Carrion Dawn

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"Mhmm," Mal murmured, leaning back and closing her eyes. She was vaguely aware something was wrong. She had been on her own long enough to know better than to let her guard down with a strange. Especially a man. Especially a man Foka's size. She should have never let that other man -- where was he? -- drug her. Pain be damned, at least it kept you alert. Now? Now, she could barely keep her eyes open.

On the other hand...Father Russia's suggestion that she lie down had sounded just a little bit tantalizing. The pain wasn't as bad as it had been before, more of a dull throbbing that made everything from her neck to her hips hurt, but she could deal with that. It was the funny way the ship's ceiling kept twisting itself into shapes that she found concerning. Because either she was stoned out of her mind, or this ship was seriously not sound. And how long 'til they got a new one? And how long had she been thinking of her and Foka in terms of 'they'?

Mal frowned, started to sit up. She needed to be off this ship and on her own again real quick. She had business back on Mars.

"I'm not going to -- " she started, when the console under her boots beeped. The radar at the center showed three red dots at the bottom of the screen.

Mal sat up with a wince, blinked once, then looked at Foka.

"Don't suppose those guys are friends of yours?"
 
"Not friends," he growled, leaning forward and looking over the computers readings. "Mercenaries. Picking up escapees," he explained, running his fingers up the console, bars lighting up under his fingertips. The engine hummed a little louder as the vessel sped up. The distance between their ship, and the three that were chasing them didn't lengthen, but it stopped shrinking.

"Ve are too far from Jupiter. Ve need to find some place else," Foka said, partially to himself. There was something different about going over information when you had someone in the room with you. People were more likely to think out loud when someone else could hear. Father Russia was no different. "Computer, scan immediate area for possible shelter..."

"The Main Asteroid Belt of the Milky Way is located approximately ten minutes from our current location, at this speed," the ship droned in its robotic voice. Foka moved to enter the coordinates that appeared on a panel of the console, his eyes scanning over the numbers that were provided and the ones he entered.

The console beeped, and more information appeared on the view screen. One of the pursuing ships was hailing them, demanding that they surrender. They wanted the ship; Foka told them to f*ck off. The first shots were fired with a fair amount of accuracy, the ship quivering from the close impact. The ship accelerated, and the distance between the four ships grew a considerable amount.
 
"Uh huh," Mal said, equal parts distracted and annoyed. She still felt more than a little dizzy, but she figured there was time for naps and finding her way the hell of this ship later. Now, there was only pursuit.

She pushed off the seat, leaning over the console for a moment, doing some quick calculations in her head. The Asteroid belt was an okay place to hide, a decent place to lose their tail, and freaking awesome place to smash themselves to pieces. She cursed under her breath. She'd never trusted autopilot before, and she wasn't about to start now.

"Mercenaries," she repeated slowly. "Here to 'pick us up'. Do you know what a mercenary is, dude? Chances are they are not going to play nice. We're on the run from the shittiest prison far side of the moon. We're worth less trouble dead than captured. If you want to get away, we need to move."

She stop, chewed her lip for a moment, then disappeared from the cockpit, rummaging around for -- ah, there! She hauled the heavy canvas sack over one shoulder, ignore the protesting in her belly as the staples in her gut strained to do their job keeping her insides inside. Darting toward the rear compartment of the ship, she dropped to her knees, packing their hacked first aid kit, as much food ("food") and water as she could carry, a flare gun, and...

When she returned a few moments later, it was with a half cocked plasma rifle on one hip. They were going to have to abandon ship sooner or later, and she'd prefer it was with something she could use against the bad guys. Which put her and Foka on the same team for the moment, trust or not.

"Here," she said, handing him the sack without looking at him. "This is the closest I can come to you not having to stitch me up again." She couldn't ignore the fact she was handing over all the food and water she'd just found. If he ditched, it'd be rough. But better she have the weapon than the food.

She watched him critically for a moment. She didn't know much about civilian ships, but Taj had been a NUN military pilot for four years before he died. And the fancy ship of a prison warden?

"Whaddya think the chances of this thing having a defense system on it are?"
 
"Ve are moving!" Foka half growled, trying to concentration on the controls of the ship. Auto-pilot had been switched off, and he continually made minor corrections. He was a left-brainier, numbers and time and recipes being his comfort zone. The calculations weren't too much of a hassle.

