He wakes up and groans. And remembers.

Fear. His greatest act of courage in years has betrayed him. His secret, his one great secret, revealed. He will be destroyed. He will lose the respect of all humanity. He will lose the respect of her.

Well, he never really had her respect, but this will not go a long way toward fixing it.

He needs time. Time. Tick-tock. Focus. Time.

He needs to hide. He needs... Gina! His last hope, perhaps. He needs to get to Gina. But there are no friendly faces, here. There are contacts, of course, who – Gaeta?

No, no. He is in a good position for most things, but he does not control flights. And he has no good black mail material for Captain Kelly.

He needs a pilot. Without bothering to think again, he launches himself out of the room, propelling himself toward the pilots' bunks. The answer is Katraine.

There is walking, rushing, shuffling, trying not to look suspicious and desperately aware that it is only making you look more suspicious. There are strange looks people give you as you proceed, and you wish you had not demanded quarters so near the CIC and so far from the pilots.

Then there are the marines. He sees them, and one of them lowers the gun to point at him, and without another thought – again, not thinking, idiot – he turns and tries to run.

There is sudden, blistering pain in his side. He looks down and finds he is bleeding.

Someone grabs him, and then someone else, and they begin to drag him. Somewhere along the line he passes out.

He remembers. And then he sleeps.

He wakes when he is kicked in the head. He slides backwards against the cold floor. With another groan he opens his eyes, and he sees a black boot, and then the rest of the black uniform of the Colonial Marines. There is another kick, this one to the gut. He grunts. He will not scream. He will not scream.

There is another kick. And another. He refuses to give in. Besides, he doubts he can manage the breath to scream anyway.

The kicking stops. He passes out again.

Gaius comes to some time later – there is no way of telling time – to raised voices. One of them is low, but female. He cannot immediately identify it. "--supposed to work with this?"

And then a lower, masculine voice. "Just softening him up for you."

He looks up. He sees the marine first, a big, burly man, probably half cruelty and half blind loyalty. Everything a marine had been supposed to be, back in the glory days.

The other one is Thrace. She is angry. He is not quite certain why. He is having difficulty thinking. There is pain, and he is not very good with pain. The marine stomps out, leaving Thrace standing, looking down on me. He wonders how he went from interrogator to prisoner in so short a time. He was in her shoes not so long ago. Will she be as kind as he was?

This is Thrace, though. Of course not.

She says "I know you're awake."

He sits up, feels the drip of blood down his side. He says "I'm not a Cylon."

She snorts. "It's a little late for that."

"I'm not a Cylon." He takes a breath, coughs, takes another one. "But I have information."

"Information's good."

"I want a full medical exam by Doctor Cottle." She takes in his bleeding form, and nods slightly. "I'll think about it. Anything else?"

"I want a pen, and a pad of paper." Something occurs to him after a moment. "And when I'm done with that pad, I want more after that."

She laughs. "I can't see you pulling off any amazing escapes with only a pen and a few pieces of paper."

"Don't underestimate me," he says, and then the lie: "I'd have been out by now if I wanted to."

She laughs at that. "Right." She shrugs. "Now what's your informaion."

"Not until Cottle patches me up, thank you." And then the strain of forming complete sentences, of the parries and ripostes of conversations with Thrace, overwhelms him. He passes out again, and he doesn't even realize that when he falls forward, she catches his head.