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"Ain't you cold?" a voice comes from outside the crate.
The Guardian slowly moves his head to look, seeing the mask and green hood of a Hunter.
"I'm fine," he replies. He turns his head back to the metal floor in front of him, anxiety rising in his chest. He holds his breath as he hears the hunter's footsteps approach.
"Really? Personally, can't stand campin' out here, this far from the sun," the hunter drops to sit against the wall opposite of him. "Least most days, I can get the heat on my ship goin', what with how easy it is to find parts out here -"
The Guardian only raises his head enough to watch him as he talks.
"And it's so… bleak, y'know? So much grey -"
"Why are you talking to me?" his voice is more of a plea than anything hostile, worried this idle kindness is some trick.
The hunter stops, fidgeting a little where he sits before transmatting his mask away. He's human, warm brown skin and messy black curls visible under his hood, soft brown eyes familiar in a way he can't place.
"I made mistakes. Hell, everyone has," he mutters, and the Guardian frowns.
"I don't know what I did," he admits.
"Don't matter, does it?" the Hunter gives a small smile. "They wanna cling to what you might’ve done? Fuck 'em, that ain't your problem."
The Hunter begins to dig through the satchel at his side, eventually pulling out a small container. "You hungry?"
The smell of spices and vegetables hits him, even through his own mask, as soon as the lid is pried off the container. In the back of his mind, he can feel his Ghost nudging him.
He fights with himself for a moment. Then he removes his own mask.
He braces for the Hunter's reaction, but all he gets is that friendly smile as he holds out the container for him.
In the container is an assortment of what looks like some sort of deep-fried fritters, and when he cautiously reaches out to take one, he finds they're still warm.
He fears he might cry when he bites into it - sweet and savoury spices, diced vegetables - it's the first real thing he's eaten in the months since he was rezzed.
The Hunter takes one too, setting the container on the floor between them. "Pakora, they're called," he says, muffled with his mouth full. "Potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, uh, brinjal, mostly. But I ain't about to spill my family recipe," he chuckles, and the Guardian can't help a small smile.
"This is delicious," he says, trying not to appear too eager as he takes more. The Hunter grins.
"Thanks," he says, and the Guardian finds it odd that he's the one being thanked. "I'm James, by the way."
He deflates when the Hunter holds out his hand for him to take.
"James," he repeats. "I don't even have a name to give you." James retracts his hand and tilts his head for a moment like he's thinking.
"Means you get to pick one, I s'pose," he offers eventually, picking up another pakora.
The Guardian considers this.
There's a word in the back of his mind. He doesn't know if it's his name or not, but it brings with it a sense of warmth.
"Karga," he says. James gives him a wide-eyed look before he smiles.
"Karga, then."
For the first time since his resurrection - as they sit on the floor of the shipping crate, talking and sharing a box of pakora - Karga doesn't feel so alone.