When Mal dropped the bag onto his lap, he shoved it to the floor. The console received his menacing, ice-cold glare instead of his flesh and blood companion. "So eager," he grumbled below his breath.

Meanwhile, the computer pulled up a new set of information, telling the pilot that with the increased speed, they had roughly three minutes left. The enemy vessels fired another plasma shot, landing it across the starboard wing. Foka revved the engine a little more, and watched the timer move down to two-and-a-half minutes. A little more. Father Russia didn't quite have the concentration to spare to see if there was a weapons system, but there more than most likely was. It was the prison wardens ship. There had to be something.

***

The procured ship shot into the asteroid field at a reckless speed, barely missing a floating boulder which was easily two times their size. Foka weaved them through a few more asteroids of about the same size, before coming to rest in the shadow of one of the, much larger, rocks. They had just gone beyond their pursues firing range before entering the field, which provided just long enough to be out of sight, to hide.

Foka waved his left hand over the console, and the entire ship went dark, except for where just enough light from the sun shone through the view screen. He sat back, his shoulders sagging slightly as he exhaled, his eyes fixed on the glass screen, watching as their followers searched for the dark ship.

As the three other vessels passed, Father Russia looked over his shoulder to Mal, putting a finger to his studded lips in a gesture to keep quiet. In the meantime, Foka's own ears were full of a pulse, the tell-tale "ba-bump" of an excited heartbeat. He wasn't a hard-core chase lover, but it was enough to get anyone's blood going.
 
Her search for a firing system had come up mostly empty. She found another, older pistol in the cargo bay, and a few boxes of rounds that looked like they hadn't been touched in a century. Still, Mal wasn't picky. She stashed them in her -- their -- jump bag and then went back to the console to see what she could do.

She wasn't much of a pilot, but Taj had given her a few lessons before he'd left, and that still put her just a bit higher than the average person. Having to sit around while she entrusted the ship and her life to a stranger made her anxious, too anxious to sit, so she paced behind Foka, bracing herself on the back of the copilot's chair whenever he increased in speed. The asteroid belt was as good a place to hide as it was to get killed, but since the latter hadn't happened yet, they were doing the former.

At Foka's unspoken insister she be quiet, she scowled and handed him the older of the two weapons. She still had the knife she'd used to stab herself on her person. If the ships found them, it wasn't all that likely they'd be boarding any time soon if at all, but she sure as hell wasn't about to go down without a fight, either.

The minutes ticked by, long enough for her heart rate to slow a bit and realize running around had cleared her head a bit, moving the drugs through her system more quickly, but also jogged the staples in her belly. She was bleeding again, though it wasn't life threatening so much as painful and annoying this time. She rolled up her blood stained shirt and tied it around her midriff, adding another layer of bandage to the wound until they could get somewhere she could take care of things herself.

Until then, she'd given them another five minutes. If no more ship's passed, they would need to make a run for it. Any longer than that, they risked getting caught in the shadow of a passing moon, and then the asteroid belt would be impossible to navigate. That, and it wouldn't be long before at least one ship circled around. Better to have ditched the warden's hummer before then.
 
Several minutes had gone by before Foka spoke up, grumbling quietly as he thought of what to do. "They're ahead of us," he murmured, stuffing the old pistol into the back of his folded down prison jumper. New clothes were also a must. But later, possibly much later. It was only on his mind for a second, anyways.

Foka slowly brought the lights back up and warmed the ships engine, moving away from the field with just enough time to spare. It was likely going to take them a bit longer to get to the yard, where they could trade their ship for something else. A different rout was the safest option at this point.

"Vhy can you not sit?" He asked, watching Mal for a moment from the corner of his eye. The other ships appeared to have moved on, or were at least just doubling back to look a little harder.
 
"I don't sit," Mal answered shortly, though for once, she answer honestly, too. Well. Honestly-ish. Obviously, she sat. But not when she was running. Not when she was injured and drugged and trapped in an upscale sardine can hurtling through an asteroid belt. Sit? No. She couldn't sit, couldn't relax. She would much rather be up, doing, helping at the very least, even if it implied working with the man who had become her teammate, regardless of whether she trusted him or not.

