Carrion Dawn

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Mal nodded wordlessly. Forgiven or not, the kitchen still stank of vomit, blood, and boiled flesh, and she'd be happy to leave the place if it meant she never ate again. She turned to go as soon as she had the coordinates, somehow moving more quickly and more deliberately than she had before.

The bridge was surprisingly easy to find, given the size of the ship. Or perhaps despite the size of the ship. In any case, she felt almost drawn there, tugged along by an invisible current set on guiding her, if not to peace, than familiarity at the very least. She ship was larger, slower, and newer than anything she'd ever piloted before, but the controls seemed intuitive, and to hear Foka tell it, she had at least a day's worth of travel to learn. That was fine with her. Or mostly fine. She couldn't ignore the danger still pursuing them. Half a moment to breathe wouldn't be horrible...but she wouldn't be breathing freely -- not really -- until they left this place behind forever.
 
***
​
The door to the bridge slid open, and Foka came in to sit in the co-pilots seat, like he usually did. It had only been a few days since Mal and his heart to heart chat over a pile of Tex, but he was healing. The cuts and minor abrasions that had littered his face were little more than the occasional scab, and his bruised eye socket had changed color to an unsavory shade of brown-yellow. On the surface, only the more serious bruises remained, and those were in the process of faded. Battered ribs would take slightly longer.

"Ve are landing?" He asked, more for conversations sake than anything else. In two months, Father Russia still hadn't openly mentioned whatever amount of affection he felt for Mal. It may have been somewhat obvious though, likely in the way he went about at least trying to take care of her. After swearing to never use human carnage as an ingredient again, he had gone back to cooking meals, taking care of the kitchen, and about three out of five times whatever laundry that needed to be done. It was almost emasculating how well he handled doing those chores, and perhaps even more so with the fact that he never complained about doing so. Keep your mouth shut and get it done. It wasn't so hard.

There were more affectionate gestures Foka sometimes made. Sometimes, whenever the two of them managed to get to bed at the same time -- in different beds -- he would make the effort to stay awake the extra several minutes to listen to Mal, wait for her to fall asleep first. Listen for signs of nightmares.

Foka leaned back in the chair, his shoulder against the padding, his eyes switching between Mal and the control panels. Their request to land had already been filled out and accepted, so for the moment, the only thing left was to actually land he ship. Foka didn't even trust himself to do it, had freely given the controls to Mal. He was a cook, not a pilot.
 
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If he'd been anyone else, Foka might have startled Mal.

It was strange. It had only been a few days since...everything happened, but considering the few days prior, even just a few moments' "normalcy" passed like a year. Especially since Mal had half been waiting the whole time to see a blip at the edge of the radar, another hunting party come to round them up. Or worse -- that she'd wake up, come back to herself, Tex straddling her belly, playing with her hair.

The nightmares had mostly stopped, but the tension had never quite left. She found herself, especially when she got tired, sitting at the bridge all day, staring into the dark, peeking over her shoulders, like she expected someone to bed there, crouched in the shadows, watching her, waiting for her vigilance to fade, waiting for her to let her guard down...

And so she didn't. Not unless she was sleeping, even sometimes not then.

...except when Foka was around. She couldn't tell him. She could hardly even admit it to herself. But she couldn't sleep without him there. It felt...wrong. Too raw. Too exposed.

In any case, his coordinates had brought them, in due time, to the edge of the galaxy, NUN-traversed territory, and as far as most modern ships even went. Anything beyond was all darkness, black holes, and frozen hellscapes. How anyone had found or founded this 'refugee camp' was beyond her, but after days of restlessness, she was more than ready to get off this ship, even if it meant climbing into a trap. After a little searching, she'd found the bag she'd packed back on the Warden's ship -- no ship, though maybe that was for the best. The bag still had a little food, and the pistol she'd given Foka. She'd tucked the knife in there, too, and added the first aid kit from the bedroom.

The ship was set to dock itself. After that...she didn't know. She thought maybe they could sell it in the camp, or nearby, get enough money to start their new lives.

Starting over. It seemed...too big, too cliche to be real.

But then...what else did they have?

"Yeah," she said after a long moment's silence. "Yeah, docking in....34 seconds." She turned and looked at him, studying his face for something she wasn't sure she'd find, even if she could name it.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked finally. "There's still time to turn around. If...if you wanted to." She shrugged, checked the console again, and tried to make a joke. "21 seconds. I can get us lost in 21 seconds."
 
