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I study my blunt nails, pretending to wait.
I expect him to snarl with rage. To attack the glass again. Instead, all he does is watch me.
He's quiet. Too quiet.
I look up, expecting to see him pounce at the glass again, but his strange eyes are narrowed and the look he's giving me is downright assessing. Like he's trying to figure me out. Well, one good turn deserves another. I tilt my head back, studying him, too.
I don't know what race he is, or if he's anything at all. They called him a “splice,” which sounds like a lot of things mixed into one. He's the turducken of gladiators, I guess, probably bred to be mean and nasty and rip his opponents apart like he did the new mattress I gave him. His eyes have a vertical pupil, just like a cat’s. Predator eyes, I think. His face is somewhat human, though his nose is ridged and blunted and doesn't quite look like mine. He's got two short horns curving back from his brow, large, pointed ears, and a mouth that hangs open wetly, showing far too many sharp teeth and a huge set of tusks. His hair is like a lion's mane, more of a “ruff” than actual hair, and it continues down his neck and then tapers to a chest that's plated like the mesakkah, broad and full of muscle. He's got a tail, too, like they do, but the skin color's all wrong. His is a strange purplish gray, nowhere near the pleasant-seeming blue of the predominant space-faring alien race. His hands are tipped in claws, but he's got three fingers and a thumb like the other aliens, and he's wearing pants that barely seem to fit his bulging-with-muscle body. He’s built thicker and stronger than anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of weird shit pass through this place.
He's also got the most stun-cuffs I've ever seen on a slave. Thick bands encircle his neck twice over, along with his wrists and ankles. They flicker constantly, armed and ready to go off. The collar around my neck is slender and marked with Lord Sir’s insignia. It's to keep me safe from the guards in the other barracks more than anything else. I can't run away—there's simply nowhere to run. This is a jungle moon with no cities that I know of, and I get the impression it's a lot like a wild game reserve back on Earth, except the rich guys house their pet gladiators here along with their exotic pets. If I ran from this place, there'd be nothing for hundreds of miles in any direction, and I don't know how to survive in the jungle.
So here I stay, cuffed slave or not.
The alien catches me studying him, and that strange mouth of his curls up into an almost-smile. Like he's amused by me. Maybe it's because I'm short. I'm normal height and weight, but to him I must seem like a gnome. I wouldn't be surprised if he was eight feet. No, seven, I decide. Seven and a half, max. He's so menacing and broad that it's hard to tell.
Massive and dangerous. That's all I need to know.
He taps at the glass, trying to get my attention, and I bristle. I'm not supposed to be around the gladiators. This one's a bit of an exception, because my orders are to clean this cellblock, but being around the gladiators is dangerous. They're volatile and bred to be bad-tempered and attack-happy.
"Sorry, bud, I'm not your friend," I mutter as I move to the control panel and light up the restraints on his shock-collars. I type in the access code for the cleaning crew, and a moment later, there's a whine as everything surges online. As I watch, his hands fly over his head and his entire body goes flying backward. He hits the wall with a nasty thump, and I wince, because it sounds painful. He's probably going to be super pissed that I activated them, so I wait patiently outside. Normally, anyone trussed up like that tests out the cuffs a few times before giving up, just to see if there's a weakness.
This guy doesn't bother. He doesn't move a muscle.
I study him through the glass and then decide his drugs must have kicked in. His eyes are closed and he’s motionless. He's probably unconscious. I enter the access code again and the doors slide open, shutting quickly behind me the moment I get my cart through. As soon as I'm inside, I start to work. Being in a cell is dangerous, even if the gladiator can't do me physical harm. I've been urinated on before, in the past, when I had to serve in cellblock A and B. Urinated on, spunked on, you name it. I've heard them say all kinds of filthy things to me in a dozen languages, and I had one nearly gnaw his own arm off to try and get free so he could rape me.
