A/N: Thank you all for your kind words/reviews. I'm glad you enjoy reading this fic as much as I love writing it. I really meant to reply to all of you but I'm just a nitwit when it comes to these things. Know that I had kind words back to each of you, they just got lost in translation.

Chapter 4

Laughter erupted in the CIC, turning heads and placing puzzled expressions on everyone present.

"Please, Commander," Cain said, covering her mouth with her free hand, "that's preposterous."

"Admiral," his tone sounded serious, slightly diffusing Cain's nervous laughter, "the President, the Vice-President, a number of my officers, and myself have all seen this woman before, months ago. The only explanation currently available is that she is a Cylon."

Cain's hand dropped, grasping the center console tightly. The dried and caked blood eliciting horrible sounds when they resisted against her nails.

"She has been placed in the cell with the other Cylon, demanding to see you, and refusing to answer any questions that she's been asked."

It was then that everything seemed to slow down. Voices and movements became distorted in her view, once crisp lines becoming blurred as people went about their business, everything normal to them. And as she watched the empty DRADIS above her, eyes staring unblinkingly, the vivid colors morphed into flares of light. The central air hummed its steady tune, snapping out sharp pulses of air, brushing harshly against the hairs on her neck.

Everything felt surreal, impossible. Everything stopped.

Cain began unconsciously to count her breaths. One breath, two. Three breaths, four.

Her heart seemed to slow, its pace frighteningly sluggish. Somehow, through a force or training unknown to her, she felt calm, composed, in command. She could at least take some comfort in that.

"She does not deny that she is a Cylon," Adama supplied.

Cain felt a slight jolt, much like a punch to the gut. Was she breathing? Could she see anything? Was she still standing?

"Sir?" Adama's accusing tone was no longer there, replaced only with anxiety.

Cain cleared her head with a slight shake, visibly pulling herself together as she straightened her back.

"I will be over shortly. Pegasus out."

They were wasting fuel.

Cain sat quietly in her chair, hands rubbing delicate patterns into each other, thinking of how she was wasting fuel by traveling to Galactica so often. She was using up precious resources, ones that were not always easily obtained, and all for her own precious needs. It was selfish, inconsiderate, and unprofessional but, most of all, entirely needed.

Except the whole situation was absurd. She imagined herself waking up at any moment now, finding herself still in the CIC, or even back in bed. She was not flying aboard a Raptor, worrying her hands like an anxious ensign.

She pulled out her knife, fishing it out from the confines of her uniform. She played with it, folding and unfolding the blade as her eyes graced over its familiar curves, its well loved angles. She wondered when was the last time she had sharpened it as she ran her finger over the edge. It felt dull, worn, almost fragile. What was a knife without its edge?

She pressed the tip of it into the palm of her hand, grunting softly when it made an indent into her skin. She withdrew the blade, inspecting her hand for any sign of injury. No blood, no cut, no wound. Nothing.

For a quick moment she questioned if she was alive.

She snapped the blade closed and quickly placed it back in her pocket. They had landed on Galactica's deck, the jolt quickly becoming familiar to her after so many months of a stationary existence.

When the pilot called the all-secure, she stood up, smoothing over the wrinkles in her uniform with a slightly quavering hand. Had it just been this morning that it had been buttoned up with gentle fingers? She suddenly stopped and clenched her hands into fists.

She held them tighter and tighter together, nails biting deep, but no matter how hard she tried her palms kept their resistance, their rebellion, their betrayal.

The side of the Raptor opened and Cain got off, took a cleansing breath, and walked calmly toward the waiting Commander and President. She decided that Galactica smelled like oil and the horrible fumes the Vipers gave off and she longed for the cleanliness of her own hangar.

She looked in on the cell, forcing her eyes to focus past the wire mesh and onto the objects held within it. She saw the Cylon in the back, sitting on the bed with a smug look on her face, and she had a strong desire to march into that cell and pound it out of the Cylon. Getting smugged at was not something she was accustomed to.

Gina, however, was standing with an incredible degree of patience in the middle of the cell, hands held behind her back. Cain wondered how Gina could deal with what must be a huge degree of injustice. She still couldn't believe that Adama and company were telling the truth. She was certain that there was a reasonable explanation for everything that had transpired, both now and in the past. There just had to be.

