This one's going to be pretty long, because there's a lot going on as we gear up for the post-Pegasus onslaught of storylines. We begin 189 days ago, also known as The Last Day Ever, not to mention one of the busiest days a person has ever had. Such a busy day Laura Roslin had! First she got inoperable cancer, then she solved a union crisis verging on bloodshed, then she watched some people making out hardcore in public, then she got dumped and fired, then took a trip to a museum, then the whole world ended, then she got LBJ'ed, then she killed a few thousand people, then she freaked out for a while, and then she may or may not have grabbed a nap. And she did all this with total class, while looking -- at worst -- a little tired, with everybody treating her like she was completely slow the entire time. Jack Bauer's like, "Lady, I gotta hand it to you."
So, 189 days ago. Laura's hair is very dark, sitting in her doctor's office, because it's Caprica and it's always crazy bright on Caprica. Especially in flashbacks. Caprica was beautiful once. Now it's yellow. There's a very echoey, very still silence here. The doctor informs her that her cancer is malignant and metastasized. Outside, in the fountain square that characterizes most Caprica flashbacks -- particularly, and this is important, when it comes to Six and Gaius -- Laura dangles one very shapely leg in the water and thinks about how she's got incurable cancer and a probably incurable union strike going on. The palimpsest that goes on in this episode is impressively comprehensible: moving forward from last episode, where dialogue from each scene bled into the others, in this episode you might be confronted with dialogue from two different scenes while alternating visuals from two or three others. It's a credit to the vision of the show, and even more so the adeptness of the editors, that it never becomes overly confusing.
For Laura -- well, for everybody really -- this episode is just a series of endings: the end of love, the end of life, the end of the world. Approaching zero, they all signify the same amount. I'm reminded of a story told by Connie Willis in introduction to her marvelous story "Daisy, In The Sun," about how Edward R. Murrow saw a fire engine going by during a respite in the London Blitz, in the middle of the day with no planes overhead, and it took him a while to think it out: regular house fires don't stop because the world is ending. Your apocalypse is not on hold for the Big One. It's the reason that Maus and Jarhead and Sarah Bunting's essay "For Thou Art With Us" and Fast Food Nation are beautiful, and better than history: because they highlight the fact that political meaning doesn't exist in a vacuum, that while the political informs the personal, it couldn't exist without it. And I would say that there's something even bigger on the line, which is that one approaches zero as a limit -- all apocalypses are equal. There's no relativity to pain. And that's why the cancer, and the Cybrid, and the Big One, and the breakup, and getting fired, are all mixed together, in the episode and in her head. Because there is no difference. Your apocalypse is not on hold for the Big One, it is equal to it. Why should we care about the Teachers' Union, or Adar's term as President, when we know what's coming? It's a viewpoint we don't get in this show, a whole lot, because the action takes place in the equivalent of the West Wing: the peanut gallery only speaks in screams and yells and bombs, and often seems incomprehensible to us, because we are with the ones in the know.