Breakfast in Bedlam/Chapters 13-14

Chapter 13
Now

The blade dragged across the metal bedpost with a satisfying screech. Crouched in the corner of his cell, Pepan Manja kept a watchful eye on the door, his hands working diligently to sharpen the blade to a lethal edge. Another inmate had smuggled the knife from their kitchen work detail, hiding it and giving it to Pepan in the laundry room. It was a simple table knife with a dull blade, but with some sharpening, it would do the job. Pepan paused to inspect the knife’s edge. The overhead lights glinted off the scraped metal. The blade could easily kill a man, but it would take more work to hone it so that it could pierce a durable Gand exoskeleton. The damn pests were built to last, Pepan had to admit. He remembered the first time he slaughtered one of those creatures. He had to change his vibro-saw blade twice; it would catch on the chitinous plates and snap. And knives, unless inserted through the soft, flexing pleats of the joints, only cracked or even crushed the armor if the blade did not possess a fine edge. Stabbing a Gand was usually ineffective, unless one knew precisely where to aim. Pepan chuckled to himself, returning to his work. Zuckuss would certainly be in for a surprise. Pepan had witnessed other inmates attack the Gand; they usually targeted the ubiquitous respirator. It was an easy target, the exposed air hoses could easily be severed and it did not require much effort to rip the face mask away. However, from observing the almost daily mess hall brawls, Pepan knew that Zuckuss would be expecting it. The Gand was certainly vigilant, choreographing his defense in order to better protect his respirator. Though, the cumbersome equipment still proved to be a hindrance; Pepan remembered seeing a fight in which the breath mask was knocked off Zuckuss’s face by a well-aimed blow from a swung tray, he was almost frantic while securing it. It was too obvious and thus too well-guarded a target, Pepan would need to resort to other methods to bring the Gand down. The chitinous plates on the thorax, in order to maintain flexibility, were segmented into a complex suit of armor, the soft joints permitting ample opportunity for a knife to slide right through. And, fortunately for Pepan, Zuckuss would not be wearing battle armor under his bright orange uniform. All Pepan would need to do would be to get close enough to the Gand to jam the blade through his thorax. Then he would feast.

If he could smuggle the body into the kitchens. The ever-present guards would make this a difficult task indeed. Unfortunately, there was not a single Kubaz among the staff, no one with a refined palate who would consider the importance of not wasting good food. Pepan let out an irritated sigh. He was surrounded by uncultured swine. Hearing the locks disengage, Pepan hurriedly wedged the knife between the wall and the bunk and stood, seeing one of those intellectual midgets at the door. The uniformed man regarded him with a glance. “Pod time. You got one hour.” Pepan walked out of his cell and quickly made his way to a table in the opposite corner, joining with the other members of the gang. One of the inmates, Hardin, gave a nod. “Pepan.” Pepan returned the nod and leaned against the wall, his gaze immediately going to the staircase that led to the upper tiers, seeing the usual set of inmates gather around it. Zuckuss was with that small gang, along with his female Rodian companion. That Rodian rarely left the Gand’s side, she could become a problem. “Hardin. Who’s the Rodian there with the Gand? Quite a fetching catch for an insect to acquire…”

Hardin folded his arms. “Some bounty hunter named Cami. Small-time. Don’t think she caught anyone here.” He shrugged. “You wanting some a’ that or something?” Pepan wrinkled his snout and shook his head. Intimate encounters with the Rodian were the furthest from his mind. Such crude and socially inept creatures to be thinking of nothing but procreation. This Cami, though, she seemed timid enough, Pepan mused, to be taken out of the situation if need be. Hardin would be particularly beneficial of removing the Rodian. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but I prefer the Twi’leks. Though, Rodians ain’t without their charm. That snout can work wonders, if you know what I mean.” Hardin sneered, elbowing Pepan in the side. Pepan glared at him. “Must you constantly concern yourself over that?” He stepped away from the wall, shaking his head. “Vile savage…” Hardin took offense, which Pepan expected from a being with such a one-track mind. “Man, you can kark yourself!” With a wave of his arm, he turned and stormed away, muttering under his breath.

