Clover
Peter had brought Clover back to her cell and brought her fresh blankets and a steril white gown to put on. He had brought a bottle of liquid that burned her nose when she sniffed it. Peter said it was alcohol to clean her wounds. He had rolls of white gauze and ointments that smelled weird to her. Everyone in this part of the facility was watching. To the humans who were free to roam, the scientists, doctors and guards, he was playing the role of a dutiful fiance. But to Clover, and the prisoners, Peter was a friend. A saving grace in a time of need. He was helping them devise a plan to escape but also tending to Clover and her wounds as if she was precious to him.
Perhaps she was. Perhaps she was a friend to him. Someone she could rely on and trust and vice versa. She flinched
