"Okay," she says, not talking to him. He thanks her, again. "Okay." She sits down near him, and thinks. She sits near him and thinks about nothing at all. She is a garden, she is a scar. It doesn't matter what Gaius says, because this is her trial, and he's stoned. In morpha veritas, yeah, but not intelligible veritas. Not worthwhile truth; if he'd left off the bit about guilt, would she have let it go? His sins are so much larger than hers; it feels good. Because by comparison, if we follow that thought, what is the magnitude of her own sins? She's dishonored herself and her people a million times; she cuts down trees to save a forest. But she did this for the right reasons, and she burns with guilt, and that means by comparison that she's doing a fine job. Lay morality at her feet, she can handle it.
Only can she? Blood drips, drips, down the fragile arms of Gaius Baltar, dropping to the floor in two puddles; his fragile hands thrown out cruciform, a hole in his hide. ("See my hands... Stop doubting and believe.") Things get unbelievably scary. She makes her way to him, and pulls his bandage away, tenderly; she shushes him and comforts as she works. He asks what she is doing, as he starts to white out.
"It's all right. You're fine. Shh! You're fine," she says, quietly. Almost lovingly.
He begs her to stop. Nobody could blame her. She is a force of nature.
It pours out in a flood.
CIVIL BLOOD MAKES CIVIL HANDS UNCLEAN
A Raider dies, all alone in space, for the last time. Helo, reports on the wireless as they come home: "We have D'Anna onboard. We are clear of the Hub. Commence nuclear strike. Repeat, nuclear strike is a go." They form up, they fire; the Hub is gone, a garden of flame. A scar. The music is mournful, and triumphant. Twinset doesn't take her eyes off it; the horrible majesty.
"And with a whimper, every Cylon in the universe begins to die," Three smirks. (The "frakkin' serves 'em right" is silent; she's a free agent now, a singular player. Like Kara.) Helo knows what it means: every Cylon in the universe. Beginning to die. His wife, the love of his life is a clock, ticking for the first time in a thousand lives. "Yes," Twinset nods, "That's right. And it's a good thing, D'Anna, because now there's no difference." Three laughs silently, to be getting any kind of information from a fucking Eight: of course it's this optimistic love crap. "We can all start trusting each other!" Twinset looks at him, but he's still tingling from the pain. He looks... amazing. Is his hair different? Is the flight suit? The flight suit always throws me off.