. 

Crossing the small room to the desk he slipped the wallet into his hip pocket but before putting on his wristwatch something made him pick up a framed picture that had stood there since the day his father, mother and he had gone to the Parliament building for the ratification.  His father had taken him out of school that day and had somehow managed to get a pass for the public gallery.  It wasn’t the throngs of people in the public gallery, nor the preceding weeks of newscast headlines that told Bill Adama that this event, this historic event, was important, fundamentally important on a personal level to him even then.  His father had always maintained that the colonies would be a fairer, better place for mankind if “we”, as he’d say at least once a week when they all sat round the dinner table; it strewn with the papers from his latest case, could put aside petty differences and historical wrong-doings and form a new government, one for all the Colonies. 

Bill remembered how his mother covered her head and knelt as the Gemonese Premier lead the delegates in prayer.  He was too young to question, but the fact that his father never joined in nor went to temple with his wife and son always sparked his curiosity. 

Bill stared at the picture, the smiles of his father and mother still bright and a younger image of himself stood between them, waving proudly a pennant with the seal of the newly formed Quorum of Twelve emblazoned on it.  He looked up from the frame to where the same pennant hung from his bookshelf.  As fondly as he remembered Colonial Day and as much as his father was right, the Articles were a sign that humanity was trying to better itself, no-one forgot why unification was necessitated.  The war had raged for seven years and while Caprica remained relatively untouched he was now at an age to stand up for those same ideals he had witnessed come into effect the day the Articles were ratified.