Tory Foster bustles onto Colonial One, happy to be home. It's been so long. She wishes the President a good morning, bright-eyed, and pulls out her briefcase. "What is it about the Galactica that gives you such a glow? I come over here, it's like I'm going from one dungeon to the next." Like a snail. Tory grins and thanks her: she's glowing. She's beautiful. Perfect, just as she is. They get down to business.

"I want you to find out who's behind the shared vision rumors. Who's talking to him?" Tory nods. "With Baltar?" Not even thinking about it. "...You're sleeping with him, right?" The sudden sharpness, the gleam. Tory looks up, scared. She opens her mouth, and closes it again just as quickly: "-- Don't. I've just been informed that you've been spotted down there enough times to be a charter member of his nymph squad." Tory nods, and mans up. "All right. I have come to believe in Baltar's spiritual message. I don't know how or why. It just happened. I wish you knew how many times I wanted to tell you." She starts to cry; that old shame, failing Laura again. "Your friendship and your trust means..."

"-- Frak." Tory is disgusted and sad; Laura more so: "Clearly my friendship and trust mean frak. And I don't really care if you have to spend the night on your knees praying, or just on your knees. [Guess who wrote this one?] I want a name. I want to know who's responsible for these lies." Which aren't lies. And Tory's secret relationship with Gaius, which is neither a secret nor a relationship: that's a bargaining chip now. She turns her back on Tory and puts on her glasses, shuffles paper. "Madam President." Silence. "Laura." Nothing. "I am so sorry..." Laura doesn't turn. "You have a job to do."

Marines watch the three rebels from the doorway, sitting at a small table in a small room. "The humans are never going to allow us to have the Final Five and go our own way," Natalie says quietly, and the Eight stares: "Are you sure of this?" Almost; she wants to be wrong, but she's a leader now. It's her birthday: "We need insurance." Leoben swims in the stream: "Trust has to begin somewhere," he says, but Natalie swears it won't be with them. They are small, caught between two great races, no Resurrection Ship. You understand? The rock and the hard place. The temple and the altar. "It's our ship. When we jump, we take control of it with the Centurions. We carry out the mission as promised. But when we return, we take hostages. The humans on this ship stay on this ship until we have the Five." Leoben looks away, sad. "Look at me," she insists. "We've changed, but the humans haven't." Eight knows, and nods; nobody's noticed that this is the definition of not changing. "We've come too far to risk everything on their trust." So I guess we can write "TRUST" on the big board of shit the Cylons still don't actually understand. Not that we do either, but it's good to keep track. Leoben nods, and he and Eight reluctantly agree. Natalie hates it too.