A Cage for Hungry Hearts [COMPLETE]

4. Domare

I know by heart where Brucker does the briefings. I've been stuck on the lowest deck of PLUTO my entire life with few other forms of entertainment. Watching the humans learn that their worst nightmares exist is easily my favorite recurring event. It's vindicating in a way.

When I enter the classroom Brucker usually sanctions off for this particular purpose, it reeks of mothballs and lemon. The Nexians on guard duty let me in without a fuss. By now they know I'm not there to do any harm. I just want to spectate.

I draw my senses to me, not daring to be overwhelmed by all the new scents when the humans come in. They're usually at least partially absorbed by PLUTO's dust-smell by this point, but it's still too much for me to process at once. The aroma of freedom is a thousand mysterious scents overlapping one incredibly familiar one: warm human blood, the scent of life.

That, to my primal brain, is more potent by a mile.

That is dangerous.

Faded green couches are organized in rows across the room, facing a projector screen. No furniture in PLUTO is new, but most of it is comfortable. These couches in particular are quite cozy and not as odorous as the ones in the communal lounge. They're the main reason Brucker usually chooses this room for this particular demonstration. He once told me a comfy ass could soften any bitchslap from reality.

He's an idiot.

These lucky humans have been comfortable their whole lives. I can't imagine a comfy ass is on their list of concerns when such an ugly truth is shoved into their faces. But it is satisfying to see them robbed of their so-called liberties.

Brucker gives me a look of warning when he leads them in, instructing them to fill the couches without leaving any gaps and handing them informative pamphlets once they're seated. Strangers sit hip-to-hip and frown at the pamphlet's contents as Brucker fiddles with the projector. Their expressions are, frankly, hilarious. They whisper to each other uncertainly as I smother a smirk behind one hand.

When Brucker signals that he's ready, the Nexians position themselves near the exit to keep an eye on things, just in case anything goes wrong. It happens sometimes. Humans can get violent when they learn something they don't like.

After Brucker flips the light off, it's showtime. The 1922 film Nosferatu starts to play on the projector screen.

Eyebrows rise. Mouths purse. Incredulous whispers are exchanged.

The silent movie is boring. There's no spoken dialogue, just obnoxiously loud classical music as the characters flit jerkily around the screen in monotone, the occasional card appearing to reveal their words.

The humans' whispers rise in volume with every passing minute.

One jumps to his feet at the thirty-two minute mark. "Alright! What the hell is this?" He waves the pamphlet at Brucker then gestures to the screen.

Brucker affects a fake yawn and hits pause on the projector remote. "Nosferatu?" he says, tucking his hands behind his head. "It's a classic. Never heard of it?"

"Why in the hell are we watching this?"

Brucker glances at me, affecting boredom. "Domare, what's the record?"

"Forty-seven minutes at worst," I say, studying the chipping black polish on my fingernails. It's long past time to repaint them. "The average is about twenty-four. The best is twelve."

Brucker hums. "Not the brightest group, this one." He hops up from the chair and straightens his uniform. He then leans against the projector table. A Nexian obligingly flips the light back on, and I grumble along with the humans as my eyes struggle to readjust.