Carrion Dawn

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"Don't really care what you do," said the man pinning Mal to the wall. His knee was between her legs, and she could feel him pressed entirely too close to her. She wondered if he could feel her heart racing. She'd been sleeping with strangers for years now. There was nothing to give away anymore, so secrets, no sanctity. But she'd been sleeping with men on her terms, for very specific, very private reasons.

"We don't know what you're talking about," she said coldly, and was ashamed to hear just the slightest tremor of fear in her voice. No. No. It was too early to be falling apart. She knew men like this. Men like this were not really men at all. They were monsters. Parasites who fed, thrived on fear. Grew strong off the tang of iron in the back of her throat. Was she shaking? God, she hoped she wasn't shaking. Let the other two men take her. Let them snap fingers or shove her head in a bucket of water. Anything but this.

The man threw back his head an laughed. "I was hopin' you'd say that." He glanced back at his comrades, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the blonde man and the man with the bloody arm. "This here's Benny. Handsome devil your friend here near tried to eat, that's the Professor. He used to be a teacher, see? Real smart and all that. Me? I'm Tex. I figure you got some time with me tryin'ta git this here Catalyst location outta ya the easy way. And if that don't work, well, then, my buddies here can be pretty convincing, too."
 
Father Russia was liking the situation less and less. His head stung, so it would be a lie if he had said he was paying attention. He caught on to some important facts, however. Facts such as what the man, Tax, planned on doing with Mal. In his confused mind, he pictured such a thing as... Not entirely unpleasant for her, with how she had evidently been screwing men for however long. But, was that fear he heard?

"Well," the Professor started, yanking Foka's head back by his hair so he could look down at his captive. "Unlike your pretty friend over there, you don't get an 'easy way'. I don't fuck guys."

Foka was hauled over to the corner of the room, a greasy hand still in his tangled hair. When they stopped, the Professor reached down to search through a grey duffle bag. His arm was mangled, but he could still use his hand. He produced a large pair of pliers, hedge clippers, rope, and a cattle prod. These were placed off to the side while he took the rope and tightly tied Foka's hands behind his back. The rope was old and splintery, and dug into his wrists, but he didn't complain. Instead, he looked back, over his shoulder to see Mal, Tax pressed against her. Sooner or later, this Prof. would slip, and he'd loose the rest of his arm. And then it was going to be Tax.

Foka's plotting was cut short when his arms were abruptly yanked up, ligaments being strained from the unnatural direction. The rope had been tossed up, over a pipe which was used as a focal point. He yelped, struggling at first -- until he realized moving was only making it worse, the tension on the rope was consistent. Of course, the Professor pulled down harder then, Foka having to stand on his toes to keep from putting all of his weight on his strained shoulders.

Everything about this situation was bad, and although his head still ached and things were still somewhat clouded, he could understand that much.

"Benny, why don't you grab the pliers?"
 
Mal didn't speak, or move, or blink or even breathe. She was thinking. That was what she did, who she was. She was a planner. She didn't fuck men and monsters for fun. She did it with a purpose, with a plan. And she'd find a purpose here, too. She'd find a way to escape, she'd claw her way out if she had to, and she'd get back to Mars and lay low for a while, and then...then she could figure out the rest. Right now was fight or flight. Right now was survival.

She swallowed a whimper at the back of her throat as Tex pushed up against her. His lips were at his neck, giving her a clear line of sight over his shoulder. Benny and the Professor had Foka tied up like an animal, and he was just watching her, both their expressions so carefully blank. So, what? Were they on the same team again? By choice, or by circumstance? She knew he wanted to be here about as much as she did. If this was a trap, he was playing his part well, and if it came down to it, she'd leave him to save herself. She knew she would. But she couldn't quite forget, either, that sound he'd made as the rope threatened to yank his arms from their sockets.

Neither, apparently, could Tex.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Let's leave the men to their business. You 'n' me gots plenty other stuff to do. Let's git you cleaned up first, alright?"

He eased off of her, and she reacted on instinct, though she couldn't say her actions would have been any different otherwise. Maybe she already understood fighting back now was futile. No, she needed a real plan to get out of here, not just hysterics. Still. The yowl Tex let out as she drove her knee into his crotch was satisfying. She'd keep the sound on loop in her head if...when things got worse.

She looked up at Foka again, maybe about to say something, or maybe just to stare blankly again, to wonder at the blood around his chin and mouth, about that Tex had said about eating...but her attention was diverted again when Tex planted a beefy fist in her stomach, exactly where the staples holding her belly together had been.

She screamed -- she couldn't help it -- and her legs went out from underneath her. She slid to the floor, trying to breathe, and Tex raised his eyes to her, him crouching, her reeling on the floor, both of them at the same level now.

