Carrion Dawn

[DotCom]

She kept getting flashes of it.

Waking up. Head throbbed. Dizzy. She was sick.

Mal wouldn't have guessed there was anything else they could do to her. They'd broken her. They'd won. And then they'd kept going, taking turns with her, like little boys trying out a new toy. Could they blame her for retaliating? For pouring ten years of anger and self-loathing into that second? For taking from Tex precisely what he'd taken from her. She hadn't even thought about it, really. She'd just flinched, and it had happened. She still had the knife. Tex had given it back to her, tossed it to land on her belly. She'd screamed. She did remember that much.

She'd thought it was his way of relenting, saying he'd won, saying it was over. She'd thought it couldn't get any worse.

She was wrong.

She puked, shifted. Only then realized her feet weren't touching the floor. She thought of Foka. Her left shoulder was on fire, hot and swollen by her ear. She whimpered.

In the darkness, someone laughed.

She was lying on the floor when Foka returned. Some part of her cringed away, just like last time. It was a small part of her. She could say that much for the pain. It kept her present. It kept her here, in herself. It kept her from thinking about the mark she'd bear until her skin rotted off her bones. That part, that would bother her some time, some day soon. Hell, it bothered her now. But it wasn't so bad compared to the pain. Nothing was.

Still. Shock had set in, leaving her shaking, cold and clammy. She'd finished the water. She hadn't meant to. She was thirsty, so thirsty. She'd only meant to take a sip, and then she was drinking the whole thing, and then throwing it up. She didn't really know how to explain that to Foka. She'd try, anyway.

"W'll, lookie -hic- who's'wake." Slurred words. Thick accent. She shivered, but she was sweating. The room was hot. Full of the scent of hot metal.

His voice had made her jump, and she realized she wanted to curl into a ball again. That shape, at least, she knew was safe. Or it had been. But Tex had taken that from her, too. She couldn't bend her knees, let alone make a ball. She only rolled her eyes to watch him come him. He was walking. There was that much at least. Could he still break them out? Did she even want out anymore?

"I finished the water," she greeted lazily. "It was an accident." She lay there, prone, staring up at the ceiling. She'd torn away the bottom of her shirt with her good arm. Hurt too much to have anything on her stomach. Used it to cover up the swollen mass of bruises where her left shoulder had been. Modesty?

Tex would be gone by morning. She knew that. But it gave her no joy. There was another burst of pain. She saw double, fought the urge to vomit again, and whimpered instead.

Tex, limping toward her, pale and slick with sweat. Green. Reeking of liquor. Benny and the Professor behind him looking sick. His wast and hips a mass of red, bloody bandages.

"Y'think -hic- 'mgonna kill you, bitch?" Laughter. Mania. God, she was scared. She tried to wriggled away, heard tendons and ligaments in her shoulder stretch and pop.

"Not gonn'kill you," he slurred. Dying, she realized. Felt nothing. "Gonn'mark you." Heat. The smell of red hot metal growing stronger.

"Benny'n'I, we use'ta own a ranch. Bred big, ugly cows. Broke horses. Stupid, stubb'rn ones. Made 'em lissen. Made 'em work. Branded 'em. Mine."

A realization. Cold fear in that hot room.

She didn't want him anywhere near her. She wasn't afraid of him, quite. Whether she trusted him or hated him, she couldn't tell and didn't care. She wanted to sleep, ideally forever, but the pain wouldn't let her. She'd have shifted away if she'd thought it would be easier. But her shoulder was still huge and hot and swollen and everything else hurt too much to move.

She looked at him, stared at him through fever bright eyes, and tried to remember how to speak.

She said, "Did they find the Catalyst?"

She still didn't know what it was, and still doubted whether he did. But they needed to start lying. Or Foka did. Mal was done caring. She'd do anything now if only she could sleep and escape the pain.

He'd showed her first, holding white-hot metal close enough, she smelled burning hair and would have puked again if her other shoulder hadn't been in danger.

A circle the diameter of a baseball. State of Texas carved inside. And inside then, that clock in London. Big Ben.

Tex laughing as the epiphany came over her. Putting the brand back in the fire they'd stoked. Benny circling around behind her, because she was swinging away, shoulder be damned.

Tex again, slurring, swaying. "Yer mine," he whispered. "Y'hear me? Fr'm now til you rot, yer mine. 'f I never fuck y' again, yer mine. Got this brand. Breakin' stubborn bitches."

Mal had started planning in the hour since they'd left her here. They were like clocks, all of them. Decent at their jobs, or the Warden -- the Warden? -- wouldn't have hired them. But sick, or they wouldn't be here. And they could use that. If Tex was the leader, they'd be weakened. They could strike next time. Maybe get out. Maybe if she screamed. She thought maybe she could still scream. She had screamed so much already, but nothing and everything hurt. Could be worth it.

The pain, the shock, the breathlessness had been bad. The sound had been worse, like steak on a grill. But the smell would be burned in her mind just as surely as the brand in her stomach. Cauterized the knife wound cleanly. No infection there. Not from the knife.

She hadn't eaten in days. She'd just vomited twice. She was hungry. And her burning flesh had smelled...good.

She hadn't passed out. Couldn't. But she'd gone limp, stupid from shock. They'd yanked the shirt back down over her head. She screamed.

They'd left her in the cell in the dark, alone. She'd tried to ball up, screamed again, uncurled and lay on the floor, waiting.

What if Foka was dead?

