Carrion Dawn

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Mal's shy and grateful glance at Sean was cut short, interrupted and replaced by a very brief, very sincere show of anger as she felt a meaty hand close around her wrist. She had been more or less expecting it this time. Foka did not seem the type to wait around for a strange woman he didn't trust anyway to make her move. It made his touching her no more welcome, and for just second, her gaze flicked to him, her expression similar to that of a rabid animal pushed into a corner.

She quickly reigned in her temper, though, and her expression changed to concern, disgust, and mild surprise.

"Alright, I'm coming," she snapped, yanking her hand away from the larger man as her feet struck the floor. She could feel the muscle and determination in that grip. Useful, if not interesting. If he tried that shit again, she'd have to think of some indirect way of kicking his ass.

She spared only a cursory glance at the guards who had come. It was too early to get anything from them, if she was going to get anything at all. Better to focus her time on splitting up Sean and --

Foka leaned close and she tensed for just an instant. He spoke only a few words, his breath on her neck pushing out goosebumps all the way down her arms. Her expression didn't change, nor did her posture, but she'd heard nonetheless.

She reached down and snatched up a dingy grey-green jumpsuit. It was too long for her, so she pulled it up to her waist and tied the sleeves like a chunky, awkward belt. The white tank top they'd given her yesterday was clean enough, if too thin to lend much warmth, but she figured if she got any colder, she could pull up the sleeves of the jumpsuit.

Til then, she swept her hair back into a matted ponytail, rinsed her mouth at the sink -- she was supposed to get a toothbrush, hair brush and shampoo in the afternoon -- and ducked out of the cell ahead of Sean and Foka both. She wasn't very hungry...but she was intrigued by what her strange cellmate had said.
 
>~...~<

The cafeteria was actually a rather large place, with a fair amount of people - most of them being inmates. It seemed that it was a consistent mistake made whenever someone tried to run a detention center: there were never, ever enough guards. Sometimes, it may have been because of the prisons location. Sometimes, it may have been that they were simply lying to the crowd, keeping them all calm. Keep them hidden, keep them calm, confined, etcetera.

For the moment, everything was calm. The large supper room was quiet, with few side conversations. Foka kept Mal next to him though, kept her close. Sean, it appeared, he couldn't care less about, as the bent man roamed around the room before finally making his way to the line for his food. It looked like some sort of porridge. Foka held out his bowl, and the inmate handling the meal dished him out some of the muck. It was new-age standards -- less than they had been. Slop and water. Bread crusts probably would have tasted better by the looks of things.

"You stay vith me," Foka said, looking down at Mal, his face dead serious. He had given her a rather good hint, and he hoped she would be more cooperative from then on.

Sean seemed rather oblivious, being nearly five spots down the line, having just received his bowl. Further along there was the last station with a tote, spoons and forks both mixed in. Foka picked out a three-pronged fork, the fourth prong having been broken off. With food, eating utensil, and cup of stale water, he took he few steps away from the line, turning back to make sure that Mal was following. He really wasn't going to let her out of his sight. The few people back, still in the line, Sean took a moment to glare at the both of them.

After making sure that Mal wasn't going off somewhere else, Foka led her into the main throng of convicts, claiming a seat for the both of them among one table. To Foka's left, there was a large, mammoth of a man with a double chin and naked woman tattooed down his right arm. He passed the two of them a rather annoyed look before returning to his porridge, simply drinking it out of the bowl.

"Ah, Foka, darling~" cooed a woman sitting across from them. She was thin, almost anorexic looking, with grey hair and a face that looked older than the rest of her. There was a cigarette between her fingers on her right hand. "What have you been up to, you naughty thing? I see you have a new victim?"

"Not victim," he told her simply, picking up his bowl and using his broken fork to spoon some of the muck into his mouth.
 
Mal paid no discernible attention to their many odd compatriots. A more intuitive person -- Foka, perhaps -- might have gleaned she was watching them all carefully, balancing loyalties and latent hierarchies against presentable facts. The few guards appeared neither overwhelmed nor unsettling, meaning they didn't expect much to happen. It was safe to bet, then, that the cafeteria did little more than feed the inmates, perhaps just slightly less than necessary to keep them hungry and docile. If a fight broke out, it seemed more like to burn itself out than escalate. She wondered briefly if they were all being drugged, then discounted the thought quickly.

