Chapter Text
The prison is a cold, dark place. Bare metal stained with rust and soaked in the sharp smell of disinfectant brings echoes from distant areas of the prison to my quiet corner.
I hear the drip of a leaky pipe. The rumble of the air exchanger that sends a cold wind through the barren space whenever it switches on. Then there’s a low, miserable groan, followed by a frustrated scream and the shaking of bars.
Nobody knows how to cure the Praedators. So whenever they’re caught by the LCBI, they’re locked up here under the watchful care of the Warden. A disproportionate number of these inmates are here because of me. As a junior officer, I always volunteered for the most dangerous Praedator cases that my colleagues warily avoided. And then it turned out I had a knack for capturing Praedators, thanks to all my experience doing so as a bounty hunter. This lead to my rapid promotion and even quite a bit of press coverage. I was the department’s darling—until I wasn’t. Now, I’m on their hit list. The Bureau Chief fabricated a charge about smuggling Frenzy Enhancer, and they used the severity of that charge as an excuse to throw a human in with the Praedators.
Fortunately, nobody’s figured out that the main reason I’m so good at catching Praedators is that I don’t fear becoming one. For some still-unknown reason, I’m immune to the Praedator factor.
A radiation leak, a psychic disturbance, a virus, a disease… it’s been called a lot of different things. Still, nobody’s exactly sure how it works—except, perhaps, for the lab that created it. Ever.
My mission here is to get cozy with one of their former researchers, Levi, so I can get a list of the researchers who originally worked in the lab before the leak. Reading between the lines, Zayne is either trying to get revenge on them, answers from them, or both.
Zayne’s a Praedator too, after all.
I can’t afford to show the other Praedators a shred of empathy when in front of them—they’d pounce at my throat. But in my private cell, when they don’t know I can hear, the mournful, pained sounds they make as the frenzy overwhelms them and they’re left with a bottomless, unanswerable hunger…
It pulls at my heart and reminds me of a certain rabid dog.
***
Four and a half years ago, six months into the Praedator outbreak
The dog snarls and yowls, ramming its head into the bars of the cage. The metal shakes, making a terrible noise that leaves the other animals in the clinic cowering. The dog’s head thrashes, sending spittle flying.
I lean my back against the wall, breathing heavily, having just used all my strength to get the dog contained without getting bit.
Zayne hears the commotion and hurries around the corner. I expect his attention to center on the dog, but as soon as he sees the white foam, his eyes flash to me.
“Did it bite you?” There’s an intensity in his expression as he suddenly grabs my wrists, checking my arms with medical efficiency, then dropping his eyes to my legs.
“No, I’m fine. You can help it, right?”
He doesn’t seem to believe me until he’s thoroughly checked my legs, too. There’s dirt on my jeans and a tear where they caught on a rusty fence, but other than the usual scrapes from life in the Southern District, I’m fine.
The dog yowls and snaps, teeth catching on the bars of the cage.
“You shouldn’t have risked yourself to bring it here,” he says cooly.
“But you can help it, can’t you?”
He’s quiet a moment, looking at the dog, as if choosing his words carefully. “Yes. But I doubt the method will be satisfactory to you.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
Zayne opens a meticulously organized supply cabinet and pulls out a syringe, then things better of it and gets a tranquilizer gun from its slot on the wall. He carefully prepares a cartridge.
“Zayne,” I insist. “What are you doing?” On instinct, I put myself between him and the dog.
He suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me back against the wall.
“Zayne! If I can stand my own against Praedators, a dog isn’t a threat to me.”
His voice is quiet as the morning after an ice storm. “You may be immune to the Praedator factor, but you’re not immune to rabies.”
My protests fizzle in my chest, and I pull my arms close to my body, pity heavy in my heart as I turn to look at the dog. “I thought it was just thirsty… There’s… there’s really nothing you can do?”
With sure, confident motions, Zayne loads the cartridge into the gun. “I can put it out of its misery. And prevent it from hurting anything else or spreading the disease.”
An odd emotion settles in my chest as I watch Zayne raise the tranquilizer gun and take aim. Even at the short distance, he’s as meticulous as ever. The snarling dog sends spit flying as it shakes its head again, as if trying to shake off something attacking it that doesn’t exist.
I’m no stranger to death. I’ve cut down my share of Praedators in self defense. But for some reason, this feels different. Maybe it’s just that part of me felt like Dr. Zayne could do the impossible—that if there was anyone who could cure the incurable, save any patient, it would be him.
With a low click and a hiss, the gun discharges, and the needle lands in the dog’s leg. It yelps and snarls, twisting to bite at the dart, but it’s too late. Slowly, the energy drains out of its muscles. It wobbles, then lies down, then tucks its head. Its breathing slows, and in its last moments, it looks like it’s peacefully asleep.
Once Zayne is satisfied that it’s no longer breathing, he gets an old towel out of the back and throws it over the dog. With mechanical precision—and yet also a kind of gentleness—he wraps the dog and then nestles the body in the freezer.
I watch him work, that strange emotion spreading through my chest like a drop of ink in water. When Zayne heads back out to the front of the clinic, I follow, eager to put the image of the cage out of my mind.
As Zayne reviews a chart, I sit on a chair nearby and pull my knees up to my chest.
“It was pretty stupid of me to try to help it, wasn’t it?”
