Carrion Dawn

[DotCom]

In her mind, Mal saw Tex.

She wasn't surprised, really. She understood now Tex was obsessed with her. It was why he'd taken her, claimed her, marked her. It wasn't love, the furthest thing from it. It was just innate desire, a need to have her there, always. She'd had to kill him. She'd had to. So --

Wait. Wait. Tex was dead. She was almost positive that hadn't been a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but a real one. She'd hurt him, and then he'd come after her, and she'd killed him, stabbed him a hundred thousand times until it felt like she was drowning, boiling in his blood. She began to fight, struggle harder, even though she knew it was useless. The blood was everywhere. It always would be.

And she could feel that blood now, streaking her face, drying in her hair, splashed across her belly and her arms. She'd never get away from it, she realized. Just like she'd never get away from him. She had tried to run and in the process had shackled herself to him, ever more Frankenstein's monster by the minute. Even if he was dead. She'd chained herself to a corpse.

The realization came around the same time she felt a cold hand close around her wrist, touch her face.

And she woke up.

Tex, or rather, Tex's corpse hovered there in front of her, and she screamed, bucking away.

"I'm sorry!" she shrieked, caught between fighting back and just running. "I'm sorry, I never wanted to kill you, I never meant...I'm sorry. Please, just leave me alone, please -- please!"

 

[Gulliver]

He didn't know what to do. He held her face securely looked into her eyes, tried to hold her attention -- him, not Tex. "Mal," he urged, his voice thick with a Russian accent. He could only hope that she heard him, recognized the way he spoke, the way he called her name. "Mal, Tex is gone. He is not here! Listen to me!" He shook her softly. What was there to do? How could he convince her otherwise? Or, would she just have to come out of it by herself?

"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird." The voice was soft, feminine, it made him feel safe. Foka was curled up on her lap, his ear to her left breast, his eyes red and puffy from crying. He had just been let out of that too-familiar closet, rescued by the one person he loved, letting her coax him to sleep. She pulled the quilt closer, leaning down to peck his forehead, her rose-scented, brown hair brushing his exposed cheek.

Foka held her firmly, leaning in to gently press his studded lips to her forehead. She didn't need to be kissed directly, he knew that. Mal didn't need to be pined over, but a protective instinct took over, and he spoke softly to her. "Hush, malen'kiy rebenok, ne skazal ni slova. Sobirayus' Mama kupit tebe peresmeshnika," he murmured in tune, speaking his native Russian. If she was coherent enough, Mal probably could have caught on, but Foka preferred not to think about it that much. Being a sociopath, he never really sang or anyone; but, Mal was different. He still saw himself in her.

 

[DotCom]

Mal was still struggling, still fighting. Because she had to. Because she knew, she remembered now. Tex had taken everything that ever meant anything to her. Her body, her autonomy. Her fucking sanity. Like it hadn't been enough that he'd died on her. She might have been okay if he'd just bled out, but he hadn't. He'd died staring into her eyes, smiling, his blood dripping off her chin, because she'd snapped and lost whatever small part of her remained to herself.

Like an animal. Like she was feral, or something.

And now he was back from the grave. Why? To remind her that he owned her, would always own her? As if she'd forgotten.

All at once, she was crying, pleading. She pushed away from him roughly.

"No!" she growled miserably. "You don' t understand. I killed you. I killed you, and I...I kept going, and I liked it. I liked it."

 

[Gulliver]

Trying to ignore her, realizing she wasn't talking to Foka, she was talking to Tex. he felt the need to get through to her, to bring her back to reality. He held onto her, refusing to let go, wrapping an arm around her back pulling her closer to him and letting his chin resting on the crown of her head. "Mal, Tex is not here," he assured her again. "It is just me, Foka, I svear."

"And if that mockingbird won't sing, Mama's gonna' buy you a diamond ring..."

Foka sighed, running his nail-less fingers through her dark hair, holding the back of her head. He started from the beginning, still in Russian.

"Hush, malen'kiy rebenok, ne skazal ni slova. Sobirayus' Mama kupit' tebe peresmeshnika. I yesli peresmeshnik ne budet pet', budu mamy kupit' tebe brilliantovoye kol'tso."

 

[DotCom]

Mal wasn't really sure what eventually got through to her. She fought like hell for none of it to be true, except what would it matter? Here or there, if she ever made it back, it would still be Tex, holding her back, pinning her down. Like an animal. Like the monster she'd let herself be made into.

