Authors note: Many thanks to Varethane for betaing!

Chapter 8, Cellmate

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

On the racetrack, she hadn't feared. But then she had weapons, and her skill at the wheel, and a metal box protecting her.

Outside of a race car, she was a petite businesswoman.

Afterwards, Rayn only remembered those first few moments just before the assault like a series of flashing still images, like her brain couldn't handle the memory.

She dropped the communicator on the floor, hearing it softly thud on the carpet.

The door began to open.

Her shaking legs wouldn't hold her. She slammed her hands on the desk top, trying to keep standing. There was nowhere to run. They wouldn't find her cowering.

The door softly knocked against the wall, and she faced Chilton and the two thugs behind him. She didn't recognize them, could hardly even take in their looks apart from the tattoos and scars and big hands. All she really saw were their smirks and hungry, cruel eyes.

"Chilton— what—" she managed, voice cracking at a hysterical pitch.

His mouth twisted in a look she'd never seen on his face – disappointment.

"Ah, you already figured it out. Too bad, I wanted to be the one to break it to you."

She wanted to ask him why, but she didn't want the answer. The words would not form; instead, she just stared mutely at him.

This couldn't happen. He couldn't betray her. Traitors were people who thought they were treated unfairly. She'd never given him reason to complain.

That belief only revealed her ignorance as Chilton spoke.

"It's not what you do, Miss," he said, holding her nailed to the spot with his glare. "It's how you do it. My mother worked very hard to put me through college, and we were both proud of the business she built along the way." He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Miss, we are a little 'a little perturbed' as you so succinctly put it."

He took a step back, half turning as the two thugs stepped past him.

"Your father should have taught you to respect other people, girl," Chilton said as he reached to close the door.

Screaming wouldn't help. The apartment was sound proof.

Her legs finally decided to move and she recoiled away from him. They followed with widening grins, and her back hit the wall, knocking a vase off its stand. The crash rung in the air, the final shreds of her composure shattering along with the pottery.

Big, rough hands grabbed her and she slammed into the floor, black spots dancing before her eyes. A pathetic yelp escaped her as the taller one jerked her up by her hair, his calloused hand closed around her wrists like a fleshy bond. The stench of their bodies tore at her nostrils.

"Unhand me this instant!" she choked.

"But you look so fine on your knees," the other thug said as he hunched down in front of her.

Rayn jerked her head away when he reached as if to caress her cheek. Instead he grabbed her throat, forcing her face upwards. She struggled not to whimper when his other hand drifted into sight, holding a pocket knife. The blade flashed like lightning in the lamp light.

"And that pretty lil' mouth of yours, never shutting the fuck up. You oughta put it to better use." He leaned in closer, his hot breath flowing over her face. "Ain't no secret that you know how."

She wanted to spit and snap at him that he was a fool and wrong, but she could hardly breathe.

The knife swept down and she couldn't hold in a yelp, but it didn't bury in her flesh. Instead he pressed it to her soft bottom lip, tilting the icy cold metal against her skin.

"Gonna make you nice and slick for the service, precious."

The blade tilted, slicing in and sending a bolt of shock and agony through her.

There was a shot from the other side of the door, followed by hard thumps and muffled yelps. The thug hunching before Rayn shot up straight, spinning around. She gave a choked sob of relief for the break, unsure yet whether it would last.

The door burst off its hinges, Chilton flying along with it. They crashed together on the floor with a violent crack and the man tumbled over it like a sack of potatoes, silent.

Then Sig was there.

He shot through the broken doorway, lips drawn back in a fierce snarl. Before anybody had time to react a big, dark hand grabbed the shorter thug by the scruff of his neck and hurled him across the room. The dagger clattered against the floor, stained with blood. In the same fluid motion Sig punched above Rayn's head, and she heard a sharp crack and a strangled curse. The grip on her arms relented and Sig pulled her away, shoving her behind him.

She fell to the floor, silent and staring as Sig attacked the thug. The man was still reeling, clutching his broken nose. He had no chance when Sig punched him in the stomach. He fell forwards, screeching for air.

