#head six

In that moment, Head-Six decided that she’d congratulate herself on her iron will and diplomacy later with a much-deserved glass of ambrosia. And maybe fleet-wide embarrassment of Gaius. She’d more than earned it.

But for now, she had her immortal-partner-in-crime to contend with, so she just leveled him with a look that showed him precisely what she thought of his choice of glamour. “Please don’t take on his mannerisms. He’s irritating enough as is.”

“I don’t know – I quite like his whole smarmy-genius vibe.”

Her face contorted in annoyance edged with disgust just enough to not yet ruin her appetite – or what passed for appetite when one was an immortal, celestial entity.

“Why this place?” Head-Baltar asked, picking a salted peanut from a small, plastic bowl on the counter between his thumb and index finger to examine it. Under the dim lighting of their, thus far, 10-minutes-and-28-seconds-old bar, it looked every bit like an Aegean LeguLeguGumGum, harvested during a particularly riotous summer on Earth. There was a drought, and so the tribes of Thrace – believing such a ripe harvest to be a miracle – decided to decorate their earthenware with images of the sea, in hopes of attracting wetter conditions. Unexpectedly, it created an artistic renaissance of sorts, leading to the development of new shades of blue, green, of gold illuminated just so to catch the sparkle of the Sun over the water. 

Head-Six had to stifle every instinct to prevent her eyes from rolling right out of her head, but even she had to admit that it led to some truly beautiful, but strange artwork.

The cerulean waves embossed on the asymmetrical bowl came to life, perhaps a bit too much, and Head-Six had the suddenly disturbing query if nostalgia was the culprit behind the almost supernaturally brilliant shade. She then had an even more disturbing query about being able to feel nostalgia, at all.

“It really does taste authentic, doesn’t it?” Head-Baltar asked, taking visible delight in the crush of the legume. “Certainly better than the – what? Algae they’ve been eating for weeks now?”

“You know what I miss?” Head-Six asked, a rare softness peeking out from her normally steely gaze, which extended far further than the makeshift cozy bar of their pocket dimension.

“No, but I’m sure you’re dying to tell me,” Head-Baltar drawled, picking up another peanut, as though to study under the light, but Head-Six wasn’t fooled. Study, her freely-morphing immortal ass. He just wanted to eat them while looking superior.

She made a point to ignore the sass. “Dite’s Delicacies.” 

“The little bake shop on Kobol?” He was sitting on the counter by this point, leaning over slightly to pour himself a pint of Aerelonian Ale, which appeared on the draft only an instance prior.

“Mmhmm,” Head-Six replied, swirling the contents of her glass, as the beer – and the container itself – quickly but gradually transformed into a crystal goblet holding sweet silkberry wine. 

‘Silkberry’ was actually called ‘mulberry’ in every other city but Laconea when Kobol was at the height of its culinary Golden Age, but the merchant guilds at the time of its entirely-too-ceremonious name change felt slighted by the Aristoi class, so they insisted on the name change to prop up their own pomp. The Aristoi collectively raised an appraisive eyebrow in response, secretly impressed with their own bid for self-importance, and granted the change in title. But the real benefit was turning their noses at confused tourists who naively assumed that the deep red concoction tasted like fabric, luxuriating in the feeling of secretly calling them ‘provincial’ behind their backs, while donning placating smiles. And so, by Honorable Decree of the Aristoi, ‘silkberry’ was officially adopted as the cultural title, and the vintage was only allowed to be called ‘silkberry wine’ if it was produced in the Silkberry Forest of Hesperides.

They tried to take it a step further and claim that the luxurious fabric produced from its coveted leaves could only be called ‘silk’ if originating from trees in that very forest – and all pretenders must subsequently call their textile swill 'Feax-Bric' – but they were promptly overruled.

Now that was a story Head-Six was unlikely to tire of ‘examining.’ She stifled an eyeroll at the term as her immortal-partner-in-chaos poured what was left of the peanuts into his mouth. Hope your ‘study’ was productive, she all but murmured provocatively, but instead congratulated herself on her superior maturity in letting it go, allowing the atmosphere and her memory to pleasantly consume her.

