Battlestar Galactica

Episode Report Card
Jacob Clifton: A+ | Grade It Now!
All That We Are

"What will we do? Spiral endlessly through the heavens until humanity itself comes to a close?" Gaius spots him, across the crowd, and begins to speak a private sermon.

"Or do we look inward... and find that strength within?"

Tigh pulls Galen away, whispering doubt into his ear like poison: "...Can you believe these people are buying into Baltar's crap?"

"We have the opportunity..."

"I don't have anything to say to you," Galen says. "Well, then you can listen. Come with me," grits the Colonel.

"Unity... Life..."

"I've been cutting you some slack because of Cally, but that's over. You gotta pull yourself together. Now." Galen nods: is following the Colonel's orders, now that the world has ended: is that part of the Chief too? Is it programming? "Suck it up. Just like you, huh? I hear you've been spending some time in the lockup with the Six..." Tigh looks around, ashamed, buttons it up.

"...Who are willing to accept them..."

"Remember when this all started? You said nothing would change you from the man you want to be. Well, how about it, Colonel? You still the same old Saul Tigh?" Saul assures him that anything he's done, he can live with. Which is too close to Tory, for Galen. Grief and guilt start spinning up again. "Well, that's the difference between you and me. I can't."

"From this level, we are all the same..."

"Tory's got in her head that we can be the salvation of the human race," Galen says, musingly, as Gaius explains how, if they can just hear it, spurred on by his daemon.

"Am I making sense to you?" asks Gaius. He is, but it's a breakaway song, and nobody can hear it.

They're so close. "All I know is, if there is a God, He's laughing His ass off." He's not wrong. Still, the faithful gather closer.

The language of the birds, the thing holy men speak when they come back from the Underworld, is the language of revelation. It's written in the shapes birds form in the sky, in the way leaves fall in patterns around their trees; it's in the ambient noise from the televisions in the houses that you pass, Hendrix sitar through the static, the words neon spells out backwards on the highway, late at night. The way one song plays after another on the shuffle, enjambed on secrets you forgot, raising memories, recombining. It's the moment Hybrid gibberish condenses into meaning. It's the language that connects you to the world, that reminds you this is all projection, and who painted the sky. It's about the bright second in the day when they stop being words in a language you know, and start meaning things in the language you're learning. Slowly, learning, until you hear it right. And as Galen leaves the Colonel behind, and the faithful shuffle about, Gaius continues to speak:

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Battlestar Galactica




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