"Got a lil fight you," he sneered, running a hand through her hair before it tightened to a fist and yanked her back to her feet again. "Good. I like that."

The panel in the wall slid open, and then the pair were gone.
 
The look Foka found on Mal's face made his heart pound in it's now fragile cage, despite his rather withdrawn expression. He saw what was happening in her eyes, when he looked. He purposefully ignored the two men closest to him, Benny coming around with the industrial-size pliers, and instead watched as Mal and Tex started to leave. She sent her knee right into the mans jewels, and he thought that was good. Up until he saw Mal take a fist to the gut. Foka flinched for her when she screamed, the toes of his boots slipping, and he almost lost his balance. The strain was agonizing.

Benny and the Prof. Watched until their leader was gone, with his prize, then turned back to their plaything. There was another hard tug on the rope, and Foka's feet left the floor. He bit his lip, grunting against the strain.

"You've got a minute or two until your shoulders pop. I could let you down before then. So, do you know where the catalyst is?" The man with the bad arm asked. Foka barked something in Russian, which sounded all too vulgar. Benny socked him in the face for it, scraping his right cheek over the cheekbone. Father Russia swung a bit, then it happened with a loud POP! and his right shoulder came out of place, quickly followed by the left. He screamed as the pain receptors in his brain suddenly cleared up to receive the blaring message. He felt sick, looking up to see his hands over his head, where they weren't actually supposed to be. "So sorry 'bout that. Do you think you can remember anything now?"

Father Russia shook his head, a pained expression on his face.

"Fine." Prof. let go of the rope, and Foka dropped to the floor, his knees buckling and his arms falling back limply. Benny came up behind him with the pliers, taking his right hand and looking it over. The two looked to each other, and the Professor stood and put a boot in the middle of Foka's back, pushing him down into the floor while the ropes were untied. He kicked a bit, shifted, though his arms were rendered practically useless. Benny took the pliers to Foka's thumb first, gripping the nail firmly. Under the large, dirty boot, Father Russia tried to breath, gritting his teeth as he turned his head in the opposite direction. He didn't feel he need to see what was happening. He could feel the searing pain of having his nails ripped out just well enough...
 
Tex led Mal through a maze long enough she doubted they were on a ship, which, in any other instance, would have had her guessing at where their ship -- or rather, hers -- was, whether they were planetside, and if so, which one, or on a space station; how long she'd been out; what her best route of escape was. She tried to mark the hallways and doorways they passed but she was dizzy and her heart was pounding, and they all looked alike. And wherever it was they were going, it wasn't far enough, or fast enough to avoid hearing Foka's screams.

"What are they doing to him?" she asked dully. It wasn't that she felt beholden to him, precisely. But she recognized he was her greatest asset here, and even if he was in on this scheme, he was of more use to her alive than dead. That, and it took a special kind of monster to hear a man screaming like that and not flinch.

Tex laughed and tightened the grip he had on her upper arm.

"Trust me, sweetheart, you don't wanna know. Hell, you two cooperate, might be you never have to find out."

Mal took a quick breath and braced herself for whatever was about to happen. She stopped, let Tex run into her, simultaneously guiding her heel toward his instep. When he bucked over, clutching his foot with both hands, she sped by him, knocking him over in the process. She was only a little surprised when he went sprawling, grabbed her ankle as she darted away, and then returned the favor. She landed hard, knocking the wind out of herself, but already kicking back, and by some luck, broke his nose with the ball of her foot. He rolled away and she scrambled to her feet again, and if she'd been paying attention to where they were going, instead of trying to block out Foka's screams from her head, she might have made it further than the end of the hallway before freezing up again.

But she wasn't, and she didn't, and she knew when she felt the arm come around her waist a second later, she wouldn't have a chance like that again. Her next best hope was that she'd die here. And soon.

Then Tex slammed her up against the wall again and when her vision cleared, she could see he was thinking the same thing. There was an unstable rage there. She could use that. She just had to hold out.

Tex leaned in close. He was smiling, the lower half of his face nearly obscured by blood. But she could see his eyes, and there was no mirth there whatsoever. Mal held his gaze evenly. She knew she would pay for this. She knew she would hurt in every way he could make her hurt, and it scared her. But she also knew this, this fragile pride, was the only way through to him. She'd scored a hit on him, and it was maybe the only one she'd ever get, and she was going to enjoy it.

"Missed a spot," she said calmly. And then she flinched as ex punched the wall half an inch from her face. Tex laughed, but again, it was a mirthless sound.

"Fool me once, shame on you, darlin'," he drawled, his voice altered by his broken nose. "Fool me twice, and you'll fuckin' pay." He smiled and looked her up and down, and wrapped one beefy hand around her chin so she couldn't turn away while he kissed her. She tasted blood and felt her stomach rebel. Other than that, she stayed completely still until Tex pulled away. She could feel fresh blood on her face and lips and tongue.

