The Pits

(For the reader's purposes, this translation has been altered for a(n) [American/English human]'s frame of reference, as to not create unnecessary misunderstandings and untranslatable jargon. Trigger Warning: Sexually explicit content, Violence, and Abuse.)
Tsalka always had issues with beds that creaked, wobbled, or smelled. Sleeping light had been a problem since she was young, and she paid dearly for it. At least the floor was only limited to, at most, two of those three conditions - she'd never slept on a floor that was all three, and even if she did manage to find one, it would still be preferable to a bed of the same state. Floors weren't built with the intent of being slept on. It was the idea, the concept of a safe place to sleep betrayed, that was the most bothersome of all to her. The obstruscreen flickered as she turned her head and pillow over to avoid the smell of her own piss in the corner. She stole a glance outside the darkness of her cell at the entrance to the pits. Sometimes, if she strained her ears, she could hear the abhorrent cries of beasts unknown, deep below, far out of sight. She could see stasopods hovering over the chasm, preparing for tomorrow's dive. If she'd been more affluent, her defender could've argued for a spot on one of those. Now, that would be a fantastic nap. Sure, the wake-up was a little abrupt, and the possibility of death was 1000 to 1 in any dives that required the use of a pod, although she couldn't argue with a sound slumber right before the descent. But it wasn't her turn just yet. She proceeded to not sleep a wink for the rest of the night, due to her incompetent cellmate's outrageous snoring.


. . .


Cafeteria food was better than nothing. Tsalka figured she could derive more nutrients from consuming her own shit, but even so, there was still something to gain from eating cafeteria food, and just a tad more maintained dignity. She stood in front of the counter, alone, as the blank android frame behind it flickered back awake. Its projection mirrored that of a generic class 2 Lemuria AI, but it was probably programmed with some extra directives and emotion firewalls. The blue visage of a well-dressed male crackled and distorted with static, its holographic display probably having not been serviced in a hot minute, let alone cleaned. Staring soundlessly, it spooned an unidentified mass into a dish and handed it over the counter.
The gruel the android served was a dull gray mess in a crappy terplasti bowl, which was to be returned summarily to a receptacle at the end of the meal. Hers was chipped, with a suspicious purple-orange stain on one edge, which she had promptly turned away from herself after sitting down to eat. She cursed the prison for not simply tossing the bowl in the trash instead of running the risk of frying the circuits on their bots with whatever sorts of chemicals that were capable of creating discolored spots like these. The cold metal tables they ate at would almost immediately disperse the heat of the bowl and make its contents cold, and thus, nearly inedible. But this was still her favorite part of the day.
A relatively short L'hinea took the seat across from her with a flicker of a grin. Her companion looked much better than she had several months ago- although the black, spidering scars that covered the entirety of the left side of her body would never disappear, it was plain that she was healing. Imeste picked up her own spoon and began to slurp up the gruel in a matter of seconds.
"You're just flexing on me, now. Stuff's disgusting."
"Maybe." First impressions weren't strong; getting a response from Imeste would have been considered out of the realm of the ordinary back when they were "coworkers."
"How's physical therapy?"
"Going well." She contorted her prosthetic arm, bending it to and fro, in a way that Tsalka hadn't seen her accomplish before. "Every week, things are getting better- I get better."
Tsalka touched her metal wrist and brought it closer, studying it. The prosthetic was barely more than junk, scavenged from a pile of derelict machine scraps. The most expensive part of it was the root connector, and even that was older than the both of them combined; it was still a marvel that she was able to find a piece of from any sort of artificial limb. That meant it didn't matter whether or not she found said piece attached to a mechanical leg. "The arm's still ready for the scrap pile..."
"...but I'm getting used to it. Why must you be so cruel to yourself?"
"Hey, someone's gotta be my worst critic, and it's definitely not gonna be you."
"Maybe you don't need a critic. Maybe all you need... is inspiration."
She sighed, putting the arm down and going back to her bowl, still only halfway empty and already ice-cold. "I need a savior, is what I need."
Imeste gave a consoling smile. "I've got you. I think you're savior enough."
She blushed and leaned further into her soup. "That was so fucking sappy. And anyways, I still need one."
"But you love it. And I can be one for you if you let me."
"I wouldn't mind that..." she muttered.
"We're only together once every week, but this hour with you is enough to keep me going 'til next we meet."
"Gods, you don't have to tug my heartstrings any more, you've already made your home in my head."
She leaned over the whole table and settled next to her ear. "I can do you one better." Her whisper sent shivers of lust down Tsalka's spine as she felt Imeste's uncovered legs drag down her shin. They were freshly treated, softer than satin.
"Holy shit."
"I found an old spoon near my cell. Not that hard to fashion into something that can easily take off scaling. Do you like it?"
Tsalka's cilia curled with anticipation, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. "Fuck, you're really gonna tease me like this in front of a live audience," she exclaimed as-a-matter-of-factly. "Where are your manners?"
"Tossed them in the pit, just like everyone else."
She cleared her throat and leaned in. "Bathroom. 2 minutes."
Imeste's expression went from playful to serious. "Mhm."
They both rose from their seats and deposited their bowls, then popped into the bathroom at the end of the room. Imeste was on her in a second, unzipping her neon purple jumpsuit working her tongue between her lips. Tsalka barely had time to open a stall behind them as she fell backward to the floor, trying desperately to slip her underwear top over her head as Imeste's organic hand went from her zipper to her chest and squeezed down hard. It was nearly impossible to not make a sound, but they had to try their damndest, as it was in their best interests that a guard didn't hear them moaning from outside, as it would mean the exact opposite of intimacy through a one-way ticket to solitary confinement, or worse, a ticket into the pits. This had to be quick and silent. Tsalka unzipped Imeste's own suit and reached towards her crotch, which just so happened to be the perfect height for her not to have to extend to far down. It wasn't hard to find what she was looking for as she stroked with the tips of her fingers, worming them around to find the perfect spot. Imeste bit down on her suit's collar as she convulsed in response. Bingo. They were soon floored, rolling in their own sweat and fluids. Gods, Tsalka loved bathroom sex, especially in prison. Was there ever a more satisfying risk? It was possible that she only derived so much pleasure from these encounters because of the relative deprivation she faced on a daily basis, mostly because she didn't dare masturbate in front of her cellmate (although they didn't afford her the same courtesy). The cold floors added another level of sexual gratification, the prickling on her skin granting to her a rush that couldn't really be felt anywhere else. The soft pads on Imeste's prosthetic fingers didn't feel real as they glided over her scarred body, but if she was honest with herself, it made the touching more delightful in other ways. Her partner's left was soft and sensual, whilst her right arm was a little more on the harsh end, providing significant contrast, a hearty meal on one hand and a delicate dessert on the other. She wouldn't have had both any other way.
The writhed in their rapture for another few minutes, grunting and groaning lowly to themselves, but alas, their encounter had to come to a close. Tsalka pulled away and looked into her partner's eyes. It was only so long ago that she'd look into them with resentment as they would invariably stare back at her without an ounce of emotion. It was only so long ago that they discovered their alignment with one another, when Imeste lay her mind bare in what she thought would be her dying moments. It was only so long ago they discovered that their feelings for each other went beyond the friendship they sought in the short time after they were arrested.
Before then, Tsalka hadn't been open about her preferences. It wasn't exactly considered couth for her to be gay in the L'hinea desert; traditionalists would see her tied to a stone and thrown in the middle of a sandstorm for even being caught looking at the wrong sex's ass for too long, and even the moderates would be inclined to ostracize. It wasn't her fault. It was just the way they were built, the gait, the swagger, the- her brain stalled for one moment, attempting to find a better term but eventually settling on the same vulgarity she was used to- boobs and ass, the quintessential bits of female anatomy. It was how they conducted themselves, with authority, with confidence, that attracted her to them. It was so many different factors, she couldn't name or understand them all. She'd seen attractive males, but she'd only ever felt the fuses go off in her brain when she laid eyes on the females they locked their arms with. She'd tried sleeping with males to rid herself of her urges, but no matter how she tried, the experiences just left her feeling disappointed. Unfulfilled. All her life, she was told both subliminally, and sometimes directly, that it was incorrect to feel these feelings like she did, but damn, there was nothing like fucking another female.
They both sat up and put their foreheads together, smoothing their cilia over each other's heads, giggling and swaying back and forth. Yes. This bond was different than anything she'd ever had with anyone else. It wasn't coerced or forced, but natural in all the right ways, a gentle progression of time, almost as if it was preordained. They kissed passionately, then frantically re-robed themselves and scuttled towards the sinks, where they washed off all evidence of activity. The mirrors were usually bugged and cammed, but they'd closed the door beforehand, and the sound could easily be mistaken for a row, in which case, most of the prison staff didn't give a fuck anyway. Some days, other inmates would walk in on them, but no one told about what went on in the stalls, good or bad. Unspoken rule in Pit 4, number one: What happens in the stalls, stays in the stalls. Today was one of the more private moments they'd had, a sweet, sweet seclusion. Even if it was only for a few minutes in the day, the fresh air it breathed into the lungs was a refreshment so rarely found anywhere else in nature. Tsalka had learned to savor the feeling and tuck it in the dearest corner of her mind, keeping those memories in reach to distract her from the crushing weight of her, frankly shitty, reality.
The guards didn't notice as they returned to their table. The cameras were only so watchful of this kind of wrongdoing, and seldom was it reported. If she'd left it on the table, Tsalka's gruel would have been lumpy by now. She counted herself lucky she'd had the mind to throw it in the trash where it belonged. Sadly, the pair didn't have much time left for talk, as a short burst from the klaxon informed them that collective lunch recess had ended and they would all have to go back to the block. They looked at each other one last time. Tsalka wanted to hold Imeste's face in her thoughts for the next week. It wouldn't be the only thing keeping her going, but it sure helped. Half of her visage was covered by the veiny blackness that looked as if it were crawling across it, swallowing every red pore in its wake; her left eye was tortured by the same discoloration, its pupil matched by it's surroundings, although she claimed her vision was just fine; her thick topknot spiraled out of sight behind her head, slightly unkempt now as she had only just redone it after their bathroom fun time; her lips and nose as fine and sweet as they always had been, although when they first met, she'd refused to acknowledge it, repressing the feelings of longing she so easily laid bare to her now. But again, back then, her face was nearly indistinguishable from any other L'hinean on or off planet (not that it mattered to her, L'hinean faces were fairly handsome by her standards, although she did prefer the wider features of the Central Jungle tribes now, it was not only a masterpiece, but a unique one as well. It was selfish, but she couldn't help prizing such a distinct trait. It belonged to one sole individual, and they were both madly infatuated with one another. At least she hoped.
"Hey, lunch is over, shineheads. Get in your fucking lines."
They both blinked and went to their respective sections. There were four separate lines, each one for a different block, and each composed of nearly 100 prisoners. Pit 4 had a limited number of blocks, mostly due to it being the most dangerous of the 7. Any prisoner here had to be a somebody before they came here to become a nobody. Tsalka figured the guards were even more fierce than the inmates. Why didn't they get sent down? Her subconscious would have rolled its eyes, had it any to do so with. They weren't the ones being punished- well, at least not by the law.