After a while, her only real defense was to shut down, return to that tightly wound ball he'd found her in at the end of the first day. It didn't make a difference, of course, he still held her trapped, still made her his. But this way, he couldn't get down to the very bottom of her being, or so she told herself. And he must be closely, because he was acting differently, speaking differently. Speaking Russian.

Wait. What?

She didn't look up. She didn't have to. Slowly, slowly, it occurred to her she was awake, had been dreaming. It was Foka, not Tex who held her. It only made her feel marginally better. She hadn't dreamt the part about killing him. One shaking hand drifted down to her belly and her fingers hit bandages instead of burned skin. Still, she could feel the heat of the brand beneath bandages and gauze, and knew that part had been real, too.

"It's okay," she said quietly after a few moments. She was still shaking, but she didn't think that would ever change. "I'm fine. I know who you are. It's alright. I'm fine."

 

[Gulliver]

Foka didn't let go, almost felt like she was maybe lying. How could he know for sure she was back? He heard her speak to him, and he stopped singing to her. Mal was still shaking, trembling in his arms.

"... You are no monster," he whispered against her hair, closing his blue eyes. How could he know? Because, she had only killed a single man. Mal had killed him, had needed to kill him. Tex had deserved it, how he had raped and defiled her. Foka had done far worse for much less. No, Mal was no monster.

After several moments, he loosened his grip on her, sitting back. He slid his hand from her hair as he moved back, giving her room, though he kept his eyes fixed on her face.

 

[DotCom]

She heard his words, but didn't respond until she felt him move away. That was better and worse somehow. It was easier to breathe this way, but...different somehow. She chalked it up to delirium or exhaustion. You weren't supposed to want other people around you, touching you, holding you -- especially not men, strangers, convicts -- after that happened. She knew from experience.

Mal said nothing at first, instead just pulling her knees in closer to her chest. It hurt like hell, but she liked it that way. She was afraid of forgetting again, and then having to remember all over. Everything. The burn, the words, the symbolism. Better that it crouch there, poisonous and hateful, at the front of her consciousness than slink away to jump out at her again and again.

"You're wrong," she said quietly, simply after a moment. She rested her chin on her knees and closed her eyes. She wasn't really tired anymore, but she felt groggy. She could vaguely remember taking way more of that medication than she should have, for all the good it had done.

Meanwhile, she couldn't get the Frankenstein image out of her head. So, she told him.

"You ever read Frankenstein? I mean, they pretty much pulled all the old high school curriculum shit once the war started, but..." she shrugged again and trailed off. "Everyone always calls Frankenstein the monster, y'know? Green dude, square head, bolts in his neck -- Frankenstein. And then everyone's surprised to learn that's not Frankenstein. Frankenstein is the dude who made the monster."

She fell silent for a moment, just thinking, half hoping Foka would catch on and argue and tell her she was wrong, half hoping he wouldn't. It occurred to her she still didn't know why he'd been in the prison, though she figured she could guess. He'd killed those others -- Benny and the Professor -- so easy, like it was nothing. Is that what would happen to her? Every kill would just get easier and easier until it was like breathing? And God, was she already thinking 'every kill'? Had she changed so quickly?

She shuddered and couldn't stop a moan escaping the back of her throat, shoving the fatty part of her upper arm into her mouth to keep from screaming. She sat like that for a long time, feeling her heart race, wondering if she'd hyperventilate and pass out. It would certainly be easier. But she couldn't spend the rest of her life unconscious, either.

"You follow the book, you read the whole thing," she began again after a moment, her voice shaking, "you learn the monster -- the one that was created -- never really did anything wrong. A couple mistakes. The misfortune of looking like a scary motherfucker, bearing his creator's name. And he just goes head over heels down this rabbit hole. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong look -- voila. Monster. The book...it's supposed to make you question who the real monster is, y'know? And once you've read, you kinda know it's the creator. It's Frankenstein. The real one. But that doesn't stop everyone from calling the other one the creep."

She looked up at Foka abruptly, think that was probably the most she'd said to him in the -- what? How long had she known him? A few days?

Then she unfolded with a wince and edged forward carefully, slowly, on her knees. She reached out and grabbed his wrist and spread his hand out flat across the bandages on her belly. She flinched again, but she didn't look away from him. The burn didn't hurt nearly so bad as it had, but it would be some time before she could no longer feel the warmth of charred skin through the layers of gauze.