"On the plus side, looks like we'll both be needin' that shower now. Lucky me."
 
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***

Father Russia was shoved into the room and tripped over one of his own boots, which had nearly fallen off anyways. He hit the floor with a thud!, and stayed where he landed, laying face down and waiting for his head to catch up with the rest of him. The metal door was closed and locked after. The lights were dim, like back in the older cell, with just one lamp that flickered occasionally. Water pooled around his head where his disheveled hair had soaked it up before like a sponge, droplets falling off his brow and nose. His white t-shirt had blood and rips and holes, and was nearly as soaked as his hair.

Wether he was the first one in the room, or wether Mal was there, or if she was even ever going to show up, he wasn't sure. Part of him, a part that received no attention for the moment, could picture her there, with that man, Tex, and at any other time, such a thought could have sent shivers down his spine. No, any shivers that ran through him were from the cold water that had soaked him through. He could still feel a burning in his sinuses.

A right hand slid out from under him and wrapped around the top of his head, resting his forehead on his forearm. His left arm was limp at his side, didn't move, just hung there like a stiff rope. His breathing was ragged, his ribs bruised and cracked. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. His throat was raw, so it hurt to talk. It hurt to think. So, without thinking, he lifted himself off the floor just enough to pull his legs in to sit up, using his right hand to keep himself there as he leaned back, looking around.
 
Technically, Mal was there. Physically, she sat in that cold, dark cell, quietly balled up in the corner furthest from that door. Some part of her must have been there, because when she heard footsteps coming, her heart began to race, pounding against the inside of her chest so hard it hurt. Fear, or something like it, wrapped around her windpipe so efficiently, so quickly, there wasn't even time for a whimper, only hoarse, whistling wheezes, barely discernible in that dead space, but still too much noise, far too much, because someone might hear, might know, might remember she was there, and then --

She'd rammed the fleshy part of her palm into her mouth and buried her face in her knees to stifle the sound. She tasted blood, but she couldn't remember whose or where from. She guessed it didn't matter. She was breathing so quickly now, her head was spinning. The breathing, it hurt. Everything hurt. She was sore, countless bruises littering her arms and legs, bruises and bite marks and worse on her shoulders and chest and stomach. Bruises around her neck. Bruises...other places. She'd hit her head at some point.

It hurt to breathe, and she didn't feel a thing, because the footsteps were getting closer, and she was feeling light-headed from the hyperventilation now. Maybe she would pass out. She wanted to pass out. Then it wouldn't matter if, when he came again, she wouldn't be here, or there, or anywhere, she'd just be gone, and if she never came back, it'd be okay with her.

When the door swung open, she thought she might explode, but instead, she froze. Like a fucking proverbial deer in the headlights, she just stopped and waited for the end to come.

Someone stumbled into the cell and Mal cringed away expecting the worst. Whoever it was never made it to her, collapsing in a heap without so much as recognizing her presence.

She stayed frozen, willing herself to sink into the shadows, knowing it was probably a ploy. The second she relaxed, he would lunge at her again, and...and...

She was never sure how long she stayed like that, just waiting for him to come after her again. She knew he would. Nothing deterred him. She had made it hard for him at first, for all it had cost her. There had been more pain that way, more rage and retaliation, but he was angry, so she was glad.

But he was tenacious, too, and when her energy was finally spent, she lapsed into stubborn silence, refusing to cry, refusing to scream, refusing to feel anything at all. And then her obstinance had come and gone, and she had screamed and screamed until even the screaming seemed like a mercy, and then she couldn't scream anymore.

When at last he finished with her, when he'd retreated saying she 'would be more fun tomorrow' after he had 'slept her off', he'd taken her back to the cell. She hadn't fought, and it had delighted him. He'd laughed and he'd teased, and just before throwing her into the darkness, he'd pinned her to the wall again, and she'd been coherent enough to flinch as he kissed her.

She'd bitten his tongue. He sent her reeling with the back of his hand. Her right eye was swollen shut already. And he'd laughed and said, "There's that fight, girl. We'll work on the Catalyst again once you got your energy up."

And now here she was, and here he was, and had it really been all night? What time was it? She was tired, she was so tired, but she couldn't sleep, doubted she could even lay down again without --

Her hair was still dripping wet from her shower, but it had gone cold now, leaving her shivering slightly in the dark. The blood was gone from her face, but she'd had only her ripped and bloodied jailbreak clothes to put back on -- and she had, gladly.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed before she came back to herself enough to realize the figure on the floor was Foka, and not Tex.

Not that it mattered.

