"What're you doing here, Mags?"

She shrugs off Helo's question, not willing to answer it just yet. "What do you think of her?"

"I'm a married man, Maggie."

"You're also not a funny one." She leans against the glass and watches, brow furrowed. "What do you think she wants?"

"I think she thinks Hera's something special, wanted to save her. Risked her own life to save her."

"Not much of a risk. Kill her then, and she'd have shown up on another resurrection ship two sectors away. Kill her now, out here alone in space…well, that's a different story."

"Maggie."

She waves off his warning, chewing on her lower lip. "She must want something. Or be here for a reason. Cylons don't do anything out of the kindness of their own central processing unit."

"Maybe you should ask her, Maggie."

She turns her head and looks at Helo, her eyes narrowing. "You're right, Agathon. Maybe I should."

"Frakking Marine duty, and I'm pulling it. Explain that to me," Maggie mutters under her breath as she glares at the metal bars separating her from her captive. "Everyone's gone frakking insane since the frakking maj…since frakking Lee Adama got your boyfriend off scot-frakking-free, and all the Marines are on frakking lockdown patrol so I end up babysitting a frakking Cylon."

"Your command of language is astounding. It's no wonder you assume the human race is the ultimate of God's creations. You're too simple to understand beyond your base…programming." She smiles, her lips curving over white teeth, as dangerous and sharp as her eyes. "It's also no wonder you were outstripped by your own machines."

"Our own creations, you mean." Maggie leans back against the wall, gun braced against her thigh. "You talk about God like he or she or whatever made you, but it was us. Our hands, our minds. Explain to me how we could create something so much smarter than us. You're a machine. Machines can only learn what you teach them."

"Machines can extrapolate based on data." She stands, the movement languid despite the ill-fitting clothes. "You give them the building blocks, and then they build."

"You build using faulty data, you arrive at a conclusion and you get your God. The difference between humans and you is that we learn when we're wrong. You just keep on believing because you don't make mistakes, right? You don't frak up. Oh, except that part where you think maybe you frakked up with the whole killing the human race thing. Whoops."

She laughs and Maggie's eyes narrow. "You're so human."

"Yeah, and frakking proud of it. You're a machine. Take you apart and you're scrap."

"Take you apart…" The blonde Cylon moves closer to the bars, her fingers stroking down the gray metal. "And you die."

It's lights out on half the ship, most everyone in their racks or in their bottles. Corridors are on emergency lighting, especially down here where there's no traffic. Maggie's still flying high off a recent training flight, a near miss with two other Raptors that started her heart racing and her blood pounding. She'd reamed both pilots after, cursing them up one side of the Raptor and down the other until they were knee deep in hoses and oil, hiding under their ships.

She'd snagged a bottle of ambrosia as she cleared the rec room, blowing past catcalls and warning notes and offers as she made her way into the bowels of Galactica, blood eventually slowing to the hard pulse of the ship's engine, thick and hot in her veins. She takes a pull off the bottle and licks away the drops, tasting the sweet hit of it on her lips, mixed with the dry sweat, air and oil that's always on her skin.

"I got it, Briggs. Admiral's orders. You're relieved. Have a night off."

"You're a pilot, Racetrack."

"Yeah, and tonight I'm a frakking Marine. Don't worry, I left my IQ at the door." She doesn't wait for his response, just shoves him out the hatch and seals it behind him, turning to the cell. "I'm trying to figure it out."

"Well then, I imagine we'll be here for quite some time." The blonde's eyes are closed, but Maggie's not surprised by the answer. "Humans are notoriously slow and very ill-equipped at being clever."

"You're a sex goddess, right? That's your talent? What they made you for? Seduce and infiltrate. Make the higher-ups fall in love with you and give you all their secrets." She uncaps the bottle again and takes another swig. "And yet the Admiral doesn't seem to worry about you turning his Marines to mush. And don't tell me they're not susceptible, because they've been on this frakking ship for a long time, and if you've seen half the female pilots, you've seen a decent portion of the male ones as well."

The Cylon sits up, the motion again as smooth as a waterfall Maggie saw once on Virgon, lush and liquid and constant movement. Maggie takes another hit and then runs the back of her hand over her lips before she continues. "So I'm thinking maybe your powers of persuasion aren't that great anymore. Guess that's what love does to you, huh? Takes away the one thing you're good at."

"And what good do you see escape doing me?" She walks to the bars and tilts her head, eyes bright with what Maggie would call amusement if she thought the frakking things could do anything more than mimic emotions. "Get out into Galactica and then what? It's not as though sympathy for Cylons runs high in the fleet these days."

"I don't know, lady. Baltar just got off. If we can forgive him, why not everybody else?" She takes another drink, closing her eyes and holding the liquor, letting it burn before swallowing it down. "What does it matter to you anyway? Get killed and you just come back again. Like a frakking bad dream."

"We're far enough from the Cylon fleet that I won't be able to resurrect."

"Yeah. Because I'm going to take your word for it." Maggie steps forward and leans into the bars, feeling the metal against her skin through her flight suit. "We used to think machines were infallible. Thought they'd never steer us wrong. And then one day an air filter stopped and people died. One day an engine gave out and people died. One day they rose up and people died." Maggie snarls the words, the sweet ambrosia scent of her breath juxtaposed with the venom in her voice. "Machines lie."

"So do people, Maggie."

Maggie's hand snakes out before she can think, fingers curling around the alabaster column of the Cylon's neck. "Yeah. And not just people die."

"Maggie. Maggie! Gods, Maggie, what the frak are you doing?" She feels hands pulling at her, jerking her back from the bars. She can hear voices fighting through the sludge of her blood and the sweet, sharp gasp of air that comes from within the cell.

"Let me go."

"You're frakking kidding if you think I'm letting you go." Helo's hands are big enough to wrap around Maggie's thin arms, holding tightly enough that she expects she'll have bruises the same purple color as the ones that will blossom on the Cylon's neck. "What the frak is wrong with you?"

"Let me go, Helo."

"Not on your frakking life." He forcibly turns her, shoving her toward the hatch, though they don't cover much distance with his grip still hard on her arms. She clenches her fists and feels the muscle flex under his hand, looking back at the blonde before Helo pushes her into the corridor. The Cylon's blue eyes are bright with the tears that come from oxygen deprivation, her mouth open and gasping.

"Pretty sight," Maggie mutters under her breath as Helo shoves her again, pushing her from the cell. "Don't you think, Helo?"

"What the frak are you talking about, Edmonson? Have you gone frakking insane?"

"Her. Gasping for breath. Fighting not to die." She smiles up at him. "Kinda pretty, don't you think?"

"I don't know what's frakking wrong with her, Admiral." Helo's voice is pitched low, but Maggie's long learned to hear the things she's not supposed to. It's why she finds herself in these situations, knowing too much and too damned impotent to do anything about it. Why she finds herself in the ready room frakking and fighting with Lee Adama when he's too piss drunk and pissed off to frak or fight Starbuck, and why she finds herself locking herself in small closets and screaming just to get it out.