"No, it vill be fine," he assured her, though he kept his eyes on the view-screen and the different stats that ran across the console. 18 seconds, 17 seconds. From above, the place didn't look so prosperous. Dusty, sand-covered roads; flat terrain as far as the eye could see. Two suns in the blue sky, a massive, colorful moon barely visible over the horizon. Houses were more or less square, with a flat roof and walls made of stone. Several of the lots had small, green gardens where vegetable grew. Foka already knew that if they stayed long enough, Mal and him would defiantly have such a garden. Spices like basil and cilantro, and most certainly some hardy form of vegetable. A smile wanted to cross his features, but Foka held it in check. It would be a while before they could actually afford such an abode.

"Ve should not have trouble," Foka clarified again, mostly for Mal's sake. He could almost feel her unease from where he was seated. "Start by selling cargo ve do not need, then ship after ve have found vork." It wasn't likely that the two of them would be able to afford much of a home, and much, much longer until they could afford a second one. But still, somewhere in the back of his mind, Foka still didn't like the thought of Mal leaving. She would probably want her own house, he just had that much time to figure out a reason for her to not leave.
 
Mal nodded wordlessly, though the thought of selling the ship, despite everything that had happened while aboard, made her skin crawl.

When it came to fight versus flight, Mal was, invariably, of the 'fleeing' nature. It had nothing to do with her speed or agility, or even her existent timidity and caution, and everything to do with her brother Ash. He had tried to fight once, and he'd died for it. She would never be able to remove the image of his young body, face down in a pool of blood, from her nightmares.

With his dying breath, he had taught her to run, and she'd been practicing for almost two decades now. She was good at it. The refugee camp didn't look particularly foreboding. Someone else in her position might have even enjoyed the sights. Quaint. Perhaps not luxurious, but livable. Perfect for someone who wanted to start over, keep their heads down.

But then, the bounty hunters' ship had seemed innocuous enough at first, too. And they still hadn't escaped its clutches.

Maybe she wouldn't sell the ship right away. She wouldn't tell Foka. She could find some other way to make money -- though she'd promised it wouldn't be the way she was used to -- find them somewhere to stay while they got on their feet. And then afterwards, she'd figure something else out. She wouldn't actually leave. She just needed to know she could.

She said none of this to Foka, instead turning to offer him a mirthless smile. But she was interrupted by the gently bumping of the ship against the landing dock.

They had arrived, and their new lives were about to begin.

Mal swallowed, grabbed the pack from the old ship, and slung it over her shoulder.

"It'll be fine," she repeated, trying not to remember the other times she'd heard Foka say as much.
 
***
​
It had taken only a week for Foka to line up some work for himself. Every morning, he'd get up around the same time, nearly an hour before the sun came up and was visible from the inside of their ship. He'd take the time to get ready, fix breakfast from the last of the ships supplies, and occasionally something more fresh from the market that was affordable. Then he'd walk the streets to the old dinner that had been in need of a new cook. The place was old, rustic, dusty, just like the rest of the town, but it kept Father Russia busy enough.

All in all, the job was good -- until a lack of anger management took it's toll, and Foka was looking for another job after two weeks. The thing was that Foka wasn't used to working for the kitchen. Stress built up, anger turned to rage one day, and without any other outlet, the dinners manager had taken frying oil to the face after scolding the previously cannibalistic serial killer for being slow and taking too much time to prepare a customers meal. It is an art, it is not to be rushed! A lack in motivation by the security force was Foka's saving grace that day.

On the plus side, Foka was good at finding jobs... almost as good as he was at loosing them.

A month and a half into their stay, he had gone through two jobs, both as a cook. Foka knew he was supposed to be lying low, that he wasn't supposed to draw attention to himself, but all of these fucking people! 'You take too long', 'use more oil', 'stick to he recipe, fuckah,' 'that's not what they asked for!' 'If you have a problem with the way I run things, you can just-'

"You're quite the troublemaker, aren't you?"

Mal is going to kill me, Foka thought as he turned around to face the one that had just addressed him as a troublemaker. There was a brown, paper bag with a few ingredients for dinner that night, cradled in his arms. "Hoo' is asking?" He said coldly, icy eyes glaring holes into the man. He was tall, muscular, a strong, square jaw. He looked like a pro boxer, and his green eyes were almost as intense as Father Russia's. It was a rare occurrence, that someone could match Foka's glare.

"No one that wants to punish you for being so," the man shrugged, pulling his hands out of his jeans pockets. One more thing; this guy was taller than Father Russia. He reached out with his right hand to shake Foka's. Foka declined, staring down the appendage. "I see... So, uh, you're looking for work again? I may be able to help with that. Special work, just for troublemakers such as yourself."

