"We can do this." Karl pulls back, unsure. If you look at his track record, come on. Karl advises one person, two to four people, excellent. If he tried to tell half an air wing, or half an air wing and their complement of Cylon pilots, you're getting into Helo-fucks-up territory. He's not wrong. He's half a CAG but only ever half. That's not his mission, it's not when he's beautiful. "It's crazy, isn't it? We're putting ourselves right where the action is. It's not a great plan... There's no time..." He feels it. In his face and hands and feet and back, his back is stiff and afraid. He is the CAG of this wing, this ugly hybrid schizoid squadron. He is the guy, on point for a mission to rescue an enemy from the enemy in concert with the enemy and next to him the enemy, to bring the enemy back to the enemy, so that his wife can begin to die. He's not better than anybody, he's just good. The body he loves best stops being one thing and becomes another. This is not a love story.
Twinset massages his shoulders, caringly, sweetly, wonderfully. He looks back at her, after a moment -- How long? How do we measure loss? -- and she is immediately hands-off. I mean, fucking A. You already know. Every time they kill Boomer, it feels worse. And I just last week remembered why Athena is awesome, after years of trying to love her and finding her boring as fuck. And now you're tossing me this new, adorable, perfectly balanced Eight, who looks at the menu and doesn't take a bite, who loves and fears Natalie like Sixes must be loved and feared, who doesn't even have a name, and subjecting her to the most shameful, embarrassing, yucky instance of cultural mistranslation we've seen on this show, which is like a Not To Do List of cultural directives. On the wish list for the second half: A big-ass meeting among Sharons where they agree to cut it out and stop doing this shit and start acting like actual people.