The man in the orange suit lay on his back, staring at the forlorn ceiling. His thoughts were of the man that used to be in the bed opposite of his. His mate had kept going on about how his wife suddenly was not really his wife. She was something else. It looked like her, but was something completely different. A monster in his wife’s skin, disguised to take on a new life.

The man in the orange suit had told his mate that he believed him. How it was most likely a shape shifter that had killed his wife, and took on her appearance. Shape shifters loved to start new lives, and did so often. They bored quickly, and always liked to throw in a murder or two before they leave, just to destroy the lives of those they left behind.

The mate was thankful that someone had believed him, but his gratitude was short lived as the guards had taken him off to death row. The mate killed the shape shifter that killed his wife, and ended up in here as a result. Hardly justice, but that is the world he lived in.

The man in the orange suit sighed, and pushed the thoughts about his cell mate to the back of his mind. He was looking forward to lunch. His stomach started churning and growling quite a while ago. Lunch would keep his mind off of his mate.

“Brockly.”

He sat up quickly, and looked around for the person saying his name.

“Brockly, you sure look good in that jumpsuit.”

The man in the orange suit stood, and walked over to his cell door, checking to see if anyone was outside, but the hallway was empty. His thoughts suddenly jumped to one person. A very distinctive person he had known for some time now. “Mr. Bartlett?” He spoke out into his empty cell, the voice leaving an echo trail in its wake.

The voice soon sounded in his head again, “No, not quite, but you’ll see him soon enough.” The mysterious voice dissipated with a slight laugh.

As if on cue, a guard had appeared at the cell door. “You have a visitor Brockly,” the guard unlocked the metal barred door. “First one since you got here, looks like someone likes you enough to see you this far down in hell.” The guard slid the door open, and held his hand out, “Ladies first.”

Brockly walked up to the door way, and looked the man in the eyes. After a brief moment of staring, Brockly scoffed, “You better watch your attitude. You never know when someone crazy might kill you. Worse things have been done for far less.”

The guard immediately pulled out his nightstick, and pointed it at Brockly’s chest, “Watch yourself. Don’t forget how easy it can be for an accident to happen around here, pretty boy.”

The man in the orange suit gave a short, maniacal smile, and walked down the hallway, closely followed by the guard. After a few quick turns they had come up to a door labeled, Visitor’s Center. The guard opened the door, and pushed Brockly through. The guard quickly slammed it shut once the prisoner had entered.

Brockly stood in a large room with several tables, but only one person had occupied it. Brockly looked around the room, and then made eye contact with the man, “Where’s all the guards? They should be crawling all around this place.” He started shifting his weight from leg to leg.

The man with one eye smiled, “The warden owes me a favor. No guards, no cameras, just us.”

Brockly approached the table, and stood still keeping his eyes on the man in front of him. Brockly had no clue what was going to happen in the moments to follow.

The man with one eye and a white suit stood, and stepped up to the man, gripping his cane tight. He adjusted his weight to his good leg and held out his arms, “You sure look sexy in that suit, pretty boy.”

Brockly laughed, and hugged the man in front of him, “Long time, B, too long.”

Mr. Bartlett cringed as the man hugged him. He could smell some strange scent, and could see brown smudges on the orange jumpsuit. Mr. Bartlett then stepped back and gestured to the seat at the table beside them.

Brockly sat down furrowing his brow, “Who was that voice in my head earlier? He said it wasn’t you.”

Mr. Bartlett straightened his suit out, and sat down opposite of Brockly, resting his cane against the table. “He is a psychic I have recently begun to work with. I’m not sure if he knows how powerful he really is. He’s just part of a crew I have put together.”

Brockly nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “Hate psychics,” he whispered to himself. “So what’s with the visit? I haven’t seen you in years and then suddenly you stop by.” Brockly’s face went serious, all expression fading, “This isn’t something to do with her, is it?”

Mr. Bartlett shook his head, “Sorry, I haven’t been able to find any information on her whereabouts, but…” Mr. Bartlett pulled something wrapped in cloth out of his coat pocket, “I need your help.” As he opened his jacket, Brockly could see the old revolver resting in its familiar place at Bartlett’s side.

“What do you need to know, anything for a friend.” Brockly slumped down at the news he had just received.

