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Drake had no regrets. Not a single one, not after what had come out in testimony. But all the witnesses in the world weren't going to be enough for his case... he'd killed a CO, and a valuable instructor apparently. Even if Cyrus "Magpie" Mayweather had been a rapist who'd assaulted his trainees for over a decade... he shouldn't have attacked in armor, at least, maybe then things would have gone differently for both of them. So Drake wasn't proud, it had been an accident to actually kill the man when he'd thrown him off the corporal and into a bulkhead, but he didn't regret it.

Maybe he shouldn't have said so on the record; that's what ended him up here.

The Tartarus was one hell of a prison, that's for sure. It was intended as a transport but as he had no final destination, Drake expected to be here awhile. From what he gathered during intake, most of the guys on here were. It was a max security ship full of the worst of the worst, and probably some folks with bad luck like him. Drake didn't want to form opinions before he'd met any of them, and in prison everyone would claim they were either innocent or righteous, he knew. He'd have to use all his skill assessing folks.

Starting with his new cellmate.

Most of these men were ex military or militia, used to sharing space -- or maintaining their own. But the one they've chosen for him... well, Drake isn't enthused about how they keep laughing. Or calling the other man "Sharkface." Apparently he doesn't take well to cellmates, or anyone.

Drake isn't particularly worried, but he's going to have to be careful, he suspects.

He's shoved in unceremoniously, sheets and a change of clothes in his arms, to see a man seated on the lower bunk watching the guards with his good eye like a hawk and completely ignoring Drake until they're gone. Then his gaze settles on his new roomie. Drake meets his eye, the other one a black prosthetic, and sizes the man up in a split second.

Covered in scars and tattoos, both fully visible where he sits shirtless on the bunk. 'Redemption' huh? That's interesting. This guy's obviously been through hell and back but is still in good shape, could probably kick Drake's ass easily if he wanted to. Hopefully he won't.

Drake nods one in greeting, then glances up at the top bunk in question.

"That one?"

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It's a choice to wander around shirtless, putting his scars and tattoos both on display. The crooked skull of the ODST logo on his arm marks him as UNSC, but his record says Insurrectionist. Participated in a mutiny, killed some officers, stole his armor and a shitload of intelligence both. Beholden to no one, his loyalty a thing too often bartered away. The missing eye says weak point, an obvious blindspot to take advantage of, but the scars say he can take the hurt. That he's been set on fire, that he survived it. That he's already survived anything the world could think to throw at him.

The rings tattooed around his fingers say nothing the others can understand, which is exactly as he intended. And his willingness to go right for the throat has kept him alone almost since the first day he got tossed into a cell.

Until now, apparently.

Sharkface narrows his good eye. Flexes his hands. Wonders if he shouldn't just lunge for the man and smash his head into the wall. Get it over with. Violence for the sake of it.

He doesn't move. He holds. Gives the man a single, cool nod. Sharkface doesn't actually sleep on the bunks. He takes the floor. Shoves himself into a corner and prepares himself to wake up quick in case of an attack. But there's a hierarchy everything, this included.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Drake Holloway," he answers easily, moving forward without any hesitation or fear of the more powerful stranger sitting beneath where he's setting his things down. It's not like Drake isn't formidable looking himself, but he's fairly certain this man could kill him on a whim and without breaking a sweat.

It's alright. It's prison, he knew what he was getting into. Still no regrets.

"What should I call you?" Surely he doesn't call himself what the guards were... although Drake can kind of see where it comes from now, with the scars and the shark tattooed on the man's chest. He goes about making his bed to prison standard, not looking back at the other prisoner in case that's interpreted as staring.

Hmm. No hesitation at all. No thought to the fact that Holloway just stepped into his space, and Sharkface has done the work to establish his own reputation as a psychopath. The type of person who'd go for broke in a fight just for the sake of it, to feel blood under his nails. He knows the guards think he's insane. None of the other prisoners fuck with him anymore, not even the ones who've banded together into gangs.

Holloway's new. He might not know that yet.

Sharkface thins his mouth. Not a smile. It looks vicious with his scars, with his bad eye. "Nothing."

No point, really. Holloway won't be around for long.

"Sharkface. If you really need to." This time he does flash his teeth, daring a comment. Almost hoping. A fight would be good now. Practice for what's coming. One day he's going to get out of here and track the Freelancers down, one by one, and tear them apart. He's been training, practicing. Fights to stay sharp. Another one would be good. A reminder of what he is, what he needs to do.

Drake steps back to stuff the thin pillow into its case and catches that not-smile, that threatening flash of teeth. He remembers the comments, that this guy fights just to hurt people, and tilts his head consideringly before setting the pillow back on his bunk.