The door to the cell opened and Cain saw her Marines move in quickly in front of her. Even if she didn't believe the accusation, they didn't seem to be taking any chances. As Cain followed she saw them form a threatening circle around Gina, rifles pointed unwaveringly at her chest. It sickened her to see this happening before her eyes, and an undeniable urge to command the Marines to stand down, or even to step in front of them to form some sort of protective barrier around Gina, almost overwhelmed her. However, she knew that such urges had to be controlled, at least for the moment.

She crossed her arms, coming to a stop right before Gina, looking into unreadable eyes. Cain felt like smiling.

"I assume you know why you have been placed in here by Commander Adama," she said, her voice giving away her discomfort.

When Gina nodded her head, Cain grew puzzled, almost worried. There was none of the vehement denial that she had anticipated, no outraged shouting, no incessant pleading for her to make things right again. Instead there was quiet resignation.

She clenched her arms tightly. "He accuses you of being a Cylon."

"Yes, I know."

A moment of silence was held while Cain let out a shaky breath. She felt her insides trembling.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

For the first time, Gina looked away, preferring instead the cold comfort of the floor. "I promised myself that," she began, her voice breaking slightly, "that I wouldn't-"

Her hands came up to clutch at her upper arms, as if she was trying to hold herself together, to keep from falling apart at the seams. "That I wouldn't lie to you," she finally managed to squeak out.

Cain felt her chest tighten, her lungs straining against her ribs. Everything felt suddenly heavy, the air surrounding her like thick molasses.

"Then don't," she heard herself snarl, all kindness and humor having left her voice.

Gina looked up and visibly paled. They stared at each other for a moment, oblivious to the others around them, and in that moment Cain felt her hope leave.

"I'm a Cylon."

The sound of metal hitting skin reverberated through the cell, ringing loudly in Cain's ears. Slightly startled, it took her a few seconds to understand what had happened. She glanced between the Marine to her right, his rifle, and the large wound now seen on the Cylon's face, blood trickling slowly down its cheek. It was bright red.

She held up her arm, lazily pointing her index finger toward the ceiling, stalling any further motion the Marine might make. He turned his head slightly, seeing her out of the corner of his eye, and nodded.

Cain stood there for a minute, looking directly into the Cylon's eyes, seeing a new creature for the first time. She then found herself focusing on the physical sensations assailing her. She had to consciously will her heart to beat, force her lungs to fill with air, and command her legs to keep her upright. But with every passing moment it became harder and harder to do.

Her breath caught in her throat, unable to get around the lump forming there, and for a few crucial seconds she was unaware of her actions. She saw herself flick her finger and felt the wince inside when the Marine struck the Cylon again. This time he took a good step towards it before bringing the butt of his rifle against its bloodied cheek.

Cain saw the Cylon stumble back, clutching its right cheek, a muffled cry issued from its mouth. She felt nothing.

In the background, the other Cylon started to get up only to be pushed back down roughly by one of the Marines. Its face look curiously concerned. Cain was unaware things could feel, let alone show, concern, particularly for another thing.

The Cylon before her straightened up, lowering its hand to show another cut forming beautifully next to the first. Hurt and defiance shined brightly in its eyes.

"You know what?" It began, forcing a smile upon its lips. "That's okay, Helena. That's okay."

Cain said nothing in return. Her face felt like it had turned into stone.

"Look," it began again, "I really wanted to talk to you. About," it paused, taking a deep, shaky breath in, "about what's really, I mean-"

The Cylon fidgeted, its obvious anxiety bleeding through into its movements.

"I just wanted to talk to you," it started again, its voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't think you'd want everyone around to hear it."

Cain continued to stare. Words were meaningless.

The Cylon grew exasperated, its hand moving to cup its face, only to find the still fresh cut. Cain could see resolve and determination solidifying on its face, eyes becoming resolute on its purpose. It unnerved her.

"Fine," it spoke again, arms hanging tightly to is side, hands bunched into fists. Its words smelled like poison. "If you won't listen to me then speak to Kendra."

Cain shouldn't have been this surprised, or this hurt, yet everything hit her again like a jab to the stomach.

"Lt. Shaw?" she heard herself squeak out. A part of her was sick inside.

"She knows just about everything," the Cylon replied, "and she might be able to explain things better than me. I have a feeling you'll be more apt to listen to her than myself." It paused for a minute, fists curiously unclenching. "If you could only get over yourself for a few minutes you might actually hear the meaning behind the words."

