Private Ausgebrannt

[Sam Rodarch]

Lucky Star Motel, Kelada

The downtime was the worst.

She laid on the paper-thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling, bleary eyes tracing patches of damp and mould that encircled the yellowing paint. The smell of mould lingered in nostrils and clung to clothing and the occasional flash of black indicated a serious infestation issue. It was enough to make most people's skin itch in filthy ceremony.

But that wasn't what bothered Sam, no, poverty was second nature to the woman and so the company of cockroaches was no great complication to her.

It was the thinking. Empty rooms, empty time, empty head, just waiting to fill with unwelcome thoughts and thoughts, unlike people couldn't be punched away. Every second of solitary downtime was spent like this, trying not to think and failing every single karking time.

Still saw his face.

It had been a few months since it happened. An underestimation of newfound strength. Her cybernetic hand around the man's neck. She squeezed, not knowing, not thinking, not looking and the mechanizations of her metal fingers crushed flesh and windpipe alike. Just like that. A son, a father, a brother, a husband, a friend, a person.

Dead.

By her own hand.

Insidious thoughts plagued the time in-between violence-fuelled catharsis and as much as Rodarch tried to find fights to fill the void there would always be time to think.

Sleeping was hardest, and exhaustion sat heavily upon the woman's back. Fatigue would eventually grant her a couple of hours reprieve in the dawn but it was only enough rest to chase off delirium. Eyelids darkened and hooded alongside heavy bags beneath gave that lack of sleep away. It was a good thing that her hustle wasn't beauty pageants and despite her chronic exhaustion, the glorified bum-fights that paid a pittance for their motel room were little more than a formality.

There was, perhaps, one thing worse than being locked inside of her own head, however...

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Oh, c'mon, I paid ya a chit and ya doing me like this?"

BONK

"See, whatcha made me do? It didn't have to be like this."

CRUNCH

"All ya had to do was give up the goods."

Shatter, crunch crunch, slip.

"...sir, that is a vending machine, it can't- oh my god, you broke it!" The lone motel attendant stood there gaping at the smoking wreckage of the vending machine. Its metal bonked and crunched, glass shattered in the shape of a bloody fist. Half the machine was empty. Its goods? Currently lounging melancholically in Sult's arms.

"Broke it? Chap, I learned it a lesson. You cannae just go 'round, taking people's credits and give nothing in return."

Of course, that was exactly what Archibald Sult did in his free time... but that wasn't relevant right now.

Before the attendant could say anything Sult was already past him. But not before pressing a bag of crisps in his shaking hands. "Lighten up, son, eat your crisps and don't make a fuzz." And then Sult leaned in there, scruff of three-day chin growth scrapping against red nervous skin. "-unless ya wanna play, but something tells me ya dun' know the stakes. Never a good idea to roll if ya don't, ya feel me?" A minute later Archibald picked up the ice he had promised and went back to their room.

Their.

It still felt off to say it like that.

But Sam was a good sort. Dependable, loyal, hard-working... all the things that Sult was not. Could there ever be a better alliance in place? He certainly doubted it. He pushed the door open- "Got the ice and also-" Out of the air flew a bag of pringles, landing square on Sam's face. "Got us the food for the champions, eat up."

 

[Sam Rodarch]

A packet of crisps was a far cry from the fists that were usually flung at Sam's face and the woman was once again left internally debating whether it was better to be alone in solitary torment or be in the company of one Archibald Sult, killer creep extraordinaire. A man who bore the standard of everything that Rodarch loathed in the galaxy.

Reeking, smug soulless alcoholic. Remorseless killer with a crooked grin. Seemingly incapable of an ounce of guilt for all his kilograms of flesh taken.

Every time that sickening drawl escaped smirking lips Sam just wanted to get up and leave. Get on a transport to anywhere and just start again, away from him. It was more than just tempting, it was damn near fight or flight just to co-exist in this room with him.

She grabbed the bag and sat up, familiar pangs of hunger hitting her stomach the moment she opened it up and let the smell of salt and starch hit her deviated nose.

"Shet, can't we eat a hot meal fer once, Sult?"