And if it bothered him? Well, good. That was just icing on the cake.

She leaned over the console for a moment, hesitating, then punching something into the manual override system, ignoring any protests Foka might have made.

"It'll keep a wider scan out for us," she explained disinterested, as she straightened to peer out through the view screen. Nothing but burning stars and hunks of stone ahead. So far. "And we'll know of those three ships are tailing us again. How far is your junkyard?"
 
Foka had began to protest, but stayed back enough to let Mal do what she wanted. As long as her modifications were within reason, of course.

As far as when they would arrive at their destination, Foka let the engine go slightly, slowing down just enough so the ship wouldn't burn out before he entered the calculations. Roughly six hours, with the new rout. Father Russia sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Six hours from here," he murmured. It would be a while, there was no doubt. It was going to seem even longer though if there was nothing to do. So, he turned to his companion, and the wheels in his head began to turn. What should he say?

"Is Molly your real name?" He asked, thinking up a shaky conversation starter. It wasn't much, and she may not even answer him, but the question was somewhat justified.
 
Mal looked at him sharply, instantly suspicious. It wasn't as thought people hadn't asked before. She looked young for her age, maybe, but she still didn't seem like a Molly. At least, not once she started talking. Or maybe it was just her appearance, dark hair, dark skin. She was her every bit her father's child. They'd moved away from Mumbai when she'd been just two years old, but she liked to think she could remember it. How warm it had been. How bright.

She realized she was day-dreaming, dangerous with a stranger around, and blamed the last of the pain medication still in her system.

Finally, she shrugged. "What does it matter?" She pointed at him, gesturing to each new thing as she said it. "Not your clothes. Not your gun. Not your ship." She gestured up and around, and then finally, to herself. "Not your problem. We're on the run from these friendly mercenaries you found us. My name is nowhere near the top of your priorities list."

She smirked and finally sat down again. She was tired, and her belly ached, but she wasn't about to risk dropping off with no idea where they were headed. "Next question."
 
There weren't really any better questions. Where did you come from? Why were you imprisoned? What do you do for a living? What would you do if you knew what I did for a living?

Foka chuckled quietly to himself, looking down at his lap. "Vhat is favorite food?" He asked, looking up at her with a quaint smirk on his lips. He figured it was personal, but not terribly personal. There wasn't any reason to not answer.

'Vhat is for supper?'

'Lamb.'

The thought brought Foka back to a childhood memory, where a blue-eyed woman would serve a hot stew every now and then. What he remembered most about her meals though, was the apron that she always wore in the kitchen. It was white, well-maintained with blue flowers embroidered around the seems.

He turned back to the console, needlessly checking the clock, watching as the moments ticked by. He still waited for her answer.
 
Mal stared for another long moment, half annoyed, half amused.

"So, what? This six hours of 20 questions? I got news for you, pal, soon as we find this second ship, I split. I dunno what you were in for or how long, and frankly, I really don't give a shit. But I have places to be, and people to do, and since you have nothing to offer but a way out, I'm afraid our paths are no longer wont to cross."

She yawned again and leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes for a moment, before reconsidering and reaching down to haul the sack he'd dropped by her feet into her lap. She got as far as budging it a half inch off the ground before her stitches reminded her why lifting anything -- at least that way -- was going to be out of the question for a while.

A pained hiss escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she swayed for a moment, bracing herself against the console before the first wave of pain passed, giving way to a dizzy lightheadedness she could mostly ignore. She bit down hard on her tongue, crouched, and tried again, lifting with her knees or her back or whatever you were supposed to use after stabbing yourself in the belly, and settled down gingerly in the chair again before taking up the same position as before, hoping Foka didn't see the one hand tucked under the bag, gently cradling her stomach.

Even so, she felt him waiting for an answer, and turned to look at him again, rolling her eyes.

"Nectarines," she said finally, leaning back again to wait or sleep. Maybe it was the medicine that made her voice take on a lighter tone, more reminiscent, less acidic. Not quite friendly...but certainly not abrasive, either.

"I haven't had one since my sixth birthday. They were scarce even then, but my brother went out and found a whole crate...Probably stole it. But, y'know...it's the thought that counts."

There was a long pause. Then, hesitantly: "Why? What's yours?"