Pepan ignored him, leaning against the wall once more, his gaze returning to the gathering by the stairwell, his focus on Zuckuss. The Gand was engaged in a discussion with the Rodian, though combined with the voices of the other inmates and the cell block’s terrible acoustics, Pepan could not decipher what they were saying. It did not matter, though, as he was studying the routine. He noticed that at the end of pod time, Zuckuss would be led away by two guards to replenish his respirator’s ammonia supply. This would occur twice daily; in the morning before breakfast and after evening pod time before lights out. Once a day, Zuckuss would be escorted away from the shared showers to an air locked refresher to wash. And three times a day he received his medication. The Gand’s daily routine was almost the same every day, except for the times he was granted work detail. Pepan would watch from his cell when Zuckuss would mop the cell block floors, supervised by the corrections officers. Those ever-present corrections officers. Most of them human. That irritated Pepan to no end. Bedlam’s staff was primarily human, including the head psychiatrist who had the deluded notion that she could somehow make a difference in the inmate’s lives. Pepan had been meeting with the psychiatrist, Dr. Karastee was her name, for a few weeks now and he despised every moment of it. Karastee would speak to him as if he were a child, then throw around a diagnosis. It was utterly ludicrous, the lengths she went to in order to label a diet she just simply could not comprehend. Karastee was an unrefined human, the product of a media-driven society and processed meals. She acted pleasant, pretending to be genuinely concerned, but Pepan could see right through the charade. Pathetic creature, that Dr. Karastee. She never tasted the sweet, succulent meat of an insect, she had absolutely no way of ever understanding what it is like to be deprived of such decadent food, to be forced to subsist on government rations that had all the flavor of an old boot. As far as Pepan was concerned, Dr. Karastee was a moron.

Though, Pepan surmised, it was not entirely her fault that Dr. Karastee was raised in a sheltered society. The majority of galactic social practices were to blame, particularly those in power. Insects were given sentient rights and it was the government’s fault. Somehow they had gotten the idea that the spineless vermin deserved such rights simply because they could speak. Well, if that were the only requirement, then why not grant such rights to the variety of domesticated avians that could mimic their owner’s speech? Such a ridiculous idea! The ability to speak does not make one intelligent. Pepan snorted, his gaze on Zuckuss. He would need a distraction to get the body to the kitchens once he struck the Gand down. And a better place to strike. The cell block’s common area was too well-guarded, fights here were usually dispersed rather quickly. An inmate could only get in a few hits before the guards were upon them. Pepan shook his head, his gaze going to the floor for a brief moment. He heard Hardin say something to another prisoner before coming up behind him. “Hey,” Hardin’s voice was a harsh whisper as he bumped Pepan’s hand with his closed fist. “Take this.” He handed a folded slip of flimsi-plast to Pepan. “Mahlon got word from Dokk over in Hi-Max. Says don’t worry ‘bout the Rodie. She won’t be a problem.” He stepped closer beside the Kubaz. “But the bug… nearly tore another guy’s arm off. You know what you doing, man?” Pepan cast Hardin a sidelong glance. “I’ve crossed their kind before, brought each one down…” He nodded, trailing off, fondly recalling when he had prepared those Gands in a variety of exquisite meals, each garnished and savored. “And tasted their succulent flesh. Quite a delicacy.” He finally met Hardin’s suddenly-apprehensive and unsettled gaze. “So, to answer your question, yes, I know what I’m doing.” Hardin took a small step backward. “Kriff, man… Ate them…?” he shook his head. Hardin was just another of those unrefined creatures, unaccustomed to a finely-prepared meal with the most delicious of ingredients. Due to the media raising him, he held the belief that eating insects was somehow “disgusting.” Is it no more disgusting to slaughter and serve a barve? Or dine on a braised nerf roast? How the galaxy’s citizens decide what one should and should not eat was amusing at times. Surely Hardin had eaten some sort of crustacean during his lifetime. Such creatures are simply the insects of the sea. If Pepan prepared a Gand in the same way, he was confident that Hardin would be unable to tell the difference in the appearance of the meat. It was not that much different to eat an insect than it was to eat a crab. Pepan watched Hardin return to the table. Tucking the folded flimsi-plast into the waistband of his pants, he folded his arms and resumed his observation of Zuckuss. The Gand was seated on one of the stairs, his Rodian companion handing him a cup of what was probably water. A corrections officer stood nearby, datapad in hand, asking Zuckuss questions that Pepan could not hear. Zuckuss coughed, shook his head, and held up his hand, palm out, indicating that he did not require any assistance. The guard nodded, replied, and then returned to his post by one of the locked doors that led to Visitation. Zuckuss drank the water, then looked to the Rodian, who had seated herself on the step beside him. They soon returned to their discussion. Pepan raised an eyebrow. So, the grub is ill? He chuckled quietly to himself. Hopefully whatever ailment Zuckuss apparently had would not spoil his flavor. Though, it would indeed work to Pepan’s benefit if the Gand was weaker than when they had first met. He would be easier to take down.

