"The Final Five, Cavil, they're near. This is far too important," says Natalie, and Leoben continues, "What their eyes must have seen, witnessed over time!" His joy, finally uncoupled from that model's obsession with a certain badass and the raping of her, you know, this delight. He touches God. He knows the Hybrid, he swims in the swim, he drinks of the drink, he's McStreamy, and whatever's on the other side of her, we're touching. He's on fire with it. Eight grins hugely, ignoring Cavil altogether, desperate to belong, made to love and be loved in return, looking always for common ground: "Think they look anything like us?" (You think the numbers are out of sequence? Possible, I'm not a producer, I wasn't there two years ago and I am not there now. But she's more human than she needs to be, more human than the Final Final has to be. And while Seven is not the middle of Twelve, it sure the fuck is the middle of Thirteen. Mostly it's just nice to see an Eight smiling for once, without that culty gleam Athena sometimes gets whenever she's declaring her allegiance to the enemy.)
"-- That's enough! Don't you realize what you're doing? You're openly discussing the Final Five! That's forbidden! You're toying with our survival. Look at yourselves. Look, there's millions of Twos [Leoben, whom I would have made Twelve because he's so Pisces-y and Chief's so Taurus-y] have that nose. Millions of Sixes possess that mouth. Eights share those breasts, and Ones [Cavil, who I thought would be a Libra because of his binary sensibilities, but now realize is an Aries like me, and I humbly admit that I totally get that] have this brain. We're mechanized copies. There's a reason the original programmers clearly felt that it's a mistake for us to contact the Final Five!" Natalie disagrees, but not necessarily because Eight's got about a billion awesome things going besides her admittedly awesome -- and bullet-proof -- breasts. "Violating that programming threatens our survival," says Cavil. Which I can't disagree with, and makes me sad for him. And just to get it out of the way, one more time: six of one, half-dozen of the other. Today, right this minute, right this second, you tell me the difference between Cavil and Laura Roslin. I mean it. "Take those secrets and truths and set them aside. Even if it endangers the F5/Earth, I want you to shut up. Stop thinking, stop wondering. My way or the highway. The stakes are too high."
"Something has changed," worries Natalie, and Cavil nods. "Thoughts have changed. Yes, they change. The Raiders changed. That's where all this started, with them. Somehow they exceeded their programming, and unlike us, they can't correct themselves. So we're gonna have to do it for them." Instead of screaming THREE at the top of her lungs at this pronouncement, this Roslinesque offer of assistance, this emerging aristocracy, Natalie says something that would be hilarious, if she weren't so Canadian, and that will be echoed later: "Do what?" Reconfigure their neural architecture, shave down their heuristic responses. Which Leoben helpfully translates: "Dumb them down? Lobotomize them?" (And thanks for mentioning architecture in front of my fevered brain: "You mean send them to the Daru Mozu?" Because no, I'm not letting him go.)