Cell Mates

The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted in the precise shade of pale green-grey that led thinking beings to boredom and introspection. Those with a reduced capacity for introspection, however, would find the color maddening after some time. Those unfortunate souls ended up in solitary.

Troy was not a large man. He stood 164 centimeters and weighed in at just fifty-four kilograms. He had no fat under his warm brown skin, though, to hide his thin muscles, making him look almost starved. As such, his friends offered “advice” for his time behind bars. That advice was based on fiction and stereotypes; “join a faction like the Sons of Adam, you can remove the tattoos when you get out,” “try to beat up the biggest guy there the first day,” “just keep your head down and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

None of the advice was useful. There was no way to join — or even find — a faction in the prison, and a fight would just add time to his sentence. With meals taken in the cell, delivered by guards, and a rotating schedule for yard time in one of the sixty exercise yards, Troy guessed that two prisoners might encounter each other twice a year at most, unless they were cell mates.

It was while he was contemplating the isolation of the prison that the electronic lock on the door buzzed. Troy looked up from where he lay on the bottom bunk. A guard looked into the cell, then turned to the hulking shadow behind him. “In here.”

He stepped out of the way, and a second guard followed an orc carrying a rolled-up mattress, blanket, pillow, spare uniform, and laundry bag. The dun-skinned orc with ivory tusks and too many scars to count was easily twice Troy’s weight, and head and shoulders taller.

“Top bunk, inmate,” the first guard said.

“Are you sure, boss?” the orc asked. “I’m pretty heavy.”

The guard raised his stun baton. “I meant what I said. Top bunk.”

Troy rolled out of his bunk and retreated to the far side of the cell. He controlled his face, hiding the fear that gripped him.

The orc nodded at the guard and with a leap landed on his back on the top bunk, which didn’t let out even a squeak at the abuse. “Top bunk it is, boss.”

Troy didn’t want to turn his back on the orc, but he felt a sudden, urgent need to urinate. He decided to do it while the guards were there in the cell, to ensure his back was protected.

“Really, inmate?” one of the guards asked. “You couldn’t wait for us to leave?”

Troy finished up and flushed the commode. “No, sir, I couldn’t.”

The other guard said, “When you gotta’ go, you gotta’ go. Stevens, Irontooth here is your new cellie. Show him the ropes, and make sure he follows the rules. He fucks up, it’s on you.” With that, the guards left, and the door locked behind them.

Troy returned to his bunk and lay down, his eyes watching every move of the huge orc. The time for introspection had passed, Troy was gripped with the alert focus that comes from adrenaline.

They ate their dinner in silence. The guard that retrieved their empty trays told Troy to show the orc how to properly make up his bunk.

Troy put on his most confident face and talked the orc through the steps to make his bunk. He was an attentive student and picked it up right away.

Troy fell asleep with the feeling that the orc could attack at any time, but it would result in a trip to the hospital and at least he’d see something different. He woke in the morning to the subtle, silent movements of the orc shifting around on the solid bunk above him. He sat up and coughed. At some point, he would have to turn his back on his cell mate, and what happened then would be anyone’s guess.

He stood and looked at the orc sitting cross-legged on his bunk, dark circles under his golden eyes. Troy sighed. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

The orc shook his head.

“Why?”

“I was waiting for you to attack.”

Troy laughed so hard he had difficulty calming down to breathe. When he saw that only made the orc more nervous, he collected himself. “Troy Stevens,” he said. “What’s your name other than inmate Irontooth?”

“Irgontook. Den Irgontook,” the orc said, “not Irontooth.”

“Yeah, the guards aren’t all the sharpest tools in the shed. What made you think I would attack someone your size?” Troy leaned against the wall.

“I thought you were in the Sons of Adam, and I thought you would shank me in the middle of the night,” Den said.

“What gave you that idea?”

Den cleared his throat. “When you — when you took a piss in front of me and the guards, like you were marking your territory. It’s like you had an advantage of some sort.”

Troy laughed again. “The only reason I did that was because I didn’t want to turn my back on you while we were alone. I was scared that you would decide I was in the way and would break me in half.”

“But you went right to sleep,” Den said, “not the actions of someone scared. I thought that meant you felt well-protected.”

“It’s more that I figured if you were going to jump me, I’d either die and not know about it, or I’d end up in the hospital and get to look at a different room. Anyway, Den, I’m not with those assholes. Assuming that I am because I’m human would be like me assuming you’re a gangbanger because you’re an orc. You aren’t, are you? You don’t look like the gang type.”

Den shook his head. “I’m a firefighter,” he said. “That’s the closest to a gang I ever got.”

“What landed you here?”

“Possession with intent to sell. But it’s not like it’s true.” Den stretched out on the bunk. “I carried an elf out of a fire, laid her on a stretcher, and a bag of pills fell out of her pocket. I didn’t know what was in it, so I picked it up and put it on the stretcher with her. One of the cops on scene assumed it was mine, and the public defender was useless. What about you?”

“Old news.” Troy sat down next to the wall. “You heard of the Salem Seven?”

Den propped himself up on one elbow. “The group that went to prison over the voting thing? I thought they were all orcs.”

“They were. And their sentences were vacated by Parliament after two years, when the High Court finally decided that the Voting Restrictions Act they were protesting was, in fact, unconstitutional.”

“So, what does that have to do with you?” Den asked.

Troy chuckled. “In a stunning display of racism, the four elves, three humans, and two dwarves on the High Court decided that seven orcs couldn’t organize it on their own and were following orders of ‘someone smarter’ somewhere. I was the unlucky bastard lawyer they set their sights on. I did some pro-bono work for the group, was at the protest, and had assisted by printing posters and sending emails for them, but the court decided that I was the mastermind that ground the business of the court to a halt for an entire week.”

Den sat bolt upright. “They what? Orcs are too dumb to protest without a human leading them? What the hell? I suppose they think OLM is led by a human or elf or something, too?”

Troy shook his head. “Keep in mind, this was twenty years ago.”

“If they’re out,” Den asked, “why are you still here?”

“I wasn’t included in the Salem Seven trial. Instead, I was charged with conspiracy to subvert government functions and given the maximum sentence of forty years with no possibility of parole. I’ll be seventy-two when I get out.” Troy stood and stretched. “The lead judge on my case called me a ‘traitor to my country and race’ before instructing the court reporter to strike that comment.”

“Damn. So, the lead judge was a human?” the orc asked.

“No, Judge Ellen Starcher, elf. You know, the um….” Troy trailed off.

“The new lady elf on the High Court?” Den asked. “The one that everyone says should retire?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Den leaned forward. “So, what happens now?”

“Assuming you don’t break me in half, I’m not planning on shanking you — or anyone, for that matter.” Troy chuckled. “Now that we’re both over being scared of each other, I guess we do our time. And if you want, I can help you work on your appeal.”