The prison wasn't paying for blankets on the thin cots they called bunks. No way they were paying for tranqs.

She followed Foka without a word, glaring quietly at his back, making it seem that she was either frightened of, or intrigued by him. She did want clarification on his 'hinting' from before, though she didn't expect much to come of it here.

She sat down beside him with as much space as she could afford, a quiet reminder that his size and his cunning, if it could be called that, had yet to buy her loyalty, or even her interest.

As for the woman across from them...Mal knew her type. It was where she herself would end up in a handful of years if she wasn't careful. Women like that, it got you nothing playing nice. She sneered at the woman and eyed the cigarette.

"What do you want for it?" she said coolly.
 
The woman glanced at Mal, raising an eyebrow. "What, for my cig'?" She asked, an amused smile crossing her lips. "I'm sorry dear, these are too hard to come by in this place. Got to feed my addiction, you know? Besides, don't you know what these things do to your face? It'd be a shame to ruin such a pretty face, don't you think, Foka?"

Foka pretty much ignored the woman, instead focusing on finishing his meal so he could move on. It was the largest man who spoke next, his voice deep and raspy. "I got the information you wanted," he wheezed, keeping his eyes fixed on his own food as he slipped a folded piece of crumpled paper to the Russian next to him. Foka didn't thank him.

"Good, ve're moving today," Foka informed them coldly.

"Today?" The woman on the opposite side of the table asked, sounding surprised. "Why the sudden change, darling?"

"Tired of vaiting," was the only explanation Foka offered.

"The others are going to be confused," she warned, tilting her head down with her elbows on the table. Foka did the same, resting his chin on a fist, his blue eyes scanning the cafeteria. What the guards didn't know, was that among these specific convicts, there was, in fact, organization. Organization driven by the need to be free again. "Well, what's the plan then?"

Foka unfolded the piece of paper on his lap, then taking another sip from the porridge. "Ve need veapons..."

"Oh, please, baby, we can do that!"
 
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Mals said nothing as the conversation continued on around her. She had forsaken the idea that Sean's slip up -- and where was he? -- had been part of some plan to trick her. That idiot was one thing. Mrs. Benjamin Button and the Hulk here were quiet another. What were the chances that Foka had set all this up just to make Mal show her hand? Especially when Mal herself hadn't known about the prison or its inhabitants until yesterday morning?

About the same, she figured, as her landing in the same cell where an escape plan was being hatched twenty-four hours prior to its new installment date.

She didn't dare appear too interested. If Foka really was at the center of a break, then she was doing herself no favors by giving him the upper hand. He had the leverage in that he already knew more than she. What she needed was to make herself useful...ideally without Foka and Co. knowing any the wiser.

That was another point for Sean, then, and Mal glanced up from her bowl briefly to see if she could find him. She'd just spotted him across the dining hall when the word 'weapons' fell on her ears.

Her eyes darted over to meet Foka, equally parts suspicious and curious.

"What kind of weapons?" she said in a perfect monotone.
 
Foka looked up at Mal, scanning her features for a moment. "... Shanks. Guns from guards," he told her.

"Yeah, but we don't have any guns -- yet," the woman added, sitting up a little straighter in her seat at the table. The three convicts thought about their options. Sean made his way over to the table then, giving Mal a rather toothy grin as he took a seat next to her.

"... Are you sure this is a good idea?" The giant asked, looking down at the three, smaller people to his right.

"No," Foka said flatly. Their section of the table went silent as that one word sunk in. This was so not a good idea. But then, when was something like this ever smart? "Ve're still doing it today..."

"We talkin' bout the plan?" Sean asked, shoveling porridge into his mouth.
 
Mal narrowed her eyes at Foka and made her decision. If there was an escape, she was going to be part of it. Whether Foka liked it or not.

If not? Well, then, she'd continue to plan her own, and know exactly who the hell to avoid when recruiting. If recruiting. Though, really, Mal worked better on her own. Mal paused suddenly, her spoon halfway to her mouth, ignoring Sean for the moment. The idea of blessed solitary time had given her an idea.