"Tex is dying," she said slowly. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. "Maybe dead. Definitely by morning. It's only two fo them left. We could do it. we could run."

She looked at him, gaze only slightly unfocused, swollen shoulder pillowing a flushed cheek. Another wave of pain. She lingered at the far edge of consciousness and delirium.

"We can get out of here. We can fly. I can fly."

 

[Gulliver]

She was talking. She was rambling. Foka could practically see what had happened in his minds eye.

Perhaps against better judgment, he stepped closer, looking her up and down, taking in the damage with those cold eyes. He saw her brand -- no, he smelled and practically tasted it long before he saw it. The thought didn't make him sick, however. It actually affected him less that he would have ever thought, as he crouched down next to her. Mal had surpassed anything he had experienced in his childhood, so whatever compassion and empathy he felt stopped after the image of her trying to hide. Being unable to feel empathy for anything he hadn't experienced himself was just, who he was. His sociopathic mind didn't work that way. So, he pictured her the way he had seen her the night before, as something he could relate to.

"Shh," he hushed, gently placing a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Those hands were still cold, and his very fingertips were still frozen. It didn't feel like him either way, though, didn't feel like his way -- to be so gentle. Foka thought, way back, tried to think of a way to comfort her, to comfort himself. "It vill be all right. I told you... Let me help."

He reached down to coax her onto her back. Perhaps, against better judgment.

 

[DotCom]

Again, she'd thought there wouldn't, couldn't be anything beyond the now. The now was pain and hazy confusion, wave after wave of agony over her stomach, the cold of her cheek pillowed against the hot of her shoulder. And Foka, wherever he'd come from. There was no good now, except that the now was plain. There was no fire, either, despite the burn.

But she was wrong. Again.

When he moved closer and showed no sign of stopping, the haze left, replaced by something else altogether. She wasn't sure what it was. Panic, maybe. What was that? Fire again? A cloud or a shadow? It was red, whatever it was, and it blocked her thoughts again, but with fear instead of apathy.

"Don't..." she warned, inching away, feeling the wall against her back. Her breathing hitched, picked up again. She'd thought there would be no more fear. She was wrong.

"Don't."

But Foka had been on her side, on her team. Hadn't he? They hurt him, too. Not in the same way, but still. He didn't know. There was no Catalyst. She wasn't --

"Stop. Get away from me."

She was wrong. He put a hand like ice on her, and then the pain in her stomach and the pain in her shoulder were gone, exploded away to nothing by the sudden panic. He was pushing her down, laying her down, and --

No. No. Not again.

The knife was in her hand again. Tex had given it back to her. He'd thought it was a punishment, but it was just another weapon.

"I'll kill you," she growled, still backing away without realizing she'd come up against the wall. The knife was limp in her right hand. Her left arm was useless. "I'll fucking kill you, stay the hell away from me. Get. Away."

 

[Gulliver]

Foka stopped, froze as she pulled the knife on him. He wasn't sure what to do at first.

"Mal, let me help," he told her, though he was careful not to be cold. Cautiously, he inched closer, ever so slightly, his eyes switching from Mal's face to the knife she held lamely. It was getting harder to hold onto that feeling of empathy, of sympathy. Yet, his demeanor was still soft, careful.

Until he lunged for her, both of his large, cold and calloused hands reaching for the knife, snapping it out of her grip. It hit the floor with a clang! of metal on metal. Then he was on her, forcing her back to the flooring. Foka knew how bad it looked, felt, the way he found himself straddling her chest, pinning her right arm to the floor with his shin while he took her limp arm by the wrist. Any other time or place, he could have felt good about where he was; but this, the here and now was a desperate situation, where Mal was confused and in pain, and he himself ached and still could barely feel his own toes. Being as careful as he could to not touch her wounded belly, or to even sit too heavily on her chest, he took her arm and held it up with his right hand, his left feeling her shoulder joint while he pulled.

It was quick, though Foka didn't know if the pop came quickly enough for Mal. As soon as it was done, and her shoulder joint was replaced, he got off of her, backing up to give her enough space. The knife was picked up and placed in Foka's back pocket, where Mal couldn't reach. It seemed, he was more coherent than she, and he decided it would be safest if he held onto it. Until she was ready, at least.

Foka looked down at her from where he stood, watched her next few moves, though he was sure to stay out of arms reach.

 

[DotCom]

She fought, and fought hard, oblivious to anything but the blind need slowly increasing its choke hold around her neck.

It wasn't fair. This couldn't be happening. Not now! Not again. Not so soon. Tomorrow, she knew, there was a chance. Tex was gone, but his legacy was clear as the brand on her stomach. But there was supposed to be time to rest. Foka was supposed to be good.

She snarled, wordless, as he came closer, unthinking, unmoving. Until he lunged, and suddenly she was on her back again, the fight lost. All there was now was submission.

She went limp almost immediately, her expression blank, staring at the ceiling over Foka's shoulder, trying, waiting, pleading to disappear. He was sitting on her. Maybe he'd touch her stomach, God forbid. And it'd hurt, and she'd scream, but then she'd pass out, and --

Mal yelped as she felt her shoulder pop back into place. The pain was blinding, leaving spots in her vision so she didn't notice Foka had moved until she rolled, dizzy, onto her side, trying not to be sick for a third time.

But when the pain of the relocation faded, the relief that followed was so strong she nearly went under anyway. She shuddered and let her eyes slip shut for a second, just a second, still listening for Foka to remount his attack, though now vaguely understanding he'd had his opportunity to hurt -- while she was unarmed and half maimed -- and had helped instead. His hands had been cold, too cold, she was now slowly realizing. But against the heat of her shoulder, it had been heaven.