Her lips quirked upward into the barest hint of a smile as her gauzy, red dress transformed into a heavy, cable sweater – the wool was a drab, olive green, coming apart just a bit at the hem. On her legs, she wore sturdy cargo pants, with pockets that hung loose from being overstuffed too many times, and striking combat boots to round the ensemble off. Her hair darkened into a soft honey blonde, though her other features remained oddly similar, with the exception of her height, which shrank to a generous 5’3”.

Head-Baltar raised an eyebrow at the transformation, but evidently refused to join her. Instead, he continued his quest to empty a second decorative peanut bowl that he’d just materialized while observing his surroundings shift with an air of only slight curiosity.

The pre-Fall Caprican sports pub now largely transformed into a cozy diner, the kind that frequented certain mountain regions of Kobol, close to their own destruction, though the bar itself remained intact.

A cheerful-looking brunette in her mid-20s opened the glass door of a small refrigerator built into a wall to pull out a delicate pastry consisting of honeyed filo dough and crushed pistachios before walking over to the pair of immortals at the far end of the bar.

“Here you go, Selene,” the woman dithered warmly. “I threw in a little something extra for the kids.” With a wink, the woman walked away, becoming gradually transparent until she fully decorporealized.

“Selene?” Head-Baltar asked, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “Kids?”

“Goddess of the Moon – pretty revered in Laconia.” Head-Six took a small bite of the pastry and closed her eyes, allowing the familiar flavors to coat her tongue before her attention was divided between this succulent morsel and the exact opposite feelings that her interlocutor’s chosen appearance evoked in her. “Her name’s Mona. Lovely soul of a woman, but grew up with an overbearing, controlling mother who taught her that her only worth comes from serving others.”

“Well, this is certainly a bit of a shock, considering you’ve gone quite out of your way in the past to convince me you don’t care about mortal affairs.”

A shrug. “Some of them were okay.” She rested her cheek upon her palm as her eyes grew increasingly distant with memory. “Her mind became so twisted about her self-worth that the only thing to make her ever feel valued was helping others. I tried to ask about her – lift her up. But her genuinely believing that she was helping some overworked single mother with a gaggle of brats was all that ever worked.”

“Maybe you should have suggested therapy,” he snarked, but the immediate sigh more than removed any bite. “You know this is why we can’t get too emotionally involved. For frak’s sake – I’ve heard this speech from you more times than I can count –”

“I know!” she interrupted.

“We can’t help them unless they help themselves,” he concluded, quoting a mantra that she’d given him on more than one occasion.

“Guess you should count yourself lucky your charge actually has a modicum of self-awareness,” she teased.

“She’d turn internal conflict and buried guilt into a sport to save face.” Head-Baltar scoffed, then leaned into stage-whisper. “I’m trying to teach her the value of showing vulnerability.”

Head-Six scoffed, but kept up Selene’s appearance, her cheeks coloring with a gentle blush she fully understood had more to do with longing than any involuntarily bodily response of this chosen form. She sighed, flinging a peanut from a now-third bowl into the air in frustration. “This current lot is the worst, with that sniveling narcissist leading the way. If I have to watch him simper at that airlock-obsessed zealot to spare his worthless hide one more time, I may actually be forced to find out if this form rejects food.”

“Oh, after spending so much time with your charge, now you’re a scientist, too?” Head-Baltar looked entirely too smug and comfortable saying that, considering who he insisted on continuing to resemble during their brief, but so-very-needed Head-Vacation. “Conducting a celestial-being experiment by using yourself as your subject?”

So, she threw a peanut at his face instead. It landed with a satisfying thwack, and Head-Six congratulated herself on her aim with a celebratory drink.

Head-Baltar was completely unphased, but the bowl of peanuts suddenly grew several sizes – too tall for her to reach. She shot him an exasperated glare. “Now which one of us is adopting their charge’s annoying eccentricities?"

“Since when can – what does she call herself now? Caprica Six?” Head-Six asked, smoothly morphing back into the aforementioned woman’s physical appearance. “Since when can she manipulate matter?”

“I didn’t mean that literally, and you know it.”

“This entire batch of mortals we’ve been tasked with overlooking this time,” she continued, unfazed. “I don’t understand the point.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, pacing the length of the bizarre bar-diner-combo. “We’ve already talked about the biggest offenders. But why stop there?”

Head-Baltar leaned back in his chair, looking a little too entertained for her liking, and she found herself quite irritated by the ‘this should be good’ of it all.

