I mean, whatever, I can't tell you what you think or why because I don't know you, but it just seemed like there was a lot of cognitive dissonance happening with these moves, and that maybe it comes down to a desire to see people as simplified binary switches. Ellen is "good"/Ellen is "bad". Galen is "good"/Galen is "bad". Ellen is a saint/Ellen is a whore. Galen is our Chief Teddybear/Galen is the poorly written victim of character assassination. Which doesn't sit right with me, but especially not when it leads to disengagement from the act of watching the show itself. "I don't understand this, therefore it is poorly written and I refuse to think about it because it's so much easier to write it off than to rise to the challenge of understanding the story I'm being told." I can see spitting out something when you don't like the taste; I just don't understand doing that with dessert. Especially from a chef that has barely, if at all, let you down in five or six years. Wouldn't it be better to roll it around in your mouth for a bit, just in case?

Act Two: Walpurgisnacht
The Violet-Eyed Venus Becomes A Boozing, Tired, Graying "Virago"

39,556 human survivors in the Fleet; many more souls than that. Bill's amazed by Ellen's debrief in the wardroom. "He wants to rebuild resurrection?" Specifically Ellen and Saul and the others, she gestures to Saul (with the two-fingered eye-to-eye salute that means they are a team, think of us as a team, look at us as a pair, give us our due): "I really think Cavil's completely unbalanced, it's... Too much for him. The thought that the only hope for the Cylon people is this desperate grab for... Procreation, evolution. All that messy biological trial and error..." They look at each other; she thinks about how long they tried, like their Cylon children, to make something in their image. Ellen notices the Adamas and Laura staring at her, and laughs. "Oh, dear. I'm totally throwing you, aren't I? I'm still Ellen, you know." Laura, hating that thought most of all, hums in that hateful way, and Ellen shivers, fidgets. "Does anyone have something to drink? Maybe a flask?" She's embarrassed, laughing nervously, like a shaking addict. Bill pulls a flask from his uniform, troubling Laura, who changes the subject.

"So Boomer helped you escape?" Ellen pleads for clemency, and Laura says noncommittally that Ellen need not worry about Boomer. Ellen is discomfited by all the things that might mean, and turns to Bill. He's always been kindest, because he has no choice. "May I see them? The others? Galen, Tory and Sam..." They don't speak. Ellen pours on the charm; surprises herself by how quickly the tears come to her throat, even after all this time. "Imagine, Bill -- Laura -- imagine instead of 50,000 survivors, there are only five. Five people. Imagine how close you'd be. And then to have all that torn away..." She drops her gaze, hurting; Laura gets it. She doesn't want it, but she gets it: what the Final Five are, what they mean. How small five really is; how Ellen measures loss.