A Toaster-Lover’s Post-Script (SPOILERS)


So.

Earth is dead.

Dualla is dead. Snuffed by her own hand. Dispatched with the same cold-blooded efficiency that sent Cally, poor Cally, to her end last year.

Starbuck should be so lucky. She’s probably dead too. How does a poor girl cope with that? And what the hell is she now?

But on the bright side — or dusk, as it’s known in Battlestar Galactica — the Final Five are complete. The last Cylon was revealed as the late Ellen Tigh. Perhaps. Maybe. You think?

Huh.

Hm.

Well.

Uh.

OK.

OK.

I can deal with that. It wasn’t my guess (not even close), but such bewilderments are a BSG specialty. It plots itself into what we assume is an inexplicable dead end, then finesses its way through with a curious elegance. What begins as a massive mindfrak that has us convinced its weavers have lost the plot becomes, at season’s end, the only reasonable outcome. I’m ready for next Friday already, and the Friday after that, and the Friday after that. I want to watch this dance, one last time.

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