Zayne sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh. I’m very attuned to Zayne’s sighs by this point—he has seventeen different kinds. This is the kind that means he isn’t entirely satisfied with the answer he’s about to give me.
“I obviously cannot recommend you engage with an obviously rabid animal in the future. Aggressive behavior and foam-like spit are two key symptoms. Regardless, if any animal ever bites you, you should come to me right away. There is a vaccine that can be administered to humans—the sooner after the bite, the better.” He flips through the record, and for a moment, I think that’s all he’s going to say. But then, he continues. “As for whether I think it is stupid to want to try to save things that are beyond saving… Compassion cannot be called ‘stupid’, as long as you do what needs to be done when the time comes.”
I grip my knees tighter to my chest. “Zayne… is that also how you feel about Praedators?”
“Yes.” The answer is cold, confident, assured. He gives me a meaningful look, then returns to the reports.
I get the sense he’s implying that if he ever needs to be ‘put out of his misery’, I should do what needs to be done. Remembering the day I learned he’s a Praedator… I suddenly feel cold. But since he didn’t say that part out loud, I pretend I didn’t notice for now. I settle my chin on my knees and stare at the floor.
After a few long minutes, Zayne speaks again. “There is… another patient with a poor prognosis. But under diligent care, she might turn around.”
I perk up. Is Zayne… comforting me? “Which one?”
He tilts his chin towards something new in the room that I didn’t notice before. There’s a fish tank with a plastic platform attached to it and a basking lamp hanging down over the platform. Tucked half-under a plate of untouched veggies is a little turtle barely the size of my palm.
I carefully walk over, and the turtle blinks slowly.
“What happened to her?”
“She was surrendered last night. She’s been kept in a tank with poor water quality, an inadequate basking area, and no UVB light. She has shell rot and early stage metabolic bone disease. Currently, listlessness and lack of appetite are her most pressing symptoms.”
I frown. “That sounds serious.”
“It is. I only have enough time to see to the basics. Her refusal to eat is likely due to the lack of preferred hiding places and natural vegetation.”
There’s nothing in the fish tank but the white plastic platform. A smile pulls at my lips as I remember my first impression of Zayne’s cold bedside manner when I met him. This poor turtle is finally somewhere she can recover, but it must feel like a frightening and cold hospital, and not like her new home.
“What can I do?”
“She requires frequent administration of antibiotics, water changes, and careful monitoring of her diet. A quieter place would also likely improve her odds of survival.”
“So… you think I should take her back to my apartment?”
He glances up at me. “If you want to, you may.”
My smile widens. “Is this a foster situation, or am I being ‘gifted’ a pet?”
“I wouldn’t get too attached if I were you. She has a less than fifty percent chance of survival.”
I look down at the little turtle. She gives another slow, pathetic blink. Somehow, in the depths of my heart, I believe in her. “If you keep talking like that, you’ll only make her odds worse. I’ll give her a name, and then she’ll have to pull through.”
Zayne raises a brow. “A most curious hypothesis. I’ll have to perform a trial and see if the results are statistically significant.”
My smile widens another measure. I’ve also learned that this is Zayne’s way of cracking a joke. I return my attention to the tiny turtle, who’s little more than a pale green circle at this point. It reminds me a little bit of the faded poster out front of what used to be a dessert shop down the street.
“I think I’ll name you… Macaron. Mac for short.”
***
Mac’s tank is the only bright spot in this prison cell—literally and figuratively. I attended diligently to her care and quickly got attached to the little reptile. Though she had a few close calls, she ended up pulling through and making a full recovery. The only signs now of her previous health problems are a few subtle scars on her shell, and the fact that she’ll always be a bit small for her species. That’s for the best—it means she has that much more room in her tank.
Now, ‘sterile’ is the last word that could be used to describe it. I gave her a piece of slate for under her basking lamp and glued other stones around it to make the platform look more natural. Then I added sand and pond soil to the base so that it can sustain aquatic plants. Bright green leaves of Amazon Sword peek out from clusters of Java Moss and hairy tendrils of Hornwort. A couple Pothos plants spill over the edge, and the surface is littered with duckweed. It’s truly a miniature pond, now.
The sight of the prison guards hauling the tank in under my close supervision and precise instruction still brings a smile to my lips. Though Zayne expressed concern about the guards previously, at least the ones that helped with Mac were nothing but loyal and steadfast. I’m sure they see Zayne as cold but fair.
I check the thermometer in the tank and tweak the heater. When I lean close to the tank, it almost feels like I’m in a pond with her. I watch her little legs stroke back and forth, guiding her round body through the water. She grabs the plants with tiny claws, pulling herself along. The bright lights shine down over us, and the hum of the filter and the trickle of water drown out the prison’s more disturbing noises.
Even though Zayne said ‘no’ to my request for special meals, he still brought fresh lettuce for Mac. I pile it onto the turtle’s platform, and she quickly hauls herself out of the water to munch on it. I sneak a piece for myself—it might be the only fresh food I get for a while.
I’m sure the Bureau Chief and his cronies threw me in here because they expected the Praedators I locked up here to kill me before long and save them the trouble of a trail.
But they must have forgotten I’m from the Southern District—I’m no stranger to cold bars, a lack of comfortable bed, or an abundance of murderous Praedators.
It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than this to stop me.