"And yet that's what we do, isn't it? Hang on to hope, in every hopelessly irrational way that we can. But not like those poor bastards, giving away their luck, just when they need it most." The crew, pilots, ECOs on the deck: laughing, embracing. "It's like they've given up." Adama tells Romo, as a non-combatant, that he knows less than total jack about it. "I always imagined you a realist, Admiral. Not one to indulge a vain hope at the cost of lives." Really? Because maybe you should rethink your instincts about people. Especially today.
Except not: Romo doesn't tell the truth, he tells the lie that tells the truth. He takes off his glasses and he lies right to your face. Not the pretty picture but the cracks in the canvas; Bill is a cat in a box. Talk to the Admiral, dazzle him with something shiny in your hand, talk about his son, about his imperative, so the Cabin-Builder can show his face. And then strike: "But then, everyone has his limits. Sine qua non, as they say." Adama ignores him studiously: "Without which not," he grunts. His father's language, paterlingua, lawyer talk. Logos. Romo nods. "Yes. Those things we deem essential, without which we cannot bear living, without which life in general loses its specific value. Becomes abstract."
They look down, at two pilots in love, embracing for what could be the last time. They look like young Husker and Jaycie. And he's putting them on the altar. Their thing without which is each other, and he's killing them both. Because he's in love.
"You may have a point, counselor." Romo nods, and ups the ante: "Tom Zarek may not be an ideal President, but we could do worse." Adama assures him that Tom Frakking Zarek is the proof that Adama's realism has limits. The point at which he calls Tom Zarek President, or treats him as such, or thinks of him as such, or sees his face, or hears his voice, she dies.
Bill watches the kids suit up, and passes the last test, and calls Lee to his quarters. There comes a point at which Mommy and Daddy go away and leave you to clean up the pieces; Joyce will always die and Giles will always take off for England. It's part of the story too, and it has to happen. Lee is wearing a simultaneously hilarious and violently hot red disco shirt, with hilarious moussed-up grownup Man Hair. I don't know whether to kiss him on the cheek for being adorable, or hold a gun to his head. Or reach out and hold him, for what's about to happen. Luckily, I do not have to make that decision. Lee listens to the following, which is bit like a kiss and a gun to the head at once, and slowly shades from worry, to sadness, to fear, to stark raving terror.