The Cylon closed its eyes and sighed. When it opened its eyes, Cain saw compassion, understanding, and acceptance burning inside like a bright flame. Or, at least that's what she would have seen if those eyes were real, were human.

And then Cain had had enough. Seeing these fake emotions on a face she once held dearly was more than enough to turn her stomach and she'd had enough of the lies and half-truths filing neatly into her ears. Without another word, without another glance, she turned calmly on her heel and strode purposefully out of the cell, Marines following.

She didn't have any time to breathe, to compile herself as she found Adama and Roslin waiting for her. She clenched her hands into tight fists of annoyance when Roslin spoke up.

"The Cylon called you by your first name," Roslin said, her voice tainted with unsaid accusations.

Cain placed her hands on her hips and regarded the President, and the Commander behind her, with as much professionalism as she could muster.

"Yes, it did."

Roslin motioned towards the cell with her head, eyes never wavering. "Did you have a personal relationship with her?"

"If I did then it was of no concern to you."

"It is of concern to me," Roslin countered. "It is a liability to have the commanding military officer of my fleet be involved with a Cylon."

"I am not involved with a Cylon," Cain growled, her nails digging into her hips, "on a professional or personal level."

"That did not-"

"Madam President," Adama spoke up, stepping out slightly from behind the President and into her line of sight. "I'll have you recall that I allowed Lt. Agathon to return to active duty without any trial. I believe Admiral Cain should be treated with the same courtesy."

If Cain hadn't been so grateful for a reprieve from the hissing match the President and she were about to enter, she would have been horrified at her apparent need to be defended by a subordinate officer.

Roslin looked at Adama, quickly redirecting her ire to the unflinching man. An agreement seemed to pass between them and Cain had a feeling that the two were trying to present a united front against her, an alliance of some sort. At least Roslin seemed to be.

Roslin shook her head and turned back to Cain. "Very well."

With this Cain started to feel the weight of her emotions bear down on her. Her mind went back to the Cylon standing behind a wall of bullet-proof glass and mesh wire. Then, without hesitation, it went to Shaw. Her stomach flipped again. She needed to double-time it back to Pegasus and arrest the lieutenant for questioning.

Then there was also her anger at the President's demands wearing quickly away at what little patience and sanity she had left.

"Excuse me, Madam President, but I have matters to attend to back on Pegasus," Cain spat,.

Not caring for the words still spilling from Roslin's lips, she motioned to her Marines, turned quickly, and left the room.

Battlestars all looked the same inside: grey, hollow, empty, and uninviting. They all had the same familiar layout too, as long as one knew the general plan the individual personality quirks of each ship became simple to ignore.

Cain easily walked down the corridor, head held high while avoiding all eye contact with Galactica's crew. Their stares, their simple nods of recognition, grated against her nerves.

It was a strange sensation to have her head feel so empty, so void of any thoughts, she decided. Even her shoulders, her chest, seemed light, free from worry or emotion. Instead, all of her anger, disgust, and sadness merged in her stomach, forming a tight ball that moved sickeningly up and down with each step she took. She could almost imagine that ball growing, getting bigger and bigger the more hate she threw at it, slowly working its way up her body and into her throat.

Cain's eyes widened slightly in panic as she stopped dead in her tracks. She took stock of her surroundings, seeing all of the wide and curious faces, and just as quickly resumed her pace. It was faster than before, carrying more purpose, and she rounded the nearest corner. Straight ahead was a hatch, much busier than the rest, with steam emanating from the closing doorway as people went in and out. She walked quickly towards the washroom, Marines trailing obediently in her wake. She opened the hatch, ignoring all questioning looks, and found to her great relief the much-scorned first sink open.

Cain walked calmly over to it, placed her hands on either side, and became violently ill, staining the porcelain with her failings.

She could feel the stares of dozens of enlisted personnel and officers alike and she cursed her impatience. If she had only found a toilet stall she would have had at least the illusion of privacy instead of this open acknowledgment of her sickness. And so she buried her face even more into the sink, squinting her eyes tightly, as if that was the root of her salvation. Her hands curled against the edges, nails finding no purchase on the smooth sides.