Her objections to snack food as their diet staple was understandable. He might have been able to sustain his wirey vitamin deprived frame on junk food but Rodarch was of a more substantial frame and needed a bit more fuel in her tank for all the paid hobo punching. Lest she was destined to waste away like him.

Didn't stop her from tearing into the crisps though.

"Like a karkin' burger or sumin'."

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Sult dropped himself on the sofa, spreading out in easy leisure like an unfolded sofa-bed.

"Hot meal?" His tone was coloured with confusion as he ripped open his own bag of junk with teeth and sharp nails. "Well, babe, I can probably find ya some hot coffee or tea to-"

Burger.

Now that was an idea. His stomach immediately made itself known by growling in furious desire. For the moment Sult forestalled it by swallowing half a dozen chips in one go. It was appeased. Who knew how long that would take though? That was the thing with living by your desire and being fully integrated with your Id.

Once the hunger coaxed you to a certain direction it was hard to push past it.

"Well, aren't you the fancy one." And it wasn't entirely clear if Sult was talking to her or his stomach. Could be either, could be both, you never knew with one Archibald Sult.

Out of the sky another pack of crisps dropped on her face.

Then one on her stomach.

A third one on her face.

"There ya go- bacon, chicken, turkey. The three greatest protein sources." Drawled with that characteristically filthy wit. You could almost taste the smirk attached to it. But then Sult's stomach growled again and he couldn't help but sigh in defeat. Such as it was. "Fine, fine. Why not. We can rob a restaurant... or a butcher's shop. Sound good to you?"

As casual as a hammer to the groin.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Even through cauliflower ears, Sam could hear his belly rumbling, it was no surprise given that the man seemed to have the diet of an alcohol-pickled rat. Junk to fuel a rotten core.

As the barrage of crisps assaulted the brawler she could only wonder how much worse her life could get if burgers were now considered fancy. It was yet another side effect of her companion, who was not only a crooked, sadistic and murderous son of a queen but also a black hole that dragged everything around him down to his repulsive level.

It might have been impossible to believe that Archibald Sult and Elliot Locke were the same person had Rodarch not met him in the flesh.

She glanced down at one of the thrown bags, and for a split second pondered if crisps actually did contain protein before the woman fully absorbed the perpetual smirk in his voice. It was for the best given that there was no way that Rodarch could actually read the ingredient list to find out.

"Why we gotta rob'em?" the shockboxer asked through a mouthful of half-masticated potatoes, her expression both frustrated and exhausted, "Aint' we got creds?"

With her will to avoid empty time with guilty thoughts Sam felt that at least they might have gathered up a modicum of savings, although then again, she had been fighting vagrants who were somehow more malnourished than Sult. Not that she knew how much money they had because for better or worse he took care of the purse, she just did the fist work.

"Can't we jus' buy burgers like normal folk?"

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Gaping at her with open mouth.

It was weird how he still had all his teeth. Even though they should all have been rotten to death with how rotten he was inside.

"Lady, babe, Samsam... BUYING things, really?" And there was true shock in Archibald's eyes. As if the concept just didn't track for him. It was one thing to pay for a relatively clean room to stay in. After all, you didn't want your throat cut by the patron, if you forced yourself in. It was an entirely different thing to exchange creds for commodities.

"We ain't part of the visible economy, luv. We are the robbers and the barons of our own fate."

He ripped open a new package and dug in without concern. Chewing one after another while thinking about what Sam had just dropped on him.

"Ghosts, living on the fringes, if we gonna swap credits for food, we might as well apply for a credit score from our local bank." Truly Sult was the master of exaggeration, but there was something fierce in his gestures and gaze.

More often than not Arch was casual noir.

Relaxed, unless killing was to be done, but clearly this was something the man felt very strongly about. "No, no. We rob them. And we pay them with their lives, or more precisely the allowed continuation of it, as long as they dun' make a fuzz. Dig?"

Anything less just didn't make sense.

To him anyway.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Still with the babe, feth, every time he said it she wanted to shove her own head through a break wall. It was less the misogyny and more the...overall Sultness of it all.