Without uncurling from her defensive position, her back tucked into a corner, knees to her chin, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, the rolled the water bottle they'd left for her to the center of the room.

"They said we have to drink."
 
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Once he found her, he didn't take his eyes off her. There was something familiar, something in her eyes he had seen before. Once, twice -- no, it was his black eye and exhausted pain receptors making him see things. Things, however, he couldn't just ignore. How many times had he been the cause of such traumatized faces? How many times had he heard those same sorts of sounds, begging, pleading. It differed from case to case, but begging was begging, and it all sounded the same to his ears. Wether it was a cry of 'harder!', or 'stop!', or even 'I want to live!'. Begging was begging. Foka wondered if Mal had begged, or even if Molly had begged. For more, or for it to stop, it didn't matter.

Foka sat forward, wincing from the protests of his aching ribs. He looked down at his right hand, blood soaked and swollen. They had ripped out each of his fingernails, leaving his fingertips over-sensitive and hot, the way some wounds were. He turned his palm down, his stomach turning at the sight. He looked to the water bottle, and decided he wasn't even willing to try to open it. The way that felt, that he wasn't even going to try, made him angry. He felt a deep, boiling distain towards the man who had strung him up, to the 'Benny' who had wrecked his hands. His hands, although large and calloused, were capable of creating art; culinary masterpieces. Since when could he be reduced to being so unwilling to even try to open a fucking water bottle?

Father Russia almost snarled, but he remembered the trembling woman who had pressed herself into a corner. What did that feel like? Ice blue eyes shot back to her, to the way she sat with her knees pressed to her chest, trying to be as small and unnoticeable as she could. That same feeling of familiarity came back, and then he saw her as something more than a woman who had cowered, laying on a butcher table. It was an older sense of déjà-vu. Almost like something he himself had gone through.

"I don't need it," he said, his Russian accent laden with a tired rasp. Using his three good limbs, he scooted a little closer, just close enough to reach the bottle of water, and roll it back to her. It stopped at her feet.
 
Talking hurt, but it seemed to help, so she kept doing it.

"We don't know how long we'll be here," Mal said, and there was no argument or annoyance in her voice, just plain and simple fact. Yes, talking was good. Talk was easy and straightforward and required nothing of her but her body. And she was tired and sore, but that was better than thinking or remembering. Statements, honest, impartial facts. Those were good. Those were easy. Those would save her.

"And we don't know if we'll get more," she went on, pleased that her talking had kept her from flinching as the water bottle rolled to a stop in front of her toes. "And we don't know what they'll do to us tomo -- " Then her voice gave out and she had to hold her breath to keep from letting a whimper take its place.

Carefully, slowly, her eyes on Foka, she reached out and took the water bottle and opened it and held it out to him. Maybe she ought to feel lucky. Well, no. No feeling, no feeling anything. But facts, those were okay. And the fact was, Foka looked much, much worse than she did.

His face and chest were bruised, his hair and shirt were wet, but his pants were dry, leading her to believe he'd been forced under a shower of a very different sort. His right hand was a stomach churning mass of blood, but it was his shoulder, and the strange, formless shape it made that would have had her vomiting, had there been anything at all in her stomach.

She pointed and said flatly, "Can you fix that?" They needed to get out of here, and Foka was their muscle. She had to make sure he was okay, or things would only get much, much worse. For both of them.
 
He heard the crack in her, picking up on the agonized line of logic: don't think about it. It had been bad for her, that much was obvious. So, he took the bottle, a slight hint of shame in his eyes that he needed the help with such a trivial thing. He took a sip, then another, then placed it off to the side, careful not to knock it over. After, Foka turned to see his left shoulder. That's right. The pain in either of his shoulders had retreated to a dull, constant ache, at least compared to the burning in his hands, or the feeling that his rib cage was going to implode should he breathe too deeply. His arm, that was one of the more bearable sensations he felt.

He took a moment for the drawn-out thoughts to collect, then looked around. Mal likely didn't need him to add anything else to her list of traumas for the day, but he wasn't seeing anything he could use to hold his arm while he put it back in place himself. There were other ways to do it, but he had practically no use of the dislocated limb, which was required. Never before had he felt like he needed so much help, so much assistance with either mundane or important tasks. The men, however many of them there were, they were all going to suffer. Foka knew how to make them hurt, to make them bleed and scream; he had worked with more than just women before. Perhaps, he would show Mal. He could imagine how good it would feel to hurt that man, Tex. The idea of so much adrenaline, of feeling that high -- it was almost better than-

There would be a time when it would become obviously apparent that Foka Alcatraz got off quite differently than the monsters like Tex.