Without opening her eyes, she drawled, "What'd they do t'you?"

 

[Gulliver]

"Left me in meat locker vhile they vere likely vith you," he told her simply. Another hour and he could have slipped into delirium, but he left that part out, either to spare her or to just not waste the breath, he didn't know or care. He absently rubbed his hands together.

It had been cold in that room. Really cold. The pain there wasn't as sudden as having ones arm dislocated, or as having a branding iron taken to your stomach, but it could come pretty close to feeling that way in some places. Foka could just now feel his toes.

Seeing how it didn't look like Mal was going to make an attempt on his life anymore, he sat back on the floor, though he was still facing her as he crossed his legs under him. He set his elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly, watching her carefully. "You said ve can escape tomorrauv?" He asked, although the question was more of a confirmation for himself. It was slightly hard to believe that Mal had come up with a legitimate plan for them, but they had a knife to help in either situation. When had she even gotten that knife, anyways? Likely back in the prison, during their escape. Not like it mattered where she got it, not to Foka.

"... Do you think you vill be able to sleep?" Foka didn't know wether or not Mal had slept at all the night before, despite how exhausted she may have looked. If they were really going to escape, she needed the rest. He needed her to rest. It wasn't likely he was honestly going to have to carry her back to the ship, but it would still be a massive liability if he had to do anything relatable to carrying her.

Some nights, you weren't able to sleep either. It was true. There had been nights where Foka had hidden in that cloist, and did nothing but stare at the door for hours. When he stopped staring at the door, long after he was sure the man upstairs had fallen asleep, he would spend the rest of the night entertaining himself in various ways, always ready to freeze again should he hear those heavy footsteps that didn't belong to his mother. But, he wouldn't fall asleep. Sleep meant being unaware. Sleep meant venerability.

Some nights, Foka remembered then, he could sleep. Occasionally, more than once or twice, his mother would come downstairs and find him hiding in that closet. "Hush child, it's just Mama." There were a few moments of silence from Foka as he took the time to remember.

 

[DotCom]

Her eyes fluttered slowly open at his explanation, and she tilted her head to look at him, study him. In concern? Perhaps. But she felt too tired for worry or pity. She felt more as though she was just reaffirming his presence. She didn't think she could handle it if he straddled her again...yet somehow, the more terrifyign thought was being left alone with the men outside. No, she had to believe Foka was on her side. She had to. Even if it wasn't true. She'd pay the price later. Right now, she couldn't stand the thought of being trapped inside another room with another man for another night.

Mal nodded after a moment. She thought about asking if he was okay. It would be the nice thing to do, maybe create or at least put up the pretense of some solidarity between them. But she didn't. It was a stupid question. She'd been passed around between Benny and the Professor and Tex -- the name made her shiver again and she winced in response -- for hours, longer than she could keep track of. Foka should have been dead if what he was saying was true. She would have been. Maybe he was...

She opened her eyes again more quickly this time, body tense, heart pounding. But he was still sitting there, just watching her.

She made herself sit up then. It hurt so bad it made her feel faint, but the pain cleared her head.

"I think we have to," she said quietly in response to his first question. "I think they know by now we don't have the Catalyst. If think if we don't...they'll kill us." She looked up at him, found she couldn't held his gaze, and dropped it to her belly. Pinkness the color of a severe sunburn had spread from the brand out, crawling up her chest and down her stomach, flaring out the her sides, making it impossible to lie anywhere but her back. At it's center, the elaborate marking was a mottled red and white sunk a quarter of an inch deep into her skin just above her navel. It would have been pretty if it weren't so...not. Shock had set in an hour ago, leaving her sweating and shivering, but she could feel the heat from the burn half a foot away, and even on the underside of her chin.

"It's not about the Catalyst anymore," she continued after a moment, finally looking away from herself when she started feeling nauseas and hungry again. "Not for them. It's not about us or the Warden. I think it's about...sating some sick urge. And now...now, it's about revenge. We need to get out tonight, or it'll be too late tomorrow."

His next question surprised her, and she looked up immediately defensive, and only now just realizing she didn't have the knife anymore. She started to growl an answer, demand why he wanted to know, tell him to fuck off, that she was fine, she didn't need sleep, wasn't tired...until she saw the strange look in his eyes and all the anger and defensiveness melted away in a wave of exhaustion and...pity.

She stared at him for a long time, then shrugged on instinct and swore under her breath, wincing.

"I...I don't know," she answered honestly. "If I did, I don't think...I don't think I could stay awake, I think I -- " She broke off. She didn't want to explain about the nightmares that would most assuredly come and succeed only in keeping them both awake. But somehow, she didn't think she needed to.

"I think...we need to be smart about how we do everything from here on out. At least until we're out of here. Rest. Water. Food, if they give it to us. I dunno if I can sleep. Just...the burn -- " And here her voice cracked, and for the first time, she didn't try to hide it, " -- it hurts. A lot."

 

[Gulliver]

That crack in her voice brought him back to the present. He had been listening to her explain why she felt sleep would only make this worse, however. If she felt so exhausted that after she were to wake up, she may be practically useless. It was a legitimate problem. Foka looked down at his hands, still cold to the touch, still swollen, though only slightly now.