It was risky. It was desperate. There was a good chance it would keep her trapped here. There was a better chance it would get her out. Or kill her. But it would show that metal-headed idiot she meant business, and even if there was no escape today, she hadn't just played along in his stupid trick for no reason.

Mal shrugged, stretched, and grinned at the table, Sean, Foka, Old Clown Woman, and the Hulk.

"You want weapons? Fine. I'll give you weapons. You get me out of here. Alive. Deal?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she reached across the table, snatched the cigarette from the old woman, took a long drag, then handed it back with a shrug.

As she stood, she dragged Sean up with her before offering a conciliatory smile to the woman across the table.

"It'll be worth it," she promised.

And, leaving her bowl at the table, made her way to the nearest guard. He was one of the two who'd shoved her into that blasted cage yesterday. Perfect. She'd seen him staring at her chest in the rearview mirror of his cruiser. She tugged the neckline of her borrowed shirt low down over her bosom and stalked up to him, eyes wide and afraid.

"What do you want, Princess?" he sneered.

She said, "I...I was wrong. I...thought I could handle this, but I j-just want out. Please. I'll do anything."

The guard smirked, unperturbed. "Anything?" he said, raising a brow.

"Anything," Mal promised, then, reluctantly, she raised onto her toes and used her meager weight to shove him into a corner, Sean momentarily forgotten. She kissed him, hard and deep, and waited until he returned the favor to reach around, shove her hand in his back pocket, and pulled out a utility knife.

Perfect. She'd have to hang onto that.

The guard showed no notice of having been picked clean. Even better.

Mal took a step back and gave him a smile that was half shy, half curious. "Thanks," she said coyly.

The guard eyed her carefully. "Thanks for what?"

"The distraction," said Mal, and in one fluid motion, pulled out his knife and plunged it into her belly.

The guard gaped for a moment even as Mal grunted, fell to the floor, and gave Sean the signal to start accusing the guard.

The guard stared, blanched, and swore.

"Shit...shit. Medic! Medic! I need a f*cking doctor here now!"

And the cafeteria began to stir...starting with the other guards in the room rushing to help their newly convicted comrade as Mal tucked the bloodied knife into her pocket and started screaming.
 
The older woman watched Mal curiously, taking her cigarette back. At first, she was a little taken aback, but she soon forgot about it, watching as Sean was dragged over to a guard. "Foka, darling, your latest victim is running off with the Hunchback of Notre Dame," she chuckled, taking a drag of her own.

Foka scowled, turning slightly in his seat to watch, the 'Hulk' doing the same. What the Hell was she doing? For a split second, Foka wondered if she was turning them in, but the thought passed from him when he saw her kiss the guard. It was a sweet kiss from where he sat, and he was slightly impressed -- though not surprised. Not in the slightest.

Sean had started to protest weakly, a scowl of his own crossing his lips. His chin was still bruised from the night before, but it didn't really bother him too much. When Mal stabbed the blade into herself, he too turned a sick, pale shade, almost missing his cue. "M-my God!" He bellowed, pointing at the guard, something just barely clicking in his below-average mind. "Good God, he stabbed her! This mutherf*cker stabbed the b*tch!"

"Max, get others vorking," Foka told the Hulk, watching the unfolding scene before him with his same, cold scowl. It looked as though all of his previous suspicions had just been blown to Hell. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He turned then to the cafeterias exit, blue orbs settling on the guard that had stayed.

"You, what the f*ck is going on over there?!" The guard asked, not feeling too terribly pleasant as the Russian came up to him, pointing back at the commotion, feigning a sense of urgency.

"Someone's been stabbed by one of your friends," Foka informed the guard, who reached for his gun defensively. It was roughly four steps before Foka reached the guard. There was enough time to draw, but the pistol was pushed out of the way as the distance was closed, a strong hand gripping the mans wrist. A second hand flew into the guards nose in the form of a fist, cartilage destroyed and blood gushing from his nostrils. It happened twice, the third strike being a move to break his neck, snapping the guards head around. He didn't fall, but was lowered to the floor before Foka raided the corpses uniform, taking both the pistol and taser, along with the mans radio. Glazed, brown eyes continued to watch the ensuing chaos as Father Russia left to pay the warden a visit.