As the second knot made its way up and out of her body, Cain dimly heard shouts, which were then followed by groans and a flurry of movement. In the back of her mind she recognized the shouting voice as the one that belonged to the leader of her security detail, the infallible Marine sergeant that had gotten her aspirin just a day ago. She opened her eyes and, without moving her head, glanced around the washroom.

Her Marines were moving everyone out, shepherding them like stray cattle, unconcerned that some of them only wore a thin towel. Most didn't resist, Cain saw, while the few that did found themselves balking at the prospect of going up against a group of Marines in full combat gear. Within a few seconds, the hatch closed with a snap and she was alone.

Some time passed before her stomach settled down, resorting now to only dry heaves to torment her. Only when they stopped did she let go of her iron grip on the sink and turned on the tap. The water washed everything down the drain, echoing loudly in the empty room, but like all things worth forgetting, Cain knew the stain would always be there.

She looked up, finally seeing herself in the mirror. She saw the sweat collecting at her temples, the threat of tears framing her eyes, and the hint of red coloring her cheeks. She took a deep breath, noticing also the hollow stare, the hunched back, and the trembling lips.

What she saw before her was a broken woman, one that couldn't possibly be Admiral Cain.

No, this woman in the mirror was a disgrace, a pretender, a fraud. She was weak, flawed, imperfect and unafraid to let everyone know of her faults. She let her emotions guide her, knew of nothing else, and was a liability to not only the safety of her crew but the success of any and all operations in the war against the Cylons. This was unacceptable and this woman had to be dealt with quickly, sternly, and without remorse. Can had to stop this woman before any mistakes were made. And she had to do it now.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass screamed throughout the room, startling Cain from her brooding. She blinked her eyes, focusing back on the object in front of her. The mirror had been broken. The shards lay scattered across the sink and floor while the round indent on the mirror itself was weeping its sorry condolences at its own inability to do its job.

A pain, quickly growing in its intensity, drew Cain's attention to her right hand. She brought it up to eye-level and groaned at the devastation she beheld. Pieces of glass stuck to her hand, usually after leaving behind a thin line of parted skin and oozing blood. Others were embedded deep into her flesh, sometimes underneath it, and gave her the allusion of a hand covered in boils.

It was only then, after seeing her wrecked hand, that the pain exploded and the throbbing began.

With her left hand she covered her face, forcefully pushing the air out of her lungs and into her palm. Mashing her teeth together, she closed her eyes and focused on the pain, embracing it wholeheartedly. And when the pain become too light, when it started to subside and push itself into the back of her mind, she made a fist, delighting in the way the glass moved deeper into her skin, tearing her open.

At least now she knew she was alive.

Cain took another deep breath in, dropped the hand covering her face, and forced herself to look at the damage. She knew she should see a doctor but this would then require her to stay on Galactica for much longer than she wanted to at the moment. She wanted to get off this floating tin can and back onto her own ship, onto familiar territory, and take care of unfinished business, as it were, concerning Shaw.

Her stomach knotted again and she forced herself to stay calm. One thing at a time, she told herself, one thing at a time, and getting sick again would help no one. She had taken her two steps back and now the only logical choice was to take one forward.

With deliberate care, she started to pick out the pieces of glass most readily available in her fist. None of the pieces were more than a couple inches in length and few were embedded that deep into her palm upon further investigation. The blood too was not as much as she would have thought as small pools of it formed by each cut. Some of it flowed slowly down her hand, tickling her wrist lightly, and came dangerously close to the cuff of her uniform. When she saw this, she pulled up her sleeve, turned the tap back on, and carefully placed her aching hand under the water.

It stung at first but as the water turned warm it soothed her. She rubbed her hand gently, smoothing over the open sores and wincing to herself when a forgotten shard of glass made itself known. The blood swirled swiftly down the drain and, when all was said and done, left no evidence but she would always know it had been there.

As she searched around for something to wrap her wounds with, Cain heard someone clearing their throat from behind her. She whipped around, turning her whole body to face the person who so rudely intruded upon her make-shift sanctuary. The victim stood at the entrance to the showers, holding the knot to his white towel close to his body, and looked evenly at her. His gaze traveled first to her collar, then up to her face, and, almost immediately afterward, to the hand held gingerly to her chest. His face, once calm and professional, seemingly unfazed by the situation he was in, grew soft.