"Vhat do you think ve should do?" He asked, turning his attention back to her. The way she had looked at him, had sneered, he felt as though trying to coax her to sleep would be counter-productive, and possibly dangerous. Foka understood why, though not with his heart. He knew that she had suffered many traumas within the last twenty-four hours, but he was running out of empathy. A sociopath such as him could only feel so much.

"You vant out tonight, I may be able to get us out," he said at length, looking up to see her face. He wanted to know what she thought. "If I fail, ve die..."

 

[DotCom]

Mal closed her eyes when he asked how they would get out. She shouldn't have been surprised. She'd been giving orders from the start, even in that first instance when the break was orchestrated prior to her arrival. It was instinct, and innate desire to be in control. Not because she liked the power, but because the idea of leaving the steering in someone else's hands terrified her. She felt her shoulders sag, exhaustion or resignation, or both, and raked one hand through tangled, matted hair.

"I don't know," she said after a minute. "Just...give me a second."

They needed to get out. That was as far as she'd gotten. Tex...she wanted to say he wasn't a problem. But what if he didn't die right away? Or ever? She knew in that moment he would never let her go. He might not kill her, but he wouldn't let her go. He had taken everything from her, and she thought she had taken the only thing he could hurt her with. But he'd proved her wrong again, and she knew better than to doubt his creativity and his cruelty now. He would find a way. Even if he was on his deathbed, pulling his last breath. He wouldn't just let her go. He'd find a way to keep her there forever, and every day the pain would be worse.

"We'd have to overpower them," she said uselessly. Unlikely. She could hardly move. Foka was she shy of frostbite, probably hypothermic. Neither of them had eaten in God only knew how long. "Maybe the element of surprise...next time they come back, they know I have the knife, but they won't expect it from you..."

She trailed off again when he started talking, hardly daring to hope. Did she trust him enough to give the reins over to him? He said he had an idea, but would it work? Or would it get them killed? And she still had no proof of anything even remotely inspiring trust. Except that he'd been hurt, too. She could see that now.

"We're dying anyway," she said after a long pause, green eyes sunken and dull, but hard. "Tell me what you need me to do."

 

[Gulliver]

"All I need you to do, is scream and act for me," he told her simply, with a completely straight face. With that, Foka stood, walking over to where the small table had been knocked over. He took a second to look around, plotting, before he grabbed the table by the lip, and flipped it over as hard as he could, make as much noise as he could. The thing was, Father Russia fell with the small table, throwing himself onto the cold, metal floor. His right shoulder hit first, then his head.

The real acting began after Foka was on the floor -- and started to convulse. He used his abdominal core, tightening, pretending to have a seizure. His arms flailed about his head on the floor, and he made sure that his legs bent and kicked and twitched. He breathed in ragged breaths, letting the spit seep over his chin, giving him a ferrel look. Watching him, it was almost like he had practiced.

Foka watched with amusement as the young man threw himself at his feet, writhing and convulsing with seizure. The boy was a joker, a class clown with just enough muscle on him to appear to Father Russia's liking. Almost a minute passed, with a butcher knife in his hand, watching as the act played out, unfolded before him. "You realize that this vont vork, not since I plan to make meal of you," he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. The man at his feet forgot to exhale the breath he had been holding as he flinched, then looked up at the man who evidently held his fate. "But, this is useful. Teach me..."

 

[DotCom]

She had no idea what he had planned, and that alone was more than enough to terrify her. And when he flipped the table, Mal was tired enough, and anxious enough that she really didn't have to try very hard at all.

"H-help..." she whimpered under her breath, for a moment forgetting where she was. She only saw everything coming undone, her chances at escape fading, and in her mind's eye, she could see, could feel Tex's hand sliding down her back again, up her tight, between her legs...

"HELP!" And then she was screaming again, mostly wordlessly, but smothered fears soon bubbled to the surface as well, and not for the first time, Mal went somewhere else.

"Please...Please! Don't leave me alone here. I don't wanna die, please...please..."

And just like she had for two days now, she froze, her own heart seizing up within her when she heard heavy footsteps, drowning out even her own screaming, Foka's ragged breathing. The door swung hurriedly open and came so close she had to stumbled back. She could only stare in silence for a moment, until she saw just two men, Tex elsewhere, hopefully bleeding out.

God, she hoped so.

"Please," she begged, holding her breath as she willingly drew closer to the men than she'd been to anyone in days. "Please, take me out of here, I'll do anything, please..."

Neither Benny nor the Professor paid her any mind. She yelped as the latter pushed her aside, swearing, and they both squeezed into the room.

"Aw, shit," she heard as the men put their backs to her. They were closing on Foka. How long 'til they realized he was faking? What would they do then? Her heart was racing out of control, she thought she would pass out, there was one option left, burning like the sun in her head.

"Benny?" Molly said, and her voice had changed. Still shaking, still drenched in tears, but of a different sort now. The agony in her belly faded. There was nothing but this moment, and if this didn't work, if Foka didn't wake...

Both men turned toward her now standing between her and Foka. She shuddered.

"I'll do anything," she said again, her thumbs hooked around the waist of her flight suit. "Anything."

 

[Gulliver]

There was time, everything was going to be fine -- he was convincing enough. Foka continued his act, though not flawlessly, but good enough where no armature could tell where he went wrong. He grunted and wheezed, his hands shaking.

He heard the footfalls finally come into the room, heard Mal's performance. They were going to be fine. She had him covered for the next few seconds.