Give her something to do, and she's fine. Give her this, and she goes a little mad.

"Send her on patrol."

"You want to put her in a bird?" Helo's shock is laughable, but Maggie fights the urge. Push it down, Maggie, girl, she warns herself. Otherwise she'll break another rule and frak Helo in her bird, strap him down and ride his cock until the last thing on his mind is his very own robot.

"Frak that," Tigh's voice is thick, though Maggie doesn't think it's the booze talking. "Give her a frakking medal if you ask me."

"No one did ask you, Sir." Helo's voice is tight and flat, and he turns his head to the Admiral. "Sir, she's clearly not herself, and I think letting her fly is the worst thing you can do for her."

Adama watches her through the glass and Maggie wonders if he knows she can hear every frakking word. She wonders if Adama was ever right here, or if he really punishes his son for Lee's sins alone. "What would you suggest then, Captain Agathon?"

"Get her some help. Send her to Doc Cottle. She's…we've all been under a lot of strain lately, Admiral."

"No. I don't think so. You think she's a danger, to herself if to no one else." Adama looks at her again, and Maggie knows then that he has stood right there, that he knows she hears it all. "Throw her in the brig."

Maggie laughs as they close the cell door, metal clanging against metal. She tumbles onto the rack, stretching out as far as the small bunk will let her. "Peace and quiet, three squares a day and no duty call. Sounds pretty sweet to me."

"Maggie, are you frakking nuts?" Helo's voice is concerned, and Maggie remembers a time when that used to matter to her. "What are you doing?"

"You're the one that said I'm not myself, Helo. Maybe I'm just figuring out who I am. Maybe my buddy here can help me." She turns her head, the rough gray blanket blurring the edge of her vision but doing nothing to the sharp angles and soft curves of the Cylon in the next cell. "She seems to know it all."

"I never claimed to know it all."

"You." Helo pushes off of Maggie's cell and moves over to the Cylon's, drawing his weapon and leveling it at her head. "You did this to her."

"She's not afraid to die, Helo. Or maybe she is." Maggie turns full on her side, watching the Cylon watch Helo's gun. It doesn't waver, and Maggie wonders why Helo can kill individual Cylons, but not the race. Maybe it's like people. He thinks there's got to be one good guy somewhere. "You afraid to die?"

"I'd rather not, if that's what you're asking." She turns her gaze to Maggie. "Are you going to let him kill me?"

"I'm locked in a cell." Maggie shrugs one shoulder. "How'm I supposed to stop him?"

"I'm fairly certain that you have your own powers of persuasion, Maggie."

Maggie falls back onto her back, grinning up at the metal ceiling. "Suppose I do at that." She turns her head again, watching the Cylon. "Why should I waste them on you?"

"Don't you have questions?"

Maggie nods. "I don't know that I believe you've got answers."

"You'll never know though, if he kills me."

"Maggie." Helo's voice wavers slightly, a note of pleading somewhere in there. She thinks for a moment about before the war, before Caprica, before radiation poisoning and babies. When Helo was in love with Sharon, but belonged to her.

"Go away, Helo."

"Mags."

She sits up and looks at him, her eyes trained as clearly as the sight of his gun. "I want you to go away." She sees the impact the words have on him, knows he remembers it all as clearly as she does, even if he tries to pretend he doesn't. "Now."

"Why did you join the fleet?"

"I ask the questions here," Maggie reminds her, sitting cross-legged on her rack, facing into the other cell. The blonde faces her, copying Maggie's posture effortlessly, like some warped mirror.

"So ask."

"Gaius Baltar."

"That's not technically a question." She smiles slightly, and Maggie follows the curve of it with her eyes. "Do you mean why Gaius Baltar? Or who is Gaius Baltar?"

"I know why. He was your job, right? Seduce and infiltrate. Only you fell in love, right? Subverted your programming for one man. Your mainframe must be so proud."

"We're more than machines now, Maggie."

"You're hardware, spare parts and recycled data."

"More than that. Emotion. Evolution."

"My grandparents worked in a toaster factory." Maggie mimics the Cylon's smile, tit for tat. "Built your predecessors from the ground up. Bolts and screws and metal plates, CPUs and LEDs. You're machines. Back in the day? The first Raptors they flew? Ugliest junk you ever saw. Half the enemies ran from the ugly, didn't matter what ammo they were packing. Worse than that? They were pieces of scrap. Barely held together by tape and glue and oil and spit. Three years later, same birds wrapped up in shiny, sleek packaging. Still a frakking piece of crap. Just prettier."

"You don't believe things can change, Maggie? Your grandparents worked in a factory. Did your parents? Did they stay the same? Or did they change?"

"My grandparents and parents both died. Did that the same." Maggie laughs and shakes her head, leaning against the bars. They're spaced widely enough that her face is perfectly framed through them, her dark hair falling on the other side of the metal. "My dad was a psychologist. His job was to talk to the fleet boys and make sure they weren't frakking crazy. Ask any questions you want, Cylon. I've been through it all before. I'll tell you exactly what you think you want to hear. It's kind of my specialty. Of course, normally I don't give enough of a frak to pay anyone the courtesy."

Maggie turns and swings her legs off the bed, getting up and walking the length of her cell. It's small, but more private than any place she's lived since she was ten, so she knows better than to complain. She can feel the Cylon's eyes on her, feel her watching as she just sits there, not moving, barely breathing. Maggie can almost hear the wheels and gears turning in her head, an image of her grandfather and a stack of old Cylon parts flashing through her head.

She keeps talking, blocking the image out. "And before you think you've made a point? Education isn't evolution. And knowledge and instinct and talent? They don't mean anything. All that matters is whose favorite you are. You were smart, to an extent, picking Baltar. But in the long run? He's gonna get you killed."

"They call me Caprica."

"Yeah. I know. But I'll bet no one who ever lived on Caprica would call you that." The cells are dark, as if day and night mean something here in these tiny rooms. Maggie closes her eyes against the bright light outside the window where the guard stands. It's always day on the other side of the door. No one comes in unless there's food in their hands, or unless it's Helo, acting out some sort of penance Maggie's not going to give him, so mostly it's her and the Cylon, like some frakked-up slumber party she never would have imagined when she was a kid.

"We become associated with things. Have names, not just numbers."

"Yeah, well, congratulations on being named after nuking our colonies. You must be proud." Maggie laughs, and the sound's gone bitter and slightly raw. "You probably are. Cylon equivalent of a hero."

"Isn't that how you become a hero, Maggie? Kill your enemies? Destroy them?"

"It's war." Maggie shrugs, her eyes still closed. "I can think of things I'd rather be remembered for."

"You take no pride in your kills? Don't have a log of every Cylon you shot down? Isn't that why you joined the fleet? Kill them all?"

"You asked me that before." Maggie turns her head and stills, surprised to find the blonde right next to her, her face just on the other side of the bars. "What makes you think I'll tell you?"