Mr. Bartlett put the cloth on the table in front of him, “I don’t need information, but I need you personally. I need you to attend to some matters with me. There’s no one I’d rather have by my side than the infamous Brockly.”

Brockly began to laugh until he noticed that Mr. Bartlett was as serious as ever. He leaned forward, “If you haven’t noticed, B, I’m stuck here in this prison, and I’m not getting out anytime soon.”

A slight smile appeared at the corner of Mr. Bartlett’s mouth. “I was able to bring this in for you,” he slid the cloth across the table to the prisoner. “Now, even I can’t get you out of prison, but I know some people who can. And while I couldn’t find information on her for you, I can give you freedom to search for yourself. All you have to do is help me.”

Brockly picked up the cloth and unfolded it. A small knife fell out accompanied by a large key and a small note with 32C written on it. Brockly quickly hid the knife and key in his jumpsuit, looking around to make sure no one really was watching. “I’m game, B, but who is crazy enough to break me out of a prison? That’s some serious stuff to pull off.”

Mr. Bartlett pulled his cane closer to him, resting both hands atop it. “There are some individuals that don’t exactly care about our laws or establishments. Just keep yourself ready, it will happen fast, and I have no use for a dead man,” Mr. Bartlett paused for a moment, “I’d much prefer you alive.” He gave an eerie smile.

Brockly slid the cloth and note into his jumpsuit and looked Mr. Bartlett up and down for a while. His eyes finally landed on the eye patch covering Mr. Bartlett’s left eye. He had seen what was under it once, and that was the only time he wished to see it in his life. A shiver shot down Brockly’s spine.

Something else seemed off about Mr. Bartlett. Brockly had known him for a long time now, and something wasn’t right about his demeanor. Normally, Mr. Bartlett was somber, or introverted, but now he seemed, uplifted. A large smile came across Brockly’s face, “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time, B. You seem happy for once.”

Mr. Bartlett leaned forward, putting his weight on the cane, “Is that so?”

Brockly scratched his head and looked at the ceiling, “Hmm, I’d say the last time you looked like this was when you were with a woman. That is, one woman in particular. A little firecracker, if I might say so myself.”

“Perhaps.”

Brockly smiled even bigger, “Yeah, I’d say Sam found her way back to you. Good for you, B.”

Mr. Bartlett chuckled and stood, “You know me too well my friend.” Mr. Bartlett looked at the door, “But it seems our time is cut short.”

The door Brockly had entered through earlier opened up. The guard entered the room destroying the blissful conversation, “Brockly, get up you scab. Your times up.”

The man in the orange jumpsuit slowly turned his head to the guard while squinting at the man. His thoughts jumped to the knife inside his suit. He could get rid of this man easily enough. Had had killed bigger, tougher, things than this man.

Bartlett ignored the guard’s intrusion, keeping his eyes on Brockly. “I’ll see you on the outside my friend. Keep safe.”

The guard started laughing loudly, filling Brockly full of disgust. “Too bad we’ll all be dead before that happens.” The guard continued laughing.

Brockly stood and held out is hand for the one eyed man. Mr. Bartlett gripped it tight. As Brockly felt the icy touch of his friend’s hand, a low raspy voice came into his mind, “Try not to murder this one.” Brockly looked Mr. Bartlett in the eye and nodded. There was a heavy emphasis on the try.

It had been several hours since his meeting with Mr. Bartlett, but it had been on his mind ever since. It was a short lived meeting and he had so much to talk about. He wondered what this escape plan was, and how it would even work. He hoped it would happen soon, he didn’t want to be on constant alert, waiting for something to happen. He was just glad that Mr. Bartlett had stepped into his life again and offered him a chance at freedom.

It’s not everyday someone just up and walks out of a prison.

He rubbed his temples, and plopped down on his small mattress, placing his hands under his head, and stretching his arms outward. A small rumble vibrated through his cell, shaking the water in his toilet.

He thought nothing of it at first, his mind still racing on about the meeting, until a second rumble came again, this time bigger.

Brockly sat up hearing other prisoners yelling out, “What’s going on?” He checked the gifts Mr. Bartlett had given him earlier. They were still safe under his jumpsuit.

Another rumble vibrated out, shaking his cell violently this time. He waited for the quake to stop, but it kept coming stronger and more violent. He quickly bent down to the ground, putting his ear on the floor.