When Benny and the Professor stopped to stand over him, he could practically feel their eyes on him. His heart raced, warming his blood even more. And then, just like that, he stopped. The flailing stopped, and Foka let his head fall against the floor, limp. He held his breath, his chest staying still. Everything was perfect; Mal's motives, the tone of her voice, the foamy saliva that ran down Foka's chin as he laid there, a fine touch. And then they turned their attention to Mal, and that was his chance...

Still holding his breath, the knife was whipped from his pocket, the blade snapping out and slicing across the back of Benny's knee. Foka jumped to his feet, bringing the small, yet deadly weapon over Benny's head, and lodging it in the side of the Professors throat. He would bleed out in a moment.

Benny came next. His other, uninjured knee was kicked in, and he was forced down to the floor. A cold, fingernail-less fist met his nose with brutal force, the same way Sean had been struck, that night, back in the old, familiar cell. Foka grabbed him by the front of his shirt, holding him upright. Violence. Blood. Gore. Meat. Ice blue eyes took in the mans face, scanning him. Father Russia could rip his throat out with nothing but his teeth, but... There was something, some notion that held him back. The man they had called the professor was his. He could mangle him, throttle the last of the life from his eyes. Foka turned his attention to Mal.

"He is yours," he told her, letting go of his shirt to sock him in the face one last time, send him reeling while he retrieved the knife from the Professor. The blade was offered to Mal, handle first, the metal already covered in wet, thick blood. The Professor was still alive, but was bleeding out quickly, blood dripping from his mouth and spurting from the neck wound with every heart-beat as he writhed on the floor.

 

[DotCom]

For a long while -- or as long as the whole thing took, which felt like ages, but passed like seconds -- Mal stood, quietly transfixed, albeit in no kind of peaceful way. She had never considered herself a 'good' person. She got by almost exclusively by manipulating men, most of whom were guilty only of blinding following orders. And bedding a girl they often times knew (or rather, thought they knew) to be much younger than themselves, but that was beside the point.

Still. She had never killed a man. In fact, she'd not yet been struck with the full weight of what she'd done to Tex. And now Foka was watching a second bleed out, and offering her a chance to end a third?

Something in her broke. It had been far too much in far too little time. She had been made a plaything, tossed about in a storm, tortured, abused in body and soul, and branded like a head of cattle. She was tired and hungry and broken and hurting and loud noises terrified her and this man she'd been with, had decided, unintentionally or not, to trust was asking her to kill a man. Like he was doing her some kind of favor.

She raised her eyes slowly from the blade he offered to his face as if it had only just then occurred to her they neither of them knew why the other had been incarcerated.

Mal felt suddenly sick. If she'd been able, she might have vomited.

Instead, she turned and ran. It wasn't until later she realized she'd taken the knife.

 

[Gulliver]

She had ran. He offered her a chance for revenge against this man who had violated her, and she had ran from him. And she had taken the knife with her. Foka looked down at his hands, and for just a moment he could have sworn he had seen demonic claws. The last of his empathy for her disappeared then. At the moment, he couldn't explain why, couldn't explain the slight twinge in his chest.

Rejected.

Foka turned back to Benny, his lips turned down in a deep frown, his blue eyes colder than ever. Fine, if she wasn't going to do it, he would. In the background, the Professor took his last, gurgled breath, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he was dead. Foka paid him no attention.

Father Russia got down to the Benny's level as he took him by the front of his shirt once again, sitting him up as he actually straddled the mans waist, one knee on either side of him. Being so close, Foka could smell him, as he was sure his victim could smell him, smell the sweat, the dried blood. He had been locked up for two days, and sitting there, like that, on top of this new victim, he looked and smelled and simply felt like it. Russia felt ferrel, and so he acted on it. Benny got no eye contact as Foka lunged, biting, sinking his teeth in deep, closing in around his trachea. It felt like he had fangs, adrenalin boiling in his blood as he felt the thrill. God, it felt good. Foka ripped and tugged, a spray of blood coating his face and neck, running down his chest.

"Did you not see what he did to that boy's face?!" The Man from upstairs shouted, enraged, throwing his right arm up in exasperation. He held Foka by the right ear in the other hand, his grip tight, threatening to rip his earrings out. The Man had never liked them. Body modifications were a sign of the devil to the Man. "He's a monster! And he came from your womb, woman!"

Foka bit harder, ripping flesh free from Benny's throat. He spat what was loose in his mouth free, leaning back in to lick and kiss at the wound before returning for a second attack, his teeth severing a major artery.

The closet door was slammed shut behind him, being locked with the key from the outside. Foka spun about after he regained his balance, beating his fist against the door. "Let me out! Let me out! I didn't mean it!" On the other side, he could hear his mother crying, the Man reading from the Holy Bible once again. Pure hatred swelled in his chest has he heard the muffled words, hatred that would never go away.

An excited grunt escaped his clenched teeth, his eyes closed and each of his hands with a handful of Benny's bloodied shirt. He didn't care wether or not Benny died, he wasn't paying attention. The satisfaction was great, his mind going blank. Memories of when he was in his pre-teen years stopped bothering him for the moment, as he enjoyed what he was doing. Enjoy it for now, because it wasn't going to last. In the back of his mind, Foka understood that he couldn't be himself like this in front of Mal. Not if he didn't want to loose her. He wasn't even sure why he wanted her to stay, wasn't sure why it was important that this behavior stay in this room, all he knew was that, yes, he wanted Mal there. There may not have been any empathy left, but he held onto that image of her cowering against the wall, the same way he had cowered so many times before.

No, this behavior would stay in this room.