"Vhat kind of vork?" Foka's attention had been caught. Work for people like him? What did this man even know of him? Maybe, if his man knew too much, Foka would have to end his life. The possibility was there, though, of course, he wouldn't be able to cook him. He had made a cannibals vow of abstinence, more or less for Mal's sake. And, then here was the fact that they were attempting to begin a new life, and lying low was top priority. Killing a man was most certainly not considered lying low. Not in any community.

"You can find out this Friday. Go to the field just past the houses on the East side of town, late tonight. I'm telling you, if you're good, it's a great way to earn some spending money..."

***
​
"Mal, are you here?" Foka called, the docking door sliding closed behind him. He was still holding onto the paper bag filled with groceries. Some red meat, carrots, potatoes, and some form of cacti. Casually, he made his way to the kitchen, which had been scrubbed spotless.

He hadn't told her how he had been fired yet again just the night before. He hadn't let on, hadn't left hints for Mal to find. Keep everything normal, keep everything calm. Don't ask too deeply about her day, and hopefully she wouldn't need to know too much about his. So far, that was the plan.

So, Foka pulled out a large pan and emptied the meat into it. The carrots and desert plant were laid out on a cutting board, and it felt nice to let go and fall into the rhythmic motion of cutting. Chop, chop, chop, chop. He could have sighed. Cooking really was his calling. Cooking what didn't matter so much - at least that's what he told himself - as the amount of time and effort he put into making it perfect. Yes, it was a passion.

Speaking of passion, there hadn't been much other than cooking. The thought crossed him. Foka hadn't killed, hadn't fucked, hadn't smoked or drank. God, he had just... Cooked. Well, it had felt good to splash the manager of the workplace with hot oil, and other such outbursts. But, those were mostly contained instances, Foka had always reeled himself back on. Goddamned self-control.
 
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"Mmmgmhphmmf."

Mal gave a muffled groan/answer she hoped she hadn't dreamed and yawned as she rolled over. She'd "moved in" to the cockpit three weeks ago, replacing the stiff-backed swivel chairs there for a poorly cushioned, but inexpensive bench seat she'd 'borrowed' from work. It was far less practical than any of the two bedrooms on the ship, but she'd fought Foka until he'd taken the larger one, and the other one...she could only half remember fever dreams from the bedroom where Tex had both taken and branded her. But even walking in there was enough to trigger panic attacks that would leave her breathless for minutes at a time. It was also the only decent view -- over the camp, and into the sky as well -- the ship offered.

And it helped that if Foka was around while she slept -- his work meant he usually wasn't -- she wouldn't wake him if she woke up screaming.

Besides, she felt safer in the cockpit. More exposed, sure. But more ready to run, too.

There were entire sections of the ship she still avoided. She refused to use the south corridor -- where she'd stabbed Tax to death -- and had successfully avoided so much as looking at that cold room where she and Foka had been kept during their ordeal. She didn't use the kitchen, either. She got away with it most of the time. Her schedule was so different from Foka's, it was generally on that scheduled time they ever really saw each other. Most of the time, she was still half asleep when he served up dinner (breakfast for Mal), she didn't have to try all that hard to hide her fidgeting for the few moments they ate together in the kitchen. The rest of the day, she was either sleeping or avoiding it all together. She was plenty happy to go hungry if it meant avoiding all those memories she stubbornly refused to face.

Now, Mal yawned and scowled at the golden shafts of light spilling in through the cockpit window. Foka was home late tonight, which on the one hand, meant she'd been allowed to sleep in, but on the other meant she'd have to skip out on whatever he was making for dinner/breakfast. Which, not that she would ever tell him, but was something of a relief. It had been almost two months since he'd revealed just what had landed him in prison, and she had a hard time even seeing that side of him at all anymore. The Foka she knew was...withdrawn, perhaps, but gentle, if a bit overprotective. Still. She couldn't forget the texture, the taste of the man that had tried to kill her rising in the back of her throat. Mal only really ate with Foka. They still couldn't afford to do much else, even with both their jobs. But she quietly pushed any meat he served to the edge of her bowl. The last thing she wanted was to hurt his feelings, strangely enough -- it wasn't that she didn't trust him, she did, as much as it scared her -- but meat no longer sat well with her. Foka had packed her with a roast beef sandwich a little over a month ago, a snack for her one shift break around midnight. She'd ended up coming home early when she found out she couldn't keep any of it down. She'd lied to him, told her the garage/chop shop where she worked had closed early owing to a small grease fire. She been able to eat again for two days after that.