"Is this the part where you threaten me? I'm genuinely asking, this is all new. But one look tells me you're tougher, it might not be much fun for you just beating on me."

"You'd be quiet," Sharkface points out coolly. And he would be alone again, exactly how he prefers it. No talking, no strangers looking at him and trying to suss out his weak points, the extent of his crazy. He doesn't want to be a person to these people. It's counterproductive for what he needs to do, the mission he's sworn to finish.

He promised CT, after all. And he'll see it through before the end. Everything else is just noise. It doesn't mean a goddamn thing.

But there's something about Holloway, too, isn't there? A fearlessness that somehow, impossibly, doesn't shape itself into a challenge.

"You'd be fucking quiet."

Sharkface really ought to just kill the fucker now. Get it over with. But he holds. He watches Holloway with an intensity that used to bother other people, and wonders.

Yeah, that doesn't seem to phase Drake, either. The guy wants quiet? He can do that.

He draws two fingers across his mouth in the universal sign for zipping his lips shut, and climbs up onto his freshly made bunk. Prison is going to be boring as hell like this, but maybe they'll get some time out of their cells now and again. He doesn't want to go pissing this guy off first night.

And just like that, the moment turns. Holloway makes a gesture that would have been childish except for for the utter sincerity in his eyes, and Sharkface doesn't follow it up with violence. He just stares.

What the fuck.

He sits there for a while, turning that over in his head. Wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do with this man now. Kill him, beat him unconscious, do nothing at all. Eventually Sharkface twitches, shaking himself, and then reaches under the mattress to remove the scraps of paper and single pen that the guards have allowed him to keep. There's nothing to do around here but fight or plot about fighting, except in the moments when his head refuses to fall into the violence, and that's when he draws.

Sharkface bows his head down and begins to sketch.

Drake is content enough (bored, but he likes having all his parts intact) to lie there staring at the ceiling until he hears the scratch of a pen on paper. What? How did Sharkface get that? And... it doesn't sound like he's writing.

It's nearly twenty minutes before curiosity gets the best of him and he has to peek.

As slowly and quietly as he can, praying to whatever deity will listen that the bed doesn't creak, he rolls to the side and peers between the frame and the wall. Hopefully if it sounds like anything it'll just be him rolling over and Sharkface won't think to look up on this side.

His cellmate is... sketching.

And beautifully, at that. Drake can barely draw a stick figure, but he recognizes talent when he sees it. He finds himself wondering if the man designed his own tattoos as well, what he could've done with that ability if the galaxy wasn't at war... or if he just hadn't done whatever landed him in here. Questions he won't ask and will probably never have the answers to, but it does give him an idea of how to make nice. If he can just get on the guards' good side.

He watches Sharkface draw until he actually falls asleep, and is eventually woken by the clang of the gates opening for dinner. Drake sits up, rubbing his eyes.

"They actually let us out of the cages? Huh."

It's not like there's a yard on a ship, but he'd been expecting it to be more like the holding he was in until his trial, where they just brought food to the cells.

Oh right, he's supposed to be being quiet... whoops.

There isn't a lot of paper and Sharkface knows very well that he won't be allowed to keep what makes. Eventually the guards will come and toss the cell, like they always do, and take whatever he's sketched. Do whatever it is they do with contraband these days. Probably shred it. But he sketches, still. People he sees, the shape of the Tartarus, all hard angles and bars, and keeps it up because otherwise he thinks he might go crazy in a way that can't be used so easily. And then what would be the point of him then?

It's something to do. A way to arrange his thoughts and focus his mind in the present. Keep from spiraling back into the bad memories.

He sketches out the mess hall, in the mean time. The hard lines of the cells in the background, the hard surfaces of the tables. Shadowy, faceless men in the background. And he falls into the rhythm of it so heavily, and so completely, that he fails to notice Holloway shifting until the man actually speaks up.

The gates are open. Isn't that nice.

Sharkface snorts. Tucks his paper and pen away. No one will steal from him. A couple tried in the early days, to fuck with him, but they didn't like the result. "They don't like it when people get stir crazy."

Doesn't stop the guards from enforcing a lockdown or threatening to space all of them, but men who've got nothing else to do have a tendency to scream their heads off and nobody, not a goddamn soul, wants to deal with that bullshit.

He tips his head back. Eyes Holloway.

"You have no sense of self-preservation, do you?"

That's an excellent point that Drake didn't think of... people go stir crazy, they might try more shit. Better to keep the rats' habitat relatively enriched. As much as is possible, anyway. Maybe that's why Sharkface has things to draw with.