 

[DotCom]

She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't know she didn't know where she was going. All she knew was that she was going, and she had to keep going, and it had to be faster. And away.

There was too much bad here, too much wrong. Too much memory and hate and angry, too much, Mal could have sworn, for two days. Had they really only been here two days? It seemed impossible that anyone fit so much into forty-eight hours, and yet...if she every tried to forget, she'd bear the evidence in a giant, ugly cattle scar across her belly.

The sudden thought was enough to break through the haze of shock and Mal stopped abruptly, doubled over to vomit.

Of course, nothing came up. She hadn't eaten in days, and with that memory, she remembered how good she smelled and was nearly sick again. It was sometime after the second round of gagging that Tex caught up to her.

The feeling of his cold, near-lifeless arms were the last thing she remembered, and it was only by the new, fresh blood strewn across her clothes and clotting in her hair she would ever know Foka had had to pull her off of his corpse.

 

[Gulliver]

The blood had stopped spurting, Benny had stopped breathing, had stopped struggling and had went limp in Foka's arms. The ecstasy was gone, and he needed to find Mal before something bad happened. Standing and straightening himself, Foka left the room. It was almost as simple as leaving the men's restroom, with no backwards glances and no afterthoughts. What had happened had happened. There was no sympathy, no empathy, no more to experience in that room. It was time to move on. It was time to find Mal and leave.

Wiping his forearm across his face, taking away some of the blood from his chin and lips, Foka started down the hall. At first, he wasn't in too much of a rush. Mal had the knife, and running right into her when she had gone through so much was most likely the worst thing he could do -- for either of them.

Then there was noise, commotion, perhaps a scream a few turns away. It was Mal, it sounded like she had run into something, someone. Perhaps she had been wrong about Tex? Maybe he hadn't yet bled out from what she had done to him? Maybe, he wasn't even mortally wounded in the first place. If he wasn't, in her current state, it was likely he could overtake her. The thought sent him into a quicker pace, sent him running the rest of the way to where he had heard the commotion.

What he saw was beautiful. Mal, mutilating Tex's already lifeless corpse. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be rejected. Maybe, she could relate to him.

Foka saw that Mal wasn't relenting, wasn't coming away from her kill. He got closer, came up behind her. Quickly, yet carefully, he reached around and took her by the wrists, once again trying keep his voice warm. The goal was to comfort his comrade, not to stir her up even more. "Mal!" He spoke, as softly as he could manage. "Mal, he's dead, it's time to stop..."

 

[DotCom]

Something had changed. She wasn't sure how, or when, and even more frightening, she wasn't sure what. But she knew something had changed. And she could taste blood on her lips.

Mal wasn't exactly sure what happened when Foka had offered her the knife. Logically, she looked down and saw, knew, there was only a knife there. A stupid little switch blade, a utility tool casually lifted from a man she'd framed for her own stabbing. A four-inch blade, maybe sharp enough to cut paper. Probably not. Certainly sharp enough to cut, but so what? IT was nothing. It was inanimate, an object.

But in her hand, it had started to become something else, and in his, it simply had. The cut she'd made on Tex had begun to turn the thing into a key, and its true form was solidified when Foka offered her the chance to lock that door behind her forever.

And she had run, screaming. Maybe not aloud -- no, not aloud, not yet. But only because she couldn't breathe. She couldn't see, she couldn't think. She wouldn't have thought that she could move, either, and she knew if she'd stayed there a moment longer, she would have frozen to death and shattered into a million tiny pieces. But she had moved, and she had run, without knowing where she was going or why, only that she had to move, she had to run.

Maybe she had just been trying to get away. Not from that key, not from that door. Not from Foka, or the instrument of destruction she had made from a precision tool. Maybe she was running on the very basest of levels. As she ran she felt nothing, not her sore, swollen shoulder, or the pain that radiated through her body from the hours of men who had been on top of her. Not the simple pain of a third degree burn seared into her belly. But she knew she was afraid. Even if she could feel it now, she knew she was afraid, and she hated it, because she had promised herself a long time ago she was done with fear. If she was ever afraid, no one would know it. Especially not her, because the only thing worse than being afraid, was admitting fear. And the only thing worse than admitting fear was admitting that fear to yourself.

She had done it more times in those two days than she could count. Foka knew she was afraid. Benny and the Professor had mocked and teased. Tex had lorded. And Mal herself...she had fled, retreated into herself at first, and now away. A prison full of people who knew she was terrified, fucking scared out of her mind, and only one key.

So, she ran. From the rape and the torture and the cold and the pain and the thought of another night folded into herself and jumping at shadows. Another long, cold night of silence and self-loathing. That was easy to run from.

Harder to run from was the memory. Of Tex on top of her, inside of her, body and mind, whispering in her ear, sweating in her hair, his lips at her neck, her rigid and vacant, staring dully at the ceiling over his shoulder, holding her breath to keep from screaming when the pain got too bad. And him, saying it over and over --

"You're mine, you dirty fucking whore. Those other men mighta had you, but me...I claim you. Mine."

And she was.

Because she had fought back, and he had made it real, made it more than a nightmare, more than a phobia. He had burned it into her skin, and so burned it into her mind, and she, she had killed him, thinking it would fix everything, but it only made those walls all the thicker, made that key that would lock but never erase.

And when Foka had turned to her, offered her a chance at redemption, her only chance, she had seen right through it. No. No amount of blood on her hands would undo this, would unmark her belly, would unmake her his. Tex existed everywhere, inside her, outside of her, in her mind, in her memories, in her blood and his. There was no undoing this. She was man and monster, and she was his.

