Caprica turns, offended as Antigone. "I feel it, do you really think that I couldn't?" He asks, the lie of hate in his voice masking his need, if she turns it off: "Is there a switch in your head that you turn off?" Not stronger, not smarter, not faster: just harder. That's the only Cylon gift he craves. "You talk like we're different, but you know we're not." She's talking metaphorically, but sister, let me tell you that nobody wants to hear how the Cylon and humans are more alike than different. Her hate mail this time takes the form of Saul, scared to death by the words and not the sentiment, his nightmares of recognition coming true, orders the Marines to cock their weapons without a fault. And Caprica stares around, worried and upset, standing in the scariest room of the scariest place in the universe, her only visitor an angry an old man full of hate, knowing she's thrown her lot in with nobody at all. That she's delivered herself into the enemy's hands, without hope of parole or love, without Hera, without anything but the promise that today, this second, the beatings haven't started yet; without anything but her life, in these monsters' hands.
Escape velocity is the initial speed required to go from a given point to infinity, with a residual velocity of zero. That's one definition: from somewhere to everywhere at once, without anything wasted. From somewhere to another place, without anything holding you back. These are the lies we spin and try to get everybody to agree with and validate, so we can pretend that they are true. Every word in this episode is a lie, except for the most surprising ones. Chief solders behind a mask on the hangar deck, putting in his billionth hour, trying to make up for his mistake and prove once and for all the man he chooses to be. Who, he now realizes, is a lie. Figurski arrives for work and jokes, "Working late or up early, Chief?" He waits for a response, and assuming he has none, heads off. But the response is this: the Chief's 33 is longer than anybody else's because it goes around and around. Is he working late, or up early? Has he gone too far over the abyss, or is he trying too hard? Ultimately it's meaningless, because these questions operate on the axioms that he has any choice at all, or ever has. The Chief removes his mask. He removes his gloves, first the left and then the right. He removes his apron. Everything that makes up the Chief, every second of the 33, he will remove one by one. And then he will be clean.