He hops down to file out of the cell like everyone else is, and offers his cellmate a sheepish expression and a little shrug.

"You're not the first to say that. At least you'll get a little break from me now and then."

He doesn't think he's so bad, really, he's not an active threat and hopefully Sharkface will see that soon... or maybe the other man wants a threat? Something to do, something to fight. Drake himself would be more keen on making a friend, however questionable, but he knows the types that wind up in places like this.

Really, he doesn't belong on the Tartarus. He's not a hardened criminal or a cold blooded killer or whatever, but he'll hack it. He's a survivor and he'll survive Sharkface too.

Drake steps out of the cell and into the line of prisoners heading to mess, and doesn't ask his new roomie what the food's like. He'll find out soon enough.

Sharkface thins his mouth, not a smile. There's something different about Holloway, a sincerity that he ought to dislike or at least distrust immediately. Most of the men here are traitors or criminals, and all of them are killers. The reasons don't matter. Sharkface spelled his out a couple times in the beginning, defended his reasons, but he's largely stopped. No point. They're all trapped in here just the same. Most of them will die in here, too.

But it does beg the question, doesn't it? What someone like Holloway did to get tossed in here with the rest of them.

Sharkface shakes his head and files out.

The food is singularly awful, surprising no one. Sharkface takes his without a word and sits down in the corner he's claimed, his back to a wall and his blindspot jealously guarded. No one approaches him, exactly the way he likes it. But there's a group of Insurrectionists a few tables over that he's spoken with a couple times, and he gestures to one of them, flicking his hands to get their attention.

It's easy enough to sign across the distance, no need for spoken words at all. If the guards notice, or any of them understand sign language, they've never done a thing to stop it.

Sharkface spells out Holloway's name, one letter at a time. "The fuck did he do?"

The Insurrectionist, a hawk-faced man named Anders, bares his teeth and signs back Terms are negotiated. Favors for favors. Sharkface is always good to beat the shit out of a body, and Anders is never short on clients. He's running some sort of racket, or at least is calling it that to avoid admitting his people just like beating up the UNSC prisoners. But he's tapped into just about everything that goes on in the Tartarus, and there's always value in knowing a man like that.

Turns out Anders and his people already had an eye on Holloway. Turns out he killed someone up in the ranks. Turns out —

Sharkface actually laughs at that, startling Anders and a few nearby prisoners. Magpie. Of all fucking people.

"I don't fucking believe it," he murmurs, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Drake doesn't aim for anywhere in particular in the mess hall, just hangs back and takes wherever's empty at the end of the line. He doesn't have much interest in inserting himself into the pecking order, and if the others think he's at the bottom of the food chain and ripe to be picked on, he'll deal with it then. Better not to draw attention than get a reputation the way he knows he'd have to here.

Surprisingly, no one seems to bother him. A few latecomers nudge him over to have more room for themselves at the end of the table he's chosen but once he scoots they leave him alone. Drake focuses on his terrible food and wonders what the hell he's going to do to pass the time here. He's got a long sentence.

They're about halfway through the time allotted for dinner when laughter rings out across the rowdy hall and Drake glances up to see where it's coming from.

It's.... Sharkface. He's laughing hysterically despite no one sitting near him, so someone must have signaled something. What could set him off like that? It sounds like genuine laughter, too, and although it tapers off before they're sent back to their cells he's still incredibly curious as they form a line to file back. Almost enough to ask... or maybe not.

Time ticks by, with Drake weighing the value of his continued silence vs maybe getting an answer. Looks like it's not just the boredom that's going to destroy him on the Tartarus, it's curiosity too. Finally he decides not to ask, not yet, but to occupy himself another way. Sharkface is back on his bunk so Drake strips off his shirt and claims the floorspace to do some push-ups to try and tire himself out since nothing else here will.

Somebody killed Magpie. Captain Cyrus Mayweather. Oh, but he wasn't a captain anymore, no. He'd risen up in the world, sliding into promotions and surviving whatever was thrown at him because that's what men like him do. They worm their way in, they survive. And they do what they've always done. Eat people alive who are too stupid, too goddamn naive, to know any better.

More than a small part of Sharkface wants to start a fight. Lunge for someone, anyone at all, and go straight for their eyes. Bore them out with his fingers. But he doesn't. He holds, and he flops back down on his own goddamn bunk without a word. It's been a long time since Sharkface has thought about the fucker, more than ten years. Hunter and Chica had beaten the shit out of Magpie once and that had felt like a reckoning. As close to justice as any of them were going to get.

Turns out not. Turns out he kept on doing it until somebody threw the fucker into a bulkhead and snapped his neck.

Turns out that somebody is Drake Holloway.