And after another minute, "My name is...Well. My name doesn't matter. People call me Mal." She smirked at a remembered joke. "It's Latin."
 
Foka let the harshness of Mal's first answer slide from his shoulders, more or less even ignoring her. It was something of a talent, as long as he was calm and not in a mood for flesh. She was intent on being on her own, that much he could tell, quite easily. It didn't take a genius. However, 'people to do' did sound interesting enough. More on that later, perhaps.

When she went to lift the bag, Foka continued to practically ignore her. He wasn't going to waste his breath if she was also so intent on re-opening her wound. Her hand being placed where it was was also something he didn't feel the need to comment on. So either way, she was free of at least that much of him.

"Nectarines," he mused back, a smile returning to his face. "Certainly scarce." Not that anyone had an easy time getting their hands on such a fruit, there was the glimpse of a backstory that was also interesting. Such a story was even less likely to be shared than 'people to do,' Foka realized.

When it came to his favorite food, he had more reason to not share. Of course, if she was leaving as soon as she could, what was the point? "Veal," he said. Again, perhaps more on that later.
 
Mal made a face, perhaps already half asleep, without realizing it, and suddenly they were conversing. Or something.

"Never tried it," she admitted. "But I had a burger once and wasn't too crazy about it." She shuddered a little. "The idea of eating anything that used to have a face freaks me out. Guess it makes me a vegetarian, but I never really like labels much," she chuckled to herself.

Eyes closed, casual, safely shallow conversation engaged, she could almost pretend she was somewhere else. Granted, that somewhere else was usually a hotel room, and the conversation was pillow talk or seduction, so this was both out of the ordinary and a nice break. It was hard to remember the last time she hadn't been playing the spy game. Years of lies and tricks and exchanging 'personal favors' of the most personal sort...it changed her. Made her a cynic, paranoid and untrusting. But this...What else could he do to her>

Well. She didn't particularly want to answer that, but he seemed harmless for the moment. And she had six hours to be a normal person before she was on the lam again. 20 questions suddenly didn't seem all that bad.

"So, you speak Russian, or what?"
 
"Da," Foka chuckled. "I vas raised in Russia. Only learned English for vork," he admitted, reaching up with his right hand to tug at one of the hoops that hung from his earlobe. The way Mal had worded her taste in food amused him. Still, he couldn't help but think: he had eaten food with a face. He had even seen that face.

Foka turned slightly to look at her, examining the state she was in. Possibly more relaxed now. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of things were going on in her mind, now that things were quiet, and he had nothing better to ponder.

"I opened restaurant, made mostly Russian food. Americans and such enjoyed it. Tourists, you know?" He explained, turning in his seat to sit facing the co-pilot. The stained, orange cloth of his prison garb rubbed against the fabric of the chair, rustling quietly. Some metal on his face glinted from the light coming through the view screen, and Father Russia went on to play with an ear piercing.
 
"No," said Mal, though not unkindly. Her grip on the bag on her lap had become lax, her tone loosely dreamy. Somewhere between blood loss, general fatigue, painkillers, and the crash after the adrenaline rush, she found herself half asleep within moments of sitting down. Odd for a girl who got anxious even blinking around strangers. Even odder considering this stranger had just been in jail for an unknown reason.

Whatever it was, the sleepiness had her talking, too, much more than she normally would have done.

"I wouldn't know," she continued, eyes still closed, though her voice had receded to a murmur. "Dual citizenship. Parents were with NUN. We moved around a lot. I was always a tourist." She chuckled, settled into her seat a bit more, and yawned again. "Y'know?"
 
Foka's smile left him as he watched Mal, watched as she closed her eyes to rest. "... Yeah," he finally said looking her over one last time before he turned to face the view screen once again. He thought, for just a split second: perhaps, he didn't really want her to go..

~**~

When the six hours were finally up, Foka came back to the helm, examining the junkyard he had piloted them into. It was a mess -- as always. He pulled up communications, and typed in a greeting.

"Who is this?" Came a voice from over the com link. It sounded vaguely female.

"It is me, Foka," the ex-convict announced, leaning into the speakers slightly. "I need to trade ship..."

"Oh yeah, what kind?"

"Expensive one."

There was a few beeps from the console, and then everything went quiet for a moment. Lights turned on on a nearby station, which was at least five times the size of the two escaped inmates shuttle. Still, the thing looked old and messy. "You know the drill," the woman from the space station said before the link was terminated.