. . .


"So, who the fuck is that you keep sittin' with?"
Tsalka looked up from her digimag. She was thankful that the guards allowed limited electronics, but the least they could do was allow for some newer issues on these things- the one she had been digging through was 468 years old, nearly twice her age. It was interesting to her what was considered "in" back in the days of her parents. Parachute pants? Deep cut v-neck jackets with studs? The shoes made her want to puke- large and clunky, bricks weighing your feet down, and in every neon color imaginable. She was interrupted reading a review of a holofilm about Kessan fishing.
Her cellmate spoke in a tone that didn't at all match her appearance. At first glance, Tazen was the most plain looking Ausran she'd ever seen, aside from her head being a little large for her body; her skin was a warm tan, like bleached sand; she grew out her cilia and left it mostly dangling, devoid of any sort of style, and her physique was nothing to scoff at, but also nothing to write home about. It was only after a few days of having been with her that she'd noticed the seams lining her head underneath the mop of tentacles, making intricate, symmetrical patterns (she'd checked while they slept, there was no way they'd let her get that close otherwise). When she'd asked about them, they revealed a mess of eyeballs, all of differing sizes with unique pupils. She had nightmares for the first 4 weeks after this, and at the very least, she'd promised to not show them again, although Tsalka did catch a glimpse of one sometimes when she went to scratch her scalp, which was often enough to remind her of how bizarre they were. It had to be a huxian adaptation of some sort; she was unaware of any subspecies that possessed that particular set of traits, and she was sure that most everyone else was about as informed as she. It was also around the time that she completely ceded ownership of the top bunk- again, not that she wanted to sleep in a raucous prison bed, but it was a status symbol nonetheless. Her voice was deep and rich, but without much authority. Rumors circulated as to what certain people were in for, but nothing much came up about Tazen. She figured it was simply because they were either a henchman of some sort, or a mule.
"None of your business."
"Comeonnnnnnnnnn, we haven't talked in a damn week and I'm getting boooooooored out of my skull."
"Tazen, how much skull do you even have anyway? Don't those... you know... take up all the room up there?"
"Nah. You'd be surprised to find out, though. Anyways. Come on, you can share. I love gossip. Who's the one-armed isha?"
"A friend."
"You've never told me the story of how you got locked up. She have anything to do with it?"
"Maybe."
Tazen began kicking the bedframe. "UUUUUUUGH! Always with the one-word answers, the pivots!" She was, unironically, throwing a temper tantrum. Tsalka had no clue she was that bored, but it still seemed unfitting to her for someone who was clearly much older than her to do so. "Gimme a straight answer for once, Gods!" She didn't respond. Tazen stuck her head over the side of her bunk, looking down and scrunching her face. "You're so fucking annoying."
"Sure."
The head disappeared again, looking a little defeated. "Ugh."
Tsalka put on her best aristocrat voice. Maybe this would cheer her up a bit without actually discussing substance. "Oh, I'll concede that I may be irksome. However, do remember your own impression upon me. You are a morning insect, bellowing before the sun does rise and causing me discomfort most egregious." She heard a giggle from the top bunk. Success.
"Shut up, or I'll take the bolts out of the wall and tip over on you."
"'kay."
There was silence for a few seconds, but Tazen broke it again. "I want you to understand something. I'm not your friend or anything. I get that, sure. But damn, you can share stuff with me. I wanna bridge our little gap here. Open up a little. Off the books, no guards around. Now, I'm not saying you have to J yourself while I'm watching or anything like that..."
"Something you don't seem to have a problem with."
"Irrelevant- just... I want someone to talk to. I don't know when its gonna be my turn, and the day that it is, I don't wanna go down there without some stories to keep me... I guess... alive. Motivated. Like I might have a real connection to come back to, if I do come back, you get me?"
Tsalka pondered over it a moment, rolled her eyes, then spoke. "Imeste."
"Huh?"
"You wanted to know who I sit with. Her name's Imeste."
"Oh, now we're talkin'... what's she to you?"
"A friend. Nothing more."
Tazen peered over the edge again, this time opening parts of her scalp to expose several of her eyes. "Why do you just lie like that?"
Tsalka was taken aback. "I dunno what you're on about."
"You do. You lied to me just then." She grinned as more of her eyes began to appear from the crevices in her head. "She's more than that, huh?"
"Nope. No more. Gods, you with the fuckin' eyes again. Stop that! No more gossip."
The eyes began to disappear as the smile faded from her face. "Sorry. I just get excited, you know?"
She didn't respond.
"Come on, that was the most I'd gotten out of you since the first week!"
Tsalka turned to face the wall instead.
"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be rude." Tsalka heard her retreat back to her bunk. "I just wanted to talk..."
They sat in silence until they were forced out of their confinement for recess.