Even so, things were alright at the refugee camp. Far from perfect, but then nothing had ever really been perfect for either of them, so that was more than okay. Foka had been the first to get a job, but Mal had had better luck with hers. It wasn't as...lucrative as the one she was used to, but then she typically didn't hate herself in the morning, either. It was harder work than it had been before -- even convincing the portly technician who ran the junk lot near the garage had been a task. It had taken a week, and more than a few tests of her "mettle" before he agreed to give her the job. Mal had started out as a runner for the other mechanics in the garage, but had been quickly promoted after the manager saw her oversell a customer on parts. The knowledge meant she worked a later shift -- usually around 5 or 6 in the evenings, right around when Foka was returning home, to about four in the morning. Most days, she crashed in the cockpit for an hour until Foka woke up and slogged her way through breakfast (dinner on her end) and tried to remind him not to do anything stupid.

That was how most of their days went now: Mal would sneak back in the morning, grease stains smeared across her face and arms, reeking of oil and hot metal, trying not to wake Foka. Then he'd go off to work at one diner or another, she'd catch some sleep, wake up when he got home, and start everything all over again. The monotony threatened to drive her crazy at times, but she figured it was far better than the alternative. And she really did like working with the ships. She spent her nights dissembling old cruisers and taped together jalopies refugees had ridden in on fumes, sometimes remodeling them, more often than not scrapping them and selling the parts. The hours were shitty, and there was always a smear of something or other in her hair or on her cheeks, but it was honest work, and that counted for something. Mostly.

She couldn't deny she was getting restless. Safety as all good and well, but it was boring, and the thought of staying in the refugee camp forever was terrifying. She knew she shouldn't have been so focused on herself -- Foka wasn't doing so well, either, if the way he kept dropping jobs was anything to go by. She'd promised him she wouldn't go back to old ways, and she wasn't sure she really wanted to. But wanting was not the same as needing.

She yawned again and sat up and stretched and winced. She'd been helping one of the engineers who worked at the garage fix the helm plate of a large cruiser last night and she was sore. She raked a hand through her hair, well aware she probably looked like shit. But Foka didn't seem to care, or not that she could tell, so she climbed down from the cockpit to join him in the kitchen, ignoring the way her muscles tensed up there. She wouldn't be able to stay long, anyway. She could handle it.

"Hi," she said, leaning against the doorway and willing herself to wake up. "Work go okay?"
 
Had work gone okay? What work? Oh yeah, the work he hadn't had since two days ago that he never told her about. In all honesty, he was already tired of telling her about his failures. She didn't need to hear of another. Besides, he was evidently about to find work that was supposed to be better suited for him, his personality.

"Vas good enough," he shrugged, chopping the last of the cactus plant he had bought. After sliding the vegetables into the pan with the meat, he turned his back to the counter to face Mal. Everything for dinner would be marinated together, cooked together, but he was going to serve the meat and greens separately. Foka had started to - amazingly - catch on to Mal's disapproval of the meat he cooked. Did he really blame her? Well, he had served up Tex to her in a stew. Maybe he didn't.

You're quite the troublemaker...

So much for laying low. If that man had known about Foka, did he know about Mal? Foka wiped his hands on a dry rag, the gears in his head turning as he pondered. Actually seeing Mal had reminded him of the encounter, had prompted the idea of wether or not she was safe. Then again, neither of them were really safe.

Foka shook his head to get rid of the distracting thoughts, then folded the tattered, red-white rag before placing it back on the counter. "You do not vant meat. Your food vill be ready in tvanty minutes." He turned to the stove and opened the oven door, taking the pan that had everything in it, putting the lid on top, and slid it into place on one of the black racks inside.
 
"I -- " Mal started, and then no more words would come. She'd been about to ask more about his day, because she was beginning to suspect he was acclimating as well as he told her, and she knew he'd had trouble with work. The longer she stood there, she more she woke up, and something odd struck her about his vaguely evasive answer.

But then he mentioned all that about dinner/breakfast and meat, and she went bright red, equal parts shame and frustration at having been found out, despite all her careful work. She didn't want to fight -- not again, and really not right now -- and while Foka didn't say much more on the subject, she was afraid to pry, lest that start some argument they had neither the time nor the emotionally availability to handle.

"Thanks," she managed lamely when she could speak again. "I...I'll be right back."

She vanished before he could argue, heading back to the ship's life support area where she'd taken to keeping the few items accumulated over the last six weeks. Mostly grease-stained coveralls and a few trinkets, tooth brush, hair brush, a change of clothes for the occasional day off neither she nor Foka could actually afford. The idea of building a new had seemed enticing a few short months ago, but now it just felt tedious. Still. No one had tried to kill them yet. Underneath her clothes, at the bottom of a chest she'd cleaned out not long after arriving at the camp, she still had the blood-stained orange jumped from the prison, as well as the rations bag from the Warden's ship, and the knife she'd maimed Tex with. She kept it there when Foka was around. But when she was sleeping by herself, she tucked it under her pillow. That was a secret, too.

