"Don't do this to me, don't... Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me, please. Please."
Laura Roslin kneels in prayer, to the Lords of Kobol, and they lean down. She is deaf to his pleading, but the Gods can hear it all. His blood stains her, everywhere; his blood is on her hands. She mutters supplication to the Gods. I hope it turns to ashes in her mouth.
The only word she says is no.
Elosha leans against the foot of the Dying Leader's bed, talking more quickly than ever. She doesn't have much time, before the heart gives out. Before it stops in her chest.
"I'm not saying Baltar's done more good than harm in the universe. He hasn't. The thing is... The harder it is, to recognize someone's right to draw breath, the more crucial it is." Crucial?
Maybe for a moment you can see it all, and the way it goes around and around. This is certainly more than we've ever talked about it. But it's a miracle: like any miracle, we take it for granted. You could grow to hate it, simply for stubbornly continuing to exist. And like any miracle, we forget it when it's done. Most of the time.
Once there was a little boy, soft. Brilliant. Unsuited to his environment, on a poor agricultural world. A whole world of people, living and dying every day, without even the capacity to understand what he was. He could have been an architect, or an artist, but he had a serious turn of mind; he loved computers, and physics. He lived on a dairy farm outside of a dirt town called Cuffle's Breath Wash, on Aerelon. He was like a dog, with its food balanced on its nose. One day, he'd have to snap that treat out of the air; he knew that if he didn't catch it, if he didn't get it right the first time, the chance would be gone forever. He was an alien among his people; he was alien to himself. So he watched, and he waited, and he learned to survive. He was charismatic, because he had to be.
His name was Gaius. He practiced, for hours. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a ten-year-old boy to change the way he speaks? To unlearn everything he ever learned, in the middle of the Wash, waiting for that one day? For that small ray of hope about the future? He was hardwired for self-hatred; he nurtured his own self-deception, because it kept him alive. He lived in a world of his own creation, and protected it with his fragile hands. Oh, to be Caprican! In the Wash the men liked to work with their hands, grab a pint down the pub, finish off the evening with a good old-fashioned fight. The things they said, behind his back. In front of him. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a ten-year-old boy to change the way he speaks?