SALT
Sadly, getting revenge on Senu’s murderer has to wait. I end up behind bars, and I don’t even have a solid escape plan yet.
The first few days after my arrest are an emotional mess. My head’s so full of shit I can barely focus. Not on the defense my public defender keeps pushing me to work on, and definitely not on figuring out how the hell I’m supposed to escape.
When it gets dark in my cell, I sob quietly so that nobody can hear me. Losing Senu hurts like hell. It feels like someone ripped a hole right through my chest.
But prison isn’t a place where you can really let yourself grieve.
There are interrogations, meetings with my lawyer, paperwork, all that crap.
It keeps me on edge all the time. And the stress is so bad it kind of shuts everything down.
No chance for the ‘natural process of mourning’ and ‘coming to terms’ with his death.
At first, county jail is almost tolerable, or at least neutral. That changes once my case blows up. Everyone learns who I am and why I’m there.
The Alpha Slayer.
The guy who shot four alphas in one go.
Early on, people keep their distance. They judge, throw careful looks at me from across the pod. For a while, that lets me move through the day without much friction. Then the seasoned inmates start pushing, checking how far they can go.
And really, what better trophy than proving you’re tougher than the Alpha Slayer.
I’m housed in a pod for betas only. Yeah, I’ve got my own cell, but that doesn’t mean it’s some kind of dream setup.
Like all the others, it opens straight into the dayroom, and that’s where everything goes down.
The TV is always blaring. People are eating, arguing, whispering in corners, trading gossip.
And my name comes up way more than I’m comfortable with.
There are gang members from my area too, none I know personally, but I recognize the looks. They size me up, trying to read me. I keep my distance because I know better than to get tangled with gangs.
Senu and I always avoided that life. Even when we were teenagers sleeping rough, we learned how to survive without pledging ourselves to anyone. We could both handle ourselves in a fight, and we never let anyone smash our faces in.
That skill comes in handy fast.
A few days in, on the way to the showers, a beta lifer named Truk slaps my ass. A well-placed elbow shuts down his enthusiasm, but of course it does nothing to perk up the atmosphere.
The next day, out in the yard, I’m calmly smoking when Truk comes back for more.
He starts running his mouth, calling me a fake slayer, saying shooting people doesn’t make anyone tough.
I ignore him until he leans in too close.
One clean knee to the nose drops him, blood splashing the concrete, and I remember the rule that matters most in here.
If you start the fight, you finish it.
I step in and hammer his face with my fists until the guards rush us. Batons crack across my back, and I’m dragged off to solitary.
Fine.
It doesn’t end there, because humility has never been my strong suit. Three days later, I’m back in the pod, and Truk confronts me again, this time with two friends. His face is a mess of yellow and purple, blooming like rot.
I’m not stupid, duh. By then I’ve got a small shank made from a razor blade.
Truk doesn’t jump me right away. He puts on a fake smile and lets the insults fly.
My tattoos are trash, look unfinished, like sketches that never grew up.
I tell him I also do scarification, free of charge, which only winds them up more.
He laughs and calls me a little rooster, all talk, nothing without my gun.
That’s enough.
I make sure I’m standing where the cameras can see me clearly and say, calm as anything, that I’m already looking at life in prison and ask if he wants to see how I add another sentence to the pile.
Truk snaps and lunges with his buddies just as I spot the guards charging in. I drive the shank into my own thigh.
When they pull us apart, I curl up screaming, clutching my leg and pointing at him, yelling that he stabbed me.
I still manage to catch a glimpse of Truk’s eyes going wide as he screeches, "You little filthy bitch!" and it tastes sweet in my ears.
The guards drag Truk and his friends off to disciplinary segregation. I know how that usually ends. Assault charges, lost privileges, marks on their records. Perfect!
I get sent to medical, patched up, and suddenly I’m the victim, which means no punishment. Things quiet down after that, though popularity is not part of the deal.
Still, it gives me a pretty clear preview of what my life is going to look like after sentencing, once I’m shipped off to state prison, and that alone is enough to push me harder to look for a way out and make revenge on Daniel Tanner happen fast.
If I’m going to escape, it has to happen before I hit the state system. And if I can’t make a plan in time, I’ll use the shank on my own throat and be done with it. I’m not interested in dragging this miserable excuse for a life to its natural end inside a cage.
About a month before my trial, new notices appear on the bulletin board.
One of them grabs my attention.
It’s addressed to first-time offenders and comes from something called the Second Chance program.
I lock onto the poster, making sure no one notices how closely I’m reading.
Second Chance runs unconventional resocialization programs, and one of them sounds completely insane. They send people to a marriage contract fair, their weird idea of ‘reform’!
For a second, I think I must be misreading it.