***
 
Mal lay, content for a second, feeling the hard, cold floor beneath her spine and legs and arms and fingers, quite certain her part of the plan was done. Well. Aside from the escape part. But she was pretty sure she'd bought herself whatever assistance she might need on the way out. Sean had certainly been surprised enough by her actions, but if she played her cards right, she might be able to get a few more hours help out of him.

Now. In the meantime.

Behind her and over her head, the many tables in the cafeteria fell quiet, save for some whispers here and there. Perfect. Several pairs of booted feet appeared around her head -- those would be the other guards, called away from their posts, however temporarily. Mal shot the briefest of looks towards Sean -- he and whoever else was involved needed to be collecting weaponry now -- before returning to her act. Well. It was mostly an act.

She pressed one hand to her stomach and let the instinctive whimper of pain lodged in her throat bubble to the surface. The blade, now safely tucked away in the pocket of her jumpsuit, had been sharp, but short. The damage was quick and clean, and as long as she bandaged and stitched it soon, she'd be fine. Sore for a couple days, maybe, but better to be sore and free than whole and in this hellhole of a prison.

She whimpered again as she applied some pressure to the wound, feeling hot blood sticky her fingers.

"H-h-he stabbed me," she squealed, making every attempt to look younger than her twenty-five years. "I d-didn't...w-want to kiss him, and he stabbed me!"

The guard she'd kissed pale and ran a hand over his rough buzz cut. "What? No! That bitch is lying, she came on to me, she -- "

"Stabbed herself?" finished one of the guards, incredulous and impatient. "Shit. Where the f*ck is medical? This girl is bleeding out. D'amico, get the hell out of here."

"But -- "

"Go! Find the doc, haul his ass up here. This girl dies, it's on you, and we're all f*cked."

Another pair of boots appeared...and swore at the growing puddle of blood. Mal had to fight to keep a smile from her face. This was going to be easier than she thought. A few seconds of pain, a little time on the ground, maybe a little nap...

Wait. Nap? No. No. Focus, Mal.

She gave a weak moan that wasn't entirely faked and tried to sit up. Almost at once a hand came down on her shoulder.

"Whoa, there girly," came a rough voice with an accent reminiscent of some big east coast city back on Earth, in the States. "Stay down. Here." Something, an old cloth, was shoved into her hand, and the hand was pressed too hard against the wound. Mal's body spasmed and she let out a tiny yelp of pain.

"Yeah, I know," said the voice unsympathetically. "It's that or die. The rest of you," the guard went on, straightening to talk to the rest of the cafeteria, now buzzing with movement and gossip. "You get back to your cells."

"The hell we will!" came a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. Or maybe that was the buzzing in her ears. Hard to say. "How do we know you won't do us like her!"

"Yeah!" echoed a second voice. "Seems the cafe ain't safe for no one no more."

There was a murmur of agreement, then dissent. An argument broke out, then another. Mal smiled and closed her eyes as the guards began to shout to be heard over the commotion.

"Inmates! If you don't return to your cells now -- "

"Why don't you make us?" A cheer. Glass being broken. A tray being thrown. And then...chaos.

Mal chuckled weakly to herself. Check and mate.
 
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Sean had been pushed out of the circle of guards, unimportant along with the other curious onlookers -- most of whom were all a part of the general plan. The few master pickpockets stole the guns and tasers, selectively divvying them up. By that time, Max and the older woman had realized what she was doing, and gave a silent signal, starting the chain reaction that steered the building tension in the right direction. It was beautiful.

Inmates who had them, pulled out their shanks, and those with guns drew them, the more bold convicts shooting on sight, intending to take out the guards who did have guns. The plan spread even more during the chaos, convicts who knew warning those who didn't, and just a hint of organization evolved from it all.

***

By the time the real commotion broke out, Foka was already gone, making his way through the corridors. It would take him a minute or two to get to the wardens office, but he didn't seem worried. Instead, determination was written on his face.