There was a table. With his mind clearing up, Foka felt slightly more creative than before. He clumsily got to his feet, grunting occasionally when he would move the wrong way, feel the ache in his muscles and his ribs, there being the last bit of strain in the ligaments in his left arm as it swayed lamely. He knocked the table over, placing his wrist between the table leg and the wall, and using his thigh to keep everything in place. Bracing himself with a wheezy, deep breath, Foka stood up straight, tugging harshly on his lame arm. There was a sickening pop after a moment followed by a pained snarl, but the abnormal bulge was gone, the joint being put back in place.

Foka groaned, his right hand to his left shoulder as he put his back to the wall,kicking off his loose boot before sliding to the floor. His reddened shirt bunched up around his shoulders, but he wasn't going to move to fix it, and instead just let his head fall back and hit the metal wall with a quiet thud. What was one more bump, hm?

After long moments of controlled breathing, waiting for the nausea to subside, Father Russia turned his head to look at Mal again, the look on his face tired, but his eyes still asked, 'better?'.

Knowing what she had just gone through, part of him realized she would likely be most comfortable if he stayed far away. Another side, though, the part of him that recognized the sensation of trying to become a part of the very wall you sat against, for fear of something or someone finding you, almost wanted to comfort her.

"... Do you know what 'Catalyst' is?" He asked, watching her closely, though not as a predator.
 
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Mal didn't move, or not much, while Foka went about his ministrations. She kept her eyes trained on him, both to ensure he didn't collapse or pass out, and to ensure he didn't get too close. She was certain -- mostly certain -- he wasn't going to attack her, or anything. Even if he did, there wasn't much left to actually do. But she was careful, anyway. She'd let her guard down once already and it had cost them both. She was keenly aware if they died here, it would be her fault.

His muffled grunt of pain -- for his benefit? Or hers? -- made her stomach churn, and when she saw his legs go out from beneath him, she actually twitched forward as if she were going to move. He righted himself, and she found herself unable to uncurl from the ball she'd made. But still. The idea of being alone again in the dark was...unsavory.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the uncapped bottle of water, maybe out of deference, to give him a moment of privacy while he righted himself. She still had the cap in her hand. She should put it back on or risk spilling the water. Maybe when he fell asleep. She was almost sure she could be quiet enough.

In the meantime, there were other things to worry about. She wondered if she could find bandages and antiseptic for her stomach and his hand. Pain killers. The bag she'd packed aboard the Warden's ship was nowhere to be found now, and her normal methods of procurement wouldn't do much good here.

The thought sent another shiver down her spine, and she might have succumbed to the darker way of thinking, to that line of feeling again if he hadn't spoken. His voice made her jump a little but she was glad for it.

This was good. This was logic, fact, pure and simple. This was a way to get out, a way to find out what these men wanted and why and how they could get it and get out and stay alive. This was a puzzle, another mystery, another secret for Mal to find and save and sell. This was anything but that dingy blue bathroom and the shower drain and the screaming...

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I thought you might. Did they...tell you anything about it? T-Tex..." Her breath hitched again and she dug her nails ruthlessly into her palms until she could breathe again. "He told me he thought, he knew, we'd stolen it. That's why we ran. From the prison. Said we've been in cahoots for months. Whatever it is, it's...big. And we're probably fucked." She tried to laugh, and coughed instead.
 
"I've heard of Catlyst, yes... From Varden, in prison," he explained. His knowledge of the thing didn't really include much else. He had heard only snippets of information, one time from actually being in the Wardens office while he was receiving a report. Being such a nuisance, receiving an audience from the older man wasn't too uncommon for Foka. "But, only heard of it... Nothing else."

For a moment, Foka went quiet, trying to think of a way they could tell their captors what they wanted to hear. It wouldn't have been easy, and actually lying may make things worse. So, the only options the two of them had was A. tell them the truth, that they knew nothing other than a name. Or, B. give them a false location. One option involved more beatings, and another landed them back in prison. Foka couldn't do that; his sentence for death row would probably be moved for the very next morning. No point in keeping around such a liability with a knack for troublemaking.

Foka let out a shaky sigh, letting his right hand fall to his lap, jostling a couple metal rings that had been embedded into his chest in choice locations. It hadn't occurred to him before that he should take them out, lest he give his torturers leverage. But, not right now. For now, all Foka wanted to do was to... Stop, breathing. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to do anything else. He felt frustration at the realization, unable to make up his mind between detachment, rebellion, anger, tiredness. In his aggravation he snorted, instantly regretting the notion and pressing the back of his head against the wall with another groan. Just, breathe, right? He focused, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. There were bruises, a couple large ones where the center was red, and then it faded to purple and blue, then finally brown. Those were the worst, but still, they were few. A few more breathes.