She pulled on a t-shirt and an overlarge pair of overalls, pulled her dark hair back from her face, and did as much washing up as she thought was necessary before heading back to the kitchen. She came home most days coated in sweat and grease, anyway, and a shower was a decent way to stay awake until Foka woke for his shift. There wasn't much point in taking one before she left in the evenings.

She pushed into the kitchen, feeling her stomach tense familiarly, keeping her expression carefully blank as she sat down. It was quiet for a moment, then, against her better judgment, she asked, "You sure everything's alright?"
 
Foka simply nodded when Mal went to leave. Nothing suspicious. Once again he turned back to the counter, this time pulling two separate glasses from the sink, then the two plates and some silverware. There was time to spare, so instead of dirtying clean dishes, Foka just decided to clean new ones. So, he set to work with a bowl of soapy water and a different rag that was designated to. Be used for such things.

By he time Mal returned, Foka had placed the glasses and silverware on the table, and was dishing out Mal's serving of seasoned vegetables. They were warm and soft, steam rolling gently upwards towards the metal ceiling. Easy to eat, and they didn't taste so much like the meat that still needed to finish cooking. The filled plate was set back aside, and the lid was placed back on the pan before it was placed back into the oven.

Her plate was placed in front of her, and then Foka went to sit at the table in the spot across from her. Part of him was curious what she would think of this new meal, what the cactus even tasted like. He caught himself hoping that she enjoyed it, that it was to her liking, and he felt his cheeks warm ever so slightly. The thoughts were nonsense. He pushed them aside quickly.

"Everything is fine, yes," he told her simply, nodding, folding his arms on the table as he leaned forward. Blue eyes watched her closely, switching between Mals plate to her. "Tell me, is food good?"
 
If she was being honest, the food was always good. That wasn't, and had never been the problem. And really, things had gotten better over the last few months. Fewer nightmares meant more sleep, and a less nervous stomach, which was better -- much better -- for both Mal and Foka. And she did trust him. She was sure of that. It was just...she couldn't put anything even remotely meat-like near her mouth and still hope for an easy stomach. But Foka knew that. He'd found out somehow, which probably meant she owed him an apology, but maybe not now, because he sort of seemed okay.

If a little evasive. The thought made her queasy for just a second before she pushed away that ominous train of thought all together.

"Um...yeah," she answered honestly after a moment. "It's...different. What is it?"

What is it? God, she hadn't asked that question since --

Mal calmly set down her fork and took several small gulps of water, all under the guise of waiting for Foka to answer the question. Because she wanted to know. Because it was good. And liking vegetables -- and it was a vegetable, it had to be, that texture couldn't be anything else, no matter how talented Foka was in the kitchen...with a knife -- was not a crime.

"So...um...a family brought in a new ship yesterday," she said, hoping to start a new (different) conversation. "It's small, and pretty old. Even the radar system is bunk, but...I think...a couple weeks overtime, I could fix it up and afford to buy it on the cheap. No one's seen it yet, so if I start soon, it'll be ours in no time. If you want a new ship, I mean. You don't have to -- I mean...I just thought...well, maybe we could move out of this one, you know? Start over for real. Get rid of...everything here."
 
"Carrots, potato, desert plant," Foka listed, watching intently as Mal ate what he had prepared for her. She said it had tasted different, and he wondered how so. Supposedly, it was a good different, which he could happily accept.

Foka perked up slightly, sitting back in his chair and setting his hands on his lap instead of on the table. This thing about a new ship? Come to think of it, Foka wasn't sure how willing Mal was to stay on the colony. It was a decent place, he supposed, though he had no idea if it was so much to Mal's liking. He hoped it was. He still wanted her to stay.

"Do ve need ship?" He asked, tilting his head just a bit to the left, looking over her expression carefully. "Ship is more mobile, less like home though." It all depended on what they were really after. Did they -- did she -- want a home? Or would she be happiest in something that could make a quick getaway? Given the simple nature of the woman that sat before him, Foka assumed the latter. Well, that settled it. Mobile-ship-home it was. "I vill vork for extra also, then." It was an announcement, and the tone of his voice had a certain finality to it as he stood up from his chair. Foka left the table to go to the counter, grab a large jar which had originally held... Something, resembling pickles, and then returned, placing it on the table. "For funds," Foka explained, tapping the rim of the jar. "For 'start over'."

It could be a start.
 
Mal took the pronouncement that he'd work extra hours as a good sign -- you couldn't work more hours if you didn't have any hours to work at all, right? -- and nodded quietly.

