"Godsdamn it!" He screams, implicated, with the woman's blood on him. He pulls his gun on Natalie, but she looks him square in the yes. "No Resurrection Ship. You understand? She's just as dead as your friend." She stalks out, stopping before Kara. "Is that enough human justice for you? Blood for blood?" It's not even an indictment, just a very Six establishment of purpose: I have proven my dedication to our alliance. You don't have to watch your back with me on this one. I will kill my sister to save us all, if you demand it. Athena looks at the other Eight: this is what they were talking about. Were the Eights right all along? This is how far the Sixes will take us, because this is how far Sixes must go. Sharon and Sam consider the body, and think about human justice: two robots with inside-out skin, begging they'll remain human after witnessing all this.
The whisper music of Gaius Baltar plays again across the Galactica sickbay; Roslin paces the floor, in a black headscarf and soft white pajamas, her kind eyes beneath the cloth like a sister, like the bride of Gods. Emily calls out to her as she passes, embarrassed. "Madam President. I wanted to apologize for before. I... I have good moments and bad." Laura smiles: "And that was ... which?" It's a wonderful moment. We cannot give excuses to our weakness, blame our behavior on anything, not even illness: we own it. It is a thing that happened; we have proven our capability of bad moments, even vicious ones. But it is over now, and forgiveness is down to the victims of our bad moments. They will give it willingly, they will reach across and hold you tightly, in your bad moments, because they love, and because they have their moments too.
Relieved, Emily laughs and calls her inside, with all the hurry and friendliness her broken body can muster. "I have something for you! Come in, come in!" She directs Laura to the drawer of her hospice dresser. Laura pulls it out: a beautiful pale scarf, grey flowers and green leaves. "This is beautiful. Thank you. That's beautiful." Emily grins, proud: "A woman on Aurora makes 'em, Leslie Stars. She makes all kinds, if you want to check it out..." Laura assures her that this one is perfect, and sits at Emily's side.
"What color are you hoping for? When it grows back in?" The conversations of women looking death in the eye; the small talk of the apocalypse. "Um, well. I was thinking maybe blue. Nice royal blue. Change of pace." They laugh, until Emily coughs. She lies back. "Oh, my hair used to be... Now look at it. Feel it, feel it." Laura touches the woman's sparse hair, gingerly, and Emily clasps a hand over hers. Laura relaxes into that grasp; accepts the intimacy in Emily's eyes. When your body is dying it most wants to be touched. "It's gonna get a lot worse," Emily says, sweet and serious. "Be prepared for that." Laura nods, and holds her hand. Women who have lost something. Women who are gaining something.