"See? You feel that? That's all I need. That's...that's my creator's mark. You and me, we know what he did. We know he's the bad guy. But I still...I killed him. I killed him twice, even. And I liked it. And I'd do it again. You think I'm not a monster? You're wrong."

She watched him for a moment, waiting for a reaction. And her stomach chose the absolute worst time to growl. She made a face, somewhere between frustration and embarrassment, and backed away again.

"Who the fuck gets hungry talking about death?" she muttered quietly. But she was hungry. Now that she'd said it out loud, she couldn't ignore it. She sat back and raked a hand through her hair. "How long was I out?"

 

[Gulliver]

For what felt like ages, Foka sat back and listened. She was telling him he was wrong. She was denying herself the forgiveness that she needed, though he probably wouldn't have ever put it that way in words.

He watched as she sat there in front of him, her knees to her chest at first, her chin on her knees. Then she started talking about the old story, the one about Frankenstein. It became apparent how she related herself to him, whatever monster she thought she was, how evil she thought she was. It... Wasn't fair, almost. Was she only thinking about herself? He wouldn't blame her, but part of him wanted to know why she was so compelled to think the way she did. It wasn't so bad, not when you had such a choice, not when no one else was there to agree with what you thought of yourself. It had been so much different for Foka. The seeds of hate had been planted when he was young, as soon as he was able to understand that his father thought the worst of him. The first one to decide he was a monster wasn't himself. He hadn't had the luxury of making that decision. A twinge of anger stabbed at his chest as he watched Mal, but he forced it away, determined to hear her out. Determined to keep seeing her as that same, frightened figure huddled against the far wall.

Then his hand was against the bandages, Mal having moved him while he had been somewhat lost in thought. He touched, felt her, his eyes on the bandages. He had wrapped her wound. He had cared enough to help. The pang came back, and again it was forced away. Listen to her.

What would she think of herself if he shared what he felt? Foka felt so much rejection in her, like a beast that festered inside her, under her bandages, under the burn mark. He could nearly taste her disgust for herself, and he certainly saw it in her eyes. But, Mal didn't know what it was to be a monster, she couldn't know. She wouldn't understand, couldn't understand. What if he shared? What if he were to tell her everything? What if she were to know about the many people he had killed? The few women he had taken, the men he had eaten, had devoured their flesh. What if he told her about the hard-on death and blood and violence and the taste of human being could give him? What would she think if she had been there to hear his muffled moan as he ripped Benny's throat out, to see him move the way he did? It was different than sex, it was dirtier, he knew; but, it's who he is. Foka Alcatraz has always been dirty, twisted, a devil incarnate. Exorcisms had done nothing to drive the demons out of him, and such knowledge did nothing to bring him peace of mind. It had never meant that he wasn't possessed, the Man upstairs had always said it just meant he was hopeless.

Foka opened his mouth to say something; maybe to tell her some of those things, to maybe try and help her. But then, her stomach growled, and she backed away. Who got hungry talking about death? Foka could have answered.

"About twenty-four hours," he told her, his expression solemn. "I vill get food." With that, he stood, his shorts reaching half way down his thighs as he moved towards the door. Listening to her, and forcing the anger down every time it surfaced had sobered him, and what he felt was an almost complete lack of enthusiasm. He could continue thinking of her positively later, perhaps. For now, his heart had sank, and he keenly felt his bruised rib cage.

Rejected.

 

[DotCom]

There was something wrong. Mal could read it in the way he spoke, in his body language and his expression when he stood up and left her. In the way he'd left her at all, though she didn't know why that was unusual. If she counted backward, she'd only know him about five days. In in the prison, another on the run. Two with the bounty hunters...and she'd been unconscious most of the fifth. Still, somehow, she'd thought the tension, or at least the mistrust between them had vanished. Perhaps that in itself was not so surprising. The enemy of thine enemy and all. They'd survived hell together, and now they were back on the run together. Or something. She didn't really know where they were or how long they'd been there, but there was time for that later.

The fact was, something must have changed between him. She'd awoken bandaged on the far edge of delirium, and Foka had sung to her until she'd calmed down. And then she'd spilled her guts, and he'd just...walked away. Was that survival? Or something else? And that feeling in the pit of her stomach -- hunger? Or guilt?

