Five months pregnant, Caprica walks through Dogsville, on her way from one place to another, holding a piece of paper clutched in her hands, pulling a hood tight over her face like Gaius once did. The Marines are stretched to the brink, barely able to cover the defensive systems and sensitive areas of the ship, but a few are down here, handing out barrels of grain. The refugee desperation, the frantic Brownian motion of them as they starve, makes her nervous. She did this. And then her fears become real: the Sons of Ares approach, as they wait for the Marines to leave, and decide to have a little fun. It's bad enough that she's a Cylon outside the West Wing protective bubble of her lover's quarters, but here in Dogsville they're just looking for a reason.
Sons of Ares more than anything. Their entire purpose, the meaning that they've found at the end of the world, is entirely bound up with fighting back against her religion. They are a group based in hate, anointed by war. She tells them she wants no trouble, and they laugh and pull at her hood. She's still bruised from the mutiny; still wakes up in fear and nausea worrying about her child sometimes. She grabs a throat, breaks an arm, kicks a Son of Ares across the room as they flail and punch at her once-perfect face. And once she's put them all down, she'll pull her dress back together around herself and limp away, while the human wreckage of Dogsville stares and watches their world fall apart a little bit more every day.
Bill looks up at the Six and watches his world remade around him, become an approximate thing, an impure and a hideous bricolage; Galactica's broken bones aren't Laura's cancer, they are his. They've pushed him into dark corners, they've woken him when all he wanted to do was sleep. They've remodeled his soul and his sense of ethics with their aid and comfort, and continue to think up things to take away from him: his daughters and his sons, his dreams, his best and oldest friend. None are equal to this, this awful miscegenation in the blood and skin of the ship he commands; fiddled and tinkered with by a mordant once-friend who spends more time on the Baseship than in the Fleet these days. Bill drinks more than ever now, even as Tigh teetotals for his lover's comfort: Bill Adama is a man who built model ships when he couldn't save his family; who put his favored daughter on her prow the day she died. He was outraged when he learned about the corners cut, fifty years ago when she was born; it pinched at him inside when he was reminded that he dropped her onto New Caprica, the day she fell to that dry earth; Bill's drinking more than ever, these days.