"You want to tell me."

"I do, do I?"

"You want to tell me everything, Maggie. Want to tell someone." Her hand settles on Maggie's hip, her arm bright against the dark bars. Her thumb strokes along Maggie's trousers, the movement slow and methodical. "About everything. Your parents. The fleet. Your life. About Helo. About Lee Adama. About Kara. About Kat. You want to talk to me, Maggie."

"Actually, I just want you to shut the frak up." She smiles and catches the Cylon by the wrist, bending her arm backward until she can feel the pressure of the bar against it, can feel it threaten to give. "That's the Cylon's real fatal flaw, you know. You just don't know how to shut up." She lets her go, watching as she moves away, moving away from the shaft of light, further into the darkness. "Sweet dreams."

Two days later, she wakes up and the Cylon is gone. Maggie sits up, aware of eyes on her, different than the ones she's used to. The Admiral is staring at her, watching as she scrubs her face with her hands and then rakes her fingers through her hair. She's covered in grit and dirty from nearly a week without a shower, without more than a regulation stool to go to the bathroom on and a sink that gives exactly half the water she needs for anything.

"Admiral."

"You've been talking to our other prisoner."

"I'm a prisoner now, Sir?" She closes her eyes hard then opens then, trying to clear her vision. She's tired of doing nothing, worn down. Maybe that's what they wanted. "I thought I was just spending a few days in the brig."

"Captain Agathon seems to think you're recovered enough not to try to kill people."

"She's not a person, Admiral. She's a Cylon." Maggie stands before him, almost at attention despite the relaxed slouch the Admiral has adopted. He reminds Maggie of a creature she once saw on Aerilon in the swamps during a training mission. It hadn't moved the entire four hours they'd camped near it, but then, right before they broke for their next waypoint, it had surged forward, opened its huge jaws and snapped Haywire's leg in two. Harmless until your guard was down.

"She's being interrogated, Lieutenant. I think it might be interesting to find out what she knows."

"About me, Sir?" She shakes her head, letting her hands fall to the middle of her back, spreading her legs into parade rest. "Ask her all you want, only one person's going to know if it's true or not. And I don't think anyone can really count on me telling."

"You ready to fly again, Lieutenant?"

"I was born ready, Admiral."

There's a party in the rec room in her honor, but it started without her, and Maggie's pretty frakking sure it'll finish without her too. She doesn't want to see people or hear their questions, doesn't want to put up with suspicion and doubt. She just wants to see her bird, touch its skin and feel it breathe beneath her hand. She knows every inch of it, every scar that's healed and every one that's still an open wound. She knows where the paint has bubbled from heat blasts and knows where the tread is worn on her landing gear from coming in hot and fast one time too many when she was young and stupid and didn't think it mattered.

"It's alive to you. Human."

She whirls around and looks for the sound of the voice. Cally's standing on the other side of the bay arguing with another knuckledragger about one of the Vipers, and there's no one else around. Maggie shakes her head and turns back to her bird, closing her eyes and resting her head against the metal, breathing it in.

"You see? It's alive to you."

She's there, real as life, her hand against Maggie's on the bird. Maggie can see a flash of red in the corner of her eye contrasted with the milky white of exposed skin. "What do you want?"

"How can it be alive, Maggie? How can it be human? Cut and bruised and bleeding when it is so clearly nothing but a machine?"

"It's different." Maggie's head stays against the metal, though a shiver runs through her as the Cylon's long fingers brush back her hair, trace over the nape of her neck. "With them, I think it's human. With Cylons, you think you're human."

"What is it, do you think?" Her hand stays at Maggie's neck, though it's joined by the warm gust of her breath. "What do you think makes you human?"

"Flesh."

"I have flesh."

Maggie feels the flesh pressed against her, warm and real. "Blood."

The Cylon laughs softly, teeth catching at Maggie's earlobe and nipping lightly. "I bleed."

"We laugh."

Her soft, husky laughter ghosts over Maggie's skin. "I laugh."

"We love." Maggie rolls her head, granting more access to her neck as the Cylon's lips find the skin, moving over it with slow determination, licking and tasting the column of Maggie's flesh.

The Cylon's hand slides down from the bird onto Maggie's, up her arm and then down her side, settling on her hip for a moment before moving up to cup Maggie's breast. Her hand is warm even through the flight suit and Maggie bites her lip, closing her eyes at the touch. "I love."

Maggie swallows hard and turns her head, looking straight into the bottomless blue of Caprica's eyes. "We want."

"Believe me, Maggie." Her mouth is hot and warm, her tongue wet as it slides along the seam of Maggie's lips. "I want."

"Maggie!"

Maggie steps back from the bird, breath caught in her chest as she whips around, completely alone in the second before Helo has her in his arms, his hug nearly suffocating her.

"Gods, Agathon!" She pushes at his shoulders, using the movement to make excuses for her lack of oxygen. "What the frak is the matter with you?"

He looks down at her with something like regret, or maybe fear. "Missed you, Maggie."

"Yeah, well, next time don't get me thrown in the frakking brig." She watches him for a moment, thinks about the heat swirling inside her. Silence the voice with a hard, quick frak from Helo, let his size and insistence that she come first and come often block out the feel of long warm fingers and even warmer breath on her skin. "No one to blame but yourself if you were missing having me around."

"Doesn't change the facts."

"Just came back from the brig, Karl. Not like I'm Starbuck coming back from the dead." She watches the hurt on his face and takes perverse pleasure in it. Most of the time she forgets and forgives, but right now everything feels real and raw and immediate, and so he gets no quarter, and frak him for asking for one. "Why aren't you at my party?"

"Why aren't you?"

"Headed there now. It's been a long week, Agathon. I need something hard and fast between my legs, and until I see Doc Cottle, they won't let me fly, so I guess I'm going to have to settle for a flyboy."

He hangs back as she leaves the flight deck, watching her go with eyes Maggie doesn't care to see. He made a choice. She made hers. She'll be Gods-damned if she's the only one that has to live with it.

There's someone frakking in the rack above hers, and as near as Maggie can tell, it's Anders and somebody a hell of a lot quieter than Kara, which is really all Maggie needs to know. She rolls on her side, listening to the give and take of the springs above, to the hard and heavy breathing. It's hypnotic in its way, measuring other people's pleasure in the squeak of metal and the gasp of breath. She lets it soothe her, the shades around her bunk drawn against light and sound and intrusion, questioning glances and prying eyes.

They keep moving and Maggie flips onto her back, sliding her hand down her stomach. Her tanks feel heavy on her skin, too thick and hot in the enclosed space. She slides her hand up, tugging them along with, exposing her stomach and breasts to what little hint of a breeze the recycled air can give her.

Her other hand slides down, pushing past the nearly shot band of elastic that holds up her briefs, fingers tangling in the hair before sliding further, parting flesh and finding wet. She presses up against her fingers, biting her lip and closing her eyes. She doesn't think, can't think, about what she's searching for, some memory that's not really a memory, just a ghost of something that never happened.