Or maybe just a twisted version of Stockholm's. Whatever it was, she was on the upside of things now. All three of the bounty hunters were dead, if memory served, and while that raised more questions than answered, she figured they'd be okay taking it slow for a bit. They'd have to split eventually. If things were as bad as the bounty hunters suggested -- the word 'Catalyst' floated in, then quickly out of her head again -- then making themselves easier to find was a bigger mistake than they could afford. It would mean Mars would have to wait, but all things considered, she was okay with that for the moment.

It wouldn't be hard to get a shit job as a waitress somewhere. Maybe back on Earth. Pay was dirt, and even the air quality left something to be desired. But nobody went back to Earth anymore unless they had something to prove...or something to evade.

And what Foka did after that was none of her business or her concern. They were about even, she figured. She'd helped him get out of prison, procure a ship to run away. He'd...saved her life. At least a few times. Of course, when that life belonged to a dead man, the feeling of debt went down a little.

 

[Gulliver]

The door shut behind him, and for the first time in a long while, Foka didn't look back. He had been brought back to reality, listening to her. She thought she was the monster. She was wrong, but she would t listen. It would be useless, a waste of words for him to tell her otherwise again. Her mind had been made up.

The burner turned back on, the setting on low, just to heat the stew enough. Foka put his back to the counter, leaning against the rim, looking down at his hands. What he did with them... There really was no way Mal could be a monster. It wasn't true -- it couldn't be. If she were the true monster in Frankensteins story, then that made him the very essence of evil. It couldn't be true.

He had forgiven himself long ago, so why was he even thinking about this now? Why did what Mal think weigh so heavily in his battered chest? Why did it hurt now, after so fucking long? Perhaps, the pain had always been there, or, perhaps not. Foka thought back to a conversation he had had with his mother. He had asked her, trusting what she thought above all else. He had asked her if he was a demon, if he was evil, after the way a kiss had left another boy scared for life. Mama had answered him without hesitating. "No, child, you are not a demon." She had forgiven him, and that was what mattered. That was what had to matter, and he knew that. So, why was he doubting her now?

The stew had started to steam, so Foka uncrossed his arms and pushed off against the counter, taking the metal ladle and stirring the mixture. A clean bowl was taken from the cupboard, and a decent serving was dished out. He didn't bother with the tray this time, with only a bowl and a glass of water in his hands. The burner having been turned off, Foka turned to leave the kitchen once again, the door opening for him, and closing behind him.

The meal was still warm when he made it back to the bedroom, and he brought the bowl up to her setting the glass on the bed stand. "It is the same as yesterday," he said, running a hand over his hair to push it out of his face. In the time it had taken for Mal to calm down, for them to talk, and then for him to fetch her food, the brown locks were mostly dry.

With her food in hand, Foka stepped back, retreating to his makeshift bedding. He pulled the blanket up, over his mostly bare legs. It hadn't really occurred to him to put his clothes back on, despite Mal's fragile mental state. They were only going to come right back off when he was ready to sleep. So, he had stayed in his shorts, the concept of modesty temporarily discarded.

 

[DotCom]

Mal only nodded as she accepted the steaming bowl from Foka. Partly because she didn't know what to say, partly because she was too hungry to really want to talk. Mostly because she could hardly even remember what all had happened between their half-assed escape plan and waking up just a few moments ago. Foka only been gone a few minutes, which led her to believe he must have gotten the lay of the ship/space station while she'd been unconscious. It made her wonder what else he'd been doing while she slept. Had they found another ship? Had he found their old one? Where were they headed?

Where were the bodies?

That lost thought made her shiver and think of Tex again, and she wasn't ready to go back down that road just yet. She'd have to eventually, she knew. But not now. Now, she just wanted to eat.

The stew was actually pretty good. She could say that comfortably now that she sliding off the face of the earth on the back of a mini overdose. She wondered idly if Foka had made it, or found it aboard the ship. There was a brief thrill of terror and excitement as she wondered about poison, by his hand, or by one of the hunters, but she dismissed the thought quickly. If any of them had wanted her dead, they had much faster ways to do it.

She ate the first helping so quickly, she nearly choked, then slowed down when the initial hunger pangs faded. Then she ate more casually, watching Foka, trying to figure out what she'd missed in those two days of despondence.

