"Hold up. I think I'll go with you on this one." He wants to keep her hidden. He's strong enough to bear this, but the crew is drawn taut, close to snapping. They cannot see her madness, her face like this, her hands trembling, head snapping side to side, like a raven. "You haven't flown a CAP since we left the Fleet..." She focuses down, a grin behind her eyes, and repeats herself carefully: "I think I'll go with you on this one." Karl nods sadly, and leaves; Kara continues to fuss with her shoes like a total nutcase. Ask her to balance her checkbook right now, I dare you. Ask her. Revelation, revelation: they don't make shit easier. They make everything worse.
Speaking of totally batshit insane, I'd like you to meet Phoebe, a newish member of Baltar's Cult, and right up their alley: her eyes are like fire. Her words are full of rage, but she grins like a death's-head. She offers up a photograph. "I need you to tell me that all this somehow makes sense. This was my husband James, my two children Danya and Reese. They were on Picon when the Cylons attacked." Because at its heart, that's what they've all been about: DEMAND PEACE, DEMAND LOVE even: making sense of senseless tragedy, when there's none such to be had. "What do you feel when you look at this photograph?" Gaius asks tenderly. "I feel rage." It echoes through her body, the hollows in her eyes, like a plucked guitar string: rage. "Against the Cylons...?" No, not just them. She shivers righteously. "Not just the machines. Anyone involved. The engineers who designed them." Gaius Baltar, he thinks, and then forgets he thought it. "The corporations, the politicians who provoked this war and then did nothing to protect us. And most of all the Gods." There we go. He embraces her, and tells her that she's right.
Gaius sits on a throne, in robes, and grabs the mic. Behind him, Tracey and Jeanne transmit his words to the Fleet. "Unfortunately, the Gods cannot be blamed for not coming to your aid. It's not because they weren't listening, it's because they don't exist. The Gods we've been praying to for thousands of years do not exist. They can't help you because they are not real. We have been pandering to our own ignorance for far too long."
Galen Tyrol jumps rope in his lonely room. His hair is shorn in grief. "Now on my own journey I've been wronged, persecuted. I prayed to the Gods on my knees, begging them for mercy. Tortured, I received nothing in..." His mother was an oracle, his father was a Priest; Galen turns it off. On these nights, he and Nicky listen to Gaius, the old familiar tones, the Cally whisper music, the voice more important than the message, the music more important than the lyrics. The second it's gone, Nicky starts to cry again, and when Galen flips it back on, he calms immediately. But listen to the words, Galen, find the lyrics in the music: "...I could've lived in that abyss of bitterness, but that will destroy you like nothing else. But I chose to forgive.