The smell of sour sweat and the throb of a sour stomach hammered at Runt's sanity as he clung to the cold, stainless steel rim of cell's toilet, panting as he started to brace for another dry heave. His saliva long dried up and his courage thoroughly evaporated, Runt's wilting body trembled weakly as terror coaxed the last strength he had out of his veins.

Runt blinked away a few tears and sniffed, trying to inhale and prepare for what was coming.

"Uuugggghhhh..."

Aching muscles started to contract.

Runt felt another tear roll down his cheek as a rush of burning heat saturated his body. Hadn't he been squeezed enough? Hadn't the police tightened the handcuff enough, leaving dark rings on his wrists? Hadn't the heartless interrogator wrung enough information and tears out of him? Hadn't they taken his blood, his fingerprints, his papers and his clothes?

Did they have to take his dignity?

His sanity?

Runt's stomach seized up and collapsed, his abdomen hardening like rock as his back arched. His head lurched into the bowl as yet another empty blast of fear-induced nausea found its way out.

Hot spit pooled under his tongue as his lungs emptied in a weak hiss and his final push ended in a sour gurgle. Runt's muscles relaxed, dropping him onto the floor as he moaned and tried in vain to swallow the dregs of his stomach before they again tainted his mouth and throat with searing acid.

"You about done heaving?"

Leave me alone.

Runt didn't have the heart to respond to his cellmate. He just curled a little on the concrete, his imagination running to the darkest corners of his mind as his hope circled the drain.

This was every Springer's nightmare. Trapped in a rough concrete cell with only water to drink, the greenish fluorescent bulb above casting a rotten light on an even more rotten situation. In any other system, Runt would have curled up and waited nervously for his lawyer, or perhaps his employer. In some systems, he could even expect to see a visit from the embassy.

But this... this was New Medina.

Even seeing a jury was unlikely.

"Hey," his cellmate, a Burrower, said, "I asked if you're done yet."

Runt managed to pry his eyes open and toss a glance at the ochre-hued inmate. It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

Runt's already defeated body was in no place to ignore a command. He'd spent the whole hellish night obeying commands from the police, enduring disgrace upon disgrace. From the forced blood draw to the confiscation of his last refuge in his suit, Runt had lost his world piece by piece.

And even if he could have put the pieces back together, it wouldn't have helped. Trapped in a cell and imprisoned in his own mind, there was no last resort.

Just this.

A stormy wait before he submerged for the last time.

Runt slid onto the cot and curled his tail around himself, pressing his knees into his chest and shaking. The pounding in his head just wouldn't quit, reminding him that each heartbeat inside this place brought him one beat closer to his last.

He'd failed. Thoroughly and utterly.

He'd failed Quixxa. Her future had rested on his shoulders, shoulders that sagged and shook. Runt felt another wave of violent nausea start to overtake his body as Quixxa's voice played over in his mind.

She'd staked it all on him.

Now... this was it.

This. A dirty cell on a forgotten world. Not the pilot's seat somewhere among stars and friends, not inside a vessel proudly bearing the Obsidian logo.

He'd let down Osterman, Pathmos, and the rest of the system with them.

If only he'd turned Bailey down. If only he'd just been faster. If only he'd listened to Quix.

If only.

Runt exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and forcing tears down his cheek. Guilt's vice closed on his stomach with finality, his tense and quivering muscles straining their last as he silenced his whimpers and let go.

It was over.

He already knew his fate.

As he lay there, writhing, they were analyzing his blood.

He already knew the results that'd come back.

Even with trace amounts of male hormones in his blood, Runt's chemistry would trigger alarms in a rigged system propped up by wartime pseudoscience. Pseudoscience that labeled him hyper aggressive because of what was only normal in his species.

Pseudoscience that exempted him from the right to a trial until he proved to no longer be a 'public safety hazard'.

Yet, it had nothing to do with public safety, and everything to do with intimidating and silencing Springers. Any MLA they captured would just be turned out onto the street after a night in jail. In fact, Runt had little doubt that the MLA operative he'd been hauled in with was already gone.

But as a 'public safety hazard' with no MLA tattoo to secure his freedom, his fate was sealed.