The other mobster got up, snarling, but froze at the sight of his friend's arm getting snapped like a twig over Sig's knee. The howl of pain pierced the air, and the standing thug met his adversary's eyes as his screaming friend got dumped on the floor.

He ran.

Rayn couldn't see the corridor from where she was, but Sig made no move to follow the thug. A moment later she heard shouting and a scuffle coming from the exit, catching several familiar voices – among them Razer. Swearing and running steps disappeared down the stair well, and the door slammed shut.

Paralyzed and mute by the lingering shock, she just watched as Sig roughly pulled the hollering thug up and knocked him out with a single chop to the neck. The mobster fell with a thud as Sig tossed him aside, mouth twisted in disgust.

The silence was deafening. Rayn leaned forwards, clutching her upper arms as she struggled to keep the nausea from overpowering her.

Heavy, steady steps made her glance up.

Sig reached out, and made half a move as to hunch down on one knee before her. Then he froze and straightened, only lowering his hand to offer her help getting to her feet.

At that moment, Rayn was not in the right state of mind to process the aborted motion. When she thought about it later that night, however, it would add even more fuel to her anger.

"Thank you… thank…" she gasped, struggling to catch her breath.

Her hand trembled as she put it in his, for the first time noticing how much bigger than her he was. It looked like a child putting their hand in a big adult's grip. But his calloused fingers were warm, and real, and they gently closed around hers and gave her the strength to stand.

Then he let go just as quickly.

Rayn clutched at her chest, crumpling the once perfectly ironed suit in her hand. The many braids normally kept a tight bun had come loose, dangling around her shoulders. Looking down at herself, she realized what a state she was in. Gritting her teeth she tried to straighten out her clothes.

Without a word Sig held a hand to her back, steadying her as he glanced about, looking for any other sign of danger. Razer and another goon came hurrying up the hallway. Even more of Rayn's own thugs grimly hovered outside the ajar apartment door, the sight of them soothing her wrecked mind a little bit more – even though her shattered trust kept an icy grip of her heart.

"We got the runner," Razer said, wasting no time. "He's taking a nap."

"Good, good…" Rayn mumbled.

She found a handkerchief in one of her pockets and dabbed at her sweat matted forehead. As careful as she tried to be, beads of sweat had already done a number on her make-up, and the fine powder got smeared up in moist streaks on her skin and the handkerchief. The cut on her lip was bleeding, too, but the remaining shock dulled the pain and it wasn't until she felt thick drops on her chin that she remembered it. With a shaking hand, she wiped off the blood and pressed the handkerchief to the wound.

"One m-moment please, I'm not so used to— used to physical altercations as you are."

She was still off balance, struggling to recover.

The man behind Razer sneered while Rayn didn't look at him, but it faded instantly as the former champion gave him a warning glare.

"Take your time, Miss," Razer said in a calm, gentlemanly manner. "It's always worse when being assaulted at home."

Mutely and staring with unseeing eyes at the floor, Rayn nodded. The men gave her time, but the sheer pressure of having them wait on her finally helped force her senses back in some semblance of order and she cleared her throat.

"Chilton let them in," she said, her voice hoarse.

Razer made a motion to the man behind him, who went over to the unmoving ex-secretary on the floor to check on him. After a moment, the examiner looked around with a horrible, cruel grin and gave a thumbs up. Rayn pressed her lips together. There would be an interesting conversation in the near future, then. Even in her current state, it gave her a dark sense of satisfaction.

It helped her relax enough to remember Sig. Her shoulders slumping, she looked up at him, standing there watching her in silence. Sheer gratitude made her knees weak again, but she kept herself upright and braved the pain in her lip to grant him a smile.

"I'm so grateful to father for sending you to me," she said.

Sig pulled his hand from her back as if burned and when she blinked, dazed, he twisted his head to the side so that the only eye she saw was the mechanical one. However, she still caught the look in his good eye before he hid it.

Right then, when she was shaken, when she was weakened and she needed him… right then, now that he didn't have to be a warrior for her anymore, the disdainful grudge flashed back into him like it had never left. Again he refused to be what she wanted him to be.

