"Mr. Tyrol. Mr. Tyrol!" Galen stops, but doesn't turn. "I know that we have had our differences, but I am begging you right now to set those aside. Come down here and take my hand. If not for yourself, then for your wife. For Cally. She would've wanted this."
Galen knows a bullshitter, Galen knows how you give a speech, how you rally the crowd. Galen knows this is for them, another miracle in a series of miracles: the man who fought Gaius Baltar's administration on New Caprica, the man who threw his body on the gears of the engine built with his blood. And Galen decides it's about time for a mutiny. Gaius wants to give them a show?
"Cally wasn't like me. She forgave you for New Caprica, even read your bogus Manifesto. But not me. You may have your sheep fooled, they may be buying into your message of forgiveness, but let me tell you. There are some sins that even your imaginary God can never forgive."
He ends with his face just inches from Gaius's; they take each other in.
"I have not been talking about an imaginary God," Gaius says. "I am asking you to take my hand. Take my hand, Mr. Tyrol. For Cally." There's a long pause, but it's the next thing that cuts too close, because it's disgusting, and because it's right: "It's what she would've wanted."
Galen explodes into ultraviolence, choking him. And once again, Gaius in the grip of violence screams the most unexpected thing: "Get off of him! Leave him! Leave him!" Galen screams, standing in the midst of the faithful, that he didn't even know Cally.
And that's true. He didn't really know her. But Gaius killed a man once, and when he did it, he did it for Cally. For no reason but to save her life, and stop the shouting. And if Galen could remember that...
He leaves, among cult whispers and Gaius on the edge of a weeping breakdown. And Galen goes home, to his empty place, and he rips even that apart. Sheets and pillows, paperwork, all the pieces of his life. What would she have wanted? If she'd known, all the truth, if she'd known how much he was hurting, what would she have wanted? He pulls a gun from a bedside cabinet, and holds it against his head, screaming. Screaming, I mean to say, until he's bloody. He runs the gun across his scalp, where his beautiful hair used to be. On the grated floor, there's a photograph, of Cally and Nicky, smiling. I need you to tell me that all this somehow makes sense. This was my wife Callandra, this is my son Nicholas. They were in my home, innocent, sleeping, I turned into something else. The war, Boomer's murder, the Circle, the Trial: making sense of senseless tragedy, when there's none such to be had. Galen holds a gun in his hand. His hand goes limp.