They were going to haul him into an operating room, castrate him without a trial, and watch as he died from hormone shock over a few weeks. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it except for wait.

A sudden creak broke Runt's cocoon of sorrows.

Runt looked up to get a glimpse of the sound.

The squeak had come from an old folding chair as it latched open. A human was just starting to sit down on the chair, straddling it and resting his muscular forearms on the back of the chair. His brilliant green eyes met with Runt's as he smiled.

"Hello." The human said with a sonorous voice that made Runt's spine tingle. "You're Runt, correct?"

Runt swallowed, his hands becoming cold and sweaty.

This could be it. Or... it could be someone, somehow, coming for him. Maybe a lawyer?

He cleared his throat, sniffing as he unlaced himself a little and lifted his head.

"Yeah..." he sniffed. "Who're you?"

His nasally voice almost cracked.

The human smiled. "My name's Gabe. Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?"

"I don't..." Runt said, hesitating.

"Good." The man said with another comforting smile. "Thought you could use a little company."

Runt furrowed his brow.

"Who are you?" Runt asked again, confused.

Gabe contemplated for a moment.

"I guess you could call me a minister of sorts." He said.

"Why are you here?" Runt asked coldly.

"Like I said, I thought you could use some company. Dark times call for that, don't they?"

Runt didn't have the energy for a reply. He just exhaled loudly.

"Not talkative. I understand." Gabe said. "I'll be here if you want to talk."

Runt kept his jaw locked in numb silence for a few minutes.

But a sharp, pressing question kept working its way to his lips.

He had nothing else to do. Nothing to look forward to besides a slow and terrifying death.

He may as well ask it. If only to distract him from his fate.

"Why would God let this happen?" he asked bitterly.

"Your being here?" Gabe asked.

Runt lifted his head.

No, that wasn't it. That was a corrupt justice system. That was evil. Simple evil.

He blamed New Medina for the cell he was in. But if he'd been bigger, faster, stronger... he'd have been able to help Quix. To fend off the attackers, to flee the police, to help Bailey.

The cell was New Medina's fault. This body was God's

"Not jail. This." Runt said, gesturing to himself. "Me."

Gabe's face registered a sympathetic pang, and he shifted in his seat.

"Everyone has trouble here, Runt. The galaxy is chock full of it. But don't let yourself be defeated. God has overcome the galaxy."

Runt listened for a moment.

"See, Runt," the Human said, gesturing, "It's not troubles that define you. The real question is what's on the inside."

Runt snorted.

What was on the inside? Regret, maybe? No. he didn't regret coming to New Medina. And he wasn't angry, either. He knew what he'd signed up for when he came. What was inside? A weary soul that'd only wanted to help. A golden heart that had only been broken.

The question wasn't what was inside. It was really this: what did he have left inside?

All the goodness he had to give, he'd already given. And what had the world, what had this 'God' given him back?

A cell. A botched body. A wretched life.

He knew what he had left inside.

Runt grimaced, and set his chin on his forearms. He looked away from Gabe and hardened his face, and with it, his heart.

"I'm bitter."

And as there was a pause, Runt knew that he had good reason to be.

There was silence for a moment, until Gabe's angelic voice intruded again like a birdsong cutting short a dirge.

"Is that all you want on the inside?"

"What else am I supposed to have?" Runt mumbled numbly.

"A little love, maybe?"

Runt sat and thought.

"I tried that." He said. "It doesn't fix things. It won't fix me either."

"No, it doesn't fix it. But perhaps it makes it bearable?"

"I can't bear this forever." He replied.

He'd only been able to bear it this far because of...

He felt a pull in his gut.

Love.

He'd done all this for Quixxa. All of it, really. Or nearly all of it. It'd started as a way to help Obsidian, and Pathmos... But recently? It was about Quix. And that was as close to love as he could imagine.

"You don't have to bear it forever." Gabe said, leaning forward a little. "This life is only the start of things. There's so much more to living than just here and now. Life is more than the skin you find yourself in and the sky you're under."

"What else is there?" Runt asked. "Look at me. I'm a runt. Literally. I shouldn't even have been born. Let alone allowed to live like this."

Gabe gently nodded for a moment, looking down as he did so.