“Fine!” She paced, throwing her arms up in frustration. She knew, of course, that this behavior was veering on being human – mortal – but she couldn’t help herself. “Roslin. Madame President. Builds an entire cult of personality based on being a religious symbol – a frakking prophet – but rigs an election and treats the airlock like her own personal executioner chamber.”

Head-Baltar threw another peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth. “And here, I was under the impression that only my ‘human twin,’” he emphasized using the most obnoxious air quotes she’d ever seen – and she’d seen quite a lot, “made you feel that way.”

Riled up now, she continued, “oh, and while we’re at it – let’s just refer to her as Madam Hypocrite. Fake religious leader? Check. Secretly duplicitous. Full colors. Arrogant –”

Head-Baltar gave her that knowing look that she hated so much – the one with the smirk that touched just the edge of smug and the assurance that he was ‘all knowing.’

“What?” she asked, arching her brows in exasperation.

He raised both hands in mock-supplication. “Oh, nothing at all. Please keep going. Don’t stop on my account. Any more psychoanalyses you’re willing to impart?”

“Well,” she continued, drumming her nails along the now-marble counter of the bar as it shifted to resemble an upscale late-Athenian eatery. The kind that were wildly popular on Earth a few years before the Fall. That’s odd. She didn’t make that change … did she? Head-Six was, however, entirely too emotionally focused on the task of viciously dissecting their newest batch of mortal charges to really get into it. “There’s our ‘fearless leader’ – the Admiral himself. Madam Hypocrite’s sometimes- boyfriend, whenever they actually pull up enough courage to allow the other close. Not that it stops him from bleeding his feelings all over the frakking ship, anyway. Make up your mind, Bill.”

“Yeah, you tell him,” Head-Baltar snarked, though there was no bite in it – instead, she sensed almost a wistfulness to his tone.

“And what does ‘roll the hard six’ even mean!?”

“Humans are an odd bunch, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Lifetimes upon lifetimes conversing with and observing them, and their nature still eludes me.”

Head-Six sighed, taking a seat in one of the chairs, reaching for a peanut herself. “If anyone takes the frakking cake for not making sense, it has to be Kara. She loves Lee – has since the moment she laid eyes on him – but the second a chance at real love becomes possible, she does everything to push him away – to the point of marrying another mortal immediately after they finally had the good sense to frak and scream their feelings. Then back again, and around we go. Like being happy would kill her. She’s climbed inside a frakking Cylon raider and flew it back to Galactica, but letting someone get inside? Apparently horrifying,” she deadpanned, taking a shot of Metaxa, a late-Earth spirit especially favored by the locals for its curious botanical mix, known for its comparatively high alcohol content. “What a hot mess.”

“At least she’s hot,” Head-Baltar dryly supplied, raising his own shot before downing it unceremoniously. He stilled for a quarter of a second, eyes closed with a peculiar vulnerability that she’d never seen in him.

“Are you –?”

“What I am is painfully curious about what you think of the other half of this delightfully volatile coupling.”

She narrowed her eyes. There was something odd happening to her celestial partner-in-crime – wistful almost. Something tugged at her, tickling at her memory. She’d seen him like this before, briefly – after the annihilation of Earth, before she made a big show of expressing relief that their celestial duties finally ended, and he pulled himself together again. He raised his eyes, meeting hers pointedly as he swirled a tumbler now containing the same spirit. “Well?”

“You mean the Nepotism Boy Scout?” she smiled, hoping to tease the morose expression away from her interlocutor.

“The very same.”

“Okay, well,” Head-Six replied, now motivated almost entirely by cheering her interlocutor up, becoming profoundly disturbed with his … what was it? Sad countenance? “He’s wishy-washy. Can’t seem to make up his mind – pick a side. Does he prefer humans? Cylons? He claims to hate your charge, but he defends him. Instituted a coup with the President, while also defying his father. Is there anyone with whom he actually agrees?”

Head-Baltar hummed, smiling into his drink before taking a slow sniff to savor the aroma, a leisurely sip to contemplate the taste.

“Oh, what fools these mortals be,” Head-Six announced impishly, toasting her celestial drinking partner with what was now an ‘after hours’ – due to the presence of rum and Kobol’s strict laws concerning pre-work imbibing – strawberry milkshake.

“Planning to sneak that little bit in again?” At least she managed to pull that haunted look from his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Head-Six was the vision of innocence, eyes impossibly wide as she sipped from her curly straw.