. . .


3 days and 126 back-issues later, they still hadn't said a word to each other. Every time a conversation would be prompted, Tazen made a visible effort to hold her tongue. Tsalka felt bad for her, but this was just good practice. Getting too attached to a fellow inmate you don't know outside the walls could mean a knife in your back when you least expect it, no matter how considerate you are in the meantime. There was a strict no-link policy in place- if the warden caught them locking eyes for too long, they'd be placed in different cells. Alone, this time. As hurtful as being ignored by your only interpersonal contact can be, it's nothing compared to the crushing isolation of solitary and the psycological horrors that entailed. That being said, she could still feel bad about shunning someone that probably deserved it. Did they deserve it at all?
She was looking at a centerfold piece of the most charming Isilli idol in a fantastic open-chested one-piece (which she had a feeling actually didn't have that deep a collar on the original piece, but it seemed as if the idol might have ripped the cups off) when she was interrupted by a rapping at the obstruscreen. A guard, in their signature two-pronged blast shield of a helmet, stood in front of the cell, hands behind their person. "Tsalka Oliui'nii. You have a visitor."
What? Who would want to see her? It wasn't like she had a great relationship with her mother, or had many real friends outside the confines of Pit 4; this wasn't even considering that there wasn't any clearance for visitation, especially with the supermax classification. The only outsiders allowed on the premises were new guards and the occasional doomed legal counsel. She was pretty sure she didn't have or know any of those.
The obstruscreen fell as the guard presented a wristlock. "Let's not dawdle."
Tsalka was still dumbfounded as she, perhaps idiotically, pointed to herself in response. "M-me?"
"Are you Tsalka Oliui'nii?"
"Uh-um..."
"I'll take that as a yes. Get the fuck out here already, don't want to keep anyone waiting."
She rose from her bunk and walked outside, accepting the restraints passively, but not before looking back to her cell. Tazen peered over the end of her bunk, wide eyed and wondering, taciturn, but curious. Why me, but not her? The look she gave from the dark confines of the dinky room they shared made her look even more pitiful than usual, and pity them she did, more so than before. The guard grabbed her arm and shoved her away from the cell and towards a smaller building on the opposite side of the compound. Tsalka deeply regretted not promising her return to Tazen, whom she thought, or perhaps knew, deserved better.


. . .


She'd never been to this part of the compound before. The rooms were the same sanitary white of the cafeteria, but this place actually felt warm for a change. The hallways were decorated somewhat, with holopics here and there, depicting what looked to be uniformed figures posing for uncomfortable amounts of time. She even saw a potted plant in one room, but the guard forced her around a corner before she could get a closer look. After what seemed like a 30 minute walk, they stopped in front of a door. It was heavily reinforced, with three thick metal bands seemingly wrapped around it. She assumed it slid left, like most doors did. There was a slide window at eye level, which stayed shut even as the guard banged thrice.
"This'll take one second. Security needs to verify." The guard folded her arms and leaned against the far wall.
"Oh. Uh... sure thing." An uncomfortable silence ensued. Tsalka frowned and shifted around in place. She could feel her captor's eyes on the nape of her neck. It certainly wasn't a cold, damp cell, but this place was unnerving in a different way. Although she couldn't see any auras, she could feel their pressure all around her; there were powerful hux in most of these rooms. Imeste had showed her during the trial months how to spot them: a slight tinge of ozone on the air, a glistening in the air around the area, the sound of your own heart racing. There was more to it than that, but those were the basics that she understood fairly well. It wasn't certain that the guard was very powerful at all. They didn't even look all that tough in their uniform, just kind of tired and depressed.
"Hey- uh, you uh, sleepin' good, miss?" The guard was pretending she didn't hear her, she was sure of it. "You sound pretty out of it, you know? How's the job treating you? Got someone on the outside? How're they? Favorite color? Would you rather fight a brilliant tonkai, or an amoratrozka? Crunchy, or soft, sweet or sour?"
"So, what I'm hearing is..." The guard reached into a pouch on her utility belt and produced what looked to be a muzzle. "...you want one of these?"
"Oh, so no talk? I get it, I get it..."
"Then shut your fucking mouth."
The rest of the time spent waiting felt like the queue in front of a public restroom at an introverted social function (which Tsalka realized was a bit of an oxymoron as she conceived the idea). Eventually, the door slid open. Inside was a single white table and two chairs. Tsalka began to sweat profusely. This was an interrogation, wasn't it? About what? The case was open and shut several months ago, she'd taken the plea deal, told the proper authorities everything she knew. Her lawyer said it was all taken care of. Why was this happening to her? She was right in the first place. There were no visitors here.
"Tsalka, is it? Please, sit." The voice caught her off unawares; she hadn't noticed the figure in the corner next to the door, leaning against the wall in much the same way as the guard outside had done. This one's accent was strange- definitely not from L'hinea, probably Kessan, if she had to guess. Maybe Jaender? They weren't in uniform, but a peacemaker badge was clearly visible on her breast. A pair of stumps on the sides of her head implied the previous existence of horns, however they seemed to have been broken at some point, only now starting to regrow themselves. The female herself looked brutish and blunt, but a slight twinkle in her eye betrayed a more sinister subtlety. A flicker of an aura flashed behind her, portraying something much more powerful than Tsalka would be able to handle, even if she hadn't had all of her gear and papers seized. She gripped the armrests on her chair in nervous anticipation. What kind of questions was she going to ask? What was her ability, and would she use it? What was all of this even about?
"I betch'r wondering why you're here." The peacemaker sat down in the opposite seat and kicked her feet up on the table.
Don't respond. Make her reveal something first.
"Well?" she gave a gesture, as if signalling to an actress that the stage was all theirs.
"Um. Who are you?"
"That's not all that important, but if you really must know..." She motioned to her badge. "Mid Chair Officer Tomelde Grean, at your service."
Tsalka stiffened at the sound of the name, but she had to try and keep herself cool. If this was the Tomelde Grean she was aware of, she was so well and truly fucked. "Okay. I don't have any other questions, other than that first one."
"Nothing else? Sure, works for me. So, why're y'here? Well, someone with a waaaaaaaaaaay shinier badge'n my own has hereby requested your services, in return for a commutation of your sentence."
What the fuck? What kind of weird government mechanization was this that would just allow her to be released? No bail? No nothing? "Is this a test? Are you, like, trying to pull one over on me? I may look it but I'm not a shinehead..."
"No test. Y'already proved yourself plenty well to her, as far as she's concerned." Grean flicked her wrist and a holoscreen flipped on, depicting what Tsalka quickly deduced was her own military record. Oh shit. "Says here you're a whiz with some paper and pens. Now, good Breakers aren't easy to come by, specially not ones that've figured howda walk straight through walls." She put her feet down and leaned forward, her icy blue eyes piercing into Tsalka's. "That's you, right?"
"I..." It seemed pointless to lie now. "...haven't done anything like that in a long-ass time."
"Kiddler, you're only what, 63? A long-ass time implies, well, a long-ass fuckin' time, not 2 years ago." She leaned back into her chair and resumed placing her boots on the table. "Fuck, how're you gonna try to play me like a damn fool when I have the fuckin' file right here in front'a me? You got gall." She gave a smug smile and flipped through the pages on the screen. "I'll be straight with you. I ain't here to make any friends. Scale says you're the best, and you've got some synergy or who-whatsayya. She wants you'ta be part of some mercenary group. Super effective. Non-traceable. And, best of all, easy enough to kill if things go down south."
"What?"
"You heard right. You fuck up, I get huntcha down and skin you. It's just good business, no offense to you or whomwhichever. It'll be fun for me, too, so if you do fuck yourself, make it as hard to track as possible, wouldja? It's much sweeter whenya try to squeeze on out."
And... "And what if I say no?"
"Why the fuck wouldja say no? It's not like you gotta choice in the matter. Either y'go in the pit and end up an abstract painting in the derelict, or you take a chance at paradise." Tsalka glanced up at this, slightly interested. "Yeah. That's right. You serve for a bit, do whatcher told, and if all goes well, you get so much damn merit, you won't half know what t'do with yourself. And you'll be free. No charges. No prison. No pit. You ain't ever comin' back."
Was she serious about this? Whoever hired her must be pretty damn high up to get a Mid Chair Officer to do their bidding. Maybe they did have the power to commute her sentence... but could she hold them to their word? "How do I know I'm not getting run over the moment I finish the job?"
"You'll be provided with adequate insurance."
"How so?"
"You'll just hafta see, won'tcha?"
Tsalka tried for a link in her eyes, but found none. Her face looked like she was having fun, but eyes were the emptiness of the pits just outside, icy ledges into deep blackness, eyes like those of an elari. It was looking into a chasm where no happiness escaped, and all that was left was cold despair- the same despair that skewered her heart and reminded her that she didn't have a choice. It was death, or a chance at life. There was just one thing...
"Only on one condition."
"Shoot."
"Imeste. She comes with. If she's not on the team, I'll take my chances with whatever's down in the hole."
Grean raised her eyebrows. "Is that it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." No pushback? No questions? She had expected at least a 'who's that?', but somehow, the response she got bothered her even more.
"Alright."
Grean rose from her seat and began to exit the room as the guard walked in. "Reque. When do we start?"
Grean's tone changed immediately, as well as her accent. "Start what? Look, I just wanted to tell you that mom was doing quite fine. There's nothing to start. I promise I'll contact you next week, and I can thank the First Chair General later." She glanced over to the guard, who seemed too checked out to notice, or care, and continued. "I would have sent you a present, but I get that they barely allow visitation here, let alone gifts." Pause. "Well, sis, I'll be seeing you. I hope I get to talk to you again before it's your turn." With this, Grean left the room to a very bored guard and a thoroughly confused prisoner.