He wouldn't even pretend that he had wanted to save her for her own sake.

Her eyes widened, then thinned. The snarl was on her lips, the order to Razer and the others to hold Sig down, to beat him. She wanted to see him bleeding and broken.

In the last second her economical sense cut in. To have him punished would leave him useless to her for days, and right then that was also too risky.

But he was a fool if he thought he could treat her like that. She would teach him his place, once and for all.

He himself had given her the means of punishment.

Rayn had changed her mind about the request he had made just prior to the assault.

Even considering what had happened, Sig was too much of a veteran to expect that this wouldn't come with a price tag later. For the moment, though, he was just… not grateful, certainly not, but glad as much as his current life allowed.

The situation wasn't unfamiliar to him – apart from that he was prepared for the guest for a change. Krew had at times sent "rewards" to Sig's apartment after successful missions. The first time started off awkward, until he and the young woman had sorted things out. The second time, Sig had grumbled – while making coffee – that he had to tell Krew to cut it out because if he wanted company he'd find it.

The lady that night (Sandy) had asked him not to, because coming over to Sig was essentially a paid night off.

So he ended up not telling Krew to quit it, even though it left him wondering about Krew's disturbing ideas about his heavy's preferences.

He was thankfully pulled out of those kinds of thoughts by the soft knock on the door. Leaving the kitchen he went to open. Just to not make her nervous he had moved his makeshift bed out of the corridor and back to where it belonged. He remembered how Krew's increasingly weedy picks had always looked more or less spooked the first time they saw Sig, and the way Rayn's new employees had looked at him also hovered raw in his mind.

When he opened the door, poor Taraxa's already wide eyes twitched and her red-painted lips pressed tighter against each other. She mechanically walked inside, hands twitching as she tried to seem at ease but obviously wanted to disappear into her long jacket. It reached surprisingly low, but didn't hide the fishnet stockings she wore.

The door hadn't even fully closed before Sig had raised both his hands and shook his head.

"It's okay," he said in a soft voice as she stared up at him. "You don't hafta do anythin'."

"Wha… I…" Her voice broke and she glanced away, then back up at him, unable to mask the suspicion in her eyes.

"I don't want anything from you."

She shifted, cautiously daring the risk of pulling her jacket tighter around her.

"Then why did you want me here?" she muttered.

"I don't wanna be here either," Sig said, speaking even lower. He moved towards the kitchen. "Want some coffee?

He grit his teeth against the memory of a hollow-eyed, petite woman gazing up at him and softly saying "You don't have to drug me, I can play dead if that's what gets you off" in response to the same offer. It made him rip a cupboard door off its hinges.

Working for Krew had been particularly trying for a while.

He pushed those thoughts away and glanced back at Taraxa, who still stood paralyzed and uncertain in the hallway.

"Keep the jacket on, if you want," he said.

She followed after a few moments, sitting down on a chair while he poured the coffee. Every motion was stiff, uncertain, and when she put milk in her coffee she just barely avoided spilling it.

He sat down across from her, bearing the silence and hoping that would help her realize that he wasn't toying with her.

"You really don't want…?" she finally whispered, clearly bracing herself.

"Really. You looked so miserable back there," Sig said, and watched a tremble shake her entire body. "You look miserable now, too."

She bit her lip and then looked him in the eye, suddenly hopeful.

"Please… c-could I use your communicator?" The words fell over each other from the frantic speed she spoke with. "I know they couldn't risk coming here, but just to let my parents know I'm…" She faltered and stared at him.

"Sorry, it doesn't work." Sig unhooked the communicator from his belt and set it on the table so that she could see that the "Call" button had been removed. "I'd let ya any day, but it can't make calls."

The hopeful tension fell from her face and she slumped. Then she straightened up, frowning as she looked at him.

"But wait… what if you need to call for help or something?" she asked.

"I guess Rayn figgers I won't."

For a little while, neither one spoke.

