In a Galactica corridor, there's a small man, long dark Jesus hair, beard, with a box of things, rushing to a place he doesn't know about, on a road he doesn't recognize. Pen, "papers." Dreams, words, wishes, plans. Plans for breaking and remaking a system in his own image. A system that didn't need breaking; just healing. He came back from the fairies with his hands empty: this is a life. Gaius in a box, with nowhere to stand. The people push by him: some of them, pilots and Marines, shove past, but he doesn't mind that so much. It's the ones that don't notice him at all: those are the ones that hurt.

Jump coordinates distributed, sir, and all Fleet ships showing green, for jump formation delta. They jump. All fleet ships reporting in, sir. Gaeta scans on dradis: "Let's see what's out there." What's in here: Laura Roslin, on CIC again, doubled over. Dying Leader? Or proximity to the Nebula? Or a song that only she can hear? The lights go out, everywhere at once: in CIC, and in Galactica, and across the Fleet. Everyone goes dark. The music comes, again, louder and louder: that old song they used to play. The Fleet drifts, in the dark: nowhere to stand.