"Sir, what happened to your hand?" he asked.

Cain fought the urge to snap at him. "I had a," she paused, struggling for words. The moment hung between them before she internally shrugged it off and used her body to motion towards the mirror.

He smiled shyly. "Ah, I understand now, sir."

Not wanting to show how unsettled she felt at being seen in such a vulnerable state, Cain leveled her voice before speaking again. "Do you have anything that I can wrap this up in?"

"Aren't you going to see the doctor, sir?"

Cain shook her head. "No, I don't have the time right now. I just need to wrap it up and be out of here."

He then started, without preamble, to a set of clothes bunched neatly into a duffel bag. It sat on a bench to her right and she followed his every move with scrutinizing eyes. She watched as he searched around in the bag for a few moments, one hand still latched tightly to his towel, before he showed her a roll of boxing tape.

"Sir," he said, walking slowly towards her, "if you'd like, you can take this to wrap your hand. It's not perfect but it should do the trip."

Cain thought for a minute before quietly accepting the outstretched roll. Hanging onto the fraying end, she let it drop, and then looked curiously at her hand.

"Is there a first aid kit available?" she asked.

He tilted his head slightly. "For the gauze, sir?"

"Yes."

"I believe there's some around here," he said before moving off around the center aisle of sinks, holding his towel as he walked. "Just a minute, sir."

Cain listened to his retreating footsteps. Hanging onto one end of the tape, she took another look at her hand. The bleeding had slowed but blood continued to leak lightly around the edges. The pain was still there, creating a rhythm that worked in tandem with her heart, building a wall of comfort around her. She centered her attention on it, using it to ignore the emotions still running rampant in her stomach, and waited calmly for him to return.

It didn't take long before he did. The sound of his footsteps slowly grew louder and she lifted her head just as he was coming back around the center aisle. He was clutching something in his hand.

"Here you go, sir," he said when he came to a stop before her, giving Cain a handful of gauze pads.

She took the gauze from him without comment. Still holding onto one end of the tape in her left hand, she placed the gauze on her hand, feeling his attention absorb her every move. She attempted to bandaged her hand up on her own but she found it to be a futile effort as the gauze kept sliding off whenever she tried to wrap the tape around it. She had planned to use this opportunity to reassert her control, her dominance, but found it had only backfired, making her feel two ranks junior to the toweled man.

"Here, sir, let me help," he said, taking the roll of tape from her hand. But before she granted his request he had already started. With her left hand still holding the gauze, he took from her the end of the tape and with gentle, calloused fingers held her right hand. He carefully began winding the tape around her wrist, moving steadily up her palm and over the gauze, until he finally bunched her fingers together. He immobilized them with the tough cloth, finishing the make-shift cast by folding the end inside of itself.

It took only a few minutes but to Cain they seemed to tick slowly by. With every circle of his fingers around her hand she felt something inside of her crack. She recalled the woman in the mirror staring back at her and how, as each second passed, she felt more and more like that shattered figure. She needed to somehow regain control, put the situation, no matter how strange, back into perspective. She needed to fix her wounds, hike up her sleeves, and move on.

Cain studied her newly wrapped hand and tested the movement of her fingers by slowly stretching them out. It hurt, which was to be expected, but the tape didn't completely hinder her and her thumb was somewhat mobile. She would be able to hold a pen and take quick notes if needed.

She dropped the hand and looked carefully at the young man. His smile, although seen faintly around the corners of his mouth, was mostly replaced by a cool professionalism that she had found sorely missing on Galactica. It was refreshing.

"Thank you for your help," Cain began before trailing off. "I'm sorry, I never got your name."

"Lt. Agathon, sir, but I normally go by Helo."

Cain nodded as she rolled up her sleeve. "Well, Helo, again, thank you," she said, the genuine appreciation that came out confusing her.

"Of course, sir."

She glanced back towards the broken mirror and frowned, the evidence of her breakdown taunting her. It would not do to let this one stay there for long. "Tell your commander I owe him a mirror."

"Yes, sir."

She turned her head back around. "And I will have it for him within a few hours."

"Yes, sir," he said, the faint smile fading under her orders. "I will tell him shortly, sir, once I get dressed."