Who would want to marry a criminal, let alone a murderer?
But the fine print makes it clear they vet the hell out of everyone, inmates and buyers.
If you get picked, you move into your spouse’s house, but it has to be set up the way the program wants.
They put an ankle monitor on you, and you’re not allowed to step off the property.
It’s not freedom, but it’s close enough to taste.
Staring at the poster, it hits me all at once.
Damn. This could be my way out!
My one real shot at escape and revenge. My brother’s murderer is still walking free, untouched, and I refuse to let that stand.
Way too many times I’ve seen his smug face on TV, acting the part of the grieving brother for the cameras.
That vile bastard played his role as the shattered brother perfectly, claiming he had lost two younger siblings to a deranged beta who imagined or misheard things.
He flat-out denied killing Senu. And because the police couldn’t find his body… pretty soon I stopped being Salt and turned into a headline.
The nickname was born. The Alpha Slayer.
And nobody cared about him anymore.
My poor brother… Senu.
His young life cut short too soon. I can’t even think about everything he suffered through. Before our life got better, before we fought like hell to find normal jobs, we were just two orphaned teenagers on the streets.
Senu went down on his knees for strangers so I could eat, so we could even survive, so I wouldn’t have to do it. Now it’s my turn to pay that debt. Honor demands it.
A cruel Fate never gave him a chance at happiness. I can’t bear it. I can’t live with it. He deserves justice. Someone has to get to the bottom of what really happened to Senu.
But they don’t give a fuck.
So the hell with them. I need to find a way out, no matter what.
For now, though, I’m stuck in this shithole.
Reading that Second Chance notice kicks my brain into planning mode: I give myself to some rich bastard, buy time, find a way to remove the ankle monitor, and disappear.
Then I hunt Tanner down. I’m already staring at four life sentences, so adding another won’t change much.
It probably won’t even get that far. I’ll let myself get shot during the chase. Clean and simple.
End of story.
Salt and Senu, finished.
Maybe I’ll meet him somewhere in between, purgatory or whatever passes for it. Probably not. I’m heading straight for hell, and Senu was too good for that. He isn’t suffering anymore. His soul was selfless. Mine is filth, but at least I can use it for something worthwhile.
One last act of revenge.
The next morning, I ask to see my attorney.
He’s an older guy who genuinely tries to help, and I can feel that he believes me, that what I overheard in the Tanners’ garden was real. There’s understanding in his eyes when it comes to my need for justice.
After reviewing the Second Chance guidelines, though, he’s honest. My odds are bad. Killers are violent offenders, and those kinds don’t usually make the cut.
Still, I see him thinking it through, looking for cracks in the system. After a while, he offers another option.
There’s one more government program, far more open to violent offenders, strictly limited to people under twenty-five. That includes me.
It’s called the Beta Activation, put together by Blue Lowen, a world-famous scientist and CEO of Malden Pharmaceuticals.
From what my lawyer explains, BA is a government-backed program for betas who are willing to try to wake up their… fertility!
They run it in special facilities where betas get paired with alphas who’ve already been screened and cleared as pheromonally compatible.
Participants are then exposed to carefully controlled stimuli and hormone doses, basically all that scientific stuff that’s supposed to push a beta toward bonding and, if things go their way, trigger their reproductive system.
The downside is that there are only a few places are even allowed to take offenders.
While we’re talking it through, my attorney shows me articles on his phone, along with photos of the facilities.
That’s when it really sinks in.
These places are nothing like prisons!
After all, the alphas paired with convicted betas are free citizens, and none of them would agree to be locked up in some maximum-security nightmare just to take part in the program.
It’s not as good as Second Chance, but if that one falls apart, this could still work as a backup. Not perfect, but better than rotting in a cage.
After thinking it over for a bit, I tell my attorney to reach out to both programs and put my name on their list.
Fully expecting this to take forever, I head back to my cell and start carving into my forearm, slow and careful, cutting the words Justice for Senu into my skin.
I use a needle I borrowed from a guy tied to one of the neighborhood gangs, paid for with a pack of cigarettes, and the ink is just regular pen ink.
As a tattoo artist, someone who actually cares about clean tools and safe pigments, the whole thing makes me cringe hard, but I am not exactly planning on growing old anyway. If I end up poisoning myself a little in the process, so be it. Fuck it.
The next morning throws me completely off balance.
My attorney moves way faster than I expected, and suddenly I’m scheduled for visits from representatives of both programs!
As for how I feel about it?
The truth is simple. Since Senu died, there’s no one left I want to live for. Every day is just waiting, counting down until I get my chance to destroy that bastard.
I have one mission left, and it’s Daniel Tanner.
After that, the world can burn.