***

Large, thick hands came down on Mal, one hand putting a steady pressure on the wound.

"What's your name?" Asked the raspy voice that belonged to Max, the Hulk. He looked down at her, looking her over, trying to determine if he should even attempt to move her. Given the situation, however, the giant decided that the infirmary would be the best place for her. It was just a ways down the hall.

***

The door to the office burst open and crashed against the wall. The startled warden looked up from his desk just in time to get the barrel of Foka's pistol in his face.

"Good morning, varden," Foka greeted, prodding the older man by his forehead. The warden had grey hair and a grey beard, and piercing green eyes that nearly matched Father Russia's blue ones in intensity -- though not in murderous intent. The older man held his hands up, standing from his seat to address the criminal standing before him.

"What do you want?" He asked, his emerald glare being as sharp as knives.

"I need key to your ship."

"I'm afraid I can't give that particular information to you, is there any-"

Bang! The wardens right leg buckled under him and he fell forward, barely able to catch himself on his desk, a stack of papers falling off the side to land, scattered on the floor. "I need key," Foka stated again, reaching over the desk to grab the injured warden by the collar of his uniform. They glared at each other, intensity burning behind their eyes. Foka had one thing going for him though....
 
"Why is that everyone's first question?" Mal snapped impatiently as the Hulk loomed over her.

Or she tried to, at least. The second one of those hefty slabs of meat he used as hands came down on her belly, she tensed and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. She wasn't dizzy from blood loss, quite, but she was, maybe, possibly, a little light-headed, and so the question came out more like this:

"W-why...why's that...why's everyone's first question?"

If she got an answer, she didn't hear it. She let Hulk haul her to her feet, then pushed him away with all the strength she could muster, both her own hands clamped over her belly. She wasn't worried. Sure, she'd just been knifed in the stomach, but she'd survived much worse for much longer in the past. And as soon as she sat down for a few minutes, she was going to find a way out of here. She'd done her part in this whole jailbreak routine. She was pretty sure she'd purchased herself a full ride ticket to freedom.

That did not, however, mean following around strangers just yet. She'd seen Hulk talking to Foka, but that didn't mean she was ready to trust any of them. All she knew was that Foka was the central icon here. If anyone was getting out, it was him. Which meant he was the one to follow.

All around her, the cafeteria had devolved into madness. She thought she heard gunshots, shouting. Breaking glass. Things weren't going to get much more chaotic without any backup the prison had showing up.

She turned to Hulk again and made her voice as hard as she could.

"Look," she said slowly. "I'll make you a deal. My name if you tell me where your boss is. Got it? You got two seconds to decide, Hulk. Time is not on our side here."
 
"Foka is procuring a ship, a way out," Max summarized for her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Don't exert yourself," he warned.

***

The side of the Wardens head slammed against the desk for the last time, leaving the man unconcious while Foka made his escape. He was free to go, and only had a few more things on his to-do list. Collect Mal, a few supplies, then get to the ship. Get the Hell out of Dodge.

Foka strode back down the hall, his pace quick, rushed. It was a few minutes later when he finally made it back to the cafeteria, and he couldn't help but to grin to himself, just a hint of pride showing on his face. A rough hand gripped the pistol that was stored in the pocket of his orange jumpsuit, and then he began to make his way through the chaos. He bumped into a few inmates who were too preoccupied to stop and chat, and the one guard who tripped at his feet was then expired.

"Lisa!" Foka called to the older-looking lady, who, for the most part, managed to dodge bodies and fists alike. She perked up when she heard her name, and made her way to him, smiling broadly.

"Ah, darling," she nearly purred, wrapping her thin arms around his neck. Her cigarette had run out a while ago. "Did you bring me anything?" Foka slipped the taser to her, dropping it in the pocket of her prison garb.

"Where are others?" Foka asked, being sure to keep his eyes on the bustling crowd. At one point, he pulled Lisa to the side, avoiding a guard who hit the floor where they had been standing.

"Your new girlfriend is over by the door with Max, and Sean, well, he's around here somewhere."

Having the information he needed, Foka went to leave the woman, but she held on to him.