"It's...it's a plan," she said awkwardly. It felt strange to be planning a life here, even if that life, that plan included a built-in escape route. Because how well could that work? If she ran, she couldn't just take Foka's home with her. Maybe she'd have to wait until he moved out. If he planned to move out. Neither of them were people persons, really. It wasn't like they were going to go out and make new friends. Anyone who came to a refugee camp did so to run. How many of these people were interested in new relationships, whether or not they planned to stay? IF he moved out, they'd go back to being alone. Which...wouldn't be horrible, she guessed. She didn't about Foka, but Mal had made a good life on her own, even if it meant sleeping with a new man every night. It still felt like her own somehow.

This...this was different. And she wasn't sure whether she'd adjusted.

"I'm running late," she announced abruptly, standing up. "Thanks for breakfast...er...dinner. I've gotta get out to the garage. I'll try not to wake you when I get back, it'll be around dawn, like normal."

She felt like she was over-explaining the details of her day without a real reason, but the silence seemed too uncomfortable to handle at the moment. She stood with her bowl -- half empty, to her small credit -- and placed it in the sink, before grabbing her bag and swinging it over her shoulder.

"Have a good one," she called, headed for the loading dock. then she paused, turned, added, "Get some sleep. You look...just get some sleep."
 
Foka watched -- like he always did, all the time -- as Mal hurried her pace to meet her schedule. After having reclaimed his seat, he didn't leave it as she wandered out, but offered a Russian-sounding good-bye and a wave before she was out of sight.

Extra work? What extra work? What work? He stared at the door that had already closed for a moment longer, before sighing and letting his forehead hit the table with a soft thump. Extra work was something he didn't have. Work was something he needed in order to even begin working overtime. What kind of a fucked up mess was this?

Brown locks fell to the side as Foka tilted his head, looking at the glass jar he had just placed on the table for earnings of 'extra work' to go in. This job for troublemakers that he had been offered wasn't available until Friday. This was... Wednesday? No, it was Thursday. It was Mal's Thursday. That was good. An index finger tapped the glass in front of his face, tapping one, two, three...

Foka stood then, walking over to the oven to check the meat that was cooking. It was pulled out and sliced into, pinkish brown juice being squeezed out of the wound. Medium rare was decent enough. He cut off a strip and placed it neatly on a plate. Vegetables next, arranged with the care of someone with obsessive compulsive disorder. Silverware in one hand and plate in the other, Foka returned once again to the table to eat in silence. The slice of meat was thin, it only took one, fluid forward and back motion to cut off a smaller piece to on the fork, followed by a carrot. It was a time of peace which Father Russia enjoyed. Planning could come later.

Later came forty-five minutes later, after his plate, silverware and glass were cleaned and placed back in the cabinet, along with Mal's dishes. Near-sacred ritual complete, Foka turned back to the jar on the table and wondered. There had to be some work somewhere, something he could do just for the next day...

Sleep first, perhaps. Foka blinked away the oncoming tiredness long enough so he could leave the kitchen to find his bedroom. Yes, sleep first, then work.
 
Two of the four nearest moons had risen by the time Mal arrived at work. A little late, but for good reason in her mind. Whether or not Foka would see it that way was moot, but that would be dealt with later. The moons were part of what made the refugee camp such a well kept secret. They rose all within four hours from each other, in regularly increasing chunks of time. Alpha, so called because it was the first to rise and also the largest by half, appeared in the sky just half an hour after the nearest sun went down. Poseidon was the smallest of the four and the next to rise, one hour later. Local legend said its faint blue appearance came from a naturally occurring, but highly toxic gas cover. Luna was next, at two hours, and was, strangely enough, an almost exact duplicate in apparent size, shape, and mass of Earth's moon...though it was also so far away, no one had even visited it yet, let alone terraformed for population. Omega, the final moon, rose in hour four, and was the least impressive. It was a fair size, but shown only dully as it tended to rise in Alpha's shadow.

Together, they cast the little hunk of rock the camp was stationed on into near perfect darkness, all while intermittently reflecting brief shafts of light onto the surface of the small planet. They had been nicknamed the Quadrant Gate and rendered the camp purportedly 'unfindable' unless you knew what you were looking for. More than once, Mal had wondered how Foka had found out about this place, but she'd never bothered to ask. It seemed there were always other questions more pressing.

Mal jogged up the short ramp to Mason's Garage proper and found Jack Mason, the owner/proprietor, had left her a note on the mini fridge under the front desk, which was strangely unmanned.

She tucked her street-purchased 'lunch' into the fridge then squinted at the note.

