Caprica holds out her arms. "You act like you think I'm made of switches and relays. Look: veins, not wires. We're the same." Ellen takes over, shocking him to silence: "Do you see we're the same?" Do you see, Caprica's saying, that we are the same? Do you see, Ellen's saying, that we're both collaborators, future suicides, dangers to the Fleet by virtue of what you are? Can you repent for my senseless murder by admitting that you're on the side of the Devil worse than I ever was? He begs her to tell him. "Tell you what?" To tell him how she lives with what she's done. How she copes, as a secret snake in the garden, as a killer and a contributor to the destruction of mankind, as a conspirator with darkness: now that he is one, how did she cope, then and now?
It's Ellen who steps closer. "Saul, are you asking for absolution? Forgiveness? I can give you that." But if it were Caprica, calling him Saul, after all this time, with love. And it is, don't forget this is a projection: two scenes at once on a single screen. She knows what he did, she knows who Ellen was, she knows he comes down here at least once a day looking for something. It wouldn't be the first time a prisoner of war intuited this need from a soldier. It's the first thing I, for example, would offer, because it makes the most sense. And especially for a Six, who lives for this shit. Please, tell her she can give you absolution. Anything! Especially if it sounds vaguely religious! Because it is her nature to give, even when it's fucked up from our angle, she gives and gives. Ask and it shall be given unto you, and Six will give until her dying breath. It's so hard trying to read their human faces, across the salt: to delineate what they need most. But nobody wants the embarrassment of absolution, and she's a fool to offer it. She always fucks this part up.
When Saul tells the Marines to stand down and step outside, she's still Ellen. But when he turns back, it's Caprica, and she's still begging to help. Imagine the eyes of something infinitely hard and infinitely loving, that could forgive you anything. Something brilliant as diamond, seeing all your angles at once, and wanting most to give you succor anyway. Like music, across the water, directed without regard to your perspective or imperfection. That was created to be loved, and offers that love in return. Imagine how sick that song would sound, if you knew you were just like her, filthy, composed of lesser grace: "Just tell me what the trouble is," she begs, but he's disappointed, nearly weeping, because she's fooled him again, turned back from Ellen to the enemy. "You have nothing to offer me. We're not the same." He stalks off, crippled with betrayal, going insane, resisting the call of that pain, and the glory of every question answered.