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Machivelle led, with Kester bringing up the rear. Nobody talked.
They only walked for a few minutes, and passed nobody. When they arrived at a door that looked no different to any others, Machivelle stopped. Kester opened the door, and they entered.
The room was devoid of furniture, and the walls were a stark grey, the texture rough. It gave the room an unfinished appearance, emphasised by the harsh light that bled from the ceiling tiles. The air tasted warm and stale, but the acidic tang of urine cut through like a knife.
There were three guards, all holding weapons at the ready—guns, not stun-sticks. Two males, one female, all with cropped hair and mean expressions. They glanced at Machivelle, but quickly returned their attention to the five prisoners.
They were workers