"Oh, come on baby, one kiss before you go," she murmured, leaning up and pressing her lips on him. Surprisingly, he returned the favor, just long enough for her to let go of him. There was something there, something that obviously wouldn't go on, something that wasn't very much, but Lisa enjoyed it for the next several minutes. "Oh! Foka!" She called, grabbing his wrist and placing something in his hand. "I hope you two make it out of here, darling."

***

"Max, can she be moved?" Asked the familiar, Russian accent. Foka glanced down at Mal, then to Max.

"Yeah, but she's going to need support," Max replied. "I'll carry her, if you can get me to the next port town."

"That vill vork," Foka nodded. "There should be medical supplies on ship." After that, Max lifted the young woman up, carrying her bridal style as Foka led them from the cafeteria, to where the wardens ship was docked.
 
Mal moved so quickly, anyone not looking directly at her would not never guessed she'd just been stabbed.

Physical combat had never been her forte. But a girl in her business knew how to protect herself.

Hulk's hand came down on own shoulder, and though she couldn't feel a threat in it, her instincts were heightened, paper thin, and riding the blade's edge. She was in a new place, in a high-intensity situation. Hulk was a big man, certainly larger than she, and on top of it all, she was injured, bleeding. What normally might have been a slap on the wrist quickly escalated to something else, and all in one fluid movement, Mal turned, yanked the Hulk's hand away, and twisted his wrist. A few more pounds of pressure in any direction would shatter it.

Mal's eyes were cold, hard, and the cool demeanor she'd held since her arrival in the prison was gone.

"Don't," she warned, even as she paled suddenly, "touch me, Hulk. One warning."

The moment was wasted a second later when her own too-quick movements made her head spin. She reached out to brace herself against a wall, catching Hulk's arm instead, and quickly righted herself as though nothing had happened.

She was, perhaps, bleeding out just a teensy bit faster than expected. And that, or the pain, made her dizzy. She swallowed hard, still glaring, albeit less threateningly, at Hulk. She was going to need to lie down soon.

"Look," she spat after a moment. "You get me out of here, we can forget this whole thing ever -- "

And then something must have happened. She'd only closed her eyes for a second, but all at once, Foka was there, leading her and Hulk down a gangplank...and Hulk was carrying her. How the hell had that happened? She didn't want the guy touching her, let alone dictating where she went.

"H-hey," she started, though he showed no sign of hearing her. She started to disengage herself from his grip, but his earlier warning proved true as the sudden movement brought forth a fresh spurt of blood that made Mal feel sick to her stomach.

She held her breath to keep from whimpering -- hell if this asshole was going to see her cry -- and reapplied the now sodden cloth over the wound. She thought she'd heard someone say something about medical supplies. Good. Soon as she taped herself up, she was out of here.
 
Foka slid into the pilots seat of the ship, waving his hands over the controls to wake everything up, while Max laid Mal down across a seat that was situated along the vessels wall.

"Engage engine," Foka commanded of the ship, his eyes scanning over the console.

"Voice recognition, not authorized," the computer countered, in a female voice. "Please provide passcode."

Nothing else was exchanged between Father Russia and the wardens ship, as Foka entered the key for the override. He knew better than to try and give so many voice commands to a ship that was not Russian.

Meanwhile, Max had located the first aid, and switched out the blood-soaked cloth for a fresh one. "Keep applying pressure," he warned Mal, sifting through the case which held the other, useful tools. He set aside a pile of bandages, a couple bottles of pills -- pain relievers and antibiotics, and some sort of staple gun. He poured two, white pills into his hand and held them out for Mal. "Take these, they'll help with the pain."

"Ho' is she?" Foka asked, though he kept his eyes on the console and the view screen. The world outside was already bright, with a surface that almost looked like Mars. For the moment, they weren't being chased -- the guards likely still had their hands full.
 
Mal eyed the offered medication suspiciously. Or as suspiciously as she could manage. The trip to the commandeered ship hadn't been long, but Mal was losing blood faster than she'd anticipated, and even being off her feet for a few minutes had been heaven. Nice enough, almost, to take a nap. Which of course she wouldn't do, because that was suicide around these hopped up strangers, and anyway, she didn't need to.