Cain smiled thinly at that, seeing as if for the first time that Helo still wore only his towel, hanging loosely from his waist. She waited a moment longer, trying to gain that sorely missed control, and turned quietly, precisely, on her heel, making for the hatch. Once outside, she motioned to her Marines, completely unperturbed by the stares of the displaced crew, some of which were more than angry. She continued with a determined air to the hanger deck and waiting Raptor.

Cain stepped gracefully through the hatch and into the brig. It was of a good size, containing ten cells with each having its own bed and wash area. There was also a guard's station to the left of the entrance that could hold three Marines comfortably. She had been in here once and then as part of the tour when she was first assigned to Pegasus. She dimly recalled there being another brig-like area, the so-called "white room" named for its many bright lights and one dividing glass wall, but that was used more for interrogations and the other, more unsavory acts of having prisoners aboard during wartime. She hoped never to use that room if only for the desire to have all Cylons dead before they even got to the hatch.

Shaw was in the second cell, standing at attention, her eyes focused only on the cell's bars.

Cain had called ahead from the Raptor to her XO and told him to place the lieutenant under arrest immediately. He had started to ask questions before wisely concluding from the tone of the admiral's voice alone that she would not, in any way, explain herself this time. It appeared that he had quickly carried out her orders. She made a mental note to say something positive to him about it.

The ride over had been, to her complete surprise, productive. Cain had used the time to list not only the questions she had for Shaw once she arrived on Pegasus but also all the tasks she had left unfinished in her rush to confront her new...problem. Each item was placed calmly on her mental notepad, all emotion shoved back into the dark corners of her mind. All emotions except for one. Cain kept her anger simmering slowly on the surface, basking in the warmth it gave off.

Over the years her anger had served her well and she continually used it as her sole motivator. Without her anger, she would never have gotten this far, would never have survived past her childhood. Without her anger she was only average and the average never survived. She needed to tap back into it, to wear it proudly on her sleeve, and by the time the Raptor landed, Cain had already gotten the sowing needle threaded.

As she walked over to the cell, she curiously noted that Shaw wore no obvious sign of surprise at her sudden imprisonment. In fact, to Cain she looked like she had expected this all along. Taking a few quick moments to evaluate the lieutenant, Cain ordered Shaw to rest her position, more out of habit than anything else.

"I believe you know why you are in here," Cain began once Shaw stood at rest and folded her arms. She tried somewhat successfully to hide her wrapped hand uncomfortably behind her elbow.

Shaw nodded.

Inexplicably, that irritated Cain. "Gina Inviere was revealed to be a Cylon early this morning and is now in Galactica's holding cell," Cain said, the Cylon's name sounding oddly foreign on her lips. "When I went to speak with her, no, with it, it said I should speak with you, Lieutenant. That you would know everything I needed to."

Shaw's eyes wavered quickly between her commanding officer and the floor before nodding again.

Cain could feel the temper she had roughly subdued on the flight back to Pegasus flare back to life, flooding her veins with hot anger. Her fists clenched and the dull pain from her right hand only fueled the fire.

"Start explaining, Lieutenant," Cain growled, struggling to keep her voice level, "now."

Shaw looked at her, searching suddenly cold and hollow eyes, before beginning.

"Sir, you asked me during the assault on the comm relay to go to airlock control and keep the Cylons from venting us out."

Cain nodded tensely at Shaw's questioning look, slightly surprised at Shaw's willingness to jump right into the thick of things so quickly.

"I got halfway there when I found Gina running in the opposite direction. I told her to proceed directly to CIC but she refused to go. She was...panicking, sir. She said that she had to go to a certain terminal and fix something. I tried to steer her away but she was very adamant about it. It was then that the Cylons starting to pore in. I pushed her into a corner and we waited them out. I glanced around to see if they were gone and it was then that I saw a clone of Gina."

"You saw it?!" Cain shouted and everyone jumped in surprise.

Shaw's mouth tightened into a hard, straight line. "Yes, sir, I saw her, and when I did I pulled out my pistol and pointed it at Gina. She knew why I was doing it and she begged me not to shoot. She wanted to explain herself to me. She claimed that she was on our side. I can't place my finger on why I believed her, I just did."

Cain watched Shaw shrug with interest. There was something strange shadowing Shaw's face, something that softened her features and warmed the cell around her. To Cain it was unnerving. She believed very little in intuition and whenever her peers had claimed that she had a "knack" for command, she brushed it off with excuses of ability and well-honed skills. Now to hear that one of her officers had made a potentially race-ending decision based on intuition alone puzzled her.