Along with disgust and loathing, he offered strange contrast.

Sam had never been a stringent rule-follower or paragon of law but when stood next to Sult the woman felt as if she was some kind of hapless square that was too afraid to litter. I mean, for feth's sake, she had built an early trade on rabbit punches, low blows and teeth.

Perhaps there was a part of her, deep down where her bruised and battered common sense still existed that had been urging her to stay on the licit side of the tracks as to avoid any further...

...incidents.

He was a person.

"Feth," she muttered before tipping the packet and the remaining crisp crumbs down her neck as to not waste a single crumb as Sult finished waxing lyrical about the economy, fate and credit scores.

Rodarch blinked as if a revelation had suddenly dawned upon her gauntlet-marred maw (and it had), "...but if we ain't buyin' shet then why we even makin' creds?"

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Archibald sighed as he watched her face.

This was wasted on her, truly.

But it was his fault - why would he expect Samantha Rodarch, of all people, to understand his deeper psyche? Some days Archibald could barely make heads or toes (or severed fingers) out of it himself. His fingers flexed into a fist, absently, and relaxed. Back and forth they went. Within the bag with the crisps crunched together.

It made a pleasant sound to his ears.

"There be chit we can't steal, Sam-Sam." Sult pointed out as patiently as he could manage. "Can't steal a house-" There was a pause right after that as the man considered his own words.

Was that really true?

"Okay, we can actually, but I enjoy sleeping with both eyes closed." Drawled finally after some more consideration. Still. It felt off to Arch. Something wasn't entirely right. She had hit on a good point. Why was it that they were gathering up credits? House? They could just take a place, who was there to stop them? Hell, any alley with a good warm corner could do. A ship? They could jack one. Food? Steal. Drugs? Same. The credits... the creds... it was a plan of a different man, wasn't it?

Archibald grunted there, looking mildly distraught, an emotion Sam hadn't ever seen on him.

The smugness wiped away... for a moment anyway, before he scratched the slate (or his face anyway) clean.

"Anyway, don't you worry about the why, you just worry about keeping that arse of yours nice and fit." He muttered, lighting up a cigarette to try and chase away the anxiety roiling just underneath his skin. "We will get you yar burger an' then some. I take care of my own..." Blue sharp eyes stared at her through the smoke.

"Don't I, Sam-Sam?"

You're still in there, aren't you ol' chap? Don't be a nuisance I got dis... for both of us.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It seemed for but a moment that her revelation managed to perturb Archibald Sult, if only for a moment. Not that the woman was entirely sure about the context herself as her own mind got stuck on just how somebody would steal a whole house.

You would need a giant transport for starters...

Rodarch physically cringed at Sam-Sam, his company a festering wound and his words the spreading infection that crawled through her veins. More and more the shockboxer was found steeling herself, fighting the natural urge to leave this black stain of a man behind for her own personal safety and sanity. She had internally vowed to help Elliot Locke out of...whatever the feth this was but... when was it time to call it quits? Did she even owe him this much?

Oh yeah. Run away from more problems, killer.

"Keep my arse outta yer damned gutta mouth, Sult," she snapped back with a scowl, not realising the innuendo she had just brought into this world.

When she stood up without uttering another word it was a silent acknowledgement that he was indeed, technically, taking care of her. Rodarch couldn't exactly deny the plain-as-day, black and white fact that he had saved her life. Could have left her bleeding out and fighting for breath, but he didn't. Shet, he organised this motel, he took care of the credits, he even acquired, what was (on a technical level) food.

Thinking about it, it seemed like he did everything.

Grabbing a jacket she swivelled on her heel to look at him, her brow knotted in confusion as she sought to change the subject back onto his criminal nonsense.

"So how'dya steal a house then?"

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

A slow blink.

"Well, it ain't for everyone, so I will keep it out of mah mouth." Sult drawled lazily in response as he pushed himself off the chair and got back up to his feet. It was clear Sam had no idea what she had just innuendo'ed, but that was alright with Archibald. It was funnier this way. The lady, for all her fisticuffs and muscles, was an innocent deer sometimes.

