(A Farewell To Arms: "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure that it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." Saul Tigh is many things, including all of these and infinite numbers more; they are qualities.)
Galactica-Tactica. Athena points at a schematic on the screen while the others move their little boats around on that table I love so much. "So the prisoners were here, but D'Anna has to know that you brought me in on this... If she's moved the prisoners, it'll mean a compartment-by-compartment fight." Lee and Tigh point out that, if anything goes hinky on the trip, they could just open fire on the civilian Fleet and actually end humanity. "That's why we need to make sure that our Raptors are already out there with their nukes cocked and locked," says Kara, and Tigh prays again for other options. He knows what they are. So does Kara, although she tosses off the answer in bitter disbelief and irony: "Yeah, those frakkin' Four could give themselves up."
She tells him what she doesn't want to hear. There was a time when he hated her for that.
THE TRUTH YOU HAVE LEFT
Tory walks through the Basestar like Alice, staring at the strange and brave world she's just now named her home. The weird lights, the Centurions standing guard. She is attended by Three and an Eight (Twinset?), and brought with a fair amount of pomp to C&C.
"Brothers and sisters, this is a great day for us. One of our lost siblings has arrived." They stare at her, the Leobens and Sharons and Sixes; they want to reach out. Now that the moment has reached its crisis they have lost their goofy laughter and their childlike excitement, because Tory Foster is many things at once. She is a lost sister, yes, finally coming home. But until recently she was also one-fifth of a taboo, an entity so sacred they weren't allowed to think of her, or to see her face in their minds' eyes, or to admit it when they felt her near. She's so small, they think. She is lovely, they think, but she is small.
They stare and she smiles, telling them the lies she's told herself over and over, and to anyone that would listen: she is home. This is her home. These are her people. This is an extraction.
It's just that easy.
And sometimes, you know, it is. Laura sits in her makeshift office, a hostage with a private room, bandaging a very undressed, very bashed-around and vulnerable Gaius Baltar. She wraps new cloth around his fragile body; her hands are tender and her touch is soft as she ministers to him. "Laura... there's been something I've been meaning to say to you. I wanted to thank you." She busies herself; fuss fuss fuss. "Um, for what?"