"So, I led her to the network terminal she requested," Shaw continued, "and watched her input a few codes, ones that I had never seen before. Then, everything came back on. I could hear the weapons grid firing. She did it, sir, all by herself."

With her broken hand, Cain cupped her chin. "You called me then, right after the grid came back online."

"Yes, sir, I did. I wanted verification."

Cain barely heard Shaw's response, so focused was she on recalling that day's events. "I then congratulated you but you said..."

"I said it wasn't me, it was Gina, sir," Shaw said, finishing where Cain had trailed off.

The admiral dropped her hand and looked off to her right. She thought for a moment, letting the silence of the brig seep into her skin. But the thoughts swirling around in her head moved to fast for her to catch, so instead she stood there, trying to get a handle on the situation. She didn't think she ever could.

"Why did you ever think you could trust her?" Cain questioned, half to herself.

"Because we did before," Shaw continued, "and when she explained everything, it made sense. Something about her changed. She sounded sincere in her motives and I believed what she said."

"Her motives?" Cain asked, perking back up.

"Yes, sir."

"Care to elaborate on that, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

In hindsight, Cain was sure she would view this incident as just another example of her inadequacies as an admiral, another instance of her failure to instill disciple and morals into her crew. But right now it only served to shock her into silence.

For long moments the hum of a working battlestar sounded in the dim distance until Cain finally found her voice. "No?" she asked incredulously.

"No, sir, I can't elaborate on that. If you want to know what Gina's motives were, you really should talk to her. She would be able to explain herself better than I could."

Although it troubled her greatly, Cain realized that in the overall scheme of things Shaw's insubordination meant very little. It was in the past, its harm already done, and Cain's only option now was to enforce some sort of damage control and try to salvage this horrible position she had been thrust into. She clenched her good hand into a fist and tried to clear her mind with a nip to her tongue.

But there was one more thing that needed explaining.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cain asked, her voice betraying her uncertainty.

Shaw looked at her as if that was the only question worth answering. "Because I knew it would have broken you."

"Excuse me?" Cain asked, confusion tainting her voice as it regained its sharp edge.

Shaw straightened her back and tilted her chin up, a look of self-righteousness overtaking her. "It would have broken you, sir, knowing Gina was a Cylon. You were so happy with her, even if you tried to hide it. I knew it, hell, we all did, and I didn't want to be the person who took it away from you."

Shaw's shoulders lowered slightly and when she spoke next, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know everything, sir, but I know that you can trust her. I've been watching her since the attack and she hasn't done anything wrong. Actually, sir, she's done more than I ever expected. And she....sir?"

The admiral picked up on the inflection Shaw made on the last word and cocked her eyebrow. "Yes?"

"She loves you."

Cain's first instinct was to wave off the statement, dismissing it without another moment's hesitation. Then the weight of what had just happened, the betrayal and the hurt, and as the two stared at each through the bars and with each passing moment, Cain could feel it all coming back to her in a wave of unwelcome emotion. Her face contorted, her eyes narrowing, and she leveled Shaw with a stare that could have torn ships apart. She delighted in the flinched it produced on the lieutenant's face.

The admiral straightened her back and relaxed her shoulders. "Lieutenant Kendra Shaw, I charge you with colluding with the enemy and high treason. You are hereby stripped of rank and all privileges of citizenship. You will stay here as a prisoner on my ship until I have figured out what to do with you."

She paused and a smile spread lazily across her lips.

"I want you to rot in here," Cain growled, her voice dangerously low, "and I'm going to enjoy every minute."

She then immediately turned around towards the hatch, not waiting for Shaw's reaction. She was halfway out when she turned to the man at her right.

"I want this hatch locked and no one in the room except for Shaw. All personnel who want to enter needs personal permission from me, even those delivering food."

Cain began for the hatch when another thought, this one more tantalizing than the rest, and turned her head back to the Marine.

"Oh," she remarked casually, her smile spreading across her face like a disease, "and take her uniform, she won't be needing it anymore."

She waited for the Marine to acknowledge her orders before leaving. Once outside her Marine escorts fell into perfect step behind her as she prowled her ship's hallways, enjoying the way her crew parted quietly before her with pleasure.