Foka piloted the smaller ship a little ways further, into a docking port on the station. When they were safely connected, he went to rouse Mal, but decided against physical contact. He had at least half a brain. "Mal... Mal, ve're here."
 
She woke with a start, though Foka had been wise to avoid touching her. It was rare she slept so deeply, and her waking was all the more jarring for the trueness of her rest.

Mal jumped and nearly toppled over in the copilot's chair before remembering where she was and dropping slippered feet to the floor to steady herself. She was confused about where she was for a full ten seconds, staring around herself at the ship and the shipyard through the view screen before her eyes finally found Foka's metal-studded face and she remembered. The prison. The escape. The stolen ship.

She blinked and shifted the pack on her lap, sitting up. Her belly was sore but her head felt much cleaner...which meant it was about time for her to start thinking about heading out on her own. She'd packed all their rations in her sack...but she'd given Foka a gun, so he'd probably be fine.

"Here," she repeated slowly, squinting through the view screen. Right. He meant to trade the ship for something more...discreet. THe warden's ship hadn't been the newest or the largest on the market. But they'd covered the space between planets quickly and had gotten through the asteroid belt without so much as a scratch, which meant she was probably a pretty good flyer, even if she wasn't intergalactic quality. Anything in a junkyard like this ought to be pretty easy pickings. And if they were careful...and if Mal was as convincing as she knew she could be...

"Think you can get two ships?"
 
Foka had stayed in the chair besides Mal while she reorientated herself, watching her through the brief moment of confusion. There wasn't much thought, wasn't much to consider or plan while she moved about. Just, make sure she didn't fall and die or anything.

"To' ships?" Foka repeated, raising a studded eyebrow. Of course she wanted her own ship. There was no point in thinking otherwise. Father Russia felt just a hint of shame for being so uncharacteristic. "I vill see vhat I can talk her into," he shrugged, standing up from the pilots chair. He led the way over to the gangplank, pulling the lever and watching as the hanger bay was revealed. He had left Mal with the bag, understanding that she likely didn't need to feel any weaker by having it taken from her.

Waiting for them on the outside of the ship, there was a young woman, dressed in blue overalls with a plain, white t-shirt that had oil and grease stains all over it. She had short, black hair and blue eyes, and upon closer inspection, it became apparent that she was a young woman; it was likely that she wasn't even into her sixteenth year.

"This what ya' have for me?" She asked, putting her hands on her hips as she watched Foka -- who was substantially taller -- walk down the plank.

"Yes," he replied, running his fingers part way through his tangled hair, pulling it out of his eyes.
 
Mal's face fell the moment she heard 'her'.

She scowled and stood gingerly, swinging the pack over her shoulder.

"'Her'. Great. Sure, why don't you see what you can do," she muttered, following him down the gangplank, deliberately oblivious to the moment of...something she'd read in his expression before. Confusion, probably. Never regret.

Mal strode to the end of the gangplank glumly, trying to figure out how she could harass/seduce Foka into taking her back to Mars if they couldn't get a second ship...until she saw the woman running the junkyard. And by woman, she really meant girl. Mal was equal parts encouraged and saddened, though she shoved the second away hurriedly. No room for that here. It was easier to play with girls like her, confused seeking friends, role models. Family. Mal wouldn't be doing any of them any favors by being soft with the kid.

She stood by silently, waiting through the brief exchange Foka set up. Then, without pretense, she approached the girl carefully, almost coyly, and said, "How old are you?" It would seem irrelevant. Maybe it was. But it was the best way of gauging what she had to work with, regardless of what the girl said. It was all in how she answered.
 
The young girl scowled at being addressed, looking Mal up and down before answering. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Foka blatantly ignored the short, bitter exchange.

"Gawd, man," the girl scoffed, moving her hands from her hips to cross her arms over her underdeveloped chest. "What are they paying these people? When you said expensive, I was expecting something more like a cruise-ship. A yatch, or something.

"I need two ships," Foka cut in.

"Not in you'r dreams," she snapped, whipping out a hand and pointing an accusing finger at the Russian. "Not after last time. Your girlfriend is just going to have to deal with f*cking you for a ride."
 
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