There.

She finds the moment in her mind, the touch of long fingers and warm breath. The halo of gold around a blurred smile, teeth and breath and touch. Maggie bites her lip harder, fighting to keep from making a sound, her fingers sliding further, thumb against her clit as she slides two fingers deep inside.

She rocks against her hand, thrusting into the downward stroke. Her other hand moves under the pushed up fabric of her tanks and finds her breasts, fingers curving around the nipple and pinching it, hard enough to sting and then to hurt before she lets it go with a huff of desperate, hungry breath.

"Gods," she breathes, neck arched and head tilted back as lips caress the skin between her breasts, mouth and tongue moving over her. Her fingers tighten around her breast again until it's nothing but the hard pulse of blood beneath her fingertips, barely felt as teeth graze the other nipple, and a mouth closes over it, sucking hard at the swollen tip.

"Gods." She opens her eyes and spies white gold hair, spun like glitter over her skin. Caprica pulls back and smiles widely before darting her tongue over Maggie's nipple, sending shivers of sensation through her, wracking her body with shudders she can't quite contain.

"Not so different, Maggie," Caprica whispers, her mouth moving to Maggie's other breast, guiding Maggie's hand away and teasing the other nipple. Her fingers close over the breast she just left, tight and hard against the wet and Maggie grits her teeth against the groan that lives and dies in her throat. She bites at Maggie's nipple then sucks on it, tongue laving the flesh. Maggie buries her hand in her golden hair, holding her against her breast, her body shifting so that Caprica settles against her, between her legs, her body heavy against Maggie's thrusting hand.

Maggie licks her lips, hips rocking up against the pressure, the weight. Caprica marks Maggie's skin, leaving bright red circles on her flesh, surrounded by teeth marks and wet from her tongue. She works her way down Maggie's stomach, tongue tracing paths Maggie can't follow until her breath gusts against Maggie's thighs, pale hands tugging her briefs out of the way.

"Gods." Maggie swallows hard, feet braced against the bed as Caprica pushes off her briefs and moves back between Maggie's legs. Maggie spreads her knees, feeling the brush of hair against her inner thighs in the instant before she feels breath against her clit, fingers and tongue on her skin, exploring the wet folds of flesh with slow deliberation.

Maggie fists her hands in the sheets, rough from the harsh detergent and soft from years of wear and use, tangling the fabric in her fingers as she thrusts up, swearing under her breath as Caprica traces her clit, weaving a circle around it before sliding over the hard nub, trapping it between her sharp teeth, holding it captive and at the mercy of her tongue.

A shuddering breath riots its way through Maggie's lungs and she fights the urge to moan, biting the inside of her cheek to hold the sound in. It's a losing battle as Caprica's fingers slide along wet flesh, tracing the curve of Maggie's opening, wading in the wetness that coats her skin before sliding deep, three fingers filling Maggie deep and fast.

"O…oh, frak."

Maggie's no virgin - nobody stayed one long in the Fleet - she's been frakked most any way anybody can manage or imagine, and she's no more a stranger to fingers and makeshift dildos than she is to the real thing, but girls feel different. Even if their fingers aren't as thick, as long, they're more demanding, more determined, nails scraping sensitive skin. Maggie arches off the bed again, trying to keep her eyes trained on Caprica's blue eyes, locked on Maggie as her mouth and fingers frak her, fill her, taste her.

"G-Gods," Maggie whimpers, muscles tightening. Her thighs close around Caprica, holding her there as Maggie thrusts against her, frakking herself on the stroking curve of Caprica's fingers as much as the Cylon is frakking her. Hot gusts of breath dance on Maggie's skin and she writhes, too many sensations bombarding her. It's like battle, when there are blasts from both sides and you're not sure if you in the sights of the Cylons or your own side or if you're somewhere in the crossfire.

Caprica releases Maggie's clit and Maggie moans, no chance of muffling the sound as it gasps out of her like a living thing. Caprica laughs, low and husky and hot and it courses over Maggie's skin like fire, the rush of wetness as Maggie comes doing nothing but stoking the flames.

Maggie opens her eyes, fingers wet and slick, breath tight and hot in her chest. The sound above her has stopped or moved on, fallen asleep or found other quarters. Her heart is pounding, staccato drum beats that feel out of rhythm with the pounding of her blood. She's slick and shaking, covered in sweat.

And alone.

Maggie blows past the guard, the look in her eye more than enough to stop him from saying a word, though she's pretty frakking sure he's calling it in before she even finishes walking by. Doesn't matter. She'll be gone long before anyone else can arrive.

The blonde is sitting on the edge of a rack, a smile building as she sees Maggie walk through the door. "Hello, Maggie."

"Get the frak out of my head."

"I'm in a cell, Maggie. How can I be in your head?"

"I know you. Things like you. Your kind.. You think you're so frakking clever, but all you are is the same question asked a million different ways." She leans in to the bars, lowering her voice. "I'll save you some time and answer it. I. Don't. Break."

"Why would I want you broken, Maggie?"

"Frak you." Maggie snarls over her shoulder as she turns to walk away.

"Isn't that the plan?"

Maggie stops and turns, feeling the wicked curve of a smile on her face, not surprised to find it matches the one the Cylon wears. "Plans are for battles. Plans and lists and protocols are for large-scale operations. When I get you? When I come for you? It's all instinct. All feeling."

"You've already come for me, haven't you, Maggie?"

"I'm going to snap your neck before you even know I'm there." Maggie suppresses the shudder that threatens, forces herself to hold the sharp blue gaze. "Cell or no cell, Cylon."

"Promise me one thing, Maggie? When you kill me, when you come for me? Say my name."

Maggie flies as fast as she can, dodging imaginary enemies in an effort to evade the ones in her head. She hears the other pilots chattering in the background, calling out warnings and pretending any of them can banter. They're all carbon copies, wanna-be Kats and Karas, Apollos and Flattops. Maggie blocks them out, lets them be white noise as she flies, intent on her mission.

She knows they're watching her. Helo can't look at her without frowning, sure that something's going on in her head that he needs to fix. He hasn't learned yet that there's nothing to fix. Maggie doesn't go back together, she just starts again with all the new bruises and breaks built in. She's like her bird that way. She doesn't need repairs, just patches to hold her together until, one day, she just won't fly anymore.

She's seen pictures of the universe on Gaeta's maps that he confiscated from Baltar, seen star clusters and black holes, galaxies and constellations, but out here it's just black and blue and white, distant blinking that isn't there the next time you look. It's peaceful and paranoid all at once, and when anyone asks - when anyone except a frakking Cylon asks - that's what Maggie tells them: Space suits me. We've got everything in common.

She kills her engines back to reserve and floats in space for a minute, closing her eyes and breathing in the pure oxygen that keeps her eyes too dry and her brain too awake. She wonders at the people who give this up for whatever reason, and wonders what she'd do if they took it from her. They will, she knows, if they know she's got a frakking Cylon in her head, though she's convinced herself that, for now, it's just fantasy. It's not real.

