27: Brice
Brice
The door to Brice’s cell opened twice after the guards had brought him back from the medi-lab. The first time was to push a bowl into the cell, some foul-smelling slurry that he assumed would be his diet from now on. He sat on the bunk—they’d brought a fold-out thing in while he’d been out, and he’d snapped it open, put the bed-roll on it, knew it would only be slightly more comfortable than the floor—and spooned the stuff into his mouth. He refused to wince, refused to give them that pleasure.
The second time they opened the door, they pushed a woman into the cell.
She staggered, threw her hands out to the wall to stop from falling. She spun, yelled something incoherent at the guard. The guard laughed, slammed the door.
Brice sat, watching. She wore black padded c
