Out in the hallway, there's another broken one: It's Connor from the Circle, Connor who we remember, whose son Kevin was seven once. He's lost Baltar's trail, but he's patient. This is his anything, too. Gaius is the endpoint for him, too: Religion looks different, to different people.
For example, now that Gaius is getting a good look around, he quickly picks up on how crappy his cult is. It's very IKEA. There are women of all ages, and some dudes. Lots of blankets and pillows everywhere, like any old harem you might find in an abandoned storage compartment: lots of incense and candles and soft flowy linen and linen blends.
Now, what my notes at this point say is, verbatim: "The song is crazy." Which, this episode is fun because there are so many new themes and twists cued up, so you get to enjoy the music the whole time, and definitely this one -- along with the Final Four theme, which is hilarious in that it's hard to make a sitar sit quietly in the background of anything, much like the Bagpipes of Filial Responsibility those Adamas are so fond of -- is crazy as hell, but let me tell you what the Old English lyrics translate to. I should warn you that probably this is going to blow your mind, so I'm going to ask in advance that you not join any cults once it does so:
We gather in shadow beneath your altar
Your image in blood and flame
By Your Command
Deliver us unto the One True God
Our divine savior, now and for eternity
So Say We All
I mean, you know? That's impressively fucked up. I think the Lords of Kobol just revealed that I need to marry Bear McCreary as of ten minutes ago. Anyway, all the little Batshit Anythingers stand up and try to look nubile, but won't meet his eyes. Which is a funny journey for him to take: he started out as a celebrity with all the eyes on him, and then he was hidden away on New Caprica and started to look kind of diseased because he never went outside and just hated himself more and more and did a bunch of drugs and had unwise sex, and then after the Trial people pointedly wouldn't look at him, but now he's so...whatever is simultaneously the opposite of famous and notorious, accessible and frightening, consumable and poisonous. Taboo? Holy? Now he's so holy, to this self-selected group of sadsack weirdos that nobody will look at him again.
There's a shrine to Gaius Baltar, made with cardboard and Christmas lights, candles and pictures and little corn dollies, whatever's scraped together from what's come before, detritus and flotsam, a six-pointed star drawn in marker, random beads strewn and hanging. And Gaius, who is after all, a genius, nods and basks in the absolutely pure irony: "Right." So this is the situation I get to deal with now. These are the raw materials at my disposal. This is where Gaius Baltar ended up, the anything he demanded, for his guilt and his disappointment; the way his spiritual destiny was snatched away in the Rapture, only to express itself anew, in revolution and sedition, and prose. This is the man he chose to be.