CID's Farewell Swill

The air in the holding cell was thick with the stench of despair and stale sweat. Each breath I took felt like swallowing dust. Outside, the muffled sounds of the colony continued, a constant hum of labor and subjugation. But here, within these cold metal walls, silence reigned, broken only by the ragged rhythm of my own breathing. They’d taken Melissa. They’d taken everything.

A rasping cough drew my attention. CID, Darrow’s uncle, leaned against the far wall, his gaunt frame draped in stained, ill-fitting rags. His eyes, usually glazed with the perpetual haze of cheap liquor, held a flicker of something sharper tonight, a cunning that belied his drunken persona. He held a dented flask, the metal dull under the dim emergency lights.

“So, this is it, eh, son?” His voice was a gravelly whisper, each word a struggle. He pushed himself off the wall, stumbling a step before regaining a semblance of balance. He shuffled towards me, the flask held out like an offering. “They say you’ve been a good boy. Did your duties. Even took care of… well, you know.”