"You can have the bed," she said evenly as she watched him recline on a pile of blankets. She could guess he'd been sleeping on the floor while she'd been out, which she guessed she'd appreciated, given how she'd woken up and all. But after a solid 24-hour nap, she didn't feel the need to lie back down any time soon. Besides, she was behind on life and technically still on the run. She had some catching up to do.

"I don't need it," she added. "Is this a ship, or a station? I can take watch for a while."

She sat in semi-contented silence for another few moments while she finished off the stew, threw back the glass of water, and set bowl and glass aside before carefully getting to her feet for the first time in over a day. Now that she was really awake and had eaten, she could think a little clearer, and began making contingency plans on instinct while she circled the small room she'd never really seen before.

"How big is this place?"

 

[Gulliver]

Foka stayed on the floor, even after she said he could have the bed. He didn't need it, he was fine where he was.

"No need to take watch. It is just us," he shrugged, assuring her casually. He laid back on the pile of clothes, relating an arm over his eyes. The activities of the day were catching up to him, and he was ready for sleep. There was no part of him that worried about leaving Mal to explore now that she was awake, until-

"You said something," Foka started, taking his arm away from his face as he sat forward again. "About NUN and Sectids vorking together. Vhat did you mean?"

 

[DotCom]

Mal sat and pulled her knees to her chest again. She didn't feel actively anxious, or not that she could tell. She'd just gotten used to the position. She felt...exposed otherwise. Particularly her stomach. Especially her stomach.

"Hmm?" she, looking around the room, pretending not to watch as Foka settled on the floor again. Whatever. He could be as stubborn as he liked; made no difference to her.

She frowned when she heard his question more clearly.

"I did?" she said slowly, chewing her lip as she tried to remember any details at all. She could just barely remember anything after Foka had faked his seizure. She remembered running...she remembered Tex. Everything after that was sort of hazy, like she'd dreamed it at the edges of waking up. A shower...maybe taking too much of some medication? Sitting in Foka's lap? Had that really happened?

"What did I say?" she asked slowly, still trying to remember. "What would I have said? About the Sectids? And NUN? Oh, wait. Was it about some guy?" She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, forget it. I was high, he was drunk. Just some guy going on about some secret sector of NUN, and evil lab rat or something..." She snorted. "Dude was crazy. He was drunk and sobbing before I even met him, and when I -- "

She dropped off abruptly and raised her eyes slowly to Foka, her entire face going several shades darker.

"I...I mean...did...did I say anything else? About...anyone? Or...whatever?" Had she revealed what she'd been doing with that man -- or any man? Why couldn't she remember??

 

[Gulliver]

He heard what she said, felt her face go darker. "You said things, yes," he told her, almost cautiously. In all honesty, she didn't need to tell him she had been sleeping with the man. He could have probably figured that out on his own. Remembering the way she had acted when they first met; young, spunky, seductive. Foka had told her that he didn't need a whore, and the way she had responded proved her manipulative. But, who wasn't when it came to getting what they wanted?

Should he ask about it more? Should he ask about the others, Taj and Ash? There was an air about those names that suggested they were important to Mal, and Foka figured that he probably didn't need to know... Unless... No, it wasn't the time to make her any more uncomfortable than he already had. She might bring up more feelings of disgust and rejection, and that was one of the last things Foka really wanted to hear about.

There was no way she knew what it felt like to be a monster.

"Vhat about the t'o vorking together? They are at var, it does not make sense..." And what about an evil lab rat?

 

[DotCom]

Oh. Wonderful. She'd said 'things'. Mal chewed her lip, uncertain as to whether she ought to feel defensive or embarrassed or just annoyed that Foka had managed to share so little of what he obviously now knew about her. Part of her wondered whether it mattered -- did she care what he thought of her? The very first thing she'd done upon meeting him was offer her body. And he'd seen her now at her lowest, knew that despite her job, the last few days had been...something -- part of her rejected that all together.

So, maybe he knew what she did for a living, what kind of person she was. It didn't matter. They both had bigger things to worry about now. She made herself push the idea to the very back of her mind, frustrated that it had even cropped into her thoughts to begin with. But she put a protective hand over her stomach, too. This she did without thinking, or even realizing what she'd done.

The next part was easier to answer. She shook her head, shrugged.