Sharkface rolls onto his side. Doesn't get up. He eyes Holloway for a while, watches the man work. Strong fucker, isn't he? Got some tattoos, got some scars. Signs that are telling if you know how to look. Sharkface doesn't especially care where Holloway's been or even where the man's going, but here they fucking are. Stuck in a box together.

"You killed Magpie."

He says it almost conversationally. His smile is darker, though. Flashing teeth. He can feel the laughter bubbling up again and supposes he ought to do something about that. Stop before he really sounds like a crazy person. But really, why bother? Why not let it all out?

"Now why'd you go and do a thing like that?"

The last thing Drake expected tonight was for Sharkface to speak to him after the way their introductions had gone. He holds himself up for a moment and then smoothly resume his workout, only glancing at Sharkface out of the corner of his eye to see that smile. That glee.

And he wonders about the explanation.

Not for the first time in his life, Drake doesn't want to be right about what he suspects. But that name. Magpie. Not Colonel Mayweather. Not Cyrus. Magpie. They weren't friends, that's for sure.

"There were the stories," he says hesitantly, "and that name, so I kept an eye on him when I wound up bringing my new squad back for advanced flight instruction at his station. Coming back from maintenance one night and I heard somebody trying to scream. Real quiet, but I heard it. Guess all those years, fewer options with people keeping an eye out and he got sloppy."

Up. Down. Breathe in and out. Drake holds himself in a plank and stares at the floor of their cell, voice low and angry.

"Gemell's a good kid. I'd been training him since basic. I got so wound up I basically forgot I was still in my armor, and... well." He does turn his head, then, easing himself down to sit cross-legged facing Sharkface. His expression is serious and his eyes hard, determined. "If that's what you thought was so funny at dinner I'm guessing he wasn't a friend, but I don't regret what I did. Nobody was ever going to stop him, were they?"

Stories. Of course there were. Stories and stories and so many whispered rumors. That name like a brand, a warning to anyone who knew how to look. But of course there's always someone who doesn't. Fucker still got careless, though. Went arrogant in his old age. Made a scene and someone noticed. Smashed his head in for it. He hopes the old fucker saw it coming. He hopes it fucking hurt.

Sharkface breathes out. Realizes his hands are clenched and forces them to relax.

"Nope," he agrees, in that same conversational tone. Fucker had connections of some sort. Friends in high places. "They never would."

He laughs at that. Imagining the fucker's face. The sound is low and rough. Vindictive. "Fucking Magpie."

Always collecting up shiny new things. Always going for the weak link. The ones who wouldn't say a goddamn thing. He'd been a fucking idiot when he was eighteen, Sharkface knows. Terminally stupid. Would have stayed that way if he hadn't met Hunter and Chica. Wouldn't have survived any of it.

And now here they are.

"I like you, Holloway. Just a little." He grins and rolls onto his back, staring up at nothing. Imagining blood under his nails. The feel of it. The smell. And for a moment he remembers the way Magpie had looked at him. Clamped a hand over his mouth and dug his nails in while he did it. How that had hurt in a way he hadn't been ready for. He remembers that more than anything. The sting of it. Moon-shaped cuts on his face that hadn't healed up right because he couldn't leave them alone. Always worrying at them until they opened up and started bleeding again.

Old memories. That's over now. He's survived much, much worse. But it's funny, in a way. Because this stranger did something he couldn't. Killed the fucker. Did a service to the rest of them.

Funny, that. Sharkface bares his teeth, laughter caught in his throat. So very funny.

That's all the confirmation Drake needs that his suspicion is correct, really. Sharkface, or someone very close to him, was one of Magpie's victims. Fucking bastard. No one deserves that, and that's not something anyone could ever change Drake's mind about. It was in a different category from most horrible things, something unforgivable because how could you ever justify it?

He shakes off the dark thoughts and tries to wrap his head instead around the fact that his murder has gotten him on Sharkface's good side. That's something, at least. Even if he knows he can never bring up what he's figured out. Wouldn't want to.

It looks like his cell mate is about to laugh again, but while he's feeling a little chatty Drake does have one question for him.

"If word's gotten around already... you think that's gonna be a problem for me here? Or does everybody know everybody's crimes in this tin can?"

"Someone doesn't like you."

The obvious response, really. Why else would Holloway have gotten tossed in here with him? One of Magpie's mysterious friends, perhaps. Or someone else. Maybe the guards didn't like the look of him. Maybe somebody just got bored and wanted to spread the chaos around. Sharkface hums to himself, considering. Normally he wouldn't care, not unless he was truly bored or primed to get something out of it, but Holloway did the universe a favor and it would be a damn shame if that got him killed.