Maggie's been alone and lonely for too long, and all she needs is a quick, hot frak to get her head back in the game, to stop thinking about blonde hair between her thighs and against her lips. She needs a cock pinning her to the wall to keep from wondering if a Cylon tastes the same as any other girl, or if she'll taste like Maggie after a flight, lips slick with sweat and air and oil, burning at the back of her throat like exhaust.

"Racetrack, Gods-damn it!"

Maggie fires her engines on instinct, diving down without thinking. She dodges the Vipers, weaving in and out of their formation, laughing as they all curse her, the cacophony of their invectives ringing in her ears. She'll get called before the CAG, face down Helo's disappointment and worry, and then probably end up before Tigh or the Admiral, maybe both.

She burns fuel back to Galactica before they can call her in, landing soft and sweet. Who knows. Maybe they'll throw her in the brig.

"What the frak were you doing, Maggie?" Helo's voice is nothing but concern and worry, which is why he makes a lousy CAG, but no one's going to tell him that. Everyone knows he hates the position, even though he's the only one other than Apollo that manages the paperwork with any level of efficiency. "You were frakking floating in space."

"I was waiting at my assigned coordinates for the rest of the team to meet up, as instructed in briefing, Sir."

"You were sitting there, dead in space, Edmonson. If you hadn't picked up the radio signal, you'd be dead and you'd have taken a frak-load of Vipers with you."

"I'm uncertain, Sir, how if I'm sitting still, it's my fault they're not smart enough to get out of the way."

"Gods, Maggie." Helo shoves himself back from his desk and stands, towering over her. She looks up at him, not moving as he comes closer, in her face. "What the frak is wrong with you? What did that frakking Cylon do to you?"

"Could ask you the same question. Sir."

His voice a low growl that dances up Maggie's spine. "You're asking for trouble, Lieutenant."

She lifts her chin, her face defiant. The air between them is thick and Maggie hasn't felt this in a long time. Not since he left and didn't come back, not since Sharon - Athena. Not since Caprica. Not since all hell broke loose. "Then give it to me, Sir."

Helo growls, the sound deep and not quite human, and Maggie almost laughs at the thought, but then she's too busy wrapping her legs around him as he lifts her, backing her against the wall of his office. His mouth is hot and hungry and demanding and Maggie moans against it, sucking his tongue as deep as she wants his cock.

For all that Helo's careful with his weight and bulk in the claustrophobic atmosphere that Galactica takes on after a while, when they're like this, he uses it, pins her, demands with every inch of flesh and muscle. Maggie digs her nails into his broad shoulders, scraping the fabric of his uniform as he breaks the kiss, inhaling once sharply before his mouth is on her neck, breathing fire down her spine.

"Frak. Karl…" Her head falls back and she grinds against him, heels digging into his ass as she pulls herself hard into him, feeling the length of his cock against her through the layers of fabric she wants gone.

His hands shove her flight suit down, pressure forcing the zipper apart and down as well. She arches, breasts tight and nipples hard against her tanks. Helo groans and bends his head, his hands sliding down beneath her ass and shifting her upward, his mouth closing around one breast, hot and wet through the cotton of her tanks.

Maggie tangles her hands in his hair, scraping through the short strands and raking her nails against his flesh. He groans and gasps, petitioning the Gods on their behalf or maybe praying Sharon won't notice the marks Maggie leaves. She laughs and grinds down, leaning in to breathe in his ear.

"Make me feel it, Karl. Want to feel it for days."

He bites her then, sharp and deep on the side of her breast, catches flesh but leaving her nipple free. Maggie moans and tightens her fingers in his hair, jerking his head back and looking down at him.

"Don't play nice with me, Karl. Don't frakking insult me like that." She kisses him, biting his lips hard enough to draw blood, and she knows they'll go two rounds in the ring before he goes home to Sharon, enough to blame the bruises on something else other than Maggie's teeth and fingers and nails and cunt.

Helo slams her back hard, whipping her head back so she bounces off the bulkhead, the sound ringing in her ears.

"Oh, yeah. C'mon, Karl."

"Frakking insane, Maggie, baby." He kisses her hard, the blood from his lip hot on her tongue, painting her teeth as she lets his weight hold her suspended, working her hands between them to undo his jacket and tug the pristine blue away from him. She wants flesh she can rend and a cock she can ride, and he'll give it to her. She knows he will.

He owes her that.

His jacket falls and she tugs at his tanks, moaning in protest as he sets her down. Her knees threaten to give way, but force of will keeps her standing, keeps her moving. She shoves the fabric up, letting him pull them over his head, and her mouth is on him as soon as the skin is exposed. His nipples are as hard as hers, pebbled against her tongue, beneath her teeth. She bites and tugs and he groans above her, the sound muffled by the blood pounding in her head.

"It won't work, Maggie."

She moans at the sound, her nails raking down Karl's back. He arches into her, groaning her name, his broad hands sliding down her back in response.

Maggie feels hot breath in her ear, delicate fingers tracing patterns just above the waist of her briefs as Karl's hands push her tanks up. Blonde hair paints her shoulder and sharp teeth sink into the delicate flesh of her earlobe. "It won't work at all."

"Frak, Karl." Maggie pants against his chest, breath mixing with sweat and hair and flesh, her tongue tasting him as he strips her tanks and tosses them to the side. He finds her mouth again, tilting her head up to bite at her lips and then soothe them with his tongue, leaving her flushed and swollen as he steals her breath with a kiss.

Maggie works at the fastening of his trousers, shoving them down with his boxer-briefs until all she can feel is smooth, hard muscle broken up with raspy hair and the silvery line of the scar on his hip. She traces it, presses against it hard until she can feel him feel it, his cock responding, jerking against her stomach where she's pressed up against him.

"Maggie. Baby." He shifts her and lifts her, never breaking the kiss. She kicks off her trousers and then wraps her legs around him, settling against him as he slides her down, slides inside her. Her head falls back again, hitting the bulkhead harder than before, but she can't feel it beyond the first sensation, can't feel anything but the hard, deep, filling thrust of Karl's cock.

"Does he feel good, Maggie?" Breath feathers along the wet skin wrapped around Karl's cock, a tongue tracing the ridge of flesh surrounding him. The words echo along her skin, race and skip like Maggie's heart. "Does his cock feel as good inside you as my fingers? My tongue?"

"Gods." Maggie locks her ankles together, pulling Karl deeper. He groans, his hands leaving bruises on her ass as his fingers dig in. She fists a hand in his hair again, tugging hard enough to hurt, her other hand at the nape of his neck, nails leaving crescent marks in his skin, echoing the slow trace of the tongue against her, sweeping in a teasing arc as Karl groans again, burying his face in her neck, pinning her to the bulkhead so there's no space for anyone or anything, not even Maggie's frakked-up imagination.