Still, it might be a bit easier to think if she could take her mind off the pain for a few minutes. Unless of course this idiot was offering to poison her or something.

She scowled at the pills, and then the Hulk. "I'm...I'm not stupid, you know," she said scathingly. Scathingly-ish. "And I don't need your help, and I don't need -- " The ship jolted just slightly as Foka maneuvered it into empty air space. Mal closed her eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass, fully aware her formerly intimidating demeanor was fading fast. So, she'd bought them a way out. But her 'plan', done in haste and frustration, had perhaps not been her best work.

She felt herself slipping and pressed down harder on the wound, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth. She eyed the man and his offering a moment longer before giving in and snatching the pills from his hand, throwing them back dry.

Somewhere behind her, Foka asked how she was.

"Yo, Father Russia, I'm right here, asshole," she said. "And I'm fine, so you...you..." She trailed off more a moment, leaning back a bit to ease some of the pain in her abdomen. Her hand, now stained with her own blood, slipped away from the wound, but she didn't really want to keep pressure on it anymore. Pressure hurt. And she was tired, anyway.

So, maybe that nap after all. But, like, a really short nap.

"Mind your own business," she finished faintly. "And you're welcome."
 
Max had ignored her glares, being able to, for the most part, understand where she was coming from. He waited until she was unconscious before going to work on the knife wound. "She's out," he told Foka. Taking a pair of rubber gloves from the first aid kit, he put them on, though they were barely large enough for his hands. Then he took the staple gun, pushing her top out of the way before using it to close the wound most of the way, having to use only a few staples. The cloth was reapplied, and he used medical tape to keep it down.

In the back of his mind, Foka did worry for the young woman, though she wasn't the very first thing on his list of things to fret about. The deal was that she would get away with her life, and considering what her plan did for them, her welfare was important. To an extent, of course.

"Is there some'vhere in particular you vant to go?" Foka asked his companion, the Hulk, finally looking over his shoulder to see the two in the passenger compartment. They had just left the planets atmosphere, and were finally beyond the reach of natural gravity.

"Anywhere where I can bargain for another ride," Max replied, coming over to sit in the co-pilots seat after he had made sure that Mal wasn't going to fall from where he had laid her down. "You're going to want to get a different ship, you know..."

Foka nodded, running his hands over the console again, engaging the auto pilot.

It was good to sit back, to be free again. The last two years had not been the most pleasant, but they were better than what many people said he deserved. They were better than what he was on his way to.

I hereby sentence you to death row.

Obviously.

"... Vhat are you going to do?" Foka asked, his disheveled hair pressed against the cushioned chair as he sat back, letting his shoulders sag.

Max looked at him for a moment, wondering what had brought such a question from a man like who was sitting in the next seat. "I'm going to get back to my family, sooner or later," Max shrugged, rubbing a meaty hand over his tattoo of the naked woman. "I want to get to see my girl and our baby..."

***

The gangplank was lowered back down, stirring up the dust and the dirt as the air around the ship shifted. The place where they touched down was quaint, old school. There was nothing but desert for miles around, nothing past the small town, not another living soul.
As for the town, there was a bar, a grocery store, a few homes spattered here and there, and a place for larger ships to dock. The place was a pit stop.

Max stepped out into the blazing light, shading his eyes. He had almost nothing with him, except for his clothes and the credits he had earned working in the prison tucked away in his pocket. It was a start.

"Good luck," Foka called down after him, leaning against the frame of the ship. The Hulk turned and waved before stepping off of the metal of the plank. The door went to close behind him.

Father Russia turned back to the interior of the vessel, looking about, evaluating what he had to work with. A good ship, which was a dead giveaway. A few rations stacked away in some compartment. First aid. And a woman passed out on the seats with a stab wound.

There was food, she had almost nothing to worry about. They could take off and find a planet that was farther from the prison than this.

"Computer, engage engines," Foka commanded of the ship, who had no more problems with her new master. The thrusters fired up almost effortlessly, and the two humanoids started back up. It was far too good of a ship.