The sound of earth and rock cracking filled his ear, but there was another sound he couldn’t quite figure out. He could make out a high pitched whine, almost of an…“Engine?”

Brockly quickly hurled himself to the wall opposite of the cell door. He knew the sound too well from his time at the Institute. If it was anything like in the past, the prison was about to explode in disastrous carnage. He covered his ears and waited.

The wait was short lived.

The ground outside his cell started to crack, and break apart as a small grey point emerged from the ground. It rose slowly at first, and then the point grew and grew, grinding up the floor as it stretched upwards.

Brockly took one look at the object, and knew exactly what Mr. Bartlett had planned.

A large drill then broke free of the ground, crashing into the cell opposite of Brockly’s, crushing the inhabitants inside with one quick jerk.

The man in the orange suit stood and walked closer to the bars of his cell. A large gaping hole sat in the center of the hallway. Everything went silent, not even a yell form his fellow prisoners. Everyone in the prison stood staring at the gape.

He looked into the hole and had a sudden realization of what the drill’s purpose was.

As if a pack of wolves closing in on their prey, a mob of mutants soon rushed out of the newly formed hole. Brockly threw himself under his bed, hiding from the abominations, hoping they wouldn’t spot his makeshift hiding spot.

A large hulking mutant, ten times the size of a normal man came first from the hole, “Find the girl! She’s hiding here somewhere!” His voice bellowed through the halls.

A woman came out shortly after, bearing two heads and four legs, “The Prophet wills it!” Yelled one head.

“His will is our command!” The other head shouted shortly after the first.

The wave of mutants carried old, crude weaponry. Brockly could make out some old World War two rifles and machine guns, which were being shot wildly at prisoners stuck in their cells, like pigs to the slaughter.

“Hell of a plan, B.” Brockly whispered to himself, keeping his head down hoping he wouldn’t be hit by the random gunfire. Several bullets whizzed past him and broke chunks of concrete from his wall. One shattered his toilet, spilling the toilet’s water down onto the cell’s floor, soaking Brockly’s back in seconds.

After a few minutes had passed, the noise of gunfire and death had spread further down the hallway. More gunfire broke out in the distant as Brockly crawled to the edge of his cage. The guards must have started to fight the mutants, making his escape an easy now. The prison would be locked up tight with all the guards fighting mutants, and there’d be no one to stop him.

He stood up to his bars, and pressed his head up against them. He looked out to the hallway and made sure he was clear to exit. He pulled the key from his suit and kissed it, “Freedom baby.” He reached his hands around the bars, and put the key in its slot. He fiddled with the lock for a minute, “C’mon, work.” The key then twisted sideways and a click sounded out.

Brockly pushed the door to the side and stepped into the wrecked hallway. He looked into his fellow prisoners cells, seeing the chaos the mutants had left behind. Blood seemed to be a reoccurring theme in each cell as far as he could see, but he had no time for remorse, not that he cared anyway. There was no telling if more muties would come, or if the guards would finish them off and secure the prison. He had to act now.

Brockly reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out the knife and note. 32C. He memorized the note and tossed it aside. He had no clue what it meant, but he knew Mr. Bartlett, and he knew it would come in handy sooner or later.

The knife was gripped tight in his right hand as he stared down the large hole. He looked up to the cell across from his. The large drill machine was smashed into the wall with a small operator’s platform behind it. There was a drivers chair with a small GPS unit mounted to the side of it. The whole thing looked makeshift and still whined a high pitched noise. It started to shake violently, and pieces of the device started to rattle off and fall to the floor.

Brockly took another look into the hole and made up his mind, and besides, he didn’t want the drill to blow up in his face. He didn’t escape his cell to be blown away by mutants makeshift equipment.

He hopped into the hole and landed several feet below. He tried to make out if anything was further down waiting, but silence still filled the air. He started walking down into the empty hole in the earth below.

The slope was rough, but he managed to climb down a ways until he heard the splashing of water. As he continued on down the hole, the crude drilled earth started to turn a bit softer.

Brockly examined the wall, “Concrete. I must be getting closer to the sewers.” He slowly found himself at the cross section where the mutants had started drilling from. Rock littered the ground below him as he came up to the corner, and peeked around.

“Why can’t we raids the prison, eh? We can ‘andle ourselves ina fight.”

