Hera is playing in Galactica's CIC, sitting on that table where they move the ships around, surrounded with dirt and debris. Hera is running through the Opera House; Hera is surrounded by sparks. Hera is playing in Galactica's CIC, driving Galactica into a Basestar like a fist from heaven. Hera isn't really any of these places. Hera's crying on a Raptor, speeding away from her family once again, into the arms of another one entirely. Hera is surrounded by sparks.
A knuckledragger Six stomps past the sparks and up to Dealino, the man who let Hera go because all Eights look the same. He's been complaining; she says the repairs aren't going so well because of Galactica's inferior alloys. An Eight watches as Dealino complains about the lack of the goo's efficacy; it's biological, it doesn't smell good. It smells like the inside of a latrine. Dealino also smells like a latrine, Six says, and before they can fight the Eight ushers her away. Eights don't like fighting. Sixes don't like bullshit, which means they're willing to fight to keep the machine working. "Lady, you work on your side," says Dealino, "And I'll work on mine!" The Eight pulls her away, still screaming at him to stop bitching; the Eight looks like any other Eight to him. The Six looks like any other Six to him. He stays on his side, they stay on theirs: that's what home means to him, using the enemy to keep his ship alive. He slams his helmet down and gets back to work.
Sam blinks, and the lights respond; they flash in Bill's quarters. Ellen's still persisting in thinking of Cavil as John, worried that the whole Boomer plan was to get Hera back to the Colony. She blames herself. Kara worries that she'll be dissected; Ellen explains that the Colony is, for all intents and purposes, "home." It's where the Final Five took the Centurions when they got to the Twelve Colonies, to teach them resurrection in the Armistice. Tory stares: Home. Lee gets in Saul's face, pissy as ever, carrying his father's stress, caught between it and the new Quorum of ships. "So you would have the Galactica jump into a Cylon's hornets' nest, risk everything, for one solitary, single child. Is that what you're telling me, Colonel?" He speaks for the Fleet. This is what a President does. His anger is a proxy for theirs, in these little meetings; it's like a plaintiff's lawyer weeping for the jury. A real and unreal thing.
Bill is getting angry too, as Ellen stands. "She's not just any child. With Caprica Six's miscarriage, Hera is our people's only hope of avoiding eventual extinction." Kara looks up at him, to explain about Slick's piano and her father, knowing that Cylon survival is not going to sway him. Ready to be a girl with a vector again: "She may be our only hope, too. I just..." She checks herself and stands with them. "We just experienced something remarkable." She explains how Hera wrote the notes to her father's song, and Saul tells him it's the same song he was hearing during the Trial, when he was going crazy, before the Nebula. Essentially "the same song that led us to Earth," Kara glosses: "Something is happening here, something that is greater than all of us, and that little girl is in the middle of it. She's the key, sir." Kara's been the key a dozen times; Kara's been in the hands of the Cylons' medical curiosity before too. "In other words, it's our destiny to go after her. Right?" Kara nods, waiting for him to give in like he always does.