Absolutely hysterical.

He put on his own coat again. Then checked his assortment of knives. All in place. Then his revolver, also in place. A yawn there as he put the rest of his bag'o'crisps in a pocket and followed Sam out of the room.

"A house?" The question was tainted with confusion as Archibald locked the door to their room. Sure, he was a lazy fether, who most definitely didn't fit into the archetype of a smooth SIS operative. But some things... well... they were difficult to shake. This was one of them. The last thing you wanted was to walk into your own room to face a revolver pointed at you. At least when the door was locked, they had to work for the honor of ambushing you, which made all the difference as far as Sult was concerned.

"Oh." The coin landed when he turned around and walked out of the apartment complex with Sam in tow. "Well, that's easy. You just need a heavy freighter, lots of rope, hooks and a prayer."

Sult smirked there.

"I prefer stealing freighter homes though. Then you can just fly away with it- easiest home theft ever, no?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The first thing Sam noticed when they left their room was the remains of a smoking vending machine and a distressed motel attendant holding a bag of crisps. One look at the pair of them and the man scurried away with urgency in his step which absolutely gave the woman cause to stare at the security-minded Sult with a withering glare.

Why wouldn't he have also stolen the crisps?

As they left, Rodarch wasn't entirely sure if her companion was taking the piss or not. I mean, it was how she was picturing it, big freighter, ropes, hooks, maybe even some kind of crane but the shockboxer at least had the wit to sense that it was a very ridiculous picture. House heists, now really.

"Might be'n idea to get ourselves a freighter home, since they probly gon' throw us outta tha motel soon."

Grand theft crisp was a serious crime indeed (and also vending machine replacement was probably expensive).

Sam took a quiet moment to consider the value of a freighter home as they walked along the cracked pavement towards the main drag of the shethole industrial wasteland. It didn't seem that bad of an idea, really, aside from the still hanging with Archibald Sult aspect of it. They could get around, find some better fights and actually feel like they were go-

She paused, realising that she was ruminating on long-term plans with him, it made her shoulders seize and her grimace stiffen. Karking hell.

"'Sides, them roaches are gettin' bolder... an' fatter."

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Please, we paid up for the week, they-" And then his eyes caught the wrecked vending machine and the back of the attendant hurrying around the corner. Okay, yeah, Sam might have a point there. They most likely wouldn't cut their week short... or they were far more courageous than Archibald had taken them for, but getting the room for another week would probably present a problem.

A grunt escaped his lips as that reality settled in.

"Kay, so you are probably right." Was that the first admission that Sam might have worthwhile ideas too? Presumably, but Archie didn't stick too long with that point for fear that it would prove infectious.

Freighter home though.

That kept swirling through his head as they trudged their way through alleys and quiet streetways. "Not difficult to jack a freighter." Sult finally murmured, very thoughtful indeed. "Grab a good one, we will be able to take this enterprise on the road, the Galaxy is bigger than this gutterball after all..."

Finally Arch laughed and slapped her shoulder.

Ow, like trying to do a wall, damn.

"Great idea, lass, that's what we will do then. Nick a good ship and then see what else this Galaxy has to offer us, eh?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Even a broken clock was right twice a day

Although Sam very quickly realised that her previous complaints about Sult's casual disregard for other people's property had turned paper-thin in her own light suggestion of freighter jacking. Different strokes for different folks. The guy slinging street food didn't have the same means as the guy with the freighter.

His hearty slap brought her back from her attempted internal justification for future theft and Sam could only grimace at the thought of any and all future ventures in store for them both.

Feth, she hated his touch.

"...yea yea..."

As they continued down the street her fatigued gaze lingered on a dark shape huddled against the entrance to the local bargain bin booze store. Swaddled in a worn blanket and clutching a half-empty bottle, the neon sign of the shopfront only served to highlight the violent contusions upon the vagrant's face. Sam's gut swam and then sunk at the very sight and suddenly the woman's pace quickened.

Was she responsible for that? Had that been one of her opponents? This place seemed to come equipped with a large homeless population more than willing to get six shades of shet knocked out of them for a pittance.