Maggie moans, panting desperately as Karl bites her neck, sucking on her skin as her body constricts around him. He fraks her hard, using the sweat-slickness of her back to slide her along the metal, bolts scraping painfully, leaving scratches that break her skin and bleed, the copper scent filling the air as she comes.

"Frak," Karl whispers against her, still thrusting in the wake of her orgasm. His own spilled and spent before hers, but he rides hers out in slow, steady thrusts. Maggie is panting and breathless against him, slumped and boneless, caught between bulkhead and cock and unwilling to move. "Frak, Maggie baby."

"I'm not."

"What?" He kisses her softly now, as if there aren't marks and scrapes and bruises on her flesh, as if he didn't just frak her like some port whore. As if she didn't want it.

"A baby."

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

She closes her eyes and licks her lips, not caring enough to see the look on his face. She's not sure if it's better that way, that she doesn't want to see him hurt. Maybe that makes her still human. She's not sure if anything else does right now. "Well, I'm sure as frak not anything else to you." She pushes him away and out of her, sliding down him with the least amount of contact she can manage. "Might not want to forget that, Captain"

He makes a noise and Maggie opens her eyes, quick enough to see the hurt and the resolve. Maggie's sure as frak not making any friends these days. "You're dismissed, Lieutenant. And you're grounded for a week. Get your head in the game, Maggie."

"Yeah? Well, keep your head out of my cunt, Captain, and we should both be fine."

"Insubordination, Maggie?" Hot Dog leans against the bars, shaking his head slowly. "I mean, it had to be bad for Helo to throw you back in the brig. What, are you going for Starbuck's record? Can't leave us anything to remember her by?"

"I'm sure you won't be forgetting anything about Starbuck, Hot Dog, given that you jack off whispering her name ever night. What does she use to peg you in those dreams? Or does she actually have a dick of her own?"

"That's you, Mags, from what I hear tell."

"Yeah? Well, 's far as I know, the only command staff that likes to take it up the ass is Adama, so unless he's telling tales, you're just guessing, flyboy."

Maggie leans against the wall as he laughs, shaking his head. "Honestly, Maggie. We don't need another Kara. One was more than enough." His eyes darken, and Maggie can almost pretend it's concern. "We're worried about you, Maggie."

"Nothing to worry about." She smiles and pushes off the wall, settling on her bunk, back to Hot Dog, eyes on her. "I'm doing just fine."

He huffs an exasperated breath and leaves, muttering under his breath about frakking Raptor pilots, but Maggie doesn't care enough to listen any more. She just stares, taking in the smooth skin and the spun gold hair. Caprica tilts her head, shifting so that it's supported on her hand, elbow barely making a dent in the mattress.

"Hello again, Maggie."

"You're in my head."

"Am I?"

"You know you are." She leans closer to the bars, hands caught beneath her, supporting her. "You're in there and I want you out."

"Thought you didn't break, Maggie. The stories I hear the guards tell sound very much like there's something broken."

"Yeah, well, you're wrong. You're there, right? You can see it all for yourself, first hand. Pretty nice view from the inside of my head, isn't it? Hot guys in uniform. Shared showers. Must be a change from watching Baltar jack off to his science project."

"Me being there doesn't make you broken, Maggie? You don't think imagining a Cylon in your head means maybe there's something wrong?"

"Lady, we've all had Cylons in our heads since the second those bombs hit Caprica. You put 'em there. We just had to learn how to live with them." She shifts on the bed, stretches out, closes her eyes. "Guess I should be thankful I got you though."

"Oh?" She hears Caprica shift off the bed, move closer. She feels the air stir as she squats down beside Maggie on the other side of the bars. Maggie can smell something in the air, something perfumed and not real, something sweet and hot like sunny days and laughter, meadows of wildflowers. Maggie frowns and closes her eyes tighter and it's gone, replaced by engine oil and detergent and recycled air that tastes better than the real thing, tastes like something she can trust. "Why is that?"

"Well, frak. Kara got stuck with that creepy Leoben guy." Maggie smiles and opens her eyes, close enough to touch and almost real. "At least I got someone pretty to look at."

Caprica laughs and shakes her head, a genuine smile on face. "Thank you, Maggie."

"For what?"

"For that." She leans in, her breath gusting across Maggie's lips. Maggie licks her own instinctively, shifting on the bed so they're closer, so that it would be so easy. Caprica smiles more, eyes hooded. "For this."

She tastes like honey, sickly sweet with a bitter tang that lingers on Maggie's tongue. Maggie moans and pulls back, licking her lips again. Her voice is breathless, shaky, not her own. "F-frak you."

"Oh, Maggie." Caprica leans back, getting to her feet in another one of those smooth gestures, gliding like she's not real as she makes her way back to her rack. Her voice is as sweet as her breath, as her kiss, and just as bitter. "Would you please?"

Maggie hears them whispering beyond where they think she can hear. The Admiral's voice rumbles like thunder that she hasn't heard since the one time she made the mistake of setting foot on New Caprica. She spent the afternoon hauling supplies through six inches of mud, getting a load of jingoistic crap thrown at her until she'd shoved a few people facedown in the mud and told them if they were so keen on being self-sufficient, she'd take her supplies right back and haul them back to Galactica where they belonged.

He watches her, or them, Maggie supposes, given that his eyes stray to Caprica as often as they stay on Maggie. She remembers the way he'd talk to Sharon, sit outside the cell or in the morgue and talk to her. Maggie wonders if maybe Sharon wasn't in his head the way Caprica's gotten into hers.

Tigh is championing Maggie's cause, which makes Maggie want to laugh. She's the next best thing they've got to Starbuck at this point, and Tigh would have rather put a bullet in Starbuck's head than deal with her, and yet Maggie's his new frakking hero. She figures it's got something to do with the bruises that still ghost Caprica's neck, but maybe not. Maybe there's more she's not seeing.

She sees Helo though. Dark eyes and worried expression, like he's responsible for it all. Maybe he is, indirectly, since it's his bastard kid that brought her here. Maybe Maggie can lay all of this at his feet. It's worked for her so far, so she doesn't really see a reason to change. But by the same token, blaming someone else is like giving in, and Margaret Edmonson doesn't do that. Doesn't give in. Doesn't break. Just ask her.

"What do you think they're saying?" She tilts her head, her voice amused as Caprica looks up from wherever she's gone. Maggie's convinced she leaves from time to time, walking through people's minds like some sort of conscience without a conscience. Kill 'em all, Maggie's instructor used to say. If they get in your way when you're shooting, they're the enemy. Kill 'em all, and it'll sort itself out in the end. He was dragged feet first out of the Academy on Aerilon though, kicking and screaming all the way. The next time Maggie saw him, he wasn't in his eyes.

"Kill the Cylon." Caprica shrugs, and Maggie glances at her, marvels at the delicate structure, the angelic form the Cylons gave their killing machine. "Kill them all."

"Ah, you don't know Helo then." Maggie smirks, still looking at the blonde. "He's got a thing for Cylons."

