Pilot (7/?)

It was hot in the desert. It was hotter than Earth deserts, or so Dave assumed, having never been in an Earth desert. He was already loosening his tie before these thoughts entered his head.

"Keep your shirt on," Kara said almost immediately. "You'll burn blacker than you already are without it."

"Oh. Uh, thanks," Dave replied, "but I wasn't going to take my shirt off."

"Well, your commitment to modesty has saved us all."

Dave didn't know whether or not he should laugh. Erring on the side of energy conservation, he didn't.

Kara disentangled herself from the parachute and harness and frowned at the burning wreckage of her ship. "Damn."

"What was her name?" Dave asked. "Your ship, I mean."

"Oh. I called her The Schadenfreude. Stole it from some redneck. But I was more worried about the mini fridge. I had some water bottles in there but they're pretty useless to us now - "

"I'm pretty sure it's pronounced ‘schadenfreude.’"

Kara raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was pronounced ‘schadenfreude.’"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's pronounced ‘schadenfreude.’"

"I could leave you stranded out here in the desert right now."

"So could I. Ah, how the tables turn, criminal-at-large - again with the gun?"

Kara shrugged, but held the barrel close to Dave's head. "I'm not about to let you run to the fuzz and tell them I'm here. I just got done crashing my ship over them, if you didn't notice."

"Where the hell would I run? We're in the middle of the desert!"

"I see you didn't notice the city to our six."