"You're in danger." Taraxa stared into her cup, clutching it with both hands. "I shouldn't say it, I know, but I heard the men talking. They don't like you."

Since she wasn't looking at him, Sig allowed himself a small, joyless smile. But he scrubbed it off his face just as quick, not wanting to risk her seeing it and thinking he was laughing at her.

"Thanks," he said in a low voice. "But it ain't no shocker to me." When she snapped her head up to stare at him, he added, "Plenty of reasons for them to not like me before I even got stuck on this post."

He could have bitten his tongue off for the last few words, but they slipped out before he thought it through.

"Forget I said that," he grunted, harsher than he had intended. Taraxa shrunk backwards, only carefully relaxing again when he mumbled an apology.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"How are you doin' now?"

Not the best, but he was uneasy and it was the first thing that came to mind.

"It's… better now, I guess," Taraxa mumbled. "At least I have a warm and clean room. I should be…" She swallowed hard, her hands creeping up her arms, holding herself. "Should be grateful."

"No." Sig shook his head. "She didn't save your hide. Just moved it."

She stared at the table, mutely nodding.

"What was that thing you talked about?" Sig gently asked, wanting to bring her mind to a better place. "Suburban…?"

"Suburban agriculture," she dully said without looking up.

"How does it work?"

"Never mind." Her head sunk further, and she spoke through her teeth. "It's got nothing to do with me anymore."

"There's no farmland at all in the Wasteland," Sig said. "Hardly got anything worth calling soil."

Talking about Spargus cut him like poisoned claws, drying up his throat with longing, but the sacrifice worked. Taraxa glanced up, a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

"Then what do you eat?" she asked.

She didn't seem surprised that he spoke of the Wasteland, but it was probably common knowledge that he was from out of town. By now he could conclude that she probably hadn't been interested in the racing championship, though, since she showed no sign of recognizing him. That was just as well.

"There are plants that can grow there. But they don't like us messing with their flow, we hafta let nature do its thing."

He talked about edible cacti, cave mushrooms, and thorny, serpentine fruit vines bundled up inside crevasses in the ocean cliffs. The memories summoned ghosts of smells, texture and taste to his senses, not only of the food but of everything else he so desperately missed. For just a moment he smelled the hot sand and salty winds, and heard the lizrats squeak amongst the cliffs as children laughed and adults chatted while going about their chores.

But then he was right there again, in that coldly lit kitchen. However, Taraxa spoke, soft and sad at first, but then with wistful animation, about berry bushes grown in large pots, and fields laid out on top of buildings.

It was far past midnight when the exhaustion of the day finally grew too heavy, and the yawns overtook his ability to continue the conversation. Taraxa softly said that she was used to working at this time and sleep during the day, but she wouldn't mind a nap.

Sig went to sleep on the sofa, leaving her to do as she wished with the rest of the place. She smiled a little as he left.

Several hours later he woke up by the sound of Taraxa shuffling around in the apartment. Groggy from the late night, he pushed himself to sitting and swung his legs over the side of the sofa, rubbing his eyes. When he looked up, Taraxa was leaning into the doorframe, tilting her head sideways and giving him a sleepy smile. She had washed off the makeup – this revealed haggard dark rings under her eyes, but she looked a lot more at ease.

"I'm making coffee," she said and disappeared from sight. "Just a moment."

"You don't hafta…" Sig started, but a yawn cut him off.

"It's fair!" she called back.

The coffee she brought him a few minutes later was like colored water compared to what he was used to, cluing him in that what he had made last night hadn't been to her taste. But like her, he didn't say anything about it, and it still tasted better than anything else he had tried to eat or drink for the last few months.

Taraxa sat beside him on the sofa, at a small, relaxed distance they both silently agreed on.

Eventually, she glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed, putting her cup on the table.

"I better go," she said. "My escort will be here soon."

Sig stood up and followed her to the exit, holding up a hand as she slowly reached for the door.

"Don't talk about me," he told her. "Rayn prolly wouldn'a like that."

Taraxa froze, giving him a searching look.

"Why is she so possessive?" she asked.