"Forget it. The dude was crazy," she said again. "He'd just gotten fired or kicked off some big project or whatever, I dunno. It was why I went to him in the first place, I thought -- " she broke off, glanced up quickly at him, like she was afraid of his reaction, then remembered herself, decided she wasn't, and kept going stubbornly. "I...figured he'd be bitter or something, maybe if I got some drinks into him, played nice, he'd spill a few secrets. Turned out he was just plain crazy. He kept talking about some secret project NUN was working on. I thought it was gold at first, but the shit he was saying just didn't make sense. He was just...upset, y'know? Crying and drinking and talking about NUN working with the Sectids. It's like you said -- doesn't make sense. They're at war."

She pulled her arms tighter around her stomach, trying to remember more details from that night. It was the same night they'd picked her up, and the man she'd been with had already been drunk when she'd arrived, so she'd forgotten most of what he said the moment she realized he was not going to be a helpful source.

"Anyway, it's not important. I was...I dunno, pretty out of it, I don't even remember telling you any of that. Look, you should...lay down or whatever, I'll...I need to get out of this room." If she didn't make herself face Tex's death now, she never would, and she had a feeling that would be much, much worse.

 

[Gulliver]

Foka watched her with cold, icy eyes for a while longer before he leaned back once again, letting his head rest against the makeshift pillow. Again.

So, the man had evidently been a loon, who had Mal thinking she was getting useful information. But, the way she worded her explanation wasn't entirely convincing. The matter was being dismissed, either way. There was no point denying that Foka was interested, but his mood had been sobered, and he couldn't care enough for the moment to push any further. Sleep was sounding good right then as well.

"Last of soup is in kitchen," he told her in response. She had been cooped up in that room for nearly twenty-four hours. Foka couldn't blame her for wanting to get out; he could almost even relate -- but not right now. Right now, he closed his eyes, and felt his eyelids get so heavy, he doubted he could open them again anytime soon. God. Foka sighed, placing a hand over his bare chest, feeling the rhythm of his own lungs.

"... Mal," he murmured quietly, not bothering to open his eyes for her. "Even if you find ship..." Don't leave. "There is novhere else to go."

 

[DotCom]

Mal stopped and turn to look at Foka, glad, for some reason that made her shiver, that he wasn't looking back.

Nowhere else to go.

A week ago, it would have sounded like a threat. Maybe it was. She certainly would have taken it that way. From a friend, it would be a promise, or maybe advice. From anyone else, simple fact. From Foka? She wasn't sure what it was. But here, now, with her mind on Tex, it sounded like a death sentence.

"Go to sleep," she said in a dull monotone, turning back for the door. She'd unfolded laboriously, wincing only slightly at the pain that was becoming more tolerable, or maybe just more a part of her with each passing moment, getting to her feet when he dismissed her with the soup. She was hungry again, she realized. Which she guessed was a good thing. Whatever it had been, that day she'd spent unconscious must have been good for some part of her. Maybe none of the parts that mattered. But the parts that would help her get out of here, so the rest of the healing could begin. If it ever did.

She shivered again, maybe for the final time, and turned to leave through the door she'd found almost two days ago. She didn't know where they were, or how large this ship was. But even before stepping out into the hallway, she knew there was no way it could ever be big enough. Foka had said there was nowhere else to go. She didn't know whether or not he was right. She hoped so. For both their sakes.

 

[Gulliver]

Foka obeyed her then, a foot or some of his fingers twitching every now and then, telling him to stay awake. The gestures were ignored wholeheartedly, he Russian on the floor finding himself in a semi-pleasant slumber within the first five or ten minutes.

Some deep, subconscious part of him realized that the pain that had plagued him for the past two days was gone, and his mind rejoiced. There was no nightmare, there were no flashes of beatings at the hand of the Man upstairs. For the first time in a long while, Foka actually dreamed of being in the kitchen. He wasn't a young boy in this dream, though; but the familiar figure of his mother stood right next to him anyways, her apron draped over her and her hands in a ceramic bowl, mixing dough that she had made from scratch. Foka looked up from the vegetables he was chopping, almost expertly to examine her, a loving smile playing across his studded lips.

"Is this enough, Mama?" he asked, gesturing to the cutting board. The vegetables that were available on Earth then weren't the brightest, or the pretties, or even the best tasting; but they would do.

"A few more carrots, darling," she said. He could t remember what her voice sounded like, but he knew that's what she said, just the way things were sometimes in a dream. Foka nodded and pulled three more carrots from the grocery bag, resuming the chopping motion that he knew so well...