Just so they could fething drink?

Gave her fists a sense of righteousness.

"...'slong as we're jackin' someone who has it comin'..." she grumbled casting her eyes down to her feet, "...the sooner we off this rock the betta."

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Babe please, everyone here has it coming." Archibald drawled as he came to a halt in a particular spot. Across the road the feint outline of a restaurant could be seen. Closed right now, but that didn't mean they didn't have something to grub in the kitchens in the back, did it?

"Look around ya, have ya ever seen a place so miserable and bad? It's seeped into the duracrete itself." His fingers absently stroking the crumbling wall just behind his lean. "Lack of maintenance, lack of care, only be the next meal or drink or kark these people care about." A yawn there, as Archibald stretched and noted the security, if any, was integrated into the building.

"Ya think we parasites? Nah, we are the culling that takes the parasites out. It's for their own good, really." From out of a pocket he grabbed hold an half-empty bag of crisps. Offering a chip to her and partaking one for himself.

"What are they gonna do with their lives- drink it away? Might as well feed us while they dig their own holes. That be nature to you."

Unless Sam accepted his crisps, he'd finish it off himself before letting the bag flutter to the ground.

"So, I am thinking- we go around back, see if there is an easy way in through there, if not we just smash through the front. Seems to have only a basic decrepit droid defense, so I dun' think there gonna be a lot of issues either way. What do you think?"

Oh, so NOW Archibald cared what she thought.

Then again- this was one of those moments where the hulk of muscle was a bit more useful than the assortment of sinews he sported.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was a point there in Sult's words that Sam could have agreed with had the man not decidedly started his tirade against Kelada and its people with the word 'Babe'. There was something in it, felt like a hand creeping around her throat, primed and ready to squeeze the light right out of her. Made her feel sick and she wasn't sure exactly why.

Even still.

Was he right?

They didn't know the story of this place, they didn't know why it was such a shethole or the stories of all the lives that came here only to stop, wither and die. She'd been that low before, it can happen to anybody, right? Rodarch stared at the chip, her expression confused as she tried to scrape an ounce of compassion for the port city and its people.

Then he slipped in the drink and her expression darkened.

She'd just seen it too, not like she couldn't deny it. The only shopfront whose neon sign wasn't broken was the bottle shop. Roaring trade. They did it to themselves. Yellow. Weak. She wasn't like that, wasn't like them. It don't run in the family. Did it? Was that really just nature? No. She was better than dirty yellow blood. Stronger.

"...fine."

She plucked the crisp from his hand and crunched it between a stiff jaw.

"I don't want'a get caught. Let's go real quiet in the back'n if there's trouble waitin' fer us inside then I'll handle it," she rumbled bitterly, taking lead down the alleyway next to the restaurant, clenching and unclenching her fists like she was hoping for the extra trouble.

Something more satisfying than decrepit droids at any rate.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Sounds good, luv, away we go then." Arch drawled without any indication he had noticed the dark mood shift in his companion.

Truth to be told he did.

Not hard either, since Sam was as subtle as a brick to the face. Still. What was there to say? Her hatred for alcohol was bordering on the irrational, but childhood trauma almost always caused a sharp sense of irrationality. Not that Archibald had a lot of ground to talk about. He had been slipping for most of his life, as long as he could remember.

Halfway past the street he lit up a cigarette for himself. Pushing it between teeth, flame shielded from the rain with a cocked fingers, a suck as Sult drew in the smog and ash. Blow out. They reached the other side next.

Before Sam could push past him towards the backdoor, he leaned in and cut her path off.

"Want a drag, Sam-Sam?" Murmured warmly as he offered the end of the blunt to her. "Take the edge off, before you cut yarself on a karked-up droid or two." This was what Arch didn't understand about her problem. On a drink? Intoxicated? Or high as balls? Sult had always fought better, harder, longer.

All his limits fading away. His pain sense already karked to hell and now replaced by joy receptors erupting one by one.

Why would you fight sober once you felt the joys of living The Seven Highs?