Chapter 14
The heavy hit slammed him square across his respirator, almost dislodging it and sending Zuckuss stumbling backward. Another fist shot passed his left eye, connecting with his jaw line. And another impact to the back of his head, his vision blurring for a moment. The dangling tubes and canisters rattling together, disoriented from the sudden assault, he pitched forward, arms out, hitting the ground hard on his hands and knees. Around him, he could see the legs of several inmates. None of them made a move toward him. As the dizzying impacts faded from his head, he could hear them laughing. His gaze remained on the ground beneath him, the thin layer of new-fallen snow having been disturbed by the scuffle. Flakes continued to fall, he could feel the icy pinpricks melting against the back of his neck where the snow had found its way passed his jumpsuit’s collar. Moving his gaze to the pair of legs directly in front of him, Zuckuss swallowed his breath, forcing down the tightness of a nagging cough that lurked in his chest. He could afford to show no weakness now. “I don’t get you, bug,” a voice spoke that Zuckuss recognized as belonging to Hardin. “A couple weeks ago, you sucker-punched me in the back. Got Dokk sent off to Hi-Max, too.” He began to pace toward the Gand’s right. “Sometimes, you got some real fight in you…” The snow crunched beneath his feet. “Not today, though, huh, bug?” Zuckuss’s breath was forced from his lungs by a strong kick to the thorax. His arms gave out and he hit the ground. Ignoring the pain and discomfort, he pulled himself back to his hands and knees. The nagging cough finally escaped with his panting. Hardin laughed before speaking again. “Nah, this ain’t fair. Hey, Mahlon, you think this is fair?” There was a chuckle preceding Mahlon’s response. “Heh, no man, this totally ain’t fair.” “See?” Hardin continued his pacing. “We’ll fight you fair, bug. Get up and let’s do this thing right.” Grabbing Zuckuss by the arm, he yanked him to his feet. “C’mon, runt. Let’s do this right.”

