I collapse my thumbs, folding my palms until the bones feel like they’re on the verge of snapping, searching for that one impossible angle that will let the cuffs slide over my knuckles. The metal rubs my skin raw; a wet slick of blood coats my palms.
Keep going. It doesn’t matter if I break.
My slight frame makes people think I’m fragile. Crushable. I usually hate that, but maybe, for once, my spindly limbs will come to my aid. And then, if I get out of here, I’ll use my long legs to run. Run, run and run and somehow make a new life with a new name.
Tug. Squeeze. Scrape.Ow. Fucking. Ow.
The armored minivan runs over a pothole, jarring my bloody wrists and making me swallow a scream. Blinking away some stupid tears, I realize we’re pulling to a stop. Not the prison, but some other country facility.
A few floodlights flicker on, then the door of the one-story building flies open. Two Peacekeepers march out first. In their matte-black helmets and weird heavy body armor, they don’t even look human. They are robots who don’t care about anyone or anything.
Next, two more guards exit, and between them? A man in a stained orange jumpsuit with a bag over his head.
Seems like me and Julian are going to have company. And if they’re occupied with the new guy, this could be my best chance to run.
If I can get out of these motherfucking handcuffs.
I watch through the reinforced windows as he’s hauled toward us. His bare feet drag behind him, leaving dark streaks on the asphalt.
My own feet are also bare—and freezing. I rub them together, trying to get my circulation working, then once more I contort my palm.
Godsdammit. It’s no good. Think, Aurora, what else can I try?
The cuffs are attached to a chain that hooks onto the metal bench frame.
Undo the bolts?
Stretching down, I try to turn the nearest one. It’s stupidly tight, but I’ve got lubrication. It’s called the congealing lifeblood of Aurora Destiny Drakeward.
Smear it on and let’s go.
Twist. Twist. Twist. My fingers are starting to cramp, but did it move?
No. It was just the slick of the blood making it seem so.
Just keep trying, Rory.
Huh. The orange-jumpsuit-man must have been faking unconsciousness, because he’s suddenly bolt upright and yelling like a banshee.
Whoa. He slams his head back and forth with amazing precision, taking down one guard, then the other.
Even though I should be working on my own escape, I’m mesmerized. He moves with an organic sort of grace. Like a dancer.
Like me.
“Fucking taze him!” Piggy Tony shrieks, his face turning purple.
In the blink of an eye, the prisoner rams Tony in the gut, using his own skull as a battering ram. The impact sends the canvas bag flying, and for a moment, all I see is a waterfall of long, matted hair as he lunges over the fallen guard.
It’s impressive. It’s inspiring. It’s the exact kind of chaos I need.
Still watching the carnage, I put my weight into the bolt again, my bloody fingers finally finding a grip. But then a high-pitched, wet scream echoes through the night. The convict snaps his head up toward the floodlights and I finally see his face—sharp, beautiful, and absolutely feral.
And he has a bloody ear clamped between his teeth.
What the fuck!
Orange-jumpsuit executes some kind of capoeira move. Circling, spinning, and kicking, and manages to dodge all the stun guns and heavy batons. Over the shouting and yelling, I think I hear him giggling.