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam stopped and stared through the acrid stench of smoke but for a moment, eyes tracing well-worn lines on his face, settling on the dangerous curl of his lips, the glimpse of those teeth. She had stood up to men that towered over her, aliens made of bulk, creatures of muscle and remorseless thugs. Yet somehow, in some strange way, Archibald Sult seemed far more terrifying than any of those men.

Just for a moment.

A glimpse of clarity in her worn stare.

"Not now," she answered, holding up a hand to create a barrier between them as she stepped back to create some sense of distance, "maybe later, 'kay?"

Rodarch rubbed the back of her neck, the fingers of her left hand kneading taut, knotted muscles that didn't know sleep or a functioning karking mattress. "'Sides, I like tha edge. Keeps me goin'."

Which, speaking of the edge.

Despite having just claimed that they were doing things 'the quiet way', Sam held little care for the sanctity of the restaurant's back door, as her cybernetic hand very suddenly caved in the adjacent door panel with a barely restrained hammer blow. Now, not being a practised thief or a delicate spirit, the woman hadn't really thought through the inner workings of a door panel.

Although, given the neighbourhood, said panel was probably just there for decoration and such a fact was confirmed as the violence gave way to a small whirr as the back door's locks disengaged.

Felt nice just to hit something, really. She needed that.

"Lead tha way, Sult."

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Arch didn't push there.

Oh, plenty of things existed where no boundaries followed for him, but this wasn't one of them. For one he didn't try to close the distance once more. Instead opting to lean back and drag again from his own cigarette. "Sult yourself, babe." Sult instead of Suit. Gods this creature was actually the worst wasn't he?

"Sure, it keeps ya goin' for now. But... yar young and pretty, chit's different the older ya get. At a certain point the edge's gonna wear ya down."

What's that?

An actual lesson in wisdom that had nothing to do with drugs?

Murder?

Theft?

Maybe whatever Archibald was smoking was softening him up more than expected. "What, me? I thought ya were looking forward to smashing chit instead." Drawled lazily. So probably not THAT softened up. "But sure, sure, I will protect ya from the scary monsters inside, babe." Before Sam could answer or take a move inside, he already trundled in.

Blowing out smoke into the air that would be caught directly by Sam's face.

"Oh, mama, we got some good chit in here." Already picking up a loaf of bread.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Babe.

Pretty.

Sam's jaw clenched at his words. Sult's mouth was a machine of mockery both sly and toxic and it was almost as if his lazy drawl was a mask that covered the deliberate nature of such carefully chosen insult and hurt.

Only thing wearin' me down is you, she replied but only in her head, truth be told the woman wasn't quite sure why she didn't say it out loud. Without any deep analysis, she guessed that it was because he would have belly-ached some ludicrous statement and held up their restaurant robbery.

Sadly, there were no hidden rudimentary defence turrets at the back door and so when Archibald stepped inside he was greeted with bread and not stinging low-powered blaster bolts. No, instead Sam got the displeasure of following in that sickening stench of smoke that would no doubt cling to her short mop. Her tired stare bore deep holes in the back of his head.

What kind of life were they living when bread fell under the category of good chit?

"You rustle up somethin' an ah'll take care of tha droid," she murmured, taking cautious steps through the kitchen and towards the door to the restaurant floor. If anything was getting guarded, it had to be where they kept the money.

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Sure thing, luv, jus' let me know if you need a hand." He drawled over his shoulder as he got busy with the food.

Perhaps Sam ASSUMED that just meant he'd start filling the bags. So, y'know, they could get out of there as fast as possible with their loot and be on their way again.

Should have known that things would never be as simple and easy with Sult.

Instead?

A few seconds passed until the hissss of gas popped up. He took a match and lit a fire on the fire plates. It only took a matter of moments before the sizzle of patties sounded through the kitchen. The smell of meat being prepared as he began busying himself with the veggies and slicing the bread like an expert maestro.

Which, technically, he was.

After all, Elliot Locke had to go undercover in the kitchen more than ones.

"You want yars with something on the side, luv?" Calling out through the restaurant to a (probably) fighting Sam.