"There is place," he started, looking up at the ceiling like he was going to find a script. "In Sectid Territory. Refugees go there... People, like us, can bargain for asylum... have our records erased. That was where I was going to go." The sound of his voice was ragged, tired. He thought fondly of sleep.
 
"I'll keep watch." She blurted it without really thinking. Or rather, without thinking anything but that thought, fueled by others, crueler, sharper, colder and more paranoid, and played and repeat until she had no choice but to blurt it.

"I...I don't mind," Mal added awkwardly, because the veneer was gone, but she could still pretend for her own sake she wasn't scared shitless. She was tired, she guessed, maybe even hungry -- How long had it been since she'd eaten? -- but more than that, she was sore and edgy and anxious and afraid. Terrified. And she knew better than to fall asleep on nights like this. She'd be luky if she woke up screaming. More than like, she'd wake up underneath someone, and that...no, she couldn't handle anymore of that. Not now.

"I'll...figure something out," she tried to amend, all without really looking at him, or the ugly bruises littering his chest. All while staring at the dark space just next to him on the floor.

She'd heard his words about the Catalyst, and they'd stuck with her, and they would, but now there was no room for that, or talk of asylum or sanctuary. Right now, there was just survival. And that would mean at least one of them getting some sleep. And maybe it really was better this way. If she was being logical. If she was right to trust Foka. If he really was on her side, if he really had only 'heard' of the Catalyst, if there really was somewhere to hide, if they really could get out of this.

Then he was their best bet. She could fly them out on any ship they could find, but the wouldn't be going anywhere without his muscle. So, he could sleep. He could sip whatever water they offered. And she would sit and plan and wait and stay awake. Most importantly, she would stay awake.

"I'll keep watch," she finished, almost begging now. "I don't mind. I'm not tired. I'll keep watch, and if they come back...I'll...I'll keep watch."
 
Foka eyed her curiously, a pinch of sympathy nagging at him. The feeling of anxiety almost radiated off of her.

"Mal," he said, as softly as he could manage. "It's going to be all right." It was as reassuring as he could get, sincerity in the blue eye that wasn't obscured by a black and swollen eyelid.

After he had said what he felt he should say, he looked back to the ceiling. He had had nothing to look at but the ceiling for a long time while they were torturing him, pouring ice water up his nose so he couldn't breathe. It had felt like he was drowning. It wasn't a sensation he looked forward to feeling again anytime soon. Yet, he knew it was going to happen. How could he say everything was going to be all right? He knew what was going to happen -- unless they could escape. If they could get out, then it would be all right.

Foka let his mind wander, acknowledging that he didn't have the mental energy to keep it on a positive track. Might as well let his mind go where it wanted.

One thing that kept coming back, was the image of Mal at that beasts mercy. It had hurt her so much. Subconsciously, at least, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of things had happened. He glanced back to Mal from he corner of his eye, saw her troubles and anxieties, and told himself he didn't want to know. His victims were never left to suffer after the damage he inflicted upon them. In his mind, Foka was merciful. As merciful as a cattle rancher could be to put down his cattle before it had a chance to experience the worst there was.

Cattle. There wasn't much for cattle back in Old Moscow. Mother Russia.

"Rossiya," he murmured in Russian, smiling softly to himself. He thought it was somewhat amusing. Earth was unimportant. Russia, America, there wasn't too much difference, now that each country was so minuscule in the great scheme of things. Still, though, he had made a point of learning his homelands anthem. He had even gone through the trouble of singing it quite a few times. In all honesty, there was a special place in his bruised and battered chest for Russia and her hymns. "Rossiya — svyashchennaya nasha derzhava." Foka chuckled, then groaned, his smile replaced by a pained frown as he held his arm over his chest again.
 
Mal let his reassurances, unexpected as they were, wash over her as neutrally as she could. Alright? Alright? How could it be alright? How could he possibly know that? Right now, the brightest promise for tomorrow was a merciful death for both of them. Did he think she hadn't heard his cries of pain? Had he been lucky enough to escape hers? They'd gotten tangled in a web of dangerous conspiracies and lies larger than either of them could guess. There was a galaxy full of killers prepared to hunt them down and, at best, return them to a prison where the Warden wanted them dead. The first group to find them were a bunch of sadists, apparently exhausted only by their own sick inhumanity.

And it figured, too. The biggest secret Mal had ever been a part of, and she was on the wrong side of it. She wanted to die. She was waiting to die.

Okay? No. There would be no 'okay'. And she wasn't about to get her hopes up, either.

Any anger she might have felt fizzled and died when she remember how tired she was, opting to shake her head quietly to herself as she rested her chin on her knees, lazily wondering if Foka was going crazy already. She hoped not. Even if they didn't get out of here, she wasn't sure how much longer she'd survive without him. If nothing else, she could provoke him into killing her.

