Page 7 of Mutant Mine

“Shut up, Hatha,” I whisper, working so hard not to look back at Roth.

“Oh! That got a reaction,” he laughs. “So the big guy does wet your whistle, huh? He’d split a sweet little thing like you in two.”

“Put your clothes on.”

Hatha is still naked, I can see from the corner of my eye. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of looking. His voice sounds feverish with glee.

This is what he’s wanted all along: to get a real rise out of me.

Breathing fast, I hurry to put my cart back in order, roughly stacking the dirty laundry so that I can haul ass out of here before the situation gets any worse.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Hatha hisses. One hand is sliding down his body. “I can see it now. You want to ride the bull. You wantto hang on to those horns for dear life while you getfu—”

BOOOOM.

A deafening noise reverberates up and down the corridor. Roth has slammed two fists into the force field in front of his cell. Tiny lightning bolts bounce all over the force field like cracks in glass, and a shower of sparks crackle against the floor.

Everyone is silent, gaping. The electric shock from touching the force field is enough to knock a normal man out cold. Roth is panting through his teeth — which I can see now have longer, sharper incisors than most humans — but he’s still very much upright, muscles rippling in his tensed shoulders and forearms.

He’s not looking at me anymore. Instead, he’s looking straight at Hatha.

Footsteps pound down the corridor. It’s Gregory, panic in his eyes, hand on the stun-gun in his holster.

“What the hell was that? Is the prisoner trying to escape?”

I pull myself together enough to say:

“No, Sir. He just hit the force field with his hands.”

“Why did he do that?”

Before I can answer, Roth speaks. There’s a slight rasp in his low, rumbling voice:

“Your colleague here. The little bird. My associate was pulling at his wings.”

“Little bird… Finch?” Gregory wheels around to me. “Why does the prisoner know your name?”

I stutter, but Roth speaks first again, still quiet and calm.

“He told us because we asked. He was being polite.”

“Officer Finch—” Gregory glares at me “—should have known better. And so should you. Asking personal questions of an officer is insubordination. No food for the next three days.”

“What?” I interject. “Sir, that’s…”

“That’s what, Officer? Do you have something to say?”

“No Sir. Sorry Sir.”

“That’s what I thought. Dismissed.”

5

Rory

BEING ANGRYmakes me cry. It’s why I can never win arguments. It looks as if I’m upset, when really I’m just furious. Now, my eyes are wide open in the dark, burning with irritated tears.

It’s 4am. I have to be up for my shift in three hours, but I’ve barely slept a wink.

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