And when she'd run, blind and tripping, he had caught her, and his cold arms around her waist, around her belly, around her brand had been the cold arms of death.

She hadn't even thought. She'd turned and plunged the knife deep into his chest. She heard a lock somewhere slide shut as her fate was sealed, and the more she stabbed, the deeper she went.

Tex's chest was a pulpy red mass by the time Foka reached her. And she didn't even notice all three of them were covered in blood, just like she didn't notice she was shaking or stabbing or crying silently as she went muttering, "Let me go, let me go, let me go..." over and over again.

She didn't start when Foka put his arms around her. Maybe it had lost its meaning, or maybe she just didn't notice him. She just kept stabbing, desperate to reclaim herself, desperate to forget she would never be free again. Tex had stopped moving almost at once. His last act had been to embrace her one last time. He had whispered in her ear again, "You're mine, bitch," and she hadn't said anything, just plunged away.

But she could still feel his lips on her neck, his words in her ear, his brand on her belly and her mind and her soul.

It wasn't until Foka pulled her hands, slicked with cooling blood away that she stopped stabbing, and even then she didn't step away from his corpse. She just stared down at it with a neutral, almost serene expression.

"No," she said quietly, before standing, letting Foka lead her away, shaking so violently she nearly took off a finger or two -- of his or hers, couldn't tell, didn't matter -- all without ever looking away from Tex's body.

"It'll never stop. Never."

 

[Gulliver]

It would never stop? Father Russia knew otherwise, or, at least he thought he did. It had stopped for him years ago. If Mal was referring to the shaking, the trembling, the feeling of sickness -- it would go away, it would fade with time. The physical pain would leave her in time. But, Father Russia knew nothing of what it felt like to be violated the way she had been. There was no way for him to know the feeling of being invaded in such a way. Thus, he was sure, she would heal. If she accepted him, he would help her, do what he could to clean her, teach her.

The slightest tingle of hope sparked in his bloodstained chest, a little more light in his pale blue eyes.

Foka carefully took the knife from her again, his eyes flicking past her face to see the bloody mess of flesh behind her. It was exquisite, almost something he felt like celebrating. The mangled chest cavity -- a crime of passion. The man needed to die, Foka had seen it. Foka approved of what he was seeing now.

He slowly, gently turned Mal to face him, looking down into her face. He saw the blood on her face, and it occurred to him how beautiful she looked just then, right there. She was in his realm, and in his mind, in his slightly twisted reality, it suited her. "It vill," he told her quietly, his accent as true as ever in his gentle tone. He wrapped his fingers around her hands, holding them, the same way a motherly figure had once held his.

"Come," Foka ushered, still holding her bloodied hand in his much larger, more experienced one. He lead her away from the corpse, not sparing Tex's body another glance as he walked. It was time to move on, he knew. Mal would realize it sooner or later, and if she needed, he would help her. Foka decided then, he for sure wasn't going to leave. He had become attached, in a way he had not since he had left his mother, the most important person in he Universe to him. It had been so long. She had been there for him, had let him out of the closet countless times. She had loved him when everyone else had thought he was the devil, and most importantly, she had forgiven him. To anyone on the outside looking in, such a thing didn't make much of a difference in the end, but, to Foka, it meant the world.

First, to find medical supplies, then a place to rest. Mal had still kept herself from sleeping, and neither of them had had enough to drink, and he knew they were both hungry. Once they were both up for the travel, then he knew where to go...

***
​

Foka's best guess, was that they were on either a large ship, or a small space station. The place seemed huge, at least compared to anything he had really ever been on.

The room that he found appeared to be the Professors quarters. The place was relatively tidy. The bed was made, the bathroom was presentable, with all the works; toilet, sink, shower stall. He let go of Mal's hand just then, walking inside. He wasn't going to make her feel trapped, not with everything that had happened. So, he wandered up to the dresser drawers that were integrated into the wall, pressing on the control panel and stepping back as it slid open. There were clean clothes; a decent change. Foka opened another, and found a first-aid kit with bandages and pain-killers, sewing kit, all the works. Taking a bottle of pills, he brought them back to Mal, holding them out to her. "Here. Try these."

The bottle was clear, red and white capsules inside. They were indeed painkillers, and strong ones at that. There was a list of side effects that included the basics, things that were common in just about any drug. Drowsiness, dizziness, nausea, etcetera, etcetera.

"You get clean, I vill find food," he told her, handing the pills over before he stepped past her, to the door. It slid open, but he stopped, turning to watch Mal for a moment longer. Would she be all right? It would have been pointless to ask, he was sure, but... He couldn't help but wonder.

 

[DotCom]

It was strange, leaving the body behind. Mal felt like she was forgetting something, though she couldn't even begin to guess what, or how to get it back, or if she even could. She felt, more than saw, Foka take the knife from her again, and this time, she didn't fight. Why? What would it matter? Whatever that knife had become had been sealed the moment Tex drew his last breath.

Well. No. The moment after he drew his last breath, and she kept stabbing. The moment she had gone from self-defense to...what? Violence? Insanity? Monstrosity? How was it that Tex had committed the crime, and yet she was the one who would pay the price every day she lived from here on out? The thought made her want to take the knife back and go back to the corpse, as if a few more minutes kneeling in his blood would bid her come full circle, washed clean again, like nothing had ever happened. And thought that made her want to scream.