 

[DotCom]

It took her only two minutes to find the bodies.

Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised. She left the bedroom with Foka's words -- there's nowhere else to go -- echoing in her head, and had started moving without knowing where she was or where she was going. It seemed only natural, if cruel, that her feet would bring her to that room where she'd spent two sleepless, terrifying nights. She'd never asked Foka what had happened to the other two, whose name's she could now barely remember, though she heard them repeated in Tex's voice after a moment's thought. Benny and the Professor. She'd seen Foka kill the second man, could remember him offering her the knife -- where was the knife? -- to take care of the first.

That was when she'd run. That was when things had stopped being clear in her memory until just a few moments ago when Foka had woken her from her nightmare. But she knew they had both died by his hand. She must have, even without seeing the deeds done.

But she screamed anyway. When she pushed open that heavy door, which had seemed so much more imposing from the other side, she nearly slipped in the pool of cold black blood at her feet. She looked down and screamed and then quickly stifled the sound because Foka was sleeping, and somehow, she didn't want him to know she was still so fucking afraid.

Benny's face was hardly recognizable. Not that she'd seen much of it in the days they'd spent together. But she knew she would never forget Tex's face or expressions or voices, the feel of him on top of her, inside of her. Perhaps it simply wasn't the same for Benny.

Or maybe it was just that he'd been mutilated beyond recognition.

Had Foka done that? He must have. She stared for a long moment, her mind still wandering, as if looking for something solid left in Benny's face, neck, throat, torso. She felt a sickness bubbling at the back of her throat and realized the small room reeked with the iron tang of blood. Her stomach turned and she might have been sick if she thought she could move. Instead, expression blank, hands shaking, she stooped and dragged Benny's body into the room, dropping the carcass atop the other body. She shut and locked the door, and then retreated again and walked until she found a washroom.

She didn't know what she was doing until almost an hour later when she knelt by the door, a blood-soaked rag in her hand. The walls and door and the floor beneath her had all been scrubbed clean, the only remnants of the murder the bloody, soapy water sloshing in a bucket she'd found. And the bodies behind the door.

And...she had to go find Tex's body still. And then she would go back to Foka, and she would beg him to take her somewhere else if she had to. He had told her there was nowhere else to go, but somehow, even prison seemed better than this.

 

[Gulliver]

In the real world, Foka frowned at the sound of Mal's scream. That... Didn't belong in his dream.

"What was that sound?" The woman with the apron asked, lifting her head and leaning back to see into the next room. It was familiar, and yet, he couldn't remember. Despite how slowly time passed in a dream, Foka and his mother had finished chopping the vegetables, and the bread was in the oven. They were making bread bowls to pour the stew in.

"I'll go see what it is, Mama," Foka responded, rinsing his hands off under the water spout before turning to the door. An inexplicable feeling of anger welled up in his chest as he turned the corner and then climbed into the cellar. There was a figure hanging from the ceiling, in the dark.

No, this wasn't supposed to be a bad dream. It had started so well.

"I told you to stay quiet," Foka felt himself sneer as he got closer. It was Mal's face he took into his hands. No. He reached over and took a bone saw, cut her down and laid her on the floor, sat on her bare back. Her head was forcibly pulled back by a fistful of her beautiful, brown black hair before he cut her throat. No! On an unexplained urge, he picked Mal's body back up, took her chin in his hands to see the expression on -- his own face. The dream changed, Foka saw himself, had slaughtered himself like a cow.

"Nyeht!"

Foka bolted upright, panting, sweat soaking his hairline and his hand on his throat. There was no wound, there was no blood. Temples pounded, blood rushed through his veins. He was still alive.

Where was Mal?

Foka whipped his head around to see the bed, and a quiet sigh of relief escaped his lungs when he saw it was empty. That's right. Mal had decided to leave the room, maybe get some food. Oh God.

A large hand reached out and snatched a pair of pants as he jumped up. By the time he reached the door and it slid open, he had one leg into the pair of jeans. Exposed piercings caught some of the light from the hallway and reflected it off the opposite wall, but he didn't pay them any attention. As soon as the pants were on, he broke into a bare foot run towards the kitchen. It might have been just a hunch, it might have just been from his dream, but he would like it better if Mal didn't realize what not only he had been eating, but what he had fed to her as well.