Roslin enters Caprica's cell, Athena following behind, and tells the Marines to scoot. "We'll be fine. Shut the door." Roslin looks down at Caprica, so imposing even now, and apologizes to her for the shackles. Caprica's noncommittal but wants this woman's love: who wouldn't? (Besides I guess stupid old Bill, I mean.) "Were you with us a moment ago? In the lobby of the Opera House?" Caprica looks more unsettled than any Six has a right to be: it's fairly unbalancing merely to see. "I'll take that as a yes, by the look on your face." Sharon admits she and Hera were there too; Caprica protests that it shouldn't be possible. Cylon psychology is based on projection, not shared tripped-out freak-ins. Athena's like, "I'm a commissioned officer in the Colonial Fleet married to a nine-foot-tall slampiece from Caprica, large as life and twice as natural, with whom I have a preposterous child. Six impossible things before breakfast, lady." Roslin asks Caprica straight up if she was trying to get to Hera, and Caprica just shakes her head. God and children. "I just knew that I had to protect her with my life."
In Adama's office, Tigh's getting nutty all over the place about the music, how "they" put it in the ship, how he can hear it and nobody else. Bill's like, "Um, I'll look into it, kookoopants." Tigh tells him we've moved beyond the index card of someday on this one: "I am here telling you there is Cylon sabotage aboard our ship!" Bill asks Tigh to reconsider whether even the Cylons are fruity enough to "sabotage with music," and Tigh agrees that this would be a galactic amount of fruitiness. Bill promises again, and heads back to the trial; Tigh stands around his office hurling awkward, ridiculous anvils like cabers. "There must be some kind of way out of here..." he says.
You know what? Here's my hypothesis. Ron Moore's driving his car, or listening to his iPod, sometime around three years ago. No, he'd have to be not driving for this, because he's in a kind of drowsy state. And he's a hip guy, so he's got Dylan or Hendrix playing. I'm gonna say Hendrix. And he's thinking about how, hey look, after all that time on Star Trek and being the best writer on any of those staves, along with M. Taylor, and having worked his way right the fuck up the ladder, good old bad old Carnivale and the quiet times in between, he's created the best show ever seen. But what now? Can he let himself imagine two more seasons? Three more? What are the big turning points? And "All Along The Watchtower" starts playing, and somehow it falls into the fertile place his creative, dreamy mind is headed, and he can see it: the song, the intensity, the revelations, the stress of it all, putting everybody on the brink, turning everybody inside out, breaking more cameras, doing what he does best. Creating broken people and burning them pure again. It never comes out just as you picture it, but he already knows that, so he just gives in to this overwhelming, magic feeling that this is going to be the best thing ever. And you know what? That's what's on the tin. This isn't my favorite episode, because the dialogue in the Verheiden script is very WYSIWYG and tells you what's going on, there's no room for inference or play, just: tell me what is happening in the plot at this moment in time, and we'll move on. Let the crazy shit handle the rest, because it's going to end up awesome based on the five or six mind-blowing things that happen, and that's good enough.