She did neither, hardly even aware she was being led away. She didn't particularly care to where or by whom. At this point, there was nothing left to fear. She knew, at least, she could handle herself. She could no longer become less than she was, just as she could not erase the name tag branded across her stomach. Her fate was cemented now. Following Foka or not following Foka wouldn't change any of it. Like Frankenstein's monster, she had been reborn, torn apart and remade into something less than human, and the only name she bore now was Tex's.

Whatever part of Mal that was still Mal, if there was any part that was still Mal...that part followed the bloody pair at a distance, watching, transfixed, as though she were satching someone else's life pass on a movie screen. That girl that had been her said nothing, appeared to see nothing, as she followed the other man's orders mechanically, walking when he said to walk, stopping when he said to stop. They reached a room with a bed, and Mal saw the girl waver, knew she was exhausted even if she felt nothing. Still, she didn't appear to see the bed, or even to be aware of anything -- at least until Foka pulled away, leaving her stranded, however briefly, in the middle of the room. A soft, high keen left her throat, and her shivering redoubled, as though she'd been the one locked in a cold room for hours on end.

She put a hand out, the one attached to the good shoulder, to accept the small red bottle, though she didn't move to open them, or seem aware of how or even that she needed to. Which, Mal knew, was probably not a bad thing. The two had been prisoners for two days. Anything the girl might have eaten had been vomited on that first night with Tex, after too long a session of being gagged by his member. The pills in that little red bottle were powerful. Between exhaustion and hunger, and her size and theirs, they would not be kind, or at least not without having eaten first.

Still. She might have at least moved for a change of clothes, or a shower. But when Foka went to leave, she could only stand there, staring. The orders had stopped, and there was nothing left to do.

 

[Gulliver]

Even though she had stopped, had not made any move, Foka turned to leave once again. With time, it would fade, it had to fade. The door slid closed behind him.

***
​

He stood there, looking down at Tex's ruined corpse, holding a large butcher knife he had found in what had appeared to be a kitchen. There wasn't much left to use, most of it being ruined by the stab wounds Mal had left behind. Benny or the Professor would have more on them, he knew, but Tex was symbolic. His body was important, wether he told Mal what he was going to do or not. For the moment, he got the impression that she wouldn't really care.

Foka kneeled down next the the pile of gore, cutting away at clothes, pulling them off and setting them aside. Then, he went to work, as an expert butcher. Foka had experience, he knew which bits tasted best, and he cut those parts off with meticulous care. The equivalent of backstrap, having rolled the body over and sliced along the spine. Traditionally, the carcass would have been strung up and left to bleed, but they were hungry now. It took at least a day for any corpse to run dry, and Foka wasn't going to make either of them wait that long.

He knew it was as close to celebrating as he could get, cutting this man up and eating him as a feast. Mal might not have needed to know, but this was important to her partner. It was almost like some religious ritual, despite the lack of nutrients. One could starve to death from eating the flesh of another human being. Foka had learned how to make up for that, however.

With experience and practice came speed, and Foka was finished with his gruesome task in fifteen to twenty minutes. What he had procured was piled onto a plate, and he set to carry it back to the kitchen. It was exciting, to be cooking again, with the smell of spices and ingredients, red meat. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

***
​

Back in the kitchen, Foka set to work. First, he cleaned up, washing the blood from his face and neck, and scrubbing his hands thoroughly. He gave the plate of raw meat a sideways glance, drying his large hands with a white towel. The butcher knife was retrieved, the meat from the plate being dumped onto a cutting board, where it was sliced into bite-sized pieces, little larger than a cubic centimeter. The meat would be placed into a strainer, and the blood rinsed out while he went to find any form of vegetable, and also flour.

While he worked, Foka felt a sense of satisfaction, with himself and with his situation. It felt good, he felt whole, to be cooking the way he had been for years -- before he had been caught. Volunteering for duty in the kitchen at the prison hadn't been the same, had felt empty. The food was never to his satisfaction, either. It was all shit. But this, this was different. This was to his liking, very much so.

It would take nearly two hours before the stew would be finished. Foka had just finished the meat, and it would be ready to go into the mixture as soon as the vegetables were finished cooking. In the meantime, Foka escaped to see what else he could find. Preferably fruit. It was no secret that fruits were better-tasting than vegetables, and all that was left were preserves and rations. He was left to scratch at his tangled hair, searching his head for a recipe. What he eventually decided on was completely from scratch, and turned onto some form of apple-pear-cranberry sauce. It wasn't his best creation, but, it would have to do...

When everything was finally ready, Foka turned the burner on the stove off, stirring the contents with a metal ladle. He had already added the flour as thickener, and the ingredients were nice and tender. After pulling down a large tray and a few bowls, Foka dished out the meal; two bowls of stew, one of his strange, fruit-flavored sauce, silverware, and a couple glasses. It was a decent kitchen which had gone to waste on the man-whores who had previously inhabited the ship. They wouldn't waste the potential of this room any longer, Foka had seen to that.

With an honest to God smile, Foka examined his handiwork, nodding to himself. It looked good. He placed a lid on the stew pot, picked up the tray, and left the kitchen without another word.

***
​

With his hands full, Foka didn't knock. He had thought about it, but, any guilt he had was dismissed. The smile was gone from his face as he carried in the tray of food, knocking a few things off of the bed stand table to make room for his creation. He didn't bother to pick the rubble up, just slid it off to the side with his bare foot.

His fingers had stopped bothering him, though the water from the sink had stung slightly. The fingertips were still raw, but Foka really paid it no mind.