"There's a lot more to you than you think, Runt. And a lot more to God too. He's not quite what you think." He said, leaning back. "Of course it's up to you, but I think you should give him a try. He's closer than you think."

Runt kept his gaze averted, bitterly glaring at the wall.

Even if that was true. Even if there was some sort of answer, he wasn't going to find it. If this supposed 'God' was out there, and if he cared so much, then why was Runt hours away from a death-sentence for the crime of goodness? Maybe God wasn't dead. But justice was.

"How am I supposed to 'find God' or whatever when New Medina's got me trapped?"

"Cages can't keep out hope." He replied.

"Yeah." Runt said. "But they can keep Springers in. Nobody gets off this world intact. On New Medina, the house always wins."

"Don't be too sure." He replied. "You're different from most, Runt. I'm sure you'll squeeze through alright." Gabe said.

Runt sighed, still staring at the wall.

He wished it was true.

But Springer's didn't just 'squeeze through' a life-ending operation. The only hope Runt had was...

Runt suddenly lifted his chin off his arms and glanced towards the barred door.

He blinked.

Gabe was gone.

Runt's numb and aching muscles found a little life as he pushed himself up.

"Gabe?" he asked, tilting his head around to see if he could hear retreating footsteps.

Nothing.

Nothing except an idea, and a flicker of hope.

Runt pushed himself up.

A frantic thought pushed at the back of his mind as the pads of his feet hit the concrete floor. He sniffed, wiping under his eyes as he cleared his throat.

"Gabe?" he asked again.

"There's no one there." His cell mate said. "Give it a rest."

Runt glanced at him. He was still reclined, eyes shut.

He glanced at the door.

The barred door.

Runt paced over to it, grabbing a bar with each hand and feeling the smooth steel under his soft, supple skin. He looked towards the cells on the other side of the hall, thinking as his heartbeat accelerated.

I'm sure you'll squeeze through alright...

Runt tipped his head forward, poking the tip of his snout through the bars.

The bars were narrow. Meant to keep a male Springer inside.

He was male...

But not exactly what they had in mind...

Runt swallowed, and tilted his head sideways. His snout fit further through.

This can't possibly work...

He pulled back, hesitant.

If there was any hope for him in this building, trying to do what he was contemplating would destroy that hope.

But then...

He couldn't just go down without trying.

Runt exhaled and swallowed, his mouth going dry quickly and prickles of anxiety running down his back. He listened for footsteps for a moment, then inhaled.

Please let this work...

He tipped his head sideways once more, pressed his snout against the bars, and kept pressing. At the same time, he concentrated on lowering his heart rate and loosening up his joints.

It was going to be close.

Runt leaned. Hard.

His hydrostatic skeleton started to loosen as he concentrated, the pressurized fluid that kept his bones rock-hard draining into the reservoirs around his shoulders drop by drop. He felt his lungs tighten as their volume was invaded by the swelling reservoirs.

He pushed his skull into the bars.

A fleshy click sounded as his jaw dismounted, making his teeth grind and ache. Pressure started to fill the back of his head, along with a distant sense of panic. Their skeletons weren't meant to drain for long, and the pressure on his skull was triggering his instincts.

Lights flickered in his head as he pushed past his eyes, and onto the crown of his skull.

Too much

Too much

He pressed anyway.

He suddenly lost feeling in his legs.

Stop

He pressed harder, panic setting in.

Pull back

He refused.

Quixxa wouldn't have pulled back on him.

He wasn't going to pull back either.

Pain...

Lights flashed, and a shockwave of pain exploded down Runt's spine as a massive pop resounded in his ears.

His jaw locked back into place, his legs suddenly kicked and scratched at the floor, and his eyes shot open as he gasped.

The reservoirs instantly started to pump back into his head and neck, making his sinuses and jaw throb.

But he felt two cold, hard steel bars on either side of his neck.

His head was through.

Runt twisted a little and took a breath. He gave himself a moment to recover.

He heard his cellmate sit up, and then gasp.

He probably would have done the same.

"What the..."

Runt swallowed and started to concentrate again.

The hard part was over.

Because if his head could fit...

So could the rest.