Zuckuss wavered before regaining his footing. The back of his head throbbed heavily. His gear making a noticeable hiss as he sucked in his breath, he tried to achieve a sufficient presence of mind, clearing away the mental distractions so he could better defend himself. Taking a deep, cleansing breath of his respirator’s ammonia supply, he let it out slowly, feeling the pain and tightness ease, flowing down his arms and out through the tips of his fingers. He was ready. Hardin watched the brief meditation before him and laughed. “What’s this, bug? You going all warrior monk, now?” He turned to look at Mahlon. “Hey, you see what he’s--” Hardin’s words were cut short by a quick blow to the gut, followed by Zuckuss’s chitinous elbow slamming between his shoulder blades as he doubled over. Within seconds, Hardin was sprawled on the wet, slushy ground, the falling snow causing dark dots to appear across his back as they melted on impact. Hardin coughed, catching his breath, pulling himself to his feet. “Man, seriously, what the kriffin’ hell?!” “You wanted to fight,” Zuckuss said simply. His gaze darted from Hardin, to Mahlon and the other inmates, and back again, his fists curled, his arms held bent at the elbows. The air hoses looping beneath his breathing apparatus swung slightly, though rhythmically, as he rocked his weight from foot to foot. Some of the wiser inmates took a small step backward, they had witnessed Zuckuss fight before. Hardin rolled up his sleeves, shooting a glare to some of the other prisoners. “Buncha wusses…” He shook his head. “He’s a short, asthmatic 4-LOM in a dress, c’mon!” Unfortunately for Hardin, his comment was met with another blow to the gut. “Enough banter,” Zuckuss rocked back into his stance, his left arm outstretched, beckoning to Hardin to make his move. His attention on Hardin, he did not see Mahlon come toward him until he was thrown bodily to the ground, Mahlon kneeling on his back, wrenching Zuckuss’s arms behind him. He felt pressure on his legs, pinning them against the slush-covered ground to prevent him from kicking. Immediately, he was yanked to his feet, his arms held firmly behind his back. “The runt’s all yours, Hardin,” Mahlon sneered. Hardin nodded assent, his arms around his mid-section, trying to control the pain. Gands were known to be able to punch through stormtrooper armor and Hardin had just taken two sharp chitinous fists to his unprotected stomach. It would take more than a mere moment for him to recover his energy sufficiently to fight. Zuckuss decided to use the delay to assess his situation. Beyond Hardin, another larger fight had broken out between two gangs, the rage spilling over to the other inmates like an overflowing pot. The fighting had the few officers in the yard sufficiently distracted. Zuckuss averted his gaze, focusing at a point between him and Hardin. The snow continued to fall, large white flakes drifting lazily from the gray sky. There was a distinct chill in the air. Zuckuss took another deep breath, planting his left foot behind him. He could hear Mahlon shout to Hardin to take the hits he was presented with, though Hardin was obviously still recovering. Zuckuss threw his weight to the side, knocking both he and Mahlon off-balance. Mahlon released his grip and Zuckuss scrambled to his feet.

The energy from the gang violence elsewhere in the yard permeated to the gathering of inmates. An arm as thick as a girder wrapped itself around Zuckuss’s neck, pulling him backward against the body of an equally-massive prisoner, the matching giant hand, bigger than the Gand’s head, clamping over the respirator. Inhaling one last lungful of ammonia, Zuckuss held his breath. He grabbed at the prisoner’s wrist, trying to prevent the mask from being ripped away from his face. Around him, he heard the shouts of the other inmates as their rage became unfocused, their hits connecting with whomever was stupid enough to be in the vicinity, be they guards or other inmates.

The toes of Zuckuss’s shoes barely touched the ground, he could not balance himself correctly to kick the larger inmate. Trying to pry the massive fist from his respirator was a fruitless endeavor. He could hear the hiss of escaping ammonia as the prisoner fumbled to get his thick fingers to cooperate to remove the tightly-fitted mask. Zuckuss removed the heavy glove from his hand and allowed it to drop to his side. He reached behind him and grabbed the prisoner, digging the sharp, armored tips of his fingers through the thin fabric of the uniform and into the soft flesh. A twist of the Gand’s wrist and the giant let out a shriek, releasing him. His ankle twisting beneath him as he fell, Zuckuss ignored the pain, more concerned with securing his breathing apparatus. He hurried to get out of the reach of the large prisoner, such a crude attack merely served to distract, and anger, as Zuckuss could hear the obscenities shouted at him. He turned his head to peer behind him, seeing groups of inmates fighting, though his focus was squarely on the large and emasculated prisoner with the vibroblade glare. The man reached into the waistband of his uniform, the gray winter light glinting off the sharpened makeshift blade of a shank.