Recognizing fear had turned her thoughts more fatalistic than...well, ever, she turned her mind off and let herself wander through the bleak, dark landscape of the small cell. She didn't know what Foka was saying, but it was beautiful, in a guttural sort of way. Maybe it was just the way he said it. The tenderness there was unexpected from a man like him.

But then...what did she really know about her fellow captive, anyway?
 
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***

It hadn't taken much longer than for Foka to finish coughing for him to fall asleep. It wasn't a very good rest, but perhaps it would be enough to get him through the next morning, when he was woken up by the sound of heavy boots clopping down the metal hall towards their cell. The swelling in his fingertips had gotten worse, which he had expected, but his head and ribs hurt a little less. His bruised eye was just beginning to heal as well, and he could see just a small bit better.

"How are those hands?" The Professor asked, grabbing Foka by a handful of his hair again. That man had to have had a complex. Foka fell forward onto his left hand, wincing and grabbing his assailants wrist, though his grip was weak, a searing, burning sensation shooting up his own arm. The wrist he had grabbed belonged to the mans good arm. Sooner or later, he was going to loose that one too. Unless, of course, they killed Father Russia first. He knew that such a line of thought was going to do nothing but hurt their chances for survival, but this was still bad. This was a horrid situation, one that there wasn't much of a way out of.

Where was Tex? A completely uncharacteristic thought occurred to him, as he was being pulled to his feet. He should vouch for Mal. He wasn't completely sure why, he wasn't even sure he even had that big of a heart. It was a concussion, at the least. But, having seen her huddled against that dark wall, with her knees to her chest, shivering, stumbling over words. That image was so familiar for whatever reason, and he didn't want to have to see it again.
 
Mal never really slept, but exhaustion rolled over her nonetheless. Tex had been near tireless in ministrations of an entirely different sort, and if she'd been anywhere else -- alone -- she'd have been unconscious from the moment he let her go. But she could not forget he was just down the hall, and the simple fact restated itself every time she felt her head start to tip forward to rest against her knees. So, instead she floated in a grayish haze, dozing on and off, letting pain and fear keep her awake, jumping at every sound that echoed through the otherwise cavernous space.

She couldn't really differentiate between her own exhausted hallucinations and reality when the footsteps came in the morning, and didn't try to. It caused that same spark of panic to brew in her belly, muscles tensing despite the soreness still residing there. Her eyes flicked briefly to Foka when he stirred, and she considered saying something, anything, just for a moment's camaraderie, but the door swung open before she could remember how to make her tongue hurt.

The one called Professor went straight for Foka, and she found herself wincing in sympathy as he dragged the Russian upright. But the moment vanished as first Benny, the Tex pushed in behind him. Benny reached her first, but she hardly even noticed. Her stomach tightened so suddenly, she thought she was going to puke, and when Tex went to his knees before her, she could only stare, still unable to uncurl from the ball she'd been sitting in since he'd left her there yesterday. Eight hours? Ten? Twelve?

"Mornin', lovely. 'ow'd ye sleep, then?" Benny said from somewhere above her. She didn't look away from Tex's slimy gaze.

He laughed. "Bet ya slept like a goddamn babe, didn't ya, girlie? Rode her hard and hung her up dry. Though I ain't about to take all the credit for myself. Yer good at yer job, aintcha, whore? I can tell. Had a coupla sweet dreams myself."

Mal spat. She'd pay for it, she knew. But she hadn't forgotten either Tex was a proud man, and she gleaned some small pleasure in watching that wounded pride flash to anger in his gray eyes.

Quick as a viper, one calloused hand shot out to take her upper arm in a vice-like grip, hauling her to her feet. Mal swallowed hard to keep from crying out as every fiber of her being exacted revenge for taking such a beating yesterday then spending the night, unmoving, in a corner of the cell. Her legs wouldn't hold her at first, but Tex took care of that, too, putting his thigh between her legs as he pressed her to the wall. She tensed immediately, and he laughed.

"Now, y'all two listen up," he said, speaking to Foka and Mal, without ever taking his eyes from her face. "Things're gonna work a little different today. We was all real patient with ya yesterday, considerin'. Today, we're runnin' outta time. So, whichever one a ya can tell us 'bout this here Catalyst first'll walk. The other..." Tex sneered at her and Max felt her pulse quicken.

"Well, the other ain't gonna be quite so lucky, y'hear?"
 
Any struggling Foka had been doing stopped almost instantly. The man, Tax, he needed to die. What he said ruined any thoughts of sharing the information that he did have. He wasn't going to abandon Mal, he wasn't going to abandon himself. Seeing Mal there, curled up on the floor, he finally remembered why it was so familiar. Hiding in that old closet, with his knees pulled to his chest; Foka had been there before. Not for the same reasons, but sometimes, he had been just as afraid.