"Molly -- Jeb can't make it in today, so I'm closing desk orders and just working on the fighter that came in last week. Could use a hand -- it's just me and you tonight. Come on back when you get in. Mace."
 
***

"So, Russia, figure you're up to this?"​

It was all underground. Loud, cold unlike the surface world; everything smelled like blood, sweat, metal and booze. It wasn't actually all bad though, until -- BAM! A familiar, copper taste filled Foka's mouth as he took one upper jab to the left side of his jaw. His vision spun just a bit before he returned the favor, feeling cartilage crumble and break against his bare knuckles. The jarring sounds from outside of the cage wall increased when he hit again, avenging his own split lip as he drove a large, experienced fist up into his opponents chin.

"Is good money, ve need to eat."
"Doesn't everyone?"
​
Foka took a handful of the mans hair, forcing his disorientated opponent down, down to where his head was level with his hips before a knee was driven into his gut. Again, again. Violence, give him a beating, and for once, don't get punished for it. It really was work for troublemakers. It wasn't Father Russia's dream job, but it would put money into that glass jar that was back on the ship, sitting on the counter. There was already a handful of solid credits in the bottom.

"So, there's a few fights every night. You can show up, but that doesn't mean you're going to get something every night. Doesn't even mean you're going to be in the ring every night."
​
A bright lamp swung from left to right somewhere overhead, people were shouting in the background. A clenched fist was launched into Foka's right side, just under the ribs. He flinched, buckled slightly at the pain as the attack was repeated, though only once before the opponent was shoved aside, tumbling to the floor for just a split second before scrambling back to his feet, fists at the ready. He looked like shit; blood coating his chin, hair sticking up in every direction, a bruised cheek, bloodied knuckles. Foka was a little less tattered, but he still tasted blood, and it was still something he had going in his favor. His opponent snorted, blood and mucus splattering the floor in small spots.

"Vhat are legal ramifications?"
"Nah, no one looks into this -- so long as no one dies. You'll be fine."
​
The door slid close behind him, and he stood there for a moment. The fight was over, and he had about an hour until Mal was supposed to be returning to the ship from a night of work. Foka still hadn't told her he had been fired. If he were honest with himself, he knew how dumb it all was; not telling the woman you're out of work. It never ends well, not in any other story. But still, Foka had a goal he was working towards. The clock on the stand next to his unmade bed read 0521.

He started, shaking his head and rubbing a sore forearm over his eyes. The clock read 0524. Foka snorted defiantly, standing up a little straighter as he walked over to the bed, stopping to pull his no-longer-completely-white tank over his head, letting it fall from his left arm to the floor.

It had been a few days since he had actually sat down and "talked" with Mal over his dinner, her breakfast. The schedules where confusing as hell. Mal's hadn't changed much, or at least, hadn't appeared to. She still got up after the sun set, worked during the night, and then came home to sleep around the time the sun came back up the next day. Foka's schedule was supposed to be normal, as far as what he had said. He got up in the morning, made Mal her dinner, under the guise that it was his breakfast. Then, when he was sure she was asleep, he'd lock his door and sleep for the few hours before getting back up, and busying himself until Mal woke up again. Make breakfast, pretend to get ready for bed, then go to the ring to fight for the currency earned from "extra work".

Pants and shorts were left with the dirtied shirt while Foka half walked, half wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He took a minute to focus on staying awake and coherent before he actually took in the image that looked back at him from the mirror. It was a good thing he had removed the majority of his jewelry before the fight, and that was as simple as it got. His ribs had healed completely before the fights, but the Foka in the mirror was, once again, littered in bruises. None were as bad as the ones he had suffered at the hands of his and Mal's captors, but sometimes they came close. He put a finger to his lip, the cut stinging upon contact. So, he rubbed some of the dried blood from his chin instead, wiping his hand down his upper arm.

Tired, blue eyes turned to the upper corners of the mirror, which were being clouded by steam. The water was ready, so he turned back to the shower and climbed in, if perhaps a bit sluggishly. The hot droplets eventually rinsed away the dried blood, with no help from Foka, who simply stood and let the water run over him. After a while his shoulders turned red and the steam rolled off of his back like he were something that had just come out of the oven. It felt good. He closed his eyes, just for a second...

And opened them when he felt the impact of the floor of the shower stall hitting him. Or, him hitting the floor. Either story was just as good a recipient for the surprised, Russian cursing that followed.
 
Two months after killing their captors -- and that was the only way she could think of it now, or at least the only way she wanted to think about it; no capture, no torture, no rape and abuse. No eating the man who'd branded her like an animal -- the burn on Mal's belly was a puckered pink scar that itched so bad, she scratched 'til it bled. She'd never gotten it officially looked at. They were a few clinics in the camp, mostly run by former doctors, nurses, and wartime trauma surgeons. But it had healed well enough, and once the pain stopped keeping her up, she didn't want to think about it anymore than she had to.