"She thinks I'm a trophy."

Taraxa's eyes narrowed, but he avoided her gaze.

"Were you fooled too?" she asked in a low voice, reaching out to brush her fingertips against his hand.

"Somethin' like that," Sig muttered, drawing back.

Her fingers twitched, but she didn't try to reach out for him. Respecting his distance.

"Thank you, Sig," she softly said, and gave him a warm, sad smile. "I hope things will get better for you."

"Likewise," he responded.

Neither one of them could believe the possibility, though, but for that brief moment they ignored that. Then she was gone, and both of them were left all alone in this cold, unfeeling city once again.

About twenty minutes later Taraxa climbed out of the car that had come to pick her up and bring her back to the brothel. She glanced after it as it sped off, hardly even registering the driver's grinning comment about how he was surprised she could even walk after that customer. The anger about that came later, just another biting set of words for the trash heap inside her memory.

Right then, she was still too wrapped up in the warm confusion of a stranger's kindness.

Gazing up, she saw that no lights were on in the brothel. Of course, this early in the morning it was closed. There were hardly any people out in the street, either. The cold ocean winds of the morning found their way through her jacket and to the generous patches of bare skin beneath. Shuddering, she hurried over to the door and punched in the code to open it.

She only got to push two buttons before the door swung open and the receptionist, Manda, reached her arms towards Taraxa.

"Come in, come in!"

In the beginning, Taraxa had been surprised that there was a receptionist at all, and she had found that she wasn't alone in that. However, everyone had soon enough concluded that it was just Rayn's way of running things. It helped, too. Several of the veterans had praised the idea, of having somebody down there who you could always turn to, who could call for help if something bad happened.

They could be completely grateful. They had given up on any other way of living.

Dazed, Taraxa took the older woman's hand and let herself be pulled inside. A handful of the other women were also there, hovering in the reception. As soon as they saw Taraxa, they all closed in around her, gently urging her to the back room. That was Manda's space, with a simple kitchen and drawers full of anything from handcuffs and condoms to sewing material for mending clothes.

Manda took charge, shooing everyone else back as she steered Taraxa to sit on a chair, and hunched down in front of her.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, gently reaching out to touch Taraxa's jacket. "Do you need eco salve?"

For a moment, Taraxa could only stare at the other woman. She looked so proper, wearing a suit jacket and with her hair in two braids tied up along the sides of her head. Nobody would mistake her for one of the women she was in charge of.

When there was no response, one of the other prostitutes filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it over. Taraxa took it out of instinct, head still spinning.

"Is she in shock?" somebody whispered, with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Taraxa blinked, and shook her head.

"No… no, I'm fine. Thank you?" she mumbled, looking around.

Shoulders fell and relived breaths were heard.

"Thank goodness." Manda stood up and gently stroke Taraxa's hair. "We were worried when we heard where you got sent. Are you sure he didn't hurt you?"

"Yeah, that guy looks like a total savage," another woman said.

Taraxa stared at them. Finally it made sense. Finally she recalled her own terror when she was informed.

Water spilled over her lap as the glass slipped out of her grip and shattered on the floor, and she curled forward, pressing her hands to her face as she sobbed. Wanted to scream but bottled it up once again, as she had done for months.

Manda wrapped her arms around the whimpering little woman and commanded everyone else to get out, deaf to their worried mutters. Once the door was closed, the receptionist managed to urge Taraxa out of the jacket.

"No bruises?" Manda mumbled as she studied the bared arms. Still, she got up and opened a drawer, taking out a first aid box.

"No… fine… I'm fine," Taraxa choked out between sobs. There was a stack of handkerchiefs on a nearby shelf and she fumbled for one, burying her face in it. "He's… please don't say that…"

The warning to speak about him sparked up in her mind, and she clapped her mouth shut. Just took the eco salve tube that she was offered and sat there as Manda hugged her and muttered soothingly, believing whatever she wanted.

Taraxa kept weeping for how damn unfair everything was.

Author's note: Taraxa's name comes from "Taraxacum officinale", the Latin name for dandelion.