"He seemed ready enough to shoot me. Has shot me a few times."

"Yeah, well, he's not always a nice guy. Besides, you've done one Cylon, maybe you've done them all, and he's got Sharon. No need for you." She shrugs and wonders what she looks like to Caprica, if she thinks things about Maggie's movements, if she thinks about Maggie at all. "Helo sees the big things. Pity it's the small ones picking us off like flies."

"I would argue that I'm harmless. No weapons to speak of and, if you're to be believed, the only weapons I have are my body and my voice and I'm not allowed to use either. I'm not allowed to see the one person you could argue I have any influence over, and as it stands, I suspect he has little desire to see me. I'm defenseless, Maggie." She spreads her hands and, even in the garb they've hidden her in, she's anything but.

"You have more strength than three of us put together and you don't frakking die." Maggie laughs and turns back to the three men outside the cells, leaning her head against the bars. "Sucks to be you."

"It does, to be honest." Her voice is soft and low, like a song Maggie doesn't quite remember. "To love someone and not have that returned. To need something and not quite be able to touch it. To not know if what you feel is real or just what you need to believe."

"Careful when you cry. You might rust." Maggie watches them as the Admiral turns his gaze to her and holds it. She smiles at him and raises her voice. "Hey, Admiral. You've got two Cylons on your ship at least. You ever think maybe they're frakking homing beacons to the rest of their race? You sure you want to keep me locked up in here for when they show up, knocking on our door wanting a fight?"

She hears the rumbling of discussion, sees Helo's eyes go dark. It's almost too easy, but not so easy that Maggie doesn't get a thrill out of doing it anyway. She casts a glance at Caprica and stands up as the hatch turns and she can hear the keys to the cell jingling in the distance, playing harmony to Adama's voice as he tells them to let her out.

Maggie moves into the rec room to a strange sudden kind of silence. She wants to smile, but she's been through this before, been on the other side of it, where you don't know if the person you're looking at is friend or foe. She goes up to the bar and pulls a bottle down, opening it and taking a swig before turning to face the assembled group. "Oh, come on. The only difference between me getting thrown in the brig for insubordination and everyone else who frakking commits it is that I'm not the Admiral's son or his gods-damned golden girl."

"Kara's dead," someone calls out from the back of the room. "Show a little frakking respect."

"Kara's dead and that makes her a priestess? Half of you hated her and the other half of you frakked her…and hated her. Let's not pretend she was anything other than what she was. She disobeyed orders and blew her bird out of the sky. At least my baby's still flying."

"No good without a pilot."

"Yeah?" Maggie takes a pull off the bottle. "What do you think I frakking am?" She deposits the bottle in the middle of the table and then frames it with her hands, curving her fingers around the edge. "We do our jobs and get no thanks for it. We're the scourge of the civilian fleet, the necessary evil saving their ass day after day. But the difference between us is that if they blow off steam, they're just having a fight. We blow off steam, we're thrown in the brig."

"You fought a superior officer, Mags," someone reminds her.

"No. I insulted one. And around here lately? That's not all that frakking hard to do." She shakes her head and picks up her bottle, turning toward the door. Helo stands there, that strangely uncomfortable stance that he has now with all the people who once were his friends and now are all his subordinates. "Don't worry, Sir. Not starting a riot. I was just on my way out the door."

Maggie shakes her head at the guard and offers him the bottle. "Don't worry. I come in peace."

"No offense, Lieutenant, but I bet you'd say that even if you didn't."

"True enough," Maggie allows, shaking the bottle just enough to catch his interest again. "But let's be honest here. I saw you watch me in there. Saw your face pressed to the window when I washed, when I took a piss. Saw you watch me do everything, and I think we all know that if your commanding officer or, Gods help you, the Admiral, knew about that little rights violation, the last thing you'd ever see is this bottle. So I think it's pretty clear I do come in peace." She pulls the bottle back a little, gets close, her breath just as intoxicating, laced with the same ambrosia sweet. "Maybe offer you a piece as well."

"Lieutenant. I'm on d-duty." He tries to shift away from her hand as it slides over him, though the telltale reaction of his eyes, rolling back with her touch, gives him away more than even the hard-on that springs to life under her hand. "I can't."

Maggie slides her hand the nightstick at his belt and wrenches it free, slamming the base of it into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. He sinks to his knees, mouth open, though she cuts off any sound he might make with another swift blow. He falls flat on his face and she uses her booted foot to turn his head. Won't do for him to drown in his own blood. "Pity. Guess I'll be finding different company for the night."

She drops the night stick beside him, listening to it roll over the grating until it comes to rest against his body. She grabs the keys from his belt - probably best for her that she didn't go for them first, might be harder to explain why she aimed for the eyes instead of the throat - and opens the hatch, leaving the lights dimmed to night-time dark.

"Hello, Maggie."

"Pretty sure you and I are going to be roommates for a long, long time now," Maggie informs her softly, her voice muffled slightly by the jingle of the keys. She turns one in the lock and opens the door, letting it swing wide. "Unless you run."

"Where would I go, Maggie?"

"I bet you could find somewhere, someone to take you in. Zarek's an easy mark. He's looking for a weapon."

"And if I don't run?" Caprica doesn't move from where she's leaning against the wall, her body clear in Maggie's mind despite the loose gray pants and tunic. "What then?"

"Like I said," Maggie steps into the cell and closes the door behind her. It swings silent on oiled hinges and doesn't make a sound as it hitches. "We're roommates."

"Cellmates." Caprica smiles and pushes off the wall though she doesn't move any further. "Hello, Maggie."

"I won't call you Caprica." Maggie steps forward to close the distance between them, her fingers skirting the hem of the tunic the blonde wears.

"Oh?" The blonde turns her head, lets her breath gust across Maggie's parted lips. "What will you call me then?"

Maggie licks her lips, the motion causing her tongue to slide across Caprica's as well. "Mine."

Caprica moans softly, mouth opening against Maggie's. Maggie moves closer, her hands skirting the blonde's hips, holding them still as she presses against her, pinning her to the wall. It's different than with Karl in ways that have nothing to do with softness, because she can feel the steel beneath Caprica's skin.

Maggie slides her hands up, under the tunic, pushing it up and over Caprica's head. She's more stunning like this, perfection distilled to raw form and function. Maggie can see her as a machine like this, every part fitted together for maximum efficiency and effect. Designed and engineered.

She traces her fingers along the curve of Caprica's breasts, outlining the heavy swell of flesh. She watches every reaction, from the tightening of her nipple to the raised flesh in response to Maggie's light touch. It's intoxicating, headier than the bottle Maggie half-emptied on her way to this moment.

"The fall of man," Maggie breathes, letting her fingers trace the muscles of Caprica's abdomen down to the loose tie of her pants. It's a short cord that only tightens the front enclosure, nothing that could be used as a noose. The fleet's only good about giving you enough rope to hang yourself if you're on their side.