. . .



Tazen perked up as the obstruscreen deactivated and Tsalka entered, bewildered with her experience.
"Who was it? How'd it go? Got some friends outside? How'd they get in? What color was their skin? Cilia length? Eyes? I've gotta know, I've gotta know, I've gotta know..." She bounced on her bunk like she'd been injected with pure sugar. It made sense- she'd probably been starved of any social interaction for gods knew how long. There was no doubt in her mind that the surveillance system would pick up their conversation, and she had a feeling that what was discussed in that room wasn't meant to be repeated outside it. Interspersed with those thoughts was the one in which lurked the daunting feeling that she'd been inducted into a prodigious conspiracy, far reaching in its influence and incomprehensible to such a lowly peon as herself. Or, she was overthinking it and this was just a Jusanek crime boss calling in a favor through their own personal peacemaker. It was possible. She had squealed already, and in doing so, stepped on the toes of every gang she'd ever done business for. Grean was a strange character to pick, however. While the case happened years ago, it wasn't low profile in the slightest. Being found 'not guilty' of attempted genocidal action wasn't exactly something that the media ignored. It was uncharacteristically overt to be working with such a controversial player for any Jusanek kingpin or rogue government agency. She was surprised the guard hadn't recognized her right off the serve. And the last move she pulled, playing it off as a meeting between estranged sisters, with no fear of being recognized, was all too odd. Maybe it was best not to divulge any information.
She flopped on her bunk and put her arm over her eyes. "Wrong prisoner. They wanted a 'Salky Oloini.' Told me it happens all the time, apparently."
"O-oh. Okay," Tazen groaned, nonplussed. "Can you at least tell me what they looked like?"
"Plain as a bowl of gruel. Him. Short cilia. Looking for someone else."
"You're lying again."
"Are you calling me..."
"A liar? I already did. You heard me..."
"Do you ever mind your own fucking business..."
"Why do you always have to be so sour? I can't believe anyone would ever want to spend time with..."
"You don't even fucking know me, and I'm not here to spend time..."
"I can't FUCKING STAND..."
"HEY! YOU TWO! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" interjected a very irate guard from outside, probably doing their evening rounds and listening to some music, trying to unwind near the edge of the pit and being interrupted by two exasperated convicts.
The red faded from Tsalka's vision and her and Tazen stood face to face, huffing and glaring at one another. Tazen's extra eyes were in full view, darting about in a bloodshot frenzy as Tsalka could feel her face already in a deep shade of purple, blotching her normally unimpressive pale lavender skin. Her own cilia flailed madly against her scalp, flicking in front of her eyes, but slowing gradually, matching Tazen's own display and jagged aura. It took every ounce of restraint for her not to create a link as their eyes stayed locked, but steadily relaxing into weary, drained expressions. They stood like this for a good 20 minutes, both trying their damnedest not to link and share their grievances with one another through more efficient means, but eventually the message sunk in.
"Fine." Tazen turned back to the bunk and climbed on top, turning up against the wall. Her many eyes shut themselves slowly, but one lingered on Tsalka for a few moments longer as she herself retired to her spot on the floor, where she stared up into the ceiling for the rest of the night, unable to sleep.


. . .


Another week went by, and still no word from Grean. That being said, Tsalka wasn't impatient at all- rather, she never thought the meeting itself would amount to anything of substance in the first place. The only confirmation she ever had that it had happened was that Tazen was still giving her the cold shoulder over their little spat.The chasm between them had only grown deeper, but it always happened this way. As soon as she was available, as soon as she opened herself up, it would be baring her back to enemies unnoticed and unseen. She vowed to herself long ago that she would never spend another night bleeding out in an alley behind a waste bin; it was just safe practice to keep everyone at an arms reach... until Imeste. But, even then, was she being too charitable? Were her emotions clouding her judgement? It was just another plot, another contrived scheme by some invisible Jusanek hand to break her down like a weathered stone...
She slapped herself in the face. Hard. How could she even think that? Imeste never had a reason to despise or dislike her, never had the impetus to stab her in the back, and had just as much a reason as her to be opposed to their previous employers. She wasn't being too welcoming, but rather too unsympathetic. Maybe the problem wasn't with Imeste at all. She pushed the gruel around on her platter and waited for them, always at the end of the line leading from cell block 2.
The meal had gone cold by the time she sat down in front of her, her own porridge creating a foggy freshness around her head. Tsalka didn't even look up to acknowledge her, too embroiled in her own processes to notice the change in her scenery.
"Hey." Imeste noticed her blank expression, and shook her arm. "You in there?"
"Oh! S-shit. Sorry, didn't even see you sit down. Just uh..."
"Spacing out?"
"Yeah."
"Something's the matter, huh?" She stared quizzically across the table, resting her elbows in a cage around her lunch.
Tsalka weighed her options. Should she tell her about the meeting? What was said? The deal she might have made? She was again besieged by the notion that what was said in the room was to stay there until the time was right. The small portion of her mind that asked the question 'what could it hurt?' was immediately and shrewdly shut down- there would be no revelations today. It wasn't as if she didn't trust her, but the room was chock full of the keenest ears, ready to snap up any stray information on its escape through the loose lips of the naive.
"You're right. But! But. There's a time and a place."
"As in, the bathroom in 2 minutes?"
She sighed. "As much as I want to, it's more sensitive than that. I'll tell you when the right time rolls around. You'll be the first to know when it does."
Imeste pursed her lips in disappointment and picked up her spoon, soon moving on to a different line of dialogue about how crazy her morning had been since her cellmate had decided to break their knuckles against the cell wall before she even woke up, and forgetting about the whole inquiry.

. . .

Tsalka lowered her head into her pillow. She'd opted out of 'playtime' at lunch- too much on her mind, not enough initiative. She hoped Imeste wasn't left dejected by this, but she couldn't help to notice her bewildered expression when they lined up to go back to their cells. Tazen paced in front of her bed, her aura flickering faintly, signalling excitement. She actually appreciated that she was making a conscious effort to keep her extra eyes shut. What had riled her up?
"Hey."
"Hey..."
"When's the right time?"
Oh gods. She'd heard everything. Shit. Where even did she hear it from? "None of your..."
"That's why you haven't been telling me shit. You've got a fuckin' plan. Big plan, small plan, still a plan. Plans usually don't work around here- Pit 4 isn't plan material, this place is plan-proof, top to bottom, but you must have something that's right in the middle..."
"No idea what you're talking about."
Tsalka was taken aback as Tazen straddled her, pinning her arms down. "The visitor. There aren't visitors around here..."
"Get the fuck offa me!" She flicked her cilia at their eyes and Tazen flinched, allowing Tsalka to push her back onto the floor.
The thing that surprised her more wasn't that she'd jumped her, but rather when she pushed her off, she retreated to the corner, curled into a ball, and apologized. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean... I was just stirred up, I know, I get like that sometimes, I'm really sorry..."
Tsalka pushed herself upright. "Don't you fucking apologize! Don't you dare! I'm trying to follow the rules. Not allowed to have friends, talk in our cells. Fucking gods, the guards would rather we kill each other than have a civil conversation! I'm not your gods-damned friend. We share a cell. That's. Fucking. It. I don't need to know you. You don't need to know me. We're both gonna end up down in that pit and we're gonna fucking die. Alone. In the dark. To things that they won't even show us topside because images might be 'too demoralizing' or whatever the damn holobriefing said. Just leave me the fuck alone!"
As she wiped the sweat from her face, the crimson veil fell to reveal a pitiful Tazen, pushed far into her corner, weeping and snuffling like a hurt child. The remorse barreled into her like a train heavy in freight. This was beyond her 'no true friends' philosophy- it had just stepped into the territory of abject cruelty. And that's exactly what they wanted. She bit her lip and backed into the opposite corner.
There was an intense disgust festering in her gut, the sickening feeling paling her face like she'd just seen a specter. Disgust with herself. All of this. Calling it exhausting was an understatement. But if she apologized, attempted to comfort, or even hinted at remorse towards Tazen, they'd both be thrown in solitary. This corner was hers, and that one, theirs. This separation was for the best; at least, that's what she kept telling herself. Each time she repeated it, she believed in it less. The alienation was a tool of their captors, forcing them not only into physical cells, but mental ones as well. Was it her fault that she was placed with a more talkative inmate? What was punishable about that?


. . .


For hours they sat like that, squished into their respective corners, heads behind knees or in hands. Guilt had been weighing down on Tsalka like a fallen tree, becoming more and more difficult to shoulder as it continued to press down, down, down on her psyche. Tazen had moved on from hysterics into a traumatic silence that echoed throughout the cell. The digimag chips were scattered all over the floor, hidden under the folds of the discomposed bedding Tsalka used. Rain beat against the obstrucscreen, able to be seen only when the sentry lights lazily crept over their block as the great Pit loomed nearby, ready to swallow them both when the time came, regardless of whether or not they were catatonic.
But if it was her turn tomorrow, Tsalka didn't want it to end like this. Not on this note. Maybe just for a minute, Tazen should have... someone. It had taken her long enough to come to a conclusion on this, but maybe she wanted to, say, "get better" in her own way. For Imeste, it was an arm; for her, it was something more profound. Maybe it was time to heal the wounds of her past and open the door just a little; without any effort on her end, they'd never close.
"I used to think I was just like anyone else," she began, breaking the silence between them Tazen's sniveling immediately lessening in response. "Every youngling grew up the same way, to me. I was biased, you see- only one I'd ever known at the time was myself. Every time, it was the old insect's excuse for how she'd kick me around for dropping a dish, or missing an shot, or tripping on a rock. Mundane things. She always said this was how all the others learned, too. I shouldn't be ashamed or dejected. I should feel grateful to her for forcing me to be the better Ausran."
One of Tazen's eyes peeped out from her mess of drooping tendrils- not that Tsalka noticed. Her eyes had completely glazed over.
"She taught me to fight it all. I don't know why the fuck she was so surprised when I started fighting her, too. I ran from that place when I was 6 and never turned back, and I was justified too. Heard later down the line that she hadn't even bothered looking for me. But I didn't leave the fight behind; I took it with me, and when it started to gnaw at me, I listened. Living was a battle. My flight to Beljensik, my survival in the backalleys and hideaways, even my conscience, consumed by the fight. By the time I made it to military age, the fight had turned into the war."
"Gods know what they were thinking when they let me in. I passed the top of my class in boot. Easy. The drillers were only a quarter as bad as Mother, and all I had to do was follow their every word. I was quickly deployed. Front lines, separatist faction wars up North. First time I saw action, I racked up two commendations; one for bravery, and one for efficiency. Bumped me up in the ranks a bit. Mother told me to take things that reminded me of my triumphs, so I started collecting trophies."
"What kind?" Tazen's voice seemed distant.
"Teeth. I'd run a line through 'em and wear it 'round the neck. I began tearing them straight out while my enemy was still alive. Made it more... satisfying. It'd only been a year since I joined, and I'd already picked up a nickname. Everyone knew me as Stringer. It was obsessive. Became a part of who I was, you know? I was fucked up and I owned it. It had nothing to do with my ability, it was literally just the teeth thing. I could get inside and around anywhere easy, didn't matter how thick the walls were, but the teeth were the main display of prowess. They were the personality I became." The last words she uttered with pronounced disgust.
Tazen stayed silent.
"The official glory had to end eventually, though. Threw me out with an honorable discharge, and that was that to them. Never followed up, 'cause why would they? The only thing they really want is for you to re-enlist. They spend their time and money on that, and lauding heroes, rather than making sure rank-an'-files aren't sticking a barrel in their mouths 'cause they can't stop reliving all the shit they just so happened to survive in, much less get themselves into trouble. I didn't have shit for dick after I left, so I took up what I could afford."
"Drugs, right?" Tazen raised her head ever-so-slightly, and gave a wry chuckle. "That's every tonkai that couldn't fly."
"That a comment from experience?" she asked, anticipating the affirmative answer.
"Yeah. It's a bit of a long one, so you finish yours first, unless you're..."
"I wasn't quite there yet, but if you'd..."
"Nah, you were on a roll, and I wanna hear more." She seemed more attentive, her primary eyes peering over her closed legs.
"Sure, sure... *ahem*... yeah, I fell into the sticks and the needles. Did whatever I could to get 'em. That was the first time I broke my rules. I trusted too damn quick... a friend of mine from the service, said he had what I needed... turns out, what he had was a 3 year long fuckin' grudge. Bunch of his friends rolled up on me and went to pit it up. Brought soul arms too. Never told me how I'd done him wrong, just that I had, and that I should remember, and this should all make sense, and I should just sit and let it happen. I fought back, but I was so fuckin' slumped. Easily beat the tar outta me. Then they started slicing and stabbing away..." Tazen barely reacted as Tsalka lifted her shirt to show off the marks on her belly- they'd already seen these before in the showers. "...that's where these come from. The sku-uma tossed me behind a bin when they were done. Fully expected me to bleed to death. Must be pretty obvious to you that I survived. Fast forward a little bit, and I dropped the drugs. Never did me any good anyways. Got into stealing. Got my hands dirty. Did some mercenary work. No barrier could stop me if I had my little pad of paper. Eventually, I caught the eye of some interesting names. The kinda names that don't ever come attached to auras or faces; only reputations. Accolades. I began to stick it out for the Jusanek."


. . .


The chapters of her life fell from her mouth like the monsoon just beyond the obstruscreen, fluid and torrential, into the howling abyss of eager ears. The desert, red-hot and unforgiving. The slave trade, as brutal and cruel as their surroundings. The caravan, a team of smugglers working for no other obligation than profit. The lone traveler, gunned down, only to rise again and become her leader's demise. Then- the epiphany.
"...and I'd never felt... shock, like that. Not in all the years I'd served, I'd lived on the streets, I'd fought for my meals... had I ever been more shaken. I've seen power. I've seen hux, throwing around their weight. I've seen the storms, the fire, the flashes of flying metal, the works- but I hadn't seen shit like that before. That was new. I didn't bother picking up my gun again. Only difference it would have made is that I wouldn't be here to tell you anything. So I stumbled over to Imeste, and I start cradling her head. Her veins are turning blue, then black, all the way from the stump to the side of her face, creepin' like vines. I didn't like her much at the time, but hell, out of all of us, she seemed like the one person that didn't deserve to die alone."
"Are you sayin' that you do?" Tazen had uncurled herself, but still sat solemnly in her corner. At least they could see each other's eyes now.
"Hence, 'Seemed.'" She wondered why the prison guards hadn't hauled her off to solitary yet. Maybe they'd let her finish. "As I held her there, breathing what she thought was gonna be her last, we linked. I saw myself through her eyes, right? And I just felt longing. Reaching for something. A friend to hold at the end. In that moment, I decided that I'd be that friend she'd never had..." She paused to gather herself, the memory still tying knots in her chest- "Then the wanderer glided up behind us. Gods, I thought I was next, but I didn't care anymore. I looked up at her, no pleading, no nothin'."
"And then what?" She felt all those bulbous head-eyes on her as she tried to cut through the fog.
"...and then..."
"And then?!"
"She just stood there." She expected disappointment, but Tazen's aura hadn't waned; it stayed bright, agitated. "Looking at us. Lookin'... apologetic. Sorry. A mix of apprehension, horror, confusion." She had felt the equivalent before. "I've been blinded by anger at times- had to deal with the consequences after. But shit, if my anger left a river of blood that deep in its wake... whatever remorse I've felt must not even be close to what she had to- has to- deal with."
"What happened after that?"
"Townguard pulled up and shushed her easy. Never seen a L'hinea blubbering so hard in my life, and I've had to torture some 'til they begged before. And I felt bad for her over those bastards. I'd wanted her teeth swinging around my throat, and I felt like I was more responsible for what'd happened than even she was. They clapped that arm of hers in a big ol' metal brace and threw 'er on a skipper, set for Beljensik, I bet. S'where they sent me."
There was more silence between them. Tazen seemed to have picked up on the end of the story, and crawled towards her bunk. She curled up on her side facing towards the wall, and closed the rest of her eyes. Tsalka took this as her queue to reclaim her spot on the floor.
As she did so, Tazen broke the silence. "Thanks... for, you know... all that."
"Don't mention it. Thanks for listening, I guess." What else was she supposed to say? She'd broken her rule, let her guard down all the way, and what? Had she expected more of a response? She sighed. Still, Tazen seemed less dejected, her aura flickering silently as she lay there.
Tsalka had never been interested in its shape, but now in its full glory, she felt her eyes drawn to it- its sloping, reaching points, like a depiction of the sun, uniformly standing beside one another, spreading out from a central circle; its brilliant yellow color, close in tone to their skin; the words that snaked and squirmed in the crevices and clearings relayed thoughts and emotions, indecipherable to her. She wasn't a psychologist or anything- reading auras wasn't her strong suit. If only Imeste were present- she could pick those things out at a glance. She couldn't read minds, but she could suss out the general headspace of most Ausran she met, were they not plagued by the insecurity of having the shape of their soul laid bare to the eyes of the world, let alone minded being psychoanalyzed by anyone else who possessed the necessary talent to do so. She picked out some words before they shifted and disappeared- pedigree, rasperostek, sauced, dark. A term to describe purity, a regional delicacy, slang for 'drunk,' and an absence of light. The only terms that seemed related to her were the rasperostek and sauced- one eats and drinks generally in tandem. Perhaps it had something to do with her own story? A chronology, told in only 4 words, to someone prohibited from hearing it.
It was, too, the first time she'd noticed the tattoos on her cellmate. A sword, drawn in a dull black, traced itself down her spinal chord, the tapering point ending somewhere below the waistband on her ragged prison pants. The handle bore an interesting guard, with a basket-like design over the hand, evoking the imagery of a clutch of eyes, protecting the wielder from harm with their watchful gaze. The blade itself was unremarkable in shape. It was clearly double-edged, with an overall thin profile, implying that its intended use was for poking and stabbing. She'd read a term in a digimag once, but she didn't have the volume on hand. It was probably too recent of an issue to be held here anyway, so asking for one would be a moot request. She jostled her brain a bit to recall it, but eventually settled back on the term she knew best for it. Its profile was that of a Plystk, a closer-to-north Ilblejidek weapon designed to counter the carefully segmented armor of the Vanguard Jaenderspirien. It wasn't a soul weapon design that was forged much anymore, due to a new surplus in material and an end to the war...
There may be far more to Tazen than I anticipated, she thought to herself. She tried to imagine the soul-crushing battles they had to endure, only to come up with nothing. She'd been born while the war still raged in the north, but its effects hadn't truly ever touched her- a touch of luck to an otherwise unfortunate life- but it dawned on her only now that Tazen might have witnessed some of the worst of it. Did she ever live in a camp? Hmmm... A conclusive no. She induced that she had only ever seen newbloods behave like this under these circumstances. She'd been here for longer, but her reactions to the emotional isolation brought about by the discouragement of conversation were signs of someone who, at the very least, hadn't adjusted well. It would have been far worse in the labor camps, and she couldn't imagine her emotional wreck of a cellmate lasting longer than a day. All the pieces didn't fit- by all appearances, she was undisciplined, untrained, and insecure. After careful thought, the line of proposed inquiry was abandoned. She'd ask Imeste about it later.


