Page 23 of Mutant Mine

There’s a freezer, too, stocked with pre-plated meals and lots of ice.

That’s all pretty cool, but it’s not my favorite thing I find. Rummaging under the counters, I see glasses, china, and silverware — including a set of cooking knives.

Scarcely believing my luck, I pocket a paring knife. It’s small enough to conceal, but wickedly sharp. I wrap the blade in a strip of fabric torn from the bottom of one of my jumpsuit legs, so that I don’t accidentally stab myself when I slip it into my pocket.

I don’t plan onstartingany fights with Roth. I don’t have a death wish. But I would like to know that I can end one, if I have to. I should remember that the faucet in here can instantly dispense water at any temperature, too; a cup of boiling water would make a passable weapon, in a pinch.

The knife is the second best thing I could have found in here. The very best would have been what I’ve checked every room for: a maintenance hatch.

There aren’t any. Tried rattling the door, too, but it’s locked tight. No escape for me.

I might as well eat again, to keep my strength up. I find a few containers of nutrient porridge in the pantry (shoved at the back, like they were never really expected to be used) and rehydrate one with hot water.

My eyes keep drifting back towards the delicious things in the stasis unit. I should really keep this meal simple, and not touch any of the good stuff. It would be wrong to take any pleasure in my captivity, while my crewmates are suffering down in the cells — wouldn’t it?

On the other hand, this meal could very well be my last. Anything that I eat, Roth doesn’t get to. Plus, I really am starving — and I never get food like this.

I don’t just mean on the Hades (although I’ve eaten nothing except that stupid mush since day one), but back home, too. The Cavalier Estate, that is. I’m not calling it home anymore. There, I got to see fresh food like this all the time — more than most people ever do, since I worked in the kitchens and the garden. But I so rarely got to taste any of it.

Just a mouthful couldn’t hurt.

I step into the dry air of the stasis unit, and am immediately paralyzed by choice. Should I eat a hunk of bread and cheese? Or cut a slice of melon? It brings back a lot of childhood memories, standing here looking at good food that’s not meant for me, and trying to decide what to steal a bite of.

In the end, it feels rebellious enough just to pluck one grape from the bunch, and grab a bottle of milk. I pour a glassful of the milk, then take a jar of honey from the cupboard and drizzle a golden spoonful over my hot porridge.

First, I eat the grape. It’s sweet and crisp. Then I lick the honey from the spoon — and almost moan out loud, it’s so good. Next, I gulp several cold, creamy mouthfuls of milk, closing my eyes as it slips down. Real flavors wash across my tongue for the first time in months.

“Good?” asks Roth.

My eyes snap open. I leap around, brandishing the spoon.

He’s stood behind me, blocking the doorway to the kitchen, watching me eat.

I’m all ready to leap into my own defense —it’s not even his food!— but the look on his face arrests me. Roth is… smiling. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on him before, and it startles me into silence.

It strikes me suddenly that under the horns and the marks on his face, Roth doesn’t look all that much older than me. He must be in his late twenties, at most.

That doesn’t mean he’s not scary, though. He seems even bigger now that we’re enclosed in a small space together. Without thinking about it, I find myself stepping backwards, sucking in a nervous breath when my butt hits the edge of the surface behind me.

Roth’s smile drops off his face as if it was never there.

“I am pleased to see you up and exploring,” he says. “Please, eat whatever you want.”

And then he’s gone, striding back into the bedroom. The kitchen door slides shut behind him.

…What am I supposed to make of that?

He really seemed to want me to eat. Is the food spiked?! No, no, we’ve been through that; I’m too weak for him to bother poisoning me.

Ugh. Alright, screw him. If he’s going to leave me alone in here, then I’m going to eat — because it’s whatIwant, not because he told me to.

I take my time finishing my meal, savoring every sip of milk and mouthful of honeyed porridge. When I’m done, I carefully place the dishes into the washer under the counter. It only takes three minutes before they’re clean and dry.

I still feel so dirty and gross all over… I’d love to climb inside the machine and get the same treatment myself. A nice wash and blow dry. I’d even happily accept dish soap as shampoo right now.

Eventually, there’s nothing left to fuss over in the kitchen. With a nauseous lurch, I realize that I can’t stay in here forever. I may as well head back out and face him.

When I enter the bedroom, Roth isn’t there. The bathroom door is closed.

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