CHARACTERS: Caprica Six and Erik Lehnsherr
LOCATION: Beyond basecamp (v 2.0).
WARNINGS: Murder and floppy dead humans.
SUMMARY: He had it coming.
NOTES: Takes place shortly after the last jump.

A layer of filth as black as soot obscures the pale, sickly face of the uniformed man, a month's worth of scraggle growing through it, muddy brown. Starved, in a way they hadn't mistreated the crazed individuals amongst the flock. The sun has sunk considerably, but there is enough light trapped in the sky to show his slouching gait as he approaches her. And she's a natural in the dark.

"You did this," he says. His voice is surprisingly steady. Good diction. Sharp intent. "You all did this, to me."

It's been some hours, since the jump. That's certainly what it was; Caprica saw it, perched high some several hours after helping run back and forth between camp to drag back supplies, patient and watchful until a pulse of power pulverised the jungle a mile out from the ship, and she had felt it. Electrifying her nerves, a visceral tug shivering through her body, almost like pleasure, and a memory of a clean female face whispering jump. She couldn't go back, after that. Not right away.

She raises up out of her crouch where she'd been investigating some flowers glowing a natural luminescence, regarding instead the stranger, a sort of delicate concern sharp in her features, like that of someone considering an insect with a wing torn away.

"Is that what you think?"

"She was taken from me," sounds ripped from him, sudden grief that doesn't touch her. "I'm gonna-- I'm gonna--" Momentum seems to fall away, and she can't quite see his eyes, in the darkness. But she does see the shift in his posture, the way he lurches forward, two steps like he's taking a stroll before a wild and unbalanced life captures him, long loping strides as he launches himself forward, a strangled cry ragged and wet in his throat, hands out.

She reacts-- skittish, turning to run, as if to lead him back to camp or maybe just to put distance between herself and the man in blind panic, but his rough hands find her shoulders, dragging her down into the dirt. His knee crashes against her ribs, his hands finding her throat. The sharp application of an elbow sees him reeling away, dark wet red blurring through filth, making his spluttering wetter. There is a slate dullness in her eye and a show of ivory tooth in her grimace as she gets to her feet, faster than he is getting to his, and approaching with a sudden and brisk efficiency. Her hands come down on either side of his head, and twist, like his vertebrae were made of hollow glass.

It's quiet, immediately after, saving for the clicking of insects, and the edge her breathing takes. The air is chill as the night deepens, raising up the fine hairs on her bare skin along her arms. Her hands are clean of blood, and she stares down at the unmoving body at her feet.