CAPRICA• SIX

    “There is also no way for you to truly know this is an act,” Loki argued, lacking     vitriol in his injured state, “but what does a madman gain from lying about     when he lost his mind? His words, whatever they may be, are still the words     of an irreparable man.”

    Mimicking Capricia’s posture, Loki let his eyes wander to the room’s bare     corners. “I do not mind the furnishings, or lack thereof. It’s nice to not be in a     cage. He never cleaned my blood off the bars. Didn’t even have his so-called     children do it. Said it’d be a shame, because it spilled so beautifully from my     mouth. The creature that attacked me… he must have sent it. Wasn’t satisfied     with how much blue and red he’d drawn from me already.”

    He smiled humorlessly, uncrossing his arms. “I won’t act up, and I will give the     company you want. I learned it’s better to appease right away, not put up a fight.”

He certainly had a point, and though she was still apprehensive at the thought of being deceived, Caprica was convinced enough from his words. True, she knew nothing of his strength or agility, but she could hold her own in combat, especially against someone who was injured. If he did turn on her, there was no reason he would choose to do it while still incapacitated. She could trust him for as least as long as it took for him to heal.

His tale of suffering did not shock her as much as it would anyone else–if anything, she felt something within her shift in favor of Loki. She recalled her own torture at the hands of mankind, though it was many lives ago. It was not something that could be forgotten easily, and she doubted he’d be free of the emotional pain any time soon.

     Loki gave a minute nod and stared at his hands, posture slumped. He lacked      a concrete answer after the destruction of Asgard. Even when it was still in      existence, the Aesir seemed to fall for his lies and stomped on any truth he      spoke. At one point, it was fair. It never felt fair after Thor’s ruined coronation.      Frigga had known he was Jotun from the start - she said nothing. Eir, the      healer who had tended to him since Odin’s final slaughter of the Jotnar knew.      She said nothing. How many times had she checked his temperature and      told Loki it was normal? Everyone who would’ve helped him was long gone.

     “No one trusts me, and likewise, I cannot trust them. I’m an enemy poisoning      their society, a remainder and byproduct of a long-bleeding war,” he said. His      right hand scratched at the skin of his left, as if he were trying to claw the      Jotun out of himself. “That war led to another, in which my mother died. When      all the bloodshed that made Asgard mighty came to light, almost all of our      healers were slain in more. What you can do to help me is greater than what      the survivors would.”

Caprica recognized clearly the pain in his voice; it was a pain she herself had felt in the past. Only a few times, and only for a few moments at a time, but still. The craving to be something she wasn’t, the stinging shame in who she was--though she’d mostly overcome it, it was impossible to forget. However, his mention of trust awakened another familiar feeling within her. How was she to know he wasn’t lying? Truthfully, it had been foolish of her to bring him in, especially given that she was isolated, low on resources, and altogether vulnerable.

The reaction from the intrepid telepath was instantaneous, everything about his demeanour almost shying away as he realised just how corny his utterance had been, albeit honest. “I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He stammered in that gentlemanly fashion of his, fumbling over his words as he tried his very best to apologise. There had been a time when he would surely have thrown every cheesy line he could in such a beautiful woman’s direction, charm dripping from every ignorant pore, but that wasn’t who Charles was… not anymore. 

“Please, my friend, I hope you won’t think any less of me. I’m sure you’re tired of people falling over themselves for you, judging you by your appearance before ever having a chance to discover your mind. It must be rather… maddening, to say the least.”

The man’s regret was instant and apparent, something Caprica felt was almost refreshing. She even--though it was only for a split second--felt the pricking of remorse at her heart. Was she feeling pity for the man? Not possible. Nostalgia, it had to be. The pathetic stuttering of a man with that delicate accent.

he’s looking right at me.

Instinctively, Caprica closes her lips. This kind of unwanted attention is usual, near routine for her. The men of this planet–of this species–are vulnerable to female wiles, and easily drawn in. The thought of more sycophantic fawning over her appearance made her all but forget what had caused her to smile in the first place.

    Loki could tell she was evading the truth with her     choice of words, but said nothing of it. He didn’t     want to pry, and what had really happened was     likely close to his suspicions anyway. In response     to her question, he shook his head.

    “Not exactly. There are others from my home living      as refugees here. I am not truthfully one of them,      however. I am of a different race, masquerading      as one of their own with my shapeshifting in order      to not scare them. My true appearance is ugly and      terrifying. Be thankful you at least look like everyone      else. I wish I did.”

Caprica looked at him, concern evident all over her features. Curiosity regarding his confession fixated her on his form. She’d known men to be mutable, but never any species able to ‘shapeshift’, as he claimed. She felt an incipient sympathy prick at her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She knew far too well the looks her kind got from others--though her outward appearance was the same, once they knew what she was, she was stared at with fear and disgust.

“Hmm.” 

Icy blue eyes stare at the woman, following up and down her figure. Athletic. Flexible. Scarred. Angry.

    “I have no reason to betray someone who saved my      life,” Loki answered with a shrug. “I am a refugee as      well; my home was destroyed and this was the planet      we managed to relocate to. It’s been going well enough      until now.”

    Loki looked around the nearly-bare room, wondering how     lonely the stranger must get in this rather depressing     excuse for a dwelling. “What happened to you? Is someone     after you?”

Caprica sighs at his inquiry, seeing his gaze circle the desolate space. Not that she’d always been in the lap of luxury, but her status usually allowed her dwellings to be more than a single, dark room. But that status apparently did not matter anymore.

“I was...” abandoned. “sent here on a mission. My home was...” stolen. “destroyed, as well. But I haven’t heard from my superiors in months, and my resources are drained.”

    Loki almost screamed as she ran the hot knife over     his wound. His Jotun side made it so he never did     well with heat, and because of this, he felt burns     tenfold. Tears of pain pricked his eyes, but a few     agonizing moments later, the gash was sealed and     no longer bleeding.

    “That hurt like the flames of Muspelheim, but thank you,”     he sighed, relieved he was no longer losing blood. “Who     are you? I don’t know many who readily pick up absolute     strangers from the street and take them to their home.”

Wrapping the wound in the cloth tightly as soon as she finished, Caprica moved to a small sink, dunking the blade in cold water. She listened to his gratitude with slight relief. She’d seen his agony from the heat of the blade, and it relieved her to know he did not hold her action of kindness against her.