“Gonna kriffin’ gut you, bug!” The ground shook with each step as the massive inmate thudded toward him. The man’s threat would have been lost within the flood of incomprehensible screams and shouts if it were not for the deep, guttural tone setting it apart. Another prisoner, recoiling from a hit thrown by either Hardin or Mahlon who had focused both their energies on the blossoming riot, stumbled backward against the giant, only to be swatted away with the least amount of effort Zuckuss had ever seen the man exert. The snow on the ground robbed the titan of traction as he slipped than a few times, however his rage remained absolute. His large spatulate thumb rubbed against the shank’s honed edge.

Zuckuss backed up, his gaze focused on the giant inmate. The thin layer of wet snow sent his feet out from under him and he hurriedly fought against the lack of traction. Screw fighting, this prisoner must be three meters with an almost equal girth! Zuckuss’s thoughts momentarily drifted to when he had fought a man with a similar build before he forced them back to his current situation. Now was not the time to reminisce, not while the normally-orderly inmate society degraded into violent chaos and the biggest prisoner he had ever seen was intent on opening him up like a fish. His breath mask barely secured, a dull ache beginning to creep into his chest along with the urge to cough, Zuckuss was still holding his breath. His race was able to do so naturally, practically ceasing respiration for a length of time, however it was more preferable to do it while at rest. Fumbling with his face mask, he attempted to secure it better while still keeping a watchful eye on the giant intent on spilling his innards on the snow-covered ground.

Zuckuss skidded to a sudden halt as his breath was forced from his lungs by a sharp impact to the gut. Standing directly in front of him was Pepan Manja, the Kubaz-cum-serial killer with an insatiable appetite for Gands. The very killer that Zuckuss had apprehended in the underlevels a year before. Pepan’s snout curled slightly in the Kubaz equivalent of a sly grin. “Greetings, Zuckuss.” Zuckuss’s gaze went to the pain in his abdomen, Pepan’s fist closed tightly around the handle of a blade, the Gand’s blood welling around it. His gaze returned to Pepan. “What are you&mdash;?”

Pepan calmly placed the tip of his finger on the cool metal surface of Zuckuss’s respirator to silence him. “Save it.” He gripped Zuckuss’s shoulder, looking into the large, silvery eyes. “You’ll only stress yourself, make yourself tired and stringy.” He removed the blade and stabbed Zuckuss again, hearing the Gand’s breath escape in a choked gasp. Pepan’s voice dropped to a seductive whisper as he leaned in close, stabbing Zuckuss a third time. “You really are an exquisite creature. I have dined on your kind before, but you… You will be a meal fit for royalty. A fine Cambrian wine will bring out your succulent flavor quite well.” He leaned back, releasing Zuckuss’s shoulder and allowing the Gand to slide off the blade and collapse in a heap on the snowy ground. “Now, do me a favor and stop holding your breath. It ruins the meat.”

The cold, wet snow seeped through his jumpsuit, mixed with the spreading warmth of his spilled blood. Zuckuss watched Pepan survey the exercise yard before running off to a corner of it to fling the knife over the wall. Around him, the fighting was gradually being contained by and influx of guards clad in riot gear. One of the guards, silhouetted in black, managed to grab Pepan as he was running back, slamming him into the ground and restraining him. The guard’s partner glanced over in Zuckuss’s direction and yelled something that he could not hear over the shouts from the other combatants. The cold, falling snow stinging his face, Zuckuss’s thoughts drifted to an inner point of contemplation as a gray tunnel clawed at the edge of his vision, threatening to engulf him in darkness. At times, he had meditated on his own demise and came to the conclusion that he would be murdered, though it was never revealed to him who would do the deed. Perhaps this is it… Blood collecting in his throat, Zuckuss moved to raise himself, trying to combat the pain. The gray tunnel steadily narrowed his unfocused field of vision, his thoughts slowing. Zuckuss coughed up the blood, his arms refusing to cooperate, seeing several guards approach him. The tunnel closed around him, leaving him alone in the darkness, the sounds around him becoming distant and tinny, his thoughts drifting to the friend he had wronged a year ago. “I’m sorry, Toryn…”