Even so, by the end of a work day, she was so sore and frustrated with the itching, she'd started taking the long way home to grab a drink and try and forget again before she got home to Foka to parcel out news of their ship-in-progress.

Granted, Foka had been more quiet lately. And she'd been getting home later, working longer hours. Most of that was honest. Jeb had left two weeks ago and never come back, and Mason still hadn't hired on any new hands. Business was tight, he said, and Mal was better than most of then old men he'd hired.

"And kid, our return customers ain't just comin' back to look at ships neither," the mechanic had joked one day, and Mal and smiled and giggled out of habit before blushing and turning back to her work, running a hand over her belly.

Still, things were going well. she learned a little more about ships -- parts, piloting, and repairs -- every day. And for ever extra half shift she worked, she added another couple credits to their 'new start' jar. She wasn't even sure what that entailed anymore, but it felt better to have something to work for. Otherwise, things got tedious. The walls started closing in.

She returned that morning, yawning, to the sound of the water running in the bathroom, and frowned. Foka was up earlier than she'd expected...then again, she'd gotten back late the last few mornings, so maybe she was the one off schedule. They'd been missing each other lately, and tired as she was, she figured it couldn't hurt to have breakfast/dinner with him before she crashed. It'd been a while since they'd talked, even inconsequential stuff, and it was weird to have so much silence between roommates. Or something.

She'd just stripped off her oil-stained work boots when she heard the thud. She was halfway down the hall before she even realized where she was going, her subconscious mind reading into the potential threat much more quickly than she had. She was only a little surprised, and a little more terrified to find it had come from the bathroom.

Impatient, she banged on the door.

"Foka! What the hell are you doing in there?"
 
Grumbling, Foka held his head with one hand while he hauled himself to his feet, the hot water still spraying over his bare skin. His other felt for the door to the shower stall. The water turned off automatically when it opened and he left, steam rising from his shoulders and water droplets hitting the floor. He stumbled up to the door to his room, paused. Torso littered with bruises, split lip, bloodied knuckles... Mal would probably ask questions if she were to see him as exposed as he was. So, he went to the drawers and pulled out a couple towels, one draped over his head and shoulders, one around his waist.

It was a minute later when he finally opened the door to her, his bare chest and bruises covered, his hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks, his blue eyes tired. "Taking shouver," he grumbled leaning against the frame.
 
Mal was relieved when Foka answered the door. She was afraid he'd fallen and knocked himself out, and while, at this point, at least, she figured she'd walk through a fire if his ass needed saving, she'd really prefer him to be wearing clothes on the other side of said conflagration.

But he was here now, decent and alive, and looking no worse for -- no. Wait.

She'd been about to turn away when her fumes-addled mind finally started sending messages that Foka did not look okay. Not dead, maybe, but only just barely. And sure, it'd been a few days since she'd really seen him, but even a lack of sleep couldn't account for the dark eyes, the bruises littering his face and chest, and...

"Are you -- were you bleeding?" she asked, squinting. Her tone was somewhere between incredulous and suspicious, and maybe with a sort of dollop of concern. She knew he'd had trouble keeping a job, but she'd thought this one was going well. And even if it wasn't, had his coworkers attacked him?

She surprised herself by feeling suddenly angry, almost vindictive.

She straightened, effectively barring the doorway with her own body. Foka was a good half foot taller than her at least...but an angry Mal could be a scary Mal.

"What happened?" she demanded. "What did they do to you?"
 
There really wasn't much of a way for him to hide his condition, he had known all along. But, still, having been found out so soon; what was he supposed to say? In theory, he could have gone longer without having to answer her questions, could have avoided this all together. It just would have meant that he would have had to steer clear of her, see her as little as possible.

But, what was that in Mal's voice? Foka thought he picked up on something, probably a hint of hostility. Throughout the two months they had been together on this planet, despite how often they were at their separate jobs, he had gotten to know Mal. The borderline anger in her voice most likely wasn't even directed at him. At a different time, a different place, he might have been able to smile to himself about it. It was nice, having someone to care for you, even if it was only a little.

Foka practically looked down his nose at her, despite his feelings, conveying how stupid he evidently thought this was. "They did nothing to me," he told her, matter-of-factly. The rest of him, on the inside, was hesitant. Why? He thought he knew, but then he couldn't be sure. "It is nothing." Cliché? More than most likely. Either way, he turned from her then, stepping back into his room, the towel from his head, tossing it onto the bed.
 
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