Foka looked to her as she was pulled up, off the floor, the look in his eyes softer than normal. To anyone else, it may have been his bruised and battered face, the black eye and the various small cuts that littered him, but Foka was going to give her the first chance.
 
Later, Mal wouldn't know whether it was lucky or not she kept the switchblade she'd pulled off the guard back at the prison. Stupid, maybe. Certainly ironic. Ultimately useful. But lucky? That seemed a stretch. Irony was only funny up until a point. And this irony would stay with her the rest of her life.

--

It was easier to go somewhere else this time. The process itself wasn't easier. Not in the slightest. She was already exhausted and hurting, and there were two of them this time, and one was eager to prove a point, or three.

But she didn't scream. She was too tired to scream. She knew it wouldn't make a difference, and it's not like today's pain was any worse than yesterday's.

They weren't nice. She hadn't expected them to be. In a grotesque way, it was similar to those games of HORSE she'd played with her brothers back on earth, each of them trying something, then daring the other to replicate, to improve. It didn't matter. Mal wasn't really there. She was just..waiting. For them to grow as tired as she was, maybe.

It took longer, and yet was somehow over faster than it had been. Maybe because she hadn't really been there for it, and when they finished, she was relieved. Maybe she could sleep a bit before Foka was returned to their cell. Or maybe he'd been sleeping when she got back. If he was, she'd wait up again. She didn't mind that so much. But she hoped he remembered to ration the water. She wouldn't drink any today. Just pour her share on a strip torn from her jumpsuit and try and clean up some. Never enough. But some.

She waited for them to drag her to her feet, her clothes in her lap. She ought to put them on. If Foka was already back in the cell...only she was so tired, and so sore she could hardly move. Not to stand. Not even to sit up. Otherwise, she might have run when Tex stood before her again. He was barefoot. Bare-everything. She stared at her clothes.

"You ready to go again, bitch?" he sneered down at her. Mal didn't reply. She couldn't move. He had to know that. He had to.

He didn't. He waited, laughed, kicked her, asked again.

And then Mal made a mistake. She didn't know if it was Mal or Molly or even Mahlia who spoke, but one of them did, and then everything happened very, very quickly.

She said, "Please."

And then things flashed in front of her, fever bright black and whites, cut outs from a movie she couldn't understand.

Laughter, his. Rage, hers. Knife, hers. Blood, his. A second, just a second, and Mal had reclaimed that last token of his manhood he would ever know.

Silence. Heat. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Then a scream -- his? -- and the strangely distant sound of her head hitting the wall behind her, hard.

Blackness.
 
God, he could barely move his fingers. Everything felt rigid, cold, but Foka had stopped shivering a long time ago, had given up on keeping warm by moving around long before then. He couldnt make out how long he had been in this particular room, just that it felt a lot longer than it was. Currently, Foka was sitting in the corner, farthest from the air vent which was spewing freezing cold air into the small room, bare knees drawn to his bare chest. They had taken his clothes so he'd feel the chill bite more intensely, unhindered. It was working. He would have been amazed if his toes were frost bitten.

Despite how the cold had started to burn in some places, a thought occurred to Father Russia, and he couldn't help but chuckle, a small smile breaking out over his lips. God, he was so glad he didn't have a woman's breasts. Nevermind what he did have, which he specifically avoided thinking about.

Foka opened his eyes, blinking some of the accumulated ice from his lashes so he could see the rest of the room. He had thought he had heard something, like boot steps. They were there again, the footfalls happening quickly. The door slid open, and the man with the mangled arm, the Professor, hurried across the floor. Foka's tank top and orange jumper was tossed on the floor besides him, and he was ordered to stand. Everything was fuzzed out, so Foka didn't quite make out what he said, but he understood what the man meant, and clumsily got to his feet. It was the end of second stage hypothermia, and he was having trouble standing. But, with some - rough - encouragement, Foka got his clothes on, which felt warm to the touch. It was nice right up until he was forced to start walking, stumbling every few paces. The Professor growled and shoved him along.

It took longer than what the Professor would have liked to get back to the cell, but by the time they reached the door, the ice had melted from Foka's eyebrows and hair, and he could walk normally for the most part, feeling just barely returning to his hands and feet.

Professor was still aggravated, and sent his captive stumbling into the cell with a harsh shove, before the door slid shut again, and everything went quiet. Foka turned his eyes from the cell door to the rest of the room. It appeared as though he had returned after Mal for a second time, although for this time, he was able to stand from the beginning.

"Mal?" He called, his bare feet dragging on the metal floor as he turned to face her, though he kept his distance.
 
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