Caprica shivers as Maggie undoes the tie and lets the slacks fall to the ground. Maggie steps back and takes her in. She doesn't see metal latticework and hinged joints, just smooth skin, doesn't smell oil, just the hot scent of woman. Caprica stands there, exposed and seemingly innocent, though Maggie trusts that as much as she trusts her claims of defenselessness. There's nothing but illusion here. The only difference is that now Maggie's willing. She's broken enough rules that believing in this doesn't seem like that much of a crime.

"They made you with this in mind," Maggie murmurs, her hands reaching out to trace the juncture of hip and thigh, the wet silk of hair shielding her. "Seduction. Arousal." She nods and sinks to her knees, breathing against the slight swell of flesh, her tongue tasting the wet. "Seems wrong to let it go to waste."

"Maggie." Caprica's voice is thick, hoarse with desire. She's sprawled against the wall, legs spread in invitation as Maggie looks up, her breath mingling with the powerful perfume of want. "Please."

"Sign of weakness," Maggie reminds her, or tells her for the first time. She's not sure anymore where it started, where she begins. "Never say please."

Caprica's breath catches as Maggie's tongue pushes past the swollen flesh, as her hand slides up Caprica's thigh and guides her leg over Maggie's shoulder. Maggie can feel the shudder, can feel everything as she presses her mouth to Caprica's skin, tastes everything and nothing, tastes infinity. "Maggie. Please."

Maggie stills for a moment and then moves again, tongue and teeth riding roughshod over sensitive flesh. Caprica moves against her, down onto her tongue, so Maggie knows she likes it, can tell from the faint sounds that reach her ears as she trails her fingers back from Caprica's wet cunt back, feeling her shiver as Maggie traces the tight muscle of her ass. Every muscle tenses and Maggie laughs, bringing her fingers back down and sliding them deep, curved and stroking the slick walls, the slightest bite of her nails against the skin.

Her tongue slides over Caprica's clit then moves off, tracing around it in a lazy spiral, growing tighter and tighter until she strokes across it again. Caprica's hand finds Maggie's hair, fisting tight in the long strands. Maggie moans as Caprica pulls, tugging hard and fast with every sweep of Maggie's tongue.

Maggie slides her fingers free and back again, pressing against the tight aperture once more. Caprica's thick whimper fills the cell and Maggie slides her fingers back, a third pushing inside, thrusting deep.

Maggie feels the muscles constrict around her, Caprica's body tensing hard. "God," Caprica breathes, her voice a strangled prayer as heat floods Maggie's fingers. She keeps them moving, pushing deeper still until Caprica gasps, falling back against the bulkhead, jerking roughly against Maggie's hot mouth.

Pulling back, Maggie watches as Caprica sinks down, muscles trembling as she kneels. She covers Maggie's mouth with her own and Maggie moans, capturing Caprica's tongue and sucking on it roughly. Caprica tugs at Maggie's tanks, pulling away long enough to jerk them over Maggie's head.

Their fingers tangle, stumble over one another's as they struggle with Maggie's bra, finally freeing it and pushing it off Maggie's arms. Caprica pushes Maggie back, guiding her to the cold, slick floor, her hands unfastening Maggie's trousers. She pushes them down, fingers grazing Maggie's thighs like a shock stick, forcing Maggie off the floor in a sharp arc.

"Maggie," Caprica moans, straddling Maggie's thigh as she crawls up her body, finding her mouth again, parting Maggie's lips with her tongue as she parts Maggie's flesh with her fingers, coating them in the thick heat of Maggie's arousal.

"Gods," Maggie hisses, thrusting up against Caprica's hand, against her body. She grinds down against Maggie, her skin wet and slick and Maggie can feel it all like a liquid fire, her own body drenched with sweat, hot with need. She tangles her fingers in Caprica's hair, holding her in their kiss. They bite at each other, and Maggie tastes blood, groaning at the hot copper rush against her tongue. "Gods."

"God." Caprica echoes, corrects, admonishes and fucks Maggie harder, fingers pushing deeper still. Maggie can only feel the pressure, can't tell how many are buried inside her. They push and stroke, slide and press and Maggie can barely breathe, breaking the kiss herself to gasp, suck what little air seems to be circulating around them into her lungs.

"C'mon," Maggie pants roughly. "Come on." She thrusts against Caprica's hand, desperate and wild, hips rocking and feet planted on the floor, groaning and gasping as Caprica presses against her, her thighs nearly crushing Maggie's, grinding down against her. They're both layered with sweat and sex, hair matted down with it, wisps tangled and flying away, sticking to wet skin and lips and tongue until everything is tangled, dark and light and human and Cylon and one and the other. Spent and breathless and glistening even in the dim light of the room, slumped against one another.

Caprica eases away from Maggie, sprawling on the floor next to her. She gasps as her body hits the cold metal, fighting to regulate her breathing. She turns her head to Maggie and her eyes are brilliant, blue and hot, as they lock on Maggie's gaze. "Broken, Maggie. Broken Maggie, all in little pieces." She reaches out, her finger wet and slick as it paints across Maggie's lower lip, tugging it down just enough to open Maggie's mouth. "That's how we like you, you know. Broken." She leans in and kisses her, lips warm and red with blood and fire. Maggie can taste them both. "And mine."

She was fourteen when it happened.

She doesn't remember the details, and she doesn't remember the aftermath. All she knows is the date - three days after her birthday and the day she got her first period - and the outline she memorized after it happened. Grandparents. Names. Jobs. Beliefs. Parents. Names. Jobs. Beliefs. Your name is Margaret Edmonson. You want to be a pilot. It's your only dream.

She broke once before is all they told her. Someone broke her is all she knows.

Maggie gets to her feet and tugs on her clothes, methodically, mechanically. The last makes her laugh, the sound not quite loud enough to stir the sleep that finally claimed Caprica, still stretched out like a sacrifice on Galactica's metal altar. Trousers and tanks, adjusting her dog tags so they hang properly, so the chain isn't choking across her throat. She pulls her hair back in a ponytail and secures it, moving to the door of the cell as she does.

It's easy, Maggie realizes as she swings it open, metal cool and warm all at once beneath her hand. This is the moment when it all comes down to it, when you put your money where your mouth is, fold or bet, show your hand and take the pot. Maggie's never put much stock in upping the ante, but she realizes as she opens the hatch that maybe she's never been all in.

No one touches Maggie without her permission. It's something people learn the hard way. Something her father and mother and grandparents learned in a wash of red and cold metal that Maggie's not allowed to quite remember. She smiles as she surveys the Marine, still out cold and cumbersome. Maggie's no weakling though, so he's easy enough to drag, easy enough to position just right so that the splatters of blood decorate his clothes instead of the dirty, dusty gray and black of hers.

She starts with the teeth and that sharp smile, shattering them in an easy blow. It wakes Caprica up and Maggie can almost hear the screaming, echoed and distant until the next blow, and then it all stops. The first time, it hadn't stopped, not with one strike, so Maggie did it again and again. It stopped eventually. It always does.