Next: a sandal, from the co-ed bathroom. "Miss Prosecuting Attorney, down the hall. It's not what you think!" They both laugh in a way that two grown men would not normally laugh, because a normal person wouldn't be "thinking" what apparently in Angeli World you would "think" and then laugh about, which is that foot fetishes come to mind immediately whenever you see a shoe, or whatever's nasty and stupid and indicative of larger sex issues in play. "They were appropriated with the noblest of intentions. See the soles? See how the soles are worn." In this way Romo Lampkin describes a universe; see how Apollo learns who to be now. "She drags her feet." Miss Prosecuting Attorney drags her feet, the Admiral hanging by a thread. And Lee? Just hollowed out. "You're catching on!" It's when he says it out loud that's most chilling. Lee asks about the rest of the crap in the bag, but doesn't think to ask why Romo's showing it to him.
"... My demons. I borrow things. My parents disappeared when I was nine years old. They were kidnapped. Murdered for...for the money they had on them, which wasn't enough. I went to live with an uncle, stole from him until I could run away." Then he became the Batman, or Peter Pan, or any other self-made individual who has no parents at all. Just like Lee likes to picture himself: an orphan in a Fleet made of orphans, made up of a race of orphans, he's still special. It's only him against the forces of chaos. Him and this strange magpie of a man. "So what did you take from me?" Nothing you can see. Nothing you know about, from this sad angle. "I was thinking... the photograph that you carry. The girl, the pilot. The one you're carrying." They already took that. "But you've had enough stolen from you already." Lee nods, and gives Romo another of his chess pieces: you admit I loved her the most. You see the truth behind my strong faÃ§ade. You see the boy inside the Lee Suit. "I'll try and get these back to her," Lee says, motioning with the glasses. Like he still hasn't noticed that this is wildly fucked up in every direction. He turns to go and Lampkin stops him. "The other pocket. At the back."
Gaius's pen. Lampkin gave it to Caprica knowing it would be confiscated, stole it back from the guards, and now he's returning it to Gaius. From himself. From the man who gave him his voice back, his only true supporter, the only man who has told him, aloud, that the writing is a good thing. That he can buy back his soul through his manifestos and operating manuals. That dissolving himself in a puddle of critique and proletarian theory is the last and final way for him to be a hero, for him to save the Fleet; this time, from itself, for once, rather than from a man named Gaius Baltar. Saul Tigh should write a poem about Romo Lampkin. Maybe he already did.