***
 
The pain medication was stronger than she'd guessed. She went straight from alert and hurting to unconscious without passing through any sort of giddy high to let her know she ought to get gone. Whether she'd have preferred to be semi-conscious, bleeding, and wandering the streets outside the prison, but safely on her own or bandaged and knocked out on a strange ship with stranger men didn't much matter, because she was unconscious before she could decide.

Even so, Mal was Mal, and Mal had been training herself for years to sleep with one eye open. Just three hours after finally succumbing to the painkillers, she was fighting the silky smooth draw of sleep to claw her way to a doped up surface. Not quite awake, she half turned in her sleep, brining herself to the edge of the seats and nearly tumbling off before catching herself on instinct.

The movement jogged her newly-stapled wound, and the girl hissed and whimpered before the pain woke her up.

Lying on her back, staring up at the ship's vaulted ceiling, she fell back on an old practice, tensing herself, alerting herself to every part of her surroundings before moving and giving up her own vulnerability. She could tell almost at once she was on a ship. She could hear the hum of the engine, feel the gentle, almost soothing vibration along her spine, felt herself slowly blacking out again, and made herself sit up.

The second burst of pain across her tender tummy was enough to bring back her memory, though it did little to help her understand where exactly she was. On a commandeered ship with a handful of convicts, okay. But where? it was clear the ship was moving, presumably away from the prison, which was all for the best. Even better, the men she'd escaped with appeared, for the most part, to have left her be, save for tending to her wound. Swallowing a wince, she looked down at her blood-stained shirt and made a face. She'd have to change, and soon. An orange prison jumpsuit and a shirt sporting a bloody stab wound would not bring any good PR her way.

After several, slightly dazed and/or hungover moments just leaning up against the wall and staring at her feet, Mal remembered she was on a ship. And the ship was moving. Which probably, barring entirely possible VI navigation, meant someone was piloting.

Blinking dumbly, she turned and squinted up to the front of the cockpit. She could tell by her shoulders who her new travel companion was.

Fantastic.

Scowling -- or trying to scowl; she'd forced herself awake, but the drugs hadn't quite left her system yet -- she stood slowly and tottered over to the empty copilot's seat before her legs gave out again. She sat down hard and stared at the ship controls, then Foka.

She blinked again and yawned, then said, in a tone as unceremonious as any she'd ever heard: "Where're we going? I hate road trips."
 
The time Foka spent with himself while Mal was unconcious was as quiet as could be expected. He had barely paid her any attention, except to occasionally turn around and make sure she was still breathing. Her breathing on her own was a good thing, especially considering that she would probably have his hide if she found out he had had to preform CPR.

When she finally came to, Foka had kept quiet on purpose, staying at the helm. When She came over and seated herself in the next chair over, he turned slightly to look at her, examining her condition. Drugged, most likely still in pain, and not doing her wound any form of good.

"Vhat are you doing?" He asked in a chiding tone, turning back to the console to enter course corrections before leaving the computer to drive the ship. "Moving will do you no good. And ve're going someplace vhere ve can sell this ship. Get different one."
 
Mal studied the strange man's face for long enough for the average person to feel uncomfortable before dissolving into uncharacteristic giggles.

"Ve're already moving, genius," she said gesturing to a ship. "Flying first class," she pointed to the flight console, "is not gonna do me in any qvicker than flying coach," she finished, jerking a thumb over her head to point at the seat where she'd crashed a few hours before.

"Besides, I still don't know vhere ve're going. Hell if I let you fly us into an asteroid." She winced a little, then leaned back and kicked her feet up on the console. "You're gonna vant my help."
 
Foka looked back at her for a moment, leaning back in his chair. When she broke out in giggles, he pretty much summed it up to the pain-killers, and looked instead to the console, double-checking the stats.

The ship had artificial gravity, so he knew that she was simply going to give him a hard time when she mentioned how they were already moving. He had made sure she had survived this far. If she wanted to rip her wound right back open, then there's just be more to work with. Medically, or for culinary purposes, would be decided later.

Her constant mocking of his Russian accent was grating on his nerves though. But, for the moment, he could take her teasing. He'd let her know when it was time to stop.

"I kno' vhere ve're going," he partially scolded, though his voice was calm. "It is not specific asteroid, either. There is junkyard, five hours from here. Near Jupiter."
 
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