The song continues as Chief works on the Galactica, staring across the way at an Eight, still alive and walking around, free, part of the new alliance. He remembers how much he loved Boomer once: the curve of her lips, the way she smelled. Boomer laughed at him: he sees her face every day! They kiss. And later, after she tried to kill herself, in the brig, having almost died himself, telling her that their love meant nothing. She was a machine, and he wasn't, and her love was never real. "Software doesn't have feelings," he hissed. Now he knows different. The other Eight applies compound to metal, unaware of how lucky she is, to be forgiven. To be free, working the deck. "How many of us ended up with the people we really wanted to be with?" He screamed at Bill. "Got stuck with the best of limited options?" He remembers Boomer, how she was gunned down, laughed at and screamed at, on her perp walk. How she died in his arms. "And why? Because the ones we really wanted, that we really loved were dead. Dying..." Her last word was his name. He's lost in the memory, shocked out of it when the power goes down. He jerks away and screams at his people.
Hera's in the Agathon quarters, drawing the sky, coloring in thirteen stars, waiting for Kara. Helo's excited when Kara arrives, with a box full of the pieces of Kara's life before she died. Anxious to get in there, fix her up, return her to normal. Find the thing she's been missing and give it back. And he's right: what she's missing is the girl she used to be. But giving it back won't fix her. She's not broken. Kara grins at Hera, and compliments her art. After she died, the pilots auctioned off her stuff, as they always do. He's spent the last who knows how long begging, buying, stealing it back. On top there's a DAT tape of one of her dad's performances: Dreilide Thrace Live At The Helice Opera House. A collector's edition. She picks it up, and Hera hands her the picture that she's drawn, and Kara tries to leave. She's grateful -- doesn't want Helo to think otherwise -- but the idea of walking through the corridor with a box full of some other girl, some irrelevant memories and painful ones, is a non-starter. She smiles winsomely at him, with just the tape and her drawing, and when she's gone Hera searches her father's disappointed face. It's hard to seem grateful for a gift you don't want, even when you are. She's too far gone. The sound of the hatch door closing is like a car pulling away.
He's the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret