The first boom made him roll over in his bunk and bury his face in the pillow.

  He clenched his jaw beneath his thick mustache and let out a groan that muffled into the threadbare fabric, which smelled faintly of dried drool.

  The second boom made him flip back onto his back. He grabbed the pillow by its edges and pressed it over his ears. Couldn’t anyone respect the sanctity of the night, for crying out loud?! Why wouldn’t they let him sleep in peace?

  Simon Pesha woke up in the dim light, sat up on the bunk, and rubbed his face. His thick mustache and days-old beard felt like sandpaper to the touch. Half-asleep, he scratched his thin, hairy belly and let out a belch.

  He was wearing a yellow jumpsuit, though only from the waist down. When it was time to sleep, he’d unzip it and shrug off the top half. Sure, he might look like ‘a half-peeled banana,’ as that damn mocking guard—Spinola, was it?—had once said, but Simon couldn’t stand the rough fabric against his chest.

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  Who the hell was making that noise? That damn Spinola banging his baton against the cell bars to wake everyone up? The automatons working on the renovations in the dreadful structure of the building, just beyond those walls?

  No, construction work was done during the day, and during the day, the cellblock was well lit, with Spinola pacing the corridors, loudly chatting with whichever unfortunate Grenadier happened to be on duty guarding the entrance. Now, there wasn’t a guard in sight, and the greenish glow from the corridor’s guide lights was the only thing standing between what little he could see and total darkness.

  Then came a third boom, so close and so vivid that his cell shook as though someone had grabbed it and rattled it.

  Those booms… explosions! And that blaring, almost like a bull’s roar… the combat alarm! They were under attack!

  Who were the maniacs storming a Military base? Had the Troublemakers finally grown a pair?

  He leapt from his bunk but was still so groggy that one of his legs got tangled in the sleeves of his unzipped jumpsuit, and he nearly kissed the floor.

  Regaining his balance, he decided to put the top half of the suit back on, zipping it up to just below his chest—just in case. He didn’t want the sleeves tripping him up again if he had to act fast.

  Pressing his face as far as he could between the cold steel bars of the cell, he tried to see if there was anything unusual out in the corridor.

  Nothing.

  Not only was the place steeped in shadows, but his cell was the very last one in the corridor, surrounded by concrete walls on both sides and behind him—the worst view those imperialist bastards could have offered.

  He’d woken up there a few nights ago after being knocked out in a bar. He had no idea how many prisoners shared the block with him, who they were, or what they looked like. He could only hear them. So, he strained to catch their words, hoping someone knew what was happening.

  He heard murmurs of confusion and someone coughing. He also heard the bear-like snores coming from the idiot on the other side of the wall; as expected, the explosions hadn’t disturbed his sleep.

  Damn it! The world outside was falling apart, and he’d die trapped in here.

  He tested the bars. No give. He kicked them. His boot slammed against the steel, sending a sharp pain through his toes. All he managed to accomplish was making a fool of himself—not that anyone was around to see.

  He looked down at the metal-and-chrome bracer on his left wrist—a cuff-like device about two inches thick, with an ugly red light pulsing steadily at its center. It was a Cerberus shackle: a gadget that interfered with the electronics in his wrist implant, suppressing its ability to activate the Fluo-Pink in his bloodstream, effectively preventing him from creating Fotias. As long as that light kept blinking, he remained just another ordinary man.

  Simon tried to remove it for the umpteenth time. He smashed the Cerberus shackle against the concrete floor, then against the cell bars, over and over. And for the umpteenth time, he failed.

  “Hey, you in the back!” someone shouted. “Knock it off, you idiot! Those explosions are bad enough without your racket!”

  Simon stopped—not because they told him to, but because the pain was unbearable. His arm had gone numb, and his wrist felt on the verge of snapping.

  He waited a few seconds until the blood flow returned to his arm, then tried to yank the shackle off again, this time with his fingers. All he got for his efforts was more pain and even more frustration.

  Damn it! He hated feeling so useless. Even more so because it proved his father had always been right.

  His father, Simon Sr., had been a burly lumberjack who cut down trees with the same precision he used to chop away at his son’s aspirations.

  “Pesha, kid, what are you trying to do with that?” his father had said it to him once, back when he was a boy, out in the woods—when he’d grabbed an axe and a log, trying to imitate his old man.

  Simon Sr. had stood by, unimpressed, as the ax slipped out of his son’s hands. The blade spun backward through the air before embedding itself in the dirt.

  “Can’t you see you’re just a weakling, Pesha? All you’re gonna do is chop off a leg or an arm. Go help your mother and sister with the laundry, will you? This is real men’s work, Pesha. Now scram; I’ve got a lot to do.”

  The worst part was that his father hadn’t said it with contempt—just condescension, laced with resignation.

  Uh, his father. How he hated him!

  And yet, his father had always been right. Simon was a failure, and over the years, he’d come to accept it.

  If he’d been stronger, he could’ve endured the full Fluo-Pink treatment. He would’ve gotten implants in both wrists and been able to fire Fotias from both hands. Maybe that way, things would’ve gone very differently at the bar a few nights ago.

  That night, he’d gone out for a few beers, hoping sleep might finally come. What better cure for anxiety than alcohol to knock him out for a few hours? He’d downed five or six and even accepted an offer from an old man who bought him whiskey shots, despite the sweltering heat making the burn in his throat unbearable.

  The old man had recognized him from who knows where and tried to recruit him for some drug-related job or another. Simon, who was already reeling from the beers—maybe more than his usual quota—took the whiskey without hesitation, declined the offer, and decided to throw a few punches instead.

  Unfortunately, three Markabian soldiers had just entered the bar, looking to drown their own sorrows in booze, and they wasted no time arresting him.

  “Hey, hey! C’mon, chill out, ya bunch o’ idiots!” he’d slurred. “Lemme give ya some advice—I know what it’s like bein’ in your shoes. I was a slave to the damn Empire too, y’know? Difference is, I had the balls to tell ‘em to go to hell—unlike you dumbasses.” Not satisfied with that, he turned to one of them, thinking he recognized him, and said, “Hey, I remember you! We were in the same squad, right? I remember you used to sneak off to the back restrooms… yeah, back there, you were the bitch of…”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  And then, in a brilliant display of drunken logic, he spat in that soldier’s face, punched another, and threatened the third with a Fotia.

  It only took one of them grabbing his left arm, twisting his wrist to block the implant, and another delivering a gut punch to send him to his knees, puking up his drinks and writhing on the floor like the pathetic drunk he was.

  And now, here he was. In this cold cell, wearing an ugly yellow prison jumpsuit and sporting a Cerberus shackle on his left wrist.

  Though the small cell block remained dimly lit by the faint green glow of the security system, the explosions echoed clearly through the space. Every prisoner was pressed against their bars, shouting theories about what might be happening.

  Simon leaned closer to the hallway, trying to make out the voices. He would’ve imagined a face for each prisoner, if his imagination hadn’t been so limited.

  “Hey, Fred!” one prisoner called out. “That’s the cavalry you hear coming for me! As soon as I’m out, I’ll come to your cell and show you what I’ve been saving for you!”

  “I’m waiting, you moron!” Fred shot back. “Your mom and sister already dropped by!”

  The block erupted in laughter. One of the prisoners laughed so hard he started coughing uncontrollably.

  Then a deep growl silenced them all. The block went dead quiet, leaving only the noise of explosions rumbling in the background. The growl had come from the cell next to Simon’s. The bear was awake.

  More hacking, convulsive coughing.

  “Hey, Miguelito,” a raspy voice called out. “You okay, buddy? Those imperial dogs must’ve caused that cough, I know it!” Miguelito coughed harder. “They’ve been experimenting on you again, haven’t they?”

  Ah, for crying out loud. Just let the poor guy hack up his lungs in peace!

  “You at it again, you idiot?!” barked one inmate. “I’ve told you a thousand times—this block’s for temporary holding!”

  “You’re the idiot if you think they’re gonna let us go!” shot back the raspy-voiced one. “They’ll never transfer us to a real prison—we’re here to be lab rats!”

  Simon nodded to himself. He’d heard the same rumors before.

  “You’re delusional, idiot!” The verbal sparring between the inmates continued. “Spinola already gave me a transfer date.”

  “Well, then he lied to you, dumbass! Do you think those military sons of bitches try out their new toys on their own folks? My cousin got locked up here last year, and they used him to test some transporter cuffs. Poor guy ended up looking like a smashed tomato! And here, Miguelito—C’mon, Miguelito, why don’t you tell this fool what those bastards do to you?”

  “Martínez, why don’t you shut the hell up for once?” Miguelito replied, barely able to get the words out between coughing fits.

  “Yeah, Martínez, I’ve got something right here to shut you up.”

  More laughter. More coughing. Another growl from the bear next door. More explosions in the distance.

  Anxiously, Simon scratched at the rough beard on his chin, stroking his mustache. His eyes darted around as he racked his brain for a plan. How could he use the chaos to make a break for it?

  A metallic creak echoed through the corridor, a sound every prisoner instantly recognized. The door connecting the cellblock to the rest of the facility had just opened.

  The chatter stopped. Even Miguelito’s cough went silent.

  Then came the footsteps. Someone was walking in.

  It wasn’t the sharp clack of Spinola’s boots. This sound was raspier, like someone dragging their feet slightly.

  Simon pressed his face against the cold steel bars, straining to see who had opened the door.

  “Well, look at you!” a prisoner called over. “Where’s the party, fancy lady, huh? You wanna see what I’ve got—”

  His voice turned into a long, drawn-out groan before cutting off entirely.

  “Hey!” another inmate shouted, startled. “What the hell did you do to my friend?”

  Simon held his breath. He couldn’t see what was happening out there! The other prisoners had fallen into a deathly silence—even that Miguelito fella had stopped coughing.

  The harsh sound of those footsteps grew louder.

  Until, in front of his cell, a stylized figure shifted into human form, gliding forward with feline stealth.

  It was a woman in a long black dress and a violet cape, her head completely shaved and without eyebrows. Her eyes were violet, and her skin milky, almost translucent. She was an Eddanian—no one else had that skin tone. There were her long earrings, that diamond strap under her neck, the bracelets, the rings… Eddanians sure did love their jewelry!

  “You.” She pointed at him.

  Damn it, she was talking to him! Simon felt ice in his blood.

  “You’re coming with me,” the woman said, and the cell’s electrical system kicked in on its own. A series of clack, clack, clacks echoed, and the bars slid aside to set him free.

  Simon knew better than to hesitate and, trembling like a little rat facing a snake, stepped out of his cell and stood in front of the strange woman who had just done what no one else had ever done for him—offer him freedom.

  A slight tingling on his left wrist, and the Cerberus shackle clicked open and fell to the floor, making a clinking sound that, to him, was the most beautiful sound in the world.

  Why me? he wondered to himself.

  But she heard his thoughts and answered him:

  “Because out of everyone here, you and the giant are the only ones I can use.”

  Giant? Did she mean…?

  Clack, clack, clack. Another cell opened—the one next to his—and a massive figure stepped out from inside. Ducking his head so he wouldn’t hit the lintel of the doorway, a gigantic man walked into the hallway.

  Damn! Simon had figured the guy was big from the sounds he made, but standing next to him was a whole different experience. More than a bear, he resembled a gorilla—a hairless gorilla. A huge, bald man with broad shoulders and arms so thick one of them was worth three or four of Simon’s. So massive that he had ripped the sleeves off his yellow jumpsuit, maybe just to feel them less restricted. The surprising thing was that he hadn’t done the same with the rest of the suit—it looked so tight it seemed like it might burst at any second.

  Simon tilted his head back to meet the man’s gaze. The dim green glow of the security lights wasn’t enough to make out every detail of his rugged face, but those small, beady eyes told Simon everything he needed to know—this guy was a real savage. Not that the scars crisscrossing his exposed arms, neck, and scalp hadn’t already made that clear.

  Two or three of the inmates cheered at the surprising act of liberation and begged for the same fate. The woman shot them a look, and the shouting vanished from the corridor. How had she managed to silence those guys—guys who couldn’t even keep their mouths shut after hearing a bunch of explosions? With power. That’s how.

  “Kitty’s tired of always serving someone,” the big guy told the woman. “Kitty won’t serve anyone else anymore.”

  Kitty? Seriously?

  Cracking his knuckles, Kitty stepped toward her with the most deranged—and dumb—smile Simon had ever seen. Cautious, Simon took a step back. Who knew how this would end?

  But she not only held her ground—she answered him with the most wicked—and mocking—smile Simon had ever seen. She raised her palm and clenched it, as if squeezing something invisible.

  Kitty froze instantly, let out a growl, and grabbed the left side of his massive chest with such force it looked like he might rip his own pec off.

  The woman kept squeezing that invisible thing. No—that invisible thing was the giant’s heart. And she was crushing it from a distance.

  Kitty let out a strangled groan. Under the shadows, Simon could see the glint of sweat beads pearling on the giant’s head.

  He knew the stories told about those from the Edda Peninsula. His father used to say those people used black magic to get what they wanted. ‘They take away naughty, whiny kids like you, Pesha, and sacrifice them to their gods,’ he’d say.

  Sure, the Eddanians’ powers were a myth, just old wives’ tales meant to scare children… right?

  The woman loosened her hand and released whatever she’d been gripping. The giant stopped clutching his chest, relaxed his hands, and panted, trying to catch his breath. Then, head bowed, he stood beside the woman like a loyal guard dog.

  No, Pesha, he told himself. It’s best not to get clever with this witch.

  “Let’s go,” the woman said, turning back the way she came.

  Simon and Kitty followed close behind, while the rest of the prisoners watched them pass—silent, their faces hopeless.

  Walking toward his freedom, Simon glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. He spotted the shadowed face of Martínez behind the bars—was that Fred?—then Fred’s—or was that Martínez? He saw others too, including old Miguelito, the one who used to cough, now huddled deep in his cell like a kid being punished. And the inmate in the cell by the door, lying on the floor in the shadows, very still—maybe dead.

  Poor bastards. All they had left was to resign themselves to being lab rats for the Imperialists. That is, if they even survived whatever was going on out there.

  Oh well, tough luck.