So too these Four, these heroes, this very frakkin' sexy shape of things to come: Saul Tigh, Sam Anders, Tory Foster, Galen Tyrol. Galen means "physician." Athena, and Caprica, and Hera. Laura, perhaps. Kara, one assumes and hopes. Those that walk between worlds, seeing in bifocal, finally focused, hearing the music of God. The obsession of life is nature, how about that: discovering and describing. Trying to love everything around you. Maybe all these Helo and Adama Suits, the Kara Suit of Special Destiny, the Chief Suit of Labor Disputes, maybe they were all helpfully provided for us, after all. Maybe we were the ones trying them on, all along. Boomer and Athena, and Laura Roslin. Tory and Sam. Cally, and Cavil, and Three, Gaius and his angels: maybe we were being prepared, focused through so many lenses one by one, so that we could handle this. Human psychology is based on projection; we've been running from the attack for years, too. Waiting to rest.

And these Four, these newborn people, that can dance in the link and still claim the ground below their feet; these Four that can lay down their burdens of fear, and hatred, and self-loathing, and pledge the work of their hands to their people. Their people. These Four take their stations, hold the line, and take back their names again. Bill greets Saul in CIC, and Saul promises he can count on his oldest, closest friend. Through all the bad nights, when he gets like that, they held on as tight as they could: Lee and Sam couldn't stop loving each other if they tried, from that angle. Tory takes Roslin's arm ,and the love in her eyes could stop you cold. "I'm here if you need me, Madam President." And across the deck, Tory and Tigh lock eyes. The link.