Tell me "chair." Any chair at all, imagine it and describe it to me: four legs and a back, provides comfort, provokes memory. But a chair is not chairness; it is not every chair at once. It is a singular entity in the universe, with a singular story to tell, all its own.
Lee looks at a chair. The chair Bill brought with him from Caprica; the chair he sat in, building and rebuilding a family with his hands, setting Aurora at the helm. "No one sits in his chair. Tigh can't even look at it. You know the scariest thing my Mom used to tell me when I was a kid? 'Your father is waiting for you in the study.' I'd knock on the door, make the long walk across the room. To that desk."
Bagpipes sing his memory: the memory of fear, memory of youth, when Father was a booming sound across the deck, mythical Zeus towering, blue eyes thundering. The memory of logos, when every word from Father brought the world into meaning. Father says, "I know where it is, Earth," and he does, he breathes it from the clay. Adama means Earth. Every father is a God, until he is outgrown.
"You know, Leoben said something to me when he was holding me in that dollhouse on New Caprica." He can barely hear her. Gods shouldn't die, shouldn't drag their old bones out into the black and sit waiting for dead Goddesses; shouldn't give up anything so easily, or abandon. "That children are born to replace their parents. For children to reach their full potential, their parents have to die."
The chair is empty.
THREE SMILES & A SHIVER
Three smiles greet each other as the rebel Basestar jumps in, another trip from who-knows-where to home. Centurions crowd C&C. Leoben is excited: "We rejoin your Fleet in less than an hour." Laura promises she'll return the Final Five to their worshippers; it is a lie. "Four," says Three. "There are four in your Fleet. Four." Laura asks where the fifth, the Final Final, must then be. Three smiles once.
"I want the four in your Fleet." Bill, still in his jumpsuit from the Raptor, allows as how it would be easier to get everything done and squared away if she'd just tell them who the Four are. Three's like "Yeah, easier to kill their asses."
Laura points out that Three's wartime strategy and tactics are obsolete: the Colonials need the Five or Four just as much as the Cylon, now. We swim through the detritus and the debris and the pain of war, every single day. It goes on, burning, just outside your house. At the moment of the Cylons' greatest triumph, at the moment they took of that fruit, and ate, and began to die, Three was years behind. She's still years behind; she has awoken not to one war but to many. She is a one-woman army, a third side in the conflict; Gaius taught her that.