The Butcher writes first
The cell door doesn’t open. It folds inward with a shriek of metal and clatters across the floor. Red alarm light floods in, and with it something enormous: a hunched, grayish mountain of muscle with a face that looks melted and rebuilt by someone who had only heard faces described. Broken shackles hang from both wrists.
It stops in the doorway and looks at you. Then, very deliberately, it raises its empty hands.
Down the corridor, guards are shouting in a language that sounds like gravel in a gearbox. The creature ignores them. It crouches, drags one thick claw across the concrete, and scratches out uneven letters.
“HUMAN? SOLDIER?”
Its eyes, small and dark and far too intelligent, flick from the words to your face. It waits for your answer. The shouting gets closer. It scratches once more, faster.
“I KNOW WAY OUT. COME?”
It holds out one massive hand, palm up.