Brockly ducked down and put his ear to the edge of the wall.

“It’s not that we can’t fights, Sissorhands, they need lookouts likes us to makes sure they can gets away faster.”

Brockly risked a peek around the corner and saw too mutants standing on a small walkway above the filthy water. One seemed to have goat legs and two small misshapen arms jutting from his back. The other, Sissorhands, had a large hunched back and two blades were each of his hands should be.

The goat snarled and spat into the water, “And sides, we don’t have to worry ‘bout being shot.”

Scissorhands laughed at his comrade, “True Goats, true.”

Brockly spun the knife in his hands several times getting a feel of the blade, and then he grasped it in his hand upside down. He took a few pacing breaths and peeked around the corner at the babbling mutants.

If there was one thing he was good at in life, it was killing. The Institute had proven this for him. It was the reason he was kicked out and forced into the world.

Brockly then turned around the corner and kicked the goat thing in the back, smashing him into Scissorhands.

The goat thing screamed as it looked down at the two blades stabbing him in the stomach. Blood streamed out of its mouth. Scissorhands looked up to see who had done this. A man in an orange prison jumpsuit stood in front of him, wielding a knife.

Scissor hands pointed his other hand at the man, “You gonna regret that, surface filth.”

Brockly swung his knife piercing the scissor hand into the wall besides them. Scissorhands reeled out in pain, throwing the goat thing off into the sewer water.

Brockly pulled the knife from the wall, with the hand still attached and twisted the mutant’s arm around placing the blade handed creature in front of him.

Scissorhands looked down into the dirty water in front of him. He felt the breath of the man on his neck, “Names Brockly, remember that name, because I’m about to make you a whole lot uglier.”

Brockly yanked the knife out, cutting the hand into two pieces, still attached to the wrist. Scissorhand screamed again but was soon cut off by the rushing water below.

Brockly quickly looked around to see of anymore mutants were nearby, but nothing moved or made a sound. Brockly looked on the wall and found a large painted C, “Must be this way then.”

He started running along the small walkway, smiling the entire time.

It’s not everyday someone just up and walks out of prison.

After a couple minutes of running, Brockly slowed down and caught his breath. He leaned up against the giant numbers 32C and looked up the ladder.

The manhole was already uncovered, and light trickled down the small shaft. The man in the orange suit took a deep breath through his nose. The sewer smelt terrible, but he could get traces of clean air from the surface. Part of him pitied the muties for living in these conditions, but the larger part of him didn’t care. He was too overjoyed to be out of prison, and to be free once again.

After three years of imprisonment, he would finally be free to find her. Brockly lifted his arm onto the first rung and began to climb upward. Each rung came with an immense feeling of joy.

He got to the last stretch, just a couple of rungs left, and then, a man stepped over the hole casting a shadow over him. The man wielded a large revolver and slowly pulled the hammer back, aiming the gun down the hole.

Brockly shut his eyes and turned his head downward, his dreams being crushed in a single moment.

The sound of the gun went off and deafened him instantly, but he didn’t feel the pain of a bullet.

As he opened his eyes he saw the last moments of a hunchbacked man with blades for hands fall and crunch on the ground below, a large crater occupying his face.

Brockly looked to the opening in front of him and saw a hand held out. He reached out and grabbed it, getting yanked up to the surface by a woman with an axe tied to her back. “Long time no see, Brockly.”

He covered his face from the bright light and looked the girl in the eyes. “Turns out I was right.” He smiled knowing Mr. Bartlett had found the only thing that made him happy; the only thing in the world that brought out the man in him.

“Here, I brought you some clothes.”

Brockly turned to the sound of another familiar voice. A young man was leaning on a car parked nearby. “Eddie? Is that you?”

The man smiled, “You know it.”

Brockly walked over to hug the man, but Eddie held out his hands, “Whoa, not until your showered, man.” They both started to laugh.

“Sorry to cut the reunion short, but we have a job to do.”

Brockly turned to the man that had freed him. The man with one eye.

Mr. Bartlett held out a pair of pistols that matched identically, “I believe these are yours though.”

Brockly grabbed his pistols and swung them about flipping them around. Brockly held out his hand for Mr. Bartlett, but the one-eyed man shook his head, “Like Eddie said, not until you shower.”