In the hangar bay, they're doing what they do: Racetrack summons her nuggets, wondering if they make it out of this. Cally calls for light. In CIC Dualla and Gaeta check in, calling systems: the voice of home, its nerve center, working together. Pilots and ECOs and a million deckhands, mustering in the dark. Laura and Bill look at each other, the light soft as candles, and will each other stronger for this next round. Gaius looks around, wondering if this is them, coming to get him again; coming to save him from anonymity and the knives in the dark. Back into the dreamtime: two female figures, shrouded in darkness, look at each other and then back at him, and advance. Is one of them Tory? He turns, in fear, and a woman appears to him, from nowhere: it's Intense Cult Lady, with a hand out to him. "Gaius, it's okay. Come with me." The two figures in the shadows are on with her; Mary, Mary, Martha; they drape him in a safety blanket, to hide his face, the effect is jarringly New Testament. He begs to know where he's being taken; she tells him the truth. Home. "To your new life. Here. Come on."

Caprica dreams, in her cell: she and Gaius stand at the parapet of the Final Five, Hera in his arms. They step toward the five flags, bright as stars, but they are empty. Above and behind, before frescoes of creation, stand the Final Five, looking down from the balcony.

In the hangar bay, they're doing what they do: Racetrack and Cally saving the world. Chief hears the music. "There must be some kind of way out of here," he murmurs, before the bugs stop jumping. The song is a riddle: it runs backwards. First the princes keep the view, listening to the wind and the wildcats, like songs across the water. Then the litany of questions, problems, whining: Adama and Roslin drinking wine, none of them along the line knowing what it's worth. And then the angels, knowing this is just a joke, they've been through it, that's not fate. That's just the way it happens. Begin at the beginning and go on 'til you come to the end; then stop. It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards. Cally begs her people -- her people -- to be careful where they walk: "It's all live." Tigh, Sam, and Tory begin to sing; everybody dances toward the assigned place, at the assigned time. Away from their posts and into the unfolding.