. . .

She had only been drifting for what felt like mere moments before she felt hands on her ankles, yanking her out of her cot and into the rain, bashing her head against the curb-step of the cell on her way out. She could only gasp as her bewilderment took over her waking thoughts, and soon she couldn't even manage that; blows about the chest and stomach have a tendency to take the wind out of any unsuspecting individual. She felt herself kicked over, her eyes opened then to the blue-black night storm above. The figures surrounding her vision were out of focus specters, leaning and leering, their teeth like long knives in mouths too wide for their faces...
Her vision snapped to the side with a blow to her left temple. She realized she'd swallowed some rain, tasted the vile acridity, and felt it burn in her lungs, using the first full breath she took to launch herself into a coughing fit that only served to make it all worse. Another kick to the ribs sent her rolling into an obstruscreen, its security system delivering to her a shock not unlike something one would receive when putting a fork into a main socket. From behind the screen, she heard frantic voices, blurred just like the visages of her tormentors, muffled. no doubt, by said screen. She couldn't tell if the voices were excited or terrified. It was a wonder the shock hadn't ended her right there and then. She tried to stumble to her feet, only to have her cheek slammed against the cold stone of the prison wall. There were more voices now, growing to a roar to rival even the rain itself.
One of the faces drifted back into her field of vision and began to speak. "Nice story back there. Almost had me tearing up!"
Her head lifted from the cold rock as she felt her body pick up from the ground and soar through the air, like a doll thrown from a shelf to the floor. It was almost peaceful for a brief moment; that moment being interrupted as she turned to face the muddy ground and it rose to meet her, filling her nose and mouth upon impact. The acid rain had really begun to seep in at this point as her skin began to burn a deeper purple. The hands grabbed her collar as she attempted to struggle to her feet. She hadn't the strength to continue the fight... no. This wasn't a fight. The word 'fight' would have implied that she'd pose some kind of threat to her opponent. But as her knees scraped through the mud, her feet scrambling for some semblance of a purchase, she knew 'fight' didn't apply. What was happening was pure, unadulterated punishment. As her eyes focused further, she could make out the edge of the pit, growing ever closer. True panic set in. This would be it if she didn't act now.
She made a grab for the guard's leg armor, trying to find a corner or edge. There had to be a grip somewhere on these suits, she thought, and if there was, she might have an idea of what to do. Her fingers found a hold- success! The armor plating on these suits was a little tight from her experience, so there may be something she could try here...
She wrenched down and back- hard- and got what she wanted: a short stumble, a second of instability in her attacker. The grip loosened only for a blink's place in time, but this was adequate brevity. She tugged herself from their grasp, flopping about on the mud, flicking it with her feet in an attempt to blind the other guard, or at least confuse them long enough for her to stand. Was this her time for escape? Was there a light she saw, a hole in the clouds? It was too early to tell, let alone celebrate. She had to shake these two first. She twisted again to look behind...
The maw of the pit stretched before her, her hand slipping on the sloped edge as she flailed for some kind of anchorage. It felt as if it were dragging her down, down, down into the gaping orifice, a small morsel for a hungry giant. She couldn't bring herself to look at the mechanisms of her own death and cried out sharply to the depths.
Only the depths didn't call back. She'd stopped at the precipice, held at the nape by the same guard she'd just broke free of. She didn't immediately have the facilities to wonder which she thought was worse. Looking up, she saw the face, unfettered and in focus, of an ordinary Ilblejidek woman. The toothy grin had disappeared, replaced by a grimace of exertion as she dragged Tsalka from her certain death and tossed her back into the mud.
"Enough!" she barked, slapping wristlocks on Tsalka's outstretched arm, a gesture with the intent to shield her from further harm. The damaged prisoner felt her right brow swelling from the earlier kick, set to leave a bit of a shiner. She couldn't tell if she was bleeding or not, but their was a warmth to some of the wash over her face, which wasn't immediately encouraging. The guard heaved her to her feet and twisted her arm behind her back, a classic restraining technique, and shoved her along. Where, she had some idea, and as she was led through the compound, the rumbling of her fellow inmates faded, only to be replaced again by the pouring rain. It would be important to remind herself of this moment once in a while; in solitary, the only voices to hear are the ones ingrained in memory.

. . .


This cell was far smaller than the last. The floor was covered by an unsavory-looking mat, and Tsalka couldn’t turn towards the door without brushing her shoulders against both walls. The obstruscreen was not only more opaque here, but brighter as well, signaling a higher voltage shock upon contact if she wasn’t extremely careful. A toilet sat at the far end, the only sterile object in sight. The rough grey walls were wet with perspiration, a result of the storm outside seeping into the room through some unseen fissures in the ceiling. The smell of mold was oppressive here, invading her single working nostril with an overloading stench.
None of this was to mention her own sorry state. Removing her shirt, she had discovered an unfortunate accrual of bruises and lesions scattered about her body, no doubt everywhere she’d been battered during her seizure. Her right eye was swollen completely closed, and sporting a dull black coloration, in addition to the wound just above it. She’d used the moldy cot on the floor to clean the mud out, although she had little to fear from soil-borne diseases- spores were more of a concern so near to the forest. Drenched with water, the shirt actually served her quite well as a cold compress to reduce the pain ever-so-slightly.
Getting a doctor or healer to look at her was out of the question- the guards wouldn’t waste their time, and there wasn’t a rule forcing them to find one. This was a place in which the worst scum of society spent their final days, slaving away in their final minutes, before succumbing to the dark creatures of the deep earth in their final seconds, screaming in terror. Why waste the energy? They were barely being kept alive. She choked on the lump rising in her throat, beginning to wretch at the idea of her demise here. She was destined to die alone, in the dark, without a soul to hold her hand. And so was Imeste. At this, she broke. She couldn’t bear listening to her own imagination, the image of Imeste sitting alone at the lunch table, wondering where she was, and witnessing her own collapse into depression at the idea that the only person she’d ever loved, unconditionally and unconsciously, had perished without her by her side, like she’d promised so many times before, and knew she couldn’t ever keep that which she made. I’m just bleeding in the alley again, she thought. Why’d I ever think it’d change?


. . .