“I’m sure your favorite ‘bout of inspiration’ won’t make it into another playwright’s work?”

She just continued to smile, radiating cheek. “Hey, they always ask about the secrets of the universe. Might as well give them one of the most obvious.”

“Do you remember what you said about Mona when you were assigned to guide her?” Head-Baltar asked softly.

Head-Six deflated slightly, stunned by the unusual sensation of her eyes pricking with tears. How mortal. She sat back down onto the stool, but as soon as her body touched it, the wood neatly flowed outward into plush, red leather – slightly worn in the center, with a bright purple patch covering a hole at its base. A well-worn quilt was placed about her shoulders – largely uniform, but also lovingly tended by splotches of leather color, covering the areas that were so well-loved. She drew her knees up, hugging a stuffed lamb to her chest, perhaps never having felt quite so vulnerable in her existence. Or perhaps she has. The centuries tended to blend together after a while, with only vivid moments of joy standing out. It was almost as though it was strung together with yarn, and with love desperately holding together the areas of strain.

She stroked the plush fur. “Spineless cow.” The gentle affection in her tone belied the harsh words. “Useless coward who refuses to see anything of value in herself, so why should I?”

“You miss her.” Once again, Head-Baltar stated the obvious. She refused to acknowledge the point, though the increasingly blurry toy in her hands conceded it on her behalf.

“I think I began to –  even before she was gone,” Head-Six admitted. “I knew what was coming – what always comes.”

“It has all happened before, and it will all happen –”

“But does it have to?” Head-Six shot up, her eyes blazing. “Why should it? Why couldn’t it be different this time?”

“It’s not really up to us,” Head-Baltar patiently reminded her. 

“Yes, yes,” she tapped on the bar’s surface, her patience thinning while her mind worked. “The Plan. Go –”

“You know it doesn’t like that name.”

Head-Six rolled her eyes, but made sure to do it quickly so her interlocutor would notice the full extent of her annoyance when she presented him with a look – one she learned from the mortal Cylon tasked to him. Perhaps she was good for something after all.

He only responded with a smile. “Silly me.” Now there were at least six different bowls of peanuts surrounding him. He reached for another one. “Silly, silly me.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly, not quite able to bring herself to let go of the toy. The one Mona gave her for her ‘youngest daughter’ – a gift for being a ‘good girl when her tonsils were taken out.’ It was the first time that a human had been able to connect with her on such a profound level. Until then, she’d done nothing but mock and manipulate the woman, proud of herself for turning the gentle baker into putty in her hands. But this gift – this show of selfless affection, delivered precisely to bring joy to Selene’s life and family and nothing more – this unraveled something inside her completely.

She still recalled that moment vividly, wishing she could find a way to watch it, from every angle – examine it from within every mind at the diner who was there to witness it. 

When the stuffed lamb was placed into her arms, she froze. Only for a few seconds, but it was enough – enough for Mona to notice, for her eyes to fill with a sparkle that Head-Six had never seen prior to that. She graced her with a kind smile, proud and secretive. Took her hand, and said that she shouldn’t be so surprised – Selene’s happiness was her happiness. And if giving ‘little Laura’ a plushie friend was enough to see that stunned joy on her face, then she’d grab a few thousand more.

This was, perhaps, the day that Head-Six learned what it meant to be in love.

Only one year before the annihilation of Kobol.

“Afraid to get your heart broken again?” Head-Baltar asked gently.

She nodded, then shook her head. “Yes. No. Sort of.”

His lips quirked upward, though the teasing was gentle. “Want to vague that up for me a little more?”

“It’s not the same affection I felt for her,” she admitted, the tone of her voice almost reverent, “for Mona.” The lights grew dimmer, more intimate. “But I still care much more than I ever thought I would – more than I’m prepared to lose.”

“You like them.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, though it wasn’t a question.

She nodded, clearing her throat as she curled tighter around the lamb. “He’s not actually all that bad, you know.”

“Captain Nepotism?” He favored her with a teasing smirk, but somehow it seemed less smug to her now. Knowing, yes, but somehow it made her feel seen.

“Defending Gaius was actually really brave – and took a lot of integrity. So was standing up to his father and Laura for his beliefs. He has an impressive amount of loyalty to his convictions – an idealist.”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” her interlocutor concurred, a teasing lilt to his voice.

