Battlestar Galactica

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

But Pike's the Antigone now, caged up with a madwoman, heading into enemy territory, into certain death, on the words of a ghost girl and a demon. He'll strike out with everything he's got. And that is good, too. Imagine how different it would have been if Marlow or Willis were wrong, and Kurtz was right. You know? Totally different story. When the end of the world comes, you consider your imperative, and that means applying Occam's Razor: either God wants us to go have tea with the frakking Cylons, okay, or else that bitch is crazy. And they'll tell the story of a submarine, sky-bound, that sailed off into madness, like a virus, and one by one her crew fell to the enemy; how they walked into it with their eyes open, on the basis of a painting and a girl who cannot possibly exist. There's the kind of mutiny we all do at once, and there's the kind that we do inside our heads, to save the world. It's not racism, it's the righteous anger of the caged and trapped and suffering, who knows that he is right, when everyone around him is losing their heads: "Figures you'd be the one to protect that Cylon thing, right?"

And what Karl does to him next, well, that's okay too. No bad guys in this scenario, just viewpoints that must be upheld. Sharon's like, Seriously? And Seelix drops to help him, her fellow soldier, and everybody is freaked, and Helo, who is already having maybe the worst day of his life, including the time he was left for dead on an irradiated, robot-occupied world, the time his pregnant girlfriend was a Cylon, the time he shot her in the gut to save their kidnapped child, and the time he had to be involved in "The Woman King," just wants a nap. I mean, that's a lot of bad days, but somehow this seems to be the worst of all.

(Faith is not love, nor Love faith.)

Galen looks at a picture from New Caprica, the Chief and his wife, squinting and smiling in the sun, impossibly young. So grateful, that the Admiral reconsidered.

"Gaius," whispers Jeanne in her hushed voice, as they make their way down the corridor, "I just don't understand what you're trying to accomplish. I mean, this man is psychotic." Gaius gives her the cult answer, which is not the real answer, but is a concise definition of something Jeanne will be doing more of, soon enough: "My message is for everyone. Especially for the ones who don't want to listen." She says again that it's not safe, and he knocks on the hatch of Tyrol's quarters, telling her it'll take five minutes. She continues to worry as he opens the door and lets himself in. He's wearing civvies, a cute hoodie and denim jacket; he looks very young, and very kind, and very small, and very breakable. But he's not doing this to win, he's doing it because he has to. Whether Galen welcomes him with open arms or bashes out his brains on that very floor, with that very wrench: he has to do it.

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Battlestar Galactica




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