Imeste sat up in her bunk, a terrible itch in her neck, like the pinch from the jaws of a beetle. It shook and creaked, the wounded animal it was, its metal stressed to its limits due to her weight. The beds were designed with smaller Ausran in mind, then cut up and soldered together to contain larger occupants. The rooms, too, were designed in this way, making it difficult for her and her cellmate to squeeze themselves in. Her cellmate especially found it difficult to fit inside, and was constantly bumping her head into the ceiling; so much, in fact, that Imeste swore up and down that there were fractures in it that hadn’t been there when they’d first arrived. She couldn't complain that much, however- she'd been placed in one of the indoor facilities on a higher floor, which meant she wouldn't have to worry about flooding. The cold dampness that surrounded them was quite enough already for her taste. And to think, she'd enjoyed the presence of so much water when she'd first arrived. She couldn't much remember having drank it before, as seekers already provided all needed hydration through the slurry. Here, every day was dark, wet, and nippy at best, if not outright freezing. It didn't help to have her stump, still with active nerves, married to her cheap metal prosthetic, a block of ice hanging heavy in the place of her strong hand. She corrected herself; A block of ice was perhaps the wrong analogy to use. A block of ice didn't possess the motor functions of the hand or wrist, and was arguably much colder than the slab of metal she wore. Still, both were a pain to sleep with.
Something felt off to her, aside from the odd irritation in her neck. There was a sense of premonition, a vague and undefined tragedy swimming behind the meat of her brain that she just couldn't hold a finger to, and it soon distracted her from the itch. Normally, she wouldn't brood on these things. It only bred unneeded concern for issues nonexistent, tangential. Whether or not those worries were important or founded was irrelevant, and she figured eventually that these thoughts were far more trouble than they were worth. But this seemed different, more personal, more profound. It befuddled her why she felt it so harshly stoking her anxieties.
The pit was clear ahead, a perfect view through the obstruscreen and out the window, the rain having let up just ever-so-slightly to allow for its unfettered visage, succinct and foreboding. It leered at her, a reminder of their possibly imminent fates. As she watched, she saw the pods go down into its depths, exceeded by a collection of uncovered apraetstons*, intended for poorer inmates like her. She heard nothing as the window was blotted out again by the excessive precipitation just moments later. Her heart had stopped in her throat. There was no way she'd woken up now as a coincidence. This feeling of tragedy, this awful premonition, this circumstance. Something terrible had happened.
Getting out of bed, she moved to the doorway and leaned up against the wall, gnawing the nubs that had once been nails. Restlessness and nervousness would be the death of her in this place if the monstrosities of the pit didn't do the job first, she thought. It would be nearly impossible to get back to sleep now, with such a consuming tragedy blooming in her mind. Had she been chosen for an earlier slot? Had her cellmate changed? Had the cafeteria run out of the shitty gunk they called food? She could almost laugh at any of these ideas. The first didn't matter, as she would never know time she was slotted anyways, so it would be all the same whether she died tomorrow, or 13 years from now. The second was empirically false- her cellmate's gentle, unfemalelike snores were unmistakable, and they had no reason to switch her over to a different cell. They weren't exactly close, but they tolerated one another's existence. Lastly, she doubted she'd have such an intense premonition if the latter of the choices were true. That only really left one possibility...
Oh Gods. She got as close to the obstruscreen as she dared, the mounting dread not completely overriding her sense of self preservation, and tried to find Tsalka's cell. She never had a good view of it, just a small corner from across the way, and Tsalka couldn't see her back, but sometimes it was reassuring to see a tiny sliver of her sleeping head. A head, she noted with terror, that was no longer present. It's imperative that I relax myself, she reasoned. She could have just rolled a bit in her sleep, just out of view, that's all, right? Telling herself this didn't make anything better at all, and she didn't believe it even for a second anyway. She hadn't believed her promise that they'd die watching each other's backs, but that didn't stop the weight of reality from crushing her insides. Losing hope wouldn't help her here, she thought again. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she'd see her return to her cell after her lunch. She'd have to hold out the little hope she had left until then. Swallowing her fear, she told herself that she'd survived on less. She returned to her bed and stared at the ceiling, her pounding heart distracting her from sleep.


. . .


The two pilapees* stood on either side of the court, ready to exchange blows. The egraandimen* eyed both cautiously, ready to dispense penalties if the rules were not followed. Those rules were simple: no tugging, no cheap shots, and no headbutts. It would be a final match-up to close out a great three week... had it really been three? How long had she been here? The days blended together in absolute solitude... Ah! No time to dawdle, there was an important match to get back to! The pilapee on the right had the advantage of being slightly larger than the one on the left, but they were also soggy from staying in the gruel for longer than was healthy. Their opponent had an impressive scar down the front, which she thought made them look tough enough for the ring. The energy was high in the crowd already, and the fight hadn't even started. Dust filled the air as they tossed it up in celebration of something that hadn't even happened yet, and being frank with herself, she couldn't blame them. The hype had started in week two, when pilapee #7 had floored the pilapee #2, previous runner-up and media sweetheart. It was looking like the championship would go to either pilapee 4 or 9 (7 had lost to 8 in the match following their decisive victory against the overwhelming odds, but if she was being honest, he didn't stand much a chance against 4 anyway), both of which were immensely popular. She wondered if the bracelets or the shirts would sell more.
"AND NOW!" She bellowed, signalling more thunder from the crowd, "THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!" The banners flapped in her ears, the sweat pierced her nostrils, and the dust covered her pores- "THE LEGENDARY PILAPEE 9, VERSUS, THE ONE, THE ONLY, THE MOST SPLENDID OF ALL FIGHTERS TO GRACE THE TOWER, PILAPEEEEEEEEEEE 4!" Her voice didn't even carry much over the boomraitors*, as the uproar drowned out any semblance of language. She leaned in close to the fearsome fighters and greeted them both, turning off her voicefeeder*. "Alright, you two. You know the rules. Touch tips and lets give these people what they want." Setting them close, she tapped their heads together, a gesture of honor for pilapees, who lacked arms in most cases. And at last, the climax! "FIGHT!!!"
9 dropped 4 almost instantly, the most unexpected sweep she'd seen the whole season. The crack down their front hadn't hindered them in the slightest, instead causing them to slide off 4 and crush them in half. It was a bloody victory, as they were smeared in the remainder of their victim's viscera and set off to the side of the tower to celebrate with a drop of gruel and a splash of stale water. For all the other pilapees they'd gone through, they surely deserved it. Her only wish at that moment was to celebrate with some sort of sweet alcohol, of which she didn't have any.


. . .


Eredsh watched a particularly strung individual writhing in their tiny solitary cell. It always brought him a gross sense of satisfaction, seeing hardened criminals lose themselves to confinement. They had scraped dust into a small ring, in which they had begun smashing pilapees together and making a wild racket. He'd deciphered the rules throughout the several days-long performance: the prisoner saw themselves as the egraandimen, both the announcer and the referee, and the pilapees as participants in a tournament of some sort that happened to resemble the opener to Kabadash, in which the champion of both teams face off in a head-to-head martial arts match up. He figured the only reason they hadn't picked up the rest of the Kabadash events is because they were seldom offered enough expendable pilapees.
It was a wonder the prisoner hadn't noticed yet that their wounds closed slower than usual, and the sores and bruises were not healing; at least, they didn't seem to notice. The swollen eye was still shut and had been since they were put into solitary only a month ago. This was no surprise to Eredsh, of course, who was in charge of moderating spore levels in these cells. He grinned, perhaps too widely, at this stream of thought. Some strains of spores in the jungle were known to be deadly, but some subterranean varieties instead caused hysteria and delusion, in addition to suppressing hux abilities. These fungi were present all over the outsides of the solitary confinement compound deliberately. They were grown mostly to be put into the cafeteria food, to avoid having to deal with hux on the regular, but the spores could be released into the individual cells. At the push of a button, he could determine the entertainment value of the day's performance. He was careful not to oversaturate the environment, as he didn't want her performers to suffocate, or worse, overdose, but lately he'd been getting bored of the same old ordeal.
His excitement was palpable today, however: a new shipment of special fungi had arrived, a new strain. The kelemnestrapla, found mostly at the base of forested mountains, had legendary psychedelic properties tied to its spore showers. Giddy to see the effects, he'd planted them not too long ago. Interestingly, the best effects were seen immediately after exposure, according to the description he was given when she first heard about them. Perhaps he'd test the prisoner's mettle today.
The door slid open behind her as she reached for the holosplay, ready to dust the cell. She quickly slid the screen aside to face whoever had decided to interrupt her fun times.
"Whatcha watchin'?" was the last thing he heard as a hand grabbed his head and slammed it through the display.