There ought to be some justice in the world. Even in small ways.

"What unit did you serve in?"

He's with the UNSC, obviously. There are a couple Insurrectionists running around, most of them in Anders's pack, but they can be reasoned with or bought off if the offer's convincing enough. The UNSC prisoners are harder to predict. Less inclined to protect their own. Best bet will be shoving Holloway toward them. Sharkface has some pull, though not much. He can call in some favors. See if somebody in the same branch is looking for friends.

It seems harmless enough to tell him, whoever tipped Sharkface off about Magpie probably knows that as well. So he does, names his unit and platoon -- he was working his way up the Marine ranks himself but the higher he got the shittier the people around him became.

"Can't say I'm not glad to be out, but this isn't the way I pictured it happening."

Sharkface hums again, staring up at the top of the bunk. Staring at nothing but calculating, running down the lists of people he knows and their friends. There's no one around from Holloway's particular platoon or unit — might have been a long shot, but who the fuck knows — but there are plenty of ex-marines running around. None of them are exactly nice, but he knows a couple who aren't complete psychopaths.

Good enough for a place like this.

He snorts. Tomorrow he'll make some introductions. Beat up a guard or two until they transfer Holloway to a different cell. A different, less violent cellmate. The guy's stuck here like the rest of them, but he deserves some consideration. Even if it's small. "Oh? How did you picture it happening?"

This is probably the closest to a normal conversation that he's had in months.

"Blaze of glory?" Drake is only half-joking, a wry grin on his face that Sharkface can hear even if he isn't looking right now. It seems like th other man is lost in thought, though what he's thinking about Drake has no idea. He seems too calm to be remembering Magpie. No, it looks almost like he's planning, which... could be good or bad for him, honestly.

"I wasn't really the right temperament for the military but I got drafted like everybody else and I can roll with pretty much anything. Figured I'd just fight until I died because the war sure isn't slowing down."

Blaze of glory. Classic. Sharkface huffs a little. Why bother dreaming about leaving because the war's never, ever going to end, right? "And now you're here."

Probably lucky he wasn't shot outright. Sharkface is still surprised he made it out of the last job. There were a whole lot of chances for the UNSC to shoot him and be done with it. A misfire, a deliberate act, whatever. Would've finished him. Would've made the paperwork a whole lot cleaner. He has dreams about that, sometimes. Wondering why it didn't end then.

But he's still here. Breathing, plotting. Getting ready. Because one day he's going to get an opportunity, a way to get his hands on the Freelancers, and he'll tear them to pieces. Right that cosmic balance.

He breathes out. Grins up at nothing.

"Cheer up. The guards are idiots. Haven't even killed anyone recently."

"I am. And I know they are. They thought I'd be scared of them, and you. Fear's not really a thing I do anymore."

He shifts, doing some crunches on the cold floor instead of push ups. The metal panels are cold against his back but he doesn't care. The conversation isn't bad, though, and Sharkface seems to be in an okay mood. He'll take advantage of the chatting while he can.

"How about when we get out of here? Any hopes and dreams?"

"No?" Sharkface turns slightly, so he can watch Drake with his good eye. Everyone's afraid of something. Fear makes the universe go round. Keeps everyone inside their lines, carefully defined and viscously defended. The one constant he can rely on, other than the anger.

Fear's not really a thing I do anymore.

Liar, he wants to say. You fucking liar. But he has a feeling, somehow, that Holloway means it.

Sharkface twitches. Wants to look away, but doesn't. "I got plans. Got lots of plans. Some bastards who need to be found."

Give it time. He'll corner them again.

"I feel it, sure. But fear's about self preservation, and I've gotten good at deciding whether or not to listen to it. At deciding what's important." A lot of that was reading people. Sharkface was difficult to read, for sure, but Drake's going to give himself a chance before he just lives in abject terror of his cellmate. That sounds exhausting.

Ah. A revenge quest, Drake's pretty sure. He turns his head back and finds their gazes lock... Sharkface was looking at him. He turns the crunch into sitting back up and nods once.

"I get that."

Like assessing a tactical risk. Not a bad way to go about this whole thing, really. Sharkface snorts. Narrows his good eye tight because anger and aggression is much simpler than the alternative. So fucking what if Holloway killed Mayweather. Still ended up here. That's what you get for trying to do the right thing, or trying to do a shitty thing. Same result.

"Maybe you do."

Sharkface rolls onto his back. Bares his teeth up at the ceiling, at nothing at all.

"You know why they give us windows, right?"

Holloway's smart. He's probably guessed why every single goddamn cell on the ship has a window staring right out into open space.

"It's a shitshow here."

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