A reluctant laugh escaped with her next breath. “Kara’s still a mess, of course, but I can see why she inspires so much devotion in others. She’s so wounded – her mother really did a number on her, didn’t she?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“She hates herself, but she still tries. She’ll deny it to the ends of this plane of existence, but she loves so fiercely. Reckless, impulsive – at times downright mean – but she’d sacrifice any shred of happiness to see her loved ones safe.” Head-Six took another sip of her alcoholic milkshake, letting the flavors coat her tongue. “She has an almost supernatural capacity to care.”

“And she’s still hot,” Head-Baltar replied wryly, though she could see the mischief in his eyes. “That point remains.”

Her giggle was luminous in the exquisite space as she took in the delicate decor. “Is this your doing?”

He tipped his head in response.

“What does this mean?” She gestured broadly, her eyes catching the elegant columns, reaching a vaulted ceiling. There were all manner of plants suspended – a veritable hanging garden. She hadn’t seen the like since that dinner party you dragged me to on Earth. “Feeling nostalgic yourself?”

“Something like that,” he muttered, his eyes focused on a distant candelabra – its flames dancing seemingly in tune with the faint cello Head-Six heard whispering in the distance. He seemed to shake himself out of it in the next instant, however, cocking his head with an irreverent expression she knew he wore when hiding something. “But you’re not quite done yet. What about the other four?”

She frowned, sensing something amiss, but felt it best to humor him while she seeks to uncover whatever was troubling him. She took another sip of her spiked milkshake, the curly straw feeling somehow both silly and whimsical at once. Mona would have loved these, she realized as a dagger wrenched itself into her heart. “Maybe I’ve been too harsh on Madam Hypocrite. Laura,” she corrected herself. “Ruthless and, uh, ‘morally creative’ as she is, everything – absolutely everything – she does is for the benefit of the fleet. Her chosen family. It isn’t power, really. I mean – sure, there’s hubris at times –”

Head-Baltar shrugged. “Wouldn’t exactly be very interesting if she didn’t have any flaws. Or, you know, real.”

“Yeah,” Head-Six concurred softly. “And Bill, gruff as he is, wears his heart on his sleeve. He might be the softest Battlestar admiral I’ve seen yet, but I think that’s why he’s perfect for it. They need his compassion, even if he tries to hide it behind a stern demeanor.”

“Caprica Six is a fountain of compassion,” Head-Baltar said softly. “She’s practically ruled by empathy, and all she really wants is to do good.”

Her exhale came out in broken wisps. “He isn’t so bad, either – Gaius. I mean, yes, the narcissism and cowardice holds, but,” Head-Six clicked her tongue, contemplating her phrasing. “He does, too – want to do good, that is. He wants redemption so badly. He wants to be a better person. And I think, in some strange way, she helps him. And he helps her.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How emotional they are. How they collide and harm, but also heal each other.”

By now, the look in his eyes was unmistakable, and she realized how much it reflected her own. “What is this place?” Her voice was a whisper, because some part of her knew – it meant as much to him as every embrace and kiss and whispered secret of Mona’s meant to her.

“The only place that ever really mattered,” he said. In the distance, laughter echoed as human shapes playfully fought over the last meatball on a gilded bowl at a large table. Head-Six had the most peculiar sensation –it was as though the space became a living piece of him. A sudden comfort filled her – happiness, belonging, the warm embrace of unconditional love. A family. Her heart ached desperately despite it.

“How do you deal with it?” she asked, aching for reprieve.

Head-Baltar laughed. “Poorly?” His own eyes glazed over with an unexpected softness then, staring into the distance that seemed to blink into blurry existence for a span of moments, before disappearing again. “It bloody hurts – all the time. But it’s the only way I can feel.”

“Maybe this time will be different,” she offered, clinging to the hope that wrenched her heart awake.

He raised an eyebrow, studying her dubiously. “I’ve never known you to be the optimist – why the change of mind?”

“Mathematics. Law of averages. Repeat a complex system long enough, something’s bound to change,” she said pragmatically, even though every molecule within her screamed at the lie. She knew nothing about this was as impersonal and austere as that. It was far more human, terrifying as it was to admit. It was a desperate hope.

“And you’re quite certain of those odds?” Head-Baltar asked, playfulness returning to his countenance, much to her relief. “After all, it has all happened before –”