And you can't ever be sure. There are some fucked-up retarded bumper stickers in the world that will tell you idiosyncrasy and acting like a freak are personal imperatives. Those are not the daemon speaking, but low self-esteem selling itself a pass, and the way that I know that is: you can't buy God on a bumper sticker. But from the outside, the merely insane or annoying are identical to the annoying insanity of genius. The fact that you can't ever be sure is a safety measure against letting it drive you actually crazy. So that's a "one" in the middle of the "many," and it means lawlessness sometimes. Set it against Lee's (and my personal) obsession with the law and democracy as the greatest expression of our humanity: they're both right, both equally and wonderfully and terribly right, and he's called Apollo for a reason. But the daemon remains.
"Captain," Helo says softly, watching her painting. It's been two months. Fifty-eight days since Adama set her free again, on a breeze and a fresh wind, to bring him back the Promised Land. Two months since he sent her, with a hand-picked crew of Helo's best mates, the best men and women of Galactica, to send her out like the postmodern Noah he is, and see if she's a raven or a dove. Noah was a man with a daemon, too; in the Koran they said, "He is only a man possessed! Wait, and have patience with him for a time." That's Helo, now, staring at her, calling her name again as she paints and thinks and listens for the daemon.
She smiles, and jerks around, having finally heard him. "I'm glad you're here!" she says, shivering. Possessed. "I might have found something..." He tries to have patience: it's two days until their rendezvous, until she's proven a raven or a dove. She scratches at her skin, shuffling papers, refusing to talk about it. She shows him scrawls and madness: "Later. No, no, no, come on. Here. What do you think?" He stands still, as Helo always does, full of patience. "Well, it's hard to say. Spectroscopics are promising. But according to this, we already did two long-range recons of that grid. Both no joy."
"Third time's the charm, maybe." She grins like a death's-head. Her eyes are fire.
"Alright? I'll ... have Sharon prep to go, as soon as Anders gets back from his scout." She stares at him, inanimate, eyes bifocal, seeing worlds and worlds beyond him. "Um, hey... What about you? You been getting any sleep?" She shakes, answering with her body before she summons the words. "I dunno. Not... Not much. It was so clear when I first got back, if I could... If I could just focus, I know that I can find that ... sound again..." She goes back to her painting. His eyes are full of pain and fear. It's hard to be patient, when you love a girl possessed. "I gotta go see the CAP off." Nothing. Nothing. Nothing comes from nothing. "We'll talk when I get back." He turns to go, happy to have her vibrating madness off his dradis, and she snaps back into focus, struggling with her shoes.