Karl stares through the brig bars at his friend, eyes full of pain and care. Chief swears they're all the same: it's how he ended up here.
Karl swears they're different. It's how he ended up here.
"How you felt about Boomer, that was different. That's why you did what you did." Chief laughs, the laugh he always laughed: it was because he's a frakking idiot. "A two thousand-year-old idiot who cannot learn the simplest lesson: Machines are not people, they're just machines." All of these things are true.
None of these things are true. Karl shakes his head, trying to bring Chief back. If Cylons are nothing, if their feelings mean nothing, then Thorne died for nothing and Chief is nothing. If Cylons mean nothing, then Chief didn't hurt anyone but himself. "My wife. Athena? Is a person." Chief swears she's a blow-up doll. It doesn't even hurt, anymore, to hear him say it: he has no other options. Nothing else works.
"Athena, Sharon, Boomer... Call them what you will, they're all the same. They're all the same because we made them the same." Helo weeps, silently. "Don't blame yourself, but you can't trust them. You can't trust any of them." Helo hangs up, so sad and hurt for his wife, his friend, himself. He leaves, and Chief hangs up. Nothing else works. He's a machine. He's a man: a frightened one.
On the Colony, Hera's writing a symphony, a galaxy of notes. "Dots," Cavil snorts. "Lots and lots and lots of dots. She's clearly very gifted." Simon notes she hasn't eaten in days; she'll need an IV before the testing starts. "She wants her mother," Boomer explains, and Cavil laughs at her. "She can't have her mother now, can she?" Boomer jerks. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to sound all soppy and soft when speaking of the child."
"She is a child: a frightened one." Cavil redefines it for her; this is the way we do it now. This is the perfect machine: "She's a half-human, half-machine object of curiosity that holds the key to our continued existence somewhere in her genetic code." Simon puts on his gloves; Doral leaves the room. Boomer watches Simon pick up the needle. It's sharp as a razor.
Hotdog's carrying Nicky in one arm and a bundle of photos with the other; obviously, this is too complicated for old Hotdog, and he drops the photos, cursing under his breath, distractedly apologizing to his child as Adama approaches and helps him gather them again: "These are...?" Pictures of pilots, from the Hall of Remembrance. "We wanted to take them with us. You know? So we wouldn't leave them behind with the others." The others?