Death, there's death and blood everywhere. Back on the Demetrius (thanks to him) and back by the Raptor (in part thanks to him) and here (no thanks to him, thank the gods): the Eight, Sharon, her blood drips into the hybrid's tank. He can't take his eyes off her or off the totality of what's going on here, wonders if he can even really conceive of it, if any of them can. If they can't stop fighting among themselves, how can they end a war? How the frak will bringing this baseship back to the fleet solve anything?
Faith, he tells himself, we have to have faith. There has to be some point in it, in all of it. It can't all have been for nothing. Since the beginning he's believed in Kara and in this, this insistence of hers, and he knew it would come to fruition eventually. He trusted her.
And he's a Cylon, and no one here knows it. Not the Six who killed her sister with his gun: she's saying something about the look on the dying Eight's face, that she doesn't even see them any more. "She's looking past us. I've seen that look many times." The words pour out of his mouth, but he doesn't know why he's saying them or who exactly he's trying to comfort. "But never in the eyes of a Cylon."
Maybe they're not so different after all. Maybe they all want the same frakking thing: to make their lives mean something. Is that concept so difficult to grasp? He doesn't think so. The dying Eight reaches out.
"Athena, you were right. Forgive me."
Athena almost meets her sister's fingertips with her own, but pulls back at the last minute and he's not sure if she doesn't want to comfort, can't comfort, or can't face her mirror image dying. Frak, he's not sure he could, but he knows one thing he can do here. He kneels to the Eight, cups her face in his hand. She deserves her dying wish: to not die alone. "It's okay," he tells her softly, "I'm with you."
For what it's worth, he's with her; her hand wraps around his wrist. Whether she knows it or not, she's dying in the hands of one of their own Final Five. Or just some safe easy pathetic motherfrakker who's dumb enough to buy into it all. He feels it when she dies, just like he's always felt it when his friends and comrades died, and when she's gone he reaches over and closes her eyes and strokes her cheek and squeezes her hand and wishes he could say he sees peace in her face.
War's not nice and tidy like that, though. All around him, focus is on the mission, on the hybrid's last words before the room went dark and faded to a red as deep as the Eight's blood. "She will lead us to the end. We will now know the truth of the Opera House," Leoben whispers reverently.
The Six continues. "The home of the Thirteenth."
Kara's voice floats over the hybrid pool like some sort of tangible ghost, soft and lost. "What?"
"The Hybrid said, 'the missing Three will get you the Five, who have come from the home of the Thirteenth.' The home of the Thirteenth Tribe of humans."
No one watches him watch the Eight settle into nothingness, her blood still fresh.
"And the Five is your Final Five Cylon models." He always knew his wife was smart, she's figuring it... oh, frak him. Now what does he do? Confess?
The Six is figuring it out too. "If they've come from the home of the Thirteenth Tribe, then they must know the way back."
"They know how to get to Earth," Kara mutters.
I don't know anything, we don't know anything, he wants to protest but can't, has no frakking idea how to get to Earth, has no frakking idea about anything. The dead Eight is his anchor right now. She's his reality, and he can't, won't, can't let go.
Athena nods. "And the missing Three is the model you boxed for looking at the faces of the Five."
"D'Anna." Leoben names her.
"She can recognize them." (She can recognize him.) "Let's go. Demetrius is waiting for us." Kara's all action, all mission now, and no one's paying attention to him or to the dead Eight. No one knows, no one so much as suspects. Everyone's ready to move, to make progress, to figure this shit out, but he lingers, waits as long as he can. All he wants to do is... is... all he wants to do is have the freedom to just be Sam, the same Sam he's always been. He has it for now, but it sure as frak isn't going to last.
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Faith, he tells himself, we have to have faith. There has to be some point in it, in all of it. It can't all have been for nothing. Since the beginning he's believed in Kara and in this, this insistence of hers, and he knew it would come to fruition eventually. He trusted her.
And he's a Cylon, and no one here knows it. Not the Six who killed her sister with his gun: she's saying something about the look on the dying Eight's face, that she doesn't even see them any more. "She's looking past us. I've seen that look many times." The words pour out of his mouth, but he doesn't know why he's saying them or who exactly he's trying to comfort. "But never in the eyes of a Cylon."
Maybe they're not so different after all. Maybe they all want the same frakking thing: to make their lives mean something. Is that concept so difficult to grasp? He doesn't think so. The dying Eight reaches out.
"Athena, you were right. Forgive me."
Athena almost meets her sister's fingertips with her own, but pulls back at the last minute and he's not sure if she doesn't want to comfort, can't comfort, or can't face her mirror image dying. Frak, he's not sure he could, but he knows one thing he can do here. He kneels to the Eight, cups her face in his hand. She deserves her dying wish: to not die alone. "It's okay," he tells her softly, "I'm with you."
For what it's worth, he's with her; her hand wraps around his wrist. Whether she knows it or not, she's dying in the hands of one of their own Final Five. Or just some safe easy pathetic motherfrakker who's dumb enough to buy into it all. He feels it when she dies, just like he's always felt it when his friends and comrades died, and when she's gone he reaches over and closes her eyes and strokes her cheek and squeezes her hand and wishes he could say he sees peace in her face.
War's not nice and tidy like that, though. All around him, focus is on the mission, on the hybrid's last words before the room went dark and faded to a red as deep as the Eight's blood. "She will lead us to the end. We will now know the truth of the Opera House," Leoben whispers reverently.
The Six continues. "The home of the Thirteenth."
Kara's voice floats over the hybrid pool like some sort of tangible ghost, soft and lost. "What?"
"The Hybrid said, 'the missing Three will get you the Five, who have come from the home of the Thirteenth.' The home of the Thirteenth Tribe of humans."
No one watches him watch the Eight settle into nothingness, her blood still fresh.
"And the Five is your Final Five Cylon models." He always knew his wife was smart, she's figuring it... oh, frak him. Now what does he do? Confess?
The Six is figuring it out too. "If they've come from the home of the Thirteenth Tribe, then they must know the way back."
"They know how to get to Earth," Kara mutters.
I don't know anything, we don't know anything, he wants to protest but can't, has no frakking idea how to get to Earth, has no frakking idea about anything. The dead Eight is his anchor right now. She's his reality, and he can't, won't, can't let go.
Athena nods. "And the missing Three is the model you boxed for looking at the faces of the Five."
"D'Anna." Leoben names her.
"She can recognize them." (She can recognize him.) "Let's go. Demetrius is waiting for us." Kara's all action, all mission now, and no one's paying attention to him or to the dead Eight. No one knows, no one so much as suspects. Everyone's ready to move, to make progress, to figure this shit out, but he lingers, waits as long as he can. All he wants to do is... is... all he wants to do is have the freedom to just be Sam, the same Sam he's always been. He has it for now, but it sure as frak isn't going to last.